#its the returning to the feeling of bereftness when your entire family would tell you nothing

[xinea]

I know i'm new to kdrama and all but I am simply not built for this first male lead vs second male lead formula, especially when the second male lead is an stupid little gremlin dude whose nose snots up when he cries (affectionate)

[batbeato]

A 'skill' I've ended up honing is a sense of the various art styles of the Umineko manga artists. Generally when I see a panel I can tell what episode it's from based on either context, it being an often-posted panel, or even just... how it's drawn.

Episode 1, 3, and 8 are drawn by Natsumi Kei! Natsumi Kei doesn't draw Battler with his vest. She has a specific way of drawing eyes (for example, drawing Beato's with no/little shading) and Battler's hair is super spiky. She draws Beatrice's dress as entirely black besides the pattern, with some white parts for shading/lighting - a trait which most of the Umineko artists share She also has a tendency towards some fanservice angles/poses (such as that oft-memed panel that shows off Eva's ass while she's raging at her misogynistic brother/family).

She likes to do these 'close-up' shots to show off detailed expressions.

She also draws Beato's eyes with blonde eyelashes! So pretty... A lot of the Umineko manga artists draw Beatrice with blond eyelashes, which always seem so delicate when they do the detailed close ups.

The EP2 mangaka, Jiro Suzuki, contrasts Natsumi Kei a lot. They use heavier shading at times, and their anatomy is also different - I often get the impression that their Beato is more broad-shouldered, while their Battler is more skinny. Like a twig.

From this panel, you can really get the impression of 'glowing' in a way that you can't get from Natsumi Kei's work.

In general, their style has a lot more detail for things like face and hair. Just like Natsumi Kei, they draw Beato with blonde eyelashes, though they interpret Battler's hair differently.

Battler's clothes feel very flowy, which adds to the sense of him being very skinny. Just like Natsumi Kei, Battler is drawn without his vest. I feel as though there's a sharpness to the joints.

EP4 is drawn by Soichiro! A return to spikier Battler hair. I feel like they tend towards narrower, sharper eyes.

Soichiro has a certain way of paneling... It relies a lot on very similar-looking boxes. They're generally all the same shape, and often the same size. Some examples:

As you may have noticed, Battler is still bereft of his vest. It's probably a choice all of these mangakas made in order to simplify his design.

...I would also like to submit for your consideration the travesty that is the paneling in this page. It's... a bit confusing to follow. This is a tendency in their style - sometimes the emphasis, paneling, etc. isn't quite right. They're a great artist, but I get the feeling that they weren't quite accustomed to this medium at the time of drawing.

EP5 is drawn by Akitaka.

Akitaka is one of my favorite Umineko manga artists by the sheer virtue of the fact that Akitaka restores Battler's vest to its proper place: on his body. Battler's hair is still spiky, but it's a different, sometime toned-down interpretation. The way they shade his hair feels really unique to me - a mix of the usual screentones with some black sections (depending on the angle and level of detail). In general I feel like Akitaka works a lot with screentones to add a lot of shading to their panels.

Rather than using pure black for Beatrice' dress, it's a mix of black and screentones. Part of this is for lighting, but it also allows Akitaka to show a lot more details for the dress, which the artists who use primarily black for the dress can't do.

Akitaka also has some really detailed expressions. They manage to bring a lot of character to even the 'dead' Beato.

EP6 is drawn by Hinase Momoyama. Battler's vest, the most important character in Umineko, triumphantly remains. However, Battler's hair is less spiky and more slicked-down. Like Akitaka, there are often black sections of it, but these are more often at the front, rather than the back, of the head.

Beatrice's dress varies from "mostly black" to "mostly screentones" in EP6. Elder Beatrice, however, has these very detailed and eye-catching ruffles to her skirt. She is also drawn with sharper eyes and expressions than Chick Beatrice, who is wide-eyed and has very flowy princess sleeves on her dress.

Battler comes off as super cute when he's angry, rather than something more menacing or serious, as he does in Natsumi Kei's art. For comparison: (EP6, then EP8)

This is probably a result of how Natsumi Kei draws 'sharper', while Momoyama uses rounder shapes.

EP7 is drawn by Eita Mizuno, who is a saint for managing to draw beautifully for all NINE volumes. NINE. A saint.

They draw Beatrice's dress primarily with screentones, and have very bright, wide eyes.

They use a lot of texture with their screentones, which gives their art a unique feel amongst the artists for the manga.

I'd also like to have a special shout out to this page. The way the art style shifts in the final panel to reflect Lion's shock and horror is an incredible use of the medium. This artist really seems to like these horizontal spreads, but they use the space well.

More masculine characters like Will have narrower eyes, though the pupils/light isn't that different. While characters with light hair like Lion have no screentones for their hair, Will receives a healthy mix: primarily black, with some screentone highlights. Of course, light-haired characters will have screentoned hair depending on the lighting, but in bright lighting, Lion has entirely white hair.

...Also, Battler has once more lost his vest. At least his hair is spiky again...?

That covers all the main mangaka, but there's also the mangaka for the side manga, Tsubasa: Fumi Ito. Their art is really cute and suits the often-comedic stories well. The small highlights they put in hair feels characteristic of their style. They often draw characters with wide, round, bright eyes.

Battler's hair spikiness is toned down (so fluffy...) and his vest returns for the final time. A true blessing.

This is just a super brief overview of it all - there's a lot of characters whose varying depictions I didn't mention, I didn't really talk about how they do backgrounds, and plenty of other things. But Umineko has a lot of talented artists who worked on it, and many of them still sometimes post fanart (or new official art) for the series!

I feel like we should appreciate the amazing range of artists who have done their best to interpret Umineko's story. They all did a great job!

[generallypo]

in all sincerity, kim dokja makes me happy and he deserves to be so too :^(

incoherent yelling and sobbing under the cut. these fEELINGS will not be contained aaauuunnghhh. 

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anyway i binge-read all 500+ chapters of ORV this week and i honest to god feel bad for this -- completely! fictional! aghhhh -- guy. in case you haven’t figured it out, the following is some spoilerly shit

i went in expecting a fun, brainless power trip fantasy for dudes with an isekai addiction. instead, it turns out ORV is actually a gigantic, self-deprecating prank on the entire genre itself. kdj plays more into the sad -- if high-functioning-- clown trope than the sexy, edgy, chuuni bastard type i was prepared to laugh at. there were -- gasp! -- female characters with personalities! parents (aka ADULTS who act like ADULTS) who actually survive and feature prominently! adorable children! a real sexy, edgy bastard! a power trio with amazing fashion! sexual tension and bickering! friendship! life and death bonding! 

*breathes in deeply* fouND FAMILYYYYYYY.

like, yeah, the plot around the first few arcs seems a little aimless, but the buildup is worth. the world-building is pretty decent. there’s discernible effort put into the fight scenes, and i can appreciate that. but -- but! what i stayed for were the characters -- namely, the fantastic OT3 of KDJ, HSY, and YJH -- who come together despite their initial rivalries and end up saving each other’s asses, like, every other day. granted, the other characters don’t get as much focus, and they do fall into certain character tropes.. 

but a trope done well is nothing i would gripe about. every significant character in ORV has a coherent, and more importantly, respectful take on their respective trope. maybe it’s because sing-shong is actually a married couple, but all the interactions between even minor characters are a convincing blend of awkward rambling, suggestive humor, sharp remarks, and casual banter. in other words, this cast of mostly working adults (plus a teen and two kids) talks like working adults. the relationships built throughout the story are, frankly, some of most realistic of its genre. sing-shong has managed to craft a dynamic that undoubtedly brims with fluffy fondness all around, but also drips with sarcastic tension, with unspoken urgency, with a wariness that softens into sincerity over the course of many, many chapters. it’s the kind of progression that makes even stock characters read like more than just the 2-bit villain or comrade or love interest. here, we have relationships both straightforward and not, strained or otherwise, romantically-oriented as well as decidedly the opposite -- and then numerous others scattered along the spectrum with the freedom to shift either way. 

it’s also an interesting point of note that our MC kdj actually does not end up with a stated romantic partner, much less a conventional heteroromantic harem. he gets teased about that fact from time to time, but it’s with less of the sleazy shonen locker room humor one would expect and more of the good-natured ribbing you’d find among friends or that one especially nosy auntie at the yearly family reunion. kdj is a grown ass man. in the background, i applaud his maturity, and he handles all the prodding like a champ. 

so instead of finding and fulfilling his horny, he builds himself a wealth of loving family. yeah, there are beautiful men and women around him. yeah, they unequivocally adore him. but they’re also adults, and they have priorities, too -- which are not so much finding a way to bang kdj’s brains out and more so simply keeping the damn guy alive. this is truly not ‘oblivious mc with his thirsty, sex kitten harem’. it just so happens that a guy proves himself to be unflinchingly gentle and capable in an apocalyptic setting despite his broken self-esteem, and lots of people find that attractive, romantically and platonically. 

it.. kinda makes sense? he’s a hard worker, thoughtful, and good with kids. kdj is the kind of guy you know would make a reliable partner, and anybody with eyes can plainly see and appreciate that. 

and it’s not that our MC’s a total brick wall. in fact, it’s likely the opposite, and he’s just too darned repressed to admit it. from what has been implied, kdj does indeed recognize and accept love, or at least a primitive concept of it. i like to imagine that the kind of love that he ends up seeking out simply manifests itself more easily as acceptance and safety, as warmth and a home of people to return to every day. even better, the people who surround him know this, and they give him exactly that. it’s refreshing, and honestly, really sweet.

(as a side note, i really, really do appreciate the cosmic bi energy radiating off of kdj, who canonically earns the title of being loved by all and is all but in name married to yjh and hsy. he also respects women and small children and honestly anyone who isn’t total scum to him or his family. i respect that.)

but the happy stuff aside, you know it it just ain’t ORV without the generous screaming dollop of angst. admittedly, there’s self-sacrifice, injury, lonesome wandering, more sacrifice, some epic fighting, reunion and confrontation. all of it is a lot to digest, sure, but never does it feel entirely hopeless, or truly, truly heart-clenching. ORV, up until the final act, is a mostly light read. you relax in your chair, thinking that nothing beyond this point can disturb you. 

yeah fucking right.

------

and then the beginning of the end arrives. when the squad finally break through to their ‘ending’, the scene that kind of breaks me is the reveal of the Most Ancient Dream. it ties so much thematically into the little tidbits that we get of kdj’s past, and it though it feels like almost a joke that the source of the goddamn apocalypse is a kid with bruises smeared across his skinny ass body -- it’s such a pathetic picture that it’s kinda poetic, actually. you’re left mystified but somewhat convinced, like a math problem explained halfway through. this.. child.. is a villain somehow, isn’t he?

and then 999th turn uriel speaks up, and she. just. hugs him. 

[[You are this universe’s most powerless existence, aren’t you.]] 

that. that gets me. kdj’s reaction immediately upon this revelation? absolute murder. seeing him essentially self-destruct upon realizing that all these people he’s surrounded himself with -- some who continuously proclaim their loyalty and affection for him throughout their journey, some who suffered eons of war and loss and trauma because of his existence -- not only forgive his younger self but smother him with unconditional acceptance and love is stifling, is too vulnerable and exposed and he simply can’t cope -- it’s so telling of his true mentality, of his crippling insecurity and crumpled sense of self-worth. kim dokja is a liar, through and through, so much that he fails, or perhaps refuses, to comprehend the veracity of others’ kindness and love towards himself. 

by some miracle, the events at the end of the world somehow resolve.. or so it seems. there is a departing train, a liberated team of ex-gods, and a child rousing from his slumber. in the aftermath, i am left shaking. somehow, despite the ending having been (happily?) reached, there’s still another chapter ahead. what is this witchcraft?

------

and then ah, yes -- the epilogue arc. i teetered on the edge of being critical for a little bit there -- is that display of deus ex machina, of sad, self-sacrificing nobility a bit too egregious to be acceptable? is this some wild last let-me-yank-this-outta-my-ass plot twist to drag out the chapter count? i sincerely thought that the arc before it would have been the finale. i was wrong. thank god.

anyways, as an answer to the above: no, and no. i stake my firm claim on the belief that the epilogue arc was meticulously planned out well in advance of its release, confusing and time-warpy as it is. i liked it. tremendously. even if it entirely invalidates all of kdj’s supposed development (”haha lol yeah sure i won’t sacrifice myself or anything anymore guys don’t worry about me” -- KDJ, at some point because he’s a lying rat bastard). actually, our beloved MC disappears for a large chunk of this arc, and i think it’s great. in his absence, the other characters not only go absolutely fucking nuts, but they have to figure out this new problem on their own, even if the lure of peaceful complacency in the newly saved Korea might convince them otherwise. 

and then the whole time paradox thing comes around. yjh goes to space, hsy saves the only life she can, and kdj grows up. the crew waits, holding onto their hope even if it bleeds them dry. sing-shong does a damn good job of illustrating their fraying calm, their lurking madness, the unseen but pervasive depression that seeps in from kdj’s absence. the kids lose their father, lhs and jhw lose their reliable leader figure, ysa loses a best friend and confidant, lsk -- as distant as she pretends to be from her son -- loses her only child. and then there’s hsy and yjh , who are essentially bereft of the other half of their existences. their pain is palpable, is grounded in the hopeless, gnawing frustration of an utterly meaningless victory. emotionally, ORV hits all the right -- if agonizing -- beats.

however, a story can’t sustain itself just through its pathos. i’m happy to say that ORV doesn’t drop the ball after the first milestone, and after all the hurt, the characters do leap straight back into action. even better, the plot holes actually do get patches, and the poetic cycle of writer, protagonist, and reader comes full circle by making use of all those supposedly throwaway characters from the myriad world lines. 

at the end of the road, there is a distinct sense of unity, of a delicate but undeniable cohesion to the world lines and their origins. sing-shong lets us guess a little here at the finish, but there’s just enough information to feel hopeful. maybe there never had been a definite start -- or finish -- to the story of kdj company, and... that’s okay. everybody ends up where they were meant to be, where they fought and struggled to reach. it’s.. almost like a happily ever after, if we’re allowed to dream of that.

------

now, i realize, this was all an orchestrated maneuver.

i’ll take it.

to me, all of this work sounds like someone put some serious thought into this behemoth of a plot. it cements the entire original premise of the story. it suggests -- but never explicitly confirms! -- the possibility that breaking free of the cycle is possible through the exact same system that sustains it. it’s terribly interesting -- and inspirational! with all the dramatic revelations and life-threatening scenarios  and the cast’s resigned acceptance of them that essentially make up ORV’s entire mood, there’s still that last hint of rebellious and righteous anger that lights up the whole damn nebula. it’s like the kdj company blasting away at the heavens just to yell into the nether: we’re not looking for the happy end, but the free one. stay alive.

it’s subtle, and yet it’s such an emotional gut punch. i came away with the most ruinous, frustrating, bittersweet sense of longing in ages. i pined. for these fictional darlings. god, i am weak.

so. yeah. ORV is pretty good. flawed, but ambitious and impressively thought out.  i’m stoked that the webtoon is making pretty good progress, even if it’ll take an eternity and a half to meet that monstrous chapter count. i’m still gonna follow it. hell yeah. 

------

(by the way the idea that secretive plotter and co are literally gonna take care of and raise baby kdj and spoil him and be the best friggin family a kid could ever want does things to me. protect him. he’s suffered too much. let at least one worldline’s version of him know happiness. and actually, aLL OF THEM DESERVE DOMESTIC BLISS TOGETHER IN A BIG OL MANSION WITH SUN AND FRESH AIR AND TENDER FAMILY MOMENTS UGH)

------

and there you have it, folks. you made it to the end. in the far, far distance, i’m cheering you on and crying my eyes out in gratitude. thanks for tuning in!

[poptod]

Pull the Stars Out of the Sky (And Gift Them to Me), pt. 5 (Ahkmenrah  x Reader)

Description: You finally learn just how far he will go.

Notes: this story takes a very interesting turn, but i promise its worth the ending i promise. ending might not be done for several more chapters though :) hope thats alright! WC: 8.2 k

+

He left you alone in the garden.

You could've run away then. The trees and brush you'd have to wade through would be a tiny price for freedom, and you were mostly hidden from the view of the house. Instead you curled into a ball, having never felt as small as this in all your life, and hid yourself away. He was on your mind.

A taste of how your life would be if you ran already began to build on your tongue, as though in this moment you were free of his hold, entirely, wholly, and truly. It was bitter, like bile, tainted by the man who would always be on your mind, no matter how far or fast you ran. He had left his mark, scarred your skin, and you would never be rid of his presence. His eye that he forced into your mind would always watch over you, broadcasting his desirous thoughts into your consciousness. A voyeur in your own head.

Bereft of energy, you leant against the alabaster pillar, drooping eyes set uneasily upon the flowing water. He would do anything for you, but how far did that insanity go? Would he eventually grow tired of your emotional distance and forcefully take you for his own? All you knew of him was what he decided to show you––not a single bit more.

"Amoke?"

You looked drearily upwards, but relief filled you upon seeing Haji approaching you.

"You don't look so good," he noted, sitting down on the step beside you.

"I'm just a little tired," you sighed, pulling the blanket on your shoulders tighter around you.

"Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Yes, fortunately. How about you? What is your housing like here?"

"Not too bad," he said with a shrug. "I've got three other men in my room, but we're all in bunks. Main part of the house is nice, though. Lots of baked goods."

"Sounds nice," you chuckled. Your gaze fell once more to the intricate path of stone beneath your feet.

"So... Ahk told me you had a bit of a rough time this morning," he said slowly. You knew that was why he was here, yet still your heart sunk a little.

"I don't often find myself in large cities, much less in the middle of them."

"That's not the only thing bothering you though, is it?"

You sighed, before softly saying, "no."

Haji waited patiently while you thought through your words, contemplating them fully before you spoke.

"I told myself, when I was first caught by your King, that I wouldn't sympathize with him. I promised that I wouldn't fall into that common illness, but... now.. well, every now and then he seems human. Then it all fades away, and then it comes back, and... he's capable of controlling what people think of him. He puts on different personalities for different people. Why does he do that?"

"That's his job," Haji said simply, sending a stake through the core of your mindset. "He can't be a ruler all the time, but he can't not be a ruler when he's out in public. It's good that he hasn't let being a King take over his whole personality, like his father. The fact that he shows you all these sides of him means he wants you to be welcome in all parts of his life."

"... did he tell you to say that?"

He laughed, shaking his head as he patted your shoulder.

"No, but that was a very worship-y thing for me to say," he admitted.

"Heh," you said in a soft huff, wrapping your arms around your legs and pulling them in close.

"Haji?!" Ahk called from inside the house.

Haji sighed, almost rolling his eyes as he pushed himself to his feet.

"See you," he said, trotting off.

A couple minutes later you heard voices, which was strange, considering the garden was a decent distance from the house. You glanced around, eventually looking up to find Ahk and Haji, framing the sides of an open arch held high above the ground. They were discussing something quietly, but the wind carried their voices to you.

"Are they alright?"

"Yeah, considering what you're doing to them."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I – I'm sorry, my K-"

"It's fine," he muttered curtly. "Don't let it happen again."

You bit into your cheek hard, till your skin stung, and your jaw ached with the force in it. How had you ever willingly done his bidding? How had it slipped your mind, that he was still a royal? It was obvious in his step, his manner, his words, and his presentation, yet you had allowed yourself to thank him. To speak softly to him. To share parts of yourself that you had always sworn to keep to yourself.

No matter––you could not take away what you'd already freely sacrificed, but that didn't mean you had to keep sharing things. Today it would stop, and you would feel no more sympathy for the fickle man. As nice as Haji was, he did work for the King, and whatever you told him would end up in Ahkmenrah's ear. Sharing with him would also have to cease.

Maybe you were being too bitter, too closed off, but your crimes were meager in the face of Ahkmenrah's. He wanted you for his collection, to keep your beauty near him like a caged bird. If you yearned to leave, he would lock you up, and if you dreamed to fly, he would clip your wings, to keep you for his own.

Bastard.

That night it rained. Poured down in great sheets, battering down on the stone walls surrounding you, and tearing down palm trees like grass in a wildfire. You remained in the gazebo, rooted to the spot until Ahk came out to see you.

"Dearest, you'll get sick in all this rain," he said in a soft voice, kneeling in front of you, and looking up with familiar reverence dulled by the darkened sky.

You said nothing. Instead you fell into him, exhausted by your rampant mind, and aching from the water soaking down your clothes.

"Let's get you inside," he murmured, setting one arm beneath your knees, and the other behind your back.

With a small heave you were in his arms, the whole of your weight easily carried. He adjusted you a few times before you made it back to the house, where he set you down in front of a massive firepit, leaving you in the piles of blankets to run to the front door. You watched, huddled close to yourself as he opened the door and rushed in a small group of people. Among them was Naguib, who looked in a similar fashion to yourself––drenched.

Wet shoes and bare feet slapped against the white floor, puddles of dripping rain collecting on the path to the fire. The sound would have surely echoed if the fire wasn't roaring and crackling, dulling the sound of the rain, and calming you with every floating ember.

Slowly, the group of people around you grew, till Ahk saddled in beside you, his head on your shoulder.

These were his servants. You assumed that the housing set up for them in Thebes wasn't great, and Ahk had decided his house was a good spot for everyone to house up for the night. Sounded just like him––troubling you to the point of a breakdown, and then following that up with an act of kindness you'd see out of no other King.

"Are we sleeping here tonight?" You asked, barely audible above the murmurs of servants and the dancing fire.

"I think it'd be most wise," he murmured, shuffling to kiss your bare shoulder, before returning to his lax, sleepy position.

As people drifted off to sleep, hidden far away from the storm's ravages, you stared at the fire. It dimmed, and more people fell asleep, and you stared, wide eyes unable to close. By now you were lying down, Ahk curled up in your side as you stared at the burning cinders. He snored, though you hardly minded, finding comfort in his obvious heartbeat and the soft warmth of his breath.

He would always be an enigma to you. Or, perhaps, your affection for him would always be an enigma––reasonless, and petty, and undeserved.

"Sweet... darling," he mumbled through sleep-numb lips, grasping you tighter and forcing his face into your side, hiding away from the world.

You shifted, unable to move your arm beneath his head, and pressed your lips to the top of his head.

"Go to sleep, Ahk," you whispered.

"I love you."

Oh.

I love you.

The words circled your head, always on the corner of your eye as the ship beneath you creaked. It was a barge, or that's what Ahk called it; a carrier for Amun beneath the starlit sky. You tried to keep at the edge of the water, but Ahk kept his hand rooted at your waist. You supposed, in the amassed crowd, it would be a little hard to find you once the boat reached the other side of the Nile.

Behind your ship, where the golden statue of Amun rested, a fleet of other ships sailed in your wake, all of varying sizes. Some people sailed alone on small canoes, while others joined larger ships that took families across the river. All followed a path they'd taken before, one lit by a literal golden beacon––Amun, reflecting the light of torches held high above the people's heads. He would be carried by a team of men, who would set the God in the temple of Luxor for worshippers to place their kisses upon.

You could hardly see the ships, as Ahk kept you on an elevated platform overlooking everything in front of him, which simultaneously blocked his view of behind with a large shack.

"Should I pray with you or.. stay out of the temple?" You asked, careful to keep your voice quiet despite the loud voices of the pilgrims.

"You don't have to pray," he said, looking down at you with an assuring smile. "You don't have to stay outside of the temple, either. You can do whatever you like. I'd suggest partaking in the food, though, just by the way."

"It's alright," you said. "I'm mildly interested in how your religion works, so I'll watch your ceremony."

"Wonderful," he beamed.

Your balance stumbled as the hull of the barge hit the sandy shore, banking in another painted metropolis. Massive statues of Amun met you there, though the standing ones were made of limestone, and were a deal smaller than the golden idol. They flanked the docks, protecting the entrance to the city and the adhering temple.

Torches, held by soldiers who came to greet the boats, made way for the muddy ripples of water to visibly crash into the wood, making the ground beneath you sway. With help from Ahk, you rushed off the boat in an orderly manner. Swaths of people followed from behind, running onto the various docks, and watching the Pharaoh with eager eyes. Those whose attention fell to you glared, or stared confused.

Once most people were off the boats, the soldiers and workers began to lift the golden statue, causing an uproar of cheers from those around you. You nearly cringed from the sheer volume, but the grins surrounding you turned your fear to curiosity. Now you watched, blocking out the yells, as the statue was carried off the boat and onto land, passing by you and Ahk as it made its' way to the shore and the temple beyond.

You made to follow the crowd as it followed the statue, but Ahk tugged on your hand, keeping you on the dock. A soft and unbothered smile was on his face, and you paused in your curiosity.

"What are you doing?" You asked, your voice still hushed despite being alone.

"It's better to let them pray for a little while and mingle before I enter. Gets some of their energy out so they don't trample me," he said with a shrug.

"Wow. They must really like this holiday."

"I think more than anything they're excited about free food," he chuckled, his smile growing when you chortled.

Soon he was leading you back down the wooden dock, following the footprints in the sand towards the towering rocks. The dark of night casted the temple as a silhouette, whose real shape could not be truly identified, other than the fact that it was a very large structure. Even by starlight you could barely see the steps as you approached them.

The hallway you entered was deathly quiet, but lit distantly by the lights of the next room ahead. You slowed, your attention ensnared by the statues on either side of you, and your steps came to a silent crawl. Ahk allowed you to gawk at the art before he lead you onwards, a self-satisfied smile on his lips that parted them ever so slightly. Between the tall statues were pillars, and in front of each God sat a shallow basin, all filled with a clear oil.

You turned back to Ahk, ready to continue, pausing to allow him to endow himself with holy oil. Since the journey to Karnak had been started so late into the evening, you had yet to truly see him, and for a moment wondered if he would be wearing makeup.

Blue painted his eyelids, long, sharp lines defining his eyes as he stepped into the golden light, his entirety bathed in the holy glow. His cape trailed meters behind him, shimmering as though it were nothing more than a mist. Cuffs remained a constant in his outfit, though now they cradled his upper arms, his wrists, and his ankles, each carved ornately with faience and lapis defining the lines. The collar holding up his cape bore a royalty all its' own, crystal beads of red, blue, gold, and green coming one after the other in swirling patterns. Three golden amulets fell from the front of the collar, dripping down like rain on his bare chest and stomach.

Power had a name. Royalty had been born through his name––settling deep into his person, seeping out its' presence through his veins. This was the God the Nubians feared, the Hittites, the Phoenicians, all relented their struggle in the palm of this man's hand.

He stepped forward and the cheers of the hall fell into silence, heads bowing as all came to their knees. Foreheads pressed against the ground, hands outstretched on the temple floor, but consistently retaining a clear path to the statue of Amun.

Ahk continued into the room a few more steps before he realized you weren't at his side. At that point he turned to you, meeting your eye and calling you over with a silent wave of his hand. The blood in your heart froze, petrified by the insinuation, as your eyes darted between the bowed heads and the Pharaoh's outstretched hand. But he was patient, and he waited, his welcoming hand never falling.

After another moment you took his offer, fingers sliding over his palm till he grasped you, entangling your hands together. He pulled you gently forward, and soon you were walking by his side, welcome to bask in the respect of a silent room.

You noticed, once you looked up from the worshippers with guilt, that the statue of Amun had been placed upon a pedestal, a pedestal that had several different levels, and a staircase leading up. On the lower levels, statuettes and reliefs of Mut and Khons numbered many. There was where you stopped and turned, facing the long, torch-lit hall filled to the brim with devotees of Amun and Ahkmenrah.

"They bow for you, too," he murmured in your ear.

Your eyes settled on the exposed backs, the spines popping up, and the different adornments of people from all classes. None of them knew who you were. Would they bow to a stranger just because their King told them to?

Apparently.

To the sides of the altar, you caught sight of the Pharaoh's advisors, and a few of his personal servants, who were bowed alongside the rest.

"I am a King unlike my father," Ahkmenrah began, the first words of a long expected speech. "Unlike my father, I have brought us to peace, and have done so in a fraction of the entire time my father spent ruling. Unlike my father, I will love whomever I decide fit," his hand on your waist tightened, "and I will worship who I desire to. As a King I am allowed these comforts––the freewill of choice, and the means to live fruitfully. I am not controlled by my father... or my advisors.

"Unlike my father, I will give you these rights. Restore what should have never been taken. I will return your free will. I will allow all to marry who they desire, regardless of race, class, or gender."

The already confused crowd began to murmur, heads lifting to whisper to one another in curiosity and disbelief.

"I will pay back what my people sow," he continued. "You will be able to pride yourself on your work, no matter what that is, as all creation is important, and shall be protected under my rule. I will give back the means you give me to live fruitfully. As I regenerate myself and my power during this evening, so shall you be reinvigorated, as my blood runs in your heart, just as your blood runs in mine."

He stopped speaking, and for a moment dead silence ensnared you, before a rupture of cheers and applause broke your ears. Voices surrounded you, echoing off the tall ceiling painted with stars. Beside you, the Pharaoh beamed, basking in the adoration till he turned to you. It was then, within that fiery temple, and within the view of the population of a whole city, that he held your face soft in his palm and kissed you. Needy, incredibly needy, essentially desperate, but gentle. As though you would break. The tension fell instead upon himself, in his tight chest that just barely pressed to yours. His breath pushed and pulled, longing to feel you move against him, never ceasing to thrill your nerves as his fingertips brushed across your bare stomach.

When at last you kissed him back, he melted into you, almost leaning his whole weight on you in relief. He did his best to keep himself upright, and parted when it was clear you were short on breath. For a moment he stared, scanning your wide eyes, before kissing you once more, this time much shorter.

Looking to the sides of the altar, he waved in the servants, who sprang to their feet with trays of food. They dispersed amongst the now-standing crowd, feeding the citizens just as the Pharaoh promised. Musicians appeared from behind tall pillars, strumming melodies you'd never heard before. As they did, Ahk took your hand, kissing the back of it as he began to step down from the altar.

"Ever dance before?" He asked, a teasing smile growing across his face.

"Not in Egypt," you said. Different cultures had different styles of dance, and you were in no state to embarrass yourself with your 'foreign customs'.

"It's much the same as most places," he assured you, leading you down the steps. "Just move however the music tells you to."

Drums brought in a heavy beat, thrumming in your veins as the steps of many dancers surrounded you. The weight of their feet, jumping and pounding in tune with the lutes, created a beat you could easily move your body to. Ahk felt much the same, as he smiled wide and twirled you beneath his arm. Exhilaration caught the breath in your throat, warming your already-flushed skin, and enthralling you with the Pharaoh's many talents. Of course he would know how to dance––of course he would know how to twirl you, how to dip you, to run his hands over every inch of your body without ever truly stopping his melodic movements.

A dream, he was––a glowing halo over his head, the heavenly sky painted above his piercing eyes. His clothes, doing their own dance around his moving body, swayed and whipped the glittering silk high in the air, twirling around him like a golden universe. You found yourself grinning wider than you'd ever done in his presence, searching for his hand and its' warmth whenever he parted. Without thought you chased after him, giggling as he made his way through the crowd, nearly clearing a circle in the middle of the holy temple.

By firelight you caught your reflection in his eyes. It was then you saw yourself, your near-manic smile, your tussled hair, and the royal robes dripping elegantly off your body. This was not you––or, at least, this wasn't you before Ahkmenrah captured you. Yet you found, with his hand on your waist and your chests pressed tight together, that very rarely had you been happier than this moment.

People around you, staring at you, the scent of spilled wine and twice-baked honey intoxicating you. The circle around you continued to dance, but kept an eye on you and the King.

"See?" He murmured out of breath. "You are beautiful. Heavenly. You are already a God. See how they stare?"

"Yes," you whispered out.

"They are simply processing your divinity," he said, his eyes darting to each feature on your face.

"What should I do?"

"Dance."

Beneath the eyes of Amun you kissed him, soft and barely there, before you gently parted yourself from him. He watched, breathless, as you placed your hand on his chest. You circled him, drawing your finger around his chest to his back.

"This is how they dance in the east," you mumbled in his ear, carefully watching the eager crowd as you spoke.

You grabbed his hand, whirling him around to face you as another grin began to cross you. He mimicked your smile, enchanted by your movements, gaze never ceasing as you began to move your hips. The staring of strangers now only served to fuel you, caught up in the wanderlust that had captured you so vividly as a child. This had been your source of energy, how you kept moving throughout the world––the presentation of other cultures, their wisdom, and their art.

Soon you were tangling yourself back into Ahk, allowing him to pull you in circles and dictate your steps. The two of you moved in near synchronicity, and as the temple's dancers joined in on the sides, so did the rest of the populace crammed into the hall. Musicians played louder as the shouts and whoops of listeners began to overtake it.

You caught sight of the golden statue once more, your gaze lingering on those knelt at its' feet. Plates, bowls, and clay pitchers of food and wine now overcrowded the base, accompanied by the reliefs of Mut and Khons, as well as tokens made of Amun's image. Slowly you dragged your eyes upwards, to the watching stare of the golden God.

It blinked.

Massive eyelids closed over empty eyes, causing you to falter in your step. Your own eyes widened, caught horrified by the statue, a terror that quickly halted Ahk's own dancing. He looked at you confused for a moment, before following your line of sight to the statue.

The room fell into an astonished silence, instruments screeching to a halt as the statue's arms began to crack, movement slowly filling them until they tore apart from the main body. Fingers cracked as though sore from stillness, followed by the horrid trembling of the floor brought about by his heavy feet. They tore from the base, stepping down from the altar as the face began to move, animated, and smiling.

The golden eyes of Amun stared at the tiny people below him, a space amidst the crowd cleared for him to stand easily in the temple.

You looked up bug-eyed, your mouth falling open as Ahk grasped your lower arm tight.

"Is this supposed to happen?" You asked in a whisper, but in the wake of silence, your words were clear as day.

"Not... usually," Ahk admitted sheepishly, tugging nervously at his clothes. "Um.. Amun? Have you possessed your statue?"

"In a way," he said, the deep vibrations of his voice humming painfully loud in the echo chamber. "I have my projected my thoughts and voice into this body, so I may give to you the gift of my presence... and so I may give you a message."

Despite the tremor in Ahkmenrah's hand, he kept himself steady, and looked up at the God as though he were any other regular person.

"What is your message, Hidden One?" He asked. 

"I desire your... pet," the God said, his eyes falling to you, clinging to the Pharaoh's side. You shrank further into yourself, nearly shaking with panic.

Amun was the creator God. Ahkmenrah could not say no––the pure outrage that would come from the citizens should he do that was deterrent enough for you to be assured of that.

But he stepped out in front of you, cradling you behind him as he glared upwards.

"Why?" He asked, his earlier reverence turned to suspicion.

"Do you dare to question my command?" Amun asked in return, the rims of his eyes beginning to glow an unearthly purple. Smoke filled his mouth, coming out in great billows and plumes, filling the ceiling as he appeared to grow taller.

"I want to know why," Ahk gritted out.

Amun paused, gauging both your expression and Ahkmenrah's, before speaking precise and clear.

"It possesses the knowledge of many cultures. I have tired of my consorts, my own pets, and their closed minds. Your pet is beautiful and knowledgeable," Amun said, kneeling to face you closer, "and I desire it for the afterlife."

Massive eyes met yours, peering over Ahk's comparatively tiny shoulder. They remained rooted for a moment, scanning what little of you they could see, before the God stood once more.

"I want you to kill it, preserve its' body as well as you can, and bury it for when I come to take it," he said.

"No."

Gasps sounded from the crowd, all the eyes on you chittering and murmuring at Ahkmenrah's gall.

"Tiny King," Amun growled, his hand reaching down to pick Ahk out from the crowd.

Before the thick fingers could pinch him, Ahk reached around to one of his nearby soldiers, pulling the sword from its' sheath and slicing the palm of the God. The gasps around you grew louder yet, people beginning to shuffle nervously as they doubted the will of their Pharaoh. Through the murmurings you heard shouts, taunts against Ahkmenrah, claims of sudden insanity.

"Give up the slave!" Came from somewhere behind you, which very nearly broke Ahk's concentration on Amun as his nails dug into his palm, teeth ground together.

"Someone take his sword!"

"Get him out of here!"

"Silence," commanded Amun, and the temple returned to quiet. "A cut will not stop me."

With that he reached forward, his massive hand brushing Ahk aside and grasping your middle, arms forced to your sides. Your breath caught in your throat, unable to yell as you were lifted from the ground.

"You had the choice to willingly serve me or anger me. Either way," he brushed the hair away from your face with his golden skin, "I will have Amoke for my own."

He smiled, soft, and terrifying, as he squeezed you tighter in his palm. The constriction cut off your ability to breathe, muscles pinching and twisting with the pressure.

"You have watched from afar my battles, that I am sure of," Ahkmenrah said. You looked down, desperation welling tears in your eyes as you met the gaze of the King, who had the face of the dead; dark, and dull, and absent of empathy. "Yet you don't know that I will destroy anything that comes between me and what I want."

"Funny," said Amun, "I'm the same way."

Ahk casted aside his sword, instead reaching for the many vases, pots, and basins of oil, throwing them all to the floor till both the offerings and marble floors were covered in holy oil. Confusion struck you till he reached for a torch, at which point you began to wriggle in the God's grasp. Ahkmenrah had done a number of stupid things, especially when it came to his relationship with you, but burning down a temple rung bad news to you.

He threw the torch to the ground, lighting the temple aflame with bursts of fire that burned red and orange. Already heat came to meet you, hitting your cheek and neck with waves of searing warmth, tinted with the smell of lavender and roses. Screams bounced off the walls, blurred by the crackling roar of fire. You watched, high above the crowd, as people scrambled towards the exit, desperately escaping the flames. Then your eyes fell, past the door, past the shrieking, to the Pharaoh, his face lit by fire, and his eyes darkened by the overwhelming shadow of his own crown.

"Fire cannot hurt a God," Amun spat, holding you closer to his chest.

"No," Ahk agreed, "but it can hurt your vessel."

"Gold doesn't melt by simple fire."

"Right again. But the stone on the inside of that frame does."

While they spoke, you began to feel the melting heat of stone surrounding you, burning you wherever your skin was bare. Panic seized you fiercely, quickening your breath till you barely felt your own chest heaving up and down. You cried out as the burning sensation turned to searing pain, melting and blistering the skin of your forearms.

From nowhere you were released, falling two meters from the sky to the ground. Ahk rushed past the burning pools of oil and piles of food, grasping your hand tight in his. Before either of you said anything, the agonized, broken yells of a God filled your head. It spiked and crackled, like explosions in your ears, ranging from deep, mechanical roars to high-pitches screeches that felt like nails dragging down from your eyes to your jaw. Through it all Ahk kept you running, heading for the wooden doors already set aflame. Pillars fell around you, crashing against the marble floor, and in the process causing the ground to tremble. The two of you nearly lost your balance, watching two massive pillars slowly falling to block the exit. He held your hand tighter yet, his pace increasing as yours did, the two of you bolting out of the hall. The moment you exited, the final pillars fell behind you, blocking the door and locking the God into the fiery temple.

Heavy pants filled your chest till it numbed, your teary eyes stinging in the cool, night air. Even through the thick stone you could hear Amun wailing and screeching, clawing at the walls of the temple till the marble gave way, tumbling to the floor and splintering upon impact. The sandstone bricks behind the marble kept him inside, leaving him to die within its' holy walls.

"Are you alright?" He asked, frantic hands and eyes scanning your body. First he held your face, then your neck, till he found the marks covering your forearms.

"I'm -"

"Ohhh dearest," he breathed out, his brow furrowed tight as he took your hands, holding them with a touch so gentle you barely felt it. "I'm so sorry, my dear. I didn't... oh dear.. does it hurt?"

You looked down, scanning over the seared flesh in the dim starlight.

"Not anymore," you said, confused at your own tolerance. "It just hurt at first."

"I'm so sorry, my love, I'm.. we'll get this bandaged up, all right?" He promised, looking you in the eye.

"Ahk, no one's going to help you," you said. His subjects wouldn't accept him back after that fiasco. No way.

"Piye will," he said assuredly, raising your hands to kiss your fingers. "That's all we need."

"Where are they?"

"Still in Thebes. It'll take us a little bit, so let's get some bandages first," he murmured, kissing your forehead.

He gingerly threaded his fingers in yours, assuring himself of you, before the two of you headed away from the desecrated temple. While he scanned the long, dark hallway for people, you noted the figures flanking the entrance, and tugged on Ahk's arm.

“He certainly lived up to his speech,” one of them said.

"I think your advisors are waiting to hand your ass to you," you whispered.

"Ah... fuck. My father himself is going to rise from the field of reeds to throw my ass in my face," he mumbled, chewing on his lip.

"When did you start swearing?" You asked, slightly befuddled.

"Usually when I get into dangerous situations," he said lowly, ducking behind one of the pillars as one of the figures shifted, "it starts up. Horrible habit. My mother tried to rid me of it but she was never quite successful."

"Apparently," you muttered beneath your breath, before helpfully pointing out that there were holes built into the ceiling to let natural light through.

"Perfect, darling," he said, pecking your cheek before reaching for the carved top of the pillars.

Once assured of his stability, he heaved himself upwards, catching the ledge outside before falling. From there he pulled himself up, scrambling onto the roof of the hallway. You attempted to go the same route, but your arms hardly reached the pillar's protrusions, and they were numb with pain. Seeing your trouble, he lay flat on the roof, hanging his arm down. You grasped tight as you could, and with help from your legs you clambered onto the roof.

Ahk huffed, brushed himself off, brushed you off, and only then continued on. From up there you could easily see the advisors and guards discussing, their hushed voices reaching you with little clarity. Spying would do you no good, and Ahk soon realized that, taking you back towards the temple.

In silence he climbed the rest of the way to the temple's roof, helping you up along the way. Your shadow stood before you, casted long but pale against the flat expanse of the roof, stretching out before you like a desert. This was the only area of the temple undecorated, left untouched and plain. It was a funny thought to realize that from above––from a God's view––the temple was as plain as white sand.

By descending far away from the entrance, the two of you avoided sight of his advisors in an act you realized he'd done many a time before. You wondered, watching him sneak along the ground, what kind of a child he was, and if you would've liked him better if you met him when he was younger. Though to be perfectly fair you liked him quite a lot already, unfortunate as it was.

Ever aware of your wound, he led you by a hand on your back, instead of the usual taking hold of your hand. Keeping your footsteps quiet proved hard in the loose rocks, but with your slow pace you safely made it to the boathouse he led you to.

"Here," he whispered, ushering you into the room. He glanced outside, scanning for anyone present, before carefully closing the door and turning back to you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but before you could do so he was pushing you into a chair, hushing you softly. Mildly offended, but more importantly confused, you watched as he rifled through boxes of storage. Most of your questions were answered when he pulled out bandages. Alongside that, he pulled out a small pot of honey, which you yourself had used before to treat infections.

"I am truly sorry, my dear," he said as he knelt before you, unravelling the linen. "I never meant for anyone to get hurt."

"Except Amun."

"Well... yes, there is that," he mumbled abashedly, chuckling.

For a little while you watched in silence as he gingerly wrapped your arms up, careful not to touch the sticky, pale wound with his fingers. Honey kept the linen from burning or attaching to heavily to your skin.

"Why did you do that?" You asked, your voice cracking in your attempt to keep quiet.

"What? Did I wrap it wrong?" He asked, looking up with wide, expectant eyes.

"No, not that, the –"

"The burning thing?"

"Yes, kind of," you said. "You hurt your God."

"It's alright, he's not the only one we've got," he chuckled.

"That's not the point," you hissed, increasingly irritated with his jokes. He laughed at your annoyance, but finally calmed down enough to speak seriously.

"Amoke, the Gods are eternal. They have time to know everything, to have everything. We are not. We have a limited amount of time to enjoy ourselves. I think Amun can wait another hundred years till you die. I can't. Do you understand that?" He said, his hand cradling your face as he knelt between your legs, praying to your reverent eyes. "I don't mind fighting for the things in this world that I own. Because until I die, I am wholly of this plane, and such earthly things are all I have."

You swallowed through a tight throat before nodding. A small smile replaced the worried knot in his brow, and he returned carefully to the task at hand.

White linen soon coated the entirety of both your upper arms, spots of honey and blood rarely peeking through the wraps. He was finally finished, the ends tucked away, preventing it from unravelling when you moved. For a moment you sat still, waving your arms up and down experimentally.

"Thank you," you said as you stood, looking down at the couple blisters along your hands.

"Of course, dear," he said, kissing the top of your head. "Piye will do a much better job. I just don't want it to get infected on the way there."

Seeing as your temporary hideout was a boathouse, it was relatively easy to get a boat. The process was a combination of 'don't let the wood creak beneath you,' 'lay down on the dock, there's someone coming,' and 'untie that knot faster'. Your aching hands were no fit for any small, involved work, so Ahk made himself useful by both releasing the canoe from the dock and rowing it away from shore.

Despite being almost-passed-out tired, you couldn't doze on the boat, too paralyzed by the rocking waves. Ahk noticed––of course he did––but could do little to comfort you. All he had to provide was the information that this wouldn't take long; thirty minutes or so, he said.

To find ease in something, you looked off the edge of the boat to the rippling, black water. Though the stars shined above you, you could barely see them in the river. Instead you found your reflection staring back up at you, unblinking.

"It's not healthy to stare at yourself too long. Drives some insane," Ahk commented in a hum.

"As if you don't spend an hour every morning looking at yourself in the mirror."

"Ouch. Fair point."

Stumbling back onto land was easier than usual, but keeping your balance on the dock was a little harder. Ahk told you to sit down while he tied the boat up, which you did, but only after nearly tripping over a stray rope.

"We shouldn't exclude the possibility that Piye, and perhaps the rest of the Thebes, already knows of what we've done," Ahk said, looking out from the dark shore to the torch-lit city.

"And if they do?"

"Um... we'll get to that when we get there," he said with a sharp breath, his eye still set on the lights. "Let's go, hm? Nice and quiet."

You nearly laughed at his behavior, but a glance to his expression had you sobered. His teeth were digging into his lip, more than usual, and it looked rather painful.

"Ahk?" You said, grasping his arm to halt him. He turned to you, his stress gone, and looked you in the eye. "Are.. are you alright?"

He continued to stare at you for a moment, before saying, "yes! I, um, I'm alright. Thank you."

"... okay," you said doubtfully. He was clearly lying, but you didn't want to seem as though you cared too much, and you could always ask later on.

Keeping low to the ground, just as before, the two of you managed to sneak into the city without being noticed. It was an even more impressive feat considering your clothes jangled with every movement, overcrowded with jewels. Torches had you struck with fear several times, recalling each time the gold swirls of Ahk dancing, and terrified the light would shine too bright off the Pharaoh.

Without attracting too much attention, you made it safely to Piye's housing, placed within a large garden beside several other similar-looking houses. First he looked in through the windows, but ultimately found nothing.

"I'm sure it's fine if we just go inside," Ahk said with a dismissive shrug, tugging on the handle.

"Um –"

"Don't worry, Amoke," he said, directing you inside. "I've known Piye since I was ten. They won’t mind."

Your mouth pressed into a thin line, anxiously looking around the dark room for any sign of movement. Such was your anxiety that when Ahk closed the door behind him, you jumped, long nails digging deep into your palms.

"Careful there," he said as he passed by you, heading towards the fireplace.

He knelt on the ground, his beautiful skirt dirtied on the soot and dirt collected on the hearth. Pulling out several tools from nearby, he soon started a fire, this time much tamer and controlled.

Fire.

Why did the sight of it root you to the spot?

Warmth seeped into the room, gently easing your tight, cold muscles, and asking you to step nearer. Your teeth dug into your cheek, but you fought your impulse and sat nearby on the floor. As you drew your knees to your chest, Ahk scooted over to your side, gently putting your head on his shoulder.

"I swear, I'll -"

The muffled sound of yelling began to ring from the entrance of the garden. You and Ahk immediately looked to one another with wide eyes as you listened, trying to make out the words.

"Osiris won't be enough –– wrangle that –– stuff you in a grave!"

Splinters flew as the door wrenched open, slamming against the wall and bounding back to nearly hit Piye in the face. Fortunately, Piye, being tall and vigilant as they were, caught it without breaking their menacing stare at Ahk. Ahk on the other hand was rooted to the spot, staring up at the enraged magician.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" Piye yelled, forcing the door shut behind them before approaching Ahk with a vindication you rarely saw. "You think you can just attack a God and your people will still love you? You're not above the deities, Ahkmenrah. You're their vessel and they will strike you down for this disrespect!"

"I'm not going to let an innocent person die because some God wants a plaything," Ahk said firmly, keeping his ground.

"You don't get a choice. Don't forget you're a temporary ruler of this world. The Gods control everything and everyone," Piye said, roughly jabbing Ahk in the chest with their finger.

"Piye has a point," you said.

"Amoke, d –"

"They're going to get their way eventually. Why fight it?" You asked, a question that had the two of them quiet for a moment.

"I will fight for every last second I can have with you. If need be I will slay my people for one more minute in your presence," he said as he once more knelt before you, taking your hands in his. "I will burn down this world for one last kiss."

There was a fervor in his eyes unlike anything you'd seen before––bright, brilliantly so, yet lusting for something not in the realm of the holy. Something much more sinister; a lust not for flesh, but for the blood within it. He would keep his word. You knew then and there, staring into those bright, empty eyes, that he would sooner destroy his cities than let you go.

He would keep his word.

"Don't," you barely whispered out.

"I would," he said with the same softness, directing you to look back at him when your eyes strayed.

"I know."

Wooden planks creaked as Piye shifted their weight, crossing their arms as they watched your spectacle.

"I allowed this for a long while," Piye said, their voice drawing Ahk's face away from hiding in your lap. "I let you steal an innocent person. Now I see I should've stopped it from the beginning. You've grown too attached, Ahk. You have responsibilities bigger than yourself, and there are certain things you cannot indulge. Certain pleasures you cannot partake in."

Not once had the Pharaoh looked to Piye. Instead his gaze remained enraptured in yours, dreamy as it was bittersweet.

"And if I abandon my position as King?" He asked, a smile growing across his face as he carefully watched your reaction. Behind him, however, Piye's own expression fell, arms unwinding as they stared stupefied at the Pharaoh.

"Your father would never forgive you," Piye said, much quieter through the tension built in their throat.

"So what? He's dead."

"Merenkahre might not have been a fantastic King but he was still your father, and he cared about you."

"- a care that was most certainly conditional, seeing as how he treated my brother," Ahk pointed out.

"Your brother killed thirteen servants!! I think that's a little different!" Piye seethed, lean muscles in their hands tensing as they spoke through gritted teeth.

"Yes, listen, Amoke got hurt in that little temple fiasco. I was hoping you could help them," Ahk said, finally turning to face Piye.

"Oh. Of course, come here," Piye mumbled, ushering you over. "I'm sorry you got tangled in his mess. I'm sure you don't want to be here."

"Oh, well -" you began only to be interrupted.

"I'll be very pleased to remind you that Amoke willingly joined me this time!"

"'This time,'" Piye mocked. "Oooh, your little plaything actually wanted to be remotely near you one time."

"First off, ouch, second off, you enjoyed it, didn't you Amoke? I mean, besides the whole melting arm debacle," Ahk said, peering over Piye's to see you.

A long, tense silence stretched when you couldn't find an answer, and instead decided to focus on Piye's treatments.

"My Gods," Piye muttered once all the wrappings were off, which was not a good thing to hear from a doctor when they're examining you.

"What? What's wrong?" You quickly asked, eyes darting between the wrappings, your wound, and Piye's concerned expression.

"Nothing, it's just... this is a pretty severe wound. I'm surprised you still have fingers," they said, shaking their head to clear it.

After taking a deep breath, they took one of your hands, holding it up close to their eye.

"I'm going to have to do some... experimental magic for this. Are you alright with that?"

"What happens if it goes wrong?" You asked, a creeping suspicion on the edge of your words.

"I'd imagine either nothing or you'll have arms made of flowers."

You paused to silently debate it, but took little time deciding.

"Alright," you agreed.

"Wonderful. Give me a moment," they said, and began to mutter verses beneath their breath, eyelids closing over glowing eyes.

You looked to Ahk with an astonished look, your mouth hanging open. He just shrugged, unable to give you an answer before Piye reemerged, no longer glowing in their eyes. Now their palms were glowing, surrounding your burnt arm.

"Repeat after me," they said. "I am this pure lotus which went forth from the sunshine."

You repeated them.

"–– which is at the nose of Re; I have descended --"

"–– that I may seek it for Horus ––"

"–– for I am the pure one who issued from the fen."

Heat came from the tip of your tongue, nearly burning as you spoke the last word. With a racing heart, you opened your eyes, immediately drawn to the blue and purple embers rising from your arm. Streams of light soon came from the wounds, blossoming into solid shapes that built the petals of blue lotus flowers.

Every inch of skin that was scarred, burned, blistered, or melted off had been infested with flowers, growing so thick that they puffed out like kinky hair.

"Is it... supposed to do that?" You asked hesitantly.

"It's not.. not supposed to do that," Piye suggested, which was also not a comforting thing to be told.

Either way, you made your way back to your previous seat, your hands folded neatly in your lap as you slouched down. Piye made to grab something from the mantle, but ultimately sighed deeply and flopped down on the floor beside you and Ahk.

"What are we going to do, Ahk?" They asked, leaning forward with their chin balanced on their palm.

"... you're going to help me?" Ahk murmured as he perked up.

"Yes," said Piye bitterly, "of course. But I'm not going to enjoy it."

[degenerate-otaku]

Hey guys! This is a Future 17 X fem reader fic I wrote for a friend who didn't want to expose themselves as a simp.

please like and reblog if you enjoy and feel free to send a fic request if you want one, but keep in line it might take me a while, since I have a few to write rn.

♡♡♡

Warning: this fic contains smut

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There was almost silence in the barren city. Smoke poured into the cloudless sky on that Spring day, which felt warmer than normal. The only downside to that was that you and your family needed more water, so, being the oldest sibling, you went out to fetch water and food.

When entering an abandoned shop, with a stable enough roof, you thought you heard footsteps from inside.

“H-hello?” Your heart pounded.

“Is anyone there?” You looked around, careful not to tread on broken glass or anything useful as you continued walking towards a till, in the hopes that there was anything behind it, since the shelves seemed to have already been ransacked.

Then, someone popped up from behind the till, the sight of them making you tremble.

“Hello, miss...welcome to...whatever the fuck this store is called.” He chuckled, his icy eyes bereft of emotion.

This was Android 17, no doubts about it. You knew that whilst he appeared to be like a normal teenager, he was a cruel cyborg...yet there was something fascinating about him.

You wanted to run, but found yourself stuck to the ground, as if his cold glare had frozen you on the spot.

“Are you hungry?” He asked, almost invitingly. You wanted to nod, but your body still felt stiff.

“What's wrong? Are you...afraid?” His eyes scanned your body, then he smirked.

“You must be...you can't even muster a single word...” He stepped out from behind the till, his eyes not wandering for a second.

Suddenly, he grasped your chin in his hand, which was fairly small and warm...he didn't seem like a cold blooded killer at all. He kissed you, and you just couldn't resist. You couldn't even tell he was a cyborg at all, even when his tongue was in your mouth as you softly moaned. Then, there was a sharp, sudden electric shock, which coursed through your entire body.

He laughed as you recoiled, your hair slightly frizzed up from the jolt, and you remembered who you were dealing with again, returning you to a fearful state.

“Please don't-” You began.

“Kill you?” He cut you off. “Hmm...it would be a waste of a pretty human...I think you'd look much better as a moaning mess on my bed, rather than a blood splatter in an abandoned store...wouldn't you agree~?”

You blushed, realising what he meant. You knew he would kill you if you refused...but you didn't want to throw up at the thought of it, surprisingly, a part of you was rather curious to see how humanoid he was.

You found the strength to nod.

“I'm glad you think the same...whatever your name is.”

“It's Y/N...” You wondered where that courage came from.

“Y/N, huh? Cute...” He smiled, then lifted you up. Being too afraid to protest, you went along with it, letting him carry you as you flew to an extravagant mansion, holding tightly onto him.

Landing at the door, you wondered what kind of things he would do, hating that it somewhat excited you.

17 led you in. It was a huge building, but mostly a mess, with drink bottles, food wrappers and other junk lying around in most places, which didn't surprise you. The androids left most places in terrible states, why would they treat their home any better, especially when it was just some place they stole after killing the owners?

Grabbing you by the hand he dragged you upstairs, taking you into the master bedroom, which you imagined was his, due to the many games consoles on the floor and outfits in the wardrobe.

“Take your clothes off. Now.” He commanded and you did so, feeling a little self conscious and slightly whorish for doing this, besides, the androids had earned a reputation for being deadly beauties.

You stood, not staring him directly in the eyes, fully undressed for him. Glancing at him for a second, his eyes were full of desire, and you could see that he was hard already.

He then made a show of himself, slowly getting undressed for you. His body was not how you expected it to be. He was thin, and actually around the same height as you, and you couldn't help but notice he had some scars.

When he caught you staring at them, he told you to stop before he gave you scars of your own. He instructed you to pleasure him, so you tried to kiss him again and he bit your lip softly before you pulled away.

You decided to kiss his neck, sucking and licking it, then lightly kissed his defined collarbone down to his chest, where you decided to make a risky move by rubbing on and sucking his nipples making him moan gently, a sound you hadn't expected to hear from him but enjoyed.

For a moment you stopped, stunned he could even react in such a way, but he told you to keep going and you noticed how big his dick looked.

Dragging your tongue down his slender figure, all kinds of thoughts popped into your head. You decided to stroke his cock a few times, then use your mouth again, at first licking the tip, then the shaft, then placing your entire mouth around it, going rather slow, causing him to become impatient.

He grabbed your head and shoved his cock into your mouth, causing any sounds you made to be muffled. You sucked his dick, trying your best to please him, for fear of him becoming angry, but also because you hedonistically wanted to pleasure him, so you could earn it in return.

He was basically fucking your throat, his hips jerking involuntarily, God, he had nice hip bones, as well as good thighs, which you grabbed onto to brace yourself, your hands travelling up to his ass, when he suddenly came without warning, his hot seed spilling from your lips and pouring down your throat.

You cleaned his cock with your tongue and savoured the salty taste.

“Wow...someone's a slut~” He teased you, flicking your nose as you wiped your mouth clean. He didn't seem exhausted at all, even though he had blown his load in your mouth and there was a lot to swallow. He didn't even moan your name like you wanted, but you were uncertain if he even knew your name.

He ordered you to get on the bed, which you noted was soft and comfortable, unlike anything you had ever lay on. You rested your head on the pillow and spread your legs automatically when his body hovered over you. His arm pinned both your hands behind your head as he leaned close to your ear and said, “I know you aren't a virgin, you little whore...you better be a good girl, before I have to break you...I don't wanna break my new toy, though~”

“Won't...your sister hear us?” You weren't sure why this was at the forefront of your mind.

“18? No, she's out shopping or whatever...probably fucking someone too.”

Your heart raced as the tip of his dick touched your entrance.

“Beg for it~” He teased you again, rubbing his cock against your dripping wet pussy.

“Please, 17...I wanna be your fucktoy~” You moaned.

“Well...if you insist~” He chuckled lowly then thrusted his cock inside you, making you call out his name already. He was hard and rough, yet his cock was already deep within you.

You begged him for more, even though you could hardly think straight as your tits bounced and your back arched. He called you a dirty slut again and played with your tits, making you whine again.

He flipped you over so he could fuck you harder in another angle, his dick perfectly filling your hole.

"Fuck...you're so tight~“ He groaned as he jerked his hips forward again.

”I-I think I'm close-“ You were able to speak, but he spanked your ass, warning you, ”Not yet...you cum when I say so.“

You could tell you looked like a slut, with your back arched so much, and your eyes rolling up to the back of your head as you panted, trying not to orgasm.

Then he moaned again and with one final thrust, cummed inside you as you yelled his name, orgasming too.

His cum filled your insides and mixed with yours and ran down your inner thighs as he kept thrusting, slower this time, just to ride out the orgasm.

”Shit...no-one's made me cum so easily~“ He praised you just after pulling out.

You collapsed on the bed, your legs too weak and trembly to hold yourself up. Turning, you saw that his face was kind of red, but nowhere as near as your burning cheeks, and he didn't even pant heavily or waste time catching his breath.

He quickly gave you a towel from the bathroom to clean yourself up with and a pill. ”I don't want you getting pregnant...my sister would hate me.“ He remarked, giving you a glass of water to swallow it with.

As you got up and put your clothes back on, 17 went out of the room to get something. When he returned he had a bag full of food and water. The food was mostly snacks, but at least it was something edible and would last for a long time.

”Here's a gift, take it before I change my mind.“ You didn't expect such generosity from him. You sheepishly took the bag and he offered to fly you back to the city.

You agreed and advised him to land discreetly. On the flight, he began to talk to you.

”Just so you know...if I get the suspicion you've been with another man, I'll definitely find them...and kill 'em, got it?“

You nodded.

”Good girl...“ He praised you, making you feel warm inside. ”Now...when you go home...you can't tell anyone about this ok?“ You landed with him as he gave his final warnings.

”I will be back...“ He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, allowing his earring to twinkle in the pink glow of the sunset.

”I promise, Y/N.“

You had to hold back a gasp, but you clearly looked shocked.

”Hm?“ He raised an eyebrow.

”Nothing...I just really can't believe this...you aren't like the person I hear about at all...I didn't think you'd care to remember my name.“ You answered, feeling quite stupid for saying it aloud.

”Y/N...“ The name rolled off his tongue. ”Its fun to say...I wish my name was that nice.“ He smiled for a second, but then scowled, ”Don't get the wrong idea...“

17 turned, said goodbye plainly, then shot off into the distance.

You hoped his promise was genuine.

[otp-armada]

"Bellarke doesn't make sense," they say. They say because Clarke hasn't done anything that resembles romantic gestures toward Bellamy. 

Conceding to march to her possible death in exchange for Roan sparing Bellamy's life. Obstinately fighting against Bellamy's stubborn wishes to remain outside the Ark while Praimfaya burns to the world to ashes. Shattering her soul by choosing 100 people to live and writing his name on the list, because he must survive. She can't have it any other way. Relinquishing 50 of those spots to Azgeda when Bellamy is captured and threatened, and Roan calls her bluff. Desperation driving her to the extreme to ensure the survival of the human race, yet unable to kill Bellamy to keep the bunker closed and the grounders from possibly killing Skaikru. Leaving the guaranteed safety of the fort to stay by Bellamy's side on the brink of global cataclysm. The bittersweet yet soft head and heart exchange she prompted. The hesitation in her last remark before imploring him to hurry. 

4x13 ends six years and seven days post-Praimfaya with Clarke radioing Bellamy on the Ring. An activity she performs daily for six years. In any six years of my adult life, my only daily consistencies have been limited to breathing, eating, and sleeping. This girl is devoted enough to send her equivalent of love letters into the emptiness of space for 2,199 days. Season 5 opens with her trying to survive by herself in an apocalyptic wasteland. She spends her journey narrating to him her unvarnished struggles during the most traumatic experience of her young life to date. Her despondency. Her loneliness. Her agony. Her desperation. Her small victories. Her discovered treasures. Her determination. Her doubt. Her guilt. Her defeat. Her morbid self-reflection. Her relief and contentment. Her happiness. Her admission of missing him. She shares all of it with only him. Only he is permitted to know her to this depth. Not any of her other people on the Ring. Not any of her people in the bunker, a group including her mother. Not a spiritual communion to the great, big love of her life Lxa, situated on her throne in the high heavens and waiting for her trophy wife, for Clarke to stay connected to her dearly departed. Isn't that the sort of behavior that might occur by a bereft widow? 

After finding an oasis to rest and call home, even after discovering a companion to build a life with, she continues with her radio calls. It doesn't matter that he never received her communications. The importance of the gesture- the intimacy of sharing her life and thoughts with him while he was gone- remains the same. The magnitude of her devotion to him made clearer through the absence of a single responding utterance. 

She lovingly tells Madi stories of Bellamy as her hero. Gazing warmly, hopefully up at the stars as if she longs for her vision to cut through an endless pitch-black sky and find dark curls and freckled constellations from thousands of miles away.

"Bellarke doesn't make sense," they say. They say because post-Praimfaya ended with an established B/E.

As Clarke looks up at the stars, questioning if she'll see Bellamy again, we transition to our first glimpse of Bellamy after six years, forlornly looking down on Earth to the very spot of green where he is unaware of who is yearning for him to return to her. Contrary to Clarke, who is covered in warm firelight when thinking of him, he is colored in cold, muted greys and blue, no speck of warm hue. (The rhyming scheme was unintentional, but hey, I'm going with it.) Behind him, his family is sparring, but he's distant from them. He's trapped within this tin can, his arms folded, his body taut, not facing the view on the other side of the glass, but still enraptured by the sight of his home below.  

We see what changes to the characters and their dynamics have taken place until, at long last, we uproariously cheer as Bellamy & Co. find a way to return to Earth, the sole event we've been anticipating for eleven months, to the point we could feel it at our fingertips, jittery and tingly. Bellarke reunion!! He's going to know she's alive! Yes! Finally!! Break out the champagne! We're celebrating, dammit! It's going to be so damn emotional! Authors start crafting mental fanfics. People are bouncing off the walls like bright, errant fireworks, unable to sit still. I can't believe it's finally happening...what do you think it's going to be like? Will he run to her? Will he be stunned and speechless? Will they sob uncontrollably?!? They'll be clutching the life out of each other! Another Bellarke hug!! The very best hug!!! They're never going to let the other out of their sight again! He's going to meet Madi! Mom, dad, and adopted preteen make three!!! There's no way they're not getting together after this!! He just got her back after six years of thinking she was dead!! The reunion's not going to happen this episode, but maybe next week, when do you think? You mean we have to wait seven days before----

B e c h o.

We stood on the precipice of what we agonized and crawled through for eleven excruciating months, only for an anvil to drop, and our heads to be clubbed. Our bodies fell through the floor, descending lower and lower with immense haste, to take up residence in the seventh circle of hell. 

Do you think the framing of these events wasn't intentional?

Do you think the powers that be behind the creation of that calamitous bombshell for our protagonist, intended for us to root for B/E? 

By us, I'm not restricting the effect of the blow to Bellarke shippers. The entire audience, casual and fandom alike, shippers and non-shippers, was meant to await this reunion. We were all meant to feel devastated by this revelation. 

If they didn't want to invoke in us feelings of support for B/E at their inception, how in the name of all things holy is a purported B/E endgame your conclusion? 

"B/E doesn't make any sense," they say, "when last we saw them, she was his enemy. Nothing more, nothing less."

Do I think their pre-Praimfaya status as antagonists rendered it impossible for B/E to have a convincing love story or sexual relationship?

I think, if Jason were so inclined, we could have gotten flashback Ring rendezvous of secret trysts between Bellamy and a googly-eyed, blonde-wig-wearing broomstick designated Clarke 2.0. So no, I don't consider B/E a deviation inherently outside the realm of romantic possibility. Jason is an artist, and this show is his canvas. He can give life to almost any whim he'd like in his work of fiction. Not only that, but B/E is also hardly the first pairing in this series modeled by the enemies-to-lovers trope.

"Bellarke doesn't make sense, they'd say, "absent any concrete evidence alluding to a romantic relationship." "Seven years running, and not a trace of romantic love," they'd conclude. 

Remind me, what was B/E's sublime prologue into coupling up again?

Furiously choking the life out of an enemy in a fit of rage two episodes before revealing her as his new girlfriend evidently can be considered by some an adequate precursor to a sensational romantic relationship. But endangering Earthkru's lives by risking the wrath of two societies in refusing to let Clarke die, pumping her heart for her to stay alive while begging her to fight so she can come back to him, cannot be. 

Either this show is quite the oddity, or it’s fandom's periodic knee-jerk, ass-backwards, charming zeal at play. 

The lack of rising development is all the more reason why B/E's grand unveiling demanded perfection. Instead, our first insight into their union is overshadowed by Clarke and the impending Bellarke reunion. B/E isn't central enough to the narrative to warrant focus that would put to rest any discord of illegitimacy. But you know which pair of the two is concentrated on for seven seasons now? Three guesses... 

But don't despair. Fandom has decreed, by its own appraisal, the shorthand of kissing and sex has rectified the discrepancy of a complete absence of pertinent on-screen development.

"It's not ideal storytelling," they say, "to exclude B/E's development. But The 100 has historically been a plot-driven, fast-paced, contained drama. It has always evaded expanding on character dynamics to fans' satisfaction.”

The writers have done more to present Josephine and Gabriel as soulmates with less airtime than B/E ever had in total. They don't lack the skill or time to fortify B/E in anyone's mind as the central romance. Jason made a conscious choice not to. Why would he? Does he think the endgame love story of the show's deuteragonist doesn't merit attention to detail by the writing? Or does it seem more likely, it was never his intention for B/E to cross the finish line?

And, for a plot-driven, fast-paced, contained drama, they sure have an awful knack for finding the time to showcase Clarke's kicked puppy reactions to an embracing B/E. We've had three thus far. One for science, one for emphasis, and one to say, "Do you people get it now?"

"Bellarke doesn't make any sense," they say, "if they wanted each other, they'd have gotten together by now." 

A long time ago, someone stated, "Lovers are supposed to do that you know and if they don’t do that it means their relationship isn’t romantic if sexual intercourse isn’t added." 

And to that, I posed the question, "Where exactly is it written that "if a pairing is not made canon by season [insert arbitrarily chosen number here], it will never be made canon, period?" Was I just absent from fandom class that day and skipped to the lesson on slow-burn ships?" We are going into the final season, and I stand by this question today as I did then. Bellarke could refrain from physical expressions of love and candid confessions to season 17, and their journey could continue to exemplify a love story. Because the absence of either one doesn't preclude two people from falling in love. Nor does the inclusion of either one necessitate two people falling in love. 

"Bellarke doesn't make any sense," they say. They say because Bellamy is her dearly beloved, but platonic, best friend.

Well, you've got me there. I'm stumped. How can it be possible for friendship and romantic love to behave as anything but mutually exclusive concepts? It's not as if friendship can be contorted to serve as a foundation for love.

 The cornerstones of strong friendships include trust, care, support, devotion, and many other features of a similar nature. Love- deep and genuine love, that is- involves frequent kissing and passionate, vigorous sex. The wilder the display, the stronger the pairing. The dozens of couples, love interests, and sexual liaisons before B/E who have kissed and had sex before dying must not have first consulted the manual for proper protocol.

And the inverse? Once two people fall in love, they cannot fall back to say, a familial connection. No, no, no. Such a regression would be the work of a tragic, reprehensible flaw in the cogs of the universe. Speak nothing of it.

"It doesn't make sense for B/E to break up," they say, "when B/E has stayed together for two seasons sans any indication Bellamy loves Clarke more than Echo, enough to want to leave his loving girlfriend."

How many times has Bellamy tried and failed to honor his commitment to Echo? How many weak attempts are met with a corresponding scene of Bellamy shifting his attention to the girl he tells himself to get over?

Echo leaves for Shallow Valley, his focus immediately turns onto persuading Clarke not to leave his side. He symbolically chooses Echo in the fireside scene by touching her sword. Yet, he looks at his girlfriend for the first time since their separation with the most aloof expression unsuitable for the occasion. No hope to be found anywhere. They share a brief reunion hug, no time for intimacy. He is reunited with Clarke and casts a nervous glance at Echo when bombarded with Clarke's appreciative gaze. Still no time for intimacy between B/E before a decade-long nap, but time can be carved out for a warm, flirty Bellarke reconciliation, complete with intensive heart eyes. No inspired, emotionally wrought, double sunlit embraces for B/E. If Bellamy is going to look out of a window at his future home, he'll either be by himself or snuggling Clarke into his side. There's no place for Echo in the lock of his arms anymore, only room for flanking him in the way loyal lieutenants tend to do. His girlfriend glances over at him as their exploratory team roughly plummets to new territory, and he does the same at Clarke. B/E reconnects lakeside, him asking for a swim with her and leaning into her arms at a campfire. He sits by her side on a swing set, amidst talk of moving their people into an abandoned village. And it's all well and good for B/E, right? They're presenting the front of a happy, unified couple. 

Until...Clarke walks away behind his sight, and he leaves Echo's side to seek Clarke's missing presence where the flirting and warm gazes and near confessions are kicked into overdrive. He calls Echo to hear his latest discovery, then proceeds to ignore the hell out of her, communicating exclusively to his co-leader. He stares wistfully at Clarke dancing with her new flavor of the night, cannot stop doing so even while excoriating Echo for her stoicism, expressing his frustration at her inability to fulfill his emotional needs. 

He recommits to Echo, as Clarke is kidnapped and her body is stolen, with nary a transition, suggesting we are meant to link the two incidents together. For all his resolve to face the future with Echo, he spends the whole of the next episode with a wary eye on Clarke, to the point that he is the first to realize Clarke is not herself. In the ensuing arc ranging from 6x05 to 6x11, approximately half of the season, what was B/E, again? Was that a thing concurrently happening with Bellamy's Operation: Save My Clarke? Because I seem to be able to recall only Bellarke goodness. Oh, my mistake, there was the consoling hug which, oddly enough, did nothing to soothe him. As evidenced by his choice to grieve alone. No girlfriend he wanted close by for comfort, knowing clear as day she couldn't provide it if she tried. Not with who he just lost. 

B/E gets another brief reunion hug, the majority of which is spent with him peering at Clarke. The show saw that hug and raised us an Austenesque-quality counterpart that would do Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy proud. 

"B/E endgame is the only sensible outcome," they say, "they love each other so much."

I don't contend they don't love each other. But we are shown two people determined but incapable of snuffing their deep-rooted feelings out of noble propriety, and most importantly, out of needless fear of unrequited love. And another two people who sought- and failed- to keep grasping the wisps of a gentle relationship slipping out of their hands since they left their comfortable space bubble. For anyone in this conundrum to be happy, the only natural course of action is for the latter to call it quits. The writing has been on the wall for too long.

Maybe a single Bellarke scene plucked out of the lineup can be interpreted on its own as platonic buddies being platonic buddies. But when all those individual moments are woven together, what forms is an ornate tapestry with a pattern so vivid, any inane rhetoric involving a hint of the word "platonic" is little more than ludicrous anti drivel transparently cooked up by those wishing a different endgame.

I hope you've enjoyed my second long-winded rant, @sometimesrosy, @jeanie205, @travllingbunny. One born of a teaching moment in which I learn for the umpteenth time it's best to steer clear of Twitter.

[jasontoddiefor]

Hello! I was reading the « fic rec » question and i would be reeeeaaaallly glad to have a look at what you liked! Anything Anakin-related, and preferably AU or fix it (the nile ain’t just a river yada yada...) Thaaaaaanks

Anakin fix-its? You’ve come to the right place. These are all the stories in my bookmarks tagged as “fix it”! There are more but I do not have the patience to search for all of them rn. Not all of these are as Jedi positive as I like my fanfic, but they’re all 10/10 reads regardless.

Title: The Giver Summary: Anakin had pretty much adjusted to life at the Jedi temple. He went to class, he trained with his master, and he had begun to have strange dreams. A friendly figure would meet him at night when he closed his eyes and went to sleep. As they build up their friendship, Anakin begins to slowly confide in them, telling him about his worries, hopes, and dreams. They offer guidance and wisdom, watching Anakin grow to be a Jedi Knight, and trying to figure out where everything went wrong. Sometimes, the answers that you're looking for aren't ahead of you, they're behind. Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/22790647

Title: If you could love the flame Summary: And Anakin knows suddenly and irrevocably that they will always be this: his two royals, his two diplomats, his two myths come to life Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/25100827

Title: Sabbatical Summary: Anakin decides to leave the Jedi as a child, and Obi-Wan goes with him. When Palpatine sends Dooku to find them, things don't go as planned. Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/22801789

Title: where the light won’t find you Summary: Or maybe Anakin, Obi-Wan, and Ahsoka do turn to the Dark Side after Mortis. And maybe they accidentally save the galaxy anyways? (But that doesn't mean they still don't cause a headache for the rest of the galaxy.) Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24460300

Title: Family is more than Blood Summary:Two souls go into a sandstorm to change their fates. They find each other instead.Or the slightly cracky AU where a bounty hunter is the one that gives the Chosen One a proper family. Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/24469039

Title: Twin Sons Summary: “He…” Anakin took a breath, trying to force his heart to stop hammering into his ribs, and he looked back at the man kneeling behind him, trying to apologize with his eyes, “he’s like me, sir. He’s like me, he’s a slave! His Master made him do this, his Master caused him…don’t hurt him. Not when we have him here, not when…not when we can free him.” - On Slavery, Freedom, and bringing Balance to the Force. Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449365

Title: Aay’han Summary: Obi-Wan Kenobi sees what the Jedi Temple is doing to his Padawan, and he acts.This affects the galaxy in ways he never could have imagined. Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/24280987

Title: if only i knew Summary:Newly knighted Obi-Wan Kenobi and his padawan, Anakin Skywalker, have been sent to Ryloth on a simple diplomatic envoy. While there, an unsettling incident causes Obi-Wan to look at Anakin in a new light and re-evaluate...everything.The Galaxy will never be the same.aka: "come for the obikin, stay for the tzai and deep emotional discussions that dismantle every single misunderstanding in the prequels." Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/24353887

Title:  Ib'tuur Jatne Tuur Ash'ad Kyr'amur Summary: No one knows what the Council is hiding, but the effects ripple throughout the galaxy. Anakin knows he is loved. Former slaves are freed. A long-lost Master and his Padawan are returned to the Temple. No one understands how Obi-Wan Kenobi does these things, but they are grateful for it anyway. Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/23581780

Coruscanti Regency The thing is, when Anakin figures it out, is that it all obviously has been there, if he’d only cared to look for it.And, admittedly, he is angry. Mostly at himself, which isn’t something that happens very often, so it’s an especially harrowing realization.All these years, he thinks, I’ve been so blind. I was so busy ignoring everything I didn’t want to think about and blaming everyone else for things not under their control that I didn’t stop to look at the bigger picture.He sighs and leans back in his chair to gaze at the ceiling.If only, he laments, true remorse coloring his thoughts, I had started watching period holodramas earlier.OR, how Plo Koon watching and subsequently introducing Ahsoka to Star Wars’ version of Downton Abbey changes Anakin's life path like nothing else could.

Reading Into Things When Ahsoka first meets the Supreme Chancellor, she gets a sense of his less than wholesome interest in her Master. Her intuition will go a long way.

Simple Steps Galaxy changing events don't just suddenly occur. They are the result of a series of small steps.

like someone bereft and lied to Anakin has a weird feeling in his stomach as he walks away from the Chancellor’s office.Who would have thought that Chancellor Palpatine would be a student of the Sith? Only to know how to keep the Republic safe from them, of course. All those priceless artifacts and holocrons that he’s collected to keep safe, hidden in his private rooms.It’s a good thing that he isn’t Force-sensitive, Anakin thinks with a small laugh, because the energy coming from all those things would have driven the poor man mad in a day. He only spent maybe twenty minutes in the room, just long enough to look at the piece the Chancellor thought might be of use to him, and his head was still spinning.

Deliver Us Jango Fett cannot save all his clones, but he can save five. He can save five, if he's willing to entrust them to the Jedi. Not just any Jedi, though. One who has already defied their Code for a child. One who knows Mandalorian culture. It is worth it, to save five innocent lives. He had no way of knowing it would change the galaxy and throw the proverbial spanner in one Sith Lord's plans.

we are all just trying to be holy  There was something warm and gentle in Depa’s voice, the way there always was, the way that was starting to sound like home to Anakin, though it would be awhile now before he recognized it. “Let me tell you a secret, my young Padawan: every Jedi has attachments.” He blinked up at her, eyes wide and confused. “Even Master Windu?” She laughed, nodding. “Even Master Windu.” -- An AU where Depa Billaba takes Anakin Skywalker as her Padawan, Obi Wan Kenobi interferes just a little bit, and Mace Windu is very, very tired.

The Price of a Name Anakin isn't quite sure how to deal with the clones he now commands, especially given that they refuse any attempts to individualize themselves. The quest to help the clones is going to go further than Anakin ever imagined.

Pebble in a River He woke up. And everything changed, but of course, that's what life does. It changes. There are so many options, so many things that seem right. And yet each of those things also feels wrong. Failure isn't an option, not again. But there is no outline for success, and he's hardly the only one in the game. He's tired, and exhausted, and so very lonely. But force help him, he's going to save as many people as he can. Really, Force, he needs the help.

Entirely of the Light With Palpatine unveiled as Sidious, Anakin manages to defeat him but ends up severely injured. As he recovers, Obi-Wan finds himself helping Padmé raise her and Anakin's children while he struggles with his feelings for both Anakin and Padmé.

Aggressive Negotiations  Everything about Skywalker was unorthodox. Even his parenting skills. A war meeting was the last place Rex expected to find a pair of toddlers, but there they were. But Rex is an officer, and a professional, and he will absolutely hold a child's hand if they ask. He's not a monster.

I had a vision! Mace Windu gets thrown back in time right to the point where Anakin is first presented to the Council. He remembers the horrors of the Clone Wars and he will do everything to change the oncoming future. "I had a vision" is becoming his most used phrase, he earns himself a Padawan with a penchant for trouble and Qui-Gon lives. All is going well, isn't it? No, there's still a republic to save, an army to deal with and most certainly a timeline to unfuck. Based on the tumblr posts by suzukiblu.

The Same Hope You will come to me sooner or later, Chosen One.Maybe once, when he was in the middle of a war that seemed like it would never end, a secret relationship dividing him between two of the people he loved most, juggling the guilt of failing his padawan. Maybe the Anakin back then had felt beholden to destiny, had had no choices, had felt like he would never have any choices.But the Anakin of now is a different person, because of his choices.He chose to leave the Order. He chose a new start.He chose acceptance, and understanding, and sometimes even forgiveness.He chose Obi-Wan. Always Obi-Wan.[[ The story of how we got here and everything that happens after. ]]

A Mind Always Free "Observe. Learn what you can. Keep everything secret. Don't be emotionless, but don't allow your emotions to show. And most importantly, take what you can get when you can get it, but let it go when it is taken away from you," Shmi Skywalker said softly, caressing the face of her son.(Anakin remembers what's like to be a slave and the Galaxy is better for it.)

Home  Time travel fix-it story with a bit of a twist. After his death, Obi-Wan wakes up on Tatooine, in the body of his padawan self. But instead of trying to prevent Anakin from Falling, he decides to change the future by stopping Qui-Gon from ever meeting the little Ani. If Anakin lives like a civilian, away from the Temple and Palpatine, the world will be a better place... right?A story in which Obi-Wan learns that Anakin Skywalker will always be his home--and his ultimate weakness--regardless of his attempts to do the right thing and stay away.

You Shall Become (Me) The Guardian of the Sith Temple doesn’t particularly care for the new breed of Sith, for all that they’ve been around for 1,000 years. But they’re the only Sith the Guardian knows about. Until one day…Alternately, "How to accidentally join the Sith without really trying."

Elements The words “Yes, Master,” come out of Anakin’s mouth so naturally that Obi-Wan suspects they were his first words. The realization comes to him so suddenly: his Padawan still has the mindset of a slave. When he decides to fix that, everything changes.

The Chosen Anakin is found by Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan when he's a newborn. It changes things.

The Sun and the Ocean Five things that happened when the twins were born early.hint: threesomes happen and assholes die.

A Time For A Yes, a Time For A Hell No The Council comes to him with a stupid, asinine plan that will only work if Anakin is in on it. Only to tell them that Anakin isn't going to be in on it.That's the moment Obi-wan decides he's had enough.[Prequel to my story "Go on, Go! Walk out that door" or 'The Scene' that started it all]

Magic Blankets C-3PO accidentally saves the galaxy by teaching a young Ani Skywalker how to crochet.Or in which the power of love and crafts solve a lot of problems and the Jedi Creche is about two inches away from kidnapping Anakin at any given moment.

[leviathan-dee]

DMC Week 2020: Day 6: You Belong Here

(Here’s another small wholesome piece. I really wish we had more interactions with the entire crew in DMC, but the community provides enough to sate that need for wholesomeness). (All prompts were used for day 6). (Alcohol mention, and one use of a curse word lmao).

Family was never a word that Dante had to use too often in his vocabulary. Decades of separation and neglect seemed to stretch, until he finally found where he belonged; in this drunken celebration with his slightly dysfunctional family.

Word Count: 1,755

Characters: Dante, Vergil, Nero, Kyrie, Trish, Lady, Nico

Read On AO3

The scorching July sun seemed to boil every living being which dared step foot outside, merciless rays beating down upon the Earth. Whoever escaped the confines of their four walls were bound to become crispy at the sheer thought of the sun. There were, however, some fools who tempted fate, and proceeded to have an entire barbeque outside.

The Spardas, alongside the Devil May Cry crew, were said fools.

Of course, no one could deny Kyrie, the kindest, most gentle creature to ever grace the planet, a day outside. Especially during a celebration. Especially on a pregnant Kyrie’s birthday.

It was July tenth, the weather being arid and overly vacant of any breezes. This only made the heat far more excruciating. Kyrie didn’t seem to feel the blazes, her skin absorbing the rays to form a honeyed tan which complimented the amber glimmer in her eyes. Whereas Nero, unfortunately, panted like a rabid dog. His skin seemed to turn scarlet at the mere thought of summer. Evidently, the situation turned even worse for the boy since he had to man the barbeque, grilling burgers, as well as sausages, meanwhile being inevitably covered in helix coils of smoke. His beloved watched him apologetically, whilst he continued to sweat up a storm, beckoning the children to pick up their mouthwatering meals.

Dante sat beside an orchard, the apple trees being a godsend for shade in his time of need. Although the Sparda twin could withstand blazing temperatures, it was only for a short period of time; Not an entire day. Brushing his white, sweat-soaked locks away from his brow, Dante grabbed the neck of the beer bottle, letting the bubbles gently glide down his throat. He basked in the sensation for what seemed a whole eternity, whilst the sound of bickering and giggling children filled his ears. It was blissful, to say the least. To feel like he belonged. To have family.

He had hoped Verge felt the same about this reunion.

Thinking about his twin brother, Dante turned to the blue devil, noting that Vergil’s usual scowl was wiped clean off of his visage. Instead, his face was soft, bereft of any tension. He seemed… happy. Relaxed. It was refreshing to see. Albeit his quiet nature, the elder twin continued to lift the corners of his lips, reacting to the children, as well as Nico’s vulgar comments and Kyrie’s deathly glares at the gunsmith. Trish and Lady were the other pair to cause a ruckus, making Vergil smirk anytime they were told off by Nero for using non-family friendly language at the dinner table.

“Aww shit, we’re out of ketchup.” As a slightly intoxicated Lady let the curse word slip, she squeezed the condiment bottle harder, making it spurt out a less-than elegant bowel movement noise, and a pathetic dollop of tomato sauce. The children fell into hysterics, Nero and Kyrie unsure of whether to reprimand the woman, or giggle alongside the kids.

Dante continued to watch the spectacle, a warmth blooming in his chest.

Vergil was happy. In turn, so was his younger brother.

“So, Verge, enjoying yourself?” Sipping on liquid courage, Dante turned his head to his twin.

“Hmm. It appears as though I am.” The blue devil assumed a somewhat distant stare, turning his gaze towards his busy son at the grill. His eyes softened at the sight of Nero. If there was a trace of bittersweetness in Vergil’s expression, it came and went almost instantly. However, Dante knew him better than anyone, and could recognise his elder brother’s ghosts of guilt and regret quickly.

As a sudden breeze eased the tension of blanketing heat, Dante sighed, and recalled a nostalgia fueled memory.

“Remember when mum and dad brought all of their friends to the manor for a barbeque? We ended up playing with the other kids, whilst the grown-ups got drunk?” The scarlet devil sucked air in through his teeth, the memory almost too painful to relive. Vergil recoiled at the sudden recollection.

“I reminisce about those days often.”

“You were a damn sprightly kid, Verge. Always running off and hiding to read. Me and the others had to search for you, only to find you up on that gnarly tree, chomping on some apple.”

Dante continued with the mental memoir, his lips curling upwards. He could almost hear the voices of the children and Vergil’s adamant refusal to climb down. He could smell the delectable cuisine of his father's famous burnt burgers and his mother’s soft laughter. Even the gentle grass lapping at his ankles was as vivid of a memory as the display of giggling children before him.

“And now…” Dante inhaled deeply, a ghost of a bittersweet smile gracing his lips, “now we’re the ones sitting, getting wasted, whilst the kiddos play.”

“What are you getting at, Dante?” Vergil uncrossed his arms, running his fingers through his hair, a tell-tale sign of either annoyance or discomfort. Dante simply waited to collect his thoughts, the image of past times being too much. In retaliation to the thoughts, he inhaled the scent of sweetened smoke, inching himself to the empty seat beside Vergil. He let out an almost elderly sigh as he landed in the chair before continuing earnestly.

“We made it, Verge. We've come full circle.”

Vergil's reforming thoughtful brow wrinkle made its famous comeback, his mind processing Dante's statement.

So they did come full circle.

Dante was so adamant on having something dear to hold onto, he was finally rewarded with a family. Finally rewarded with what he longed for since he was eight years old. Though it was a screwed up little group with issues that would take a few more decades to sort out, it was his family. Vergil was very much a part of that family. It warmed every cold crevice of the blue devil’s beating heart, the melodic rhythm becoming even prouder.

"Christ, Vergil. You have a son, can you believe it? In fact, you're going to have a grandkid. You're going to be the youngest looking gramps to have ever lived." Dante attempted to pinch his brother’s cheek, earning him an irked scoff, alongside a hearty slap to the back of the head. It seemed as though they returned to their youthful selves, ignoring the wrinkle lines that arose with age, and the exhaustion inflicted violet splodges beneath their eyes.

They were kids again, trying their best to catch up on the lost years of brotherly bickering.

...

The air began to cool off as the evening drifted. Nero was unchained from his duties, sipping a chilled beer, pleased hums and sighs resounding from his chest. Kyrie cuddled into Nero’s side, the both of them entangled behind the table. Viewing the spectacle, Dante turned to Vergil once more.

"I think mum and pops would be proud." The statement came out of the blue, yet did not startle the blue devil. Instead, his visage was graced with a saccharine smile, the type that Dante had rarely seen in the man. In fact, it was only witnessed during their eventful, albeit brief, childhood.

"Hmm… I hope so." Sighing, contentment written all over Vergil’s features, he craned his neck up to the trees, breathing in the tender breeze of the summer evening.

Dante continued to reminisce about his nephew, and the love of Nero’s life. Seeing the shy ‘couple’ back in Fortuna, he never anticipated to witness this decade-long result; A great-nephew. Kyrie seemed to glow as she nuzzled into her beloved’s side, with a five month bump becoming a prominent addition to her frame. It was a wondrous thing to Dante, knowing that their little dysfunctional family was ever-expanding. The fuzzy feelings appeared to bloom at an exponential rate, which the scarlet devil attempted to gulp down with bubbling alcohol.

He was proud of them. Proud of the tiny group. His family.

A boisterous Nico interrupted any thoughts, eclipsing the view of the couple with her presence.

"So, 'nother beer for ya, gents?" She offered to provide more drinks, with Dante gladly accepting and Vergil politely declining. Whilst the Spardas’ intoxication was low, Lady and Trish were completely sloshed. Their joyous dancing was evidence of the fact.

Nico turned to the middle of the garden where the pair were swaying their arms about as if they were attempting to fend off mosquitos.

“Lady is gonna regret all that booze in the morning. Not sure ‘bout Trish though.” As the young gunsmith twirled on her heels to approach Nero and Kyrie, the dancing pair of intoxicated women began to beckon Dante.

“Hey! Give us your iconic MJ dance!” Trish slurred not a single word, Dante noting that she was playing the drunk to accompany Lady.

“C’moooon Mr. Sparda. Please?” Lady, however, slurred every word. It wasn’t often she had the time or the energy to let loose, so the evening was some well deserved alleviation of pent up stress and frustration. In the distance, Kyrie giggled at Lady’s tipsiness, earning the birthday girl an amorous peck on her button nose from Nero.

The scarlet devil stood from his seat whilst giving Nico an impish smirk, before summoning Dr. Faust into his palm. It appeared as though the cowboy hat materialised from countless twinkling coils of demonic energy. Nico returned his mischievous smile with her own, silently fist bumping the air. Nero simply sighed and clicked his tongue, mirroring his father’s own mannerisms of annoyance and exasperation.

“Not again…”

“YES AGAIN! HIT IT, DANTE!” Nico joined in on the two buzzed women on the garden dancefloor. As a natural performer, Dante swished the headpiece upon his crown, assuming a pose that could wow the crowd.

For hours, the party continued, each member of the crew joining in on the song and dance. Even Vergil pranced into the centre, grabbing a wasted Lady to waltz with him. Toasts were made, followed by treasured tears trailing alongside the speeches, each word weighing the world. Their love for each other, and this little makeshift family, could not be altered or demolished in any way possible. For each of these members lost someone close to them. Whether it was a father, a mother, a brother, or their entire livelihood. They ultimately found a group of like-minded individuals to fill the void. Nothing could separate them.

‘You belong here’ a tiny cherished voice uttered in the back of Dante’s mind. For the first time in decades, he was happy. He felt like he belonged.

Hell, he did belong. 

And nothing could change the fact.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Days to Change a Lifetime

AU-gust Day Six: Hospital AU Fandom: Once Upon A Time Pairing: Rumbelle

Rated: T

Content Warning: Cancer, character death, terminal illness.

Summary: Mr Gold has a chance encounter with Belle French in the palliative ward, and they get to know each other over the last few days of her life.

Note: As you can probably tell from the summary, this does not have a happy ending.

Days to Change a Lifetime

Gold had always hated hospitals, and he could not for the life of him figure out how his chosen profession had led him to spend so much time in them. When he had decided to become a lawyer, he had reckoned on spending his entire working life in an office. He had not anticipated so many hospital visits. He had definitely not envisaged spending quite so much time in hospice units and palliative care wards.

He was a victim of his own success in a way, having gained a reputation for being good at handling cases involving wills, living wills and medical power of attorney, which was why, on this particular fateful Friday afternoon, he had found himself once more in a palliative care ward. That was how he met her. 

Belle.

He wasn’t sure that he would have noticed her if she had not been looking directly at him and he hadn’t seen that she had the most brilliant blue eyes he’d ever witnessed. Despite her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes, and the gauntness of her face where her illness had taken its toll, her eyes were still bright and mesmerising. 

The second thing that he noticed about her was that she was so comparatively young. Death didn’t discriminate, he knew that, but the patients he met on this type of ward in these types of grim circumstances tended to be a little older.

The third thing that he noticed was that she was alone. Most people had someone by their side during these final days, but she was on her own, and there was no evidence that she had ever had visitors. There were no personal touches in her room, no signs of the life that she’d led. She seemed so desolate, lying there in an impersonal room with no company, and that was what kept him arrested in her doorway, both of them looking at each other and both of them waiting for the next step to be taken. 

“Hi,” he said eventually. 

She smiled. “Hi.”

“Do you…” God, he was making a fool of himself and he’d probably have a nurse telling him to move along and stop disturbing the patients in a minute. “Would you like some company for a bit?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” She paused. “Don’t you have your own family here though?”

Gold shook his head. “No, I’m a lawyer. I have a client here, but the meeting is over now.” He came into the room and sat down in the chair beside the bed, feeling more awkward now than he had done when he had been hovering outside. It had been a spur of the moment offer and now he had no idea what they were supposed to talk about. How did one go about starting a casual conversation with a dying woman?

“My name’s Belle.”

“Everyone calls me Gold.”

“Nice to meet you, Gold. It’s bone cancer, by the way. It’s in my spine and inoperable. Just thought I’d get that out there to save you wondering but not wanting to ask personal questions. You look like a gentleman like that.”

“Right. Thank you.” They sat in silence for a few minutes as Gold digested this, no knowing whether it had made things more or less awkward. The silence was companionable at least, and there was no huge rush to fill it. Perhaps, for Belle, knowing that she wasn’t alone was enough.

Presently she spoke. “So, you’re not from round here either?”

“Pardon?”

“Your accent. Scotland, right?”

Gold nodded. “Yes, although I haven’t lived there for over forty years.”

“It’s impressive that you’ve managed to keep your accent all this time. I’ve only been here eight years and I’m already picking up a twang.” 

Belle laughed, and it was good to hear it in such oppressive settings. Sometimes Gold felt that laughter was almost forbidden in these places, as if laughing and making the best and happiest time of the bleak situation was somehow not taking it seriously enough. Belle’s laugh was genuine and musical, and it was the most cheerful thing that Gold had heard in this area of the hospital on all his recent visits. 

“You’re from Australia originally, yes?”

“Right on the money. I grew up in Melbourne. I decided that I wanted to see the world, but then I fell in love with Boston and I ended up staying here. What about you? If you’ve been here for so long then I take it you didn’t have much choice in coming to America.”

“No, I came with my father. I was seven.”

“Do you ever want to go back?” There was a wistful tone in Belle’s voice, a yearning for a home that was now unreachable however much she might not have missed it before. 

“Not really. I was so young when I left, and I have no family there. My entire life is here in Boston. What about you? You must have more ties there.”

He didn’t want to ask about her family, not when she clearly didn’t have anyone here in Boston with her right now. 

Belle sighed. “It’s not so much the people I miss as the places. All the memories from my childhood, places where I used to get ice cream and stuff. I guess you just sort of get nostalgic sometimes, especially when it’s out of reach.”

Gold definitely wasn’t going to ask about her family now, and he wondered where to turn the conversation. Luckily, Belle seemed more than happy for him to talk about himself.

“How did you get into law? And specifically, law that takes you into palliative wards?”

He told her the story of how he had got into his particular line almost by accident, and he was amazed by how animatedly she listened, taking everything in and showing a genuine interest in something that most conversation partners decried as horrifically dull. 

“What about you?” he said eventually. “What do you do?”

It was strange to use the present tense when she clearly wasn’t doing anything and wouldn’t be doing it again in the future, but framing it as if everything was already over seemed callous, rubbing it in her face that her life was nearing its end and far before its time. As much as he did not like spending time in hospitals, and as much as his non-medical clients and colleagues might accuse him of harshness, he had picked up a lot in terms of tact. 

“I’m a librarian. I’ve always loved books. I think I love them more than people sometimes. Honestly, that’s been one of the things that’s annoyed me most about being in here. I can’t concentrate to read; the drugs make the words swim. Don’t get me wrong, I love the fact that the drugs take away the pain, but I’d really like to be able to read.”

Gold looked at the book resting on the nightstand. 

“Her Handsome Hero. I’ve never read it, what’s it about?”

“Oh, it’s my absolute favourite. You’d probably hate it, it’s full of romance and melodrama, but it’s a good adventure story too. There’s this young boy named Gideon, who discovers that he’s part of a prophecy and destined to be a great hero who’ll save the trapped princess.”

It certainly didn’t sound like Gold’s type of book, but it was good to see Belle so excited about it.

“I could read to you if you like.” Where was this offer coming from? He’d only just met the woman and she was going to think he was completely weird if he carried on in this vein. 

“Would you?” She took the book and held it out to him. “You probably think it’s silly, I mean, I’ve read it so many times that I can probably recite it word for word, but it never fails to transport me.”

Gold opened the first page of the book and began to read. He had no appointments for the rest of the afternoon; he could stay here until the nurses kicked him out if Belle wanted him to, and he found that he didn’t mind that prospect at all. 

He had read through the first chapter and was getting quite invested in the story when he looked up and saw that Belle had dropped off to sleep. Quietly, Gold closed the book and placed it on the nightstand, making to move away and leave her in peace. He was at the doorway when she spoke, her voice soft and sleepy.

“Will you come again?” she asked. “It’s really nice to have company.”

Gold nodded, although Belle’s eyes were still closed. “Of course.”

X

“They’re beautiful, thank you!”

Gold only realised once he had entered the room that he had nowhere to put down the large bunch of sunflowers that he had brought with him, and he stood there holding them awkwardly for a while until a passing nurse took pity on him and went to fetch a vase. 

“Well, everyone else has them, and I didn’t want you to be the odd one out. I thought that they might give you something a bit more interesting to look at.”

Belle nodded. “Yeah, I have to say that I’m not thrilled with the colour scheme in here.” She looked around at the teal walls. “Why is it always teal? Did a paint manufacturer overdo an order once and all the hospitals in the country decided to take advantage?”

“Definitely.” Gold sat down in the chair beside the bed, and he was surprised when Belle reached out and squeezed his hand. Her fingers were bony and there was not a lot of strength in her grip, but he squeezed back, being gifted with Belle’s wonderful smile in return. When she smiled, it was easy to forget just how ill she was. 

She stayed holding his hand for a long time whilst they talked, until she finally let go and Gold felt almost bereft. Belle picked up the book. 

“Would you read another chapter, please? I really like listening to your voice; you read aloud well.”

Gold took the book from her. “It would be my pleasure.”

They got into a routine over the next week or so. Gold would visit Belle in an afternoon and read to her until she fell asleep. Sometimes that took longer than others; there were occasions where he’d barely got a page or two in before she was back in an exhausted slumber, but sometimes they made it through a couple of chapters. It was one of Belle’s better afternoons when it happened. 

Gold didn’t know what had made him stop reading in the middle of a sentence, other than the look in Belle’s eyes. She was watching him, rather than staring off into the middle distance as she did so many times, imagining the events of the story unfolding in front of her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Belle shook her head with a smile. “Nothing. I think you like this book a lot more than you let on, you know.”

“Well, I don’t dislike it. It’s really not my style, but it’s not bad.”

“You say that every day.”

“It’s still true every day.”

Belle laughed, although there was a lot less power in it than there had been at the beginning of their acquaintance. Gold’s stomach churned; he didn’t want to think about that. 

“You know, I think it will grow on you.”

They fell into silence for a moment, just watching each other. Belle’s tongue darted out to lick her dry lips, and Gold found himself leaning in a little closer. She gave a little nod of encouragement, and he pressed his lips against hers. It was a soft kiss, dry and chaste, but it was given and received in something a little more than just friendship. 

Belle smiled as he broke away, a tired but happy smile. 

“Maybe no more for today,” she said, glancing at the book. “Tomorrow?”

Gold nodded. “Till tomorrow.”

X

Although Gold had known to expect it from the moment that he had first met Belle, and although he’d been feeling a deep sense of foreboding ever since their kiss, it did not stop him being completely unprepared for walking into the hospital that next afternoon and finding Belle’s room empty. 

“Mr Gold?”

He turned, ashen and unable to speak, to find the nurse who took care of Belle most often hovering behind him. Her Handsome Hero was clutched against her chest, and she held it out. 

“She wanted you to have this.”

They’d only got halfway through the story, and even though he’d admitted several times that it was definitely not his type of book, Gold wanted to know how it ended. He took it from the nurse, picking up the note that fell out. 

Dear Gold,

Astrid is writing this for me as my hands are shaking too much. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story, despite your reservations about the romance. 

Thank you so much for being here these last few days. You made me remember what it is to feel alive. Please don’t lose sight of that.

All my love and best wishes,

Belle

[unpeumacabre]

my kingdom for a horse: chapter 1

the year is 1601, a messenger has been sent to dongnae, and he has not returned. lord cho-hak-ju advises the joseon king to send crown prince lee chang to dongnae to investigate, but the plot he unravels there threatens the safety of the entire kingdom, and the stability of the dynasty.

a rewriting of kingdom, and lee chang finds love.

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Lee Chang/Yeong-shin

Read on AO3 (bc tumblr might mess up the formatting)

Count: 7k

next -->

A/N: ummmmm so basically i wanted to rewrite kingdom... with a yeong-shin/lee chang twist... and it turned out as a massive lee chang character study lol. the plot borrows elements from the drama but is quite different - i wanted to bring out certain aspects of the characters and tone down on some of them a little more. the story is mostly complete, i'm just in the midst of editing, so updates will be weekly. enjoy~

Survive.

Lee Chang gathers the reins of his horse in his hands, and looks out towards the horizon. The sun is waning, and Mu-yeong is complaining about the flies, and Lee Chang still feels the heat of anger and injustice scorching his skin.

He had been there when the King had sent the messenger to Dongnae – a routine check it had been, nothing more. Apparently, Cho Hak-ju and his spies had heard murmurs of a rebellion in the South, and he had whispered his foul poison into the King’s ear, convincing him to send a messenger to Dongnae to put the magistrate on his guard.

Lee Chang had also been there when the messenger’s horse had returned, bereft of its rider, and bereft of its message.

“Why not send the Prince to investigate?” had been Cho Hak-ju’s answer. “We must send someone reliable this time, someone who will not shirk his mission. And the Prince must have been so bored of late. There is little to occupy his scholarly mind in recent days, what with everyone being occupied preparing for the new prince’s birth.”

“Why not send Beom-il? Surely your son is more experienced than I am at these matters,” Lee Chang had answered, and he had felt the strain of his smile stretch tight against his cheekbones.

“Of course, but Beom-il is indisposed at the moment. He has been sent to oversee the setting up of the new regiment at Haeju, and will not return for a few days more.”

He was an odious snake, he was, Lee Chang thought bitterly, but still the King had acquiesced.

His only modicum of hope lay in the words the King had said to him that night, as they took their private dinner together – a rarity, now that most of his time was occupied with the queen and her increasingly-rounded belly.

“It pains me to say this, but…” the King had picked at his food. “There is something brewing in the south, although I do not believe it to be the rebellion that Lord Cho is suggesting.”

Lee Chang personally thought there was nothing in it, but then again, he didn’t have the extensive network of spies the King and Cho Hak-ju seemed to have. He could not – and probably never will – understand how one can trust men who live in the shadows and trade secrets – and lives – for their livelihood. Perhaps it would not make him a good king, but Lee Chang wanted to believe that it would make him a better one instead.

“I want you to investigate what the Haewon Cho clan is up to in the south,” the King had then said, and Lee Chang had almost fallen from his seat.

“Father, why?” he had asked, a perfectly reasonable question. He well remembered the times in his youth when Cho Hak-ju had said something insulting to him or done something to side-line him, something so serious that he had felt the need to go to the King for recompense. Every single time, he could recall being brushed off and told “Lord Cho thinks only of the good of the nation” and “you would do well to heed his teachings”. Never had the King shown even a hint of resentment or suspicion of the Haewon Cho clan’s leader, and Lee Chang had always thought his trust in Cho Hak-ju unshakeable.

Not so unshakeable, it seemed. A shadow had crossed the King's face then, and he had turned away as if to hide his face.

“I did not believe it when first the Head of the Royal Commandery brought it to my attention,” the King had said then, “but Cho Beom-il has been implicated in several – well, shall we say, unsavoury deals, and Lord Min’s investigations point to Lord Cho at their head. But he has been very careful to cover his tracks, and the evidence is, while convincing, mostly circumstantial.”

Lee Chang had taken a sip of his wine, his throat suddenly dry. “And of my role in all this?” he had managed. “Why send me? Surely by doing so we are playing precisely into Lord Cho’s hands.”

“I do not yet know what he plans,” the King had replied, shaking his head. “All I have are ominous tidings from my spies in Sangju and Dongnae that there is something nefarious being planned, but Lord Cho – if it is indeed he behind it – is an intelligent man. He has not yet let anything slip. If we must play into his hands, at least for now, just know that you go as my envoy, my emissary, and not the messenger boy of the Haewon Cho clan. I trust only my son to carry this through for me.”

“I wish to see my son, and I miss my wife,” Mu-yeong complains, and it snaps Lee Chang back to reality. He huffs out an exasperated laugh at the familiar refrain.

“At least she will be well-taken care of while you are gone,” he says, letting the amusement thread through his voice. “Where did you say she was staying while you are with me?”

“With her aunt, in Naesonjae. Her brother has found work in the queen’s palace, so they have enough money to put her up at least until I return,” Mu-yeong answers, and punctuates his answer with an enormous, put-upon sigh.

“That is good,” Lee Chang says absently. “At least you need not steal desserts from my table any longer to feed her.”

“Your Highness – you said you wouldn’t - ” splutters Mu-yeong, his face turning beet red, as he spins around in his horse to check on the entourage of three guards following them. Thankfully for him, they are bickering among themselves about something inconsequential, and Lee Chang dismisses them as not having heard anything.

“We must find somewhere to make camp soon,” he decides, looking back towards the horizon, and the sun’s fading rays colouring it red.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Mu-yeong replies, and he slows his horse to tell the guards.

Very quickly, they find a clearing in which to make camp, and Lee Chang grooms his horse while the guards and Mu-yeong start the fire. When the fire is sufficiently large, he sits by it and unwraps the jangguk mandu prepared for him that morning by his chefs. The smell of pork and kimchi wafts like sweet perfume from the wrappings, and he catches the guards looking at him enviously from the corner of their eyes, as they dig into their mieum. The gruel splatters over the grass as they eat.

One of the guards’ voices drifts over to him on the wind. “Royals are lucky,” he says, a thread of envy in his voice. “Jangguk mandu and tteokguk for dinner. What I would do for some meat.”

“Hush,” Mu-yeong says, glancing over at Lee Chang, but he pretends not to hear their conversation, and Mu-yeong returns his attention to the guards, reassured. “You know meat is a luxury us peasants cannot afford, especially in these trying times.”

“Yeah? You’d think the royals and the lords don’t know of the ongoing famine. The other day, I was on guard for Lord Park, and he left a whole dish of goldongban untouched. Untouched!” There is a collective groan from the group.

“What I wouldn’t do for some beef and eggs,” agrees one of the others, fervently.

“My mother died of illness last month. She wasted away,” comes the quiet voice of the last guard. “And when you think of all the food that’s left on the royals’ tables…” He shakes his head, and fumbles in his pockets. “I only have my daughter and my dear wife left, and the little girl’s so much like her grandmother. Worries about me all the time. She made me this talisman to keep me safe.” He displays the charm, and Lee Chang can vaguely see the childish drawings on the blue fabric, accompanied by words he is too far away to read.

He looks down at his mandu. Suddenly, the dumplings no longer seem as inviting.

Lee Chang thinks of offering them his food, then. Thinks of unwrapping the rest of the packages tethered to his horse, and sharing the food among the guards, because, if he’s honest, there was far too much food packed for him alone.

But something holds him back. Pride, perhaps, or irrational fear, that they will hate him even more for what they might construe as his pity.

And now it is too late. Before he could come to a a decision, the guards had finished their food, and now they are standing up, stretching, and sorting out the watch schedule. Mu-yeong comes over to him and notices his untouched meal.

“You must eat, Your Highness,” he urges, his tone teasing.

But when Lee Chang turns his face up to face him, Mu-yeong must see something in his face, for he squats down, his eyes turning liquid and understanding.

“Your Highness is different from the rest of the nobles,” he murmurs, under his breath so the other guards do not hear. “You did not execute my family when you caught me stealing from your table to provide for my wife. You did not execute the maid when she ruined your second-best coat with her shoddy washing skills. You did not execute the chef when he cooked you kongguksu for dinner, forgetting soy beans give you sleepless nights. That mercy is far above what any other noble is capable of – ah, now, don’t blush, Your Highness – you know it to be true! Don’t be embarrassed.”

Lee Chang scoffs and turns away. “Be quiet, or I shall execute your whole family,” he mutters under his breath.

“Isn’t it about time you stopped joking about that?” Mu-yeong cries, aghast. “Such a threat from the Crown Prince holds more weight than you think!”

Lee Chang glares at him out of the corner of his eye, then sighs, and turns his attention away. He begins unpacking the linens with which he is to make his bed, and tries not to smile; but he is sure the way his lips twitch, gives him away.

Satisfied that he has restored his prince’s spirits, Mu-yeong returns to the rest of the guards, who have been watching their exchange with some curiosity. Lee Chang strains to hear their conversation as they welcome his guard back to their side with a comradely clap to the back, but it is late, and the hard riding of the morning has driven all the energy from his bones.

The ground is hard against his back, and it is with the unhappy feeling of rocks digging pinpricks of pain into his skin, that he finally drifts into a restless slumber.

***

He is in the King’s study, staring at the irworobongdo behind the King’s desk and thinking to himself, “I will never be king.”

The King’s great-grandfather, his great-great-grandfather, had had the folding screens installed behind his desk in his room in Gyeongbokgung Palace during his reign, to emulate the irworobongdo behind the royal throne where he held court. Lee Chang had been told by his nurse as a boy that the former King, his great-great-grandfather, had used the paintings to intimidate whoever was unlucky enough to be called to his study for an audience. After the Second War of Jeong-yu, three years ago, Gyeongbokgung had been razed to ashes, they had moved here into Changdeokgung as the main palace, and the current King had decided to adopt the same practice as his great-grandfather.

It makes a majestic sight for sure, the five peaks rising above the head of the King, flanked by the two moons, conifers, and streams running down from the mountains. Lee Chang had often been called here in his youth, and one of his earliest – and most vivid – memories is of standing before the King, only nine years old, on his knees and crying. He remembers having been summoned for some small prank he had played on one of the guards. He remembers the King’s back, tall and stately, looming above him, his arms crossed behind him, and his voice: “You are the Crown Prince, Lee Chang. Such childish frivolities are beneath you. You must always act with the maturity and dignity required of your station.”

Yet he cannot remember the King’s face.

So now, he fixes his gaze blankly on the third and middle peak of the irworobongdo, as the King strides leisurely across the room, watching him.

“Did you hear me, Chang?” he says, and his voice is quiet.

“Yes,” Lee Chang manages. “That is wonderful news. You have informed the ministers, then? That Her Highness is with child?”

“Yes, yes,” the King replies, waving his hand airily. “They have given their best wishes, of course. I am sure he will be a beautiful baby boy.”

Or a girl, Lee Chang’s mind whispers, but somehow he knows in his bones that it will be a boy. Cho Hak-ju is not known for his errors.

The King is still watching him. Lee Chang does not know what he is expecting to see.

Then he turns his head away, sighs, and gestures imperiously towards Lee Chang, beckoning him forward. Lee Chang steps forward and kneels at the King's feet. He feels like that nine-year-old child all over again; but the difference is that, in the years between then and now, he has learned not to cry.

“Chang,” the King says, and Lee Chang feels a hand in his hair, a gentle touch which catches him by surprise. “You have survived, as I commanded you to. And you are all that a father can ever ask for. All that a nation can ask for in its prince. When this child comes, you will no longer be destined to be king. But you will still be a prince, and that is all that matters.”

“Is it?” Lee Chang whispers. “I have been brought up to be a king, with the expectation that one day, it was to be I who would sit on the Phoenix Throne and command the kingdom of Joseon. And now I realise that all that will have been for nothing.”

The King sighs again. “Not for nothing,” he amends. “Your brother will need you as he grows. You are experienced both in scholarship and military command. Do not dismiss yourself so easily.” The hand in his hair disappears, and Lee Chang finds himself strangely bereft.

When next he looks up again, the King is sitting at his desk, reading. The third peak glimmers in the light of his lamp, directly above his head. Lee Chang takes it as a dismissal.

“Chang,” the King says, as Lee Chang turns to leave. He turns back to face him, and the King’s eyes are molten gold.

“Remember,” he says. “Survive.” And he opens his mouth, and emits a piercing scream.

Lee Chang is jolted from his slumber and scrambles for the handle of his sword. He whips around and the blade points directly at Mu-yeong’s throat.

“Your Highness,” Mu-yeong gasps, his hand still on Lee Chang’s shoulder, where he has clearly been trying to rouse Lee Chang from his sleep. “We are under attack!”

Lee Chang’s mind immediately flies to Cho Hak-ju’s miserable face, but he quickly dismisses the notion. There is hardly any legitimate reason Cho can find to hunt him down, after all – Lee Chang’s plans had not been ready to set in motion before he had left the capital.

“By who?” he roars, instead. “Who dares attack – “ He is cut off by another piercing yell, this time of pain, and he turns in time to see one of the guards fall to the ground, a man covered in bloody rags clinging to his throat.

Immediately he leaps forward and buries his blade in the back of the attacker. The blow is harsh, and carves a deep line to the bone. The man jerks and convulses, falling off the guard and rolling onto the ground. Lee Chang is repulsed to see that his face is covered in blood, and that his teeth had been buried in the guard’s throat.

Quickly he bends down and shakes the guard. “Are you alright?” he asks roughly, scanning the wound. It is a bad bite, it is, and the attacker had torn out a good chunk of flesh when he had fallen off the body. It needs bandaging, and so Lee Chang rips off a piece of cloth from the hem of his coat. He pulls the fabric around the guard’s neck, making sure not to pull it too tight and obstruct his breathing, then he ties it off with a quick bow.

It is only Mu-yeong’s reflexes which save him from certain death, in those next few moments.

The man who had been lying on the ground – who had clearly been dead, no one could survive such a blow and live – had sprung up from his supine position and leapt for Lee Chang’s throat. He is too slow to react, and when he turns, the man’s breath is hot on his neck, in the instant before Mu-yeong’s blade whistles past him and separates the attacker’s head from his body.

Lee Chang falls back in disbelief, his bottom hitting the ground, and stares unseeingly at the head on the ground, its teeth bared in a foul approximation of a smile.

“How?” he asks, blankly. “He was dead. I buried my blade in his back myself. I severed his spinal cord. He should be dead.”

Another scream of pain attracts his attention, and he looks away in time to see the other two guards fall, and descended upon by more raggedy attackers. Lee Chang feels his stomach roil as he realises one of the smaller figures among the pack, is that of a child. His hand flies to the handle of his sword, and he is about to rise to his feet and run to the rescue, when he feels the body under his other hand begin to tremble.

“Your Highness,” Mu-yeong says warningly, but Lee Chang hardly needs his words to recognise the mottled colour spreading across the downed guard’s face, and the milky film descending over his eyes. He recognises that face, for he has seen it just moments before – on the head that is now sitting, eyes unseeing, among the blood-stained blades of grass.

Purely on instinct, his body leaps back from the guard, and he watches in horror as the guard begins to writhe and shake, as if caught in a fit. His neck arches backwards, beyond what is humanely possible, and his mouth falls open, froth drooling from his jowls. It is the most terrible thing Lee Chang has ever seen.

“Are you alright?” he calls, urgently. No answer, as the man continues to fit.

Then, suddenly, eerily, he stops moving.

“We must get medical help for him,” Lee Chang says urgently, glancing up at Mu-yeong. “He is on the brink of death!”

But Mu-yeong is not looking at him. Lee Chang follows his gaze, and although his body is screaming at him to run, he finds he cannot move. The sight before him is so horrific, it is beyond anything in his worst nightmares.

The other two guards, with their throats torn out and blood gushing from numerous wounds all over their body, are also convulsing on the ground. One of them – the one who had been, only just last night, bemoaning his lack of meat and the royals’ frivolity – has had his eye torn out. The eyeball dangles, almost comically, from the empty cavity of his eye socket, except that there is nothing laughable about this situation at all. Lee Chang turns his head to the side and retches.

As he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, he hears Mu-yeong suck in a sharp breath. “Your Highness,” he says, and his voice is small. “Your Highness!” he repeats, this time louder, and with more urgency. Lee Chang lifts his head, and the group of attackers is looking straight at them.

“They see us,” hisses Mu-yeong frantically. “Your Highness, we must run!”

Lee Chang springs to his feet, but something catches his ankle in a vice-like grip, and he almost falls. He turns, and the body of the third guard – who he had thought stone-cold dead, after his fits! – has roused itself. He is leering up at him, teeth bared grotesquely, and its claws digging into the skin of his ankle.

He is no longer human, some primal instinct of his tells him, and so he does not hesitate.

Again, his blade strikes honest and true, and cuts deep into the body’s abdomen – a blow that would fell any normal man. But the body does not falter, and rears upwards, sword still buried in his stomach, intestines spewing out, his jaws gnashing and aiming straight towards Lee Chang’s face.

Lee Chang yanks the blade from its stomach with a motion that jars his shoulder, for how deep it is buried in the other man’s abdomen. The movement hoists the creature up towards him, and Lee Chang feels its fetid breath against his nose for one terrifying moment – makes contact with its sightless eyes for barely a second – before he swings and takes the body’s head off.

He can’t hear the thud of the head as it hits the ground, and belatedly he realises that the ground is shaking.

“Your Highness, we must flee! Now!” Mu-yeong yells, and grabs his shoulder. Lee Chang springs up and grabs his pack from the ground, where it is lying next to him.

And so they fly, the pursuers hot on their heels. Lee Chang has never run so fast in his life. He feels his heart beating a thousand miles an hour, thrumming through his ears, counting out the beat of his steps as they sprint over the dry grass and across the plain.

They are running too fast to stop, however, when they reach the cliff. There is barely a split second as they see the water loom before them, Mu-yeong looks at him, and his mouth forms an ‘o’ – Lee Chang would laugh, at the surrealism of the entire situation, if he weren’t working so hard to keep from breaking down. He says some words his wet nurse would have shook him upside down for.

And then they hit the water. The impact is like hitting a wall, and it drives all the air out of his lungs. He feels himself begin to sink, his heavy silk clothes quickly absorbing the water and lending him the weight of a stone, and the water bites cold frost into his skin.

Desperately, he kicks towards the surface, feeling his head throb with the pain of his lack of air. The moonlight is bright above the water’s surface, so near yet so far, as if the moon itself is taunting him. His limbs are a leaden weight, and he barely feels himself move. He cannot breathe.

Then suddenly he breaks the surface of the water with a gasp, and air – blessed air – rushes into his lungs. The cold air stings his reddened cheeks, and he already feels the ache of bruises beginning to form, from his intimate contact with the hard surface of the water.

“Mu-yeong!” he yells hoarsely, when he does not see the guard’s head. Moments later, the man breaks the surface, gasping and flailing, his sodden hair and clothes clinging miserably to his skin. Lee Chang knows he looks no better.

“They are too afraid to jump!” Mu-yeong calls to him, his voice bright with relief, pointing at the cliff’s edge. Indeed, the attackers are gathered above them, staring sombrely down at the two of them paddling in the water. There is one unlucky man who evidently was unable to slow his run, and is now clinging to the cliff face.

As they watch, he slips and plunges into the water. He does not come back up.

“It is a miracle,” Lee Chang says in disbelief. “They are afraid of the water.”

“Probably afraid of freezing to – well, death, if that’s even an appropriate word for them,” Mu-yeong says grimly. “And so will we, if we stay here much longer. The sun is rising, and I can see lights over there – there must be a village, or a camp of some sort. We must make for it before we freeze to death.”

With a nod of assent on Lee Chang’s part, they paddle dolefully to the opposite shore and haul themselves up. The wind is cruel and relentless, and Lee Chang feels his teeth begin to chatter. They lie prone on the ground, chests heaving in tune, arms spread akimbo, and staring unseeingly up at the beautiful night sky.

“C-c-c-curse this autumn wind,” cries Mu-yeong. “I am only thankful that it is not winter. We w-w-would be dead by now, if t-that were the case.”

Lee Chang laughs. But halfway through, it devolves into a sob, and he somehow finds the energy to sit up.

He barely makes it up before he feels his stomach revolt, and he throws up all over the ground. The remnants of meat in his vomit remind him of the chunks of flesh the creatures had torn off the guards’ bodies, and the memory makes him heave again. This time nothing comes up.

He turns, and Mu-yeong is shaking with quiet sobs, his jaw clenched and  his eyes blinking furiously as he tries to hold back tears. It is the first time Lee Chang has ever seen Mu-yeong cry.

“Mu-yeong.” Lee Chang calls his name, and the gentleness of his voice surprises even him. The guard turns to him, eyes glassy with unshed tears, and his fist stuffed in his mouth to block his sobs. Lee Chang tries to find the right things to say.

“They were good, honest men,” he says, at last. “I did not know them very long, but I could tell that they were good men. We will honour their memories and their bravery in the face of unholy evil.”

Mu-yeong chokes out a laugh, and it is an ugly sound. “They were bloody awful at times,” he says, casting his eyes away. “We always quarrelled. They begrudged me my role as your guard, and always teased me for only passing the exam in my forties, when they had done so in their youth.” He pauses to wipe at the sides of his eyes, and when he continues, his voice is quiet.

“But they were good men,” he says, and his voice is full of affection. “You are right, Your Highness. They were honest, and hardworking, and brave. They did not deserve the death they received.”

The sun is rising, and the heat of its rays takes the edge off the cold. Lee Chang tries to ignore the sour stench of his own vomit, and stares off into the horizon. Their attackers are no longer gathered at the cliff’s edge, from what he can make out.

“They were ungodly abominations,” he says lowly, recalling the dark patterns that had been spread across their faces and exposed skin, and the rotting flesh that had been falling off their bodies. “I do not know how it is that they were able to sustain blows that would kill any normal man, nor why they were feeding on human flesh. But they are still on the other side of the river, and I fear for the villages we passed on our way.”

“What will we do, Your Highness?” asks Mu-yeong, and some semblance of normality has been restored to his voice. “Do we still ride – well, walk to Dongnae?”

“Yes,” Lee Chang says decisively. “We must go to Dongnae, and light the signal fires to warn the other cities in the region. We do not know how many of these people are out there, nor what they want. It will be good to prepare everyone for an attack.

“And Mu-yeong?” he says, almost as an afterthought, but as quite an important one. He manages a small smile when the guard turns to face him.

“We will return for your friends’ bodies,” he murmurs softly. “Their bodies will not be left to rot, alone and with only the crows for company. We will return them to Hanyang, for an honourable burial, and for the peace of mind of their family.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Mu-yeong says quietly, and he is about to say something else, when they are interrupted by a loud cacophony of clattering.

“Who are you, and what have you come for?” comes a voice from their right, and when Lee Chang turns, he comes face to face with the barrel of a musket.

It is a rough-looking man, smaller in stature but no less fierce for it. His hair is carelessly tossed into a bun, and sweaty strands of it stick to his tan skin. The bags under his eyes speak of countless sleepless nights, but still the hand that is holding the gun is steady and true. A pile of bamboo poles lies by him, the origin of the clattering sound.

“Put down your weapon!” Mu-yeong cries, and hefts his sword. The man spares him a glance out of the corner of his eyes. “Do you know who you dare lift your weapon against? This is the Crown Prince of the Joseon kingdom!”

The stranger’s brows shoot up, but apart from that, he does not move an inch, and the barrel of the musket is still pointed straight at Lee Chang’s face. Lee Chang feels himself begin to sweat.

“You did not answer the question,” he says quietly. “Why have the Crown Prince and his guard emerged from the banks of the Nakdong River, soaking wet and covered in gore?”

“We were attacked,” Lee Chang finds his voice. “By men who ate human flesh and did not balk at our blades in their back. Three of my other guards were felled by the attackers, and we had to flee into the river, which they dared not enter.”

There is a moment of silence, as the man stares at them, his eyes wide, and Lee Chang thinks he does not believe him. Honestly, were he the opposing party, he does not think he would believe his story either, outlandish as it seems – but every word of it is, unfortunately, the cold, hard truth.

“Then they did survive,” the man says abruptly, and his arm drops back to his side. Mu-yeong’s stance relaxes minutely, his blade still drawn, but the man pays him no mind and turns to the river.

“We must return to the other side,” he says urgently. “You must show me where the monsters descended on you.”

“Monsters?” splutters Mu-yeong. “What the hell – beg pardon, Your Highness – what do you mean by that?”

“Those men were dead,” the stranger says ruthlessly. “They frothed at the mouth and fitted to death, but at night they rise again and crave human flesh. They cannot be killed by normal means – only by fire, deep water, or beheading. And if we do not dispose of their bodies by tonight, they will return to kill once more.” He turns to them again, his eyes ablaze. “You must show me where they found you. They will be hiding from the sun, somewhere nearby, as they fear the daylight. We must burn their bodies as soon as possible.”

“We were on our way to Dongnae – “ starts Mu-yeong mulishly, but then he stops as Lee Chang holds up a hand to stop him. If, indeed, these men will rise again tonight to attack more unsuspecting folk… Lee Chang thinks, again, of the villages they had passed on the way, and the playful cries of children that had arisen from those settlements. He cannot let the innocent people in those villages die, not when he can prevent it.

“We will show you the way. Dongnae can wait.”

“Your Highness – “ Mu-yeong says sharply. “What reason do we have to trust this – this stranger? He could be lying. The story he tells – of the dead rising and killing for human flesh? It is a tale that is nigh on impossible.”

“You saw what we saw last night, Mu-yeong,” Lee Chang says quietly. “I do not believe those men were human. Besides,” he says, with a weak smile, “I did promise you we would return to retrieve your friends’ bodies – although I did not expect that we would do it as soon as we are choosing to now. Dongnae can wait. If we find these bodies and destroy them, it will greatly thin the number of monsters out there.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” Mu-yeong accedes. Although it is not without a final glare towards the back of the man, who is standing by the riverside a little ways away, glancing restlessly back at them as they make their decision.

He brings them to a bridge further down the road, where they cross to the other side of the river, and they retrace their steps in silence till they reach the remains of the campsite.

The ashes of the fire Mu-yeong had lit are still smoking, and the bodies – even those of the guards – are nowhere to be found.

“They must have carried their bodies off,” Mu-yeong mutters, in disgust. Lee Chang watches as the man squats down and examines the ground.

“Do you see any tracks?” he calls, as the man picks up a piece of dirt off the ground and sniffs at it. He spares Lee Chang a glance, then stands up and brushes his hands off on his trousers.

“They went northward,” he says shortly. “Into the forest. There must be some abandoned homes or buildings among the trees in which they can hide from the sun.”

Lee Chang nods, and gestures forward. “Lead the way then.”

They walk into the woods. The trees have shed their leaves and are bare and stark against the crisp autumn sunlight. Frost crunches under their feet as they walk, and the air is eerily still, undisturbed by the sounds of any animals. Lee Chang gathers his coat tighter around him, and subconsciously tightens his grip on the handle of his sword.

“There,” the man says, stopping suddenly, and he points at a ruined shack that lies a distance from them. They make their way over to it, and Mu-yeong tentatively opens the door. It creaks as it opens, and releases a cloud of dust that makes all of them cough.

Lee Chang steps in first, squinting into the darkness. He draws his sword, and the blade gleams dully. The floorboards groan under his feet as he walks, craning his neck to see further than one chok in front of his face.

There – there is a glimmer of something in the corner of the room, he thinks, and readies his sword for battle – then there is an almighty crash as the complaining floorboards finally give way, and he sinks downwards with a shout of surprise.

The landing is unexpectedly soft, and there is a sinking feeling in his stomach as he turns his head downwards to gaze at what has broken his fall.

Faces upon faces upon faces, bodies upon bodies upon bodies, curled up in grotesque positions under the boards. Their eyes are shut in a gross parody of sleep, but their chests do not move with breath. They are dead.

Mu-yeong hoists him from the ground, and utters a hoarse cry as he sees what Lee Chang has happened upon. The stranger is unfazed, however, and begins pulling up the floorboards.

“We must get all of them out, and make sure their heads are cut off before we bury them, so they do not rise again,” he orders. Lee Chang has a very brief argument with a voice in his head – one that sounds very much like the King’s voice - about the merits of following the orders of someone of a lesser station than himself, before he sternly tells himself off and squats down to help.

They manage to pull out all twenty-one bodies of their attackers, and Lee Chang is horrified to find out that he had been right – one of them had been a child, no older than ten years of age, with the same mottled pattern on his skin, and mouth painted with gore. He almost throws up again, then, but his stomach is protesting the lack of food, and thankfully he manages to push down the urge.

Mu-yeong finds the bodies of the guards, one headless and two others still intact. He drags the bodies and the head out and lays them sombrely in front of the porch, aside from the other bodies.

“I apologise, my friends,” he says, under his breath, so softly that Lee Chang knows the words are not meant for others to hear. “I would give you now a burial worthy of the most honourable of men, but alas, I cannot do so. I promise, I will retrieve your bodies and bring them back to your honourable families, so they can pay their respects to you as you deserve.”

The man comes up to him and stands by his side, looking at the bodies of the guards. Then, in a stern but kind voice, completely at odds with his manner so far, he says, “We must cut off their heads as well. Any man the monsters bite will turn into one of their kind.”

Mu-yeong looks torn, and splutters. “That is absurd. Whoever heard of such a thing? Your Highness,” he turns to Lee Chang, and while his voice is accusatory, his eyes are soft with anguish. “You do not believe him, do you?”

Lee Chang sighs, and inadvertently locks eyes with the man. His eyes are fierce, and hooded, but Lee Chang thinks they hold no lies – at least, with regards to his matter. He shakes his head in answer to Mu-yeong.

“We saw it for ourselves last night, Mu-yeong,” he says patiently. “One of them returned to life and attacked me, and the only way of ensuring he did not rise again, was by taking off his head. Think of this,” and he manages what he hopes is a comforting smile, “it would be the kindest thing to do, to stop them casting a blemish on their honourable record by killing more innocent people. They would have wanted you to do it.”

In answer, Mu-yeong bows his head, and nods. And later, when they are done beheading the rest of the monsters, he takes the heads off the guards himself.

“We must dig a pit to bury the bodies in,” the man says, coming out of the shack with tools in hand. He passes one shovel to Mu-yeong, then he looks at Lee Chang out of the corner of his eye, a question written clearly in his face. Mu-yeong’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to interject; but Lee Chang silences him with a look, and takes the shovel from the man.

About an hour passes as they dig into the frozen ground to create a large shallow pit – shallow because they can go no deeper with the rudimentary tools they have, and the hardness of the soil. It is backbreaking work, and even in the cold biting air, Lee Chang feels sweat beading on his brow. The numbness in his fingers and the weariness in his bones does not help.

When they are finished, they haul most of the bodies over to the pit and try, as carefully as possible, to arrange them inside. They were once human, after all, and every human, no matter how small in stature or station, deserved an honourable burial.

When it comes to the three guards, however, the stranger squats down by the bodies and rifles through their clothing. In a swift movement, Lee Chang strides over and has his blade at the man’s throat.

The man pauses in his movements, and looks up at Lee Chang. A swallow bobs his throat, but his eyes hold no fear, and the twist of his mouth belies his impatience.

“How dare you attempt to desecrate these men by looting from them,” Lee Chang whispers. “Is it not enough that their bodies have been so profanely defiled? Do you intend to rob them as well?”

“Your Highness,” the man replies, very calmly – too calmly, for all that he had a blade at his throat – “while you have been sitting in your golden palace, eating the food of the gods, we have been starving.” Very slowly, his hand comes up and grips the pommel of the sword, right next to Lee Chang’s hand. His eyes are dark, and full of resolve.

“The sick at Jiyulheon need food, or they will die by morning,” he says quietly. “Our stocks had already been depleted before the monsters appeared, and now, more than ever, we need food. Will you let the sick and injured at Jiyulheon starve to death, for your honour and morality? This is reality, Your Highness – the reality of us peasants’ lives. This is not the first time I have stolen from a dead body to live, and it will not be the last.”

Mu-yeong is oddly silent, Lee Chang thinks, dazedly. He is able to hold the man’s gaze for a moment – just a moment more - then he can bear it no longer, and has to avert his eyes.

The man coolly levers the sword away from his throat, and returns to searching quickly through the guards’ clothes. He finds a few packets of dried meat and other trail foods, and these he packs them away in his bag.

When he is done, he makes to drag the bodies into the pit, and a small blue square of fabric falls from one of the guards’ pockets. As Mu-yeong and the stranger lug the bodies away, Lee Chang bends over and retrieves the item.

The guard’s daughter has written on it, in shaky writing; Papa, it reads, pleas keep your self safe and pleas bring back some mandu for mommy. We love you! There is a doodle of a girl sitting on what appears to be some vaguely-four-legged animal, brandishing a sword, with her father seated behind her. Lee Chang finds he suddenly has to steady himself against the walls of the shack, as a lump finds its way to his throat.

“Your Highness,” Mu-yeong calls, and Lee Chang looks up with a start to realise that the other two have already hurried some way up the slight incline that had led to the shed, and are now looking back at him – Mu-yeong with puzzlement, the stranger with badly-concealed impatience.

“The sun is setting,” says the man. “I must return to Jiyulheon – they will need help with defence against whatever monsters are left from this pack.”

“We will come with you,” calls Lee Chang, on some impulse, as the man turns to leave. Lee Chang’s words makes him spin round, his faint brows riding high in surprise.

“Why?” he says, and the twist of his mouth reads of his suspicion. “I thought you were on your way to Dongnae?”

“Staying in Jiyulheon cannot be your permanent solution against an attack,” Lee Chang argues, walking quickly up to them; and from the way the man’s eyes darken, Lee Chang knows he has hit his mark. He steps closer to the man, and they lock gazes.

“We can help with your defence through the night, and when morning comes, we will find a way to bring the people of Jiyulheon to safety. I swear this upon my crown,” he says, solemnly, for the look in those burning eyes holds him to nothing but the truth.

“Can a prince run as fast as is needed?” says the man at last, tossing his head scornfully. A sudden flock of crows ascends above their heads, bringing with them a cacophony of cawing, and their shadow runs long. The sun is setting, and night is drawing near.

Lee Chang feels his resolve set. He tucks the talisman into his pocket, and gives the man a firm nod.

[chrysalispen]

Prompt #25 - Wish

aurelia bas laskaris, age 16

AO3 Link HERE

=============

Sometimes it seemed as though the entire span of L'haiya dus Eyahri’s life had been defined by the Empire. It had influenced her path even before she was born. Her mother had been in the city of Rabanastre when it fell to imperial troops, and the Garlean soldier who had sired her--- well, best not to think much on him. Mother had wed a cobbler from the edge of the capitol's market district when L'haiya was four summers old. He had raised her, and to L’haiya’s mind he was her true father.

In the old days she might have attended a primary school before taking on her family's trade, but under imperial occupation such luxuries were not afforded to her or her compeers. L'haiya and her half-sister L'jhutei were sent away to a school in the capitol for "the finest education the Empire can offer" as it was phrased by the viceroy ("propaganda," her father had called it, muttering it so quietly that he must have thought her unable to hear), one which had turned out to be a military school. Both sisters had had a commission into the legions after graduation.

L’haiya had almost taken it, too. But then? Well, then she had met Vittora cen Remianus, and Vittora had met her husband, and…

Perhaps it was for the best. Her service to the Laskaris family had earned her a fast path to imperial citizenship, after all; Mama would have said one was as good as the other, were she here, and the equally practical L'haiya was not one to look too much askance at such a boon. Even if it had left her in the rather troublesome position of raising her friend's child.

She stared at that slumped posture, the bowed golden head. From the porch, she could see her charge's shoulders trembling but could not tell if she was shivering from the night air or if she was still crying.

L’haiya felt a sort of stern and helpless pity for her. Although Julian rem Laskaris’ only child had learned something of the importance of controlling herself and learning which battles to pick (particularly in a place like the Empire, where speaking one’s mind in the wrong ears could have very severe consequences indeed), children would be children. The girl was very young and very sheltered, and she had been friends with the boy since they were small. L’haiya didn’t suppose she would have taken well to the news either were their positions reversed.

Quietly she rapped on the door and stepped over the threshold into the garden. The stars overhead were a diamond spray and the air still carried the day's warmth.

“Aurelia.”

“Go away,” the Garlean girl said in a choked voice. “I don’t want to talk.”

L’haiya made her way down the steps and into the grass, her skirts swishing about her legs, and perched herself upon the edge of the Doman fountain next to her charge. Aurelia’s body went rigid, but she said nothing and remained in place. “Your father-”

“If you’ve come to tell me I was a fool, you needn’t do so. I know I shouldn’t have said what I did. I know.” The girl sniffled and wiped at her eyes, then returned her hands to her lap. “But I just- I don’t understand how Father could do this to me. I didn’t even get to tell him goodbye, or wish him well! If I could have had at least a few more days with him then-”

“I think that would have been quite unwise.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father had nothing to do with L’sazha’s early departure, Aurelia. He left under my advisement.” The Miqo’te’s voice was steady. Calm. “And 'tis well that he did. You’ve caused trouble enough for the boy as it is.”

“Sazha is an adult by imperial law. As am I,” Aurelia said stiffly. “We’ve hardly any need for my father’s approval to do as we wish.”

“What you did,” she snapped back, her words clipped and cold, “posed a serious risk not just to you, but to L’sazha. The tribunus would have had him swinging from the nearest gibbet did he know the extent of your dalliance.”

"But he didn't know. We were careful and nothing happened until you decided to meddle in our affairs. Father barely cares enough to ask me about my studies, never mind aught else."

L’haiya wanted to shake her. She took a deep, measured breath.

“I was young once myself. And I daresay I was just as selfish and thoughtless,” she said. “I can hardly fault you for your age. But I feel the need to spare you your blushes by explaining the implications of what you did, as you don’t appear to quite understand the magnitude of it.”

“If we were adventurers, no one would have cared who I am, or what we-”

"The fact is that you are not an adventurer, Aurelia,” she snapped. “And this is not Eorzea. For better or worse we live in the Garlean Empire and under imperial jurisdiction. L'sazha is my legal ward and you are a lady of a certain social status. Better that you be angry with me for a time. It would have been not only dangerous to let the two of you continue on as you were, but it would also have been wildly irresponsible on my part.”

Aurelia looked stricken, her face pale. Relentlessly, L’haiya continued on.

“They hang our kind for far lesser offenses, Aurelia. If you care a whit about that boy, even a fraction of what you claim, you’ll go apologize to your father and put a decisive end to this romance of yours.”

“But-”

“But what?”

Aurelia’s chin quivered.

“I love him. I’ve loved him for so long.”

Seven hells, she might have known it was as simple - and as dangerous - as that. She’d assumed the girl’s interest in her Miqo'te companion to be little more than a childish infatuation, but it seemed their feelings had blossomed beneath her nose into something deeper than she had suspected. She had deluded herself it would pass, and in the meantime, they'd fallen in love with each other. Or as close as a pair of children could get to romantic love.

“I know you think you’re in love with him, Aurelia. But you’ll move on. And so will he. That's the way of things, good and bad.”

“No, I won’t,” she choked. “You don’t understand at all. He loves me, and once I’m done with school and my enlistment-”

“Let Sazha move on with his life,” L’haiya said, in a quieter, gentler tone. Better not to let the girl finish that statement. Better not to let her even entertain the notion it might be possible. “Let him find himself. He deserves better than my largesse and your shadow.”

Aurelia's stare was full of incredulous fury- and then her angry expression crumpled into one of despair, and on its heels welled a single sob of broken-hearted anguish. This time L’haiya put an arm about her shoulders and pulled her in for an embrace, and met no resistance. One of the girl's hands dropped into her lap and the other grasped at a handful of L’haiya’s linen shirtwaist as she buried her head under her governess’ chin.

“It’s all right, sunshine,” L'haiya murmured. “All will be well in the end. You'll see.”

“I’ll never love anyone again.”

“Yes, you will.”

“As long as I live,” she vowed, “never.”

She kissed the bright golden crown of hair and nestled her cheek against its softness, this child who she loved as her own, and let her spend her grief without comment. It was what it was. Years abroad on tour with the army would do one of two things to their relationship - either it would strengthen their resolve to be together (in which case, L’haiya thought, they would have little choice but to defect) or it would cool their passions. L’haiya expected the latter; sixteen was very young, and carried with it little foresight or understanding of the way love worked.

But she knew Aurelia would hear none of that. The girl might have the look of her mother but she was every bit as obstinate as Julian rem Laskaris had ever been.

“Elle?” the girl said, in a small and choked voice.

“What?”

“Can I tell you something? A secret?”

“Go on.”

The hand that had gathered in her shirtwaist clenched into a fist.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I wish I had never been born.”

“Oh, child, you don’t mean that.”

“I do.” The words were harshly emphatic. “Mama and Father were so happy together. But then I came along and ruined everything.”

“That’s not true at all.”

“It is. I wish I weren’t who I am.”

“Why would you even consider something so dreadful?” L’haiya felt something in her chest twist. “Aurelia, darling-”

“I mean it. Every time Father looks at me, I see it in his eyes,” she choked. “He resents me. If he had the choice between me or Mama, he’d have taken Mama without even thinking about it. Sazha made me happy. I didn’t have to feel guilty about being myself when I was with him, ever. And now he’ll be on the other side of the world and I’ll just- I’ll be here, making everyone unhappy just by existing. If I just hadn’t- I just-"

"Aurelia-"

"I just wish I could be someone else!” she wailed. "I wish I could be somewhere else, I wish I had any kind of purpose, but I don't, I'm just trapped in this cage and I can't-"

L’haiya bowed her head. There was nothing she could say and little more she could do, to speak either to her charge's frustration or her suffocating loneliness. She was a practical woman who had made a promise to a close friend to watch over her family, but nothing in that promise had prepared her for a man so bereft of his wife he could not bear to raise his own child.

Something had to be done, she thought. Or at least said. It was her fault for allowing Julian to continue as he had done for so many years, not wanting to rock the boat and tell him he needed to behave like the father he was. She decided she would speak with him tonight, as soon as she was able.

But in the meantime, she couldn't leave Aurelia alone like this. So she sat with the girl in silence, and let her weep until there were no tears left to shed.

[yeoldontknow]

so I watched brief encounter last night because I was curious... I don’t understand what the main character meant by her committing the violence of falling inlove. I don’t think I understand how being in love could be violent- is it because she’s married?

hi anon! ahhhh! im so happy you decided to watch it! and then came to discuss with me pls do you know how delighted that makes me ;^; if youre not used to classic cinema, or even classic melodrama, i can see how the film would be a bit slow or a bit difficult to connect with. so i really appreciate you taking the time to watch and come up with questions for things. when i say this made my day i mean it lmaooo

the quote i believe youre pulling from is this:

I’ve fallen in love. I didn’t think such violent things could happen to ordinary people.

there are several layers to this statement - emotional, moral, political, societal, etc. im happy to break these down contextually so you can have a better understanding of why this statement is painful and, also, why love is an extremely violent experience. going under a cut because...i have this entire masters degree in film and im not using it so im gonna use it here lmao

at its most basic, yes, you are correct. she says love is a violent experience because she is already married. to love, really love, is an act of violence, especially when you are already promised and making a family to another person. there is an element of ruination here that plagues laura, love as a threat to the stability of the home and family. and we can see this when her son is playing in the street and gets into an accident - a completely innocuous event, but one she sees as an omen of her violence against her own family. karma, but at a level that would start a war among her family and community.

in most filmic universes, romantic comedies especially, we are used to the relatively easy expectations that come from learning to love someone - you meet, you flirt, you are both, ideally, free to experience these types of intense emotions, you come together, you separate (due to...any sort of obstacle), you come back together. in this traditional narrative, we are presented with the notion that falling in love happens in a linear fashion and that, once the two characters have ended their arc and achieved their happy ending, there is not much else that occurs. they lived happily ever after, ever after being an indeterminate amount of time in which we are meant to assume they exist within this state, ceaselessly.

in general, there are two types of love stories - tragedies and comedies. where romantic comedies (in the modern sense, and i am stressing modern sense) end with ‘happily ever after,’ the other alternative for lovers is death. you either overcome your initial obstacle, or you perish, in love, where love becomes a death. so where does that leave brief encounter? neither party have been put to death, but the death is of the will, the passion. and, in brief encounter, it is killed by morality. by choice. i will be coming back to this. because passion is an extremely important element of this film, and it carries the narrative from start to finish.

at its core, brief encounter is a melodrama. melodrama has its own sect of film theory, but in this case ill do my best to keep it simple. and its really important to recognize that this film is british - british melodrama are two extremely different experiences and come from two completely different places of expression.

american melodrama, the most broad sense, was a stylistic set of films, usually from the 40s-50s (even some released in the early 60s) which use a lot of the tropes of classic cinematic narrative story telling - but as irony, parody, or pastiche. great examples of these films would be rebel without a cause, mildred pierce, from here to eternity, imitation of life, etc. in all of these films, and again i am paraphrasing because there is so much relating to melodrama as its own theory and practice, there is an onus on emotional expression and sensationalism. the narrative is driven by passionate action, emotional action, and, almost always, the swell of music weve come to recognize in hollywood cinema. music swells with character emotion, thus assisting in informing the audience in how to feel, and so we are ok regardless if these characters are successful in their plight, because we have felt.

british melodrama operates from an entirely different perspective. yes, like their historical theatrical roots, they favor spectacle and avoid realism. and, again, there is a reliance on the music to lead the narrative. however, the focus shifts from the societal body to the familial body; body concrete rather than body politic. culturally, this is a significant change from the usual reserved emotional experience within britain. and that is where brief encounter becomes something extremely important.

brief encounter was released in 1945, in a post-war period when there were significant changes to womens daily and societal lives, and this film really hones in on the causative anxieties that are born from these sudden changes and, yes, sudden notions of emotional liberation from their families - a new found independence. with the context of this film coming off the tails of WWII, in a post-war society in which there is meant to be peace, laura calls the act of falling in love violent which, for an audience member at the time of release, would have immediately associated that element of violence with war time violence. love is a threat. its dangerous. love at this level is repulsive. love is an insurrection - love is a revolution. and it came to her without her permission. she is bereft. she is on the brink of collapse - and ordinary women, the traditional family house wife, is never meant to feel so eager to ruin her family for a sensation that is, inherently, selfish.

so this brings us back to passion. something that comes up quite a lot in brief encounter, most explicitly at the cinema when alec and laura see a trailer for a film called flames of passion (this is a real film btw! and you might be able to watch it - it too is a melodrama. theres also a queer reading within brief encounter, because of the inclusion of flames of passion, but thats for another day). this brings us to the moral question of love as violence. for this, we can turn to hume and his 4 thesis on moral philosophy, the morals that drive humanity. primarily we will look at the following points:

1. reason alone is not enough to motivate the will, but rather is a slave to passion 3. moral distinction is derived from moral sentiment: feelings of approval (praise) and disapproval (shame, blame) through our inter-relations with others, or through the perceptions of others as they perceive us

for hume, the passions are simply emotions, but they are broken down as direct or indirect. desire is a direct emotion and it arises, without thought, from a place of good or evil, pain or pleasure - and it is only after these feelings have arisen that we are able to consider the feeling. by that same token, bodily or carnal appetites, our carnal desires, is another instinct that arises from unknown origin and only is able to be thoughtfully experienced after we have been confronted with it. and that is the most important piece - desire and carnal desire is an instinct. for hume, love, on the other hand, does not directly cause action - because love is not an instinct. love is learned.

in brief encounter, laura is admitting that not only does she thoughtfully love alec - love in a way that would not necessarily cause action, but brings her unparalleled pleasure in comparison to a man who simply helps, but she desires him. desires him enough to take action, to release the shackles of her political body and engage in her carnal body, with an appetite that is almost reductive in theory, aligning her with something base. this pleasure inherently causes her pain, yet still, she craves it - without morality.

and through her perception of those around her - her friends, her acquaintances, her own husband - she distinguishes this moral experience as shameful. but, in that shame, she still does not surrender her carnal body. her apetite is awakened, unable for her to be returned to its normal, thoughtful state. at war, now, with herself and her desires, laura is conflicted and ruined, simply because she learned to love and to desire, a violence an ordinary housewife should never experience.

[fheythfully]

an idea is like a virus [SHB AU]

What is the most resilient parasite? Bacteria? A virus? An intestinal worm? An idea. Resilient... highly contagious. Once an idea has taken hold of the brain, it's almost impossible to eradicate.

She does not mean to sulk, of course, but--she thought they’d miss her more. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, realizing that the time she spent worried about their sudden collapses and departure of souls had not been met by equal concern on their end. [an Inception-inspired AU]

[My Inception inspired AU is here! First thing I’ve written in a year so I am a little rusty. Click the read more or read on AO3.]

She does not mean to sulk, of course, but--she thought they’d miss her more. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, realizing that the time she spent worried about their sudden collapses and departure of souls had not been met by equal concern on their end. When the Crystal Exarch led her to the audience chambers of this world’s Crystal Tower and let her know of this world’s perils, she had been ready to bear the burden. She had set out for the sands of Ahm Araeng in search of Alisaie only to be met by ungodly heat, more unbearable even than the deserts of Thanalan on summer’s midday, and a quick greeting by the girl before her figure disappeared into the wilds and an assurance that she had it under control. At first it had been pleasant, although surprising, to suddenly find herself with an excess of time on her hands before the next amaro transport would be by to take her away in search of Alphinaud. She wandered the stalls of Mord Souq, tasting the strange delicacies of the local tribe and taking in the sights of the crystallized emptiness to the south. She did not get a chance to bid farewell to Alisaie before her departure, though the girl’s friend, a kindly hyur woman, let her know she’d pass on the message.  Alisaie has been busy, she told herself as the rolling sea of browns and golds blurred below her in the ascent of the amaro bearing her away. It only makes sense that she would have duties she cannot be pulled away from, especially in a hard place like this.

Kholusia looks enough like Vylbrand that it makes her queasy to see the state it’s in, especially once she spots windmills in the distance looking so much like her parents’ farm. The relief she feels upon seeing Alphinaud is nearly physical in its intensity, her soft spot for the boy she’s watched grow into a confident young man leading her to embrace him in sisterly affection. His body tenses under her touch and he pats her on the back, a touch awkwardly, before drawing away and laying out his master plan on how to infiltrate Eulmore. He talks with his hands, eyes on the glittering city in the distance, and soon enough the realization dawns upon her: he’s grown without her presence even further into his own. There is an assertiveness in him that had not been there before and a near dismissiveness she’s sure he does not mean, but it burrows under her skin anyway, leaving her feeling out of place at his side in a way that she has not in years.

Encountering Thancred and his young charge, the quiet girl named Minfilia, is uncomfortable to say the least. She knows he’s been here the longest of all the Scions, five years spent on his own adjusting to a new world and new dangers and politics that seems even harder to navigate than Ishgard’s had been. But the man has seemed to grow colder in his age, more abrupt rather than cunning and frustrated with everything--Minfilia defying him to find her, especially, and everything to do with the girl in general. She tells him he is being too harsh one night after he spends a good half a bell berating his silent charge over a misstep in battle she’d done, and Thancred levels her with a look she had not expected to see since Lahabrea’s possession.

“Don’t presume to know what it’s like for us, when you’ve only arrived now that our battles are nearly done.”

She does not speak to him much after that, for what could she say to dispute the truth of his words? The First seems to indeed be on its way to recovery due to no small part of what the Scions have been working towards all this time in her absence. She fights their battles, assures their victories; it is a relationship similar to the one she’d had with the group at the time of Ifrit, Titan and Garuda: she is their sword, and they wield her thus.

Staring up at the ever blinding skies, she misses Tataru. She misses Aymeric who had a cup of tea and a chat ready for her even amidst his busy work rebuilding Ishgard. She misses Lyse and the spars they’d have, the blonde boldly stating she needed time off to stretch her limbs. She had forgotten what it felt like to be an accessory and not part of the team.

The whimsical, near frightening colours and inhabitants of Il Mheg are not enough to thaw her relations with Urianger, who remains as unreachable as ever. Under the towering ancient boughs of Rak’tika she watches Y’Shtola hesitate to bid farewell to the family even she has now found for herself, lingering with one last gaze over Slitherbough as they depart. The other woman is politely friendly but the chasm suddenly between them yawns wide, and she watches Y’Shtola get smaller and smaller on the other side. She watches all the Scions disappear into the horizon away from her and feels small herself, an outsider to this group of people who’d found themselves perilously lost in a world not their own and built themselves a new life to survive.

Beside her, the Ascian wearing the body of the late Garlean emperor  tsks  . “So much for friendship,  hero .” The two of them sit apart from the rest of their group, a fire burning low between them, and she tells herself the suspicious glances cast their way are for his sudden appearance at her side. “So what happens when you kill all the Wardens, then? Will you be set aside like a rusty blade?”

She ignores him and pokes a stick into the dying embers of the pit. Emet-Selch laughs at her silence, gaze so heavy on her she can feel it burning a brand into her skin.

.

.

They return to Ahm Araeng and she speaks to the last remnants of her Minfilia. The sullen, quiet girl bearing her name and visage does not reappear at her side when she emerges. Urianger, when she finds the rest of the Scions, shakes his head when she asks about Thancred.

The less that is said about Ahm Araeng and the Warden there, the better.

.

.

She listens silently when Y’Shtola and Urianger pull her aside and tell her what she already feels within: the light is consuming her alive. She has become the Warden of the First Reflection.

There is nothing to be done to save her. Nothing in the books of the Crystarium, in the abyss of Allagan research spanning the depths of the Tower, and even the Exarch shakes his head, lips downturned, when he is consulted.

At last, she is a dead woman walking.

She thinks that, all things considered, it has been a long time coming.

.

.

The Light within her blurs together all senses and experiences, even memories; she remembers walking for what she knows is the last time through the Crystarium, entirely alone as she makes ready to depart. Bereft of weapons and gear she has the sensation of having flown somewhere, or perhaps she walked, but somehow she has found herself underwater in a city the likes of which she has never seen before. Or maybe it’s not entirely true; she thinks she’s dreamt of it before, or perhaps is dreaming now, walking streets as silent as a graveyard as she seeks out Emet-Selch and his offer of a dignified death.

Is she still breathing? Is she still living? She is not worthy of it. She feels the Light within her churning and hungry, straining against the threads of her soul and mortal shell holding it back. It’s only a matter of time before they snap and in a moment of sudden clarity she is overwhelmingly glad that the Scions are not present to see their vaunted Warrior of Light turn into a monster.

Blearily, she spots a figure before her. Unlike the others it does not move out of her way, but instead stands tall and stubborn in her path until she has no choice but to force her limbs around it. She hears a sigh, and then harsh fingers grip at her shoulder.

It is so unexpected and sudden that it grounds her. The corona of light that has been dimming her vision flares and she blinks, having no choice but to face the figure insisting on her attention. 

“Really?” It speaks, a woman’s voice, drawling and mocking and in Common and not the strange language she’s been unable to make out from the other inhabitants. “This is how you’re going to die? Walking to certain death like a martyr, happy to let a villain take your life into his hands? You disappoint me, hero.”

She’s lost for words, no small part due to being directly addressed in such a manner in what feels like a very, very long time--since she had come to the First, perhaps. It clears the fog up in her brain somewhat, some flickering semblance of self sluggishly batting away at the Light cocooning her thoughts.

The tongue in her mouth feels heavy, marble-like. “I have no other choice.”

The figure’s hand, still gripping her skin as if she is not burning its flesh on contact, tightens. “No choice? Don’t make yourself even more pathetic than you already are.”

On habit alone she tilts her chin and purses her lips. Stubborn to the end, apparently. “So what, you have some better ideas on how to not die and consume all of the First? I’m all ears.”

The mouth under the hood smiles in a way she knows it does not mean it. “You really think he won’t destroy this Shard after your timely death? Is this all it took for you to lose your brain?” A laugh, somehow familiar, and she bristles further. The city around her sharpens in its clarity and her chest expands in a deep, angry breath ready to let the stranger have it--and then another hand comes down upon the stranger’s, prying it away.

Emet-Selch stands before them, grasping the stranger’s arm. “That’s enough out of you,” he directs at her hooded companion. There is a certain flatness to his tone, a bite in his words she has not heard even directed at her. In response the figure shakes her arm free and moves to entwine her fingers with his, smiling mockingly, until the man slaps her fingers away in disgust. “Leave us be. You have no place here.”

The woman lets out a dismissive laugh. “I have no place to be here? Steps away from where you murdered me, and where you are about to do so again? Your humour has me turning in my grave, Hades.”

She’s submerged in the heavy silence that descends. Enough time for a single breath, and then the woman turns towards her again. Pale hands reach up to draw back her hood--and something within her screams that the action is wrong, she should not be witness to any of this--and then to remove the delicate white mask that sits perched across her nose and cheeks. She throws it aside on the ground and stomps it for good measure, until motes of aether rise up as the mask simply dissolves on the paved street.

“Astra,” Emet-Selch says, barely constrained fury shaking his voice. “Get out.”

The woman’s lips turn into a pretty pout. “You can make me leave any time you want, Hades. You’re just not wanting it hard enough.” To her she sends a conspiratorial smile, as if they are old friends sharing a secret. “That’s always been the case with dear Hades, you know. Forever wanting things but never knowing how to go about getting them the right way.”

A streetlight down the road goes out. She suddenly realizes she does not even know the name of this place, hidden deep on the ocean floor. She wets her lips. The sense of wrongness inside of her grows. “Who are you?”

Astra raises an eyebrow at her, eyes wide. “We look so much alike, and still that is the question you ask? You just keep finding new ways to disappoint me.” To Emet-Selch, she shakes her head. “You broke her so thoroughly, dear. I’m very hurt.”

Somehow, she is still breathing. Still living. The Light within her writhes, but she wants to know more: the city standing tall and desolate around her, this man named Emet-Selch-and-also-Hades, and the woman Astra before her, with such pale hair and eyes yet still undoubtedly  her . 

“Why do you look like me?” The hints of a demand enter her tone. “What is this place?”

“You finally start asking the right questions!” The lights around them all begin flickering, but Astra’s excitement is palpable as she claps her hands together and grins at her, all teeth. “I’ll help you out with another one: how did you get here?” At her confused silence, her grin stretches until she can see the canines peeking out, like a mummer’s mask at a horror show. “Try to remember, now. How did you get here, to the bottom of the ocean, to this gloriously dead city of Amaurot?”

She opens her mouth to answer, to say she flew to the coast of--somewhere, or took a boat, or-- “I don’t know,” she says instead. “I don’t--I don’t remember.” She frowns. “How can I not remember? Is it the Light?”

A cold hand settles on her cheek, curiously soft and at odds with everything the woman has been so far. Pale eyes swim with pity as they stare into hers. “Sweetling, the only Light within you is the blessing you’ve been carrying all this time.”

With a furious sound the ground beneath them cracks. A cacophony of noise follows as around them the buildings begin to cave into themselves; trees erupt with their roots torn wild from their carefully curated placements and somewhere beyond her sight, she hears the unmistakable sound of rushing water flooding the bubble of air surrounding the city.

She’d nearly forgotten Emet-Selch’s presence. With a hiss he tears the woman away from her, clutching her wrist in his hand with strength that will leave her with far more than bruises. “You damned woman,” he seethes and his form begins to shift, as if he’s been hiding a monster of his own beneath his human shell this entire time. “If only you would stay out of my way--”

Her wrist must be broken, but Astra only laughs. The city around them continues its rapid collapse. “As if it’s my fault you can't bring yourself to kill me,” she says, and with barely a flicker of her other hand, drives a knife of aether straight into his heart. “Fascinating, considering you had no such qualms the first time.”

Ella watches the life leave the Ascian’s eyes, and has a moment to wander if it had been the way Lahabrea had fallen, too; did you not need to sunder the soul, to ensure an Ascian did not merely jump into another inhabitable body? But no--Emet-Selch sags to the ground and Astra uses a toe to poke his body with a sigh.

She turns her eyes towards Ella, the knife of concentrated aether still sparking with magic in the palm of one hand. “He remembered me very horribly, I’ll have you know. I didn’t have one unkind bone in my body. Not to mention this manner of speech. How self-obsessed can one man get, to make his once-lover sound so much like him?” She tuts and shakes her head. “Guilt does such funny things to memories we hold dear.”

She approaches closer. The strange city of Amaurot around them has fallen, a tremendous wave of water coalescing behind the woman’s form.

It will be upon them in seconds.

“It’s time to wake up,” Astra says. She’s close enough that the Warrior can count the very faint freckles upon her nose, as if this strange duplicate of hers had even that tiny detail down. “You’ll be very confused, and very alone, and the void between worlds will be a frightening place indeed. But rest assured that your friends are waiting for you on the other side, and that this has been nothing more than a very real, and very bad nightmare.”

The touch of aether is hot and electric against her neck. Astra’s smile is trembling. “Make sure you kill him for good for me, will you?”

There is no chance to reply. The knife cuts her open.

[undertalethingies]

Help Wanted

Alphys was very excited about her new royal position. (The one she’d gained by lying and cheating and-) She was absolutely ecstatic to have attained her goal, even if her means had been just a bit questionable.

It was fine, right? People lied all the time. Everyone did it. Bending the truth a little to get what she wanted was nothing compared to what some people would have done. (Liar, liar, liar. Everything you have is stolen from the more deserving, if they knew they would all hate you-)

So it was fine. She was fine. No moral crises were occurring here, thank you.

Anyway.

Alphys was very excited about her new position, but with it having gone unfilled so long, she was absolutely drowning in work. While she was able to complete engineering related requests relatively easily, she was having difficulty with the ones related to magical science, especially the more theoretical ones.

She’d always found that her genius focused most easily on the practical disciplines, the ones she could visualize in her mind’s eye. She had a unique advantage in that area, in that she was easily able to imagine the schematics in her mind, rotating and adjusting them as her will dictated.

Things that relied purely on theoretical equations and ideas, though, tended to give her difficulty. She often ended up tripping over things with them, and it was hurting her performance.

So Alphys decided to hire an assistant. Someone knowledgeable in quantum physics, preferably. 

--

Sans wouldn’t admit it, but he was regretting moving out of his parents’ house. He’d had all sorts of reasons for it, of course. Wanting more alone time, wanting to escape his family’s nagging, wanting to get away from his brother… (He loved Papyrus, really, he did, but his sibling was overbearing at the best of times)

His biggest reason, though, was that he wanted to prove he could make it on his own. He’d always had poor health, as a consequence of his miniscule HP, and while his family had never outright said it, he could tell that they saw him as a bit of a burden.

It was perfectly reasonable, really. He was always in and out of doctor’s offices and hospitals, trying to either heal his latest minor injury or “fix” him all together. His parents had been forced to spend large sums of money just to keep him alive, and he knew it wore on them, even if they did their best to hide it.

So he’d started working odd jobs when he was fourteen, and had amassed enough savings to get his own place by his seventeenth birthday. Not too shabby, if he did say so himself.

His apartment kinda sucked, though. It was tiny and dingy and had bedbugs by the dozen. (As a skeleton, they thankfully couldn’t hurt him) So while he was proud of being able to provide for himself, he couldn’t help but wish he’d waited until he could afford a better place. Plus, Hotland friggin’ sucked. If it weren’t for his ability to conveniently bypass the (awful, terrible, horrible) vent system, he’d have come running back home with his tail between his legs within the space of a week.

...He wasn’t really certain, whether he was happy about that or not. At least the heat didn’t bother him, since he was bereft of any internal organs that might react poorly to it. As far as climate adaptability went, he was pretty lucky to be a skeleton. 

So he wasn’t really doing much with his life, in the end. Not accomplishing any lofty goals or fulfilling his personal aspirations. He was just kind of… Existing. In limbo. He had a couple jobs to pay the rent, of course, but he’d pretty much just taken what positions were available, without much regard for his own personal interests. (Which he did actually have, contrary to common belief)

When he saw the ad for a personal assistant to the new royal scientist, he found himself intrigued. He doubted he’d get the position even if he did apply, of course, since there would be so many other applicants, but the ad said that she was looking for people who were good with quantum physics especially, and, well…

Quantum physics had been Sans’ special interest for a full decade, now. The equations had always fascinated him, along with the things they could accomplish. He’d read just about every textbook and journal he’d been able to get his hands on, and written a few things himself. (Nothing published, of course. He’d just wanted to better understand the material he was working with)

If the royal scientist was looking for a quantum physicist, he might actually have half a chance at this. According to the flyer, prospective applicants could take an aptitude test a week from then. Couldn’t hurt to make the attempt, right?

Sans spent the week reviewing the scattered information he’d been able to gather on the discipline from trips to the dump and various libraries throughout the underground. He also did his best to brush up on the math involved as well. He really hoped that this test would be entirely focused on theoretical physics, because Sans couldn’t engineer his way out of a wet paper bag with a gun to his head.

When the time came, his nervousness betrayed his excitement. He really wanted this. He could barely focus on anything the whole morning, to the point where he ended up locking his keys inside his house by accident on the way out. (Thank the angel for teleportation, right?)

As Sans entered the testing venue, he spared a glance for the other hopefuls. Some looked excited, a few looked like they’d been forced to attend, but most just looked pants-wettingly terrified. Jerry was there too, for some reason. He hated that guy.

“You look a lot calmer than most of the monsters here, hon. Feeling sure of yourself?” The clerk asked him politely. Sans shook his head, saying

“nah. i’m just better at hiding it,”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do fine, dear,” They said, smiling at him. He returned it, and went to sit down until it was time for the testing to start, feeling more jittery than Paps on caffeine.

He hoped the clerk was right.

--

Alphys was swiftly becoming aware of a problem with her plan. With each test she reviewed, it became more and more glaringly obvious that this probably wasn’t going to work as well as she’d hoped, because, apparently, there was not a single freaking monster down here who could do basic math.

Everyone had their addition and subtraction down pat, of course, the education system underground wasn’t that bad, but algebra and calculus? Complex geometry?

She might actually have to bring this up with Asgore. She’d realized, of course, that education in the underground was a bit lacking, but she’d never quite put together the equation of how few monsters were able to teach those subjects and how even fewer wanted to learn them. Not to mention the difficulty in accessing textbooks and scientific papers from the surface, which was just about the only way to get new information without having to rediscover the wheel for every little thing.

She was lucky that the royal scientist was a celebrity position, or it was possible that no one would have even applied. As it was, about a hundred monsters took the test, and she was beginning to think that if she wanted an assistant, she’d have to train them herself.

The point of this was to give her less work, not more! She had no time to play teacher for whatever kiss-up showed a bit of promise. Regardless, she was desperate, so she put the applications that showed at least a willingness to learn aside.

It was with this mindset that she opened the test from “comic sans serif font”. The lack of capitalization (on their name, of all things!) had her pessimistic from the start. She’d excuse the use of font, since she knew full well that if she was named after one, she’d never shut up about it either, but not capitalizing your own name? What possible reason could there be for something like that?

As she actually looked at what they’d answered on each question, though, she felt hope bloom in her chest. This person… actually really knew their stuff. She’d put some pretty difficult questions at various points throughout the application, and they’d answered each one thoroughly and creatively.

She put the test aside, suspecting that she had her winner.

--

Sans didn’t really expect to hear back from the royal scientist. A lot of people had applied, after all, so he doubted they could really afford the expense of sending a letter to every tester. Paper was pretty pricey underground, after all.

So when he got a letter in the mail with a return address of “the lab” he got a little excited. It didn’t mean he’d been selected, of course. It was entirely possible they’d decided to send letters to everyone who managed to clear some margin, or something.

...Or he’d done so badly they’d felt the need to ban him from ever doing science or math again, but that seemed just a bit unlikely. On that note, he sat on the edge of his mattress and opened the letter.

...

...Sans had been accepted for the position of assistant to the royal scientist, and was to go to the lab at his earliest convenience if he was still interested. 

He wasn’t freaking out. He totally wasn’t. His hands were repeatedly running over the letter as if to ascertain its veracity and his grin was so wide it threatened to exit his skull entirely and run away to join the circus, but he wasn’t freaking out.

Sans grabbed his nicest outfit, which was coincidentally also the one he’d worn to testing, (a blue jacket over a miraculously unstained white shirt, and basketball shorts, let no one call him a fashionista) and set out.

--

Given that the monster Alphys had sent the letter to lived about twenty minutes from the lab, and the letter had to actually get to them before they could read it and come to accept the position, she was startled to hear a knock on the door only half an hour after the post had left.

She opened it to discover… a skeleton in a hoodie and basketball shorts, looking like they’d just won the lottery. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from someone named after comic sans, really. Assuming that this was the applicant, of course, which she was slightly doubtful over, since, again, not enough time had elapsed since she’d sent the letter for them to arrive unless they could run at the speed of one of the cars from the surface.

“A-Are you Comic?” they visibly winced.

“yeah, but i go by sans. i find my first name’s a bit too…” they winked “comical,” Alphys narrowed her eyes. Puns? Absolutely unacceptable.

“Well, Comic, why don’t you come in?” Their eyes widened.

“please just call me sans, i’m begging you, i hate my first name so much,”

“I-If you p-promise not to make any p-puns,” 

“i think i’d dust on the spot,” Alphys rolled her eyes.

“This is going to be just w-wonderful, I can tell,”

__

Part two here!

[theonceoverthinker]

Doppelganger on the Docks (Captain Swan Role Reversal)

Summary: Even in Storybrooke, the town where most anything can happen, Killian doesn’t expect much chaos when he and Emma go sailing together. But hey, for good or ill, that’s their town, right?

AO3            Fanfiction.net

Here it is, my submission for the @csrolereversal​!!! Thank you to the wonderful creators of this project!!!

ALL of the credit in the world for this story’s existence belongs to the following two wonderful ladies!

First, @hollyethecurious​, thank you so much for the fantabulous artwork! Not gonna lie, when the development of this piece got hard, your artwork kept me going!! It’s so unique and scary and cool that it deserves some words to accompany it!

Second, @fraddit​ is the most amazing person in the world, pass it on! Seriously, the help with this piece’s story development you gave me as well as your encouragement was so helpful! I really could not have completed this work without you!

()()()()()()()()()()()

A bright afternoon Filled Storybrooke’s skies The ocean shimmered and glistened And all around were seagull’s cries

Killian walked across the scene A day of sailing just ahead But in a rare case nowadays He had no one in his stead

His family was working Or otherwise, in another realm But Killian was fine with that Sailing the Jolly, alone at the helm

But just as he was readying To depart for the briny blue He heard someone call his name And the source was one he knew

Emma was just down the gangplank Saying she’d been double booked at work She requested to join in her husband’s travels Though asked in words that made them both smirk

Killian brought her aboard his vassal And pecked her lips tenderly with a kiss A day at sea alone was of course a good time But one with Emma, he never would miss

So they both got to work on the rigging And a few minutes later, they left Though his new home grew more and more out of sight Of love, Killian couldn’t feel less bereft

The Jolly Roger rocked across the ocean And salt water sprayed through the air While laughter and chatter rumbled through them They had fun with less than a care

Emma pulled Killian close to her Her arms looping around his neck And the conversation slowed As they made out on the deck

The hours passed in much the same way Creating an afternoon that was fun While Killian expected the day to go fine even alone With Emma, it was second to none

But the entire time they snuggled and kissed Killian noticed things felt rather odd The way she talked and kissed felt just a bit off So Killian decided to prod

Emma told him that she had a headache And Killian supposed that made enough sense After all, why would he distrust the woman he loved? And trusting her always made him less tense

Together for the next several hours They idled in the sun as the time’s arrows marched on Emma curled into Killian’s side as they looked to the horizon And Killian nuzzled his head in his Swan

Only when Killian got hungry did they go below deck He revealed a small lunch that he took While it wasn’t a lot, both were happy to share And Killian fed Emma bits from his hook

All of the sudden, not long into lunch Killian’s cell phone made itself known It was a call from the station and though it pained Killian to do so He wanted to silence its drone

Emma tried to convince him to dismiss the blare Another odd thing for her to suggest  But Killian’s resolve won out in the end Though he promised it would be a quick quest

Killian climbed up the ladder as he answered the call “What’s going on, Dan?” he then pressed However, it wasn’t Dan who was on the other end of the line And who was Killian would never have guessed

It was Emma on the phone How could that have been so? She was talking so nonchalantly As if she wasn’t waiting for him down below

When confronted, Emma told him She’d been hard at work all day But she wanted to call to ask about dinner And just check that he was okay

Her phone had apparently died early that morning And work kept her too busy to call him before So when she at last was able to get a moment to herself She wanted to call and learn when he’d come back to shore

Killian turned between the phone and the ladder The directions of his two possible brides And suddenly his legs felt quite wobbly Though it was not a result of the tides

The Emma on the phone was persistent In proving who she truly was And through evidence Killian found it hard to deny Still, the whole matter gave him pause

If this Emma who had only just appeared Was the real woman that had won his heart Then who was this being who he’d spent the day with? And why did they want to keep he and its real self apart?

It would make sense if this were his Emma She didn’t give him that off feeling That this other possible Emma gave him Unghh, Killian’s head was now reeling

He needed to know  Which of the two was his wife So he thought up a means Of ending this bit of strife

Killian asked this Emma a singular question One only his real wife would know Her answer would determine once and for all Which of them was putting on a show

“What was it you said when we first kissed?” He waited on the meaning her answer would bring And his darling Emma answered fast “That was a one time thing.”

Killian then divulged what was going on Emma wondered why she now had a clone And he could hardly begin to contemplate it either But kept quiet to keep their cover unblown

It wasn’t long before they came to their conclusion Magic was what created the trick While the ‘why’ of the matter was still an unknown They could settle that later, but for now, they’d think quick

Killian would create an excuse to return home And Emma would meet them at the docks Once they converged, they’d corner the fake And to put it frankly, clean their dastardly clocks

Thankfully, while he was now quite heroic Killian was still good for the occasional lie So Emma agreed to the plan and bolted out of the station And Killian created a cover that was clever and sly

He climbed back down to where he left his fake date Killian’s absence seemed to not worry them at all So with that taken care of, he put his plan into action To get them back to the shore and then stall

With the gentlest tone he could muster Killian told the demon they needed to leave He sold them a story that their assistance was needed In a way they would have to believe

Killian nearly blew his cover by smiling And he had an overwhelming urge to gloat Seeing the fake mentally run through excuses On why the two of them should stay afloat

Triumphantly, Killian set off for Storybrooke Readying himself for some kind of fight And reminded himself no matter who this demon was He and Emma would make things alright

The ship was well on its way back to town They were now halfway back to port With any luck, if he could just keep his act together This misadventure would remain fairly short

But victory was never so easy And with a shove, Killian remembered that well Within seconds, he was on the ship’s wooden floor Still playing dumb, he asked “What the hell?”

The demon had clearly caught onto his scheme They looked at Killian, rather unimpressed “For such a renowned pirate, I expected better But alas, you’re just one more human I detest.”

And then they changed forms, no longer resembling Killian could hardly believe his own eyes Finally though, he completely understood It was a Siren that caused the day’s lies

He then asked the Siren what it was that she wanted On her face, a sinister smirk then appeared Killian knew whatever answer she gave would be bad But hers was worse than he feared

“Your father-in-law long ago killed my sister For too long I’ve sought retribution And while killing him would bring me great joy Killing you offers a better solution”

“For what could be better to ruin his life Than to dispose of his child’s True Love? Yes, to be forced to witness her mourning face everyday There’s no better vengeance I could ever dream of”

“I’ve waited between curses and realms oh-so long To bring real suffering to his daughter I was close to giving up when I found you It’s a good thing that her husband likes water”

“So I tried for so long to catch you alone And finally, I came upon my lucky day All it took was a vial of Lake Nostos’ water Now, for your father-in-law’s sins, you will pay”

Killian scoffed to himself and got up from the floor “Now, I don’t suppose you could be swayed?” It couldn’t hurt to try, Killian justified Especially if it would end this tirade

The Siren shook her head and her smirk nearly doubled Then she looked out at the port just beyond A curious hum had Killian turn to see what was troubling her And he spotted a quite familiar blonde

Killian looked to the Siren who had a glint in her eye He could tell that her plan had just changed What the hell was she going to do with his dear Emma Swan? If she thought she’d succeed, she was truly deranged

“You’ll never get to her in time,” Killian growled “The Jolly Roger’s far faster than you” But the Siren kept grinning and then she looked up From above, Killian could feel something brew

In an instant, the skies turned a bleak shade of mauve And the waves began to crash, smash, and roar As if these weather changes weren’t bad enough From above, dropped a heavy downpour

Torrential rain stormed down from everywhere Could just one thing go right on this day? And just as if the universe was trying to say ‘no’ The Siren left to go cause more foul play

Killian gripped the steering wheel with all of his might The storm daring him to get past its trials While he’d made a lot of progress before he was discovered The ocean left to cross was quite a few miles

Normally a close friend, the waves were rambunctious And the wind’s howl cheered it all on But Killian fought against rampage, sailing closer to home Ready to tough it all out for his Swan

As he sailed, he saw something leave the water A blonde head and two slow-moving hands Crept above the waves to the surface And pursued Emma, following her new batch of plans

Killian saw The Siren make a move to grab Emma A struggle broke out on the pier Emma fought against The Siren, who again wore her face But for Killian, the rain made the conflict unclear

When he arrived at the docks, he fastened and refastened his hook He needed protection for what would ensue Then he rushed off his ship to go fight in the battle And gazed at the terrifying view

Both Emmas were bruised and beaten and bleeding And once they saw Killian enter their sight They each cried for his help defeating the other It was up to him to resolve the fight

Killian took a close look at each of the ladies That was all he needed to know Which was the real Emma and which one was a fake And that decision was one he would now bestow 

Killian walked over to one, while the other cried for his help But Killian was sure his choice was indeed smart The Emma he walked to gave him a gentle smile Then he plunged his hook through her heart

The Siren transformed right before his and Emma’s eyes She tried to fight, but her strength was soon gone Killian glared at the fake, grit his teeth, and said “It’s over. I know my real Swan.”

As the Siren’s body bled and fell to the ground Killian rushed to his dear Emma’s side And as if to confirm Killian’s decision The crass weather began to subside

But Killian didn’t need such confirmation of safety For any doubt left in his heart was long gone Because just as told that Siren before ending her life He undeniably knew his true Swan

[winterheart17]

How A Writer Says Goodbye

TITLE OF STORY: How A Writer Says Goodbye

CHAPTER NUMBER/TITLE/ONE SHOT: Part 29

AUTHOR: winterheart17

WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: Loki

STORY GENRE: Romance, Drama, Erotica

STORY SUMMARY: I think we can all just agree this has turned into a proper series even though it started off as a compilation of one shots for my story ‘How To Love A Writer’! What happens when a struggling virginal historical romance writer and the God of Mischief are thrown together, locked in a mansion and agree to a game of love and seduction?

STORY RATING: M

STORY WARNINGS/TRIGGERS/AUTHORS NOTES: None for this! Except perhaps some tissues (or at least I’d like to think there would be tears?)

FEEDBACK/COMMENTS: Wow, I did not mean to be away this long! This chapter was one heck of a monster to conquer - especially being the penultimate chapter and the scene I’ve had in my head pretty much ever since the conception of this entire plot. I’m so sorry for the long wait and can only hope this 8000 word chapter can make up for it. Feedback would be wonderful and ever inspiring for writing updates! <3 Do let me know if anyone would like to be on or off the tag list.

Tagging @devikafernando @ureyesonly21 @nuggsmum @queen-sands @ihatespoilerss @say-my-name-assbut @hsvbabe @jrubalcaba @dandelionlady96 @ashleyloveslots  @kiera-auroraborealis @alexakeyloveloki @damageditem @lokilvrr @cuteandnerdythings @everythingeverywherelistening@wildest-dreams-at-midnight @tfwqueenidjit @xxxprettydeadgirlxxx @noplacelikehome77 @vertdragain  @jessiejunebug @toaster-strudel-witch @a7xlizardqueen @starscreamloki@tinchentitri @prettyjewel93@chantimoondancer @dangertoozmanykids101@winterisakiller @humbleslvt @aeciru @paanchu786 @midgardianstranger @sailorcrescentpotter1

Masterpost of How To Love A Writer

Alternate link to Masterpost of How To Love A Writer (in case the above doesn’t work)

Gif credit: clintfbarton

“But don’t worry – I don’t intend on loving him any longer.”

A sharp intake of breath to my side.

But I refused to be swayed – refused to look even as my heart called out his name.

Yearned to see him.

Longed to see what the face of love lost looked like.

What love denounced felt like.

Because the truth was, I had held onto those words for so long – gone over them in my head in rehearsed practice like a broke record – they felt like a sham.

Like they were nothing more than a pretense.

Something I would hold tightly onto each time he left me lost and bereft.

For all the times he had left me standing there with my heart in my hands – ripped raw out of my chest.

And I would like and tell myself that the choice was mine – I could walk away any day, any time.

It was the last sliver of dignity I had been clinging onto in the wake of the silence he kept long and strung between us.

Until now.

Until I said them loud and unwaveringly clear – hardly able to believe the words were falling out of my mouth.

But there they were -  hanging in the air.

Loud, heavy, clear.

And I had never believed in the more.

I don’t intend on loving you any longer, Loki.

Odin’s eyes narrowed on me, warily – filled with rousing suspicion.

His expression heavily guarded.

He looked at me like I as an untamed dog, frothing at the mouth, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

Though, I suppose, he wouldn’t have been quite far off the mark.

Even the entire hall seemed to wait with bated breath – anticipating the next insult I would hurl at those of royal lineage.

It would have been almost comical – a Midgardian girl reducing all the immortals before her into scandalised shell-shocked silence with a shelling.

Almost.

“Then what is it you intend on doing?” he questioned, brusquely.

There it was – the question I knew was coming.

The answer I knew I had to give.

I swallowed.

A thud in my chest.

“I intend on…,” I started to say, trying to grasp onto all the liquid courage that had been running in my veins just minutes ago.

But the words dried up.

Felt like silt in my throat.

Dread in my belly.

The brackets around Odin’s mouth deepened – a sign that I was trying what little patience he had left for me.

“… leaving,” I finished, the word leaving my lips in almost nothing but a whisper.

Dissipating in the air.

But he caught it.

“What?” he breathed.

A stumble.

Disbelief.  

And I felt his eyes burn my skin.

But still I didn’t look at him.

Not even when the single syllable sounded so lost, so small– it was enough to put a lump in my throat. One that ached so much, my fingers itched to reach for my throat to hold it down.

Till it stopped feeling like every single word out of it would be cracked and broken.

I wouldn’t.

I couldn’t.

I steadied myself – let out a long, controlled breath as I held no one else but Odin in view.

Blocked it all out.

Pushed him away until the only thing I could focus on was mapping out my strategy to get the hell out of here.

“I--,” I started once more, testing the waters.

Feeling the firm weight of the word on my tongue.

Holding my voice firm.

Holding my heart down.

“I intend on leaving,” I finally pushed out.

The final word – a bite of bitterness.

So convincingly, the little voice in my head mocked.

No.

He didn’t have to say it.

I didn’t have to look at him.

But that single word of protest grew and grew – filling up the space between us, pushing us further than we had ever been apart.

A loud laugh of disbelief cut through the air.

Ehrendil.

“You intend on leaving?” he repeated, slowly and incredulously – clearly, the most ludicrous thing to have come from me the entire night.

I was forced to turn back to him – sucking in a breath as they dying embers of anger sparked back to life in the face of his arrogance.

How could anyone hate a stranger so much with no ground to stand on?

The downward curve of his lips and the distasteful scrunch of his nose – all in disapproval of me. All earned from nothing else but my existence.

His eyes narrowed.

“You…,” he hissed, venomously.

My hands clenched into fists.

“You think this child’s play?” he snapped, arms flung wide at the very public stage I had decided to pick my battles on.

I gritted my teeth.

It appeared – he wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

“Did you think you could escape unscathed?” he boomed, eyes flashing in anger.

There was a time when I would have felt my heart beating wildly in my chest.

Felt cold sweat cover clammy hands.

Tremble in front of such intimidating presence.

Eyes turned feverishly to him in search for answers.

Assurance.

But this time, there was none of that to be found.

A strange sense of calmness settling in the hollow of my chest.

As if nothing else quite seemed to exist in the space left in the wake of my decision.

I turned my attention to Halwen.

Her eyes darting about wildly like an animal cornered.

Do you see this, Loki? Do you see your beloved princess falling from grace in front of your very own eyes?

The bitter words echoed on the tip of my tongue.

Its tang, once sharp now reduced to nothing but a dull thud lying flat in the cave of my mouth.

I couldn’t help but feel a prick of pity for her.

This was how she had chosen to live.

“I think…,” I started to say, softly – my words seemingly addressed to Ehrendil, but it was startling clear to whom I was speaking to.

She leaned forward ever so slightly, ears pricked as her eyes tried to focus haphazardly on me.

“… you will find that it is in the best interests of everyonethat I return to Midgard,” I finished with a slight downward tilt of my chin as she met my gaze filled with intent.

Her lips parted.

And I couldn’t help but press on.

“Lest I should… run my mouth further on things I should not be commenting… frostilyabout,” I decided to throw in.

Perhaps a little juvenile.

Perhaps a little under the belt.

But it did the trick.

The flicker of recognition in her eyes morphed into a blanket of terror.

I could have sworn she choked.

My eyes flickered instinctively towards Odin and Frigga – wondering if they had heard and interpreted the intention behind my words.

It was a bold move considering if they called my bluff – I knew I wouldn’t push through with it.

Even if it meant that I would lose my chance at freedom.

I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t tear Loki down and expose his most feared secret in front of everyone. No, this was a battle he was going to have to fight on his own. On his own terms.

But they didn’t know that.

As far as they were concerned, I was nothing more than a bratty little Midgardian who seemed to have a penchant for running her mouth afoul and it wouldn’t be above me to let loose information that could potentially wreck their alliance.

And for a second, just for a second, I saw the effect of my words.

Saw the crack it made in their surface of calmness.

Got a glimpse into the nerve I had struck.

I drew in a deep breath.

This could work.

I tried to still the slight shake of my hand – the bravado now wearing a little thin.

“Fa—father…,” Halwen started to say, shakily.

This was her last chance at getting a shot at Loki and this entire hullabaloo. Once the cat was out of the bag, there was no way in hell her father would allow their family name to be sullied by Frost Giants.

I’d never had proper interaction with one – well, save for Loki and that really wasn’t saying much in their favour to begin with – but judging from the way they were treating humans like second, scratch that, third class citizens, one could only imagine the sort of havoc he would wreck here in Asgard.

Ehrendil shot her a withering glare and you could see her visibly shrink back into her seat.

“What other travesties could this Midgardian wench possibly spew?” he snarled, whipping his attention back towards me.

Unhinged.

Like an uncaged tiger.

Ready to pounce.

“Fa—father, if she were to re—return to Midgard, all will be as it wa--,” Halwen had barely gotten the words out of her mouth when his face darkened.

He whirled around and his glower was enough to put a stop to it.

“If she were to return to Midgard? If?” he repeated, his voice a rising, angry tenor.

Her face crumbled – almost admitting defeat before she had barely begun.

Gee, wonder what sort of childhood that must have been like for her.

“If we allow her to walk away today unscathed – ifword gets out that we do not punish severely those who dare look upon us with such insolence and impertinence, we will no longer be beings to be revered,” he bellowed.

And it was back to the drawing board.

His pride.

“Odin, is this how you would allow your guests to be treated?” he pursued, eyes filled with animosity now as they turned to his Asgardian counterpart.

Odin’s face was grim – lips pressed together so tightly, a line was all to be seen.

His eyes were cold and calculating – racing to assess the situation.

Frigga placed her hand gently on his forearm – a reassuring gesture.

But one that apparently irked Ehrendil.

“Well… ?” he challenged Odin’s silence, brusquely.

His features pinched and sharp.

“King Ehrendil, please, for--,” Odin began to speak, or rather, should I say grovel – except he was saved from the horror and shame of having to do so.

“She’s my guest too,” Loki cut in, unexpectedly.

I had to do a double take.

I had thought he would have done what he had done best all this while – kept his silence.

And tried as I might – I couldn’t help but feel a tingle in my chest.

That, however, had quite the opposite effect on Ehrendil whose face darkened.

“You!” he spat out, accusingly, eyes narrowing.

Like a shark looking for its next prey.

“You have no say in such matters,” he growled.

And there was blood in the water.

“I have no say in the matter?” Loki, scoffed.

An eyebrow arched – his tone deliberately mocking as if Ehrendil had the mental capacity of a teaspoon.

“I beg to differ. The last I recall, we are precisely at this farce of a dinner because I did not wish to wed your daughter. I’d say there is plenty for me to say about the matter,” he threw back.

A little too smoothly.

A little too eloquently.

It did nothing but stroke the fires of rage higher in Ehrendil.

“Then you are a fool,” he spat out venomously at Loki.

He gestured towards Halwen.

“You would give up the glory and recognition that would come from binding our name to your family?” he questioned, his voice so full and swollen with arrogance.

All that stemmed merely from birthright.

And there it was.

He halted.

If only for a second.

But it was enough.

That was the chink in his armour.

That little waver of uncertainty that was enough to cut through his conviction thus far of not marrying Halwen.

Because it was no longer about her – it was about the power and acceptance her hand in marriage would bring.

And somehow, standing in the warm glow of the Hall, with his shoulders set back and his chin tilted upwards in defiance – was the Prince I had first met a long, long time ago.

Before I knew him.

Knew all his fears, insecurities, and the desperate need for acceptance.

Before he knew me.

Knew all my worries, self-doubt, and craving for love so intimately.

Before I had told him I love him.

Before this hollow pang in my chest that came in the wake of his silence.

And Halwen saw right through it all.

An opportunity.

“Loki…,” she pleaded, her voice small and sweet – begging for his attention.

He looked over at her – eyes hazy and unfocused as if he had just spent an eternity wrestling for an answer to Ehrendil’s question.

I wondered who it was he saw sitting there, quivering in her seat.

Was it still the same girl with hair like sunshine he had thought himself in love with?

“W—we could put everything behind us. Ca—carry on as we did before,” she stammered.

No.

That word clanged hollowly inside of me.

“Can we?” he echoed, mindlessly.

The words carrying no weight – floating in the air.

I swallowed.

She nodded her head, fervently.

His response spurring her into action as she leaned forward, eyes sparked bright and face animated once more.

“We can send the Midgardian home and all will be as it was before,” she scrambled, seizing whatever small lifeline he had thrown to her end.

Her voice a little shaky, a little nervous – but there was no mistaking her intention.

His eyes narrowed on her.

Ears pricked.

“As long as we are married, as long as we are able to form an alliance…,” she said, her hand sweeping wide to gesture at her father and Odin.

“… the Midgardian is inconsequential,” she finished with a slight nod of her head.

I had to bite down on my tongue.

Hard.

Inconsequential?

We’ll see how inconsequential I am when I’m stuffing your spleen down your throat.

And in case we didn’t hear the underlying meaning in her words the first time, she reiterated.

“She would be free to return to Midgard,” she stressed, eyes flickering towards me.

There was no mistaking the thinly veiled threat.

The exchange she was speaking of.

“You conniving little bitch!” I spat out, unable to hold it in any longer.

God, if I could, I would fling myself across the table and pluck every single pretty strand of hair from her head.

One by one.

But before I could get another word in, he cut me off.

“Enough,” he bit out, coldly.

A pause.

Long and strung out.

I looked at him – eyes wide and filled with incredulity.

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

I wanted to scream and shake him.

There was no way in hell he was contemplating what it was she was suggesting.

But he turned to look at me, slowly.

Softly.

Gently.

And I was already shaking my head before his lips could even part.

Could even say what I knew was dancing on the very tip of his tongue.

I grabbed his forearm, nails digging in.

“Don’t you dare,” I warned.

And suddenly, I found myself blinking furiously.

Eyes shiny and bright.

Trying to keep the tears in.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I hissed, tightening my grip.

He faltered.

Lost and raw.

His lips parted.

“Listen…” he started to say, voice cracking.

And I just about lost it.

“No, you listen,” I snarled, so forcefully, he flinched.

I yanked at his arms, eyes searching his desperately as I scrambled to make him see.

Make him understand.

“Don’t do it for me. Do it because you want the power. Do it because you want the acceptance. Hell, do it because you still want h--…” I seethed, suddenly stopping short.

Want her.

That was what I had wanted to say.

Except, the words dried in my mouth.

Got stuck in my throat.

And the very thought of him still wanting her was like a hand around my heart – squeezing it tight.

“… her…” I managed to choke out.

“But…” he started to protest.

I shook my head.

“I would rather never return to Earth than to be used as a manipulation tactic,” I fumed.

He wanted to object.

Wanted to fight me on this.

I could see it in his eyes.

Please no, I mouthed.

See the worry and the frustration there all too blindingly well.

“Please, no,” I whispered, voice straining.

And then his eyes softened.

The tenderness that filled them – arresting.

I could barely breathe.

But he knew.

Even if he didn’t like it, he knew.

The corners of his lips turned up ever so slightly.

So weakly.

“Okay…” he whispered.

Okay.

The lump in my throat moved.

But before either of us could get another word in, Ehrendil swept in.

“It is settled then!” he announced, abruptly – cutting our tender moment short.

As we both turned back towards him, a furrow settled between Loki’s brows.

“What is settled?” he demanded to know.

Ehrendil scowled.

“The betrothal…” he seethed, before looking at me, pointedly.

“… in exchange for the Midgardian’s safe passage back,” he warned.

Are you fucking kidding me?

It was one thing to be arrogant, but to so blatantly disregard someone else’s decision… man, if I had thought of wanting to pull the stick out of his ass before, I wanted nothing more than to put my foot up it right now.

“I would rather starve to death here,” I spat back.

And I had the pleasure of seeing his eyes narrow in fury as they locked onto me – a growl escaping from his lips.

“Then so be your death wish,” he sneered.

And just as I was about to taunt him – about to throw back that there was nothing more insufferable than being in his company – Odin interjected.

“With all due respect, King Ehrendil – my son has not agreed to enter this union with your daughter,” he announced.

His words were polite – but his tone, a warning.

Oh.

I looked over at Loki who sported an equally puzzled expression at his father’s sudden defense of him.

First came a hazy glaze over Ehrendil’s face as if trying to decipher the situation – trying to make sense of the words.

His bottom lip quivered.

Lips parted.

And that was when it hit him.

“Do you not seek to make amends, Odin?” he growled.

His brows furrowed – his lips turned up in almost a perpetual sneer.

“I seek to keep the peace between both our kingdoms, King Ehrendil,” Odin appealed.

That appeared to appease him.

A little.

“Then we are of one mind,” Ehrendil declared, to which Odin gave a nod of acquiescence.

A pause.

Then, a smile cracked across Ehrendil’s face before he threw his hands in the air and let out a hearty laugh.

“Then I seenothing standing in the way of this betrothal,” he declared, and I had a good mind to smack him on the upside of his head and ask if he was blind.

Hello?

Nothing?

We are standing right here in front of you.

Odin hesitated.

His shoulders tensed.

And Queen Frigga saw it as her cue to jump in.

“King Ehrendil,” she greeted, a slight bow of her head in respect.

His eyes moved towards her.

“Perhaps these are matters best spoken and sorted out amongst the younger ones… in private?” she put forth, graciously.

His face immediately darkened.

“Should matters of the kingdom not be heard by the people, Queen Frigga?” he challenged.

Odin moved to place his hand atop Frigga’s – a scowl gracing his face.

A storm brewing.

“You speak of keeping peace – but you are courting a war,” Ehrendil growled.

“I do not seek war – but I will not allow my arm to be twisted. Not on Asgard,” Odin snapped.

Ehrendil’s eyes flashed with anger.

“Is that a threat, Allfather?” he thundered, glowering.

“It is a reminder, King Ehrendil, that this is Asgard and your men are but a few,” Odin cautioned.

The entire room immediately tensed.

There was no drawing of weapons and no clashing of swords but I would have been a fool not to have noticed how Ehrendil’s men suddenly stood to attention – hands reaching for their sheath.

Grim faces.

Held breaths.

Almost as if a single exhale would be enough to tip the scales.

Queen Frigga leaned in to whisper into Odin’s ear – presumable something along the lines of calm the fuck down.

But he raised a hand to quiet her warning.

This was not a God to be trifled with.

Not especially when his kingdom was under threat.

“You would take me captive?” Ehrendil questioned, angrily.

“I would take you as Asgard’s honoured guests,” Odin retaliated.

“You would have me and my daughter stand for such humiliation?” Ehrendil snarled.

“We would have you and your daughter extend to our son the graciousness your people are said to have run in their blood,” Queen Frigga interjected.

Possibly worried her equally hot-headed husband would say something far more regrettable.

That gave him cause for pause.

It was a cleverly worded sentence, I’d give her that.

It was both a warning and stage for a gracious exit she had built for him to take.

What more in front of others?

To take the exit so gracefully handed to him would be for others to see how magnanimous he was – but to go to war over a broken betrothal would reek of pettiness.

Childishness.

His eyes narrowed briefly on Frigga – seeing through her ploy.

A ruse it may be – but it worked.

The corners of her lips turned up ever so slightly as she bowed her head down once more.

Perhaps it was the slight slacking of his jaw or the dulling of the rage in his eyes – but she could see it was a battle more than half won.

More than half.

But still, we weren’t out of the woods just yet.

His eyes flickered towards me, a scowl slashed across his face.

“What of the Midgardian?” he questioned, addressing the elephant in the room.

I straightened my back, shoulders tensing as I braced myself.

I hadn’t expected an easy way out.

Hell, I would be lucky if the only thing they decided to do with me was to throw me into a dark cell.

Odin turned to look at me, slowly.

He didn’t seem all too pleased.

Being called out on being a bad parent, apparently, wasn’t the best way to get into his good graces.

Loki started.

“Father…” his voice low and cautionary.

But Odin’s hand shot up, putting a stop to anything else Loki had to say.

His face was grim – lips pressed together tightly as if reluctant to pass a verdict.

Instinctively, Loki looked over to Frigga – lips parted.

And I didn’t even need to see his face to know that the silent plea that resonated in the single word he mouthed: “Mother”.

She grimaced, a slight tilt of her chin acknowledging his ask for help.

Her eyes passed over me and I felt a strange lump lodge in the back of my throat.

While there was no hostility – there was no approval to be found there either.

Only a glimmer of kindness and compassion.

Empathy.

But that was more than enough for me.

She cleared her throat.

“King Ehrendil,” she began, gingerly, wary of poking the sleeping bear.

He looked over to her, his eyes narrowing in displeasure as her voice gave way to her intention.

She took his silence as a means to forge forwards.

“Let us not allow anymore seeds of discord to be sown between us. As she has expressed her wish to lea—” she started to reason, but he cut her off, abruptly.

“With all due respect, Queen Frigga, this is an answer I require from…” he bit out, trailing off as his eyes moved to lock on Odin.

“… the rulerof Asgard,” he finished, rudely brushing Frigga aside.

Venom piercing into every word.

He may have acquiesced everything else prior, but it was clear his anger was still bubbling close to the surface.

He needed something to appease it.

A sacrificial lamb of sorts.

Me.

Frigga paused, her hand lowering to rest gingerly on Odin’s arm as he locked eyes with Ehrendil.

“I would advise you choose your next words wisely and carefully, Allfather,” Ehrendil taunted, the corners of his mouth lifting in a perverse smug smile.

A calculated move.

He had weighed his options thoroughly – knowing it would reflect poorly on Asgard if they didn’t meet him halfway after he had conceded the first half of the battle.

Impending dread filled my chest as my feet were rooted to the spot.

“Very well,” Odin replied with a tilt of his chin.

Ehrendil’s smile widened.

“Father,” Loki moved to protest.

But it was of no use.

“Thor,” Odin commanded, ignoring the plea.

And the figure that had remained mostly silent throughout this entire charade suddenly moved to life.

“Father?” Thor echoed, puzzled that his name would even enter the equation.

Odin spared him a glance, pausing.

His brows furrowed and expression grim.

“As the leader of our army…” Odin began only for Loki to interrupt.

“Father,” he barged in, voice low – the rising note of worry building into a lump in the back of my throat.

A split second pause.

The furrow between Odin’s brows deepening as he let out a long exhale, barely sparing Loki a glance.

My heart sank.

Not so much for the sentence that I knew was coming, but for the way Loki was once again, brushed aside.

“… you are to escort the Midgardian t—” he started to order when he was cut off.

“You neverlisten,” Loki bellowed.

His rage and frustration – so raw and palpable, I couldn’t help but torn to look at him.

There he was.

Red spreading across his skin like wildfire – eyes bright and shiny from all the years of rejection culminated into this very moment.

His chest rising and falling with the exertion.

The frustration.

His uncontained vulnerability.

Spilling out.

For me.

My throat moved.

Odin looked at him – face awash in disapproval as he raised a brow slightly.

“… to Heimdall…” he pressed on.

“Wh—what?” Loki stumbled.

Heimdall?

What was that? Some sort of name they had given their dungeons?

I glanced over at Loki for answers – but he seemed too stunned. Rooted in his place, blinking at Odin.

Oh God. Maybe Heimdall is the name of their executioner.

That would explain why Loki had suddenly turned three shades paler than his usual pasty self.

His expression wasn’t exactly the most reassuring.

“What?” Ehrendil thundered.

I looked over at him.

And he was livid.

Nearly frothing at the mouth, really.

He sent a goblet clattering across the floor.

Oh.

I looked around in bewilderment, not entirely sure what the fuck was going on and nobody seemed to be gracious enough to explain to me.

Until my eyes settled on a pair of twinkling blue ones that echoed with a similar and nostalgic spark of mischievousness.

Perhaps there was a bond of brotherhood after all.

“Heimdall is the Gatekeeper,” Thor murmured.

“Riiight,” I nodded, as if that was supposed to make any sense.

“What does that even me--?” I started to ask, but Ehrendil’s roar cut short whatever clarity I was searching for.

“You would darelet her go in my presence?” he demanded, furiously.

Odin glared at him – straightening his back and squaring his chest.

“I would, as ruler of Asgard,” he growled back.

It was synonymous to a slap across Ehrendil’s face who stood there, frozen – as if unable to quite believe the blow he had been dealt.

Before he could react, Odin turned back to us, eyes flashing with anger and impatience.

“Thor, did you not hear me?” he snapped.

“Ye—yes, Father,” Thor stumbled, rising to his feet, clumsily.

“As your King, I command you to escort the Midgardian to Heimdall where she shall return to Midgard…” he barked, pausing to shift his attention to me.

His eyes narrowed.  

There was no mistaking that his next few words were directed at me.

“… and neverbeallowed to return to Asgard,” he finished, with a warning curl of his bottom lip.

I swallowed, palms balmy as I swayed slightly on my feet.

He raised his chin, his gaze stormy and penetrating.

This was make or break.

“Is that understood?” he asked.

The question was seemingly directed at Thor, but his eyes spoke otherwise.

I nodded.

Barely discernible.

Throat parched.

But the message was sent.

And he gave a gruff grunt in acknowledgement.

If I could have breathed a sigh of relief, I would have.

My shoulders sagged forward and my lips curved up into a smile.

Perhaps, he wasn’t too bad after all.

And for a second, just for a second, I couldn’t help but hope Loki would be able to mend the rift between him and Odin.

I still didn’t care too much for him and he could definitely use a read or two from How To Communicate for Dummies – but it was obvious he cared.

I knew he couldn’t care less what sorry fate befell me and the only reason he was sticking out his neck and risking the wrath of the pompous King he had spent years butter up to was because Loki had asked.

Had begged on my behalf.

But before I could look at Loki – look at him and tell him gently that it was going to be alright.

Look at him and feel my heart surge tenderly in my chest, a loud roar of rage disrupted the air.

“You would disrespect me as such?” Ehrendil bellowed, lunging forward in my direction.

His facial features contorted in anger.

It didn’t matter that his hands hit an obstruction or that the entire table was between us.

He looked feral.

His guards started to move forwards, the sound of swords being drawn from their sheath filling the air and I flinched.

Stumbled clumsily.

Only to be yanked backwards as Loki placed himself in front of me.

Shielding me – fingers still wrapped around my wrist.

“Lo—Loki…” I stammered, his name suddenly feeling like a safe prayed on my lips as his shoulder tensed – standing guard.

“Thor,” Odin barked as Thor moved towards Loki, forming a line of defense.

My other hand reached out instinctively to clasp the hand Loki still had on my wrist.

And even though my heart was pounding in my chest and my head was throbbing from the overwhelming intensity of the situation – I had never felt safer.

Seeing his back turned towards me – the slight glimpse of his profile as he moved his head left and right.

Tensed.

On guard.

Ready to strike at any sudden movement.

Protecting me.

“You have your orders – take her!” Odin thundered as we began to retreat.

Slowly.

Gingerly.

Asgardian guards slowly coming to our aid – flanking us.

Ehrendil turned towards Odin – eyes alight with spite.

Frigga arose carefully.

Taking her place beside her husband.

“If I were you – I would think very carefully of the consequences your actions will yield,” Ehrendil sneered.

Odin’s eyes flared.

He did not take to threats lightly.

“I have done so – thoroughly. And I have given my orders,” Odin barked.

Ehrendil gritted his teeth – glaring at him.

“Guards…” he called out.

And his soldiers moved to life upon the command – slowly encroaching upon us.

Our backs were turned towards the entrance – a slow retreat still as Asgardian guards began forming a barricade between us.

It was like a game of cat and mouse.

Odin’s eyes flickered towards us.

Almost.

Almost.

I whipped my head around, heart in my throat as escape came within grasp.

So close.

“I believe it is you who will need to think very carefully of the consequences your actions will yield,” Odin warned.

A scowl in return.

“Yes, it appears that Asgardians excel in delivering threats to their… guests,” he mocked with a sweep of his arm.

Odin clicked his tongue – cocking his head to the side.

“You mistake an amicable reminder for a threat, old friend,” he admonished.

Ehrendil scoffed.

“I have made no such mistake and you are laying waste to years of friendship. You do not want to be courting this enemy,” Ehrendil warned in return.

Odin shook his head.

“Is there a need for this? She is but a Midgardian who has spoken out of her place – surely your reputation should withstand the few jabs of a sharp tongue? Does she warrant warfare and the destruction of truce between both our kingdoms?” Odin appealed.

“She does not offend me – her words do not carry weight. But rather, it is yourreluctance in conceding her as a peace offering to appease my anger that insults me. First, the breaking of the betrothal. Then, the insolence of a Midgardian – neither of which I had found satisfaction in. If you cannot bring yourself to sacrifice a mere Midgardian to uphold the truce – why should I?” Ehrendil hissed.

“New alliances and bonds may be forged in the place of broken ones. But there is noreturn from the suffering that will befall our kingdoms should we go to war, old friend. My army, I warn, will not be lesser rivals to yours. It is a war that neither of us will win,” Odin persuaded.

A grimace on Ehrendil’s face.

It was the truth.

The hard truth that wrestled with his pride and ego.

But it was enough for Odin who saw a crack in his façade – an opportunity to take the last shot.

“Should word transpire that the suffering we would have brought upon our people was sparked by a Midgardian – by inconsequential words – surely, we would be trifled as rulers and despised as kings,” Odin pushed on.

A pause.

A tic in Ehrendil’s jaw.

“Brother…” Thor whispered, his stance low and hunched.

As if ready to pounce at the sound of a pin dropping.

“… if things go south, you take her and flee to Heimdall. I will hold off the pompous King and his minions with my guards,” he muttered.

Oh, Thor.

And even though the words were said for my benefit, it was Loki they hit the hardest.

He froze.

A sharp intake of breath.

And he turned his face away briefly.

It was hard on him – trying to reconcile all his years of envy and neglect with his deep-seated need for a genuine bond with his brother.

I wanted to tell him it was okay.

It was okay to let Thor in.

It was okay to have his brother.

It was okay to be… loved.

Thor glanced over – puzzled at the silence.

“We may have had our squabbles, but do not fight me on this, brother,” he said, misinterpreting the situation.

“Who said anything about fighting you on this?” Loki shot back, the words yanking him back from his momentary lapse in concentration.

“Loki…” I muttered, and if I could kick him in the shins, I would have.

He turned around – shooting me a glare, as if annoyed that we would have the audacity to think he was capable of being worried for Thor’s safety.

“Far be it from me to detract from his act of heroism and suicide mission,” he rebuked.

I opened my mouth – stinging words at the ready to take him down a peg or two but we were yanked back to reality.

“Come, old friend, let us not waste another breath on such trivialities when we should be in talks of forming new alliances. She will be sent back to Midgard and be done with it!” Odin said.

Ehrendil raised a brow.

“What of such new alliances?” he questioned, his guard still high up.

Odin paused.

“There are other… resources beyond marriage, which you will find of… want,” he relented, his voice measured.

That did the trick.

Ehrendil’s ears pricked.

And he struggled to maintain his unimpressed façade.

But would it be enough?

He pursed his lips.

And I held my breath.

“Your decision?” Odin pursued.

Ehrendil cast a striking glare at me.

“Guards…” he commanded.

His eyes narrowed.

And there so much spite and brutal contempt in them, I couldn’t help but feel a shiver down my spine.

I squeezed Loki’s hand.

“Fall back”.

It was a long and quiet walk to the bridge we had first arrived at.

Once Ehrendil had given us the clear, there were no obstacles standing in our path as both he and Odin adjourned to a quieter space to discuss the new alliances they would form and the resources that they would share – although, it appeared the exchange would be heavily in Ehrendil’s favour.

We filed a singular line.

Thor leading the pack as Loki guarded our flank – mistrustful of Ehrendil still.

What else was there to say?

My mind raced as I tried to cram every single detail of what we had been through into the last few ticking minutes we had together.

Oh.

My heart stung.

As we crossed the rainbow bridge – the one Thor referred to as the Bifrost Bridge – I looked around.

Taking it all in.

Drinking in the light and the water and the infrastructure that were all otherworldly to me.

It’s beautiful.

The vastness and intricacies of this other world.

If only there was some way to capture some of its magic – of stowing away some of its ethereal light for me to look back upon when my days were dark.

And there would be dark ones.

Dark, cold, empty ones.

My chest felt hollowed out – all the adrenaline and courage that had been coursing through my body and filling my heart during the standoff now drained away.

I will never see this again.

The thought rang out loud and sudden inside my head.

I will never see him again.

It thudded inside my chest.

Raw.

Dead.

But before I could turn around to take a look at the dour-faced green-eyed Prince, we stopped.

Right outside this huge golden dome.

“We have arrived,” Thor announced, a little too chirpily.

I nodded my head – voice stuck in my throat.

As if I had ran out of words after that intense exchange with Odin and Ehrendil.

I looked at Thor – his smile wide across his face. So sunny, so bright, so cheerful – for a split second, I wondered what it would have been like if he had been the one sent to Earth instead.

“Heimdall awaits inside,” he prompted.

I tilted my chin forward in acknowledgement.

“Can you… give us a moment?” I asked, softly.

Weakly.

He paused, eyes flitting to look at the figure behind me for a second.

And realization dawned.

He cleared his throat.

“I’ll… erm… I will speak with Heimdall,” he announced, clumsily.

I gave him a weak smile – partly in amusement as he clunkily made his absence.

The smile plastered across my face – as if the outer corners were held up by puppet strings – until Thor’s shadow disappeared from sight.

And then it fell.

Be brave.

Be brave.

Be brave.

Those were the two words I kept repeating over and over again in my head.

As if they would have been enough to brainwash the heartache I had always envisioned would come with this moment.

I took in a deep breath.

This would be the last time I would be speaking with him, seeing him – this was notthe time to freeze.

“I guess… this is it?” I said, trying to make light of the situation as I turned around, slowly.

Except my voice was cracking.

Cracking and cracking.

Like the miserable existence I felt just standing there.

Just standing in front of him.

And God, as I turned around and saw him – bathed in the beautifully ethereal golden light of Asgard – my heart broke.

This wasit.

The moment I had feared and embraced all at once.

“Don’t go,” he said, softly.

So soft, I could have imagined them.

But there he was, swaying ever so slightly on his feet – looking at me as if I was taking part of his world away.

“You know I have to,” I said, voice croaking.

Even that lacked conviction.

Because what else was I supposed to say? What else could I say when the person I love was standing there – looking at me like that – asking me not to go?

When the only thing I wanted to do was to run into his arms?

And so, I turned to the only thing I could.

The only thing that would prevent me from dissolving into a huge weeping mess.

“Loki, I…” I started to say and his ears pricked.

Light briefly entering his eyes.

“Yes?” he asked, voice picking up a notch.

And I knew he wasn’t going to like what I was about to say.

Not one bit.

But it had to be said.

It was either now or never.

“Make amends with your… brother and father,” I said, softly.

Pushing the words out.

“Wh—what?” he stumbled, blinking.

The sentence clearly completely different from what he had been expecting.

“Make amends with your… br—” I began to repeat myself but he cut me off with scowl.

“I heard you the first time,” he said, gruffly, brushing me off.

But I was undeterred.

I needed him to know.

Wanted to be sure.

You’ll have someone with you after I’m gone.

“The events today should have shown you that they caredeeply for you,” I pursued, much to his annoyance.

He shot me a glare.

Crossed his arms over his chest as he squared his shoulders.

Gearing up for a fight.

“The events today would not have transpired if Odin had not conveniently used me as a bargaining chip without even disclosing my identity to begin with – something youwould know very well off,” he retorted – pointing to the moment in which I had used his secret identity as leverage.

I flinched.

I couldn’t help it.

Even when I knew he didn’t mean them.

When he had said those words out of retaliation.

Out of anger.

I paused, eyes flickering downwards.

My heart hurting that he had thought even remotely for a second that I would have gone through with it.

“I wouldn’t have done it, you know…” I said, softly.

Silence.

I looked up, wondering if he had heard me.

He did.

His expression – soft and tender.

All the animosity and sharp edges bleeding away.

Until nothing but warm honey pooled between us.

“I know…” he whispered.

My eyes widened.

I swallowed.

“Do you?” I couldn’t help but ask, the words slipping out so gently and effortlessly.

Heart hanging onto the desperate need for validation.

His eyes softened.

Lips pressed together as he tilted his chin downwards.

“Yes,” he yielded.

The corners of his lips lifting into a soft, wan smile.

“You don’t know how else to love me,” he said, tenderly.

So selflessly.

So utterly.

He knew.

God, he knew.

At least there was that.

And the lump that he had put in my throat bubbled up.

“Ca—can we…” I started to say, but choked.

My chest tightened.

“Ca—can we not spend our last fe—few minutes fighting? Please? I rasped out.

I couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t breathe.

I searched his eyes.

Desperate.

Pleading.

And finally, he relented.

Nodding, the smile disappearing.

Sadness settling into all the nooks and crannies of his face – seeping out of his skin.

I grabbed his hand.

Squeezed it.

Held it tight.

I didn’t care any longer.

There were no restrictions.

Not in this moment.

“Listen to me, Loki. Please,” I begged.

Needy.

Whiny.

And he looked at me with eyes soft and yielding.

A deep breath.

“You knowI can’t stand Odin – God, if I could go back in time to say all those words I had said, I would. You know,” I swore, fingers curling over his hand.

So hard, nails dug into the flesh.

“But he caresfor you,” I reasoned and tried as he might, he couldn’t stop the distaste from sparking in his eyes.

His hand went slack – pulling away.

I reached out.

Held on.

Pulled back.

Refusing to let him distance himself.

He looked at me – eyes searching my face.

Fervently.

Intimately.

Silence stretched out between us.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

The question hanging softly in the air.

His eyes wide and raw and vulnerable and I wanted nothing more in this world than to tell him how much I love him.

God, do I love him.

“To stop pretending to be somebody else,” I whispered.

The words slipping out so quietly, so effortless from my lips before I could stop them.

They hollowed me out.

He froze.

Like freezing water to his face.

But there was no going back now.

I squeezed his hand.

Held it a little tighter.

Held it a little longer.

Stepped in closer.

So close until I could almost imagine his breath on my face.

See the dull throbbing of pain behind his eyes.

Trace all the lines of sadness on his face.

I trembled.

My bottom lip quivering.

“I want you to stop pretending to be somebody else,” I repeated, voice shaking, and I had to stop myself.

Calm myself.

A deep breath.

Filling my lungs, flushing my cheeks.

“I want you to stop craving the acceptance of everyone else,” I pleaded.

Unintentionally.

I choked – words swallowed by the sting in my throat and the acridity that flooded my mouth.

“Why?” he breathed.

Don’t you know?

I blinked.

Tears rolling down my cheeks.

“You didn’t need it for me to love you…” I whispered.

So gently.

So delicately.

Like glass on the verge of being shattered.

He sucked in a breath.

Corners of his lips lifting in a sad smile.

Eyes shiny and bright.

Unshed tears.

This was it.

This was goodbye.

“I could… I could come visit,” he said, softly.

Tenderly.

Gingerly.

And my heart swelled.

So much I feared my chest could barely contain it.

But I shook my head, sadly.

“No, please don't,” I pleaded.

But it came out wrong.

A little too forceful.

A little too harshly.

It wounded him.

“I—I can—can’t. It… it would cause me pain,” I stumbled, scrambling to find the words that would make sense to him.

His hand reached out – his finger gently brushing away another tear.

I gasped – a sob suddenly choked out of me.

And I closed my eyes.

Wanted to remember this.

Wanted it to be this way forever.

“This. Me. You. Me loving you. You… you not knowing what to do with it…” I whispered, words coming out in a jumble.

Breath short and sharp.

And when I finally opened my eyes, there they were.

His beautiful green eyes staring back at me.

“It… causes me pain,” I breathed.

His pressed his lips together.

Grim.

I wanted nothing more than to kiss away the shadow between his brows.

Take away his worries.

And when he opened his mouth, I shook my head.

“Don’t say words you don’t mean…” I said, lips tasting salt.

He cupped my cheek.

The warmth of his skin against mine.

And even after all this time, it was enough to make my heart stop.

Make it stop bleeding.

I wanted to say.

He nodded.

“I--…” he started to say, only to pause.

An unspoken question lingering in the air.

“Hmm?” I whispered, breath hanging onto his every word.

His eyes raw and vulnerable.

“Did I… did I make you happy?” he asked.

Softly.

Tenderly.

The indent of worry in his voice.

Oh God.

Oh God.

Oh God.

My lips parted.

My heart shattering into a tiny little million pieces.

And the tears came.

Hard and fast.

Hot and scalding.

Even as they dripped down my chin.

I thought back to everything we had been through.

All the laughter.

All the teasing.

All the intimacy.

All the tears.

All the heartbreak.

All the moments I had found… myself.

He was nothing but blurred lines.

I turned around.

Shoulders shaking as I clamped my hand over my mouth.

Trying to stop the sobs from taking over.

Trying to stop my heart from hurting.

Goodbye, Loki.

“Yes.”

Goodbye.

And then I ran forward.