#just as the book is a continuation of cause and effect toppling in a circle

[chaoticfandomthot]

The more i think about it..

Kim Dokja's way of loving and his idea of salvation really is just a continuation of the cycle his mother started all those years ago.

He throws himself in the line of fire intead of the people he loves and he isn't there to realise that it is a salvation that hurts more than it saves.

And maybe he should know better since he was on the receiving end of it before, but can we really blame him?

[eveningstarcatcher]

Day 16: Ice Storm

Crowley was pouting on the couch. He had hoped to go out today. He had been spending most of his time at the bookshop and he needed to check in on his plants and grab a few things from the store, but it had been storming since early the previous evening and there were no signs that it would stop anytime soon. 

“Ugh!” he threw himself onto his back on the couch, his arm draped over his face. 

“Still storming, then?” Aziraphale asked, looking over at Crowley from above his small, round reading spectacles.

“I don’t think it’s ever going to stop,” Crowley complained, looking over at the window again.

“Don’t let this ruin your day, dear. You could always read a book.” Aziraphale suggested, gesturing to a pile of books on the floor.

“I don’t read books,” Crowley sat up, slumped over, and threw his chin into his hands.

“I could read to you if you’d like. Go find a book you’re interested in.”

“Don’t want to read, want to do something.” Crowley was nearly whining at this point, splayed out on the couch, golden eyes wide and pleading.

Aziraphale sighed heavily and closed his book, turning to face the couch.

“Dear, I’m not sure what you expect me to do.”

“Could stop the storm,” Crowley suggested, doing his best impression of Aziraphale’s puppy dog eyes that he’d never been able to disappoint.

“I can’t. Well, I could, actually, but it’s not wise to do something on that scale right now.” Aziraphale still had his spectacles on and looked like a professor lecturing to his students.

“I know,” Crowley huffed.

“Here,” Aziraphale shuffled through the papers on his desk and handed one to Crowley. “Pick something to do.”

Crowley took it and read over it. “Really?” He cocked an eyebrow at the angel.

“You wanted something to do and those things need to get done.” Aziraphale flipped through his book again, leaving Crowley to make his choice.

“We can’t go out, angel. How are we supposed to do these?” Crowley waved the paper around in the air.

“Find something we can do,” Azirphale’s attention was still on his book.

“Ugh… ‘ziraphale!”

“Just pick something from the list dear.” 

Aziraphale clearly wasn’t going to take his attention away from his book until Crowley gave him something else to focus on, so he looked over the list again.

“Okay,” he was beginning to form an idea.

“Okay, what?” Aziraphale flipped another page. “Have you selected an activity?”

“Have you selected an activity,” Crowley mocked. “Yeah, I’ve selected an activity.”

“There really is no need for that tone, dear.” Aziraphale didn’t even glance up at him. It was infuriating, really.

“Whatever, angel. I’m going to get it set. I’ll call you when it’s ready.” He stood, tossed the paper on the desk beside Aziraphale’s book, and stalked off. He thought perhaps he ought to tell Aziraphale not to look, but he knew the angel would be too lost in his book to notice anything.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how much time had passed while Crowley was preparing their activity, but he was just about to finish a chapter when he heard a voice calling him.

“Just one moment,” Aziraphale called back.

There was silence for a few moments while Crowley waited. Aziraphale finished the chapter, closed his book, and removed his spectacles. He stood and found Crowley by his side. 

“Close your eyes.” Crowley’s own eyes were bright with excitement, or perhaps mischief. Aziraphale obliged and allowed Crowley to lead him, one hand on his elbow, the other on his back. When they stopped Crowley let his hand fall from Aziraphale’s elbow, but kept the one on his back.

“Ready?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale nodded. “Open.”

The light was just beginning to fade outside and the store was alight with the decorations they had hung, with the tree at its center. The lights shimmering off of the ornaments and lighting the greenery in the most elegant ways. His eyes moved upwards toward the skylight and could see that a soft snow was falling, catching the light as each snowflake floated downward. Aziraphale’s eyes followed the flakes to the floor and found that it wasn’t his usual hardwood floor, but it was covered in a sheet of ice. The whole effect made Aziraphale feel as if he had stepped into a snowglobe.

“Crowley!” he breathed. 

“Here,” Crowley held out a pair of ice skates.

“This is, well, it’s incredible!” Aziraphale’s blue eyes glittered with the lights.

“Can’t go out because of ice, so I figured I’d bring some of it inside and then skate all over it.” Crowley was already lacing up his skates, so Aziraphale followed suit. “Quite the fiend,” Aziraphale teased.

“Thanks for noticing.” Crowley stood and offered a hand to Aziraphale, who took it and stood shakily. “Have you skated before?”

“I haven’t, but I did always enjoy watching humans do it. Gliding across the ice, and the way they jump and flip is quite breathtaking! OH!”

Crowley had pulled Aziraphale out onto the ice and was pulling him along. Aziraphale’s free hand was flailing behind him.

“Stop that. I’ve got you, just try to find your balance.” Crowley stopped and let the angel find his footing on the ice. “Good,” he approved when Aziraphale’s death grip on his hand had loosened. 

“Oh, this is quite lovely,” Aziraphale smiled as he moved himself forward the smallest bit.

“You can go more than that,” Crowley pushed himself backwards, giving Aziraphale more room to practice.

“Oh, must you be so far?” He was suddenly shaky again.

“I’m right here, angel,” Crowley huffed adoringly.

“Promise to catch me?” Aziraphale asked.

“Promise.”

As promised, Crowley was there to catch Aziraphale any time he teetered off balance, which wasn’t quite as often as either of them thought. The angel caught on rather quickly and pretty soon the two of them were skating in nice circles around the tree.

“I’m going to try something. Trust me?” Crowley skated out in front of Aziraphale, turned around to face him, and held out his hand.

“Of course, dear.” Aziraphale smiled, but there was a hint of hesitation that Crowley ignored. He took Aziraphale’s hand and began to skate backwards with gusto, angel in tow. After a few moments, he pulled Aziraphale into him and the two were spinning. At first Aziraphale seemed nervous, but once Crowley’s arms wrapped around him, he began to laugh. Crowley slowed the spin, then repeated the whole thing. This time, Aziraphale knew what to expect and he threw his head back and opened his arms out, doing his best impression of the elegant figure skaters he’d watched over the years.

The third time, Crowley joined in the laughter. They went on like this until the sun had finished setting. The way the lights bounced off the decor was mesmerizing, especially as they skated past. It distracted Aziraphale as Crowley tried to pull him into yet another spin, causing them both to be pulled off balance and topple onto the ice. Aziraphale landed on his back with Crowley landing on top of him, cradling the angel’s head so it didn’t hit the ice. They looked into each other’s eyes, shocked for a moment, then dissolved into laughter, Crowley’s head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, placing a hand on Crowley’s cheek as he pulled back to answer..

“M’fine. You?” Crowley smiled down at him.

“Just splendid,” Aziraphale beamed. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yeah, I did, but I can think of something else I’d like to do now.”

“What’s tha-” Azirapahle was interrupted by Crowley’s lips on his. He gasped softly and threw his arms around Crowley’s neck to pull him closer. Crowley was soft, yet insistent, and Aziraphale was content to feel Crowley’s weight above him and his lips against his. Crowley pulled Aziraphale up so they were both sitting and continued to kiss him, tangling his fingers in pale curls. Aziraphale ran his hands up and down Crowley’s back and the demon hummed against the angel’s lips.

When they broke away from each other, they pressed their foreheads together as they caught their breath.

“You’re awfully good at that,” Aziraphale said softly.

“You too, angel.” Crowley smiled, then shivered.

“Oh dear, the ice is quite cold, isn’t it? Why don’t we have some cocoa by the fire to warm up?” Aziraphale tried to move, but wasn’t able to get his skates under him. He flailed his arms uselessly and landed on top of Crowley.

“Welcome back,” Crowley teased, holding him close and stealing another kiss. “Let me.” He shifted Aziraphale to sit beside him and gracefully pulled his long legs under him and stood. He reached both hands down to Aziraphale, who attempted to copy Crowley’s motions. He was successful this time, if not graceful.

“Next time I think I’ll try one of those jumps,” Aziraphale said cheekily.

“Sure, angel.” Crowley shook his head and guided Aziraphale to the backroom.

[raendown]

Soooo this started as just a simple commission and then rapidly got out of control, as seems to keep happening to me lately. xD For you @copyninken for inspiring me with such an excellent commission prompt!

Chapter: 1/9 Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 4660 Rated: M Summary: Walking patrol around a university for mages probably sounded like a wild time but Tobirama has never found it all that exciting. He's not even technically supposed to be here. When responding to a tripped alarm becomes a desperate attempt to stay alive, however, excitement is the last thing on his mind. All he's ever wanted is a quiet life alone with his books until he finds himself bound to Uchiha Madara in the most impossible way and finally learns to think about more than just himself - in a way.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Duality

He wasn’t even a professor. Tobirama scowled to himself and pulled the edges of his cloak tighter in search of whatever pocket he had dropped his warming stone in to. Such a simple rune and yet it was no help to him if he couldn’t find it. Of course, he wouldn’t need it if his brother hadn’t turned those puppy eyes on him and begged with his bottom lip wobbling pathetically, so disgustingly sad that Tobirama had agreed to do as he asked just to make that face go away. He wasn’t even a professor! He should not be out here in the evening chill performing a professor’s duties.

A huff of frustration escaped him and he dropped his handful of cloak, shoving it back so he could pat himself down for other pockets. His habit of misplacing things was the whole reason he’d started sewing extra pockets in to his clothing whenever he remembered to but the problem was that now he had too many pockets to look through and his things still ended up lost.

Fingers closing around something cool and smooth, he fought back the excess material to pull his hand out with a cry of triumph, expecting to see the warming stone he was certain he’d picked up that morning. Then he snorted in disgust when he found half a broken pestle instead. No one was around to watch him stomp one foot in irritation. No warming stone and now he was probably going to spend the rest of the evening wondering which mortar was missing its pestle. Had he taken someone else’s? Had he broken his own?

How was he supposed to properly grind faerie wings – willingly gifted, of course – if he hadn’t the right tools?

Contrary to his predictions, any thoughts of preparing ingredients for his various experiments came to an abrupt halt when he rounded the corner and saw the other person he was meant to be paired with for that evening’s patrol. Madara looked as dramatic as ever, clad in fiery red from head to toe as though his natural element wasn’t obvious in the way sparks clung to his hair and smoke rose out of his fingertips in fits and starts. Standing along one of the outer passages, positioned next to an opening in the wall, his hair rose and fell as the wind howled outside. The idiot would have frozen in minutes dressed down as he was if he wielded any other element.

After a few moments of standing in one place and scowling as hard as he could Tobirama accepted that the other man hadn’t noticed him there. White skin and sharp footsteps should have made him rather obvious in the dark but Madara had always been a little too wrapped up in himself to pay much attention to others.

Tobirama threw the broken pestle at him.

“What the fuck!?” Madara screeched in surprise when stone sparked against stone right next to his face, leaping away and spinning in a full circle until finally his eyes landed on where Tobirama had now crossed his arms with an expectant expressed. “Are you kidding me? I was supposed to walk patrols with your brother tonight; what the hell are you doing here?”

“Nothing pleasant, I assure you. Brother decided that planning a date with Mito on the same night he was scheduled to walk the halls with you was an excellent idea. One would think the security of his own university would be more important than gargling someone else’s tonsils but I have never claimed to understand how his mind works. And so here I am.” He smirked a little when Madara wrinkled his nose with disgust.

“Must you refer to it like that?”

“Have you seen them kiss? That is essentially what he is doing.” Tobirama slid his hands in whatever pockets were closest to ward off the winter chill. “Whatever you want to call it, he asked me to cover his duties while he is otherwise occupied.”

Visibly put off, Madara waved both hands aimlessly in protest. “You’re not even a professor!”

“I know!” It wasn’t often the two of them agreed on much but in this they were of the same mind.

Of course, Tobirama was more than old enough to be a professor here at the school should he have wished to be. He certainly had more than enough knowledge to teach any of several different subjects. Unfortunately for the masses he had very little interest in taking so much time away from his research, preferring to stick with his technical status as student and continue on in the life of a scholar. Nothing appealed to him more than the rush of discovering some ancient scrap of knowledge written by some unnamed mage and finding a use for it.

He did not appreciate errands like this one taking up precious time he could have been using to look more in to the effects of those crystals Touka had given him for his birthday a century or so ago. If his estimations were correct then they might have been formed from a naturally occurring phenomenon that only happened during a massive outburst of dragon magic. Such things had never been recorded!

“You’re off in your own head again already. Great. Well this is going to be just tons of fun, isn’t it? Babysitting you while looking out for students getting up to shenanigans. You know how they get when they catch the first hints of graduation! I’ve had three try to break in to my office in the past week and there’s still a month left of classes!”

“Looking for exam notes?”

“Obviously.” Madara snorted as though he hadn’t done the exact same thing when he was a student, sneaking a peak at his teacher’s notes so he knew exactly which spells he should study up on for the exam.

Tobirama snickered without bothering to hide it. Served the asshole right for being so uptight all the time. He hoped some of those students had got what they came for before Madara caught them. Later he would have to figure out who they were and provide them with the answers himself, having taken the class on a whim a decade or so back. The poor idiot probably didn’t have enough imagination to change his exam from year to year.

“Ugh, let’s just get this over with. We usually start with the western courtyard to make sure no one is trying to perform any summonings under the moonlight.” Spinning on his heel, hair and cloak flaring out with a wholly unnecessary amount of drama, Madara stalked away down the hall without waiting to see if he was being followed.

“I remember my first summoning.” Tobirama sighed wistfully. Ahead of him, Madara twitched.

Before he could get too far in to his reminiscing about the time he summoned a nether beast that took a liking to Madara’s hair – poor taste but it had probably been the funniest thing the university had seen in several decades – their patrol was interrupted before it could even truly begin.

As soon as the alarm went off Madara, long used to having it tripped by miscreant students, pressed one palm against the closest wall and murmured something in a low voice. The wards rippled under his touch and Tobirama could hear them deep down in the parts of himself that had been connected with the world’s magic since his very first breath. He knew as well as anyone else who had been here at the school long enough that the wards were alive in a way he couldn’t explain, although being a student he also knew that they wouldn’t listen to him as they did to Madara. More poor taste. That man had nothing to say that would be even half as interesting as the things Tobirama had floating around in his head.

“What have they to report?” he asked when his companion set off without saying anything, scurrying to keep up.

“The alert came from the northern edge of the property. What anyone is doing all the way out there is beyond me. If we’re lucky maybe they’ll fall in to the river before we get there.” Every word Madara spoke was dripping with offense as though whoever was out there causing trouble had done him a personal injustice by choosing to do so on the night it was his duty to watch over the massive castle housing their university.

Drifting along behind him, not half as worried, Tobirama snickered again at the image of someone falling in to the river. Long ago when the first mages had created this place of learning they had been just a wee bit suspicious of outsiders. History was a little vague on exactly which one of them did it but Tobirama’s theory was that it had actually taken all of them to convince the earth herself to raise up high and set the university grounds far above the rest of the surrounding countryside, sheer cliffs at every boundary line and only one set of stairs carved in to the eastern wall. Just imagining someone stupid enough to topple off the cliff and down in to the northern river left Tobirama smiling. People were idiots. If somehow a non-magic person had found their way to this hidden place and trekked all the way up a staircase that would be invisible to them he sort of hoped they fell back down the cliff just for being so insufferably nosey.

Neither of them spotted anyone on their way to where the wards had been disturbed, not another soul awake or at least none of them stupid enough to be up and about on a cold winter night such as this. Which was strange, actually, unless somehow the disturbance had come from outside the boundaries because if it had come from inside then they should have passed someone on the way to the scene. After exiting the front doors of the castle there was really nowhere for anyone to hide on the wide open grounds surrounding it.

As they drew closer, merely a few dozen feet away, Tobirama began to twitch.

“I don’t like this,” he grumbled.

“What?” Despite the fact that there was no love lost between them, he appreciated that Madara had the good sense to stop and listen to him. He did have his smart moments.

“The snow,” Tobirama pointed out. “It’s undisturbed. And there are no whispers.”

“Whispers?”

Cutting one hand through the air impatiently, he snapped, “Yes, whispers, the water in the snow. I can speak to my own element just as you can. No one has gone through here in the past few hours. If they had then the snow would remember.”

Madara eyed him contemplatively for a moment and then nodded. With absolutely no connection to water himself, he would have to rely entirely on Tobirama’s word for that. Unfortunately the fire in his veins did nothing to make him a cautious man, preferring to bull his way in to a situation while yelling his questions, and that tendency showed itself now. With a decisive slant of his brow he strode forward and stretched one hand out, probably intending to speak with the wards again and ask what they remembered about when the alarm had been tripped.

He cried out with surprise and stumbled back in to Tobirama, sending both of them crashing down in the very center of the glyph lighting up underneath their feet. Completely hidden by snow, diameter large enough that Tobirama could have stretched out completely and not been able to touch both sides, it glowed with a pale yellow light the moment Madara tried to pass beyond the far side and cast him back, trapping them both within.

“I told you I didn’t like this,” Tobirama murmured, already reaching out with raw magic to feel around the edges of the glyph.

“Shut up. What’s happening?”

“Oh, I really don’t like this.” That was all the answer Tobirama managed to give before the light doubled in intensity and the world around them began to warp. Madara screeched in his ear and Tobirama couldn’t help but agree – with the panic, not with the level of decibels he managed to achieve. This was definitely cause for panic.

They had barely a handful of seconds to process what was happening. One minute they lay in a heap together in the virgin snow outside of their beloved university and the next they were transported to what would have looked like an underground cavern of some sort if not for the wind blowing in from one end. Someone had forcibly relocated them to a cave. Someone was looking forward to an early grave when they found their way back home.

“If you even think the words ‘I told you so’ I will rearrange your face.” Madara sat upright just to snarl at Tobirama, covering his discomfort with the usual bluster.

“Now seems as good a time as any to tell you that my dearest wish is for you to someday learn to use your brain for thinking first before the yelling starts.”

“Fuck. You.”

“We may have to resort to that for entertainment, as abhorrent as the idea is. I’m sure you haven’t spent the brainpower to notice but we appear to be sealed in here.” Tobirama lifted one of his eyebrows and gestured towards where the cave twisted out of sight. No visible barrier could be found but he could already feel the muffling effect of some kind of dampening spell.

Not only had they been sent away but they had been trapped here. Wonderful. Tobirama wondered what he had done recently to piss the spirits off so much that he ended up trapped in a cave with only Uchiha Madara for company. Literally anyone else in the world would have been better – except for maybe Uchiha Izuna. Madara’s younger brother was probably the only person more annoying than him. Even worse, he somehow had less social tact than the world’s biggest buffoon.

Both men pushed themselves to their feet and moved towards the far side of the cave where a bend in the path would have led towards the outside world. A few meters before they would have reached it they were stopped, something unseen sizzling in warning. Neither of them were really all that interested in using themselves as a test subject to find out what they were being warned away from. At least, not without knowing who laid the barrier, what their element was, how willing they were to separate limbs from bodies, that sort of thing.

Edging backwards until the sizzling stopped, Madara dropped his face in to what was possibly the sourest expression he had ever managed, arms crossing and shoulders tensing until they were hiked up around his ears.

“This is bullshit,” he declared.

“I hate to say you’re right about anything but in this case I am compelled to agree.” Tobirama looked around for somewhere to sit, disappointed to realize there was nowhere that wasn’t covered in ice or snow. He ignored the offended the mess of huffs and snorts behind him as Madara tried to figure out if he was offended or smug.

After a while the man settled with, “Between the two of us we can find a way through it, why are you sitting down?”

“Because between the two of us I am not volunteering to get close enough to that barrier to make a physical inspection. If you would shut up for a few moments I could gather my concentration to look at it in other ways.” Scraping a small area clean with the side of one boot, he added, “Unless you also happen to have studied for as long as I have and understand how to connect yourself to another person’s magic? No? I didn’t think so.”

“Could you be any more of an asshole?” Madara snarled.

“Probably but they say imitation is the highest form of flattery and I have no intention of flattering you.”

While his companion took a few seconds to work through that Tobirama sat down on the cold stone floor, as free of snow as it was going to get, and turned himself inwards to the power flowing through him. Madara’s inevitable screech of anger went in one ear and out the other as Tobirama let his consciousness gather and then flow outwards, stretching himself until he could feel every inch of his surroundings. The bright sensation of fire-passion-fearless took concentration to think past, as Madara often did, but Tobirama forced himself to push farther towards the warm-forbidding-apology that awaited him at the mouth of their impromptu dungeon. Strange, he thought. Those weren’t the feelings he had expected to get from this little exploration. Whoever set up that barrier felt guilty while doing so.

Carefully brushing along the edges, Tobirama was able to feel for points where the spell was weakest and slip underneath them, filling the proverbial cracks with his own magic and leaving pieces of himself behind like those hidden landmines non-magical folk had been so fond of during their first couple of wars.

Retreating back in to his own body and opening his eyes felt like a loss. It was always a bit of a jarring experience feeling the world in such an intimate way and then opening his eyes to find himself nothing more than human once again. Existing as conscious magic made him feel free and unconstrained while coming back to his body left him overly aware of how cold his ass had become from sitting on frozen rock. Popping his eyes open, he grimaced and clenched both butt cheeks in an effort to encourage some blood flow.

“Well?” Madara demanded. “Did the oh-so-smart scholar find anything useful?”

“I’ve weakened the barrier but it’ll take time to fall apart completely. Until then there’s really nothing for us to do but wait.” Not the best news he’d ever had to deliver, although the irritation in Madara’s expression was at least a small lift to his mood.

“Seriously? We just sit here? And do nothing?”

“I have done something. That something will take time. If you have anything you would like to add to my efforts then be my guest.” Tobirama waited and when his companion gave no response he hummed in satisfaction. Being right was a pleasure all on its own but being right when Madara was wrong? That was always best.

Since it was already quite late his hope was that he could somehow fall asleep or at least doze off to pass the hours more quickly. Madara stomped around trying to find a place of his own to settle down while Tobirama closed his eyes again and told himself very firmly to ignore the cold seeping deeper and deeper in to his limbs with every passing moment. If he lost part of his ass cheeks to frostbite someone was going to pay very deeply for such a transgression.

More than an hour passed in complete silence after the other idiot with him finally settled down and yet still Tobirama couldn’t bring himself even close to dozing off. Water was his element of course but he certainly didn’t enjoy sitting around in the frozen form of it for ages on end. Around the time he realized he had all but stopped shivering he also realized that perhaps losing an extremity or two was the least of his problems, though it still ranked fairly high in his mind. His limbs were fairly important to his ability to perform certain spells.

Curious in a sluggish sort of way, he lifted one hand and tried to wiggle his fingers.

“Ah,” he murmured, voice slurring. “That’s not good at all.”

“What’s not good?” Madara’s voice demanded. Up until he spoke the man had appeared to be sleeping, hunched down with the snow around him melting, body heat raised to keep warm.

Tobirama forced his head to turn and meet his companion’s eyes. It took a few moments to process the sudden cursing, the way Madara scrambled across the cave to kneel in front of him. When large hands enclosed his own he felt nothing.

“Your fucking lips are blue! Actually blue!” Madara blew on his hands. Logically Tobirama could guess that he was heating the air but it appeared his fingers had gone entirely numb. At some point while he sat there and waited for sleep hypothermia had found him instead. Irritating. More so because he found thinking straight incredibly difficult once he actually tried to think about anything.

“Definitely not good,” he said.

“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?” Madara demanded.

“As if you would have cared.” Difficult as it was to concentrate on anything, the antagonistic relationship between them was as natural as his own heartbeat and required even less thought.

Predictably, Madara snorted, almost dropping his hands in retaliation. “Fine way to speak to the only one around who can keep you alive,” he snarled.

Contrary to his attitude he did continue to breathe warm air over the frozen digits between them. If they’d had a little warning before getting summarily evacuated from university grounds then maybe one of them might have brought along gloves or a scarf. Well, Madara wouldn’t have because he didn’t need either but Tobirama certainly would have bundled up a little more. Either their captor hadn’t thought of these particular consequences or they didn’t really care and he would only find out which if he lived through the cold night.

For the most part Tobirama sat still through Madara’s attempts to bring feeling back in to his hands, even if that was largely in part due to the fact that he was worried any movements would send him toppling over sideways. Only the fact that he had settle in place seemed to be keeping him upright. After a while Madara gave a frustrated growl and Tobirama blinked up at him wordlessly in question.

“This is taking too long. I can’t breathe the rest of you warm again – also that would be creepy and I hate the images in my head now. I need to warm all of you up at once.”

“So do that,” Tobirama mumbled.

“Well it’s not as easy as ‘just do it’! I could build a flame easy enough but it would burn you before it did much good. There’s…another option. But you’re not going to like it. Hell, I don’t like it.” At Tobirama’s grunt he took a deep breath and absently rubbed the hands between his own. “Open your pathways to me. Your core magic. I’ll merge it with mine and lend you my fire; that should keep us both warm.”

Staring at him in complete shock, Tobirama managed to ask, “Have you gone completely mad?”

It was, by all accounts, a perfectly understandable question. There were few things more intimate that one mage could do for another than allow them to touch their core magic. Not even most married couples would be comfortable bearing their souls in such a manner. To do so for someone he didn’t even like, let alone trust, the very idea was laughable.

Yet Madara was far from laughing.

“There has to be another way to get warm,” he insisted. Madara sighed.

“No. Your body temperature is so low, there’s no other way to warm all of you at once without killing you. I could wrap around you and raise my own heat but it wouldn’t work fast enough and you would burn.” Shaking his head, he frowned. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I thought something else would work, believe me.”

Tobirama closed his eyes for a moment to think and realized a few moments later that there was no longer any time to do so. When he tried to open his eyes again it was a fight, a harrowing effort, and he recognized that Madara was right; he was too far gone.

“Fine,” he whispered.

Without asking he couldn’t be sure if Madara was doing this because he would never hurt Hashirama by letting his brother go out like this or simply because he was a man with enough morals not to let another human die right in front of him. Tobirama considered it but decided against asking. He probably wouldn’t like the answer and it didn’t truly matter. In the end he was still being offered a free ticket to survival, a one-time offer going fast.

At the very least Madara was merciful enough not to be smug about it. He nodded once before shuffling around behind where Tobirama sat and wriggling in between his frozen bulk and the wall to press their bodies together, chest to back.

“The closer we are the better this will work,” he said. “Don’t worry, I hate it just as much as you. One little cuddle and then we never speak of this again.”

“I’ll clam up if you do,” Tobirama assured him.

His companion grunted. With his body now slumped backwards against another form Tobirama found his head lolling forward to stare down at the hands interlocking with his own again to create two points of connection, making a circle of their pathways for their magic to flow along. Clever, he had to admit. Positioning them like this would leave them in a constant state of feedback with each other.

Despite already agreeing to do this, opening himself to Madara proved to be one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life. Every instinct in his body cried out against the first touch of another’s magic where he should feel only his own and yet with sheer stubbornness he managed to keep himself from shoving the other man out. He expected the feeling of being invaded, the most sacred part of him violated when it should have remained pure only until the unlikely day he intentionally invited another in.

What he did not expect was the harmony. Madara’s core and his own merged together as easily as stirring the ingredients for one of his elixirs. Warmth suffused him as promised but it wasn’t quite the warmth he expected, less body heat and more a sort of inner peace the likes of which he’d never achieved in his life.

In the darkness his inner eye was blinded by a light, fire rushing along the rivers of his core magic, cool blue turned to burning gold and dancing in such a way he couldn’t distinguish fire or water.

And he wasn’t alone. Tobirama stared unseeing at the cavern around them and knew only the second presence inside his mind, the hesitant brush of a thought that wasn’t his own. Ever too curious for his own good, he pushed towards it and gasped as he encountered Madara’s mind, faint but there, the edges of that twisted and baffling mind just beyond an ephemeral and very much proverbial wall. He shouldn’t. Tobirama knew he shouldn’t. But his curiosity had gotten him in to trouble many times in his life and this would certainly not be the last.

He pushed. Just a quick gentle nudge, inching a little closer for a better look. What better way to understand a man’s actions and personality than to take a look inside his mind and the feelings therein? For a moment he could feel the edges of Madara’s curiosity echoing back at him and, incredibly, he got the impression that he didn’t so much break in rather than the door being willingly cracked open. It was a thrill until the unthinkable happened. He slipped. He fell in to Madara in a way that would have been impossible to describe to anyone who had not experienced the same thing before but if he hadn’t just given himself entirely over to another he would have had only one thing to say.

They were one.

[tarithenurse]

All is fair in Love & War - 9

Pairing: Loki x reader Content: Pining, a tad of angsting, and a barrel-full of lemons. A/N: It got a bit long this chapter, but I hope you like it anyways. Feedback is always appreciated, of course ;)

9. Trials

The king of Jotunheim has taken several steps backwards in his behaviour towards you, and although he remains kind and generous, there is nothing that can fill the void it leaves within you. Lingering gazes, light brushes of fingertips when passing items to the other person, and now…now the electricity is humming through the air as you stare up into his face while you chest brushes against his. And then the moment is over. Loki retreats, the daggers twirling between his fingers while he waits for you to regain composure.

“No bad, pet.” The compliment is as genuine as ever even though the smile does not reach his eyes. “But you must keep moving, keep on your toes.”

“Yes, your highness.”

The god hesitates briefly at your words.

Since he has allowed you to leave your bed, it is you who had pushed on to resume the tasks he had given to you before the…incident in the forest. Eventually, he gave in, and as you proved your strength was not lost, he has taken to training you better than any of your past superiors in the Midgardian army. You were a quick learner then which is a benefit now as Loki is a relentless teacher who believes in learning by doing. More often than not, you retire for the night with bruises and lumps, but you trace each of them with pride and a careful finger. This’s what it’ll take. Day by day, you come nearer your goal of finding out the truth. Admittedly, a sliver of your soul wishes that what Loki has shown you is reality and not just another convoluted scheme build upon lies and illusions…but I must know for sure.

That is why you fix your eyes on the tall man walking in slow circles around you, mapping out each of his footsteps and noticing the slightest change in his bearing. You are ready when he launches a new attack and throw yourself into the mock fight with determination that earns approving murmurs from the servants passing by.

…

Weeks turn into months and the snow is covering the landscape in a thick blanket that lights up the starry nights. When sleep fails to come, you gaze across the now familiar (looking) waves of white where only the trees or the steepest cliffs stand out as black shadows, making you think of the wet winters of home. Only rarely does the reminiscence drag any melancholy along with it. Why should it? Enlisting, going to war…it is not something you have done with the goal of returning to the village of your childhood.

When Loki is away on whichever missions he has, he leaves you with stacks of books to read. Of course, it is partially to spend the time you would otherwise use to spar with him, but there is no doubt in your heart that he is trying to educate you too. History, politics, religions, sciences. You gobble it up, albeit in a slow pace. Sometimes you have to mark pages because of words that hold no meaning to you. Each time the king returns, he allows you to ask him all the questions you want on what you have read, and eventually he expands what is becoming a tradition with debates on the covered subjects. His sharp wit and sharper tongue teaches you to find the right arguments, making it harder to distract you from the topic at hand.

Each day, you tend to the black steed, Magni, and this is often where you take refuge whenever Loki is gone for several days. Then a servant will come looking for you, beckoning you to follow them back into the keep where a meal or maybe a bath will be waiting. The Jötun never speak to you, most likely they do not understand your language, but at least they are no longer hostile and so you find yourself thanking them however you can for the tasks they perform for you.

The winter continues to darken. Your skills continue to grow. And day by day, step by step, you come nearer the day you are waiting for.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

The servants are exasperated at the antics of the Midgardian, but Loki merely chuckles and encourages her to continue sneaking through the shadows or climbing across the heavy beams overhead. Silent as a cat she moves, practicing balance and her skills with the tools of a thief. But no matter how often she startles any of the Jötun, the king knows that none of them would dare harm her. Not anymore.

He too can be quiet, weaving through the secret passages to listen in on conversations. Unseen, unheard, he learns of his servants’ growing adoration of this feisty, little creature. They have come to see her as one partly of their own, not just Loki Laufeyson’s pet. Of course, it had helped when he had explained to them what the woman was doing in the keep, why she was not an enemy. Still he had feared that no words spoken from the throne would be enough to compel them to see reason.

…

Putting the latest correspondence from Valhalla aside which he is supposed to be reading, Loki reaches for the glass of mulled wine, but stops midmovement at the touch of cold metal against his throat. The hairs in the back of his neck stand on end and the heart skips a beat to allow him to fill his lungs with air, searching for a scent to recognize.

“What’s that? The great king caught off guard?” The soft giggle dances around him. “You looked so thoughtful, I couldn’t find it in me to disturb you.”

No longer worried, Loki presses against the blade while reaching for the wine. As expected, it gives way just enough that the edge does not bite into the skin.

“How kind of you, pet,” he smirks into the glass, “you have me at your mercy.” I know what I would do in your place! Images of slender limbs and full curves flash before his inner eye, and he has to bury the ideas before they can tempt him to take matters into his own hand.

Behind him, however, the Midgardian stays silent save for the faint rustle of fabric. Then a long strip of fabric lands in his lap, tempting him to test the resistance of the knife [Y/N] still holds to his throat.

“A-ah!”

It is impossible to determine whether it is pure playfulness in her voice…or something else. As a precaution, Loki leans back again, allowing only his fingers to explore the object. Then the grey shawl lands silently, causing his heartrate to speed up. One by one pieces of garment appear, only few preceded by a wobble of the knife, but even the sharp sting is not enough to deter the images flooding Loki’s mind as equal parts thrill, arousal, and fear threaten to take over. I cannot give in!

Softly, she whisper into his ear, her heated breath fanning his cheek. “Close your eyes, your majesty.”

He does as the woman asks, cursing at himself for the weakness. There is no sound, just the heat radiating from her body to indicate that she is now standing before him then the pile of clothes on his lap is removed to reveal the bulge of his crotch. Loki does not feel ashamed for it. Why should he? But the sharp intake of air makes his heart ache as much as his cock because he knows that he cannot give in, cannot grant her what she wants.

“[Y/N]. This is futi–“ A finger on his lips stops the words.

There is a trace of sadness in her words although the determination nearly drowns it: “We both know there are ways around that. Please, Loki, don’t pretend you don’t want this.”

Hands find his (when did she remove the weapon?), guiding him to the naked hips where the soft skin puckers with goosebumps at the touch and he cannot help but tighten the hold, to explore the curve of the woman’s ass and waist, feel the strength of the thighs that are made for wrapping themselves around his hips when– The sigh that escapes him is prolonged as he feels her body slipping in his grasp, but only until he recognizes the expanse of her belly passing beneath his palms followed by the gentle bump as the ample bosom finds rest in his hold. Warm and soft. Nipples perking as Loki slides his thumbs over them. The hitch in her breathing is evidence on the effect too.

It is a trial to keep his eyes shut when he feels the nimble hands undo buckles and buttons to reveal his fully erect manhood, but he is determined to let the Midgardian have this as a prize for managing to sneak up on him. Still, the resolve wavers as his hands are pushed aside and it crumbles completely the moment [Y/N] begins the languid caresses, stroking the length of his cock, kitten-licking the tip before suddenly taking him halfway in her mouth.

There she is. Kneeling between his legs, naked for him to see with the wild braid pushed to one side and her head tilted to grant him the perfect view of the cheekbone and plump lips that surround his shaft that is glistening with her spit. There is nothing more Loki wants to do than gaze upon the sight, but [Y/N] swirls her tongue with expertise and hollows her cheeks to create the right amount of suction, causing his mind to boggle and his head to fall back. An entrancing harmony between her hands and mouth brings him to staggering heights, and the god nearly topples over as a purring hum vibrates between the two of them. With a flash, he grabs her by the hair and yanks the prettily flushed face away, earning him a squeak and a playful pout.

“Have to…too close…” The words do not come easily and fail him completely as his eyes rove over her body.

…   READER’s PoV   …

Loki’s eyes are dark and desperate, burning trails across your skin without missing any details. Experimentally, you move your hand to you needy womanhood, slipping a few fingers between the fold to test both your wetness and his reaction. They come back up glistening with arousal, sweet and sour on your tongue as you lick it off without breaking eye contact with the king.

Next thing you know, you are on your back across the desk (its contents clattering onto the floor with no regard for any potential damage) with Loki’s face buried between your legs. If you thought his fingers were able to conjure magic it is nothing compared to his tongue as it slithers around your sensitive nub, adding the ideal amount of pressure again and again, only breaking away to find the entrance to your core now and then. More.

“Oh, god!”

Your back arches off the wood, and he hums victoriously while pressing you back down with a large hand on your abdomen. Long fingers delve into you, challenging the tightness as you feel your insides clamp onto them, hungry for the friction. More. The burning heat of your core creates a sharp contrast to Loki’s cold, making it possible to feel every little thing he does, heightening each sensation and sending waves of pleasure rolling through your body. More. Licks, nibbles, and sucking creates a storm within that drives you to the edge. Moans are mixed with pleas. Words come out staccato, broken with the ecstasy the god is conjuring for you.

“My king!” The breathless scream is the last warning before your orgasm hits you hard.

He lets you ride the high on his hands, stilling his movements without removing the pressure on your clit or in your pulsating core. Only as you begin to breathe freely again does he pull away with a hazy smile on his lips, and you know that you are not the only one to find release despite the restrictive conditions.

Not for the first time, it amazes you how easily he can lift you onto his lap although your body is too spent to assist in the transition. It is in his arms that you regain control of your limbs as the shivering high dissipates and turns into a drowsy content, sated for the time being.

“[Y/N], my pet,” Loki murmurs into your hair, sending shiver down you spine, “I do believe you have bested me today.”

The smile you flash him is broad and lazy until you see the serious expression he is sporting. What did I do wrong? Wracking your brain, only one thing comes to mind straight away and you know it cannot be that, because since the very first day, it has vexed him that your way of addressing him was not the one he had dictated…until now. You had not planned to call him your own king. It had just…happened, and astoundingly so without any regrets. So what is it?

“There is no more I can teach you in preparation for the quest you have chosen,” the god explains, his words working like a bucket of cold water to you mind, “so listen carefully, my mortal. It is your choice whether you wish to continue down the road you have chosen or if you would rather stay in the safety of Utgard. I will not lie and tell you that your offer of spying on your- on the king of Midgard and his court is unnecessary. Any information, any weakness leading me to the proverbial head of the snake is of value.”

You are not sure what kind of reptile a proverbial snake is, but the meaning of Loki’s words are still abundantly clear. He needs you to become a spy in Sjöblik. More importantly, however (and this is something you have spent countless nights contemplating about): the Midgardians need the endless warmongering to end. You have seen it, lived it. The hunger, the loss of loved ones that only leave hollowed souls behind. And for what? Only a select group seem to gain anything from the constant misery they force upon the nation.

“I won’t break my promise.” Calm [Y/E/C] finds his emeralds, sees the flicker of pain before it is buried by pride. “There’s no way I can hide here, allow things to continue the way they have on the expense of the common folk. My people.”

“It will lead in the king’s death.”

“He’s not my king,” you challenge, “you are.”

Loki’s lips crash with yours, desperate to memorize the taste as tongues wrestle for dominance that none of you want to give up. You both know the implications of this moment, understand that time might be running out.

[happytroopers]

Waterloo

Mamma Mia!AU pt.2

So originally this was anout rex bout now its about dogma sorry 

One performance was enough to leave you breathless, but three songs later, there was nothing you craved more than your awaiting drink with Dogma. Regardless, you sang and danced your heart out to every song, keenly aware of a certain set of eyes on you the entire time. Finally, the night calmed down as soldiers started stumbling out.

Finishing your last song of the night, you slumped as the lights went dim. Stumbling down the bar, you draped yourself across the trooper- giggling at how he tensed up at the contact and breathing a thanks as he pulled you up a stool.

“I’m exhausted just watching you, you should drink some water so you don’t get dehydrated.” He told you, shoving another water into your hands. You took it quickly, relishing the cold drink as you gulped it down.

Watching you with a small smile, he took in the way the colored lights hit the tiny beads of sweat on your forehead, making you shimmer— as if the body glitter didn’t already have that effect— and tried to ignore the foremost thoughts he had about your heaving chest. He was a respectful man, but he was a couple drinks in and you were exceptionally gorgeous.

Finally, you finished off the water, and turned towards him with a flushed grin, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I was entertained.” He shrugged. You couldn’t tell if he was awkward or not interested in you. 

You tilted your head playfully, trying to think of anything to continue the conversation. But instead of something flirty and cool, you ended up cringing as you lead with, “So you come here often?”

Dogma chuckled but didn’t comment as your cheeks reddened. “Only when my vode force me. I’m glad they did though. You?”

“I’m glad they did, too.” You grinned, resting your chin on your hand, “I’ve been here once or twice before, but this was my first performance here.”

The conversation went on and on, covering every topic under the sun— occasionally finding excuses to touch each other. You’d place a hand on his bicep while laughing or he’d cautiously brush some hair out of your face.

Without even realizing it, you’d chatted the night away— the only interruptions were Rosie and Keehla leaving.  The conversation didn’t stop until the security droid alerted you that y’all HAD to leave now.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hold you up so long.” You admitted. He was quick to stop you apologies.

“It was the best night I’ve had in a long time, ma’am.” He assured you, offering you a hand. You took it as you got up, but apparently sitting down for so long took a toll on you- or maybe it was the pumps, but you stumbled as soon as you stood. Fortunately, he was quick to catch you against his chest, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“I gotcha.” He assured you, steadying you, “May I walk you home? It’s late and I’d hate for something to happen to you.”

“I’d appreciate it.” You smiled, still against his chest, holding contact with his eyes. This time it was the bartender who interrupted.

“Listen! You don’t gotta go home, but ya’ can’t stay here. Get lost!” The grumpy drink maker growled, waving a towel at the two of you. This only caused a bout of laughter from you and a quiet apology from Dogma as you sauntered out of the bar and into the night. You felt a little more ridiculous out in the streets with your performance attire, but Coruscant’s night crowd didn’t seem to mind. For the longest, you walked with your bag swinging between his and your legs.

“Do you think you could put your bag on your other shoulder?” Dogma requested, looking over to you. You threw him a sideways glance, furrowing your eyebrows.

“May I ask why?” You asked as you complied, steadying the bag on your other shoulder. He smiled as he moved a little closer, his fingertips brushing yours now.

“Well, this way, the hand closest to me falls naturally, allowing me to nonchalantly begin spontaneously taking your hand.” He explained, once again lightly grazing your hand with his. You threw your hand back laughing, taking his hand in yours.

“Or you could just ask to hold my hand?” You teased, leaning closer into his side. Dogma’s cheeks turned so red, they almost shined through the ink of his tattoo, but nevertheless, he began tracing circles on your hand with his thumb as your trek continued.  

Finally, after ten more blocks and a train ride- the entire time you slowly getting him to open up, the two of you were giggling in front of your apartment’s door, shushing each other in fear of rousing your neighbors. You were leaning against the door, while Dogma had propped himself in front of you, one arm right above your head and the other absentmindedly playing with the hem of you bell-sleeve. “Not to sound forward, but are you roommates home yet?”

If anyone else had said it, you would have scoffed, but the way he asked made it sound like he genuinely cared for your safety. Regardless, your cheeks flushed as you shook your head, “Rosie left with one of your friends and Keehla always stumbles to her boyfriend’s place after a few drinks. So just me, I guess.”

“Will you be alright? Here by yourself, I mean?” He asked, once again brushing some of your hair from your face. You grinned, taking his hand in yours.

“I’m a big girl, Dogma, believe it or not, I can handle myself.” You chastised him, watching with a mischievous smirk as his shoulders dropped, “Buttttttt,  I wouldn’t mind some company if you wanted to come sit a spell.”

He immediately perked back up, a surprised smile growing as you laughed. Before he could answer though, a disgruntled voice muffled through the wall, “Perfect, now go inside and SHUT UP.”

The two of you stifled laughs as you pulled him inside. You shoved him to the couch as you went to the kitchen, kicking off your boots along the way. He declined your offer for food, but you brought him caf anyways. Folding yourself into the seat beside him, you once again smiled at him, shaking your head as he nervously scooted closer.

“Not to change the subject, but I was thinking, maybe we could discuss the pros and cons,, of me- uhh-  spending the night… here.. With you.” The Captain stuttered out, looking over to you. If you had a drink you would have choked on it.

“THAT,” You started loudly, almost through a laugh as you searched for words, “was.. Uhhmm… brazen…”

Desperately trying to remedy it, he sputtered out, “Well, from where I’m sitting, there are very few-- if any-- disadvantages aside from it being against regulations, but Jesse and Hardcase and well everyone said-”

Trying to save him, and yourself, from any more embarrassment, you interrupted him, “We barely know each other, we’ve only just met!”

“Well, there is two other… tiny reasons… maybe do me a huge favor… I’m shipping out in the day after tomorrow- on a really dangerous mission- and.. And it’d be my first time…” He trailed off, leaving you both embarrassed. You tried to overcome your habit of nervous laughter as you just blankly stared at him, trying to find a response to that.

“Dogma…” You drug out, going with the first words that came to mind, “You’re kidding?”

“Well, it's not exactly a thing I say to make me look cool.” He sighed, looking at you hopefully, those angel eyes still tugging at your heartstrings. Regardless, you still shook your head.

“Dogma,” the way you drawled it out, he already didn’t like your tone, “Again, we just met tonight! We barely know each other, and your leaving soon- is it really the best time?”

“I know, I know, it’s just that I’m always hearing ‘when you know, you know’, and I feel like when I’m with you… I know.” He rambled, watching you begin to get up. He caught your wrist.

“My, my

At Waterloo Napoleon did surrender

Oh yeah, and I have met

My destiny in quite a similar way.”

He began, tugging you close to his chest before continuing.

“The history book on the shelf

Is always repeating itself

Waterloo, I was defeated, you won the war

Waterloo, promise to love you for evermore”

He declared, spinning you away and hitting the button on your stereo flooding the apartment with music. Shaking your head, you sighed.

“Waterloo, couldn't escape if I wanted to

Waterloo, knowing my fate is to be with you

Woh, woh, woh, woh

Waterloo, finally facing my Waterloo

My, my

I tried to hold you back

But you were stronger

Oh yeah, and now it seems

My only chance is giving up the fight”

You conceded as you offered a hand to him, letting him wrap arms around your waist and sway with your back to his chest. You almost fell over laughing as his grip loosened. You climbed on top of the coffee table swaying to your stereo as you continued.

“And how could I ever refuse?

I feel like I win when I lose

Waterloo, I was defeated, you won the war”

Taking a knee, he held his arms up to you, over doing all the motions as he continued.

“Waterloo, promise to love you for ever more!”

Mid-declaration he jumped to his feet, lifting you up by the waist, spinning you around, and laughing along with your giggles.

“Waterloo, couldn't escape if I wanted to”

You yelped a laugh as he set you down, the captain following your lead with the footwork, but pulling you into his chest when he stumbled.

“Waterloo, knowing my fate is to be with you”

He finished as he twirled you around one last time, but this time your feet got tangled with his, getting caught on the leg of the coffee table.

“Woh, woh, woh, woh

Waterloo, finally facing my Waterloo”

As gravity took over, the pair of you toppled to the sofa-- yelping when it rocked--, but immediately silencing when your lips met in the chaos. You gasped and met his eyes, sliding your arms around his neck, and

dot. dot. dot.

 again sorry this sucks, your gonna have to tell me if I should even continue this

[weakzen]

Inexorable

The Watcher attempts to mitigate the effects of Vatnir's chime with a cipher spell. Rymrgand has opinions on her efforts.

Pairing: Aloth x Watcher Rating: T Spoilers: Beast of Winter DLC & Pallegina's Deadfire quest

AO3 version

She began to strip before the door latched shut behind her.

First, her jerkin and boots dropped to the floor. Then her tunic. Her trousers. Her socks and her smallclothes. All of them fell in a trail behind her as she shambled forward, until she stood nude before the bed.

He snapped his book shut as she approached, inhaling and leaning back as she climbed atop him, but even he didn't stop her momentum. She continued over him, rolling ungracefully to the side, and toppled facedown into the mattress.

A satisfied, muffled sigh escaped her lips as she lay there and finally closed her eyes.

The bed was comfortable, as was the cool air drifting in through the window. And the linen sheets were deliciously soft against her skin. Her body felt so… heavy, amidst it all. Every part of her. Like she could sink through the mattress, pierce the sheets, and fall into something wonderful, maybe—if it weren't for the headache pinning her in place.

Somewhere in the past half-decade, she'd actually acclimated to the dull and chronic malaise that came with focus deprivation, but she'd never experienced it this acutely. The throbbing ache, the fatigue, the vague dizziness and nausea, all of it felt more like the crash that followed ascension, except her crashes never lasted longer than a few moments.

Or, at least, they hadn't before.

She heard the book gently thump onto the side table, then felt Aloth shift next to her. His hand settled onto her back and rubbed circles in the curve of her lower spine.

“Busy evening again?”

“Not really,” she muttered into the sheets. After a moment, she summoned the strength to flop herself over and stretch out her limbs, yawning deeply as her joints cracked. She exhaled, then collapsed into a heap. “I'm just… tired.”

“So I've noticed.”

A weak grin pulled at her lips as she glanced at him.

“Oh yeah? What else have you been noticing?”

“Only the obvious,” he said flatly, giving her a ticklish pinch that made her squirm. The corners of his mouth curled upwards briefly before pressing into a frown. “This isn't the first time this week I've seen you like this. I'm becoming a bit concerned.”

“And here I always thought you liked it when I slept naked.”

“I was speaking of your exhaustion,” he said, rolling his eyes. He gave her a pointed look, though color still bloomed across his cheeks. “You've seemed… off, lately, ever since we set sail from the iceberg. When you're not above deck staring at the ocean for hours, you're collapsing into bed, too tired to talk or keep up with your meditations.”

“Amongst other things,” she added, her grin widening.

“Well, yes, but—” His flush deepened. “That's not really what I'm worried about.”

Seraphina chuckled and rolled on her side to face him. “Then what are you worried about? Besides my obvious exhaustion.”

He glanced away.

“Nothing really, just…” he began, then trailed off. A sigh of resignation sounded in his throat and he looked back to her. “Well, I've noticed you holding Vatnir's hands a lot lately, too.”

She raised her eyebrows, then her torso began to quiver with silent laughter.

“What, are you jealous, Aloth?”

“I'm not sure.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Should I be?”

“I don't know. You tell me.” She smiled herself then, biting her lip as she slid her hand to his jaw and caressed his cheek with her thumb. “Who, exactly, am I in bed with again—even if I am too tired to show my appreciation and give him a proper tumble?”

He rolled his eyes again, this time in fondness, amusement pulling at his mouth and softening his features. Then, he cupped her face and pressed his lips to hers, rolling her onto her back as he leaned over her. Her arms curled around him and her hand twined in his hair. She pulled him closer and, for a long moment, they kissed each other softly, until he broke away to nuzzle his face against her own.

“…Is everything okay, at least?” he asked quietly.

“As okay as it ever is,” she whispered back, tugging at the sheet between them. “Would be better, though, if I were under there with you.”

He smiled against her, then pulled back, enough so that she could slip under the sheets and cuddle into him. To her delight and amusement, he wasn't wearing anything either.

“Feeling a little warm tonight or something?” she teased, offering him a mischievous grin as she ran her hands over him.

“Only when you're around.”

He gave her a sly, knowing smile and she chuckled, then settled her head in the crook of his shoulder. Her eyes fell shut and she sighed contentedly as they lay together.

“…Nothing's wrong, Aloth,” she said softly, after a few moments. “I've just been… trying something new. A cipher experiment, I guess.”

“Oh?” His breath tickled against her forehead.

“Yeah. Ever since we left the Void, I've been wondering if there was anything I could do about Vatnir's chime. Not removing it or severing it, I mean, but I thought it might be possible to mitigate its effects and give him some relief, at least.”

He inclined his head. “How so?”

“An extensive, modified pain block, essentially. I've been testing different variations on him almost every evening.” She pursed her lips, her mind briefly wandering to the variables she hadn't yet implemented. “…I'm still tweaking it right now, though. But, I figure once I get it just right, it'll be easy to apply when I'm ascended and it should last for quite a while from there, a few days if I can manage it. Long enough, anyway, that I shouldn't need to pull from my own reserves anymore to apply it.”

“Given the frequency of which we seem to find ourselves imperiled, I suspect that won't be an issue,” he said dryly. “Has it been effective, in any case?”

“I think so?” She shrugged. “His essence hasn't changed, unsurprisingly, but he says he can actually sleep through the night now, and that it hurts less when he coughs and moves around. He thinks some of his wounds might've begun to heal, too.”

Aloth hummed quietly. “He has seemed a bit livelier as of late, come to think of it. I even saw him eating at the table with everyone in the mess the other day, rather than sitting in the corner.”

She smiled. “That's good to hear.”

“Well, it's good of you to help him.”

Heat flushed across her face and she fidgeted uncomfortably.

“I suppose. I know I'm not really fixing anything, not permanently.” She paused for a moment, biting her lip. “…Pallegina and I also talked to him about what she did to her chime. And I've offered to take him to Giacolo's new lab, more than once, but… he's ambivalent about going that far. He said I shouldn't be pushing him to do it either, when I haven't even had it done myself.

“I know it wasn't kind of me,” she continued, “but I laughed in his face when he said that. I asked him why I would need to cut my chime before he does, when the worst thing I have to suffer is that stupid joke people make about whether or not I can actually see anything. I told him that my body wasn't the one decaying alive, that my chime wasn't causing me constant pain—and that he didn't have to accept or endure a lifetime of that either, regardless of what his so-called father said.”

She sighed again, long and wearily as her temples continued to throb.

“Rymrgand's 'gift' is nothing but abusive fucking cruelty.”

Aloth pressed his cheek against her head and rubbed her back. “I don't think there are many kith, alive or dead, who would disagree. But I doubt that would sway him from ensnaring any more mortals with his chime.”

“Yeah, well—why would it?” She huffed in disgust. “After all, we mortals are nothing more than pointless dust, right? Hard to care about dust, I guess, especially when it refuses to wipe away cleanly, and insists that it has an important purpose—”

A sharp crack whipped across the cabin from behind them.

They both startled upright, her lethargy and pain forgotten as she reached for the knife beneath her pillow. She turned to locate the source of the noise, only to find a few splintering, jagged lines spreading across a pane of glass, like something had struck the window. A second fracture snapped loudly a few panes over. Then a third, then more, until violent, sonorous crackling overwhelmed the cabin and the temperature began to rapidly plummet.

Pocks of frozen crystal burst from the walls and ceiling and floor. Rime surged from them, coating the timber and carpet in ice. Her knife burned frigidly hot in her hand and she tossed it away. Next to her, Aloth barely managed to abandon his grimoire before smoking frost encased it whole. She scrambled for the covers then, pulling them up and around her body. But even the blankets weren't spared the incessant freeze, and they soon became a prison of stiff, crusted folds trapping the both of them against an even colder mattress.

Across the room, she caught a glimpse of ghostly, sparkling hoar coating everything before their lantern, too, succumbed to the cold and guttered out.

In the darkness, she and Aloth gasped next to each other. His arms snaked around her and pulled her roughly against him, and hers followed in turn, wrapping around his waist and under the shelter of hair covering his neck. She twined her legs between his and he squeezed back tightly. Plumes of fleeting warmth billowed past their lips as they breathed heavily and shivered into one another.

The snap of ice slowed to intermittent popping and, beneath it, something rumbled almost imperceptibly. The vibration increased rapidly, intensifying to a shrill and piercing wail that lanced into her skull like a needle. Pain exploded across her temples and a burst of white flooded her vision. Distantly, she heard Aloth call her name as she cried out, but she couldn't form the words to speak in response. Her eyes scrunched shut around the feel of knife blades and her head pounded so violently even her teeth and horns hurt. Sweat began to prickle across her skin and her stomach lurched with sickness. In desperation, she scraped at her meager focus reserves and scrambled to subdue her panic, pushing her mind into a rough flatness to ready her powers.

But, to her horror, as she blinked open her mind's eye to use them, something overwhelming and impossibly sharp rushed forward to stab it shut.

Should I wipe you away now, Watcher?

Fresh agony seared her mind while Rymrgand's unmistakable voice cracked across her consciousness. It resonated deeply, shuddering and groaning like a colossal sheet of ice straining to keep its hold on a glacier. Aloth squeezed her tighter and she knew he heard it too. The noise rumbled through her for a long, excruciating moment until it eventually calved. As it splintered and fell away, so too did some of her pain, enough that she could speak again.

“Well,” she gasped, her heart thumping wildly. “Think I could probably clump into one of Eora's weirder-looking dust bunnies, if you let me roll around a while longer.” She briefly clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering, then swallowed hard. “I meant what I said too. Your gift is cruelty.”

And your efforts with my progeny are a misguided act of futility. You expend your limited energy and hasten your decline in exchange for nothing, as you readily admit yourself. Yet, you persist, knowing the only place your exertion truly leads is to your own gradual destruction.

Your self-diminution in this regard is… exquisite.

Something shifted in her then, a sense of blinding sunlight on the snow mingled with pleasure.

She blinked.

“Uh, thanks?”

I will permit you to continue your endeavor, to your end or to those you would wrest essence from instead. But you will do so with the knowledge that I will reclaim what is mine from Vatnir should he ever attempt to sever my chime.

The pounding in her head increased, pressing into one continuous ache as the implication hit her.

“You'll kill him? Is that what you mean?”

No.

His death would only be an incidental effect.

Aloth exhaled against her neck. “So either Vatnir lives with the pain or somebody else does,” he mumbled.

Entropy is inexorable. Any fleeting reprieve from it demands a sacrifice. To stave off pain, you must invoke the suffering of something else.

That is your entire existence.

“What's your existence, then?” she rasped. “What are you staving off through his suffering? You're a god. Nothing forced you to put your chime in him. You could have spared him the pain you know it causes, but you didn't.”

I will spare him. Eventually. In the meantime, who will receive temporary reprieve and whose suffering will provide it is a concern I leave you to decide.

Ultimately, it matters not.

She whimpered as the pain cinched around her head and began to crush inward. Her eyes watered and every breath of dry, cold air she took scraped her throat and lungs. It was becoming hard to move, hard to speak, or even think, but it was more difficult than anything else to remain silent.

“…Okay, entropy will claim everything someday. Fine. So what? We're still here, until then, alive before the Wheel turns again. This flash of existence is all we'll ever have, all we'll ever know, and that makes what we choose to do during it the only thing that matters. On our scale, your ending is just as meaningless and unimportant to us as our mortal lives are to you.”

Something shifted in her again, vague contempt while a gale blasted at a mountainside.

You are, undoubtedly, Berath's spawn. Only one of their brats could possess such a shackled understanding of life and death.

“And only a god made from the souls of the most nihilistic Engwithans could think his view of impermanency is the only one that's valid.”

It is the only one that will endure, and even I can appreciate that irony.

An amused snort escaped her nose.

“Well, I hope your ending is the everything and the nothing you want it to be, when it finally comes.” She closed her eyes and buried her face in Aloth's neck. He hugged her tighter and she did her best to return it with her numbing hands. “I'm gonna use my scrap of time to keep helping the people around me,” she muttered. “I don't care if it doesn't last, or if I don't benefit from it myself—it's still always worth it to do right by others and slowly build towards a better world.”

Something shifted in her once more, an avalanche of laughter tumbling free to roar destructively down a slope.

Your better world is littered with the corpses of kith who professed similar sentiments, whose proud words failed to survive even the meager duration of their individual lives. I look forward to seeing how quickly time will erode those same lofty ideals in you as well, Watcher.

Until then, I will be keeping an eye on you.

Seraphina and Aloth flinched as a soul-piercing crack sliced across the room. Their lantern flickered back to life and the ice covering everything splintered, shattered, then disintegrated into powdery vapor, filling the cabin with a fine mist that smelled of ozone and decay. The temperature steadily climbed as it dissipated, until the air returned to that of balmy, tropical night. Cold still lingered in the sheets, however, and in their trembling bodies, the last, deteriorating evidence that something had ever been amiss.

Aloth sighed, then slumped against her. She absently rubbed his back while he shook his head and stroked hers in turn. As warmth prickled painfully back into her hands and feet, whatever sharpness had lodged into her mind's eye melted away too, rolling a sense of frigid wetness across the crown of her head. Only when she shivered from it, and let loose the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, did she notice that all of her pain and fatigue had vanished as well.

She wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

“So… just the one eye then, huh? Not all five?”

“Seraphina…”

“Bet he always will be watching, too,” she muttered. “You know, just to satisfy his obsession with length and duration, not 'cause he's a pervert or anything.”

“Please,” Aloth said against her skin. “What is the one thing I asked you not to do anymore?”

She sighed and leaned away to look at him.

“Sass the gods.”

“And what are you doing right now?”

“Sassing the gods, I know. I'm sorry. I'll stop.”

“Thank you.”

Aloth pulled her back to him and nuzzled his face into her neck as they held each other.

“…He's still a jerk, though,” she added a moment later. “And don't give me that look, 'cause even he admits—”

She yelped loudly and suddenly then, squirming against him while he trapped her with one of his arms.

“Admits what?” he asked innocently.

“Your hand is— So! Cold!”

“Not for long, it isn't.” He gave her a sly smile. “I'm only warm when you're around, remember?”

She laughed, shook her head, and kissed him.

Notes:

Thank you to @alwaysashroomsman for the idea of a cipher using the Pain Block spell on Vatnir <3

[hubbellreviews]

USA Today published an article this morning that peaked my interest. An article that I will link at the bottom of this post. It was a poll that inquired amongst a diverse group of Americans of how they felt about America. The poll split the audience into three categories; Liberal, Democrat, and Independent, after asking them two interesting questions.

The USA Today poll results via USA Today

  As you can expect to see, the results find that Republicans are more cheery about the state of America while their political counterpart, the Democrats feel the opposite. Independents had a troubling time it seems to conclude either or, and that to me is a sign of healthy thinking.

  I occasionally see on social media a comment along the lines of “why does it have to be political?” I figure that this would be one of those cases, and so be it. I thought the poll was interesting but perhaps it was concentrated too particular on politics. There comes a time when, perhaps, the world will become too thwarted by identity politics that no progress will be made. But we are humans, and life is too enigmatic. We utilize metaphors, common vernacular, stereotypes, and assumption to alleviate some of the complexities of life; and specifically, the troubles caused by the communities we live in.

  In that regard, the communities we live in might give us a transparent look into the psyche of Americans. We all have our social circles; the social media community, our family, friends and the like. We might not be able to solve everything in one sweep, but I thought it would be interesting to inquire amongst the people I know, and perhaps even the people my colleagues know more than I.

  I did not intend to go too in depth on any particular subject but was curious if there was some sort of correlation between our upbringings and our perspectives on the current state of America. I did not direct the answers politically nor towards my particular bias.

  It is not often I look towards people to understand a problem. I have the proclivity for reading a book, a movie, a show to find the solutions. I think I am inclined to find it an easier journey because art soothes me. I have a penchant for the artists who can carry a reader on the wheels of deep themes and motifs that chronicle the inarticulate parts of life. If I am curious about love and the tragedies thereof, I can read the works of Fitzgerald. If I want to understand the complexities of social psychology through short stories that are almost prophetic and before their time, I can read Herman Melville’s work. If these don’t work, I typically introspect and I have found this process does not work as effectively as I’ve encountered more mature problems, questions, and achievements.

  I began my journey with someone I probably feel most comfortable around. I was intrigued by the possibility that he might oppose some of my views.

Cameron and his mother via Lynn Peters’ Facebook

Cameron Peters, a rather close friend of mine since middle school, although more so in our high school years, finds America to be divided. He adumbrated our political climate as something like a scenario of “you are either with us or against us.” He believes this can be attributed, at least partly, to social media; “a political leader on the left or right can tweet out a certain platform and the ‘rest of us’ usually agree(s) with and run with it no matter the side,” he said.

  According to Peters though, America has its silver linings even amidst the divided political atmosphere, extant and very much growing even with our understanding of the situation. He believes there are freedoms in America.

  “I describe the best of America being the freedoms that we have to not only live the way that we choose but also to have discussions about things like this that would be taboo in many countries,” he said.  

  As bad as I believe Trump is I believe our political structures will always be greater than any individual or group- we will bounce back like we always do and I think things will definitely get better starting with these midterms. But that’s what’s great about America in my opinion; if you don’t like something we always have a voice and a vote guaranteed to us,” Peters said.

  Peters, when asked of his upbringing, expressed his expectations that I would be surprised by some details. He said he was granted many freedoms growing up, save a few punishments by way of a belt or a paddle.

  “I never had bedtimes, curfews, or any of that other stuff because they knew I had the personality that I wouldn’t do anything too crazy anyway,” Peters said.

  My friend continued, expressing his “very” liberal upbringing, even though his mother and father were stark in contrast politically. He also added this, in accordance with the political points he was making;

  “Also I think it’s worth noting that I never talked politics with my dad or any other family member for the first 17 or 18 years of my life or so,” Peters said.

  In regards to religion, his upbringing consisted of Christian values yet never settled in a particular church.  His family’s evanescent behavior when it comes to picking a church, has come with some guilt. He hasn’t been to church in some time though, and in regards to that, he has this to say:

  “Personally I haven’t been to Church since I left Elevation which I feel bad about but I still read the Bible and pray daily so it’s still very important to me, personally,” Peters concluded.

  My friend has always brought to the table interesting points. He has a mind to do so, and if he is not in the gregarious mood, he would always have the attentiveness to care for another person’s views. I think that he, much like myself, thinks the world consists of perspective. We, of course, are vexed by that fact, because we want to focus on an issue at hand and live in the moment. I think we should live in the moment, but the world has perhaps lost a sense of what defines a moment. The political climate is too vitriolic, too black and white to define progress.

  I, like my friend, was instructed to live by Christian values as a young boy. I too also had that transient Christian lifestyle; the “church hoppers,” as the community calls us. I think that my Christian values gave me a grounding of right from wrong but my life has gone beyond the religious ties which feel more like indoctrination than a healthy community. I am therefore against organized religion but am in favor of the morals and independence in taking ownership of our responsibilities Christianity and perhaps others, teaches its followers. Please do not take this as a protest against your beliefs, and heed this instead; whatever is satiable, or gives you happiness please continue that course, unless it endangers others.

  I think though, our religion has a say in our perspective of politics and specifically the state of America as it is currently. I also think that the free space for youthful adventures, whatever they may be, granted for Cameron as a youth a chance to ground himself. I think this contributes to his vision of the world.

  In regards to the dearth of political discussion between his father and himself growing up, I have a similar experience. I think it would be interesting to go back and see what courses my perspective on this current state of America would be if I had to discover and discuss politics earlier. I think a discussion with the ones we love, in any sort, is conducive to a mature view of the world and yourself.

  I have just recently begun to discuss politics with my family, and especially my dad. My father and I, are in the same boat as my friend and his father politically. His Republican values were interesting to me, but we all hold our cards to our chest. Those cards might vary by individual but for my friend and me, it was politics. It was a charitable discussion. I disagreed with his points during some moments but denied myself of hasty characterizations.

  I figured my father did not find me ignorant and gives me respect for my views, and I should follow suit. So I did, and have in the few discussions that have followed. It seems politics is a touchy subject that is a ticking bomb for many. If we separate this stigma from the truth that political discussion brings a potential for growth, even within the family, we could grow one individual, and perhaps even one family at a time.

  Although that was an interesting perspective by my friend, one perspective is never enough. The journey continues.

Vanessa Nodes and my mother during a trip to the mountains this Summer. Image via Marissa Hubbell’s Facebook

Vanessa Nodes, a friend of my mothers whose amiability has been expressed a few times to me. She has always seemed like a charitable person in my mother’s life, and in that regard, it makes sense that they are so close.

  Nodes sees America as a place of both diversity and opportunity, something analogous to the “Districts in Hunger Games,” as she goes on to expatiate saying; “So many who have a life of comfort while there is (a) struggle. It can be a chance for others to provide a place of safety for (a) family yet many are being killed because of our own stupidity.”

  Nodes thinks that America is troubling itself over things that can be changed. She believes that America has lost a sense of perspective and pride.

  “There is a loss of pride about our country and that’s because so many are looking at why their life is unfair. It reminds me of a box sitting on a broken chair. The chair is America. The box is so full it’s about to topple but the chair is going to break anyway. Things have shifted and the largest problem we face is mental illness. It’s the root of every issue,” Nodes said.

  Even though Nodes believes our country is spirited with freedoms and opportunity, we aren’t taking advantage of them. The best of America is simply being obfuscated by our own doings; we are not seeing enough of the poor to appreciate the rich lives we could live. “Many can’t see this because they haven’t traveled to poor areas. This breeds entitlement and we as a society feel we are owed. It’s the land of freedom but has also become the land of ” rights” where people believe it is their right to things and beliefs and I don’t think that mindset existed 50 years ago,” Nodes said.

  There is a paradox at play, according to Nodes; a place of systems in place to keep us protected from loss is a country that is increasingly more impossible to live out the potential we have.

  “The best of America is the America that allows people to live, breathe, have choices, not worry about life because there will always be a system in place to help. The best of America comes from those before us that put things in place to have peace of mind….unemployment, food stamps, even Medicaid. It’s the system that allows us to not worry about our livelihood at 70 but the same system has made it impossible to live realistically,” Nodes said.

  I can’t help myself in thinking that this perspective of America is originated or at least enriched by her upbringing. I thought her words were trenchant and therefore felt no reason why I should synthesize any of it, as it would be a shame for an audience to be blind to her whole story.

  “My upbringing, (was) a blend of immigrant culture and Born and raised Northeastern American small town culture. I remember being very aware in the 80s my parent’s relationship was taboo. Especially in History classes, learning about protests and understanding my background and culture was root to that and vital to that became something I carried and was almost ashamed. My dad worked so hard to provide us the white picket fence, a good school, a good life but there is always this stigma. People talking and stopping mid-sentence when my parents were together. This made me very aware of how fortunate I was as an American and how lucky my dad was. He told me the story of his coming to America off the Naval ship. He was hosed down by American Soldiers. Like an animal. He being military himself ( he wasn’t part of the Viet Cong/ communist regime but the democratic military in Vietnam) it was a hard thing to process. Understanding he was in a place with so much opportunity but these are his first impressions. Nonetheless, my dad was proud to be here, blessed and always talked about America like it was the land that provided him with so much. Our home listened to the news daily, they were voters and I grew up hearing about all the good that America has to offer. This has a lot to do with the fact that most of my dads family was left behind in a poor Country. I was raised to be proud to be who I was, proud to be American and just like it was a land of opportunity for my dad it should be for others,” Nodes said.

  My mother, someone who has exercised her emotional capacities and mental fortitude through the tribulations life has lent her this year, remembers her father who has recently passed. In response to the answers expressed by her friend Vanessa Nodes:

  “She makes some amazing points, many I agree with. Her childhood was completely different than mine. Pop worked his ass off as he grew up poor to provide stability, opportunity, and experience for myself and my siblings,” my mother said over text message,” my mother said.  

  It will take me awhile to wrap my head around these points but it seems the world is a myriad of perspectives that can either choose to avoid or listen to. I think that I can do heaps more from listening than interrupting the progress that we all want to see.

  I have had an interesting Summer that began with the death of my grandfather. His dog waned and eventually was put down just a few weeks ago. Even though these were insurmountably tall mountains of inscrutable fear and confusion, the troubles began much earlier for my family when a family member committed suicide and sent shockwaves just a year ago.

My cousin Chris Kellison, who ended his life a year ago is pictured here via his Facebook. I have vague memories of Chris but the best impressions I can gather of Chris’s legacy is from his family who feels his absence. He was and forever will be definitely loved. 

My grandmother sits many moments during this Summer on the couch. I am spending the Summer with her but she is accompanied by many more visitors than I. She has been visited by guilt, happiness, depression, heartache. The mercurial fight of emotions continues as the memories cycle within her mind. She has many moments where she remains reticent, entrapped in her own prison of the past. I love her very much and it is terribly troubling to see the world seem so dour to someone. What I have learned from this journey through “the state of America,” and the experience with my grandmother is to listen. During his final years on this planet, my grandfather had settled his world in the unstable grounds of his own head. He listened to the depressed psyche frolicking within. I wish and wish even more every day that I had taken advantage of the time I had on this Earth with him. I did not listen enough to his words and the moments with him.

My grandmother on the far left. Image via Marissa Hubbell’s Facebook

My grandmother and grandfather, “Mimi and Pops.” Image via Marissa Hubbell’s Facebook

Perhaps it is time we all turn our ears and attention to the small to fix the big. I can listen to my grandmother as she deals with her own world of depression. I can deal with my the responsibilities that involve my work, and do it to my best ability. I can listen to my mother and father. I can give an ear to all my brothers. I can keep in contact with the people who care for me. We do not win by avoiding the problems but listening to everyone at the table and doing our part, however small or terrifyingly large.

My grandfather with his cherished dog “Lexi.” Image via Suzanne Johnson’s Facebook

  USA Today link: https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/2018/07/02/poll-proud-american-july-4th-but-pride-america-less-so/747954002/

Featured image via Vox.com

America is slipping, or is it? A look into what people (whom I know) think and what I can gather from it. USA Today published an article this morning that peaked my interest. An article that I will link at the bottom of this post.

[fabermemorialrink]

some mistake, part 8

First part of chapter three! Also haha uh this is the last completed section of this fic, so I’m just going to leave it here for a while. I’m sorry!!! The next part is like 80% done, but I feel like this is a cleaner break point, because things turn weird again soon. But who knows! Maybe I’ll get it together for once and hammer out the rest! Anyway, thanks a million to all you beautiful people for reading!! You folks are the best.  ♥ ♥

The first thing Derek does after dumping his bag in the new room he now shares with C is take off for the rink, to see if the guys are around. Chowder wasn't in their room, which figures, since he's been back for a few days already, but neither is he in the lobby with Tango and the rest of the new sophomores, or lying in the grass with Rans and Holtzy in the spot Shitty and Johnson claimed for them when Derek was a wee, impressionable freshman.

Ford, who’s sporting a new pair of glasses and demolishing Whiskey in a game of Guess Who, tells him Chowder went to visit a townie friend, and Derek almost crashes through the lobby doors in his hurry to get to the woods. C must already be chilling with Dex, probably gorging themselves on Bitty’s pie or skipping rocks with Lardo and Tater, which would kinda suck since Derek doesn’t know how to find his way in there alone. He waves a casual goodbye to the others as Holster reminds him about their first team breakfast tomorrow, and takes off. He hasn't seen either of his best friends for over two months.

To his surprise, they aren’t deep in the forest when he locates them. They're perched on a low, thick branch near Derek’s hollow, swinging their feet and eating the syrupy ice pops that the nearby convenience mart sells by the box. Chowder’s lips are stained purple; he grins around the plastic tube dangling from his mouth, bringing up one hand to shield himself as Dex flicks red droplets of melted cherry popsicle at his face.

“Don't even think about it-”

“Thought you liked my freckles, C. Don’t you want to match?” Dex snaps his tube forward, spraying more cherry syrup in Chowder’s direction.

“Not with you, goblin man,” Chowder whines, dodging and ducking like he’s in the Matrix. He loses balance, flailing as he begins tipping backwards. Dex tries to save him, grabbing onto C’s sleeve as he topples backwards off the branch, but only manages to get himself dragged down too. They land in a squawking mess of limbs.

Derek whistles in appreciation, strolling up to them while they thrash around like beached squids. “I can’t believe you just let Chowder die,” he tsks.

“Yeah, what the hell! Dropping the ball, Dex.”

“Maybe if the ball had laid off on bag nachos for the summer I wouldn’t have dropped him.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Chowder laughs, slapping his arm across Dex’s chest. “My body is a temple, and I can fill it with twelve hundred bags of Fritos if I want.”

“Christ, Fritos are revolting, C. Nursey, teach this boy something about nutrition, would you?” Dex asks, staring upside down through his lashes at Derek, who grins down at him.

“You eat pie for dinner! Every day!” Chowder yells.

“What’s that? You loathe Bitty’s pies? You never want to taste another one again in your life? I dunno, this’ll really break his heart, but if you really feel that strongly about it…”

Chowder starts with a wail that warps into a battle cry as he leaps at Dex, who tries unsuccessfully to roll away. The noise he makes when C sinks his nails into his hips is unreal; if Derek ignores the stray laughter, it sounds like he’s being dragged to hell.

“Alright, break it up boys, break it up,” Derek says as Chowder begins a tickle offensive and Dex’s leg twitches like he might kick someone’s teeth in by accident. He pushes his way in between the two of them and nudges Dex away with a foot before sitting himself on top of Chowder’s ass, pinning him in place. Chowder kicks his legs, trying to oust Derek from his spot, but gives up, lying defeated in the underbrush.

“This is blatant favoritism,” Chowder grumbles. “I don’t see you crushing Dex with your steel quads.”

“Hey, if we’re talking favoritism, at least Dex lets you into the trees with him.” Every time Derek asks Dex to join him, Dex just flips him the bird and circles the tree like an unhinged coyote.

“That’s because I don’t want you to break your damn neck, you dipstick,” Dex says as he finally crawls off the ground. “And you’re only like 5’ 9”, so catching you is easier than-” He stops short when Derek stands. Derek, who after two years can look him in the eye without tilting his head upward. For some reason, though, he stares half a minute longer, the skin around his neck starting to grow a heated pink. “When the fuck did you get so- so,” and he waves his hand distractedly around Derek’s general person, “uh, tall?” The word falls from his lips like he intended to say something else, and he claps his mouth shut.

“Well, Dex, it was early on the morn of July 11th when I woke crunched up in my tiny bed like a giant in the land of the-”

“Alright, smartass, I get it.” He backs away from Derek, still rosy and flustered, and busies himself with helping Chowder off the ground.

When they're all finally situated, Derek reveals the gifts he brought back with him. The first item he throws in their direction is a humongous bag of cotton candy, which makes them both brighten to an unholy level.

“Didn't you just have popsicles?” he asks dubiously as Dex parcels out a clump to Chowder and lets a strand of the spun sugar dissolve on his tongue.

“Pssshh,” Chowder says.

“Aight, then hook me up too,” Derek says. He opens up his mouth expectantly as Dex reaches out to give him a handful. Reluctantly, Dex pushes the cotton candy past his lips, to rest on his tongue, then snatches his hand back, turning colors again. Super weird.

But Derek leaves him be, dividing up the rest of his souvenirs. Gloves and a shark-shaped tea infuser for C; a scarf and tiny lobster keychain for Dex.

“Trying to buy our affection again, Nursey?” Chowder teases after they thank him.

“Nah, you know I just notice stuff that reminds me of you guys,” Derek says casually. Dex gets awkward about accepting gifts that aren't food, having hang-ups about being indebted to people and wasting money, but Derek has slowly managed to convince him that none of these gifts carry any burden or expectation. He tries to keep them less expensive and more thoughtful, in order to make things easier for his friends.

“Crustaceans remind you of me,” is all Dex comments on, face unsure if it's amused or exasperated, and Derek breaks into a grin.

“Of course they do! Orange and crabby.”

Dex looks like he's about to try and put him in a headlock, so Derek dumps the rest of the bag at his feet. It’s a collection of books that Dex expressed interest in reading; from the surprised delight on his face when he peeks inside, Derek’s hit the mark.

“They're for you to keep, though I wrote in the margins of some, and they're all a little beat up- not that you don't deserve new books,” and now he's spinning in circles, trying to explain this without coming off as a cheap douchebag, “but I thought maybe you'd like to see what I thought? I mean, obviously you'll form your own opinions, but-”

“Nursey, stop. They're great. Thanks, for everything,” Dex says, warmth lacing his tone as he thumbs down the corner of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. His eyes flicker up to meet Derek’s, and they share a smile, leaving Derek feeling somewhere in between bizarre and normal.

He tries to forget about it, but Dex remains somewhat squirrely for the rest of the day, culminating in a really awkward clasp/hug when they depart for the evening. Chowder pulls Dex in for a hug, which runs smoothly as usual, but Derek holds his arms out until Dex brings it in and receives an uncomfortable chest-bump half-hug combo that fizzles out when they pull apart and Dex realizes he’s looking directly into Derek’s eyes. He scuttles back into the woods with a hasty goodbye, power-walking away with his arms full of books, leaving Derek to make baffled faces at Chowder on their walk home.

Derek is still stewing over it by tomorrow morning at team breakfast, when he's finally awake enough to ask Chowder what the deal was with yesterday.

“Dex is just worked up ‘cause you got taller and hotter over the summer!” Chowder tells him while inhaling cheerios. Derek almost stabs himself in the gums with his fork.

There were enough keywords in that sentence to grab Holster’s attention from all the way down the table, and he launches out of his seat to accost Derek while he chokes on his homefries.

"Nursey. Nurse. Derek, my bro, my precious d-man hatchling, what delightful news is this?!" Holster bellows, almost knocking Ollie out of his spot as he collides with the bench next to Derek. The plate of pancakes flies across the table like a frisbee, stopped only by Ford's quick hand, trained, no doubt, by hours and hours of expertly managing unruly wild-eyed theater kids.

Derek quits choking long enough to splutter out, "It's nothing, just Chowder being-"

"Nothing?!" comes the outraged rallying cry from Ransom, who crosses from the omelette station to their table in three long graceful bounds. He launches his plate aside to squeeze in next to Holster, which triggers a domino effect and squishes Whiskey to the very edge of the bench. The sophomore continues valiantly eating his toast as if he doesn’t have only half his butt on a solid surface.

"Sounds like way more than nothing to us!"

"Sounds like someone's getting a head start on winter formal, is what I'm thinking, Holtzy." Ransom says, looping his arm around Derek's shoulders and staring him down with his most intense co-captain stare.

"It sure does, bro."

Derek rips his eyes away from Ransom's hypnotic stare long enough to direct his glare at turncoat Christopher Chow, who continues smiling and vacuuming up cereal like he didn't just bodily shove Derek under several two-hundred pound buses. He barely has any idea of what's happening right now, and certainly isn't prepared to defend himself from his captains’ onslaught of (un)helpful support.

"Well, I dunno if he can go to formal," Chowder says, looking apologetic even as he throws gasoline onto the flames. "He doesn't go here, and he’s probably not big on parties. But I think Nursey should ask anyway!" Holster lights up like a Hanukkah candle and stumbles back off the bench in order to squish in on Derek's other side instead, leaving him flanked by both meddling seniors.

“Like always, actual genius C. Chow is completely right. You miss 100% of the shots, etcetera, you know the rest. If you need help asking-”

“We got your back. Nursey, you know we’re here for you,” Ransom says gravely.

“Yeah, of course. Thanks guys, but I'm, uh. I'm gonna sleep on it first.”

“Working up to it, eh? Well, you just let us know.” Rans claps him on the arm and starts tearing into his omelette; Holster watches Derek for half a minute more with two eggs bunched up in his cheeks, but also slaps him on the back eventually, and returns his attention to the table conversation.

Derek pointedly refuses eye contact with Chowder, who huffs a bit, and concentrates on slathering butter on his toast while he mulls everything over. Was Chowder right about yesterday?

Dex and Derek...they sort of joke around about it sometimes. Fake-flirting, pet names – Derek instigates it most times, just to see the glowing flush that overtakes Dex’s skin and the flash of teeth he shows when he snipes back. But when Dex isn't too busy rolling his eyes right out of their sockets he plays along, calling Derek ‘angel face’ and ‘pumpkin’ and ‘sugarplum’. It's just a harmless thing they do. It never means anything.

But yesterday, Dex had been genuinely flustered, and it makes Derek feel restless with questions.

“C. Chowder. Chris,” he hisses, resorting to kicking Chowder under the table until he stops talking to Tango about video games.

“Derek,” Chowder says, beaming, as he literally rips a banana in half. He always eats fruit in these weird-ass ways that Derek has chosen to accept as one of his few shortcomings. “What’s up?”

“Yesterday, with Dex...was he really- do you think he thinks that I’m-” Chowder chews and nods encouragingly while Derek flounders for words. He gives up and winds up demanding, “Am I hot now?”

“Like, objectively? You were always cute, in this quiet way, right? But I dunno, you really grew into your own over the summer,” Chowder says thoughtfully. He places his hand delicately to his chest and scrounges up a parental sigh. “Guess my boy’s finally growing up!”

“Four months younger than you, Christopher.” Chowder just simpers at him, some stray banana mush falling off his cheek. “I don’t feel different. I mean, yeah, we’re the same height now, but the other stuff-”

“Like I said, you were always cute! But you look more...grown-up now? And it really works for you, buddy! And it really really works for Dex, haha.” At Derek’s look of pure, overwhelmed disbelief, Chowder blinks, then takes pity on him, offering a real smile. “Nursey. Don’t tell me this is a surprise to you. He, like, always calls you pretty.”

“Yeah, but that’s-”

Chowder shakes his head as he folds his two banana peels into a stack. “Just a joke? You don’t see the way he looks at you sometimes; I know you’re besties and all, but sometimes he- how do I put this. He lingers? You’ll say something funny, or interesting, and he kind of traces your face with his eyes. And sometimes it’s like he’s studying for a test he needs to pass. Whoa, now I’m getting poetic, but seriously. He can be kind of intense. Pay attention next time, and you’ll see.”

Derek doesn’t need to wait until next time. He's already replaying memories, sifting through for any evidence that what Chowder is saying is true. It doesn't help that Dex spends a lot of time being intense about one thing or another, but pieces start to fit together, moments coming into clarity as Derek thinks about them longer. The way Dex’s amber eyes turn dark and pensive sometimes when he looks over at Derek, an unnamed heaviness passing between them. How the corner of his mouth unfolds into the curve of a smile on occasion, even when Derek isn't particularly amusing. How serious he sounds when he gives out a rare, unprompted compliment.

Derek doesn’t know what to do with this information. He needs more time to process it, so he turns his attention to the other matter that’s come to mind. “How do you see all of this stuff? It sounds obvious when you point it out, but it’s like I’ve been blind this whole time.”

“I just notice things. About you guys, about the team. I like watching people, seeing how they move and think. Maybe it’s a goalie thing?” he laughs.

“No, I get it. But- you’re a good friend, Chowder,” Derek tells him, because Derek likes people-watching too, but Chowder gets him and Dex both. He knows so much more about the people around him than he'll probably ever get credit for.

“Aw, thanks! You’re a good friend too. My question, though, is what are you gonna do about this? Not that you have to do anything! I just don’t want things to be weird.”

“I. Don’t know?” Derek says helplessly. “It’s flattering, but he’s my best friend, and I don’t- I’m not sure if either of us want anything else? It might not even mean anything; like, I’ve always thought Dex was cute, but that doesn’t mean-”

That doesn’t necessarily mean Derek wants to pursue a relationship with him. Dex is attractive, sure, but he's Derek’s best friend. Those two things don't necessarily make them romantically compatible. If Derek took the time to really consider it, could he honestly see him and Dex dating?

Could he imagine going with Dex to winter formal? Dex would probably hate it, grumbling about his two left feet, and the ridiculousness of hiring a DJ for a high school dance, and how preppy everyone looks. He'd chirp Derek for it too, while helping the hockey team demolish the refreshments table, but then compliment him later on some surprising detail like his choice of tie color or the way he's done his hair. Derek would wheedle until Dex agreed to a dance, the two of them swaying stupidly to a slow song, before Derek tries to put his dance lessons to good use. Dex could be convinced to stay for a few more songs, but they'd stay in the corner with the wallflowers, where the lights are dim and the white streamers hang in sweeping loops under silver and spangled balloons. They're about the same height now, broaching six feet, and Dex’s broad hand would rest heavy against Derek’s waist or shoulder, but it would probably link pretty perfectly with Derek’s own hand.

Could he imagine them going to the movies together, sitting in the back row of some noisy summer blockbuster and stealing overpriced raisinettes and nachos from each other? Dex would never spring for snacks, but he wouldn't be able to help himself from swiping food from Derek if Derek decided to be disgustingly extravagant and purchase five different boxes of chocolate. It would start innocently enough, Derek pressing caramels and junior mints into Dex’s hand each time he reached over, until his boxes were empty and he could trick Dex into holding hands with him the next time he reached.

Could he imagine trying to make dinner together? Or spending nights together in Derek and Chowder’s dorm room, Dex tucked in Derek’s away game sleeping bag on the floor next to them? They'd talk until morning about poetry and unsolved mysteries, stupid childhood mishaps and unimportant truths, and maybe when Chowder wakes up it’ll be to the sight of Dex curled up next to Derek on his bed (but he'll never tell).

Derek could take him to the amusement park with the team. Dex would probably like roller coasters like Ransom and Tango. Derek would force him to ride the teacups twenty times with him and Chowder, and drag him through the mirror house. He'd buy him funnel cake and corndogs and more cotton candy, fresh-spun and as pink as Dex's face would be if Derek tried to sit up next to him on the ferris wheel.

They could go explore the historical side of Boston, or tour the haunted houses of Salem, or drive east to Gloucester and Rockport to see the North Shore. They could roadtrip straight across to California, or to Niagara Falls, or to see the Grand Canyon – any of the places that Dex as said he'd like to visit someday.

Derek would take him home to Manhattan. Mama would love him, this prickly, weathered forest boy who she can feed and wrap in a cocoon of blankets. Mom would be more cautious, but dad would convince her, once they bonded over fleecing people in card games, and car maintenance and I Love Lucy. Dex would stay in the guest room, but Derek would sneak him into his room, where Dex would tease him about his choice in posters and the felt solar system mobile mom made for him when he was a baby, still hanging over his desk. They'd lie under Derek’s covers, listening to ATCQ and Run-D.M.C. before Derek gives him a rundown of the music of the last five years, since Dex doesn't know any songs more recent than the top of the charts from 2008.

He'd toss book after book from his shelf into Dex’s lap, recommending every single one despite all the protests. They would drag Derek’s comforter out to the balcony to watch the sunrise together, Dex leaning his head on Derek’s shoulder, his hair the same color as the sun-dyed sky brushing over Derek’s collarbone, and their hands tentatively linked together under the blanket.

Maybe by then Derek will have gathered up the nerves to kiss him.

...wait, hold up.

“Nursey, you in there?” Chowder asks gently as Derek lowers his forehead to rest on the table.

“Yeah, I’m here. Just need a minute to process some stuff,” he mumbles weakly back.

Dex would close his eyes, pale lashes fanning out to flutter against his cheeks in anticipation. Derek would lean in, his heart hammering in sixteenth notes, trying not to crush Dex’s fingers in his grasp. It would be soft, Derek thinks, though sometimes talking to Dex makes him feel like every part of him is burning, whether with frustration or fondness or amusement. They could kiss like a fistfight, but that first time, at least, would be gentle. As silly as it seems, Dex would probably taste like the pie du jour, and he would be warm – so warm and solid against Derek’s skin that he could ignite.

That’s how it would go, he thinks.

Okay, okay, cool cool cool. So he wants to date Dex. This isn’t exactly new; he’s always wanted to hang out with Dex outside of the woods, anyway, like besties do.

He also wants to kiss Dex, so there’s that. It's fine. So chill. Just the chillest.

“I think I might be fucked,” he finally tells Chowder, who nods sympathetically and gives him his glass of chocolate milk in solidarity.

“Like I said, you don’t have to do anything. But the possibility is there. Maybe you should take a chance.”

“Okay, I- uh. I’mma think it over a little longer.”

Chowder narrows his eyes. “Like a hundre-”

“Yeah, yep, like a hundred years longer. I don’t wanna mess everything all up?” Derek says, trying to express with his hands the breadth of this situation. “He’s really important to me, C. I can’t fuck this up.”

“No, I get it. Take your time. And when you figure it out, make sure to let my great-grandchildren know, yeah?”

Derek laughs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Sure thing, Chowder.”

He just needs time to sort it all out: his own feelings, Dex’s strange behavior and lingering looks, and that possibility of something more. He just needs a chance to work through this thing that feels so unexpected yet undeniable, before any more surprises come his way.

[iwritestuffsometimes]

A Modern Twist On A Knight In Shining Armor

* This is pure fluff but if you have anxiety issues and you can’t compartmentalize - this might be a bad idea. Its sweet though. No angst or h/c or anything. I promise. * I only give a warning because this affects me and I’d want a warning if I were reading it. But I promise its not even remotely dark. 

      I knew they had it. I checked online multiple times before I came. I wouldn’t have risked coming to the store if I weren’t positive it was here. The site specifically said ‘in stock at this location.’ I didn’t want to wait another three days to get it shipped to my house. Signing for it from UPS would’ve been a whole other world of trouble.

     I wasn’t about to ask for help. That just wasn’t going to happen. I was going to find it on my own, use the excitement of finally having a copy in my hands to coast by the conversation with the cashier, and then I would rush home to sit in my back garden and read it. I sighed and circled the book stacks one more time, going back to the start. I was beginning to worry that I looked lost so I started picking up books I wasn’t interested in, pretending to be, so anyone who noticed my third lap around the Young Adult fiction section wouldn’t think I was strange.

     I picked up a random book again, flipping it to the back and scanning the summary: it was some sort of new take on a knight in shining armor, a literal one with a horse and everything, but apparently this was set in modern day. I shrugged and tucked it under my arm. This actually looks good. I’ll read this one after I find mine. I told myself. But that’s the only one. No more. I reminded myself. You’re only here for Alex Rider. You’re not leaving this store with more than two books. … Maybe three. “Three books. At most.”

     “What?”

     I blinked and felt my heart tighten up a little. I’d said it out loud. I glanced to the left of me. The man was talking on his phone, not to me. The air I was holding in my lungs escaped quietly. That was close. You gotta stop being so weird. I shook my head and continued scanning the shelves. I made it all the way through the H’s again. Still no Alex Rider book. I clenched my jaw and finally raised my head to look at the category markers over each shelf. Maybe someone put it in the wrong category? I put my head down and started walking toward the Teen Fiction section. I spent the 12 steps wondering if ‘Teen Fiction’ was aimed at younger or older readers than the ‘Young Adult’ category.

     I slowly read every single title on the shelves. I didn’t want to risk missing it and going back through the stacks multiple times again. I would certainly draw attention that way, having already searched the other side three times. I made it all the way through the H authors and frowned. This was not going how I planned. I clenched my jaw and decided to try the section marked as just plain ‘fiction.’ I was almost positive it wouldn’t be there but I’d had my heart set on that book this week. If its not there, I’ll just leave. I watched my feet on the unpleasantly floral carpet as I crossed the bookstore. I could always pirate it. I reasoned. But I really didn’t want to.

     I turned the corner into the last section. I bumped into the shelf. I rolled my eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I said under my breath. The book I had picked up and tucked under my arm earlier fell to the floor with a small thud. I was grateful for the ugly carpeting. It muffled most of the sound. I didn’t cause a scene. I bent to pick up the novel and accidentally bumped the shelf again. “Really though?” I looked up at the shelf that I kept knocking into, half expecting it to topple over and begin a domino effect with the other shelves in the store. It wobbled but stayed upright. A single cookbook fell from the corner and slid into the aisle. I sighed and leant to pick it up while still on one knee. A pair of boots stepped in front of me, between my hand and the cookbook.  I reared back quickly. “Woah. Sorry.” A male voice said.

      “’S’okay.” I said immediately even though it really wasn’t.

      “No, I almost stepped on you.” He bent to pick up the book. I straightened. He handed the book to me. “Here. Sorry again.”

      “Thanks.” I chewed my lip and looked at the cover of the cookbook. Now I have to pretend I was going to buy this thing. Great. I hate cooking. I tucked the book under my arm and raised my face to the stranger. I didn’t look at him, rather the air beside his head, and smiled in what I hope came off as a polite smile before I turned on my heel and walked in the other direction.

     I felt my heart sink in disappointment when I realized I didn’t get a chance to look for my book. But the Stranger Who’d Nearly Stepped On Me was still milling about in front of the H’s. I couldn’t possibly go back now. He thinks I came for the cookbook I don’t want. I rolled my eyes and tried to look busy with the magazines in front of me as I tried to figure out what to do. I was painfully aware when a stranger stepped beside me, probably actually looking for a magazine. And here I am, standing in the way. I blushed and tried to back up but still look like I was trying to find something. I picked up a random magazine, flicked through it for a few seconds and put it back. The stranger still stood their ground. I was beginning to feel overheated. It’s probably not worth all this. I chewed my lip as I looked at the magazine rack blankly. I should just go.

      “Do you want me to go look for you?” A voice whispered. The stranger stepped closer to me. I frowned and looked over at them. He was staring at me.

     “Hmm?” I didn’t open my mouth for fear he wasn’t actually talking to me. I didn’t want to risk saying something stupid and embarrassing myself more than I already was.

      “What book is it?” He tilted his head. “I can go look if you want.” I frowned. “And I can put that one back for you.” He smiled and pointed at the cookbook.

     “I’m sorry, what?” I licked my lips. They were very dry.

     He spoke softly. “I don’t mean to be weird,” he shoved his hands in his front pockets, his shoulders coming up. “I just noticed you going through all the shelves earlier and figured you were looking for a specific book.” He shrugged.

     I looked at his chest, not willing to meet his eyes yet. He had no nametag. “You don’t work here.” I frowned.

     “No. I don’t.” He chuckled. “Just wanna help.”

     I chewed my lip. “The new Alex Rider book.” I muttered. “The website said it was here…. Somewhere.” I looked at my shoes again. He was close enough that I could see his jeans.

      “It would be in the fiction?” His body half turned and his left hand pulled itself from his pocket. He motioned for me to follow him with a shrug.

      “I thought so.” I tentatively stepped behind him, trailing to the spot I had been before.

     “Who’s it by?” He stopped walking and turned to face me again. I still couldn’t manage to look up past his legs.  He shifted and put himself between me and the Stranger Who’d Nearly Stepped On Me, effectively hiding me from him. The action wasn’t lost on me and I felt a fraction less uncomfortable than I had. He slowly took the cookbook out of my hands and put it back on the shelf.

      “Anthony Horowitz.” My eyes made it up to his chest. Makin’ progress. I taunted myself. Don’t screw this up.  

      “Horowitz.” He repeated and faced the shelves. He folded his arms across his chest, one arm resting on his chin as he searched. I refused to stare at his prominent biceps, no matter how badly I wanted to. I blushed and angled toward the shelves myself. But I can’t find it now. If he’s helping me look, he’s got to be the one to find it. I felt my chest tighten. Because otherwise, it will be awkward if he offered to help and then I didn’t need him after all. I prayed that it wouldn’t be here. Horron. Horrow. Horrowist. Horrowitz. Crap. I found it. What do I do?

     My eyes snapped to the shelf above. I couldn’t let him know that I’d found it. He shifted on his feet. I looked intently at the row that I knew didn’t have the book. He tilted towards me. My chest was pounding now. “Alex Rider, you said?”

     “Yeah.” I nodded and kept my eyes on the wrong row. My hand came up to my heart, unconsciously trying to press the muscle back into a steady rhythm; something I did often. My fingers rubbed at my collarbone.

      “I think I found it.” He reached across me and I felt the tightness in my chest ease a little. Thank God. “Is this it?” He pulled the book from the shelf and held it out towards me.

      I looked down at it. It wasn’t it. I was looking for the 9th book. This was the 3rd. I had this one. Multiple copies of it. “Yes!” I smiled. “Thank you!” I took it from him.

     “You’re welcome.” His hand fell back towards his pocket. I was looking at his legs again. So much for progress. He was silent for a beat and I was already worrying about how to end this interaction. Is it my turn to say something? Do I just walk away now? Does he walk away? I’m not getting my book. It’s right there though. My heart ached. I glanced at the book I’d come in for, still sitting on the shelf. I should say something again. No I should leave. Man, now I’ve gotta pay another 10 bucks for the same book. Again? Oh well. Another copy can’t hurt. “Do you want me to buy it for you?”

      My head snapped up. I saw his face for the first time. He was handsome. I blushed. “What?”

      “Do you want me to buy it?” He smiled. My God, his teeth are perfect.

      I didn’t know what to say. “I….” My voice fell away. I let it.

      He nodded and took the book from my hands. “Let me get it for you.” He reached towards me again. “That one too.” He gently pulled the book I’d tucked under my arm free. The sound of his fingers tapping against the hardback cover echoed in my ears. I looked at the books he’d taken from me, cradled in his large hands. No. Those are his hands. You were doing so well. Look back to his face! I watched as he shifted the books into one hand while the other reached back towards the shelves. “This one too, right?” He tapped the spine of the book I came in for.

     My mouth fell open. I caught myself looking back and forth between the book he was pointing to and his face. I nodded silently. I wouldn’t know what to say even if I had the guts to speak. I realized.

     “Any more?” He smiled.

     “No. You don’t have to do this.” I blinked. “That’s like 30 bucks.” I nodded to the three books he’d taken from me. He was holding them in front of his chest. I watched as he dropped them to rest against one hip.

      “35 if you include the coffee I want to buy you.” He took one step closer to me and bent so that I was looking into his eyes. Is that progress? Or is this cheating? I mean. I am looking at his eyes. But that was mostly his fault. Wow. Those are blue. I felt red all over. “I mean, if that’s okay?” I didn’t trust my voice yet. So I nodded silently. “So,” He started walking toward the cash register. “Tell me about this book.” He looked over his shoulder at me.

     I felt the knot in my stomach loosen just a little. “It’s about a spy.” I breathed.

     “Like James Bond?” He asked.

     “Sort of.” I shrugged. “Except he’s a kid. And has no interest in being a spy.”

       “That sounds cool.” He sat the books on the counter and pulled out his wallet. “So who’s the bad guy? There’s always a bad guy right?” He turned to face me.

      “It changes for each book in the series.” I shrugged. “My favorite one so far is this, like, mega-famous singer who got away with a lot because he was so popular. Everyone thought he was this big philanthropist and he was secretly killing people and filming it.”

     His eyebrows shot up, causing his eyes to open wider, giving me a better view of just how blue they were. I almost swayed on my feet. Did I just scare the handsomest man in the world? I blinked.  Am I swooning? Wow. Yikes. He laughed. “That sounds intense.”

      “Well, yeah. But it’s funny, too.” I looked at the book that the cashier was scanning. “I swear. It’s a really good series.” I nodded. “I’ve been reading them since I was little. It’s been 10 years since the last one came out.” I felt my heart flutter as I looked back to him. “I’m really excited about it.” Why am I talking so much? I clenched my jaw shut. I haven’t said this much at one time in public. Ever. Let alone to a handsome stranger who offered to buy me Alex Rider books.

     “I can tell.” He chuckled. “What about the other book?” He asked.

      “Oh. I don’t know yet.” I shrugged. “This is the first I’ve saw of it. It’s supposed to be some sort of twist on a fairytale.” I put my hand over my heart. “It sounded good.”

      He held the bag with the books in my direction. I took it from him. My fingers brushed his. I blushed again. “You do that a lot.” He started walking toward the coffee shop connected to the back of the bookstore.  

     “What?” I frowned.

      “You blush a lot.” He smirked. I blushed deeper. He laughed.

      “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.” I put my head down and watched my feet on the carpet again.

      “I think its sweet.” He said.  I smiled at the floor. “I’m Hunter, by the way.” He introduced himself.

      “Hi.” I said quietly. Wow. You’re smooth. “I-I’m Beth.”

      “Well, Beth,” he started. “Do you want to order on your own or do you want to tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you?” I looked up at him, my mouth open. I made eye contact. How does he know what to say? Is he reading my mind or what? How am I looking in his eyes and not dying? He smiled. “I just figured you would rather go start on your book.”

      I grinned. “Yeah, I think I’ll start with the fairytale.”

a/n Shout out to me for writing the longest fic I’ve written in years. I mean I could have ended it about two pages earlier but I thought the fact that it went on just a little longer than it needed to added to the awkward yet still kinda sweet vibe? I don’t know. Thats what I was going for anyway. I also tried to trick everyone with two extra male characters that I didn’t introduce. It amuses me to add nondescript men into fics before I put Hunt in, just to make people think its him at first. Is that bad? Does that bug y’all? Do you notice at all? I don’t know. I basically write to entertain myself at this point lets be honest. Clearly this is unrealistic as all get out (because this wouldn’t happen with anyone. But it most definitely wouldn’t happen with Hunter. That hunny would probably burst into flames if he ever went into a barnes and noble) but it also made me feel slightly better to write it after a really rough couple days. No matter how stupid and far fetched it is. I hope you got a little happy from this. I posted it because I wanted to make something at least a little positive happen today. So if you didn’t get happier for a second and it just made it hard to breathe because you have an anxiety disorder too or you just get too worked up on secondhand -embarrassment- I’m really really sorry. I hope you forgive me.  Feedback? Please? Kaythanksmateloveyoutoobye. 

[zoltanberrigomo]

The Incompetent Witcher, Chapter 5

With trial and error comes expertise. Thyssen soon understood that the ghost sightings, which at first glance seemed as much a feature of the city as its landscape, had four principal causes. The first was, of course, the need to explain away the unintended outcomes of erotic encounters. The boys from the academy, most of them naturally mischievous; the rowdy soldiers who always seemed to be passing through the town; the streets full of maids and servants, many quite lovely, usually wearing tatters which left little to the imagination  -- all of this had exactly the outcome one would expect.

But there were also more mundane causes. One Thyssen had already encountered on his way to Oxenfurt -- loose paneling.  A series of wooden planks, not perfectly aligned, will produce a wide-berthed sound in a strong gale, a noise that will change as fast as the wind. You may laugh at this, reader, but I assure you there was no shortage of men who managed to read otherworldly warnings into these sounds.

It was not enough, in such cases, to make some noise and emerge having declared victory, for the problem would only reappear. The loose board had to be found and nailed shut; better yet, it could be broken entirely, perhaps as an unavoidable consequence of the “battle” with the ghosts, forcing the client to fix it at his own expense.

The third cause, which took Thyssen quite a bit of effort to unearth, was a species of magical mold. This mold sparkled and shimmered beautifully in the light of a full moon, and only in the light of a full moon. This damnable fungus caused a minor smirch on Thyssen’s reputation, as several places that he had declared free of ghosts teemed with reported sightings later, the glowing moonlight transformed into Gods-know-what kind of monsters. After many failed experiments,  Thyssen brought some samples to a few of the washerwomen who made their living on the outskirts of the city, and a cleaning solution which handled it satisfactorily was found.

But the last cause, if it can even be called that, was the most difficult one of all.  All over the city, men cheated, stole, and betrayed each other; many a mage was burned at the stake; nonhumans were hanged on the words of their neighbors, the same neighbors who would later appropriate the posessions of the deceased. Historians would later draw an arbitrary line in their chronologies and declare, here began the Age of Contempt .  Yet even the most evil of men is not bereft of a conscience. It may be hidden, suppressed, out of sight, but it is there, lying in wait to take some tangible form, perhaps that of a ghost come for revenge. Thyssen could nail shut a floorboard or wash away mold but what could he do to relieve a guilty conscience?  

“She looks at us when we sleep,’’ the townswoman said. Her name was Eliza and her husband, a prosperous and portly fur merchant named Petrus, sat beside her; their voices, though tightly controlled, seemed to be on the verge of an explosion. A few servants were standing mutely at the entrances.

“Looks at you?”

“I see her pale white form when I wake up. It dissolves into mist just as I open my eyes.”

“Sometimes I hear her footsteps in the garden,” Petrus added. “She used to love walking there when she lived. I hear footsteps but the garden is empty whenever I open the door.”

“And then there are my cups,” Eliza continued. “I’ll be carrying a tray when she’ll knock it out of my hands. I can feel her touch on me, the coldness of her hands. She hated my cups. Too floral, she always said.”

They were speaking of Eliza’s sister and Petrus’ former wife, for the two persons were one and the same. The three of them had lived together for a decade before Eliza’s sister perished in the Catriona plague, and Eliza married her former brother-in-law a year later.

Thyssen thought it over. He had already inspected the house -- no mold, no loose flooring. He had first supposed the footsteps could be the work of neighboring kids; but the garden was too steeply walled. His medallion did not give off even a hint of vibration as he walked from room to room.  

He could, of course, make some noise and declare the ghost banished. No doubt all would be well for a time; but the guilty consciences of the people in front of them would give rise to another sighting soon enough and then he would have a very unhappy client on his hands.

He might declare himself powerless. The merchant had offered him a hundred orens to take care of the problem, and though he would be sorry to lose them, his long-term reputation was more important.

His thoughts turned to a group of monks he saw walking through the town gate the prior afternoon. A new order of the Church of the Eternal Fire whose name he could not recall. The monks were clothed in only their loincloths, their emaciated bodies cut to and fro by long gashes, self administered with the whips they carried about them. Some of the wounds were still bloody. The procession made for quite a sight, evincing as much wonder as disgust as the monks proudly paraded their wounds.

And yet what Thyssen remembered the most were the beatific smiles of the men in the procession. Even as  the townspeople jeered and laughed, and as some threw rotten food at the procession, the monks never wavered, and the expressions of utter, complete, rapturous happiness never disappeared from their faces.

Making up his mind, he made a gesture as if to stretch. Channeling his energy as best he could, Thyssen poured all of his efforts into his aard.

Across a hall, an empty coat stand which had been leaning precariously toppled over with a sharp clang.

“It’s her!” Eliza and her husband rose to their feet in a panic. “It must be.”

“Leave the house,” Thyssen said, trying to make his voice calm yet laden with a detectable undertone of panic. The couple did not need to be told twice. “Take the servants with you,” he added as an afterthought, but they were already out the door with the servants on their heels.

Within moments, he was alone. He stood in silence for several moments, just in case someone was still inside the house; but he heard nothing, only the faint creaking of wood in the autumn wind.  Walking through the rooms, careful to check that he could not be seen through any of the windows, he made a effort to to make it seem as if a fight had taken place here: cups strewn on the floor, books tossed everywhere, curtains ripped apart. As was his habit by now, he inflicted a few minor injuries on himself, small bruises and cuts that made him look suitably frazzled.

And then he sat still. After an hour, he ventured outside, where a circle of onlookers had gathered.

“Did you defeat it?”

“Are we safe?”

He motioned the couple to follow him inside the house, away from the prying ears of the crowd.

“I’m afraid not,” he replied.

He could see their faces fall. Impatiently, they led him to one of the guest rooms deep inside the house where they could talk privately.

“We fought for a good while,” Thyssen said, “but she was simply too strong. Too powerful.” He shook his head. “Never have I met a ghost this well-formed, not in my..." he paused "...many years of witchering. ”

“Perhaps we ought to employ a more powerful witcher,” Petrus said sharply. “Someone who has been witchering, as you say, for a little while longer."  

“If you wish,” Thyssen answered calmly. "If any other man drives away the ghost, I won't take for a single oren from you, I assure you."

He let the silence linger for a while. "You see,” he finally continued, “we had a conversation." He stopped for effect. They were both looking at him with wide eyes and open mouths. Just as he saw they were about to bombard him with questions, he went on.

“We sparred until our energies drained, until it was clear that neither of us could defeat the other. It was only then that she looked me up-and down and began to speak.”

He turned to the merchant. "She..the ghost that is...it said that you betrayed her. That you never loved her, not truly."

“Ridiculous!” Petrus retorted angrily. “Twelve years we were together.”

"She said," Thyssen continued, "that you were eyeing her sister the whole time."

"Lies," the merchant said, but Thyssen noticed that his outrage seemed to diminish somewhat.

"She accuses both of you of sneaking behind her back for years."

The couple shared an anxious glance before Eliza spoke. “It is not true, master witcher, I assure you. If anything, it was the grief that brought us together. When she had passed away...”

She left her sentence hang in the air.

“I argued with her on your behalf,” Thyssen said. “Assured her of your good will. But she would not believe me. "

Eliza put her hands over her face and looked as if she were about to start sobbing. Wary of overdoing it, Thyssen jumped to the bombshell he had prepared.

"But, in the end, we struck an agreement."

That provoked a reaction; for a moment, the couple seemed speechless.  

"I told her that your love was genuine and free of ill will. I apologize for the presumption, kind ser," Thyssen added, for indeed it was unclear from what source he would have obtained such a conviction. "But I have much experience with ghosts, and rest assured, it was the right course to take."

"In the end," Thyssen said, "she set her conditions. You are to separate for a year." He turned to the merchant. "You shall remain here in Novigrad, while you, madam, shall spend the year alone at one of your country estates. The two of you must have no contact whatsoever during that time. If you find yourself still in love at the end of the year, your sister will be able to pass into the nether world in peace."

"A year?" said the merchant unhappily, twirling his mustache. But his wife had the opposite reaction.

"But that is wonderful," she exclaimed, putting her hands together. "A year is nothing, nothing at all!"

"Do you think so, my dear?" Petrus said skeptically.

“There is more, I’m sorry to say,” Thyssen continued. “You must both take a vow of silence for the last two weeks of that year. You may communicate only with gestures during that time.”

“Impossible,” Petrus declared, and even Eliza looked taken aback. The merchant a quick mental calculation. “A year takeaway two weeks puts us during the time of the fall harvest, the most lucrative time of my trade.”

“I’m afraid,” Thyssen said in the most apologetic tone he could muster, “the ghost’s terms were not negotiable.”

“Very well,” Eliza said with a gleam of determination as her husband let loose a string of curses. “We’ll do it, darling, won’t we?”  

There followed a lengthy and somewhat agonizing discussion. Thyssen had remained silent at first, then coughed gently and moved out of earshot to an adjoining room. He left several hours later, a hundred orens richer, with the household’s servants already starting to pack Eliza’s effects for a lengthy sojourn in the country.

He poured himself a drink when he had arrived home that evening, a strong Mahakan ale that lulled him into a pleasant state of contentment. Did he just save or destroy a marriage? Should he have said six months instead of a year? How much suffering should people be expected undergo for love? Eventually, he managed to convince himself that nothing easily obtained feels truly valuable; that the couple’s inner demons can only be banished through hardship; and that if their love cannot survive a year’s separation, it was worth little to begin with and he would have done them both a favor. Comforted by these arguments, he finally fell into a light asleep, and on waking up the next morning, groggy and with a minor hangover, he resolved that doubting his decision would produce no good, and he would not dwell on the matter again.

Reader, I suspect only your politeness restrains you from accusing me of lamentably poor organization. I am not unconscious that, having launched into an account of Thyssen’s experience as a witcher, I may have neglected to clarify a number of key points. Where did Thyssen live? Did he long to return to Kaer Morhen? Did he obtain any comrades, traveling companions, or won the heart of a fair damsel? To these pressing questions I now turn.

Thyssen’s first impulse was to take rooms in the cheapest inn in town, The Red Lion, which in spite of the regal-sounding name turned out to be an overgrown hut a half-hour past the city walls. The chief thing to recommend it was that the proprietor could be bargained to a mere half-oren a week.  But, on reflection, Thyssen decided that an appearance of poverty would not do. One had to spend money to make money. Instead he took rooms in an inconspicuous tavern just past the western gate at two orens a day, clean, sturdy, with a clientele largely composed farmers who came to the city to bargain away their crops.

Fortunately there was no shortage of jobs for Thyssen, and as I have already began to detail, and he soon embarked on a veritable one-man spree to rid the city of its ghostly infestation. Within a few weeks, flush with an influx of coin, he rented a few rooms at the top of the Duke of Bann Glean, a fancier establishment of the sort frequented by passing merchants. Although more expensive, the owner allowed him to unfurl a banner which, as it flopped to-and-fro in the wind, advertised his services to all who went by.

His fame grew, buoyed by a string of apparent successes. He received a fair amount of commissions for witcher’s work unrelated to ghosts; many came to him with requests to banish ghouls, drowners, barghests, and other marvelous beasts which prowled about freely during those chaotic times. Naturally he sent them all away, either naming outrageously high prices, or pleading that he had too much work as things stood. If a customer did, perchance, agree to his extravagant price, he would then demand the fee in advance; if even that failed, a bit of “research” on his part would reveal dangers in the assignment previously unrealized, leading to a massive increase in the asking price.  One way or another, he managed to restrict himself to ghost-related work without seeming to arouse suspicion.

His services steadily grew more expensive. If at first he had served mainly the fishermen on the wharf and the peasants who labored on the city’s outskirts, his clients were now predominantly merchants who did business within the city. A few even came from the aristocracy. In spite of this, when he took stock of his finances at the end of each week, it was clear that he was not growing wealthy fast enough to realize his dream of a vineyard in Toussaint. For he did not abandon his dream; on the contrary, as he heard travelers passing through Oxenfurt full of nothing but superlative praise for that land, Toussaint had grown in his imagination to almost mythic proportions.  

Reader, I will not disparage Oxenfurt, or any other Redanian city for that matter. The writings that have passed to us from that time make it clear that the city, although small, dirty, full of beggars, beset by cold and rainy weather, and with bandits prowling its outskirts, was nevertheless charming and beautiful.  Travelers often remarked on her streets, paved with uneven bricks;  her expansive and wide squares; the labyrinthine maze of red roofs that shone so brightly in the summer their glare could be seen from mountains away. And yet, for some inexplicable reason entirely mysterious to me, Thyssen remained unsatisfied with his lot.

What it was that he wanted, I very much doubt he could say himself; and yet these hopes and dreams took personification in Toussaint, in the thoughts of lazy afternoons spent drunk on grapes lounging in the sun’s glare. The problem was that a typical week for Thyssen would involve one or two jobs, with a net profit of a hundred orens or so. At this rate, he would be saving coin for a hundred years or so before he could afford that hypothetical vineyard.

All the same, the work of a witcher-charlatan was not an overly consuming one. He spent a few hours each day sifting through clients and one or two evenings each week were wholly devoted to his craft; otherwise he was free. You might therefore wonder, dear reader, how Thyssen spent his remaining hours.

The answer should be entirely obvious. Thyssen was a healthy boy on the cusp of adulthood. Naturally, he poured all of his energy into, as the men of my generation were fond of saying, “chasing skirts.” Unfortunately, he was quite hampered in this endeavor by his complete and utter lack of knowledge of what one ought to do in the presence of the opposite sex.

The stories he heard growing up at Kaer Morhen suggested that merely walking down the street in the armor of a witcher, with two swords at his back, would be sufficient to seduce any woman. One of the witchers who wintered there often -- a certain Geralt, not a terribly attractive man, face marred by scars and hair in a ponytail that made him look vaguely equine -- often told stories of his dalliances with sorceresses, all supposedly exceedingly beautiful and powerful. According to this Geralt, he barely had to do anything before these beauties threw themselves at him.

But no matter how many times Thyssen strolled down the street with the swords at his back, the only women who accosted him were fishermen’s wives looking to interest him in the catch of the day. If anything he seemed to be almost invisible: just one more young boy decked in leather armor, likely a mercenary looking for work among the soldiers which were constantly prowling the city. Occasionally, he would wander into an inn, still in his armor, and recline against a wall throwing cool glances at the drinking and gambling taking place. Here the only women who accosted him were of the sort that wanted payment for services rendered.

Perhaps, he thought, he needed to be a touch more aggressive, to approach some fair maiden strolling about the city and start a conversation. But what could he possibly say?

The books he had read in his Kaer Morhan suggested long and flowery speeches praising the woman’s beauty, which seemed like quite reasonable advice. Besides, he had often seen knights in bright plumage and gleaming armor loudly proclaiming poetry in the midst of some public declaration of love within the city’s squares.

He would approach a woman buying fruit at one of the stalls into the market; making some small talk about the fresh oranges from Nazir or some such, he would wait for an opening to launch into a sonnet (composed beforehand) on the subject of her great beauty. He spent quite a few evenings laboring on these sonnets, and he thought they flowed rather elegantly. The women looked at him as if he was a lunatic and, seeming vaguely disoriented, sought to distance themselves as fast as they could.

For a while, he thought that his poetry was  insufficiently effusive, and even took some lessons from a travelling bard. Unfortunately, what Thyssen neglected to consider was that while such poetic effusions were not uncommon among the aristocracy, where the women typically possessed a courtly education and might be impressed by a rhyming couplet or an unexpected turn of phrase; but  the maids who were sent out to shop at the market were not the best audience for his attempts at cleverness. I regret to report that his efforts in this direction failed to produce anything in the way tangible results.

Soon enough he realized a new approach was called for. One night, as he was having his dinner at his inn’s lobby, he overheard the conversation of a trio of merchants seated at the next table. Besides learning much about the price of cloth all over the Northern Kingdoms, he found out that, each month, on the night of the full moon, one of the villages outside Oxenfurt held a dance that lasted until dawn. Much alcohol would be served, and the merchants had indulged in some speculations about the chastity of peasant girls, or the lack thereof, which I shall not deign to repeat here.

Visions of tightly-dressed, simple but lovely peasants girls floated before Thyssen’s eyes. It would be too much, he reasoned, to attend clad in full armor, but perhaps a couple of swords at his back would not hurt…

He could hardly wait until the next full moon.

When it finally came, and when he had arrived (bedecked in leather armor) in the small hamlet where the dance was held, he found the scene much like he imagined it. Musicians were playing cheerful tunes on lutes, simple and fast music. A few couples were dancing with the wild abandon that comes from drunkenness in the open barns. There were many braziers all around, so much that the bright hue of the village was visible for miles on the road. The air smelled of damp moss, reminding him of his time at Kaer Morhen.

After tying his horse to a tree, he approached one of the makeshift stands to buy a drink.

“Notfromaround‘ere, eh?” the seller said in a mildly hostile tone as he took the coin handed to him.

“No,” Thyssen said taking the tankard and taking in the scene.  He stood aimlessly, slowly sipping his drink, which was as close to pure alcohol as anything he had drunk recently. It took all of his self-control to stop himself from spitting it out.

He was pleased to see a few of the peasant girls shyly eyeing him from a distance, and one even giggled when he asked her to dance. So unlike the well-dressed city girls, who would take one look at either his armor or his clothes and seem to instantly lose interest. Here things were altogether different. Was it the two swords at his back, one of them recently-polished silver? Or was it his his carefully crafted attire, purchased from a tailor not far from the tavern where he stayed, which contrasted so sharply to the unshapely overalls worn by the peasants here? Whatever it was, he was in no mood to question it.

But it was here that he discovered another obstacle to his romantic endeavors, namely that he had nothing whatsoever to talk the peasant girls about.

“Harvestwasgoodthisyear,” the first girl he danced said to him after the music stopped and he vaguely hovered about her thinking of something to say. The people here seemed to slur the Common Speech rather than speak it, so that all of their words felt as if they lumped into one.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s what I hear.”

There was a silence.

“Lots of fruits and vegetables collected?” he offered what seemed to him to be the logical continuation of the topic, but she only looked at him a little strangely.

“Your eyes look beautiful in the moonlight,” he shifted the conversation onto safer ground.

She smiled, “Thankyaverymuch,” she said, her accent so thick that, were it not for context, he would have had no idea of what it was she had just said.

“It’s a beautiful village,” Thyssen said, looking around at the decrepit houses. “Have you lived here your whole life?”

She nodded. “Iwasbornyonder,” she said, pointing to one of the huts not far from where they were standing.

“I’m originally from Kaedwen,” Thyssen offered.

“Where?”

“A castle called Kaer Morhen. In Kaedwen.” But the girl looked at him with a confused face. After some back and forth, it turned out that she had never heard of any such place. Redania, Aedirn, and Temeria were the only nations she knew of and she was much surprised to learn the Northern Kingdoms comprised of many more countries than these. This momentous revelation did not seem to affect her much. Thyssen had excitedly began to tell her of the various lands of the North and their customs; but he could not go on for long without noticing her manifest lack of interest.

“So what do you do?” he asked after lapsing into a silence.

The question seemed to confuse her. “Ipackhaylots,” she said finally.

“Interesting work?” He realized the inanity of the question as soon as the words emerged from his lips. Fortunately, the girl was not offended as much as confused.

“Iguessso,” she said.

He was racking his brains for how to proceed when the music started again and another fellow asked the girl to dance. His former dance partner smiled apologetically and accepted, looking slightly relieved.

Things proceeded likewise with each successive partner. There was a flurry of initial interest, and his clumsy dancing did not seem to put them off; but the making of conversation afterwards proved to be rather challenging. He tried to tell the next one about his favorite books, the adventure stories he had read obsessively while at Kaer Morhen, but she only looked blankly at him. He tried asking about her favorite books but it transpired that she did not know how to read.

Not willing to fall down before a challenge, he walked around the festivities until he came across a group of villagers laughing animatedly, three boys and two girls among them. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, he hovered around within earshot, hoping to catch a drift of the topics they found so engaging.

It was not easy, for he only managed to make out two words out of every five; but, eavesdropping awkwardly for some minutes, he made mental notes of several subjects being discussed. These included the abnormally large tomatoes found in this Fall’s crop; the insufferable people from the neighboring village in the East, who thought themselves superior because their settlement was larger and possessed a tavern; the recent infestation of abnormally large raccoons that was eating the local walnuts; the dull people from the neighboring village in the North, who were so poor they could barely afford shoes; the coming arrival of a merchant who sold mirrors, lockets, and other shiny trinkets at significant discounts; the departure of the village herbalist who had been found to have been having an affair with one of the headmen and was run out of town by a justifiably angry mob. “Ihopetheyburnheratthestake,” one of the older girls said with evident disgust. One of the boys was bragging about his success in selling mole rats, roasted slowly over a fire and marketed as beef, to travellers who spent the night in the village, much to the delight of all his listeners.

Unfortunately Thyssen did not find he had much to contribute on any of these subject.

Feeling a more direct approach was called for, he simply declared, apropos of nothing, “I’m a witcher, you know” to the next girl -- a pretty redhead with large eyes who kept shyly looking down at the floor -- after their dance was over.

That, at the very least, seemed to produce an effect. “No,” the girl said with a smile, “yourejoking.”

He raised his palm and a small flame shot of it. She yelped lightly in shock and looked at him anew, with a mixture of fear and fascination in her eyes.

His demonstration did not pass unnoticed. Soon enough, a circle of admirers surrounded him, largely female, looking at the flames that shot out of his hands. A few of them ran their fingers along his palms, rather tenderly saw, as if to convince themselves that his hands were unscathed.

Reader, the next half hour were quite likely among the most exciting of Thyssen’s life, for he had the undivided attention of a dozen fair specimens of the opposite sex.  Even Thyssen was stunned at the apparent popularity of his profession. He had, perhaps, expected some revulsion, but his small stature and unassuming looks appeared to preclude that.

He first showed them his silver sword, and then began to tell them stories of the ghosts he had supposedly banished. I regret to report that, even forgetting that none of these ghosts were real, these stories were vastly exaggerated. Thyssen was in the middle of describing how he fought an entire army of banshees when he was rather rudely interrupted.

“IbetIcouldtakeyouon,” said one of the peasants, an overgrown hulk of a man. Thyssen looked at him uncertainly, unsure how to respond.

“Yeah!” someone shouted.

A few excited whistles were heard, coming mostly from boys who, only a minute ago, were looking resentfully at the attention Thyssen was receiving from the opposite sex.

“Nothingsmorefunthanagoodfight,” someone said.

“Alekseyandthewitcher!”

This was not part of the plan. His opponent was at least thrice his size. His fists were almost as big as Thyssen’s face. To make matters worse, this Aleksey was looking at Thyssen with unabashed hatred in his eyes.

“Witchers do not fight for sport…” he offered cautiously but this seemed widely ignored. The girls had dispersed the boys were arranging themselves in a circle around him and the peasant. It would be quite embarrassing to flee, especially after having gone on at some length about defeating ghosts.

On the other hand, having his face disfigured was a far more unattractive prospect. He looked for his horse and found him tied to a birch behind a barn some fifty paces away, too far to make a run for it.

Meanwhile people were flocking in his general direction, drawn by the shouts that a fight was about to take place. Thyssen stood helplessly, hoping that whatever passed for the law in this godforsaken place would intervene. Unfortunately, the village headman, easily identifiable by the crowd that had been surrounding him, only looked at the budding scene with amusement as he puffed on his pipe..

He turned his glance to his opponent who was now rubbing his arms together with a grim anticipation, grinning maliciously.

This would not be pretty.

[rassilon-imprimatur]

The Infinity Doctors Prologue: The Old Days

Each snowflake melted as it batted into the thick walls of the Citadel, but still they came, like an invading army.

Eighty‐five storeys below, everything was black or white. Only the tallest of the ruins were visible now, the snows covered the rest. Not that there had been much to see before the ice had come, merely the ancient temples and amphitheatres, the last evidence of a race that had ruled by the sword and built an empire planet by planet until it had spread across the universe.

When the temples had been built, the future had been an open sea. Gallifrey had been ruled by seers who remembered the future as they remembered the past. Destiny was manifest, the bountiful cargo that filled the holds of a thousand thousand starships. The prophecies had been bound and bound up to be the charts used to circumnavigate infinity. Explorers travelled ever outward, apprised of the marvels they would find, aware of the dangers. Prospectors rushed to the stars, knowing where to look for gold. Heroes took great risks, certain of the outcome. The future had shone as bright as the moon, and had been just as incorruptible.

Those times had gone, swept away in a few short years. The statues and towers had toppled and the fleets had been scuttled. The heroes had died, blind and alone, as all true heroes must. And as the temples and libraries had burned, the Books of Prophecy had been lost to the fire, along with all the other books. Only one fragment had been salvaged from the rubble. Now there were only memories of those definitive, intricate maps of what was to come. But the memory cheats, it steals, it lies, it tells you what you want to hear.

Today was a day to live in the memory.

The ships were a dream come true, and looked the part. Just from the vivid coloration of their hulls it was obvious that they didn’t belong here – they hung like vast tropical fish amongst the half‐submerged clock towers and minarets, light like the planet hadn’t seen for a generation pouring from their

portholes and hatches and into the evening. No wonder that the crowds of Newborn thronged around the observation levels of the quays. The older generation were more sceptical, seeing the whole enterprise as wasteful, potentially catastrophic. The ships hadn’t been in the prophecy, they insisted. This was a betrayal, a calculated attempt to sever all links with the future they knew: it hadn’t been foretold that the Gallifreyan race would become sterile, there was nothing in the Fragment about Looms, Houses, Cousins, this, that or the other.

Only a handful of the Elders had ventured out here from the shelters, obvious from their stature, let alone their robes of office. Many of them still begrudged the decision that the ships would be crewed by the young, that only a handful of crew members would be over ten years old. But the announcement came as no surprise. Those born since the darkness had fallen were a race apart from their ancestors. The young were eager, enthusiastic and their best days were still ahead of them. They didn’t dwell on the glories of the past, they wanted to live in the future, shape it, rather than merely remember. The new order was no longer shocking, indeed it was becoming comfortable, familiar. The Old harboured a new resentment: the New should have been temporary, they had been meant as a substitute while things settled down, a poor substitute at that. But now they were the only future. And with the wisdom of the ages, some of the Elders knew it would only be a matter of time before the younger generation began to see the past as a dead weight, one holding them back, preventing them from reaching their potential.

Teams of the young were loading the last supplies aboard the ships, passing boxes and modules along in carefully orchestrated lines. In their designated dome, the flight crews would be putting on their uniforms, with the help of the necessary attendants and helpers. A phalanx of the Watch stood guard over proceedings. An army of engineers in protective garments swarmed around and inside the ships, checking every last detail. A small band of musicians had started playing a tune, and the Newborn had taken up the chant.

‘Sing about the past again, and sing that same old song.
Tell me what you know, so I can tell you that you’re wrong.

Just sing about the past, and the past’s where you belong.
Let’s travel to tomorrow, and learn a brand new song.’

Their voices drifted up on the wind. Two robed figures, a man and a woman, watched proceedings from their own balcony on the highest level of the Citadel. It was open to the elements, but the snows and the winds circled around them, not daring to intrude.

‘They are magnificent,’ Omega declared without needing to speak.

‘A dream come true,’ his wife agreed silently. She was slender, with green eyes. Beneath her fur cloak she wore a close‐fitting bodice and leggings.

He towered over her, he seemed to be twice her size at least, an effect only magnified by his immense armour. It was bronze, studded with aluminium, with a lead breastplate. ‘I must go to my ship. We have to embark before nightfall.’

‘Good luck,’ she said wordlessly.

‘We have prophecy, so who needs luck?’ he laughed, hugging her. She nodded, and they parted. He strode away, leaving the woman alone on the observation balcony with her thoughts and memories.

Or so she had thought.
‘Who indeed?’ the little man said, breaking the silence. She turned to face him.
‘How long have you been here?’ He stood in the middle of

the tiled floor as though he always had been there.
‘Time is relative.’ He checked his pocket watch. ‘Or at

least it might be from lunch time tomorrow.’
‘We know from the last line of the Fragment that the

expedition will succeed. It is written.’ She turned back to face the ships. ‘It is what comes afterwards that is uncertain. But soon we will not just know the future, soon we will walk amongst it.’

‘The Fragment,’ he said, walking over to her, placing his hand easily on her shoulder. ‘I thought you must have guessed.’

She knew what he was about to say.

He spoke softly, deep sadness in his voice. ‘Rassilon needed to rally his people, he needed to justify his insane plan. You remember what it was like a decade ago, after the Curse. The Elders were looking to the past, they were giving up. All we had was our memory. All those golden ages and legendary adventures, all that infighting over which past glory was the best past glory. Gallifrey had died.’

‘Even without Rassilon, we would have lived for many millions of years. We are very difficult to kill.’

‘Oh yes. We’re immortal, barring accidents. But accidents happen, my Lady. We would have died in the end without Rassilon and his plan. Didn’t it ever occur to you how contrived the situation was? A workman clearing away the rubble of some fallen temple just happened to find a page from the Book of Prophecy. A single page, a little charred around the edges. Didn’t you think that was odd? Didn’t you wonder what had happened to the rest of the book? And it was such a useful page – the very one that told of the coming decade, showed the whole of Gallifrey that we would become the first of the Lords of Time. Even Rassilon’s enemies conceded that the future seemed to be quoting word‐for‐word from Rassilon’s manifesto half the time. An interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’

‘The discovery of the Fragment was the clearest possible indication of our destiny,’ she said firmly. ‘The universe moves in mysterious ways.’

‘The Fragment!’ the little man snorted. ‘Rassilon wrote it himself, placed the paper under a stone during one of his walkabouts. He doesn’t want to see the future, he wants to shape it. The Scrolls are what might happen, what he wants to happen, not what will. Without the Fragment, Rassilon and the Consortium would not have been allowed to continue the time travel experiments, we’d have squandered the planet’s resources just trying to stay alive, rather than investing them.’

And it made sense, but it made the future an abyss.

She shrugged his hand from her shoulder, turned to face him. The little man didn’t speak for a moment. Finally, in that soft voice of his, he said, ‘There are many races across the universe who have never remembered the future.’

She shuddered. ‘It has been bad enough not knowing what would happen this last nine years. To be blind for ever is that how you want to live?’

‘You would be surprised how easy they find ways to explain away what happens. They have many beliefs that we would find strange. They talk of “cause and effect”, “quantum mechanics”, “prediction”. Mostly they put their trust in their gods. They believe that the gods can directly influence the mortal sphere, rewarding their followers, punishing the unbelievers. The laws of physics bend to tile will of the gods. They call it “divine intervention”.’

She stared at him.
‘A curious notion,’ she said finally.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Without it, we are forced to create our

own miracles.’
He pointed back at the ships and she turned. The sun was

behind her, and barely above the horizon. The shadows were long, matt black, beginning to flow together, like droplets of mercury. The ships hung above the ruined Capitol, inviolate. The gangways and docking tubes had withdrawn, the ground crews were retreating back to the safety of the Citadel. The singing had stopped some time ago.

Without further ceremony, the air filled with an unearthly wheezing, moaning sound and the massive ships faded away like memories. Then there was nothing there except the ruins of the Capitol, the shadows of the past, and a winter’s evening.

‘Shouldn’t you have been with your ship?’ she asked. But he had gone.