#it’s not pity—far from it but they’re angry at the cruelty of the world

[impossible-rat-babies]

4.3 really just scratches the brain both in and out of character brain and I cannot tell which one hates it here more

[cosmicjoke]

Ugh, okay, chapter 81 of AoT, and I’m in the corner cryin’.

But seriously, what an emotionally powerful chapter this was.  God man, it’s gonna’ take me a minute to get my thoughts in order.

Well, first of all, Erwin, and all of the recruits, watching them sacrifice their lives here was just so absolutely, emotionally powerful.  Just incredibly moving and heartbreaking.  Even after Erwin gets hit and falls, (and the panels here of him dying are truly devastating, powerful images) to see the recruits continuing to charge forward, to carry on in his stead, it really is just so intense, and as well speaks to Erwin’s own power as a commander, how he was able to inspire these people into giving their lives for a greater cause.  To see their courage in the face of certain death, carrying on Erwin’s spirt here, it truly was one of the most moving, and also one of the most heart-wrenching moments in SnK up to this point.  I felt so much for all of them.  The way Marlowe thought of Hitch too, in the end, never realizing it was because he was in love with her, ugh, my heart.

Now contrasting that, and I swear to Christ, I really, REALLY don’t understand how anyone can sympathize with Zeke given the sick display he puts on here, his cruelty and ego-driven rage towards these young men and women, and how he lets his rage towards his father fuel his violence towards these innocent people just... it pisses me off so much.  I can’t even.  I mean, Zeke is one twisted, sick mother fucker.  He’s demented, truly, the way he swings wildly between violent rage and perverse glee as he kills them, and then has the unmitigated gall to act like he feels sorry for these people, how clearly he thinks of them as pitiful and pathetic, their sacrifice as meaningless.  He treats them like their lives are pointless, and then has the nerve to play at sympathy for their plight.  What pisses me off the most about Zeke is how utterly self-centered he is.  How everything he does, everything he thinks, is filtered through his own view of the world and life, and how he never once stops to consider the lives of others, their own views or experiences.  Because he’s deemed his own life as worthless and without point, so too has he deemed the lives of every other Eldian.  He’s far and away the most self-centered, ego-driven and selfish character in the whole series.  Oh, he just made me sick here.  His own hypocrisy is equally disgusting, with how angry he becomes when Levi dares to make him pay for what he’s done.  As if he can’t believe anyone would dare cause him harm, unable to comprehend why they would even wish to do so, as if he’s some great, godly figure sent to the world to bestow his twisted sense of mercy on those he deems unfit to live.  Just the whining, hysterical reaction he has to getting fucked up. The ego on this guy is seemingly infinite.  He truly is despicable.  Just a pathetic child of a man taking out his issues on everyone but himself, throwing temper tantrums when anyone dares to challenge him on what he’s decided is right.  Fuck Zeke.  Seriously, just... fuck this guy so much.

Now, enough about him, let’s talk about Levi.

Truly, some of the most heartbreaking moments we’ve seen with Levi up to this point happen in this chapter.   The moments following him taking Zeke down (and yes, that whole sequence was epically bad-ass), just seeing the depth of Levi’s pain here was so devastating, and incredibly moving.  You can see how preoccupied he is with what’s happened.  Zeke isn’t even his main consideration or concern.  He seems almost distracted, looking back behind him, out over the field of his fallen comrades and friends, and wondering in an almost frantic, inner monologue to himself if anyone out there is still alive.  He’s hoping beyond hope that someone, ANYONE, is, so that he can save at least one person.  This goes back to Levi’s determination to keep the new recruits alive back in I think chapter 78 or 79, ordering them not to die, and then trying desperately to get those with the horses back on the other side of the wall.  It really puts into perspective just how devastating this is for Levi, to see all of these people, dead, crushed to death by rocks, all of these people who just a short while ago he had been doing everything he could to protect.  To know they had to die to save only a few.  HIs desperation here, the way he clings to the hope that at least one person is still alive, out of all of them, to be saved, the way he reminds himself that as long as they’re breathing, it can be done, if he gives them the serum, it all just drives home in the most poignant way just how pained Levi is at the sacrifice they’ve all made.  It drives home how much it’s cost Levi, to allow them to do it.  I said before that him making that choice for Erwin was Levi going against every, innate feeling and instinct that he has, the need to protect and save people.  Levi had to go directly against his own nature in order to make that call, and the consequences of that are plain to see in these panels.  His wide eyed, shocked expression, the frantic, mantra-like thoughts going through his mind, almost childlike in the way he keeps asking if anyone is still alive out there, if there’s anyone he can bring back.  And the way he thinks of Erwin specifically when he asks that, it serves as such a cruel reminder that Levi’s just given up one of his dearest and closest friends.  That he’s just willingly lost a person that meant so much to him, in order to obtain any sort of victory for humanity.   It reminds us of the personal cost to Levi.  Another person he’s lost in this battle for humanity’s salvation.  Ah, he just breaks my heart so much here.  And also how it’s that hope, that desperate wish that someone is still able to be saved, that stays Levi’s hand from killing Zeke immediately.  How it’s purely Levi’s wish to save someone that keeps him from killing Zeke then and there, it truly speaks volumes about what kind of person Levi really is, about how much he values life.  

And then of course there’s Levi’s reaction when Pieke catches him off guard and steals Zeke away.  Levi’s stunned horror, as he watches Zeke escaping is, for one, I think, because his chance to save even one life is being taken away, there before his eyes, and, of course, because the purpose behind all of his comrades sacrifices, the reason they gave up their lives, in order for Levi to kill Zeke and provide those left a means of escape, is being rendered meaningless.  We then see Levi’s stunned horror turn to unbridled rage, as he realizes the promise he’d made to Erwin is slipping from his hands.  He can’t allow for all of these people to have died in vain, he can’t let their sacrifices mean nothing, he can’t let that stand.  Once again, the depth with which Levi values the lives of other people is truly incredible, and the emotion in these panels is perhaps the most powerful example of that quality in Levi up to this point in the story.  I just felt so much for him all throughout this.  

When you think about what Levi’s been through here, too, how before he even went after the Beast Titan, he’d already run himself ragged taking down some unknown number of smaller Titans to protect the horses and the new recruits, and then in order to get to Zeke, he had to take down probably a dozen or more 12 or 15 meter Titans, before finally taking the Beast Titan down, all this by himself, it displays the strength of Levi’s will so powerfully, how much of himself he’s willing to give in order to further the cause of others.  For him to then continue to go after Zeke, after all of that, just the way he never gives up, never stops fighting, exemplifies how wholly Levi truly embodies the ideal of the Survey Corps, and the fight for humanity.  What an absolute hero he is.

[whitherliliesbloom]

quietus

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #13 - oneirophrenia ]

[ kaye & illya ] ★ [ 1,883 words ]  ★ [ wozwald au ] a continuation / sequel to fragrant sorrow, a previous fill i did

a hallucinatory (dream-like) state that is caused by such conditions as prolonged sleep deprivation, sensory isolation, and drug use

in the midst of his delirious, drunken haze he saw her - he can’t tell if it was meant to be his final blessing or an eternal curse

When the man felt the effects of the strong intoxicants begin to take its toll on him, they had already long left the domain of the last minor god he’d slain, dragging his bloodstained scythe behind his back. 

Though Lily had insisted that they scour the area for medicine in order to purge his body of the toxins, he’d stubbornly refused and instead stumbled his way back to their base. They both knew that a god of the original pantheon would not be so easily felled by drugs in his system.

But Kaye hasn’t been the same since they’d last visited the ruined temple of the first goddess of creation - his refusal to sleep, eat or even communicate past singular words of acknowledgements or fatigued grunts troubling to no end. She had thought it best to simply leave him in his grief, that time would come to heal him back to normalcy, and that she needed only but to wait for the painful memories to fade. 

It was a decision she regretted immensely as she watched as he finally crumpled to the floor. And as she cradled him in her arms and watched in tearful horror as he stared back up at her with an emptiness in his eyes, light slowly fading, she cried out his name that sounded nothing more than like the muffled trickling of water ringing distantly in his ears.

“Kaye! Kaye!”

Perhaps this was the ending he had always longed for, a fate that he has long awaited at far end of the tunnel... and it certainly took it’s sweet time to arrive. 

As the closest thing to divinity, it would be no small feat to kill him. No amount of drugs, sleep deprivation or even starvation would be able to grant him eternal rest - he knows first hand. He’d spent many millennia injecting his body with nicotine and alcohol, but they never did anything more than to dull his senses - a small mercy granted for him to put up with the karmic retribution that constantly struck him with pain like hooks sinking into his very flesh.

The only thing that could kill him was one of the other pantheon members - and they’re all gone. The life he has led thus far as the sole survivor is one he saw as divine punishment. 

But even a god has his limits - and he wondered if it would perhaps benefit Lily more if he’d just passed on from his own hands, unlikely and irresponsible as that may be.

“Kaye. Kaye.” 

He hears his name being called again, but his eyelids feel too heavy to open... until the scent of daisies fill his nostrils. 

When he opens his eyes, he finds himself in an old, familiar body... a long almost forgotten form of himself from ages ago that he abandoned with the passing of the last of the divine pantheon. 

He’s silent as he looks down at his tattered robes, loose and out of fashion for the modern age compared to his leather jackets and high laced boots. 

“Kaye.” 

He turns his head to the sound of the voice behind him, and his eyes widen - but only briefly. 

“You seem troubled. Is something wrong?”

An ethereal maiden clad head to toe in silken white garbs rests against the stone pillar, her back resting against the cold cobblestone and a singular white flower clasped tightly between her small fingers. Her once familiar vibrant and sparkling violet eyes are now a muted, murky hue - a luster in which he’s had to watch being lost gradually to the cruelty of time. 

Was this a dream? A lucid nightmare? Or perhaps he was in limbo - caught between the realm of the living and the underworld of the dead that awaited his arrival. Where do the souls of dead gods even rest after death? He’s unsure - but he’s certain there is no place for him in heaven.

Despite his initial confusion, Kaye doesn’t seem perturbed or panicked in the least... the sight of the girl filling his heart up with a sorrow that he hadn’t known was even possible for him anymore. He had thought himself incapable of feeling anymore - and yet here he was.

“Nothing.” he answers before he can even think, just like he had back then... Perhaps he really was in a dream - reliving the memories of his biggest regret as punishment for his transgressions. 

“Are you sure?” the girl asks, her voice weak and soft... and he furrows his brows at her insistence. “You can talk to me about whatever is bothering you.”

“I’m not the one who is-” 

The words die in his throat, caught in a choked mutter that gives away his lapse of weakness. He cannot bring himself to say the words, but she has abandoned all shred of self-pity and spells it out with her own voice... and he can only wonder why she is being so nonchalant about her own fate.

“Going to fade? I know.” 

How can her voice remain so gentle? One would assume nothing was amiss about her had she not been wearing an obviously drowsy expression on her face - and even then, she is still smiling. 

“But melancholy doesn’t suit you... You’re usually more... passionate, more angry. Like when Roko pranked you into drinking the stale wine.”

“I’m surprise you still remember that.” Kaye huffs, but his words aren’t entirely true. Because of course she would remember - of course the kindest, most pure-hearted of the six of them would remember everything... She loved everyone more than she even loved herself, foolish and naive as she is.

She giggles lightly, like tiny bell chimes ringing and carrying its melody in the wind and into the starry night sky... but none save the trees and himself are here to hear it, and it does nothing to soothe the thorns that are wrapped in his chest. 

“Maybe I should take you to the shrine after all.” Kaye suggest, has already suggested multiple times before... But the girl merely shakes her head. 

“I’m tired. I don’t think I’d make it even if you carried me.” 

He would in a heartbeat if it would help, but the both of them know it’d be pointless. He’s in denial of the situation, clamoring for what little hope there was left. Were his brother around, he’d certainly point out the irony of the situation with a laugh. 

“Besides... I want the remainder of my energy to remain there... So you can remember me by.”

Beneath sealed lips, Kaye grits his teeth and bites the insides of his cheeks. He knows she doesn’t mean for it to be... But her words felt like they were meant to be a punishment for him - a promise that he wasn’t ready to commit to and make yet.

“Illya.” At the sound of her name, she quiets, fiddling with the petals of the lone flower in her hand gently. “I probably won’t last long enough to remember anything.”

“Don’t say that.”

Finally, he catches a hint of strain in her words, pain flashing in her eyes as she shakes her head.

“All creation will always meet an inevitable end... But death is everlasting, it’s eternal for as long as the world exists.” The goddess pauses for a moment to let her words linger, to let her voice hang in the air and embed itself into his memories for as long as she can afford it to. “You were always the strongest of us... You’ll keep protecting the world for us, won’t you?”

Kaye doesn’t respond her question, but he doesn’t need to... He knows Illya already knows what his answer would be - she knew even before the world began to fall to anarchy.

“Without life, there can be no death.” He murmurs bitterly, and she smiles sympathetically back at him.

“Which is why I will never truly be gone. As long as you live on, you will be living in my memory.” 

A selfish part of himself says he doesn’t want to. He was never known to be the most altruistic of gods, back in the beginning of the world and even now. She knows full well the burden he must bear - and the weight of the words that she spoke to him. 

But beneath the surface level, there is a reason for her blind optimism. She sees her urging him to live not as punishment.... but because she still, even after the ugliness of humanity and life has presented itself fully, carries a flickering hope in her heart that he is sure will die with her.

Illya wants him to live because she believes he will one day find a way to be happy... and if that is what it takes for her to pass on in peace, then he is willing to indulge her with that juvenile, unimaginable fantasy. 

“Can I ask a favor of you, Kaye?” it was to be her final request out of many... She knows of her own self-centeredness as she asks him apologetically. 

Her hand slowly raises, the white flower in her palm grasped weakly between her little fingers. The golden ornaments dangling from her armlets knock together and let out a soft ominous chime. 

“When you visit me in the future, could you bring flowers?” 

He hesitates to move... knows that if he were to take the flower from her hand, that he’d be sealing her fate... and he was far from ready to accept that.

But the swirling of her hopeful, radiant eyes... even as they were slowly losing their usual jewel-like shine bids him take the flower with his left hand, and he holds it delicately in his palm - so softly that he was afraid it would wither away. 

“What kind of flowers? You still haven’t told me what your favorite was.”

“Hehe... you’re right. I am a little indecisive when it comes to that, aren’t I? Let’s see...”

He turns away from her, staring intently at the flower in his hand.

“There are lilies... particularly white ones, but other kinds are pretty too. I really like hydrangeas.. did you know that they bloom in different colors depending on the soil they grow on?”

Her voice is getting softer - more distant. He swallows back the lump in his throat, even if he can tell that she was closing her eyes.

“Yeah, I know. You told me before.”

“I also like plum blossoms... They represent resilience and hope. They’re also called the harbingers of spring.”

She’s so lost in her enamor for flowers that she failed to realize that she hasn’t answered his question... but he cannot bring himself to interrupt her.

“Carnations, hibiscuses, delphiniums...” 

Kaye can no longer remember what her final words had been - only that she spent the final seconds of her life listing the names of flowers - of the things that she loved even unto the very end.  

By the time he realizes she’s grown quiet, and he turns his head to look behind, she has vanished, leaving naught but the lingering, quickly dissipating warmth of the stone she sat upon and the flower in his hand that swayed gently in the nightly breeze. 

[mst3kproject]

Sorority Girl

 It can be hard to find this specific movie, since several others have been made with the same title, even as recently as the nineties.  Us MSTies, however, demand the original – the one with Susan Cabot and June Kenney from The Viking Women and the Sea Serpent and Dick Miller from Gunslinger and It Conquered the World.  It was produced and directed by the reliably awful Roger Corman, and Ms. Cabot has apparently said in interviews that they didn’t really have a script, just a list of stuff that was supposed to happen.  Sorority Girl is a step up from Curse of Bigfoot, but that’s praise so faint that you’d need the Hubble Space Telescope to pick it out.

College student Sabra is a colossal bitch and nobody likes her.  Unsurprisingly, the only person who doesn’t understand the correlation between these two facts is Sabra herself.  Determined that others should suffer the way she has, she plays her sorority sisters against each other until her mind games drive one of them to attempt suicide. Then I think she drowns herself. The end.

On a technical level, Sorority Girl looks and sounds very nice – the photography is crisp and the blocking and direction, while nothing spectacular, tell us what we need to know. You can tell who’s who and remember everybody’s names, and the costume designer did a good job of suggesting everybody’s personalities and goals through their clothing.  The soundtrack puts both music and silence to pretty good use. The only glaring flaw in the film itself is a scene in which the sound of rolling waves almost drowns out the dialogue, but that might just be my sound system.

It’s sufficiently well put-together that it makes me kind of angry, because all that relative competence is in the service of this nasty, depressing movie that hates everybody and everything.  Watching it makes you feel like you need a shower. The movie is here to show us women being horrible and spanking each other (no, really), but it’s not even over-the-top enough to be any fun.

I don’t understand who we’re supposed to root for in this movie.  It can’t be Sabra herself, because she’s thoroughly horrible and there’s not even any reason for her to be doing what she does.  It’s not like the others have wronged her in any way – if they had, perhaps we could take some nasty joy in her revenge but we can’t. If the rest of the girls had any sort of spine we could root for them, but they’re nonentities.  Future student president Rita stands up tall in front of voters but is a pushover in a crunch.  Shy Ellie is nothing but Sabra’s punching bag and we feel sorry for her but she’s too pathetic to actually like.  Troubled Tina is pregnant and we feel for her predicament but she, too, is more an object of pity than a heroine.  Sabra’s mother seems to love her but doesn’t understand what she needs.

Sabra’s motivations remain a mystery even to herself. She makes various excuses for them throughout the movie – she claims she wants revenge on Rita’s boyfriend Mort for snubbing her.  She gets Tina to join her in her blackmail scheme because she says they both need money. At the end she yells at everybody, saying she was driven to this because they wouldn’t let her into their clique. No sort of excuse is ever given for her appalling cruelty to Ellie, who really does seem to look up to her.  In Sabra’s own words, she just feels driven to hurt people and doesn’t know why.

All her schemes fail anyway.  She doesn’t manage to take Mort away from Rita.  She doesn’t manage to get the money she tries to blackmail him for.  She doesn’t even succeed in staying out of trouble for the shit she’s already pulled, since at the end everybody gets together, agrees she’s terrible, and turns her in.  We’re left feeling like this whole story went by and nothing was ever accomplished. The other characters’ stories don’t come to any conclusion either.  We don’t find out if Rita won the election or if she and Mort will get married.  We don’t find out what’s going to happen to Tina other than that her parents are coming to pick her up.  We don’t find out if Ellie got a life.  Everything is just left dangling.

It is never explicit how old any of these characters are supposed to be, but both Sabra and Tina are said to be financially dependent on their parents, and the movie seems to be going for some sort of statement about young people getting into trouble when unsupervised, so I’m going to assume they’re undergraduates.  All the actors are, of course, about thirty.  Some of them, like June Kenney as Tina, look younger.  Some, like Barbara Cowan as Ellie, are trying to look younger and failing.  Others, like Dick Miller as Mort, look older.  The biggest casting mistake was forty-year-old Fay Baker as Sabra’s mother. She’s just barely old enough to have a college-aged child, but Susan Cabot is in no way young enough to be that child. I could buy Baker as Cabot’s stepmother, but when she’s supposed to be her actual mother I just keep thinking of Space Mutiny.

Perhaps it’s not fair to complain about Mort’s age, since he manages the campus pub and may not be a student.  If that’s the case, though, it does make one wonder about his relationship with undergraduate Rita… and the string of prior student girlfriends he’s mentioned… so let’s just not go there.

We get hints that Sabra may be mentally ill. She seems to be upset by her own inability to stop doing terrible things, and at one point reaches out to her mother for help.  Her mother assumes she just wants money, and brushes her off.  Perhaps we’re meant to think Sabra feels ignored and powerless, and therefore seeks power in whatever form she can get it.  We’re probably supposed to feel sorry for her but other than the one visit to her mother she never seems to make any real attempt to better herself.  She gives up, goes back to school, and resumes trying to ruin everybody’s life.  It’s really quite appropriate that the movie is bookended by Sabra sitting on the beach whining about how she wishes she could start over, because it ends exactly where it began.  Sabra is still a colossal bitch and nobody likes her.

If this movie were going to have any sort of punch, I really think it needed to be just a tiny bit longer.  Rather than watching Sabra just sit and cry on the seashore, we needed to see her face the consequences of her actions, whether that was arrest, expulsion, disownment, or some combination of the above.  Her implied suicide is just a means whereby both she and the writers can avoid any thought of consequences, and is inherently unsatisfying.

Watching the movie for the first time, I really expected Tina to jump and for the truth to come out only after she was dead.  Realizing she had somebody’s blood on her hands might have been enough to shock Sabra out of her self-absorbed haze and actually try to be a better person, only to find it was far too late.  That this does not happen is in some ways a relief, but it also kind of feels like the movie chickened out.  Tina dying would certainly not have made Sorority Girl into a good movie, but it would have been a far more impactful one.

On the other hand, Tina not dying includes the single detail in this entire movie that I actually liked.  Throughout the movie, Tina has been sitting on her terrible secret and wondering what to do about it.  She never tells a soul – Sabra only finds out because Ellie, Tina’s room-mate, heard her talking in her sleep – out of fear that she’ll be branded a slut and treated as an outcast.  Such was the 50’s.  Certainly the thought of telling her parents never even seems to occur to her.

But the movie never treats the situation as Tina’s fault.  Her pregnancy is not a punishment as Paula’s was in The Violent Years, it’s just a problem that exists and one Tina isn’t coping with very well.  Other than Sabra, everybody who finds out about it takes steps to help.  Ellie immediately tells Sabra because she believes that Sabra will know what to do – and when Sabra orders her to keep the secret for Tina’s sake, Ellie does so even when interrogated by the house mother.  Sabra, being the colossal bitch she is, then blackmails Tina into blackmailing Mort, threatening to tell everybody he’s the father unless he gives her money.  Mort refuses to be blackmailed but he doesn’t judge Tina for being pregnant.  Instead, once she’s gone he gets in touch with her parents for her… and they don’t judge her either, but immediately come to her aid. So good on the writers, if there were any, for that!

This solidarity also makes the point that all the girls in this sorority really are there for each other and it’s literally just Sabra who is the reason they can’t have nice things.  I still don’t know if we’re really supposed to feel sorry for Sabra but this particular detail makes it even harder.

Of all the movies that were ever on MST3K, the one Sorority Girl most reminds me of is The Sidehackers.  They don’t have anything in common plot-wise, but both have endings in which nobody wins and it seems like there was no point besides to make the audience feel crummy and lose all faith in the human race.  I don’t know what was going on in the year 1957, but here in 2020 we do not need help with that shit.  I’m gonna go watch Pixar movies for the rest of the week.

[marshmallowprotection]

"If you're going to kill me, then by all means..." with dark suit Saeran ?

19. "If you're going to kill me, then by all means..."

Ray is... Ray was a kind person to you. 

You couldn’t help falling for him after all of the moments you shared. That didn’t mean that you didn’t notice all of the little things that had been odd, or suspicious. You knew very well that something was fishy and that Ray wasn’t exactly this nice guy who just needed help testing a game he made. 

His intentions weren’t always good. You understood that, but at the same time, he went out of his way to try and protect you from danger. You had escaped the elixir because of him. He put his safety and life on the line for you and he had paid the ultimate price for it. 

But Saeran? 

Saeran had shown you the cruelty of mankind. His heart was filled with grief and pain, and he used that as a weapon. While Ray used kindness as a weapon to deceive others, Saeran used his hatred to control others. He wasted no time playing games, and he got to the point before you even realized what was happening around you. 

This person in front of you had been hurt so much by the world and the people that were supposed to love him. 

Because of their choices, he saw no other solution to things than by hurting others. He often said that he didn’t feel anything unless he could see you, and seeing you in pain and suffering was the only thing that spurned emotion out of his numbness. 

You were a toy to him. 

He made that abundantly clear every time he visited this toy box. 

All of this, everything that he was doing to you was some kind of game that he created to get what he wanted. If he didn’t get what he wanted then you would wind up curled up on the floor, holding yourself together as tightly as you could as you prayed you dared not cry in front of him. It was taking a toll on you and after days of him oof his cruel games, you were starting to feel numb yourself on the inside. 

When Saeran entered your room late this evening you had been curled up against the wall as it was the smallest place to put yourself. When the door slammed open, you didn’t react to him, you just sat there, quiet and waiting for what was coming.

It wasn’t the reaction that he wanted. 

His shoes were heavy against the floor as he stormed up to you. He demanded that you give him your attention, but you barely lifted your head. You just didn’t have the strength to do it. 

He sank down to a crouch in front of you and yanked your head up by the chin to look at him, “Hey! I was talking to you, toy. I told you to come and greet me when I come into this toybox. That doesn’t mean sit on your ass and ignore me! Be grateful for the chances that I give you. You don’t fucking deserve them, and you’re only alive right now because I pity you. If it wasn’t for me, the Savior would have killed you by now.“

Your voice was quiet, “If you’re going to kill me, then by all means.” 

Saeran was taken back by that. He did a double-take, and then he started to laugh. “Have I finally broken the spirit of the pathetic doll? Is that it? Huh? Are you begging me for mercy? You rather die than continue to be a useless toy for me?”

You’re tired. 

Your body hurts. 

You’ve gone so long without eating something properly that it’s starting to feel like you’re wasting away. You deeply wish that you could have protected Ray from getting hurt to the brink of disappearing, and you partly wish that you could have stopped this boy from getting hurt as well. 

But what can you do? You couldn’t even protect yourself. You couldn’t even save the one that you love from getting hurt. 

It was right. What was he saying. You must have been this pathetic person who couldn’t do anything right. There’s a fighting voice in your mind that tells you not to believe that, but it’s so weak now... that voice is almost gone. Why fight any longer? If you and Ray are the same kind of weakness that needs to be destroyed why can’t you be gone and with him?

He leans in close to whisper the tantalizing words next to your ear. “Do you really think I’m going to let you get out of this that easily? What fun could I get out of that, Y/N? As if I would let you die when there’s so much more fun to be had.“

“Just get rid of me,” you repeat yourself. “This has to be a waste of your precious time you need to destroy the RFA. You have plenty of other things that you could be doing. Aren’t I just a waste? Just kill me.”

The anxiety in your stomach is like angry butterflies trapped in a jar. The feeling never really subsides, so you’re used to it. 

“If you hate me, you should just throw me away,“ your voice is suddenly louder and you find this power that you hadn’t felt in days. “After all, you can’t stand the sight of me, right? I’m the only trace left of what you’re trying to get rid of. If you really want to be the strongest, don’t you have to get rid of everything that could be considered a weakness?” 

“Don’t you ever fucking dare tell me what to do, toy.“ His voice is filled with venom as he speaks. His nails dig into your skin on your shoulder. You let out a wince and grit your teeth. 

He pulls back so those haunting green eyes are staring a hole through your own. “I choose what I do with my playthings. You belong to me, not the other way around. I am the strongest. Do you want to know why I’m the strongest person here? Because I’ve conquered everything that that pathetic bug could never even dream of.” 

He means business. 

You’ve overstepped the boundaries that have kept you safe thus far. If he just ends it here, there’s no suffering for you. That sounds great, and you just want the pain to go away. But there are years of suffering for him that lay ahead, aren’t there? Turning your head to the side, you can feel his breath roll against your cheek. 

You want it to be over. 

But that doesn’t mean that you aren’t scared. 

His voice haunts you. “I have it all. I have those liars and traitors on their knees, I have the praise of my Savior, I have all the power in the world... and guess what? I have your little life in my hands. You belong to me, understand, or do I need to drill it into you? I don’t want to have to fucking repeat myself again. So, tell me, who decides what happens to you?“

You swallow dry and don’t respond. 

His grip gets even harder in response. “Y/N. You don’t want to disappoint your precious Ray, now do you? Don’t you know that he needs to watch you waste away to learn his lesson? Don’t you know that you need to learn your lesson about power? Once you get it into your airhead skull, I won’t have to beat it into you anymore. If you had been a good little toy from the start then we wouldn’t be having these problems.” 

“Stop... please...” you plead, but the whisper is nearly inaudible. 

He doesn’t stop. “If you give up, and submit, it’ll be all over, Y/N. Aren’t you tired? Don’t you want it to stop? Don’t you want to become the person you could have always been? All you have to do is give up. Admit your weakness. Accept that you’re my pathetic toy.”

It would all be over if you just gave up? All you had to do was just quit. All of this pain... misery... it could stop? He’s not going to kill you. They’re not going to get rid of you. You’re going to continue wasting away for the rest of your life because they won’t let you reach the end. 

There is no choice. 

“Well?”

You don’t have any other options. Your expression is vacant when you find the answer. You look at Saeran and just stop fighting. There’s nothing more for you to do, and this was always going to be the way that things turned out. You were stupid to think otherwise. 

“I’m...” 

“That’s it... come on, you can say it.” he coaxed. 

What’s the point? What’s the point anymore? “I’m useless... stupid... pathetic... pitiful. I was kidding myself to think otherwise, right? I can’t get back anything that I lost. Just use me and get rid of me. Get your fill and dispose of me, that’s all I’m good for, right? So go ahead and do it. I’m done.”  

Saeran suddenly pushes you aside, and you flop onto the ground with a loud thud as he glowers at you. You don’t even care when he slams his hand into the wall. “That’s not what I fucking wanted to hear, toy! Wrong choice! If you’re going to do this to me then you’re going to sit in this toy box and rot until I decide I have some use for you again, or until you learn how to listen to the people that take care of you!”

And just like that, he left you. 

[thepulta]

Westlie was not a stranger to rage. It enveloped her as she walked down the hallway, measuring her footsteps. When she focused on it, she could imagine holding it inside her clenched fist, feeling every muscle tense and loosen. The center burned deep in her chest like a flame, feeding off of the injustice of the day. Which was why she was here, now, after all. To be angry and to keep being angry; she was here to win on her terms. Westlie took a deep breath, stopping in the middle of the hallway to center herself again because it was important. This was easy. She could do this.

She could stand strong this time. Even her younger self wasn’t a stranger to rage, it was just her father’s rage. Arthur was often angry. If she searched far back to one of her first memories, he was hovering over a tutor while she tried to scratch out her letters. After some time she got to ‘p’ and wrote it backward. Was it a ‘p’? It could have been any letter really; but she wrote it backwards. She just remembered the sharp “Wrong!” barked over her head and the paper ripped out of her grasp. She pulled back from the desk, startled. Arthur crumpled it in his giant hands, scowling at her with sullen umber eyes. “Do it again.”

She could keenly remember the first seed of real fear planted in her heart as she shakily grabbed another page offered by the tutor and tried again. (And again, and again, and again while each time her hand got shakier.) After the fifth time she burst into tears and Arthur scoffed and walked away. The test was over. She failed.

That was important because she was still scared. Westlie closed her eyes and tried to ground herself, pushing down the immediate burn of anger at the memory.

She could remember when she was ten. (Stars, she’d been a such a small, terrified child by that point.) When Arthur instructed his secretary to give her a pair of breeches or some other non-skirt. (“I don’t care where you get them! Sew a pair yourself if you have to. She won’t set foot in that place without pants.”) She ended up with a pair of cast-off breeches that reeked of mushrooms. The secretary took her to the shop the next morning, nudging open the unfamiliar back door and handing her two fist-thick ledgers off a nearby shelf.

“Millie is out sick and Arthur wants you to do these.” The woman had the self-respect to give her a somewhat pitying look. “You can stay here in the back, or do them out front. The receipts are on the side wall. No- not-” She rolled her eyes. “Look. Side wall, by the crystal lilies. They’re alphabetized by date, but the more important customers come first, so you might have to check.”

Westlie remembered the room to the detail since she’d spent too much time there. Several small mail-like boxes of miscellaneous materials, crystal lilies near the receipts on the bottom, with some small preserved jars of blemmigans on top with a jar of eyeballs on the top right. The back was an assortment of supplies from mushrooms to coffee, giving the room a deep, heady scent that gave you migraines and nightmares if you stayed for more than 8 hours, and to the right of the back entrance, a storage room of engine parts. She learned later there was a fake shelf within the storage room that held several hours in case of unsavory events. There was a desk to the front covered with paperwork. There was a small chime connecting through the wall over the desk, then another door to the right of the desk that opened into the shop front.

Westlie remembered absorbing it all for the first time, struggling under the weight of the ledgers with a slightly horrified heart at the jar of preserved eyeballs floating and staring lucidly at her to the left. “Should- should I organize the receipts by date as I finish..?” There was the click of the door and she spun around, a pit in her stomach opening up. She was alone. There was vague chatter from the front room but it faded out to a murmur, only picking up as the door opened or closed five minutes later.

She'd done practice ledgers once, but never allowed to see the real thing 'because she wasn't good enough'. The weight of her situation - an injustice, because it was an injustice when she'd never done them before, wasn’t it? - landed on her shoulders and in her stomach and Westlie bit her lip, chest aching. She didn’t have the words for it, but Older-Westlie could feel the ice of fear crackle over her soul in the memory - that Arthur would come and tell her it was wrong, all wrong, that the tutor would drop in and switch her; that she wasn’t alone, just waiting for the mistakes to be hung over her head. There had to be some mistake. They wouldn’t just leave her here, would they? Memory after memory of similar situations with bad endings piled up in her mind and Westlie remembered choking in that moment, horrified in the room with the pair of eyeballs because they would. They just did. And there was that grave, grave injustice within all of it.

Westlie remembered climbing up on the desk stool and shoving the ledgers on the table, her shoulders shaking. It took a few minutes, a few candles flickering in the silence before the pit in her stomach and her throat broke, letting out a silent, terrified cry of pain as the tears started to drip down her cheeks. After a few minutes of gasping she buried her face in her arms. The secretaries were occasionally nice but this one didn’t care. Nobody cared. Nobody in the world cared. The heady, unfamiliar scent curled around her, making her cry harder in deep hypoxiating gulps. It might have been ten minutes or two hours later when her tears slowly dried up, she stopped hiccuping, and she slowly raised her head, opening the ledgers to their last entry. The pages turned with a thick lethargy. It was some captain selling a load of hours. She slid off the stool and grabbed the pile of receipts, sliding them off the nail they’d been impaled on and laying them slowly out on the table.

Each name had to be read slowly, carefully, corrected. Westlie bit her lip, concentrating on writing each letter cleanly and checking her sums. After an hour there was a thick heat in her head as question after question went unanswered. Where did this name go? How were ‘favorite captains’ ordered? Whose favorite captains were these? Should she give a sum after each item or only after the whole sale? She flipped back and forth through the thick pages, finding examples and teaching herself. After three painful hours, the ten-year-old was gritting her teeth and grasping a broken quill, stabbing the page with every lesson she had to recall and put to use. After four, she was somewhat faster at the sums with a new quill and her face matched her shade of hair. Her head and her heart burned.

Older-Westlie could remember the wordless, mindless, unintelligible chant of hatred that built through her younger’s mind, slowly feeding on every ounce of fear she stored of Arthur, of her tutor, of the ledger, of the eyeballs on the shelf, trying to digest the fact she didn’t matter, they didn’t care - nobody would ever care about her. It continued, growing, feeding, burning like fire until she saw red, ready to cry again but shoving away the tears. She couldn’t cry. She had to do this; needed to do this. Each sum got harder and harder to do until finally Westlie bit down on her arm with enough force to draw blood and let loose a muffled scream into her sleeve. Five seconds. Ten seconds. It hurt and she couldn’t breathe. It all hurt so, so much. And she remembered straightening up and sitting at the desk, panting, slightly less overcome but exhausted from that nameless emotion at the injustice and the cruelty and the pain of the sums. Her sleeve might have shown a few drops of blood; there was definitely a bruise. The memory tended to blank after that. It was fuzzy if she smashed the already broken quill against the desk until it splintered or she just doubled down on the notes until the secretary came to fetch her, but the emotion she didn’t have a name for yet was there and it burned a hole in her heart.

By the next day she’d calmed down; it no longer felt like the anger would consume her, but the spark was there, along with the feeling of power that it gave her to still hand over the ledgers at the end of the day - for them to be neat and finished and for Arthur’s approval to be grunt of acknowledgement. (Although that fanned the anger too. How dare that be all he gave her, she remembered thinking, after her fear and horror and aching left arm.) But Westlie remembered the satisfaction of conquering injustice and swearing she would again. The anger could fuel her.

Older-Westlie knew, after another fifteen or so years of experience, that anger wasn’t only fuel, but her very best friend. Closer than enigmatic Morgan and more powerful than sadness. With anger, she could wrap reigns around it and harness it to her bidding. She could defend against enemies and wrap it around her like a shield to endure.

And she had endured. But no more.

No more silence, no more pleasing, no more struggling, no more nights in the shop with burned out candles, no more crying to sleep over one of his calloused stupid decisions; no more rejection, no more refusals, no more begging to fly, no more begging to get out of the shop, no more sneers, no more pain. Respect would never appear; there would be no approval, no kindness, no reward. It didn’t have to be this way. No more suffering. 

With a second deep breath, Westlie stepped forward again, hardened her gaze, and reached the end of the hallway. She threw open the door so hard it bounced against the wall, paperwork in hand; teeth clenched, anger flaming. She willed its tendrils to extend beyond her five foot-five heighth and fill the room. She willed it, with all her power, to reach and throttle the neck of the man in front of her.

“How dare you.”

Arthur Faire looked nonchalantly up from his paperwork over his pince-nez spectacles. “I’ll pretend you didn’t just put a dent in the wall for the fourth time.”

“Fuck your dent. I told you I wouldn’t do your dirty work!”

“You don’t tell people shit.” Arthur snapped. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh as if the very explanation pained him. “Westlie,” he began, as if talking to a very small child. “There are, occasionally, things that must go missing to raise your status in the world.”

“Fuck that, I said I won’t! I won’t do it, and you cannot force my hand! Pick someone else!”

Arthur slammed his fist on the table and stood up, leaning forward over his desk. “You will do what I say!”

"Fuck what you say! You're wrong and I refuse!"

Arthur scoffed, sneering at the paperwork she clenched in her fist. “What is that? A list of Captains who turned you down for your incompetence? You can’t even take orders from me.”

Westlie threw the stack at his face. It burst into several pages fluttering unspectacularly throughout the room, the more important pages luckily settling on his desk. “I gave you three chances. Three chances to recind. But since your cuntish ass couldn’t handle a bit of legality; I’ve packed my bags and I leave tonight. Sign on the dotted line, you fiend.”

Arthur scoffed again, snatching the paper and staring at it. “Resignation? You’re resigning? You can’t resign. You’re my daughter.”

Westlie spit at his feet.

His face instinctively twitched with distaste and she relished the taste of the blood she’d drawn. Arthur sighed, and sat down again, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs with the motion of hatred he generally used for Captains he didn’t like - and her. When he used it Westlie generally knew to back down patch things over with a form of compromise but not today. Never today. He was never going to agree and this was why she prepared. She gathered her anger and pulled it closer, guarding herself.

“And what if I don’t sign?”

“I’m leaving anyway. You can’t stop me.”

His lip curled. “I know every Captain in the Reach and every shop in London knows your temper. None of them will take you.”

Westlie’s lip curled up in a dry, menacing grin. “I’ve already signed with a Captain.”

“As what?” He scoffed, reaching down into his desk and pulling out a tumbler and crystal glass of whiskey. She’d really ticked him off now. He poured a single glass and sneered when he saw her glance. “Sorry, I don’t give angry children liquor.”

Westlie's anger flared and she bit her tongue before responding. “Dont bother. I only drink with friends. I’m First Mate.” Arthur scoffed into his glass in disbelief and it fogged up. “Now sign my resignation.”

He curled his lip as he swallowed and thumped the now-empty glass down on the desk, muttering something under his breath. He grabbed the nearest pen and jabbed it into the paper, scribbling something vaguely similar to Capt. Faire. He rang the bell next and Westlie felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She’d have to escape wouldn’t she. She didn’t quite plan for an escape.

“Mary, please come escort Miss Faire to her room.”

Faster than she’d seen him move before, Arthur rose and stepped around his desk, grabbing Westlie’s arm before she could twist out of his grasp. He yanked her closer, gripping it so tight she felt her muscles quiver. “You will never escape me,” he hissed. The scent of whiskey cracked even her practiced shield of anger and Westlie felt a shiver run down her spine. “And I will make your life a living hell until you come crawling back.”

He shoved her away as a knock sounded at the door and he leaned back on his desk, a clear sneer on his face, arms crossed, papers scattering the floor. Westlie took a breath and straightened, forcing herself to look him in the eye. She gathered her anger. “Fuck you.”

To her credit, Mary didn’t even raise an eyebrow as she entered the room and assuming it was one of their regular monthly spats. “Miss Faire?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

Westlie flipped her father the middle finger behind her back as she went out.

-=-

Predictably, Mary locked the door as she left. Westlie scoffed to herself as she pulled the only cap she owned low over her curls. They didn’t know her. They thought locking her in a room trapped her - or Morgan for that matter - and Westlie gave a silent prayer of thanks to her sister for being an uncontrollable escape artist. She stopped for a full moment as fear pierced her heart.

Morgan. She hadn’t told Morgan.

She offered another prayer to her sister to be safe and stay as far away as possible. She was sorry- so sorry. Westlie pulled up the loose floorboard in her closet and rubbaged a bit, grabbing a long length of rope. She looped it around the bedpost and tied it off. The motion was easy, practiced. Westlie grabbed her carpetbag - her trunk was already at the dock - and hesitated.

Morgan.

Their last letter exchange a few days ago had been predictable. Morgan was off in < > and Westlie was in London. Westlie remembered ranting about work, per usual, something about that bloated Captain who kept making trips to sell seeds, and some asshole explorer who stocked up on supplies and tried to beg off paying every time. She hadn’t written to her about the... other job; the evil job. She hadn’t had a plan then, it was so fast. Anger was at the controls after Arthur was such an ass, and she’d blown through her preparations, packed her trunk the night before, chartered the engine at midnight. Should she know? And Westlie closed her eyes, trying to glimpse her sister’s soft face and lively eyes that only sharpened with excitement, not rage. Arthur didn’t care about her because she’d never have anything to do with the shop. She was carefree and it should stay that way. She didn’t know his evils. Our evils, Westlie thought somewhat sullenly. But Morgan. Westlie set down her bag and slipped over to her writing desk, grabbing a sheet of paper and fumbling open the ink.

           Dearest Morgan,

      They’ve tried to lock me up, but in a few minutes I’ll be down to the docks and boarding an engine away from everything. I can’t abide Father any longer. A pair of dreadnaughts couldn’t tie me to this house. I refuse to live in that monster’s shadow and I refuse to do whatever grotesque thing he imagines next. When I’m gone, he’ll hire another poor soul to fill my shoes and for their sake I hope they have less morals. Don’t worry about me. I’ve secured a position on a engine. (I won’t tell you with whom.) But he’s a good man and a good captain. You would be proud.

      Please don’t chase after me. Father’s ire is already riled and he’ll undoubtedly try to track me down on his own. I don’t want him angry at you. Just lay low. Be safe. Take another trip to < > if you have to to stay out of his path. I’ll see you someday.

         I love you. I will always love you.

         Your only and dearest sister,

                             Wes

Westlie folded it with a deft, practiced move and tapped her foot softly as she waited for the wax to melt. There were footsteps down the hall. Light ones, Mary; and heavier ones, Arthur. They passed her door and the handle jiggled. Westlie’s breath caught in her throat. She made a silent lunge for the rope, but it wasn’t necessary. Their footsteps continued down the hall after making sure it was locked and they faded out of hearing range.

Quickly now.

She poured the wax, stamped the letter, and scribbled the address on the back. Something-something express mail. She’d pay the freighter double. No time to think about it.

Westlie shoved it in her carpet bag and grabbed the rope. Sliding down the side of the two-story townhome was simple, especially at dusk. Usually it was with Morgan at the bottom hissing expletives in the dead of night - or climbing back up in the dark after some sort of drunken escapade, which was, obviously, four times harder. Westlie tied a rock to the bottom of the rope and threw it back into the room, resisting the temptation to break a window while she was at it.

They were already close to the docks. She hid as much of her hair under the cap as she could and then struck off at a brisk walk; running would be too obvious. The blood pounded in her ears to her gait, one step of freedom, two steps of freedom. The city pulsed around her, oblivious. There was a brisk scent in the air; several women walking past with tipped hats, murmuring together. A ragged man, looking as if he just got out of prison wandering aimlessly. He looked at her, tipped an invisible hat. Westlie nodded back. Several captains wandered by, examining a map, one holding a bottle of something purple? Something red, perhaps. He laughed uproarously. A fancy blemmigan hopped by. A wistful woman in large, somewhat old-fashioned skirts stood outside a building, handing out pamphlets.

Westlie took a deep breath and kept her eyes on the pavement.

She turned a corner, turned another corner; slipped through an alleyway. Had she always known this was the quickest way to the docks? It seemed familiar, but more light. There was no oppressive scent of mushrooms. Maybe a soft breeze had blown through today. Maybe she was just in a better mood.

Westlie scrutinized the dock as she got closer, looking for any evidence of Arthur Faire - but there was none. Unless he was on the ship itself, she had escaped. She was almost free.

She grit her teeth and pulled her anger around her one last time. One last run. One final step.

Westlie stepped into the open and briskly walked through the busy dock. Most of the people about were skyfarer crew, lounging, drinking on boxes. A few whistled and Westlie curled her lip in distaste. She slipped the letter and two sovereigns into the hand of a cargo ship’s First Mate. That could be me later, she realized, quietly, as hurried off to her ship for passage, the Tundra.

Westlie gave one final look around at the docks and the city as she stepped through the hatch. It was soft and dusky. She might miss that, but within herself she noted, quietly, she wouldn’t miss the city, she would miss her and Morgan in the city. No more rampage of terror, no more drunken songs, no more bar fights. No thefts, no vandalisms, no secrets. On board, there was also no angry man, no sullen look of disappointment either. Arthur Faire was not there. He hadn’t found this captain. She hadn’t been traced. Perhaps her father taught her one good thing: always pay a little extra.

The captain stepped down from the cab and tipped his hat. “Miss Faire?”

“Yes. Could I be shown to my quarters?”

“Absolutely. Would you please, Nancy?”

An unremarkable woman stepped forward and offered her hand for the bag. Westlie handed it to her gratefully as her shoulder started to ache. “When do you plan to depart, Captain? Can I encourage it to be as soon as possible?”

“In a hurry, Miss Faire?” She didn’t like his smile and resisted the urge to scowl. “We depart in ten minutes. Fear not.”

“I have urgent business.” Westlie said, making an attempt to keep the salt out of her voice.

Nancy took a small step into the hallway. “Ready, ma’am?”

“Yes- Yes please.”

They walked down the hallway into the crew’s quarters where a separate bed had been made up. Her trunk was placed at the side: a few books, her shop clothes, an extra travel skirt. She really hadn’t left anything had she. Westlie glanced inside her carpet bag. There was a portrait of all of them as a family. She couldn’t imagine why she brought that; Morgan was cute, perhaps. She’d have to rip off half the portait to get her father out; not worth the effort. A pair of silver earrings they’d stolen together. A bag of sovereigns.

That was really it, wasn’t it? There was nothing else she wanted to remember. Nothing other than stolen earrings and the clothes on her back. And Westlie felt free.

[therainroguefanfiction]

🔥 ℝise Ⱥbove I̾t ◈ Chapter 013 [Extra Factor]

📑 Table of Contents | ◂Backward

Word Count: 3,254 ☁

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

〈“Oh, I started as an ember, Who was meant for kerosene, And now I’m raging like a fire, burning up.” The Score, “Glory”〉

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

I sprinted around the corner, nearly running into Midnight as she talked with a student. “Winchester, no running in the halls!”

I ignored her with a huff, turning the next corner and stopping in front of the nurse’s office. I kicked the door open, “Granny!”

The small woman jumped in surprise, turning toward the door with a frown. “Don’t you know how to – oh my goodness, what happened?”

I set Midoriya down on the closest bed. I didn’t want to out Toshi by saying he should’ve stepped in and stopped things. “Battle training got a bit out of hand,” I muttered, stepping aside so she could examine him.

She kissed his forehead, his body glowing bright green. With a huff, she headed over to a medical cabinet. “Well, don’t just stand there, deary, make yourself useful!”

“Ah, sure.” I rushed over to her, taking the bandages and ointments from her. While she set up the I.V., I applied burn cream to his left arm before wrapping it with gauze and bandages. She did most of the work on his broken arm while I assisted in any way I could. “Hey, Granny?”

“Yes, deary?” Her tone was clipped with annoyance.

“This kid’s quirk… it’s One for All, ain’t it?”

She was quiet for a moment. “I’m afraid that’s not for me to say, but you already have an idea, don’t you?” She finished with his wounds before turning to me. “Now to fix you up!”

“Ah, wait!” I jumped back before she could kiss me. “I haven’t fought yet, I need my energy!”

Granny sighed, grabbing some more bandages. “Fine, fine. At least let me wrap up your hands so they don’t get infected.”

“Thank you,”

“That’s what I’m here for. Now, try not to get hurt any worse and come straight back after your match, understand?”

“Sure, sure.” I sighed, heading out of the room. I have so much racing through my mind right now that I honestly couldn’t give a fuck about this exercise, but I knew I had to participate, especially since I skipped out on the Quirk Assessment. That quirk of his… it’s the same aura as Toshi’s, but… it’s more raw and untamed. He clearly can’t control the damn thing, he said so himself. If he had used that much power against Bakugo… but he didn’t. He knew better than that. I don’t think he ever planned to fight him head-on, but that blonde idiot is just so goddamn angry.

And I always thought that I’m a moody little bitch.

I stepped into the observation room but I wasn’t quiet enough, everyone’s gaze snapping to me. I scowled at the attention, shoving my hands into my pockets. “The fuck are ya’ll lookin’ at?” I shrugged as if that would get rid of the eyes on me, moving to stand by the back wall.

“Um, excuse me…” The brunette approached me, looking tired and pale. “Is Deku okay?” She looked really worried like she was about to start crying.

Deku? Is that his nickname or somethin’? I smiled softly, resting my hand on her head. She reminded me of a bunny, pure and innocent. “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. Recovery Girl is the best in the business for a reason.”

“I’m so glad,” she rubbed at her eyes before giving me a bright smile. “My name is Ochako Uraraka. Your name is… Winchester, right?”

“Jen Winchester. You can just call me Jen,”

“It’s nice to meet you! And… thank you for looking after Deku!”

“Yeah… sure thing.” I watched as she walked back to stand beside the Prep. My eyes landed on Bakugo, who was frozen in place, his wide eyes staring at the ground.

Was I too much of a dick to him? Was I too harsh?

I moved to stand beside him, my shoulder brushing his, but he didn’t even seem to notice. He’s really out of it… His lips are trembling. Oh geez, he’s not gonna cry, is he? I don’t handle crying people well, man. I cleared my throat but got nothing. I nudged him in the ribs, nothing. Okay, if he’s trying to make me feel worried and guilty, it’s fuckin’ working.

I placed my hand on the small of his back – Gramps always did that to me when I was feeling especially upset and it always calmed me down as a kid. He finally looked up at me, meeting my eyes. For a moment, he looked so… vulnerable. And then the anger returned, but it was much tamer than usual.

“Get your fuckin’ hand off me, I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity, idiot. Just shut up and accept my feeble attempt at being comforting.”

He scoffed, turning his head to the side but not moving away from me. That’s a good sign, I guess.

We watched in awkward silence as the other teams took their turns. Everyone did well, but none were quite as… active as the first battle had been. And finally, it was my turn.

French Fry and Alien were up against Sumo and Mountain.

I pulled back from Bakugo, ignoring his curious stare as I slipped out of the room. I don’t really have a plan, mostly because I don’t know anything about my opponents, not their quirks or capabilities, or even their fucking names. Guess I’ll just hide in the shadows until they engage with each other.

I snuck around to the back of the building, climbing the fire escape. I was careful around the windows, making sure I wasn’t seen while also checking for where the bomb is. No one but Toshi knows what team I had drawn, but this was the last battle… did they expect me? To be honest, I was hoping to my god, the taco, that everyone had forgotten about me.

I reached the last landing of the fire escape with a huff. Why the fuck is this building so damn tall? Fuck’s sake. I haven’t moved this much since I was ten and that fucker Jino stole my taco money. Guess I forgot that being a hero requires putting in actual work. I glanced through the window on the top floor.

Jackpot! There’s the bomb and it looks like Mountain is alone and… what the fuck is he doing in the corner? I leaned closer, squinting to see through the dirty glass. He was kneeling down petting a rat… I sweatdropped. Is everyone in this damn school nuts or is it just my class?

I dug my nails into the bottom of the window, but it didn’t budge. Damn, I was hoping for a stealthy approach, but it looks like I gotta break the window. I pulled back my elbow before bringing it hard against the glass, shattering it. My bandaged hands were a big help in removing the class from the sill so I could slip inside.

Mountain was now standing by the bomb, shaking like a leaf with his hands held up in surrender. I took a step forward and he flinched. Okay… definitely not gonna fight this poor kid. He might die of fucking heart failure.

I pulled the capture tape from my back pocket and slowly approached him, keeping my guard up in case it was all an act – I didn’t believe it was, but better safe than sorry, I guess. He looked so terrified, I almost feel guilty capturing him. Almost. “Hands,” I ordered. He quickly held them out I tied them together. “Too tight?” His shook his head side to side and I led him away from the bomb. If I ended up having to fight the others, I didn’t want this kid to get involved.

“Ow, shit!” I snapped my gaze down to see the rat attached to my ankle, his teeth easily cutting through the fabric of my pants. “That fucking hurts, you shit! Get offa me!” I wiggled my leg, but he just bit down harder. Goddamn it, I’m against animal cruelty! I grabbed it by the scruff of its neck, tapping it on the nose lightly until it finally let go, trying to grab onto my finger. With a string of curses, I dropped the squirming creature into Mountain’s lap. He held it close and the rat started to calm down. Does he have an animal quirk?

Wait, wait wait… don’t rats have diseases and shit? Fuck my life. If I die by a fucking rat I will burn this world from the grave.

“Woohoo!” Alien came sliding into the room, aiming straight for the bomb.

I held my hand up and a line of fire sprung to life in front of her. She yelped in surprise, stumbling back until falling on her behind. “Sorry, but I’m afraid that belongs to me, and I don’t like people touching my shit.”

She looked back at me, eyes wide. The situation dawned on her and she jumped to her feet, shooting a grey substance from her hands. I dodged most of it, but some splattered onto my tank top. The fabric started to dissolve with a hiss. Acid? It’s gotta be.

Che, how annoying. My long-range flames aren’t as powerful and they’re harder to control, but it should be enough for this. I just have to be careful. Watch the temperature and breathe.

The acid was beginning to eat through the floor, creating varying sized holes across the room. Hey, that’s an idea that might work. If I can keep her distracted by pretending to attack, I might be able to pull this off. I dodged another wave of acid, slipping under it and aiming my fist at her head. She slid backward with the acid coming from her feet. Her reflexes are pretty sharp.

I glanced at the floor as the acid slowly ate through the concrete. Just a little bit longer. She jumped toward me, kicking up acid into the air which fell onto my arm. I clenched my jaw in pain, slamming my flaming fist against the ground. The concrete cracked, spreading out to the holes until the floor started to collapse beneath us. She squeaked, trying to reach a part of the floor that wasn’t crumbling, but she was too far away.

I kneeled by the hole, glancing down at her. She was lying on her back, eyes closed. Hopefully, she’s unconscious. I glanced over at Mountain, who was near the hole. “You good?”

He nodded frantically, clutching the rat to his chest.

I stepped around the hole, leaning against the wall by the door. I could hear heavy footsteps rushing down the hall, far too heavy to belong to French Fry. Must be the big guy, then. If I had to guess, his quirk has something to do with strength, but that’s going off of appearance alone. I pressed myself flat against the wall.

Sumo ran into the room too fast to see me. Perfect!

I kicked the back of his knee and he stumbled but didn’t hit the ground. It was enough, though. I threw my arm around his neck, digging my knee into his back. He tried to claw at my arm but I increased my body temperature to burn his fingers but not his neck – it was tricky, but I managed it. I dug harder into his back, slamming his body against the ground with my own.

My eye twitched as he continued to fight back, nearly knocking me off of his body. Goddamn, just fucking pass out already! His body started to weaken before finally going slack. I huffed, releasing him. I made my way back to the hole and over the line of flames in front of the bomb, lowering my hand before flipping it over. The flames disappeared and I touched the fake bomb.

“Extra factor wins!”

My eye twitched in annoyance. What a stupid ass name. I’m along here, just use my fucking name! I pulled a switchblade from my pocket, flicking my wrist as I approached Mountain. He closed his eyes in fear and I kneeled down, carefully cutting the tape from his wrists.

Toshi came through with the medical bots, slapping his large hand on my shoulder. “You’ve come so far in such a short amount of time! I am so proud of you, young Jen!”

“You can cut the proud dad act, I still have a bone to pick with you after this,” I told him as I left the room, my hands stuffed into my pockets. My ankle is stinging from that damn rat and my hands were bleeding again. There was a small burn on my left arm and another on my stomach from the acid. If Granny sees these new wounds, I’m never gonna hear the end of it.

I’d rather just suffer and heal naturally.

When I re-entered the observation room, Bakugo’s red eyes were the first thing I saw. His jaw was clenched and he looked angry again. Ochako popped up in front of me and started to fangirl about how cool I am. I could only scratch my cheek awkwardly as she started to re-enact what she had seen. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel nice to be praised by someone other than Toshi, but man if it ain’t embarrassing, too.

I glanced behind her and Peppermint was glaring at me again. Man, what is his damage? Does he have a fucking problem with me? I returned to Bakugo’s side, putting more distance between us than before. He glared at me, too.

Man, this class needs some serious therapy.

Toshi led us all back to the same tunnel we had begun at. “That’s a wrap! Super work! You really stepped up to the plate and we didn’t have any major injuries except for Midoriya. You should be proud! Excellent first day of training all around!”

Toshi, you’re laying it on too thick. Chill out.

“It’s nice to hear some encouraging words after our homeroom class. Mr. Aizawa was kind of a buzzkill.”

Oh boy, Toshi’s head just inflated with that one.

“I’m happy to bring such staggering positivity to my alma mater! That’s all for now, folks! I should go and check on young Midoriya’s progress. Now watch how a pro exits! Like he’s got somewhere to be!!” Toshi took off down the hall and I cursed, rushing after him. No way in hell am I letting you get away!

He was so pre-occupied that he didn’t even notice me slip into the staff entrance behind him, sliding through the doors just before they closed. He was wheezing and his body engulfed in smoke. His skeletal form looked even worse in the baggy hero costume. “Man, you’re a fucking mess, ain’t ya?” He jumped in surprise, his wheezing turning into full-on coughing. I sweatdropped. “Don’t die on me, now.” With a sigh, I turned my back to him and kneeled down.

He stared at me blankly.

“Oi, I don’t have all day! Get on, I’ll carry you, gramps.”

He smacked the back of my head half-heartedly. “I’m not that old.” He staggered a bit as he walked, heading down the hall. I followed, hands in my pockets. As expected, Granny was pissed when we showed up.

She glared at both of us, making me sit on a stool while she ranted to Toshi. “The second day of school and he’s already a regular patient! Why didn’t you stop him, All Might?”

He coughed. “You’re right, Recovery Girl. I’m sorry.”

“Well, it’s no good apologizing to me! He’s too exhausted from his classes for my quirk. I can’t treat all of his injuries at once! I did some first aid, but after the I.V. is finished, we’ll have to wait for his body to heal overnight. Come on, All Might. I know you passed your powers onto this boy -”

I fucking knew it. Well, Toshi did technically mention it to me before school started but that’s neither here nor there. Not my fault my dumbass don’t listen.

“- but you can’t spoil him!”

He rubbed the back of his head. “I am trying not to play favorites. I wanted to consider his feelings, though. He needed to see that he was capable of winning the exercise. Oh yeah, also,” he lowered his voice. “Will you please not talk so loudly about One for All when anyone around you could hear?”

I pushed against the ground with my foot so the stool was by the bed so I could lean back against the metal at the foot of it. What was the big deal about people knowing about his power? I mean, I get that it’s this like, super over-powered quirk or some shit, but it’s not like people can forcefully take it if they find out the truth.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Mr. ‘natural born hero’. Mr. ‘symbol of peace’!”

He sighed, raising his clenched fist to his chest. “Several people know about my injury and this weakened form, like the U.A. facility and a certain group of pro heroes, for example. However, only a select few people know the secret of One for All. There’s you, the principal, and a very close friend of mine. Young Midoriya, too, of course, and young Jen, but no one else knows the truth about my power.”

“You’re the number one hero in the world, All Might. Does it really matter if you were born with your quirk or not? Do you have to be the symbol of peace? Is it that important?”

Granny asking the important questions. Her sad tone tugged at my heart, though. I wanted to pull the small woman into my arms, but at the same time, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself because of my injuries.

“If they knew I wasn’t, the temptation of this power could corrupt our society. This quirk… those who wield it are responsible for mankind’s safety.”

I glanced at Midoriya. Does he even know that? That’s a pretty tall order for a fifteen-year-old boy.

“Well, if that’s the case, it’s even more important for you to be a good guide.”

“You’re right…”

“And you, young lady.”

I winced at her tone, sitting straight up on the stool.

“Didn’t I tell you not to get more hurt?”

“Uhh, well, you see, what had happened was -”

She kissed my cheek and I slid off the stool, feeling my energy drain as my wounds healed. “You wouldn’t let me heal you earlier but you can’t escape it this time, deary.”

I groaned, wishing I had a pillow to smash my face into. “Next time, please just let me heal like a normal person, thanks…”

“But you’re not a normal person,”

I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment…

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

I yawned as the final class of the day ended. I grabbed my bag and headed out the door, ignoring whoever called out my name. The only voice I cared to hear from was the one belonging to that ugly ass green couch.

“Oi,”

I glanced over my shoulder to see Bakugo. His head was lowered, hair covering his eyes as he approached. “What’s -”

“Thank you,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry, you what now?” Had I heard that right?

He glared at me. “I didn’t fucking say anything. Get your damn ears checked!”

I deadpanned. This fuckin’ kid…

“Kacchan!”

Midoriya ran toward us, looking a bit worse for the wear. I patted Bakugo’s shoulder as I passed by, leaving the school grounds.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

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[icy-warden]

Spilled

AO3 | Fort Drakon and practical use of blood magic :D

Bruises weren't enough for them.

They could hold him harshly, and his skin would bloom with shades of angry red, unprotected against rough fingers.

Their mistake was to draw blood.

Thick ruby liquid spilling freely from the cut on his brow, after a slap. It hurt worse when it was done with armored glove, they knew it. Vergil had no doubt they relished in his pain, frustrated by the lack of begging. After all, they haven't done anything terrible. A bit of warming up. Wardens were traitors, and he deserved what was coming. It was just an excuse for a torment before their shift would end.

Stripping Vergil from his armor and clothes was meant to humiliate. Leaving bare skin to their hungry gazes, jeering comments, hurling insults to make him feel afraid, insignificant. He played the part of a frightened victim, if only to lull their awarness. Curling into himself, as cold damp air hit him, trying to hide, even if he wanted to stand straight and look at them as they were worms.

His head felt heavy, swimming from the potion they forced down his throat, nearly drowning him with it. Iron fingers held his jaw open, making him choke and spill half of it when he trashed in their grip. Covering his nose and cutting off the air completely made him swallow the bitter slop.

Vergil's throat was burning from held in coughs, when the subtle feeling of cold in the tips of his fingers numbed, then muted to nothingness. His jailors drugged him with magebane, stripping him of magic as well.

Harsh hand in his hair, twisting the strands painfully against his scalp. And when the potion hit his veins properly, Vergil had a problem with keeping his eyes open. Too much too soon.

They were wary of him. Probably thought he'd unleash something, if they wouldn't keep him under quickly. Clever.

But as they thought him helpless, they made a mistake. His wrists tied behind his back, too tight and he already was losing the feeling. Knees hurt on cold floor, the hard collision with it still aching in his bones. The scrape of dirt on his face, naked body, the mess of his struggles and their roughness.

It didn't matter. What mattered were the sneering faces of his captors, sure in their power over him and flushed in nasty glee. He was the new toy to play with, something to quench the thirst of boredom. And Vergil's Order was declared a betrayer to their nation, free to roughen up. Before any other order would come in, telling what to do with him. After all, they could say he struggled and used magic, so they had to put him in his place. Enough that he'd live, but it didn't mean he had to be in one piece.

But before their fun even began, it ended.

Bruises and twists weren't important, Vergil would live through them. Had worse, seen worse. Cruelty wasn't nothing new for him, and he knew what to expect.

Part of him refused to low his head and act the helpless victim they wanted him to be, taunting words on the tip of his tongue. He couldn't really get rid of the defiance in his eyes, and it cost him a blow to his face, unleashing the torrent of coarse words from the jailors. The hit rattled his thoughts for a moment, ringing in his ears, pain blooming from cut skin. He blinked through the blood in his eye, vision swimming in red. Suddenly a gloved hand was clenched on his throat, scowling face spitting something he wasn't paying attention to. Struggling to breathe.

A brush of a whisper in his mind, a thought of something sharp he wished in his hand right then, so he could plunge it in the eye of his captor and make him bleed and-

It happened.

He panted, gulping the air greedily, when his throat was freed and the painful yelp reached his ears, not one of his own, even when his neck felt like it was on fire. Still thinking of hurting the other with the imaginary dagger, made of his own blood.

A fleeting glance and he saw how the jailor kept clawing at his face, blood seeping through his fingers, stepping back and nearly tripping, others freezed in shock and then looking at him, rage and horror twisting their features, rushing at him with furious growls.

Vergil swayed as he kept looking at them, his head spinning when he wished them to stop, the force of his 'No' making them halt in uneven steps. The blood of the one clawing at his messy eye swirled from the man, making him violently shiver.

Deep red miasma was seeping from the body, acting like chains, covering them, holding them in place, even when they tried to fight it. Crimson mist floated around their heads, thickening in tendrils, making them go slack while they screamed and struggled in the bonds, faces twisted in primal fear, shifting away from the coils.

Vergil's mind swam and he felt drunk, not letting go of the spell, gritting his teeth and pushing the blood to work. Making them chained and helpless, at his mercy. He was shaking from the effort, as he felt hands on his shoulders, curling into his flesh, cold phantom of a body at his back, cool whisper brushing his ear.

He held it until the man with a stab wound on his face crumpled with loud thud of armor and dead body, others following suit, but still breathing. Their bloodied faces with grimaces of horror, eyes unseeing, twitching uncontrollably.

Vergil barely kept on his knees, almost going head down on the dirt, but something was keeping him up. The wave of nausea struck him, skin clammy, blood rushing from his nose. The taste of metal was making him want to spit it out, but instead he had to swallow a mouthful, breathing hard through his mouth. He almost collapsed in exhaustion when a distant purr of 'Enough' echoed in his mind. Except he refused to let go, fearing the soldiers would shake the spell off and go after him, forcing himself to hold it, his sight hazy and red. Nothing stopped the fall, when he swayed to the side, shoulder spiking with pain, and there's a disappointed tut from someone, a flash of blazing golden-black eyes and swirl of white just before he heard 'I said enough', the feeling of claws digging in his arms with slight more force and he let go, along with his spotty vision.

Too much too soon.

When he came to it, there's someone speaking to him, his body held up, and risked opening his eyes, slowly blinking off the blur. He grimaced as the stench of the room hit him, seeing a blond strands and golden eyes gazing into his, brows wrinkled.

Zevran's face cleared when Vergil grunted under his breath. “My Warden, did you miss me?”

Vergil only huffed in response.

There's someone else going about the room, grumbling, Oghren, and he closed his eyes briefly, body going slack for a moment, feeling the hands holding him grip tighter, “Don't go asleep on me now,” whispered against his temple. His lips curled up, dried blood cracking off his skin, tilting head back, still feeling like he's drunk and he almost giggled. Drunk. Drunk on power coursing through his veins. Even when he could't move his limbs properly.

Somehow he willed his body to move, hands already free, clawing at Zevran with murmured 'help me up' and there's a sigh when he stood on his own, hunched on himself, but Zevran's hands were stilling him. Letting Vergil slouch against him, steady. Bare skin on leather.

They helped him put on his clothes, found in another room and didn't comment on body laying in pool of blood, others looking like they're sleeping through a nightmare. He used the not so fresh water from the bucket in the room they kept his things to clean his face as best as he's able to with trembling hands. He's cold, the world spinning when he moved too quickly. His body hurt in places. But his mind was collected. Calm.

Vergil unhurriedly drank the elfroot potion, thinking.

And when Zevran made to use the dagger to slit the throat of the breathing bodies laying there, he rasped “Don't. I'll need them for later.”

They had to get out from the Fort. Magebane was still working, blocking him off the Fade. Vergil glanced coldly at his former captors, “Cut them, but nothing vital,” he told Zevran, stepping closer to the door, “Just so they won't move.”

“That,” Zevran nodded with a slow smirk, uncorking a small vial of dark liquid “is something I can do.” Vergil leaned against a wall, watching him working on the first body, efficiently, without hesitation. As soon as the blood was drawn, he focused on how it felt, how he'd summon it with growing distance. It should be enough to trick anyone looking at them, the glamour he's planning on using. A pity it didn't cover the sound. “Any other way out?”

Oghren shook his head, “Didn't look like it,” he shrugged, resting the axe handle on the shoulder, “we weren't exactly sightseeing. Someone,” he grunted glancing at Zevran, “was in a hurry.”

“I believe this situation required a quick action.”

Vergil's eyes found Zevran, wiping the bloodied dagger before sheathing it back.

“The queen?”

For a moment Zevran looked like he tasted something foul, “All well and authoritative, last I've seen her.” His smile was sharp, “Will this be sufficient?” He gestured at the bodies and Vergil looked at them, closing his eyes with a sigh. Still alive, bleeding out.

“Yes,” his shoulders slumped, the wave of tiredness barely kept at bay by the potion he chugged earlier. Fingers circled his wrist, squeezing briefly, gone before he fully registered the touch. “There's an armory, not so far from here.” Zevran glanced at the abused skin on his neck, “We could use the armors to blend in.” This close he could see the golden flecks, Zevran's determined gaze making warmth bloom in Vergil's chest. He squashed it, swallowing the sudden words of gratitude, throat tight.

You didn't leave me to rot here, I don't have to claw my way out alone.

Later, he thought.

Later.

[salmonthestoryteller]

Unclean

I wrote this for Michael Guerin Week - Pre-canon and/or “the lost decade”

I went with Pre-canon, so I could explore Michael’s childhood - with an emphasis on what he went through with the group he stayed with on his return to Roswell.

Trigger Warning for Child Abuse, and please take that very seriously.

This is very much Hurt with No Comfort, so please be aware of that as well.

Unclean A Roswell New Mexico Fanfic

Michael is eleven when he returns to Roswell.  He’s learned a lot of things in the years since he emerged from the pod.  He’s learned how to speak.  Which is good, because not speaking had drawn attention he didn’t like.  Pitying looks, and whispers behind palms that said something wasn’t quite right with him. He’s also learned that knowing how to talk and being listened to are two different things.  He’s learned to read and write, though he rarely has the chance to do so outside of school.  Books are kindling, not something to be enjoyed, as far as the meth-heads are concerned.  He’s learned not to bring his schoolbooks home, but keep them in his locker or hidden somewhere else.

He’s learned how to count, and measure.  He’s learned how much pennies and quarters scrounged from couch cushions and the bottom of the washing machine can buy.  He’s learned how to steal food when he can’t find enough.  He’s learned that as long as he spends the coins he finds, his caretakers never miss them.  But if the drunk who he’s stuck with for two years finds him hoarding them - that won’t go unpunished.

He learns loneliness.  He learns pain.  He learns fear.

He’s not particularly scared on his treks to Foster Ranch.  If anything, the starry night sky and stretches of highway and desert seem safer than any place he has ever lived on Earth.  Sometimes there’s a feeling, like a fleeting memory, that invades his dreams when he sleeps under the stars.  A feeling of belonging.  Of safety.

In his waking hours, he never feels either.

He figures the religious freaks who run the group home can’t be worse than what he’s known. Outwardly, he’s right.  There are no drugs or alcohol to be found, and the housing is spotless.  There is a bed, a blanket, and a desk for every child to do their homework on.  He’s never stayed someplace so clean.  After finding Max and Isobel again, he almost feels like things might be looking up.

He’s wrong.  He learns about duplicity.  About prejudice.  About hatred.  He abandons the notion that any humans are good.

It starts out simple enough.  With chores, and a schedule, and church every Sunday.  He’s not used to a schedule, though.  He’s not used to being expected to do things, because what he’s always been expected to do is stay out of the way.  Apparently not understanding what they want from him isn’t an acceptable excuse.

“If anyone sins and does what is forbidden in any of the Lord’s commands, even though they do not know it, they are guilty and will be held responsible.”  One of the adults quotes, as if it makes any sense.

They have a punishment, and a quote, for everything, he learns.  Forgetting chores means being made to do things like clean the bathroom floor with a toothbrush. Taking food between scheduled meals and snacks means not only being denied the next meal, but being made to stand and watch as everyone else eats.

When he’s caught looking for loose change, he’s accused of stealing, because any loose change found is to go in a donation jar.  That’s what leads to his first beating at the home.  He’s made to get down the switch from the wall, and all the other children are rounded up to watch him be punished.  Humiliation is new - he’s pretty sure he prefers being invisible.

“No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.”  He’s told after.

He watches one of the workers wash another boy’s mouth out with soap after he is caught swearing.

“But shun profane and vain babblings: for they will increase unto more ungodliness.”

A girl’s hair is chopped off after she is caught decorating it with ribbons and barrettes she secretly bought.

“In like manner also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array.”

They are gathered up to watch another boy be beaten with the switch for being caught with a Playboy magazine.

“Flee the evil desires of youth and pursue righteousness, faith, love and peace, along with those who call on the Lord out of a pure heart.”

Two of the girls are caught sleeping in the same bed, and even though he knows the one suffers nightmares - everyone knows - it doesn’t stop the wrath of the adults.  They’re gathered to watch, and the girls are given twice as many switches as any other punishment he’s witnessed yet.

“To kill wrong desires, which lead to wrong actions, you need to control your thinking. If you regularly fill your mind with wholesome thoughts, you can more readily dismiss wrong desires.”  

He runs away to Foster Ranch that night, spends it under the stars.  Wishes for a world he can’t remember.  No dreams of safety and belonging come.  He wonders if he’d only ever imagined the feelings.

They lock him in the basement when he returns, where he spends hours alone in the dark.

“Those whom I love I rebuke and discipline. So be earnest and repent.”

He’s tired of their quotes, and their punishments.  The next time they’re gathered to watch a beating a picture falls from the wall.  The next time he’s made to miss a meal, a dining room chair scrapes across the floor.  It’s not until he’s made to clean the hallway with a toothbrush, and every picture in it crashes to the ground, that he realizes it might be his doing.

“You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons too; you cannot have a part in both the Lord’s table and the table of demons.”  The adults warn them at dinner that night.

He’s pretty sure he would know if he somehow called on the powers of darkness.  After a few tests with Isobel and Max, he discovers he can make it happen on purpose.  He can make things move.  It’s the best thing that’s happened since finding Max and Isobel again, and he begins to play with his ability more and more when he’s alone.

The good news is the practice lets him lift heavier items without getting tired.  Lets him hold them up longer.

The bad news is this means the same when his powers explode outward without meaning to.  More and more, the workers at the group home start eyeing him when things happen.  When chairs slam into the walls, and tables get knocked over because he’s angry, always angry.  He hates how they excuse their cruelty as being for the good of the children in their care.  He hates their rules and their schedules and their quotes.

He hates that sometimes the quotes sneak into his mind and make him wonder if he’s wrong in some way.

One of the women from the group home catches him practicing. She opens the door while he's levitating a pencil, and even though he drops it right away, she crosses herself and backs out of his room.  He hopes that will be the end of it, but it isn’t.

If it had been any other time during the year he’d have been in school, but it’s summer and it isn’t as if he’s ever needed to retake a course.  He sees her speaking to the priest on Sunday.  She makes him go into the basement Monday morning.

At first, he thinks it’s a regular punishment.  When she comes back, though, the priest is with her.  At first, it seems simple enough.  They pray and toss holy water on him.  But as the hours go on and he tries to get up, he’s forced back into the chair.  Eventually, they tie him to it.

He’s hungry, and tired, and has to use the bathroom, but they don’t care.  The first time he loses control of his bladder, his cheeks burning with humiliation, the priest throws more holy water on him- claiming that him “defiling” himself was proof of his possession.  As night sets in, he begins to shiver from the cold.  Once again, the priest claims it’s proof that he’s possessed - that the demon inside of him is causing his body to shake.

If they would just leave him alone, he could use his powers to escape, but they don’t.  They take shifts, praying constantly and ignoring anything he says.  He begs them to let him go, but the priest keeps saying he isn’t fooled by the demon’s trickery.

Michael isn’t even sure how he loses control of his bladder a second time when he hasn't had anything to drink, but the acrid smell makes him throw up.  He hasn’t had any food since Sunday dinner, and it’s early Wednesday.  The priest only says again that it’s the demon’s doing - proof that he's being controlled by something evil.

They finally give him water, but no food.  He tries to use his powers to scare them.  To move and break things in the cellar.  He only needs a moment alone to get out and away.  Instead, the priest heats his metal cross over a candle and presses it into his skin. His forearm is first - the metal sizzles where it touches him - the pain is the worst he’s known and Michael can’t hold back his screams.  The smell of his own flesh burning hits him next, making him gag as the priest repeats the process on his upper arm.

“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our protection against the malice and snares of the devil."

How ironic is it that their angel has his name, yet he’s being accused of being a demon?

"May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell all the evil spirits who prowl through the world seeking the ruin of souls.”

He loses control of his powers, the force of it exploding outward all around him - rattling everything in the basement.  Afterwards, he passes out.

When he wakes up, he’s laid out on the floor with the woman and the priest leaning over him, asking if he’s alright.  Does he remember anything from his possession?

Terrified they might start the exorcism again, he insists he can’t remember any of the last week.  The woman sobs, thanking God and the priest for saving his soul.

The priest eyes him suspiciously and warns them it might not be over.  “Demons may be exorcised, or driven out, from a possessed person,” he cautions.“However, this may be dangerous if not followed by stringent cleaning and discipleship. Without proper spiritual care, the person might then be open for a seven-fold infestation.”

Michael barely suppresses a shudder when the woman instantly says they’ll do it again if they have to.  Only then is he allowed to go upstairs and clean himself up.  The clothing is a lost cause.  He wads it up and stuffs it into the bathroom trash.  The smell from them is so strong it starts to fill the small space, and he ends up tying up the bag to throw away when he’s finished cleaning himself.  There’s a medkit in the bathroom with burn cream in it, and he applies it to the marks he can reach.  He pulls on a hoodie afterward - tugging the sleeves down to hide the marks even though he knows you aren’t supposed to cover burns.  He can’t look at them; doesn’t want anyone else to see them.  He follows every fucked up rule without hesitation for the next week.

He’d planned to sneak out the night of his birthday, but fear of another exorcism makes him ask permission to go camping instead, stressing it’s with Max and not mentioning Isobel at all.  The head of the group home agrees, though the woman who did the exorcism watches him warily.  She approaches him before he leaves to give him a rosary.  He takes it so he can escape out the door before things escalate.

If, on the way back to the group home after burying a body in the middle of the desert, he finds himself fingering the rosary, it’s only because his hands are still shaking from shock.

“And nothing unclean, and no one who practices abomination and lying, shall ever come into it, but only those whose names are written in the Lamb's book of life.” He finds himself quoting, and hates himself for it.

He’s felt like the group home has been trying to convince him that he’s wrong and unclean since he’d first arrived.  Now, after using his powers to bury a body, he isn’t sure he’ll ever feel clean again.

End

SuburbanSun beta-ed the absolute mess this fic was when I begged for help with it.  Thank-you! Thank-you!  I probably should have begged for more help after I finished fixing it up, so any remaining errors are definitely all on me.

Long Mostly Unnecessary Author Notes:

I’ve wanted to write a fic focusing on the exorcism since episode 01x06 aired, and episode 01x10 only made me want to write it more.

I have a life long fascination with all things supernatural, so I’ve actually read and watched a lot of things about exorcisms - both about what is supposed to be done if going through official channels (which actually involves a ton of medical and psychological testing and can take years to be approved), and what happens when some zealot decides they can just take things into their own hands. (Which in some cases I’ve read about led to the death of those involved.)

That being said, and I’ve admitted this as a writer in previous fandoms while attempting to write about religious characters, I am agnostic. So any and all religious references have truly only been moderately researched.  I apologize if that has led me to making any blazing errors.

Michael mentions in 1x10 that the group involved were “Fundamentalist Religious Freaks.” Fundamentalist, according to the dictionary, is a person who believes in the strict, literal interpretation of scripture in a religion. Which to me says that they’re the types who follow the letter and not the meaning of what they preach.

Even though both young Michael to Max, and older Michael to Alex, basically shrug off this group as being crazy, we know he was in their care for a minimum of three years (11-14).  He may have been in their care up to 16 or 17 since he makes no more mention of another group home or foster parent and we don’t know when exactly he started living homeless.  So that makes it 3-6 years he stayed with them.  That’s a lot of years, and I feel like on some level, especially coming to them at 11, it would have affected his thoughts about right and wrong and himself,  whether he admitted it or not, so I wanted to hint at that as well.

[catflowerqueen]

How about something for The World's Treasure verse with Stars?

citrus-chickadde said: (Oh, and I forgot to specify character(s), but how about Dusknoir for that prompt I sent you?)

Here you go! 

Stars

           “…Are you all right?” the ghost-type asked of his redhaired friend as he approached her cautiously. After the exhausting “day” they’d just had, as well as the fact that she was mildly injured, he would have expected her to be in bed, rather than sitting dangerously close to one of the broken ledges that were so numerous around what remained of Temporal Tower, staring up at the dark, dismal sky. Her hood, for once, was actually up and covering her fiery locks, and while this normally would have pleased Dusknoir—because, really, that shade just made her that much more of an easy target for the pokémon who had completely lost themselves to the madness of the dark world—at the moment it was just further proof of how really not all right she was at this moment.

           The woman gave a start, briefly glancing at him in surprise before turning her gaze back skywards. “Mm. I’m fine,” she said mutely—and rather unconvincingly. Her voice, after all, still sounded rough and hoarse from all the screaming she’d done earlier. Dusknoir raised a brow, and even though her back was turned so that she couldn’t see his expression, the two knew each other well enough by now that she could definitely tell she hadn’t fooled him. He didn’t even have to say anything before she sighed, flipping her hood down and half-turning around to make the inevitable conversation easier. “I am… still a bit upset at Dialga for how he acted today.”

           Dusknoir winced himself at the reminder. As aware as he was of the massive amounts of cruelty his master possessed, he still hadn’t expected the sheer brutality of the slaughter that took place earlier—especially the fact that Dialga, for once, didn’t listen to any of Little Imp’s pleas for mercy—even going so far as to physically push her to the side, which resulted in her mildly-injured state—until she outright attacked him herself. It wasn’t enough to save the adults of the sableye tribe who’d had the misfortune of incurring Primal Dialga’s wrath, but…

           “You managed to save the children,” Dusknoir reminded her.

           “For a given value of saved,” she spat. But he just raised a brow again and she sighed, scrubbing her face with her hands. “I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve that. None of this is your fault, and this whole situation… it’s put you in a rather tight spot, as well.”

           Dusknoir frowned before sighing himself and moving to join her. “It will be… different,” he acknowledged, “but on the whole�� I can’t say that it won’t be nice to hear children roaming about again. Given how large my family was, growing up… well, it’s a sound that I hadn’t realized I’d been missing until I heard it again.” He paused here, wincing a bit, “Ah… The unfortunate circumstances immediately following it aside, of course.”

           “No… I know what you mean,” Little Imp said, her hands moving from scrubbing at her face to propping it up as she briefly leaned to look over the edge of the ledge they were sitting on before raising her gaze once more to the sky. “You never really know how much you’ll miss something until it’s gone.”

           At that, Dusknoir raised his own gaze to the dark, gloomy heavens. “…That’s true enough, I suppose,” he agreed, a bit of caution to his tone. Considering everything that his friend had given up in order to be here now, those were some very loaded words.

           The Little Imp blinked at his tone before giving an airy chuckle and rubbing her neck, a slight blush of embarrassment rising to her face. “Oh, no,” she said, “it’s probably nothing like you’re thinking, just…” she gave a wistful sigh. “Back at the orphanage, after putting all the children to bed—especially if one of them was having a bad night—I would go out and look at the sky,” she explained. “And while the circumstances here are obviously… different… I just… well, I fell back into old habits, and… I just hadn’t realized how much I missed doing that. Taking care of a group of kids, and then going to look at the sky…” she paused again, not noticing the pained look on her friend’s face as she worked through her thoughts. “Of course, none of the children back home were orphans due to such extreme circumstances as this. And they all still understood that they were children first and foremost, and not… not what Dialga wants them to be, for me.”

           That last part had devolved into an angry mutter, so Dusknoir didn’t quite catch it. Not helped was the fact that he was distracted by a different part of what she’d just said. “Yes…” he agreed, rather distantly, “the sky… it must have been very pretty. All those stars…the history in those constellations…”

           He was abruptly startled out of his longing when his friend gave a rather undignified snort. He turned to her, mild hurt in his expression, where she sat trying to muffle her laughter.

           “Sorry, sorry,” she said, not really sounding all that contrite, even though he could tell she was trying. “It’s just… I never really saw the appeal in constellations.”

           Dusknoir was surprised. “But… given how much you like paining… I would have thought—the concept of pictures painted in the night sky, wouldn’t that—?”

           “Well, sure, when you put it that way,” she waved him off. “But… that’s probably the core of the problem.”

           “…Explain, please?”

           “Sure,” Little Imp said, a wry grin on her face as she flopped down, flipping over her stomach and doodling in the dust that was ever-present on the Tower, despite her many attempts to clean things up a bit and make it more habitable—especially today, given that there would be children living there.

           “Okay,” she said as she finished, sitting up and dusting her palms off on her cloak. “Imagine this is the night sky, and tell me what sorts of pictures you can make out by connecting the dots.”

           Dusknoir looked at her in confusion momentarily before deciding to humor her. Looking down at her work, he studied it for a moment before connecting a series of six dots, declaring, “Here—a girafarig.”

           “Are you sure?” His friend asked, a smirk on her face.

           Dusknoir scowled, irritation clear on his face. “Yes. These two dots, here—they make up the head and snout. And then connecting them to these…”

           “Ah, but are you sure those two dots make up the head of a girafarig, rather than a krabby’s claws?” she asked rhetorically, tracing a different path with her fingers that, yes, did vaguely resemble a krabby. “And then this dot, here, that you seem to think make up a tail… in actuality, don’t they really resemble a farfetch’d’s leek? Or a—”

           “Yes, yes, I see your point,” Dusknoir said, a frown on his face as the dots and their many possibilities swam in his vision.

           The human shrugged before taking pity on her friend and wiping the dots away. “I agree that it was fun to make pictures in the sky, and that the view was really lovely, but… given where I was, and who I was with… I lacked the context for true constellations.” She shrugged again. “Some of the more fanatical worshippers, especially those were conversions, or became worshippers later in life, claimed that the stars were ‘perfect representations of Relatia’ or ‘her thousand eyes that watched from the skies,’ but… that really couldn’t be farther from the truth. It’s true that, depending on where you were, you could use the stars to navigate your position in space, but… going too far in one direction or another changed the context of the constellations; not all stars can be seen from both hemispheres of Earth. And even the closest star—the sun—wasn’t necessarily a good measure of the time depending on where in the world you were. Go too far north, for example, and the sun didn’t even rise at all if it wasn’t the right season.” She paused here. “Of course, ‘rise’ isn’t really the proper term, seeing as it wasn’t the sun that was moving. It was actually—”

           “Yes, I get it,” Dusknoir said, rolling his eye. “We’ve had that particular conversation before.”

           The Little Imp smiled. “Relatia always found those ideas amusing, though. Her favorite stars were actually the dead ones, believe it or not—she always said that she felt bad that I would never be able to experience what it was like to travel through a black hole. Apparently the journey makes one’s stomach feel ‘pleasantly swirly’ and ‘it’s fun to see where the white hole spits you out.’ Assuming, of course, that you could actually survive the trip. Alas, that is not something that mere mortals like us can experience.”

           Dusknoir shook his head, amused despite himself, and the two lapsed into pleasant silence for a while, looking out over the barren landscape.

           “…You know,” the Little Imp finally admitted, “This view isn’t really all that different from some of the stuff I saw at the orphanage.” At Dusknoir’s stunned look, she explained further, “Relatia hid her islands within the folds of time and space, you know? So the view… it was always changing. And depending on which timeline we were closest to… well.” She leaned back on her arms a bit. “What people tend not to realize is that a lot of times, when they think they’re seeing a star? It’s actually just a ghost image; it takes about eight minutes for the light from Earth’s sun to reach the planet, so just imagine how much longer it takes for the stars that are so much farther away. By the time that their first rays of light actually reach Earth… the star itself may be long dead.”

           “So sometimes the timeline you were closest to would be so far in the future that the stars were long dead and gone?” Dusknoir surmised.

           “Or that they haven’t been born yet.”

           “Still, that’s rather… sad. And the fact that many of the stars are actually ghosts…” Dusknoir shuddered.

           “Hey, now, what’s wrong with that? Some of my best friends are ghosts, after all,” Little Imp said, a wry grin on her face as she shoved Dusknoir playfully, making him blush. “Besides… I actually think it’s rather heartening, y’know? To think of all those ghost stars… still giving the Earth life, and a myriad of opportunities for constellations, even long after they’re gone…”

           “I suppose, putting it that way…”

           “And then of course you have shooting stars, which aren’t even stars at all—just bits of space rocks and meteors, rocketing out of nowhere and giving us a brilliant display, even as the journey burns them to nothing in the atmosphere—unless they get lucky and land as meteorites.”

           “Now, that sounds interesting—I don’t think you’ve told me about those before.”

           “I haven’t? Well you’re in for a treat, then! You know, some theorize that it was a meteorite which led to the extinction of the dinosaurs—or at least, the dinosaurs which Relatia and some of the other Panthoen members didn’t save or move elsewhere…”

           “What are dinosaurs?”

           “One story at a time, Dear Friend! First, let me…”

           The two friends would converse for quite a while, long after they both should have been asleep, and neither of them would notice that a tiny sableye head would occasionally peek around the corner, from where one of their new charges had snuck out of bed.

           And “years” later, as Dusknoir fought alongside his former enemies, Grovyle and Celebi, as he tried to save the past and change the future… he couldn’t help but compare himself to those ghost stars, still shining and spreading their light despite being long dead… or to a shooting star, burning brightly for a purpose even as it assured its own destruction in the task.

[zedecksiew]

Whalebone & Crabshell - Repost

Context: this story, “Whalebone & Crabshell”, was written around the time of the 2015 Rohingya refugee crisis.

It was first published on Projek Dialog. Then it was performed on BFM89.9. Then it was published again in Dark Mountain: Issue 9. 

Since Projek Dialog has gone through a redesign, obliterating the story’s paragraphing on that website, I’m re-posting “Whalebone & Crabshell” here, in full. Illustrations by Sharon Chin.

+

WHALEBONE & CRABSHELL by Zedeck Siew, with illustrations by Sharon Chin

This is how our land is laid:

Firstly, the domains of the Sultan -- may God ever extend his years -- the groves and fertile paddy-lands; the ports and isles and cities, where spice is sold and timber traded; mosques full of devotees; loyal citizens talking in civilised tongues.

O our Sultan, may he reign safe upon the throne!

And then, the sea, full of bounty -- but also of pirates, submerged giants, ghosts of wind and water; playground of the Lordly Dragon, and the great spirit Root-of-Creation, who lives in the navel of the ocean --

O grand Mother Ocean, who is female, therefore occasionally chained but never tamed.

And then there are the inlands and the uplands: in the jungle interior, upriver, full of hidden primates and uncivilised peoples.

Indeed, to be an inlander is to live lawlessly, as a fugitive from the Sultan's justice -- and uplanders are all revolutionaries and deviants anyway; they practice schismatic rites and prostrate themselves before idols.

O God save us!

#

Our Sultan -- God save him -- in his thirty-third year, having crushed the rebellion of his admirals, decided to demonstrate his piety by bringing order to all benighted places.

Thus the headwaters were choked with barges, and armies bore into the forest deeps.

The hillside crops burned, the hillfolk bandits were slaughtered; the hidden valleys echoed with the screams of women and dying mercy-cries in throat-some languages.

Finally all the hinterlands were pacified, and the inlanders captured; disarmed; rounded up; assembled together in a great field, where they knelt of their own accord, awestruck and shivering at the sight of the Sultan’s yellow-gold pavilion.

So the Sultan turned to his advisors, saying: “O wise councillors, grant me your wisdom, in turn granted by God! What should be done with this rabble?”

#

And the Admiral, with his sickle-spear, said:

“Slay them down to the youngest son, no mercy should be shown. Only then can we be sure!”

But the Treasurer, with his pen and parchment, said:

“There are a thousand families, times seven members on average, times five minutes per execution at the quickest, also accounting for the number of axes dulled, good trees felled to provide stakes, pints of blood that will poison the soil -- no, my Sultan! It costs too much!”

So the Vizier, whispering into the Sultan’s ear, said:

“Exile these people, drive them to the sea / they will drown quickly!

“What better fate for squatters, thieves who stole the interior / territories by right your patrimony?”

“Oh yes sir, I’ve got a curse for that,” said the Holy Sorcerer. “They’ll never come back, sir, they’ll never set foot on dry earth again. It’s a simple spell.”

#

Therefore the Sultan -- God bless him with wisdom -- commanded eviction.

And the traitors were given the rotting planks of their dissembled hovels, to use as rafts, and they were banished down the river, through the delta, and off and out to the open water.

Some, swimming back to shore, found the tide turned against them; the harder they paddled, the farther the coast receded. Soon they tired, unable to fight the Sorcerer’s magical decree.

And thus floated -- tossed to and fro, a flotilla of sorry creatures, forsaken by both men and God. 

At first there was a storm. Torrential rain beating the waves down; thunder and flashing; they were soaked to the bone, and to the bones of their boats also. Many drowned.

Afterwards they drifted. Becalmed for many days, their sweat dried into salt on their arms -- a meagre wealth, salt without rice; they were rich only with hunger, and thirst, and heatstroke; filth and illness.

Their shamans called for succour. But their idols were abandoned in the mountains, and too distant to hear.

#

Between them all there were nine coils of cord, and a single hook, previously used to fish in streams -- and its owner, sensing his importance, said: 

“With my hook I will catch food. Hey, if you will owe me your lives, I should be leader!”

But the man was mostly a catfisher; his skills did not apply where they were; anyway there were only beads and loose goose-feathers to use as bait. So he caught nothing. 

And during the night the some ruffians came. They stabbed him with splintered stakes; in the morning they said: “We have the fishhook. Therefore: we should be leaders.”

“Ho, hear us!” they said. “Our plan: segregation. Families first. Ours. And also: all who we see are strong. The weak: they should be sacrificed. We eat the meat off their limbs. Survival for the fittest!”

Naturally, the others were dismayed. “Abomination!” the wise-women said. Together they flung the murderers bodily overboard.

#

Then they came to an island of pirates.

And the pirates -- dashing though misguided warriors, their costumes tied with red ribbons, their belts studded with sea-ivory – said:

“These souls, fleeing the Sultan’s cruelty, sadly they cannot live with us. To live a life of piratical liberty, one must have sea-worth, able to court and cower before Mother Ocean.”

“In their souls they are uplanders. They have hill-shaped hearts. They can neither read star-charts nor savour the taste of spray. They’re simply not made that way!”

Having justified themselves, the pirates of the island prepared a care package -- a barrel of beer; a netful of fish; twelve blankets, folded, lowered by crane onto the outcasts’ largest raft. Along with a letter, saying:

“Ho there travellers! Unfortunately, you may not settle here. Sorry! Have these gifts, no strings attached, with our sympathies, and this whale-bone recorder,” 

-- at which point a flute fell out of the unfolded page -- 

“with which you might use to attract a dragon-spirit’s pity. Hopefully! Thank you. Please go.”  

#

Past the island there was another storm, worse than the first.

By now their vessels were broken, their drink-barrel empty; fish all gone; their blankets torn apart by fighting. 

With the lightning, some clambered onto their wives’ backs -- and stretching their arms up, ate quick ends by electricity. Others, less lucky, fell into the foam -- these were dragged under. Unable to swim, too weak to struggle, they drank their deaths slower.

Among those who remained, their last wise-woman was angry at the world and everything in it.

Putting the bone flute to her lips, she stood with her back straight; her feet, each on a different log; a single note was what she played:

Shrill, clear as a horn, louder than thunderous hammer-sounds.

And she sang: “O lords of wind and water, heartless creatures! Torture us no longer! Take our lives, let us die, we offer ourselves! A sacrifice! We do not ask for mercy. Vengeance only!”

There was no human reply -- but a rumbling answer. An inhuman growl, a surging tremor from under-sea.

#

A sphere burst the surface: the size of a moon; black and smooth -- not round, ovoid now, and mounted on a tower the colour of cream.

An eyestalk, looking down.

And another. And then claws: rising west and east, each pincer-point a mountain, big and blurry with distance.

It was he who is called Root-of-Creation -- old spirit, eldest of spawn -- who'd heard the shaman’s summons. He is father of crabs, and all crabs come from him; he is the largest. Moving in the depths, his great weight makes the sea levels rise, and the tides.

The exiles, witness to such a fearful sight, cowered in terror; and even their shaman, the brave, foolish woman -- she waited there, expecting to be swallowed.

Root-of-Creation held still for a while. The curve of his shell is the breadth of continents; and inasmuch as a country could look thoughtful, he took his time to deliberate.

And, having decided, he picked them up, all of them, and he placed them upon his back. 

#

Back to the first, to the Sultan’s domains -- in the ports, in the cities, there were many whispers:

That a great wave was coming; that it had wiped out the pirate-isles; that the far villages were swept away by flying swordfish, and merchant ships by constrictor-eels; that the mermaids were gone, strangled.

And bird- and gull-flocks were seen flapping over the palace. They were fleeing. The Treasurer, with his abacus, his feet soaked in salt-water, tallied costs -- 

“A thousand families with no homes, times seven members on average, times two silver pieces per head, bearing in mind the twenty warehouses damaged, the dozen docks destroyed, plus fifteen galleys shattered beyond repair.”

The Admiral was not at court; the Vizier’s mansion was found vacant. Both had sought asylum in an enemy state.

The Holy Sorcerer, water up to his waist, said:

“I’ve got nothing, sir. Have you seen the size of that thing? That’s Root-of-Creation, the crab-god, he’s a top-level creature. Sir, none of my spells are anywhere near his tier.”

#

Therefore our Sultan -- may God grant him speed to save his own skin -- ordered for the capital to empty. 

And the citizenry obeyed, going bare-breasted through the flood; on their heads they carried babies, wicker-basketfuls of brass pieces, precious embroidery; they sat on floating bed-frames, paddling with hoes and ladles.

But at the city gates traffic slowed and halted, for the palanquins of noble families took priority. So there was a crush, a panicked clamour.

O God save us! 

In the portside districts, those few still left to see saw the surf draw away. By the piers, the long-ships settled at the bottom of the bay, and listed. And behind them, in the distance, inexorably approaching:

Grand Mother Ocean, fashioned into a wall, many leagues wide and some leagues tall -- 

Her insides darkened by some shadow, monstrous and crustacean; crowned with froth, topped with wreckage, ridden by rejoicing figures --

Those terrible people, those uplanders! All criminals, wretched heathens, spiteful by nature; with feet cursed never to touch earth again -- regaining their hillside homelands by drowning them, offering all lands to the sea.

They have betrayed us! O God have mercy!

+++

This author’s note ran with the story, in Dark Mountain:

In 2015 the Rohingya people – described as one of the most persecuted minorities on Earth – fled Burmese oppression en masse, on boats. But the neighbouring governments of Malaysia, Indonesia and Thailand vacillated. The owners of those boats were human traffickers. And these countries had no space left for refugees, of course. Of course.

So the Rohingya starved at sea. Malaysian citizens took to social media to express outrage at the unfolding humanitarian crisis. ‘How could we let this happen?’ But there was little action, and attention soon petered out.

I wrote Whalebone & Crabshell under a blanket of shame. It is not a story about the Rohingya. It is a story about me: how the reality of the Rohingya makes me feel powerless; how people like me – citizens of nation-states – tacitly condone and perpetuate the conditions that turn people into displaced persons.

The Rohingya are still trying to leave Burma. They are still dying: on boats, in jungle camps, in detention centres. But news about them doesn’t make headlines any more.

And these captions, alongside Sharon’s images:

1. The floral motif decorating the landmass in the first picture is a Thazin orchid, royal flower of Burma. The most prized come from mountains in Rakhine state, on the west of Burma bordering Bangladesh, which is also the traditional home of the Rohingya people.

2. The gilt borders feature the ASEAN (Association of Southeast Asian Nations) emblem, where "stalks of padi in the centre of the Emblem represent the dream of ASEAN’s Founding Fathers [sic] for an ASEAN comprising all the countries in Southeast Asia, bound together in friendship and solidarity".

3. The crab god of the text is inspired by a Malay myth recorded in Skeat's "Malay Magic". The Pusat Tasek is a massive hole in the oceans' bottom. A gigantic crab dwells therein. It periodically leaves its home, and the volume of water its movements displace causes the rise and fall of the tides.

[junhaoshua]

The Great Collie Crossover, 9/10

A/N:  I LIVE. Many apologies for the long delay, life + two bereavements got in the way and sucked away my writing motivation. Please enjoy this long overdue chapter! The epilogue is coming soon!!!

The usual disclaimer: I own none of the characters, being neither JK Rowling nor @colubrina. This is just a chance for me to play in the sandbox they have created.This is a birthday/get well soon present for the lovely @colubrina, whose work has been such a joy and inspiration to me.

***

8: Rebuilding

“This is the last world, isn’t it?” Hermione asks.

Other-Hermione nods. “And out of all, it’s probably the most like yours. But my parents couldn’t be un-obliviated. And I broke up with Ron. So after that, I came to Hogwarts to help rebuild the castle. And take my NEWTs. And hopefully fix my life while I was at it.”

Which sounds exactly like what she did, except for the breaking up part. “Were you the only one who returned too?”

“And that,” Other-Hermione says as the scene changes, “is where our paths diverge.”

She remembers this. Coming back. Settling into the Slytherin girls’ dorms because they were the least destroyed. But the blonde head in the common room is something new.

“And of course it’s Malfoy,” she says, unable to conjure up any surprise even as the past-Hermione goes “Malfoy. Bloody hell.”

She looks at the other witch, and they snort in unison.

Walking to dinner together and talking about Macbeth. Helping in the library, separately at first then together. Arguing - a brief moment of shared misery at being able to see thestrals - then right back to arguing. Apologizing for mocking him about the ferret incident. Shakespeare and Titus Andronicus and the atrocities humans committed during war. More cleaning of books. Complimenting each other until he brings up Ron and she can’t help but wonder what happened here. Did he cheat on her? Hurt her? Do some other atrocity she hasn’t seen in any world?

“No, no, and no,” Other-Hermione says, and she realises she asked that out loud. “You’re allowed to break up with people who aren’t evil, you know.”

“Then? What was it?” she asks as she watches Draco apologise, as they bare their wounds to each other, as they watch the stars.

“You’ll know soon enough.”

There’s a long silence as past-Hermione says that he was forced to be a Death Eater but that doesn’t make him one. The two tentatively flirt before tension descends, past-Hermione mercilessly breaking down every reason why being with him would be a constant battle. Somehow easing into another quiet rapport.

Cuddling in the Slytherin dungeons and talking about their parents. Watching the fish and falling asleep in his arms. A kiss. Conversations in the library that make her wish she hadn’t gone through her eighth year alone, that she’d had someone like Draco to bare her soul to. More kissing. The pureblood and his pity date. The war heroine and her walk on the wild side. “It will be awful.” “It will be the only good thing in a sea of awful.”

Theo arriving and the tension that ensues. Getting drunk. Going up to Gryffindor Tower. Hurling fierce, angry words at each other. “Easy to offer forgiveness to the boy you want to shag, isn’t it?” and even though it’s been so long, Other-Hermione still flinches at the accusation.

Breakfast. Theo taking care of Draco like she takes care of Harry, the loyal friend who looks out for them because things in their life are shite. Theo, who loves his father and didn’t know he was a Death Eater. Theo, who’s gay here - why does his sexuality seem to vary between worlds? Reaching a sort of detente.

Then Ron comes into the library, full of accusation and cruel words and - “You abandoned us!”

“That’s why you broke up with him?” Hermione asks, stunned.

“He abandoned you and you didn’t break up with him?” Other-Hermione throws back.

The fight is hard to watch. The words “Death Eater’s slag” even harder to take. But she can’t bring herself to be surprised. Her Ron could do this. If she ever got together with a Slytherin. Her Ron could call her that.

Conversations and explanations. Ron going to the Prophet, to Rita Skeeter, to claim that Draco had imperiused her. Proving it wrong, going after Rita, sending Ron a Howler, and she recognises past-Hermione’s viciousness with the discomfort of one who knows she’s capable of the same. Teaching Draco to make a Patronus. Matching otters.

“You two really are in love,” she says with soft wonder as they watch the summer fly by.

Other-Hermione smiles faintly. “The Patronus always tells.”

The Sorting Feast. Pansy and Neville and Ginny. Molly as DADA professor. Having a panic attack. Ginny defending Draco. The Gryffindors hurling cruel words at her even as the children insist that he didn’t crucio them, that he faked it. Waking up to find “Death Eater’s Whore” tacked to her door. Class and cruelty and being ostracised and Molly and more panic attacks.

Recovery Group, something that’s supposed to help them get over the trauma of the war but turns into angry sniping. Hannah and Padma. Susan Bones, angry and wounded after her family died, lashing out at Theo and Pansy until they walk out. Getting into a screaming match that reduces Susan to tears.

Classes. The eighth years studying together. A second session of Recovery Group, this time with the little Gryffindor boy - Andy - joining them. Pansy being a secret master of household magic. Susan trying to fuck her sorrows away. Theo trying to drink them away.

Rebuilding Day, a big production of inviting parents to Hogwarts to show them that all is well, a production that means people coming with their petty cruelties. Susan defending Theo with the sort of righteous passion only Hufflepuffs can muster. Narcissa and Lucius being polite to her even though it’s clear that they’re doing it to rehabilitate their social image and ward off Posy Parkinson. More cruelty from Ron even as Harry drops a kiss on her hair. Finally alone with Draco then finding out he’s been cutting himself.

“Don’t you dare judge him,” Other-Hermione bites out before she can even say a word.

“I wasn’t going to,” she protests, but she knows she’s lying.

Time passing in school. Suggesting a Yule Ball. Theo and Neville starting a thing. Padma having food issues. Pansy helping her to put Draco back into some semblance of togetherness after he breaks down. Confronting Theo about his drinking. Draco buying brooms for the little first years, trying to atone for his deeds last year by helping them now.

The girls teaming up to go after the Gryffindors and their cruel note. Pansy vicious and hard. Padma wielding Ravenclaw wit and words like a sword. Susan accusing them of being unkind. Hermione wandlessly setting the note on fire. She wishes she had more girlfriends in her world. Girls, together, smashing injustice.

Neville confronting Molly. McGonagall refusing to do anything about it except allow them to self-study DADA. She feels her respect for the old witch drop.

Chanukah at Hogwarts. Shopping for the Yule Ball in Muggle London. Dancing and romance. Harry being all chummy with Draco for her sake. Neville ending it with Theo at the Ball and Hannah going after him. Spending winter break at Hogwarts with Theo while Draco goes back to the Manor. Bonding. Getting each other gifts, a dragon charm bracelet for her and a comically long Gryffindor scarf for him. Draco returning with a pygmy puff and an engagement ring. Percy visiting and flirting with Theo, who’s too busy bemoaning his breakup to notice it.

Time passes. The eighth years bond. Hermione curses a rude student, marking his arm with “bigot” and filling his mouth with soap. Draco doing the only thing he can to make it better by telling his parents that he’s proposed. The Malfoys ignoring it.

Going with Theo to visit his mother’s grave. Helping Padma to eat. Valentine’s with Draco and their first time. Holi at Hogwarts, celebrating diversity and triumph and good winning.

“Look at the hope,” other-Hermione murmurs as they watch the bonfire burn. “It’s always there.” Then she cocks her head. “You’ll have to go soon, I’m afraid. Morning is coming.”

“Tell me how this story ends,” she says. She needs to know.

The other witch smiles. “Theo and Percy adopted Andy - long story. Susan and Blaise. Neville and Hannah. Ron and Tracey Davis - he didn’t know she was a Slytherin. Pansy married Charlie. I married Draco. We all collectively moved into Nott Manor. The Malfoys accepted me because, well, Draco. Even went so far as to bury Regulus and the rest of Riddle’s inferi on their property. Padma used some Muggle techniques to help Lucius handle his post-Azkaban chronic pain. We got Susan on the Wizengamot - well, originally we wanted to get Theo’s dad out of Azkaban, and that was part of it, but he died a day after he was released. Draco and I were DADA professors for a year before I retired to start on independent research. And we lived,” she says. “We live, and we live happily. You can have a happy ending too.”

“And why can’t I have it the way I am?”

“You’re with Ron,” the other witch says simply. “You won’t be happy. He won’t help to put you back together. His broken edges will rub up against yours, not fit into yours to make something new and beautiful.”

“I’m not you. I don’t get panic attacks and need draughts. I’m not broken.” She doesn’t know why she’s so defensive.

“We all have trauma,” the witch says softly, reaching out to cup her cheek. “It’s just a matter of how it shows. Like clinging on to relics of the past, for example.” Mist swirls slow and soft. “The war was hard on everyone. It broke something in us. But we must be stronger for having been broken.”

***

She lands back in King’s Cross, where the first Hermione waits for her. “Do you see now, child? Who you are, who you can be?”

She nods, mind still spinning from everything.

Old-Hermione folds her into a fierce hug. “Then it’s time for you to…

Wake up.”

***

Many thanks to the lovely @sulisaints for being my cheerleader, proofreader, editor, and getting me through this difficult chapter. All credit for the world goes to @colubrina, who's written my emotional support fic. And of course, thank you all. Your comments and kudos have given me the motivation to keep writing. Crossposted on AO3.

[ellawritesficssometimes]

Misconception: He’s an intentionally cruel character.

Reality: He’s cognitively unaware of his cruelty+ his cruelty is described as child-like. In other words, he’s doesn’t have the mental capacity to realize the repercussions of his abuse. He was tormented and abused in childhood and subsequently normalized it.

Ex: General Winter attacks him on an annual basis despite offering protection [x]

Ex: He was conquered [bullied] by several nations when he was a much smaller power.

Of course, this doesn’t aim to justify his actions, but it’s important to understand that he’s not consciously malicious or sadistic in nature. He’s characterized as a child-like adult that doesn’t have an accurate perception of the world due to the trauma he experienced in his childhood. You can feel pity for him without condoning his actions. Longer post on that here.

Multiple character notes corroborate this too [x]. 

Vol 1: “A gigantic northern nation that has been tormented ever since childhood. At the first impression, he seems to be a pure-hearted country bumpkin, and yet, conversely speaking, he holds a child-like cruelty. Compared to other nations, Russia’s history has seen more bloodbaths and tragedies.”

Vol 2: “He loves Vodka. He has the simplicity of a country bumpkin and the cruelty of a child mixed together.”

Vol 3: “A biiig, gentle, and naive nation! He isn’t malicious, just extremely scary!”

Vol 4-5: “He’s frighteningly innocent! + This huge northern country is giving off a sense of oppression with his looks and his air of innocent scariness!”

I.e., in terms of mental development, he’s remained as a perpetual child.

Misconception: He’s evil.

Reality: Russia isn’t good or bad. Someone who can’t tell right from wrong is incapable of possessing morals. Instead, Russia often possesses good intentions despite the disastrous consequences of his actions.

Ex: A repeated example, but the volume 4 character note explicitly mentions that Russia isn’t a malicious person.

Ex: He thinks that anyone he meets is his friend.

Ex: He doesn’t realize that he hurts Latvia when he stretches and squeezes him. He actually appears to kill Latvia briefly and remains clueless to the pain he’s causing [x]. 

The only thing I would argue that Russia is conscious of is the physical pressure that he puts on nations in order to get what he wants. I’ve speculated before that Russia pushing down on Latvia’s head acts as a metaphor for political pressure and suppression, hence the latter’s stunted growth. Again, it’s like a child that knows what it wants and doesn’t tolerate any deviating opinions.

Ex: Russia asks Latvia to help him build a railroad. When Latvia refuses, Russia begins pushing down on his head until he complies [x]. 

Lastly, just like a child is capable of throwing tantrums, Russia is the last nation you want to anger. He experiences mood swings that are unpredictable, not to mention dangerous.

Ex: Russia naively believes that the Allies are his friends. When Lithuania points out otherwise, Russia becomes angry, only to go through another volatile shift in mood culminating in him feeling dejected.

Ex: He holds a covetous attitude towards nations that are/have been under his control [x]. 

Misconception: He’s hateful.

Reality: As the character note states, he can become “extremely scary” if you do something he doesn’t like, but he’s far from hateful. He’s known for his ability to forgive easily [x]. 

Ex: He dreams of living in a warm place surrounded by sunflowers [x].

Ex: He loves children [x]. 

Just to prove again how unstable he is: he goes from maternally feeding Estonia food with a bunny apron to threatening to assault Estonia with a metal pipe—all executed with a smile on his face [x]. 

Misconception: He’s hated by all nations.

Reality: He’s feared and avoided for the most part. There are some notable grudges.

Ex: Although they’re not keen to be friends with Russia due to the terror they experienced during the reign of the USSR, they don’t outright hate him. They recognize that he’s unstable, and, therefore, can’t hold him accountable for what he did. Instead, they keep their distance and still remain fearful since this unpredictability hasn’t exactly gone away.

On the other hand, there are a few long-term grudges that Russia’s held.  

He and England have experienced several feuds, and it’s even alluded to the fact that England is additionally wary of Russia because of a dark presence that surrounds him. Longer post on that here [x]. 

Ex: England’s magical friends conveniently sense a dangerous presence and flee right before Russia makes his appearance during the Halloween 2013-2014 Christmas event.

Another notable one is the grudge that he held against Japan.

Ex: Russian clergymen cursed Japan, resulting in Japan panicking at the possibility of Germany forming an alliance with Russia during WW2 [x]. 

Bonus Facts: 

He’s very rarely depicted without his scarf. Ukraine gave it to him when they were children.

His heart has a habit of falling out of his chest.

His hair is blond in the manga [x]. 

He’s big-boned [x]. 

[gold-from-straw]

Consequences - ch 2

It’s all go on this blog today...

Featuring some violence, ableism, history of abuse, and my inability to write slow-burn. Find chapter 1 by clicking on the Consequences tag, since links are apparently the devil!

Dinner was a quiet affair, held in the formal dining room with a large meal Charles and Raven had organised. Kurt sat at the head of the table, Charles to his left and Raven to the right. He had tried to sit Cain to his right, but Cain didn’t seem to want to leave Charles’ side, clinging on to his arm any time he wasn’t eating. And often while he was eating, fumbling with his fork wrong-handed.

“So, Charlie tells me you’re all here for a study group, is that right?”

The table replied with varying levels of convincing. Alex said ‘whut’, and Hank overcompensated by talking about the research they’d been doing on genetic variability, studying the frogs in the pond that apparently Charles had been monitoring for years.

“Yeah, Charlie always a bit of a drip,” Kurt snorted, pushing his food to one side. “Well, it’s good to see you can make friends, boy.” He narrowed his eyes at Charles, who was sitting, tense and staring at the table while Cain nuzzled into his shoulder. “I suppose you made them the usual way? Not your… freaky way?”

Charles blinked rapidly. “Of course, sir, I wouldn’t… I promise, I promised…”

“Yes, yes, whatever.” He waved his hand imperiously. “Well, you’ll have the house back to yourselves after tomorrow for your little… experiments.” He glanced at Hank, who ducked his head quickly.

“Oh, leaving so soon?” Raven said, her voice brittle.

Cain looked over at her and smiled. “Raven,” he said dreamily. Then his eyes unfocused and drifted over to Alex. “New person.”

Kurt’s jaw twitched. “Yes, we’ve got an appointment at the Herringford clinic tomorrow afternoon.”

Charles’ eyes widened. “What? The Herringford, you can’t… you’re not going to leave him there?”

“And what if I am?”

“They’ll… sir, their methods are outdated, to say the least. Cruel.”

“And what would you care?” he said coldly. “Cain, up. Time for bed.”

“Charlie,” said Cain sadly, clinging on to Charles’ arm tighter. Charles winced, and Erik forcibly unclenched his hand from around the butter knife, where it had left fingerprints.

“Cain,” he snapped. “Now, boy! Bed.”

“But Charlie,” he whined.

“God damnit!” Kurt’s hand slapped the table, and everyone jumped. “Get your ass up to bed, or I will whip it!”

Cain whimpered, but untangled his arms from Charles’, and slumped out of the room. Kurt took a moment to dab his mouth with his napkin, fold it and place it on his side plate.

“Gentlemen. Ladies,” he said, as he pushed himself to his feet.

There was silence as his footsteps receded into the distance. “Charles, what’s wrong with the Herringford clinic?” Raven asked softly, a murmur, as if Kurt might be waiting outside to hear them gossip.

“They’re… they don’t care,” he said, his eyes still staring down at the white tablecloth. “They just… they claim they’re experimental but it’s just… it’s torture. Lobotomies and… excuse me, please?”

Before anyone could say anything, he was on his feet and out of the door.

“Anyone know what that was all about?” Erik asked, his voice dangerously calm, eyes glancing around the table.

Raven sighed and put her fork down. “Cain had a… well, I don’t know, a stroke, or something, when he was twenty-four. It affected his mind, terribly. Since then he’s only been able to say very basic sentences, and as you can see, he’s very attached to Charles.” She snorted and pursed her lips up. “Ironic, really. Charles was always a little bit scared of him. Don’t know why.”

“And this place Kurt is taking him? What is that?”

“It’s a mental institution,” Hank said sadly. “Very old fashioned, though it claims to be cutting edge. Really, it’s a dumping ground for unwanted people, it’s… to call it Victorian would be kind.”

Erik looked around, then towards the door, where Charles had run to argue with his overbearing stepfather, about the stepbrother he seemed to be repulsed by, and rolled his eyes. Someone was going to have to save Charles from himself, again, and it looked like a job that was going to fall to Erik, again. He wasn’t sure when this new role in his life had happened.

He pushed his chair back and stalked out, leaving the rest of them in the dining room, still unsure and deciding what to do, or trying to eat unobtrusively, all oppressed by this new presence, this human interloper that Charles and Raven seemed determined to be afraid of.

He heard the voices as he approached down the corridor, Charles’ calm, quiet voice, Kurt’s raised, forceful. Flares of fear struck at his solar plexus every so often, and Erik slowed down, because if Charles was so afraid that his shields were failing again, then perhaps there was more to the situation than met the eye. Perhaps Erik needed to approach with caution, in case there was as yet unseen danger.

“And what would you care?” Kurt sneered, and Erik walked closer to the wall, the better to stay out of sight. He could feel every piece of metal in the room ahead of them, Charles’ belt buckle, his cufflinks, Kurt’s tie pin, every screw and pin scattered in the room. “It’s your fault he’s like this, isn’t it, boy?”

“Yes,” said Charles softly, and Erik frowned, straining to hear. “And that’s why I can’t let you do this, Kurt--”

“Let me? You’ll let me do nothing, Charlie, you don’t give me permission, you hear?”

“Yes, sir, I just meant--”

“Just nothing! How dare you come in here and tell me what to do with my son, my son who you ruined with your freak powers, how dare you?” There was movement, Charles stuttering backwards, Kurt advancing on him, and Erik slipped closer, so he could see.

Charles was standing backed up to the desk in the room, which appeared to be a study. His shoulders were hunched, his head down and turned to the side, fists clenching and unclenching in anxiety, and Kurt towered over him, inches away from grabbing at him, doing something, and Erik felt a wave of fury.

“I should have got rid of you when I had the chance,” said Kurt, so softly Erik couldn’t even be sure he had heard him right.

Charles’ head raised, looking up, up to meet the great man’s eyes. “You know I could make you leave him--”

His arm lashed out and Erik felt the strike as it connected with Charles’ cheekbone, throwing him to sprawl on the floor. He felt the pain and terror, and a fury that was entirely his own as he threw himself into the room, every piece of metal at his command leaping forwards and hovering under Kurt Marko’s chin, digging into his neck, into his kidneys, just waiting to hear the word to kill, just--

“Erik, no, please!”

“He hit you,” Erik snarled.

“It’s… it’s fine, Erik, really, it’s just…”

“You’re one of them,” Kurt ground out, the sound squeezing past the metal at his throat. “You’re one of the freaks. I knew you couldn’t find normal friends, Charlie, could only find other weirdos like yourself.”

“You keep talking,” Erik said, his head tilting to one side. “See how far you can go before I cut the sound off.”

“Erik, please!” Charles snapped. “Let me handle it.”

“Yes, I can see you’ve handled yourself very well, Charles, well done. Go and get some ice on your face.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he said, low and firm, looking up at him with those blue eyes, and Erik hated them, hated that he would do anything for him. “Please, my friend,” Charles begged.

Erik looked at him fully. “You could always stop me.”

He saw the moment something broke behind his eyes, something precious that he hadn’t even known was there. Something only just mended, and Erik had smashed it to pieces, and he wanted to gather them all up, put them back together, apologise, but he didn’t know how.

“Never,” Charles said. “I would never.”

He turned and walked towards Kurt Marko, and Erik drew back the metal in the only apology he had left, returned every piece to its rightful place gently. “I… I’ll look after Cain. Here. You know he l-likes me. He’ll want to stay.”

Kurt glared at him, his lip curling slightly at the edge, just under his nose. “As if I would let you anywhere near him.”

“Then let him go back to San Francisco. He was happy there, wasn’t he?”

Kurt snorted. “He wasn’t getting any better.”

“He won’t get better, Kurt--”

“And whose fault is that?” he asked, and Erik heard grief in his voice, though he never wanted to admit to it, never wanted to know that this man who terrified Charles could feel. “Who took that away from him?”

“I did. And I will pay for him to receive the best possible treatment, with the greatest kindness. Herringford is no kindness at all, and I won’t have it.”

“You’ll pay for it, will you?” Kurt nodded, disgusted. “You’ll pay, with my money?”

“You know perfectly well that Mother and Father left me more than enough.”

“It should have been Cain’s in the first place.”

“Why?” Charles snapped, suddenly stepping forwards into Kurt’s space in fury. “Because you took pity on a drunk, broken woman and married her? Don’t pretend there was ever any morality in that decision, Kurt, we all know you resented every moment she lived longer than the wedding.”

“How dare you?”

“Telepath, remember? I heard every thought you ever had, every cruelty, every hatred. Just…” He sagged. “Let Cain be, please? Let this be my punishment, if you want to think of it like that?”

“You deserve so much worse,” he shook his head, staring down at Charles.

“I know,” Charles said. “But this is all I can give.”

Kurt stared at Charles for a long moment. At last he waved his hand in assent, and turned, walking out of the room without a backwards glance. Charles slumped as he left, air rushing out of him in a sigh that was more like a sob than anything.

“Charles,” said Erik, his voice coming out harsh and angry to hide up the fear - not for himself, but for Charles, because there was something about Charles that should never be hurt, never be unhappy, and when he was, Erik’s world tilted.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Charles said, straightening up and wiping his face, his back still turned. “I never meant for anyone else to be involved in my family… ugliness.” He turned back to Erik, his smile in place. How had he not noticed before that this smile was a wall of its own?

“What was that all about?” he asked, crossing his arms to stop himself from grabbing on to Charles. To shake him, or to hold him, he wasn’t sure. “He blames you for his son’s disability - why?”

Charles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Because… it’s my fault.”

“How?” he scoffed, and then stopped.

He’d known that there was more to Charles’ telepathy than parlour tricks and mind reading. He’d seen him hold a crowd in place, seek out secrets, find individual minds scattered across the country, and yet he’d allowed himself to be fooled by the soft exterior, the pretty blue eyes, sweet smiles and dowdy clothes. Charles was a high calibre rifle wrapped in an academic’s woolen jumper.

And how much of that mask went beyond the appearance? Charles could make himself appear exactly how he wanted to anyone, if he chose to make them believe he was harmless, was there really a person alive who could resist the lie?

Charles blinked, then gave a strained smile, his hands slipping into his pockets. “Well, if that’s what I’d done, you would never have figured it out, would you, Erik?”

“Charles, I--”

“Sorry,” he said, with a little laugh. “I didn’t actually try to read your mind but… it’s hard not to when you’re shouting at me in my own head. I did try, once, you know. To cut out all projected thoughts. It turns out I can’t actually understand speech without the addition of the mental voice, so… I’m afraid that really must stay, no matter how much of an invasion of privacy it is.” He cleared his throat and made for the door. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“You misunderstand me,” Erik said, reaching out to grab his upper arm. “It impresses me, you know. Your power.” He pulled Charles around so they stood face to face, a few bare inches between them, and stared firmly into his eyes. “You know the life I’ve led. You really did see everything, didn’t you? Everything I’ve done. I thought you were exaggerating when you said so.”

“Well, I was,” he said, tilting his head to one side. “I can’t see every memory at once any more than you can, what I meant was that everything you felt, everything you saw or remembered at that moment when I first touched you, I felt it too. I know what Shaw did, what he is. I know why you feel like you must kill him.”

“Then why try to convince me otherwise?”

“Because you think killing Shaw will be the end. That you’ll be able to feel peace then, when he’s dead, and that’s not true.”

Erik narrowed his eyes. “Now, you see, when you first said such things to me, I thought you couldn’t possibly know what you were talking about. A rich, soft creature like yourself, who’s never known hardship - what could you possibly know of revenge and peace? But now…” He was still holding Charles’ arm, and he tightened his grip momentarily, just a squeeze, reminding them of the connection. “Tell me what happened to Cain.”

Charles closed his eyes, his face lined with grief and guilt, but, Erik thought, maybe a little relief as well, the relief of giving up a secret long kept. “When I was nine, my mother remarried,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes still shut, just lightly, so the eyelashes fluttered together. “Kurt was cold, and cruel, but… I was used to that. With my mother, you know?”

Erik didn’t know, but he said nothing, just rubbed his thumb along Charles’ bicep, and Charles continued. “Cain, though… he was… he was six years older than me and usually he wasn’t at home. But when he was, he…”

He cleared his throat and pulled away, walking towards the cold fireplace. He leaned against the mantlepiece, his fist clenched. “He enjoyed hurting small creatures. I was readily available.”

Erik gritted his teeth, felt the familiar fury rise in his blood. He wanted to tear the human to pieces, hold up every scar he could imagine on Charles’ skin as he extracted his revenge, took back the blood he’d stolen from his friend.

But a glance at Charles’ spine, curled protectively at the fireplace, made some barriers he hadn’t known he had rise, bank the furious flames and lock them away for later. Instead, he walked up behind Charles, placed his hand on the back of his neck, rubbing gently at the hairline, soft curls falling over his fingers.

Charles gasped, just slightly, then pulled away to turn to face him, looking inexplicably guilty again. “You can’t be sorry for me,” he begged. “I don’t… I don’t deserve any… any respect, or care for what happened to me. Erik, I’m not this… this good person you seem to think I am.”

“Bullshit, Charles, you’re the best person I know,” he said, soft but firm.

He looked furious, and terrified. And distraught, as well, but he still held up his hand to Erik’s temple in a clear request for permission. “Allow me to disabuse you of that notion, then,” he snapped.

Erik leaned forwards, allowing his head to touch Charles’ hand, and was instantly struck with a series of memories. Charles hurt, Charles hating his stepbrother, so viscerally that it made people for miles around irrationally angry. Seeing Cain hurt his sister, hurt Raven, and the rage that felt so at home in Erik’s blood flared once more, but it wasn’t his rage. He held out his hand to Cain, wanting to punish, wanting to take everything from him, hating so hard his vision nearly whited out.

Erik came back to the room, gasping for air, his legs trembling. It took him a moment before he could focus on Charles, who looked at him with sad, empty eyes.

“If I’d had more control, I could have just made him go away. That’s what I’d do now - I have done so, since. When necessary.” He looked away. “But I wanted him to suffer, and now he’s gone. Everything that was Cain is now just… gone. Irreparably.”

“And Raven?” Erik asked, and his voice croaked, like he’d been screaming.

Charles smiled like a broken mask. “She was terrified. I was… I couldn’t believe what I’d done, and I wanted to… to help. I made her forget. She knew something was wrong, after. She knew she was missing time. But the memories are gone, I can’t put them back. I wouldn’t want to. Either way, that’s when she made me promise never to go near her mind again.”

“And Kurt?” Erik said.

“I… I’d like to tell you that I’d learned my lesson. That it was a choice, not to scramble his mind. But by the time he showed up I was too exhausted to defend myself in any way. And then after that… well, then I had to recover from Kurt finding me.”

Erik felt his hands clench into fists again, muscles and metal ready to punish someone.

“Erik, do you think that brought me peace?” Charles said, his head tilted at that angle he took on when he was giving a lecture, but there was no little smile this time, nothing to hide the deep well of sadness beneath his blue eyes. “I got my revenge. Cain will never hurt anyone again. Do you think that brings me anything other than regret and remorse? Do you really think it will be different for you when you kill Shaw?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Because I’ll be dead.”

Charles froze, every muscle still, his eyes wide and his mouth falling open. Erik raised his eyebrows. “I know this mission will be the death of me, I’ve always known that. Could you not see that, when you saw my mind, in Miami?”

“I thought… I knew you were prepared to… then. But…”

Erik brushed the backs of his fingers along Charles’ darkening cheekbone, and for just a moment he allowed the tenderness he always pushed to the side, knowing it was an extravagance. “I am a weapon. I don’t want to be, but I need to do this. I cannot allow Shaw to live, he’ll tear the world to pieces and make weapons of us all. Even at your most idealistic you must see that. But killing him will be the death of me. I know I wouldn’t be strong enough without giving everything, and I’m willing to do that.”

And he had looked forward to it, as well. He’d dreamed of the oblivion of death for years, the rest at the end of his mission. But here, with Charles’ warm skin beneath his own, he felt the pang of regret for the first time. What he wouldn’t give to have met him in different circumstances, in a different life, this vibrant, kind, endlessly generous man. He would have liked to live.

Charles stepped close, reached up to pull his face closer, kissing him so gently, like a farewell, and Erik sighed into it, wrapping his arms around his body, pulling him tight so that every inch that touched felt like it was on fire with the heat of him. He closed his eyes and sank into him, and let the moment stretch out to give him a lifetime, the life and love he’d never have.

“Don’t say that,” Charles whispered. “Don’t… don’t think it. I’m not going to let you die, not while I can… I can help you.”

He shook his head, pressing his face into Charles’ neck. “I don’t expect you to give up your ideals for me any more than I would for you.”

“You misunderstand my morals, then,” Charles said, holding his cheeks and forcing him to look at him. “Like I misunderstood your intentions. I thought you were expecting this revenge mission to bring you peace afterwards, that you’d feel like you can rest afterwards. That all the consequences would be tied up into a neat bow of… of karma and retribution. I never thought your peace was death.”

“What difference does it make?”

“You said that you aren’t strong enough to defeat him and survive… what about as a team?”

“Of teenagers and one human CIA agent?”

“And the most powerful telepath in North America. I know, I’ve checked. In Cerebro. There are quite a few other telepaths, but none that can do what I can, none with my range or ability. Although, there is a very young child not far from here who has remarkable potential, but that’s beside the point. As you said, Erik, I’m a high calibre rifle, and if Shaw is left unchecked he will try to destroy the world. Let me help you complete your mission, and then the two of us will face the consequences together. It will not bring us peace, we both know that, but… it’s what needs to be done.”

Erik stared at him. His eyes were dark, a depthless sea, the sun beating on the surface and all manner of monsters beneath, and he loved him. “You’d do that for me? Take on these consequences that aren’t yours?”

Charles kissed him again, hands clasped around the back of his neck, curling through his short hair. “I don’t think you realise quite how much I would do for you, my friend.”

[garywonghc]

The Four Highest Emotions

by Ayya Khema

"True love exists when the heart is so broadly trained that it can embrace all human beings and all living creatures."

When we think of love, we have ideas that are purely personal and, on the whole, quite fanciful. They are based in general on our desire to be loved, from which we expect fulfilment.

In reality love fulfils only the one who loves. If we understand love as a quality of the heart, just as intelligence is a quality of the mind, then we won't deal with love as people customarily do. As a rule, we divide our hearts into different compartments, for lovable, neutral and unlovable people. With that sort of divided heart, there's no way we can feel good. We can be "whole" only with a heart united in love.

True love exists when the heart is so broadly trained that it can embrace all human beings and all living creatures. This requires a learning process that is sometimes hard, above all when someone turns out to be very unfriendly or unpleasant. But this condition can be reached by everyone, because we all have the capacity for love within us.

Every moment we spend on the training of our hearts is valuable and brings us a step further along the path of purification. The more often we remember that all our heart has to do is love, the easier it will be to distance ourselves from judgement and condemnations. But that doesn't mean we can no longer distinguish between good and evil. Naturally we know what is evil, but hatred of evil needn't forever be stirring in our heart. On the contrary, we have compassion for those who act in a way that does harm.

Most of our problems are concerned with interpersonal relations. To address these, we can direct our view to the teachings on the four highest emotions. These are called in Pali the brahma viharas; or four divine abodes. They are loving-kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy and equanimity.

If we had only these four emotions at our disposal, we would have paradise on earth. Unfortunately that's not how it is, and so we rarely experience any paradisaical feelings. Most of the time we torment ourselves with difficulties in the family, in our circle of friends, and on the job. Our mind constantly tells us about all the things that don't suit it; and it usually fingers the guilty party, the person who's bothering us, who doesn't want things the way we want them. But let's remember: whenever somebody else says or does something, it's a matter of his or her karma alone. Only a negative reaction on our side creates our own karma.

This is what we absolutely have to understand: who is doing the loving — myself or the other? If I myself love, then I have a certain purity of heart. But if the love is dependent on this or that person or situation, then I'm passing judgement and dividing people into those I think lovable and those I don't. We're all looking for an ideal world, but it can exist only in our own heart, and for this we have to develop our heart's capacity so that we learn to love independently. This means that we increasingly purify our heart, free it from negativity, and fill it with more and more love. The more love a heart contains, the more love it can pour out. The one and only thing that holds us back is our thinking, judging mind.

So the only thing that matters is to incline one's own heart to love, because the person who loves is by nature lovable too. Yet if we love only because we want to be endearing, we succumb to the error of expecting results for our efforts. If an action is worth doing, then it doesn't lose this value, whether we get results or not. We don't love as a favour to another or to get something. We love for the sake of love, and so we succeed in filling our hearts with love. And the fuller it gets, the less room there is for negatives.

The Buddha recommended looking upon all people as one's own children. Loving all men and women as if one were their mother is a high ideal. But every little step toward this goal helps us to purify our hearts. The Buddha also explained that it was quite possible that we already were mothers to all the many men and women. If we keep this fact before our eyes, it'll be much easier to get along with people, even those who don't strike us as lovable.

If we observe ourselves very carefully — and that's the point of mindfulness — we will find that we ourselves are not one hundred percent lovable. We will also observe that we find more people unlovable than otherwise. That too can bring no happiness. So we should try to turn this around, and find more and more people lovable. We have to act like every mother: she loves her children even though they sometimes behave very badly. We can make this sort of approach our goal and recognise it as our way of practice.

The Buddha called this kind of love metta, which is not identical to what we call love. "Craving" in Pali is lobha, which sounds rather like the English word for love; and because the entire world revolves around wanting-to-have, we also interpret love this way. But that's not love, because love is the will to give. Wanting to have is absurd, when we think of love and yet degrade it to this level. Although a loving heart without wishes and limits opens up the world in its purity and beauty, we have made little or no use of this inherent capacity.

The far enemy of love is obviously hatred. The near enemy of love is clinging. Clinging means that we're not standing on our own two feet and giving love; we're holding on to someone. It often happens that the person we cling to doesn't find it especially pleasant and would be glad to get rid of this clinger, because he or she can be a burden. And then comes the great surprise that the love affair isn't working — but we clung so devotedly! Clinging is thus called the near enemy, because it looks like real love. The big difference between the two is the possessiveness that marks clinging.

Such possessiveness proves, time and time again, to be the end of love. True, pure love, so famed in song and story, means that we can pass it on and give it away from the heart without evaluation. Here we have to be on the lookout to recognise the negativity within us. We're always searching for its causes outside ourselves, but they're not there. They always lie in our gut and darken our heart. So the point is: Recognise, don't blame, change! We must keep replacing the negative with the positive. When no one is there to whom we can give love, that doesn't in the least mean that no love exists. The love that fills one's own heart is the foundation of self-confidence and security, which helps us not to be afraid of anyone. This fear can be traced back to our not being sure of our own reactions.

If we meet someone who has no good feelings to bring our way, then we already fear a corresponding reaction on our side, and so we prefer to avoid such situations in advance. But if the heart is full of love, then nothing will happen to us, because we know that our reaction will be completely loving. Anxiety becomes unnecessary when we've realised that everyone is the creator of his or her own karma. This feeling of love, which is aimed not at only one person, but forms a basis for our whole interior life, is an important aid in meditation, because only through it is real devotion possible.

The second of the four divine abodes — the highest emotions — is compassion, whose far enemy is cruelty and whose near enemy is pity. Pity can't give others any help. If someone pours out her heart to us and we pity her, then two people are suffering instead of one. If by contrast we give her our compassion, we help her through her trouble.

It's very important to develop compassion for oneself, because it's the precondition for being able to do so for others. If someone doesn't meet us lovingly, it will be easier for us to give this person compassion instead of love. It's easier because now we know that this person who comes to meet us unlovingly is angry or enraged, is most definitely unhappy. If she were happy, she wouldn't be angry or enraged. Knowing about the other's unhappiness makes it easier for us to summon up compassion, especially when we've already done so with respect to our own unhappiness.

Unfortunately we often deal with our own suffering in the wrong way. Instead of acknowledging it and meeting ourselves with compassion, we try to escape our trouble as quickly as possible by developing self-pity or getting distracted or making someone else responsible for it.

Here compassion is the only possibility for meeting our difficulties. We experience exactly what the Buddha teaches: in this world suffering exists. That's the first Noble Truth. Then we can try to acknowledge what we really want to have or get rid of, and thus make suffering our teacher. There is no better one, and the more we listen to it and find a way into what it's trying to make us understand, the easier the spiritual path will prove. This path aims to change us so emphatically that in the end we may not even recognise ourselves.

Suffering is a part of our existence, and only when we accept that and stop running away from it, when we've learned that suffering belongs to life, can we let go — and then the suffering stops. With this knowledge it's much easier to develop compassion for others, for suffering strikes everyone, without exception. Even the so-called badness of others can't bother us, because it only arises out of ignorance and suffering. All the evil in this world is based on these two things.

The third of the four highest emotions is sympathetic joy, whose far enemy is envy, consisting of greed and hatred. The near enemy is hypocrisy, pretending to oneself and others, which we believe is sometimes necessary. We think: these are just little white lies that can readily be forgiven.

Sympathetic joy is rightly understood when we see that there's no difference between people, that we're all a part of whatever is momentarily existing in the world. So if one of these parts experiences joy, then its joy has come into the world and we all have reason to share in it. The universal will replace the individual when we have experienced and tasted it in meditation. Our problems won't let up as long as we try to support and secure the "me." Only when we begin to put the universal over the individual and to see our purification as more important than the wish to have and get, will we find peace in our hearts.

The Buddha called the fourth and last of these emotions the greatest jewel of all: equanimity. It's the seventh factor of enlightenment, and its far enemy is excitement. The near enemy is indifference, which is based on intentional unconcern. By nature we take an interest in everything. We would like to see, hear, taste and experience everything. But since we have often been disappointed by our incapacity to love, we build an armour of indifference around us, to protect us from further disappointment.

But that only protects us from loving and opening ourselves to the world of love and compassion. What clearly distinguishes equanimity from indifference is love, for in equanimity love is brought to a higher development, while in indifference love is not felt at all or cannot be shown. Equanimity means that we already have enough insight so that nothing seems worth getting worked up over anymore.

How did we reach this understanding? We've learned that everything — above all ourselves — comes into being and then passes away. When we get too excited, instead of recognising the fullness of life, we don't yet have a loving heart. Only a loving heart can realise the fullness of existence. The understanding we get through meditation clearly shows us that the end of this life is constantly before us. Teresa of Avila said: "Not so much thinking — more loving!" Where does thinking get us? To be sure, it landed us on the moon. But if we have developed love in our hearts, we can accept men and women with all their problems and peculiarities. Then we'll have built up a world where happiness, harmony, and peace are in control. This world can't be thought up; it must be felt. Only meditation can present us with this ideal world, in which it is absolutely necessary to give up thinking. This heals us and gives us the capacity to turn more to our heart.

Since equanimity is a factor of enlightenment, it is based on understanding, above all on the realisation that everything that takes place also passes away again. So what do I lose? The worst that can happen is the loss of my life. But I'll lose that in any event—so what's all the excitement about? In general, the people who cause problems for us don't exactly want to kill us. They just want to confirm their ego. But that's not our business; it's wholly and entirely theirs. So long as we meditate and win new insights, it will always be simpler to recognise that all desire for self-affirmation, all aggression, all claims for power, all wanting to have and be are intertwined with conflict. So we have to keep trying to let go of willing and wishing, in order to return to equanimity. You can't meditate at all without equanimity. If we are excited or absolutely want to get or get rid of something, we can't come to rest. Equanimity makes both everyday life and meditation easier.

That doesn't mean that conscience should simply be set aside. We need only understand that this judge in our own heart creates nothing but conflict. If we really want to have peace, then we have to strive to develop love and compassion in our heart. Everyone can achieve this, because ultimately the heart is there to love, as the mind is there to think. If we renounce thinking in meditation, then we sense a feeling of purity. We develop purity on the spiritual path. If only one person develops it in himself or herself, the whole world will be the better for it. And the more people purify their hearts, the greater the gain for everyone. We can do this work every day from morning to night, because we are constantly confronted with ourselves — with all our reactions and with the mulishness that keeps us busy, because it has such a solid hold on our inner life. The more observant we are, the easier we'll find it to let go, until the stubbornness has disappeared, and we've become peaceful and happy.

This work compensates us with great profit and with a security that can be found nowhere else. At bottom we all know about the factors that make up the spiritual life, but acting in accordance with them is very hard. Loving-kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity are the four highest emotions, the only ones worth having. They bring us to a level on which life gains breadth, greatness, and beauty and on which we stop trying to make it run the way we want it to — on which we even learn to love something that we may not have wanted at all.

The Buddha spoke about a love that knows no distinctions. It's simply the quality of the heart. If we have it, we'll find a completely new path in life.

[kurogabae]

Hanahaki Unending

disease:  a fictional disease where the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear.

@mythicalheartbeat‘s post just planted a seed inside of me you could say

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4]

The first petal is hacked up in Yama, a tiny little white speck against the dark grit of war. It’s forgotten as quickly as it appears and Kurogane can almost believe he imagined it.

He doesn’t see another for months, not until their time in Piffle is nearly at an end. This time it’s three petals and they burst from him in a single, deep chested cough. The feeling of the cough doesn’t linger, but Kurogane catches one of the petals in his hand and as it sits in his palm he thinks it’s far too heavy for something so frail. 

The petals come in quicker succession in Tokyo, though their numbers remain low. The itch of the cough never remains, but the petals do. They’re no illusion and Kurogane thinks back to the fairytales of his home. He can’t remember the name or many of the details, but he does remember a story about a fool who coughed up flowers until he drowned in them. It doesn’t matter, though.

He has more important things to worry about than flowers.

Later, it seems as though every time Fai uses his name the number of flower petals grows. Once, Kurogane was sure he had coughed up a whole flower, only to have to crumble apart in his mouth. He has no trouble breathing, so he does nothing about it. 

He tries to recall the story. It takes him weeks.

It was one he learned during his service to Tomoyo, she had made him read it to her and he had hated the story, thought the man a fool with every word. The man had fallen in love with a woman well above his station. He did all he could to woo her, but to no avail. She had finer silks than he could hope to buy, more gold than he, and servants already waiting at her beck and call. He had nothing that she wanted. As he despaired he began to cough, and with each cough flower petals flew up from within him.

Day in and day out the man continued to court the woman in vain, and day by day the petals grew in number until he was choking on them. The man sought out a medicine woman and begged for an answer to his mysterious illness. He learned that his illness was due to the unrequited love in his heart. He had fallen in such deep and consuming love with the woman that her lack of affection for him was killing him. He asked for a cure, terrified of the idea of dying. 

There were only two cures. The first was for the woman to return the man’s affections, but he knew by now that his love was doomed to remain one sided. The second was for the flower blooming inside the man to be removed, however, this would also remove the love he felt for the woman, and perhaps even his ability to love all together.

In the end the man died, unwilling to give up the love in his heart. Kurogane had damned the fool and rolled his eyes at Tomoyo’s sighs of romantic idealization.

All of the adults in his life hadn’t be joking when they said love made fools of all people.

Now the trouble was deciding what to do next. 

If the story is to be believed there are two cures. Kurogane doubts Fai will fall in love with him in return, certainly not in time to stop the flower from flooding Kurogane’s lungs and growing roots in his heart. The only other option is to remove the flower, and as a result the love he feels for Fai as well. 

Not a full year ago he would have been disgusted with his own hesitance, but Kurogane, literally for the life of him, cannot bring himself to cast off his love for Fai. He’s not even concerned with knowing love again after that, because what would the point of loving be if he can’t love Fai? So, he does the only thing he can think to do.

He calls the witch.

“Hanahaki disease,” she says and the pity in her eyes is worse than what is happening to him. “I was hoping you would be able to avoid this.”

Kurogane glowers up at her. “What do you mean?”

He can tell the answer is going to be useless pandering about fate or whatever, but he’s gotten solid information out of her before, so he figures that he may as well test his luck. “You and Fai,” she says sadly. “The pair of you were destined to either love one another or hate each other, both to the ends of each and every world.”

Ice falls into Kurogane’s veins as he registers what she is telling him. It can’t be true. “I was hoping that, if you both didn’t fall in love, that at least your hate would be mutual.”

Mokona whines softly in his lap and squeezes his finger tighter, but he can hardly feel it as his body slowly numbs from the shock. He and Fai could be lovers, could have a love that transcended worlds, but something had gone wrong.

“I can remove the flower,” Yuuko continues, “but it will remove the love you have for Fai, and I cannot promise it won’t remove all the love in your heart.”

“Kurogane no!” Mokona cries, but he hushes her with a gentle pat. His mind, he realizes, was made up before he had even spoken to the witch.

He doesn’t even ask the price.

--

Infinity is cold and Kurogane feels hollowed out. He fights for the princess and forces Fai to live. He keeps the new Syaoran looking forward and keeps Mokona close. 

He ignores the scraping of every cough and pockets the petals. 

All of them notice now, but none of them seem to know what is going on, at least not at first. Sakura’s face becomes unimaginably sadder one day and he suspects she’s had a conversation with the witch. Syaoran knows it’s dangerous and tries endlessly to convince Kurogane to seek help, but Kurogane’s mind is made up.

Fai is sitting on Kurogane’s bed one night holding a single, snowy petal between two long fingers when he excuses himself for the night. Kurogane closes the door behind him with an echoing click, raising an eyebrow questioningly at Fai. Fai doesn’t approach him anymore, Fai avoids him. Fai hates him.

As the thought crosses his mind Kurogane coughs violently, flowers and loose petals pouring from his mouth and falling at his feet. If Fai didn’t know what was going on before he certainly did now. Kurogane doesn’t bother to pick them up.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands. “There’s no curse, no spell.”

He doesn’t know why, but Fai’s concern only pisses him off. “What does it matter to you?” he snaps, straightening himself up and moving across the unlit room. He goes about his usual nightly routine in the dark. He doesn’t need the lamplight to see what he’s doing, and he doesn’t need to look at Fai to know his eye is golden and boring a hole in the back of Kurogane’s skull. He folds his shirt with exaggerated and purposeful movements.

“Considering the fact that my life is directly tied to yours, quite a hell of a lot,” Fai answers coldly, standing from the bed and stalking closer to Kurogane. 

“Odd, last I checked, the quicker you died the better, in your opinion,” Kurogane says. He doesn’t know why he’s saying this, but his chest hurts and he’s not sure if it’s the Hanahaki or genuine heartache but he’s angry and helpless and this is all he has left to fight with, even if he doesn’t know what he’s fighting. 

“But not yours, Kurogane,” Fai hisses, and he’s so close Kurogane can feel his breath ghost across his bare back. “Something’s happened and I’m not appreciating your hypocrisy.”

Fai reaches out and forces Kurogane to turn and face him, uses his anger and power -- so much power, power that Kurogane has yet to see but aches to -- to loom even as he lacks the height to do so. “Only room for one of those in this family?”

The movement is lightning quick and Kurogane doesn’t bother to fight it, puts more thought into controlling and quashing the impulse to fight back than protecting himself, and lets Fai drag him to the floor by the hair. “If it weren’t for the fact that I can taste you on the air I would think you weren’t even the right Kurogane,” Fai spits and every word is venom. His eye has returned to icy blue, and it’s somehow worse than the vampire’s gold for its familiarity. “Now tell me what is wrong before Sakura does something about your condition herself.”

Ah, he thinks to himself, so that’s why Fai is bothering to confront me about this.

At least Fai has a vested interest in Sakura’s well being, but it isn’t something any of them can fix. Still, he has always asked the truth of Fai, and even the thought of lying to his face has bile rising in the back of his throat. “It’s a disease called Hanahaki, and I can’t cure it.”

Only you can.

Telling Fai that would be the single greatest act of cruelty in Kurogane’s life, though, and he will not bring that guilt down to bare on either of their souls. If Fai loves him, then so be it, if he does not then Kurogane is prepared to face the natural end to this course. He only hopes he can hold out long enough to see the end of this journey, if not for his sake than for the sake of his children and his mother’s spirit. 

He watches Fai mouth the word before he’s released. Kurogane does not move to stand, stays where he is, prone on the floor where Fai put him, and watches Fai watch him. He can tell Fai wants more, but that is edging too close to how they once were, and while Kurogane yearns for those days of squandered closeness Fai is doing his best to claw them away from every corner of his memory. 

“Is it going to kill you?” he finally asks.

There is a heavy pause between them. Fai knows the answer, but he cannot report back to Sakura unless he has the confirmation and by all the gods and stars in all the heavens Kurogane does not want to give it to him, knowing where the knowledge will end up. But he does.

“Sooner or later.”

Blue flashes gold and back so quickly Kurogane thinks he might have imagined it before Fai is wrenching open the door and slamming it closed again. Not a second later Kurogane coughs wetly, producing yet more white flowers, their long petals drooping to the floor sadly. He feels like the answer to Fai’s questions might be sooner rather than later.

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4]