#like logically the audience has seen that table outside and has made a note of it

[oplishin]

watching hangman v mox texas death match for the first time. mox curb stomping hanger's head onto the bricks is. hoo boy

[svchengss]

king of hearts | d.sc

PAIRING. dong sicheng x reader

GENRE. high school!au, fluff, slight angst, kind of e2l

WARNINGS. none (lmk if i missed any!)

WORD COUNT. 6.7k

SUMMARY. sicheng’s subtle flirts are not working effectively but it only motivates him to try and woo you more. the devil sure works hard but dong sicheng works harder.

PLAYLIST. king of hearts

TAGLIST. @floraljae @clovdless @mashiihearts @ndr1271 @kunrengui (shoutout to mashi for being a major help in the process of writing this <3)

// just to let you guys know, reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated !! thank you for reading :D

music was blaring through the multiple loudspeakers scattered around the school grounds, booths of various interests that were set-up by the clubs being swarmed by visitors and ecstatic oohs and aahs from the ones playing games can be heard intermittently. the annual school festival of redlands high, an event that is looked forward to by every single student there. or maybe not, you’re quite unsure of the self-made data.

you immediately made a beeline to the dance club booth which is managed by yangyang, the president also holding the title of your best friend. a cartoonish grin crept up on his face when he spots you walking towards him.

“so, what do you think? looks legit, huh?” he crossed his arms together, observing the design of the booth with a proud smile. the set-up is definitely eye-catching, not much decorations going on, adding to the simplicity of the white theme with gold touch-ups. you browsed through the plastered posters on the board, inviting people to sign up for their upcoming audition. looking up to the signboard hanging outside, you showed a thumbs up towards him, muttering a quick ‘perfect’.

“so what exactly is your booth doing? there’s not much… activity going on?” you scratched the non-existent itch on your left eyebrow. the boy in front of you gave you an eye roll before explaining that there will be mini dance games - or just dance as he worded. an amused sound left your lips as you bent down, dropping your signature in the guestbook on the wooden table.

“are you coming to the stage shows tonight? i heard there’s a new band performing,” your ears perked up instinctively upon hearing the words. after your sister graduated high school, nobody paid any attention to keep the band going. the zikas, a trio that made the music club strive back then. either the newer batches were too lazy to make an effort or too scared if they weren’t up to the already high standards of the school.

“i’m going if you’re going,” you simply stated, which made yangyang flash you the same grin from before. you said your simple goodbyes when people started lining up to try the just dance game at his booth. after he reminded you to wait for him by the statue, you went off to check out the food sales, eager to fill your growling stomach since this morning.

you can do this, sicheng. you can do this.

he made sure to double check the tuning of his guitar for one last time before joining the rest of his bandmates on the stage. his tall and slim physique surely left an impact, seeing that some of the audience suddenly became more invested in the performance compared to the others. he’s wearing some band’s shirt - probably green day since it’s quite similar to your sister’s posters in her room, black leather jacket and his black hair middle parted. not to miss the silver pendant necklace on his neck, sparkling under the spotlight.

the moment he struck the pick through the strings of his electric guitar, the drummer and bassist followed after, producing a melody that is pleasing to your ears. he held the microphone closer to his mouth, singing the lyrics as you bobbed your head up and down to the covers they sang - american idiot and helena are the ones you recognized since you’ve heard the songs so often. yangyang on the other hand kept on sipping the chocolate milkshake in his hand, vibing with the music as well.

the next song was a sentimental one which you assumed is a self-composed one, since you’ve never heard this song before. before you know it, the performance is over and the audience have started packing up their belongings to hang out somewhere else or go home.

“good job everyone, we did well,” yuta, who played the bass earlier, high-fived the rest of the band with a sly grin on his face. guanheng chugged the mineral water down his throat before stashing his drumsticks into the bag while sicheng was lost in his thoughts. he doesn’t know why but you stood out from the crowd, only able to see you just now. he wouldn’t say it’s a crush, not knowing anything about you but it definitely made him feel something. a trigger in his heart, not knowing where it leads to. but what he does know is that you caught his attention.

“and you know what he said? i’ll come back crawling to him just like his other exes. what the heck is even that?” you took out the binders from your locker while listening to ningning rant about her love life. since you haven’t had any relationships before, you’re not really a professional in this aspect of life so you just kept your mouth shut to avoid giving useless advice.

“that sounds so rude, he’s such a jerk,” you commented, taking the first bite of your sandwich afterwards. the tea-spilling session eventually came to an end when she reached her class first and you kept walking to mrs. walker’s, english being your first period. nothing exciting really happened in that class except someone got their phone confiscated for texting in class - just the usual things. classes later, it’s finally recess when you met up with ningning and yangyang in the cafeteria.

“first of all, cut him off. block him. everywhere,” yangyang emphasized the last word, knowing how much of an idiot the guy can be. you just scrolled through your socials, double tapping on certain posts that caught your eye. owning a cat looks fun, you made a mental note to bring the idea to your parents later. the bell rang which signals that classes are starting back soon and the same cycle of events continues before it’s time to go home.

you observed yangyang’s sharp moves, following to the beat of the song echoing in the dance room. it’s currently half past seven and he’s still here, beads of sweat running through his hair. and why would he stay in school so late, you may ask? obviously, he’s here for a reason and it being an upcoming dance tournament is the most accurate one. while you’re here, sitting on the floor, back against the mirror and legs straightened out with your phone in your hand. it amazes you how the goofy boy transforms 360°, being all serious when he’s in his element.

“let’s go home, i’m tired already,” he panted out breathlessly, using a cloth nearby to wipe his sweaty forehead. you wait for him by the glass door as he packs up his things when the lights in the music studio also switched off. you wondered it must be the band guys so you paid no attention whatsoever. of course, your predictions were right when you saw two lads stepping out.

since yangyang is taking too much time tidying up the dance studio and the music studio seems unoccupied, you decided to check it out for a bit. it’s been a long time since you last entered the room, always accompanying your sister for her extra practice when you were younger. not much has changed, except some additions of instruments can be seen. not seeing anything in the dark condition as the room is only illuminated by the faint lights from the hallway, you pushed the switches down only to be met by a gasp.

“what are you doing here?” the tall boy approached you, a stern look visible on his fine features. your eyes scrambled around the room in an attempt to find any logical excuses for your ‘break-in’ but to no avail. your tongue was dry, not a sound escaping your throat when you heard yangyang’s voice, signalling your cue to exit the room and escape from the tension building between you and the boy. he just shook his head, the black hair bouncing left to right as he finally caught on.

it’s you, you’re the girl from the crowd. and your name is y/n.

the walk home was filled with one-sided conversations where yangyang kept on babbling about how he should improve the choreography he created earlier while you only added small comments. your mind is filled with embarrassment, too much that you feel slightly mad at yourself. why didn’t you say anything earlier? now, you look like a complete idiot with communication issues in front of that boy.

“yeah, and remember that pasta? we should definitely try it again, it’s like, so good,” yangyang said, earning a nod from you when you saw the boy from last night’s music studio tragedy approaching your table. you tried to look away but it was too late.

“dude, just wanna let you know that mr. park is seeing us after school,” your grip on your fork loosens up when you realized he wasn’t talking to you. maybe he forgot about the incident? you really hope so.

“yeah, totally. thanks sicheng,” yangyang playfully winked at the latter, earning a disgusted look from him who started walking away. he glanced back at you with a smug smile on his plump lips, making you freeze up again.

he didn’t.

“are you okay, y/n? feeling sick?” ningning furrowed her eyebrows upon seeing your sudden change of demeanor. you shrugged her off and continued to consume the macaroni placed on the tray in front of you, mentally cursing at yourself for the poor life choice you’d made. well, at least you know that his name is sicheng, right?

oh boy, you’re in for a long ride.

you can’t wait to go home and snuggle under the covers, today has been a long and tiring one for you. you had three pop quizzes as if all the three teachers intended so, your class had to run multiple laps during p.e. and so on. you’re already planning your routine in your head, trudging your way to the lockers when you saw him leaning against yours, scrolling down his phone.

“crap,” you muttered under your breath.

there it is, the smirk on his face returns when he spots your figure approaching. oh, how you wish you could wipe it off his face. he moved a couple steps backwards to give you some space to arrange your things before locking it, turning your head towards him.

“i’m sorry, why are you here again? and if it’s because of last night, then i’m sorry if it bothered you or anything,” you huffed out.

“what? i didn’t really care, it’s not like you were stealing anything, right?” he squinted his eyes, eyeing you up and down suspiciously, laughing shortly after seeing you get riled up.

“damn, you really need to learn how to take a joke. y/n, right? i’m sicheng, nice to meet you.”

“why exactly are we having this meet-and-greet or whatever this introduction is?” you crossed your arms, waiting for his response. but he didn’t, immediately turning on his heels and making his way towards the stairs, probably going to the studio.

“jerk,” you cursed under your breath, walking out the school building.

“what? you got accepted? seriously?” ningning’s voice echoed against the cafeteria walls, earning surprised and annoyed glances from other students who were either satisfying their grumbling stomach or simply having conversations. yangyang softly nudged her elbows using his, asking her to lower her voice down before telling you to go on. you were quite surprised as well, the acceptance email was not what you expected to receive. when you filled in the application form, it was just a mere shoot-your-shot agenda to see if you’d make the cut. although this is just a camp, you’re still unsure of what lies ahead.

“yeah, it starts next week. but i’m so nervous though,” you sipped the iced coffee in your hands. you’ve only watched videos of people producing their own music from scratch which you start to take an interest in. however, you’ve never done it hands-on before, only having basic music theory knowledge thanks to the piano lessons your parents signed you up for when you were young.

“you’ll do awesome, i promise,” yangyang gave you a reassuring smile, making you release some tension from the overthinking you’ve had since you received the email last night.

“thanks yang.”

now, here you are on the first day of attending the internship camp. you stood in front of the tall mirror hanging on the wall, straightening your cardigan and applying some makeup onto your face as touch-ups. it’s currently 7:40 in the morning, the earliest time you’ve ever woken up on a saturday. your siblings are still swallowed in their states of sleep. you double-checked the contents in your tote bag, making sure that no important things are left behind. you totally don’t intend on leaving a bad first impression on your first day.

after bidding a swift goodbye to your parents who just woke up, you drove your mother’s old honda to the completely new destination - mbyte studios. the tall building with light grey and blue painted walls definitely made it stand out, a futuristic look catching the eyes of the passersby. taking a deep breath, you entered the main lobby before being escorted to a room on the second floor. you assume it’s a waiting room for all participants of the camp, scanning that majority of the occupiers might be college students. you thanked god that the camp takes place on weekends so your high school senior life won’t be interrupted that much.

DAY 1

your eyes widened when you spot sicheng with the same white and blue tag you’re wearing, seated on the sofa. what the hell is he doing here? you avoided acknowledging his presence, trying to make yourself as unnoticed as possible heading over to occupy the seat farthest from his. after quite some time staring at the paintings hanging on the wall, a middle-aged lady with a petite figure entered the room, making you sit up straight.

“welcome to mbyte studios! i’m the assistant director, mrs. hwang. first and foremost, congratulations on being accepted. it’ a pleasure to witness the start of your musical journey embarking here. i believe that we should know each other first?” she gestured for any volunteers. sicheng stood up from his seat, charisma evident in his stance which left quite an impression on the others. the strong confidence in the way he speaks made the woman smile amusingly.

some names later, it was your turn to introduce yourself. the moment you stood up, he immediately recognized you and you were sure you caught him making some faces. the ice-breaking session went well thankfully, mrs. hwang elaborating on the social rules and the itinerary throughout the whole six days. one that caught your attention was assisting the producers on making a track from scratch, just like you had dreamed of.

when it was finally time for lunch break, you shot up from your seat to get away from sicheng as fast as possible but to your dismay, he beat you to it, jogging up towards your standing position.

“i didn’t know you were into music, what’s the sudden occasion?”

“it’s none of your business actually,” you sneered back, obviously not favouring his attention.

“woah, relax. you’ve got quite a temper, don’t you? by the way, we’re having lunch together,” he placed his phone onto a nearby table, pulling a chair for you.

“just eat on your own, i don’t have the appetite,” you flash a sarcastic grin before disappearing into the women’s restroom. he just laughed bitterly at your response before walking towards the food counter, joining his newly made friend, jaehyun. being the same age, they’re easy to click.

DAY 2

“today, we’ll be focusing on the recording process. you’ll be assigned into groups that will have a tour of the whole department. our staff will facilitate each group,” the manager said loud and clear. you remembered his name was johnny. the tattoo on his shoulder really stands out, considering the fact that he’s always wearing a sleeveless shirt.

but what are the odds when your groupmate is none other than the guy himself, sicheng. it’s like the universe truly resented you for having to be associated with him at any event. your group was escorted to the farthest recording studio on the floor. to say that this was a great experience is truly an understatement, making you observe the gears used in astonishment. you hate to admit it but sicheng has a handful of knowledge on this particular topic, always correctly answering the questions directed by the staff. maybe it wasn’t quite surprising upon knowing that his career choice is a singer, not that you care anyways.

again, nothing out of the ordinary happened today, except that you and sicheng had lunch on the same table. of course, it’s not that you accepted his offer but he welcomed himself to the spot. being the quickly favoured participant among the rest, obviously they welcomed him with open hands. he placed himself among the two guys sitting at the right corner, eyeing you whose eyes are still not leaving the article you were skimming through. with the last spoon of food shoved into your mouth, you quietly excused yourself from the group. sicheng just watched your movements in subtle signs of annoyance.

with the final task of doing microphone check-ups, day two of the camp ended with a breeze. you can’t wait to go home, get into a warm bath and spend the night watching netflix. it was a tiring one indeed but you’re not one to complain. pushing the car keys into the ignition slot, the sound of the engine starting is still nowhere to be heard even after a couple of retries. you rested your forehead onto the steering wheel, cursing silently in your head, having to get a taxi and call your mother about this incident. you’re sure to be receiving a handful from her, not to mention her soft but stingful remarks.

“hey, are you okay?” a deep voice interrupts your stressful state of mind. looking up, it’s sicheng with a concerned look on display. you hesitantly shared your problem, making him press his lips together probably thinking of a solution.

“you know, i don’t really know how to fix your broken engine or whatever but i know someone who can. let me just ring him for a sec. and you’re coming home with me.”

and that’s how you ended up in the front passenger seat, sicheng steering with one hand and the other rested on the windowsill. the faint music from the radio can be heard, probably a song by jon vinyl. you’d steal quick glances to see his other hand dancing in the air, enjoying the rhythm of the song playing. besides that, it was silent as both of you are preoccupied with your own things - sicheng on the road while you on your phone. he tried to make small talk but you would say it’s unrequited, only replying with short sentences. after a good ten minutes drive, the sight of your brown painted gate becomes a sign for him to stop the moving car.

“your car is safe with my friend so you shouldn’t worry about it or anything. also, what’s your number? it’ll be easier for, you know the car business of course,” he reached over to unbuckle your seatbelt, handing over his phone to you after. the close proximity made your breath hitch, the dewy scent of his perfume diffusing into your nose. not too strong, he has a good taste.

“thanks and um, i’ll buy you a drink later. just for today.”

“are you asking me on a date?” there it is, the significant tug on the side of his lips making its presence once again.

“stop being so narcissistic and move along please,” you rolled your eyes before giving him a small wave, stepping into your property. sicheng stared at the numerals on his phone screen, a small, proud grin etched on before driving off the lane.

“how was the camp? met any cute boys?” the first thing you hear in the hue of the blue monday morning is ningning’s chirpy voice. sometimes you wonder how she gets all boosted up at this hour of the day. yangyang is the polar opposite, his appearance as if he just got out of bed, the hood of his denim jacket resting on top of his auburn hair.

“it was good and no, no cute boys. but sicheng was there,” you replied nonchalantly, a mischievous grin crept onto her lips. you can almost predict the words that are going to spill out of her mouth.

“what’s up with her?” yangyang yawned, his eyes lazily gaze at you. you just lifted your shoulders, having no idea whatsoever. a ping sound was heard from your phone, notifying that a new message is received.

unknown: hey sicheng here

unknown: ur car may be ready tmr. want me to drive u there?

listening to your heart, you were about to type ‘no’ but remembering the fact that your parents will be busy the whole day tomorrow and yangyang is coming home late once again, you have no choice but to accept the lad’s help.

now you’re back in his vehicle, the same spot as before. you’ve only noticed now that a musical note charm is hung on the rearview mirror, a semiquaver to be exact. you’d say that it looks authentic, gold specks shining when sun rays hit the surface. observing the interior of his car, there are quite a number of small decorations.

“can we get coffee first? my treat for the car and the ride,” you suggested, looking at him whose eyes are focused onto the road. the traffic is quite pleasing today, nobody honking mindlessly at the other drivers and flipping each other off with the famous middle finger gesture. his side profile does look charming, some type of earrings dangling from his ears. if you’re going to be honest, his appearance does seem to be your type. you’re not one to say about his persona though, always managing to bother you at any time of the day.

“sure, wanna go to the new cafe? i heard it’s good,”. you just nodded while he skillfully steered the steering wheel, moving the car to the new destination. you turned your eyes to look outside from the car window, seeing the one hundred and one manners of the citizens. a mother struggling to take her child who’s having a tantrum out of the toy shop, a young couple having their romantic meal in the french cafe. the motion of the car stopping awakened you who was being distracted by your clouded mind.

from the moment you stepped into the place, the interior caught your attention. the light brown painted walls with black furniture complementing each other perfectly, making a retro-like appearance. the funky song playing faintly in the background surely is a mood-setter, just how you like it. even the barista serving you is being friendly, making a couple of small talk in the midst of operating the machines.

you would say that it was a pleasureful day for you. the exquisite taste of latte washing down your dry throat, getting your car back without too much babbling from your dear mother and the gap between you and sicheng closing in for a little.

the last sentence baffled you for a second.

DAY 3

sicheng’s eyes shot open from the short slumber he was trying to get - failing miserably even, upon spotting you enter through the door. he pulled the chair beside him in hopes for you to get his message and take the seat. a frown made its way onto his face when you just waved at him, making your way to another spot a few chairs to the front. he scoffed, head tilting slightly before approaching you instead. you shot him a puzzled look, roughly translating to ask him what he’s doing here.

“i just want to be close to you. now focus,” he redirected his eyes onto the muscular man who just entered the room. he’s a songwriter - the best one in this company to be exact. you were focused on each point he explained, making small notes on your laptop. it’s not always that you’ll get a chance to be guided by a four-time award winning songwriter, might as well gain some benefits from it.

“another tip i have is to use all types of chords. remember, do not stick to the same ones, you’ll lack creativity. for instance, use major, minor, dominant, diminished, and augmented. i promise you, more ideas will be flowing and better quality songs will be produced. you got me?” the questioned, earning buzzing sounds of positive responses from the hall.

DAY 4

another day of group work, you’re given the task to create a melody according to the themes given - for your group, it’s love. looking at sicheng, he’s already on his electric guitar, strumming mindlessly to find the perfect note to start on. the rest of you are now juicing out some thoughts on this particular sense of human nature.

“love gives us thrill, the feeling of excitement, the feeling when you’re uncertain about something but when you have that special someone with you, you’re sure to wing it all,” jaehyun suggests, earning nods of approval from the rest of your groupmates.

“you’re a pro at this, mr. romantic,” you teased him, earning a soft chuckle. a dimpled smile is etched onto his features, rosy cheeks and his eye smile making you fawn. prince-like visual and a sense of humour? a two in one package, totally.

“not really. i guess i’m a sucker for romance movies,” he rubbed the back of his neck. your small conversation came to a halt when you heard a crooked, loud sound coming from the rough strum on the guitar strings. you turned around to see sicheng gazing directly towards the both of you, a sharp one even. jaehyun just blinked his eyes before catching onto the situation unfolding in front of him while you’re still being completely oblivious. you tilted your head in confusion, unsure of what’s gotten into him.

it’s the day that yangyang has been looking forward to since the past few weeks, his dance tournament. you’re seated with ningning on the bleachers, music from the loudspeakers echoing through the walls. with the cheers of the bewatchers whenever someone captivated them with a trick or dance move, usually the risky ones, it truly is a loud atmosphere.

“now, welcoming contestant number 43 to take the stage,” the host announced, you and ningning clapped with all your might, shouting words of encouragement as well. yangyang took a deep breath before lifting his right hand up, cueing for the music to start playing. just then, there’s the sound of someone plopping down on the hard surface next to you - sicheng. he’s looking casual today, a light yellow hoodie replacing his usual dark clothings.

“what are you doing here?” you shout whispered while ningning raised her eyebrows at you.

“didn’t yangyang tell you? i’m here to watch him dance,” he countered your question before darting his eyes back to the boy who’s busy popping on the dance floor, tinashe’s song playing in the background. he ended his routine with a moonwalk, making his way to the end of the stage. you’re confident that he’s going to win the competition, looking at how precise and clean his moves were. all the late night practices he had eventually paid off when he’s announced as the second placer. nonetheless, he’s still proud of himself, not to mention you and ningning who have been with him throughout his whole journey.

“you did well,” sicheng welcomed him with a fist bump which he reciprocated back. you didn’t know that they were this good of friends.

“i’m starving,” he rubbed his hand onto his stomach, making you remember that your stomach has been rumbling since you only ate a cereal bar that morning. you were about to catch up to yangyang and ningning who were walking fast ahead when you felt a tug on your shirt, looking down to see sicheng crouching down to tie your loose shoelaces.

“you might fall,” he placed his hands into the pockets of his hoodies, waiting for you to come along.

“um, thanks,” you muttered out before catching the glances given by your friends, later teasing you about the scene.

roars of students can be heard coherently, filling the basketball court. the basketball captain, a tall one with black charcoal hair is shooting a three-pointer. the players are then called over to their respective sides for whatever strategy their coaches will be implementing in the third-quarter. the home team is currently leading by five points, knowing that the players wearing the significant red and black jersey have been training their asses off for a while now.

but why exactly did you come to the game tonight? besides from the main event happening in the moment, the other reason is now standing in his position, strumming his electric guitar producing a funky sound that vibrates through the walls - a cue for the start of another buzzing stage. sicheng has been bugging you about watching him perform tonight and after quite some time evaluating, why not? when he finally caught you among the crowd, he flashed you a flirtatious wink. right before the band bowed as gratitude to the audience, he gave you a gesture to wait for him at the back of the gym.

“you came! but seriously, thank you,” he rested the sparkly white guitar against the wall, enveloping you into a hug. this is new, you tried to hide the flustered state of yours as you reciprocated his movement. from the corner of your eyes, you can see a black-haired guy approaching the two of you, followed by one with long, white hair and a bandana nicely keeping the fluffy strands in tact.

“ooh, who’s this?” the first one wiggled his eyebrows, later introducing himself as guanheng, the latter named yuta. to your surprise, the bond between you and them are quick to form with guanheng piloting the conversation. not to mention his subtle jokes making you giggle at times.

“well y/n, your little boyfriend here is getting jealous so we’ll excuse ourselves for now. see you whenever,” guanheng banging his drumsticks into the air while yuta gave you a quick wave before disappearing into the store room of the gymnasium. the nickname they gave sicheng surely made you a bit shy.

boyfriend?

DAY 5

you’re seated in front of the computer screen, your chin resting on the palm of your hands and the tabs of different colours left untouched. you redirected your gaze onto the projector screen, the words ‘arrange, mix, edit and master like a pro’ on it. a long sigh leaving your lips, you try to remember what the producer said earlier.

don’t make the song sound too repetitive

a good buildup promises a good melody

you can have a certain instrument playing only on one part for cinematic impact

DAY 6

“i’m hyo and you’re,” she moved the wheels of her chair to the back a bit to take another look at the clipboard resting on the desk, “sicheng, y/n and jaehyun, right?” the three of you nodded in harmony, anticipating for the next order that will be given.

“okay cool, we’ll be brainstorming first,” and she proceeded to explain what the requirements for this project are. you mouthed out the important points she gave, soft rock, heartbreak and drums. you’re on a roll today, contributing your countless ideas during the first few minutes of the discussion. sicheng just looked at you discussing with hyo, your lips pursed slightly. his gaze seems full of adoration, even jaehyun said so.

“any objections?” hyo looked over to the rest.

“i think she made some great ones. i’m sure this project will come out fresh,” jaehyun voiced out his opinions, sicheng nodding after. he went straight to handling the instruments , you and jaehyun collaborating for the mixing process. hyo eventually chimed in on some times, giving small advice whenever you seem stuck in the brain. with the hours ticking by, you’re feeling more satisfied than ever with your earphones in, listening to the final product created.

all of the participants are then assembled in the hall again, waiting for a final speech by the director which formalizes the end of the camp. sure, you’ve earned worthy knowledge throughout the six days. but if you’re being brutally true to the sound of your heart, it would be how you came to learn sicheng’s true antics. he might be the cocky guy who thinks they have the power to do anything but in truth, he’s just some guy with an honest heart, honest intentions to know you better.

summer break, your most anticipated event for the past few weeks. the moment the last bell rang, that scene in high school musical 2 kept replaying in the back of your head, the students doing a parade in front of the lockers picturing how your little heart is doing backflips in your chest right now. all the beach trips ningning planned is making you feel dizzy. you turned around to a voice calling out your name from the end of the hallway, your eyes catching the sight of sicheng jogging towards your spot. he stopped in front of you, hands on his knees catching his breath.

“are you free tomorrow night? there’s a party at guanheng’s and you know, it would be really cool if you join,” his fingers tracing onto each other, waiting patiently for your response.

you didn’t even have the time to process his invitation when ningning crashed her body against yours, yangyang following suit.

“a party? y/n would totally love to come, right?” ningning nudged your arms softly while yangyang tried to stifle a giggle. you were about to mouth out a ‘what?’ before sicheng cut you off.

“cool, you guys should come too. tomorrow at 10,” he and yangyang exchanged finger guns gestures before leaving the three of you. you just stood there in disbelief, eyeing them up and down before ningning dragged you to the parking lot. a stringful of grumbles escaped your lips, making the guy laugh obnoxiously.

“i can’t believe you guys did that,” you extended the seat belt, buckling it to the slot beside you.

“please. but you do want it, right?” you can’t deny, what she said was true. plus, you should have some fun and distress before having to go back to the usual dull routine of yours.

“how do i look?” you turn around, revealing the baby pink crop top and flare pants on your legs. it’s not your best outfit but giving the cliche excuse - you have nothing to wear, the two articles totally complements each other

“you look hot, that’s all i gotta say. right, yang?” ningning lifted her head from the headboard, glancing over at yangyang who’s going over his messages.

“yeah totally,” he lifted his hands, giving you a thumbs up. you threw a jacket onto your shoulders and grabbed the black purse on your dresser, glancing at the wall mirror one last time.

from the moment you stepped into the venue - guanheng’s place, smells of alcohol lingered around your nose, a group of people cheering ever so loudly over a game of beer pong, some already passed out on the couch. not to mention a brownish stain on the carpet - probably from someone throwing up. the mess would take a whole day to get rid off, you note to yourself. your friends are no longer to be found, both of them getting affiliated with god knows what. your eyes scanned the living room for sicheng but his presence is still nowhere to be found.

you decided to step towards the kitchen bar, pouring a drink for yourself. the mixed sweet and sour taste of it remained on your tongue for a couple of seconds. looking over at the snacks served, you grabbed a strawberry flavoured lollipop from the clear bowl. the crowd is cheering loudly for some type of incident happening at the back of the room, the music has been turned up to be a little louder than the volume before and you’re suddenly getting a little bit overwhelmed. you grabbed your purse and stepped out, inhaling some fresh air and looking up to the starry night sky.

“y/n? where have you been?” sicheng approached you from behind, making you a bit startled.

“sorry, hanging out outside can calm me. where did you go?” you popped the lollipop into your mouth.

“some jerk decided to throw up in front of me,” you pinched your nose with a disgusted expression, making him roll his eyes.

“do you want me to accompany you out here?” he offered. you just nod your head, placing yourself on the patio with him following suit. the sweetening flavour empowering your senses. it’s definitely much more calm out here, allowing you to clear up your mind. it’s not that you hate the atmosphere in the house right now, you’re just not in the mood.

“you know, you look pretty,” you turned around to meet his face. his brown eyes brimming with unconfessed love.

“shut up, stop with the jokes,” you lightly land a smack on his arms.

“what if i say i’m not joking?” he looked straight into your eyes, trying to find any emotion inside you. the sudden seriousness is making you feel much more awkward so you forced out a laugh, turning your attention right back upwards. the stars are shining brightly tonight, you can almost spot a constellation.

“i know what you’re doing, dong sicheng. just stop it already, it’s not working on me.” denial, that’s what you’re experiencing in the hot minute.

a gentle tug can be felt on your wrist, his eyes still not leaving yours.

“didn’t anyone tell you before? you’re really pretty. like, i can’t even describe it to you. you’re just,” he leaned over to caress your cheeks, “pretty,”.

what jaehyun said on the other day is true, after all.

love gives us thrill, the feeling of excitement, the feeling when you’re uncertain about something but when you have that special someone with you, you’re sure to wing it all.

your heart is beating so fast, it could fall out of your chest at any moment now. even the faint music blasting through the speakers inside the house can’t flush down the sound of your heartbeat. you’re not used to this, the sudden need of the significant skin to skin contact that symbolizes love between two individuals.

“can i?” his face in a very near proximity from yours, whispering into your right ear with his honey-like voice. you pulled the candy away from your mouth and nod, giving him the approval he needed before he dived in. heat rose from your stomach to your chest. you could only focus on how soft his crimson lips felt on yours, invading your privacy by all senses. you felt the kiss expand beyond your bodies, whirling you round, swirling you into the stars. he pulled away with a soft smile, you thought you could melt right then and there.

“wow,” that was the only word escaping your throat. your jumping heart still hasn’t settled down yet, your very first kiss still feeling surreal. you could see that sicheng is very much mirroring your emotions, his slender fingers grazing over his lips - the one that has come in contact with yours.

“the strawberry lollipop is sweet,” he commented, making the both of you laugh.

a ping from your phone awakened you from the gushy eye contact with him, unlocking it only to find yangyang’s text message. the second part of it made you fluster.

yang: yo r u coming in or what? and congrats for the kiss, we thought we’d have to wait longer for this

[sergeantsporks]

Summer School

Rating: General Audiences, Gen

Part 3 of Camila is Hunter’s Mom Now

You know how there was always that one kid who was smarter than everyone else, and then they transfer to a new school, and suddenly they're not the smartest one there anymore? Yeah. Hunter finds out that nothing in the Boiling Isles prepared him for a human high-school education.

Ao3

“Hey. Thanks for meeting up with me, I know you’re busy.” Camila sat down in a chair, motioning for Hunter to sit down next to her.

An old man—the nameplate on his desk pronounced him “Principal Hal”—sighed. “Yes. Of course, Miss Noceda.”

“I’ve found… alternate schooling methods for Luz, but I’ve enrolled my two other children, Vee and Hunter in school.”

“I know.”

“Eheh. Right. The thing is… Hunter hasn’t ever… had any kind of formal schooling. So… he’s never taken higher maths, or sciences. He doesn’t know algebra, or chemistry, or…”

Principal Hal heaved another sigh. “So, what exactly does he know?”

Hunter crossed his arms. “I know thirteen different ways to kill you where you sit,” he snapped.

Camila shot him a look. “He can read, and write, and do basic math—it’s just high school, really. Oh, and history, he hasn’t ever taken a history course.”

“Well, we have summer school options—it’s a bit late, but we can look at squeezing him in. And Vee?”

“Vee went to summer camp, and she did very well there, she should be just fine.”

“Hm. Well, I’m very sorry that Luz won’t be joining us this year—”

“No, you’re not,” Camila muttered.

“—but I’m very glad she’s found a schooling system that… works better for her.” Principal Hal scribbled something down on a piece of paper, and handed it to Camila. “Take that to the front office, and they’ll get you the textbooks Hunter will need for his summer schooling.” Principal Hal looked like he’d bitten into a lemon. “I… look forward to having you as a student here, young man.”

Hunter inclined his head. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

He followed Camila out of the office. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“You threatened to kill him thirteen different ways. I don’t blame him. That was very nice at the end, though, thank you.”

Hunter felt a warm glow in his chest at the praise. “How come Luz isn’t coming?”

“Luz… never did well in school. And she’s determined to go back to Hexside, so I’ve enrolled her in some online courses so that she won’t fall behind on human studies, and if she can get through the Boiling Isles, I’ll… let her continue her education there. If she promises to check in frequently, and hide the portal very, very well.” Camila stopped in front of a wide desk, handing the secretary the piece of paper that Principal Hal had handed her.

The secretary disappeared and came back with a stack of books that she pushed to Hunter. “First class is Monday, you’ll be with the sophomores retaking algebra. Welcome to the family.”

Hunter picked up the books gingerly, trailing behind Camila. “Why does this book have a lizard on it if it’s a math book?”

Camila unlocked the car, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Great question. I don’t know.”

“What’s a sophomore?”

“Second year of high-school. You’ll be a junior, a third year.”

The lower class. With the students who’d failed algebra the first go round. Hunter’s ears burned, and he cracked open the algebra book, staring at the numbers. “I can read this outside of class?”

“Sure, if you want to.”

By the time they got home, Hunter was deep in. He kept reading as he walked inside, going straight to the kitchen table and setting the books down. He could figure this out—and then he could move up, at the very least to the regular second year level. He still had time before he officially started school—he could learn all of this.

Luz came bouncing down the stairs. “Amity responded! I have no clue how this thing works across dimensions, but I am so glad—hey, whatcha reading, Hunter?”

He didn’t look up. “Algebra.” He flipped the page, and neat, numbered rows of problems faced him. “Hey, they give you practice problems!”

“Blech, I thought you were my brother, Hunter. Math? When you don’t have to?”

“I’m behind. I need to catch up, or I’ll be stuck in lower grades.”

“Oh, right. Prodigy with extreme fear of failure. I forgot.”

Hunter tuned her out, digging out his old sketchpad and copying the first problem, flipping back in the book for the solving process. “Mhm.”

“Anyway, now that I can contact Amity, we’re going to work on opening a portal from their end.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She has the titan’s blood and ingredients on her end—hopefully it won’t be long before she can figure it out.”

Hunter frowned, checking over his work. “Mmm.”

“Watch out, there’s a deadly monster behind you.”

“K.”

Luz heaved a long-suffering sigh and left him to the book. Hunter re-read the lesson, then flipped back to the problems.

I can do this.

The day passed by in a blur, Hunter plugged through the book, slowly but surely. At least this made sense—everything had a logical, calculable end. It wasn’t like magic, where intent and emotion played factors.

“Hunter—Hunter, it’s time for dinner.”

Hunter barely heard Camila, glaring at the quadratic formula. He kept misplacing a negative, he was pretty sure.

A hand reached over and closed the book with a thump. “Hunter. Give your brain a break and eat something, mijo.”

Hunter struggled to pull the book open against Camila’s hand. “I’ve almost got this one figured out—I can get it—”

“Dinner. Math can come after.” Camila cleared the book away. “I’m glad you’re taking school seriously, but it’s important for you to do other things, too. Don’t worry—you’ll catch up, you’re a smart kid.”

“I need to—”

“What you need to do is take a break and eat. Come on, help me set the table.”

Hunter slowly got up and opened the drawer for napkins. His stomach growled at the smell coming from the stove. Alright, maybe it was time he took a break. Look at you, Golden Guard. All… domestic.

“Luz! Vee!” Camila called, “Dinner!”

Vee came bounding down the stairs, but Luz was nowhere to be seen.

“Luz!” Camila called again.

“She’s looking at potential wild portal spots,” Vee explained.

“Ayiyi. One won’t put down his math textbook and the other one won’t stop looking for a way into the demon realm.” Camila thumped up the stairs, and Vee poked at the algebra book.

“Algebra can be tricky. We did a lot of math-y stuff back at camp. Where are you?”

“Quadratic formula.”

“Already?”

Hunter shrugged. “I’m a quick learner.”

Luz bumped down the stairs, Camila shooing her onwards. “You and Hunter are going to get healthy eating and working habits if it kills me!”

After dinner, Vee started on the dishes, and Hunter opened up the math book again. I am going to figure this out.

After a while, Luz and Vee disappeared upstairs. Camila put a hand on his shoulder with a yawn. “Don’t stay up too late, ‘kay?”

“Mhm.”

Camila flipped off all of the lights except the kitchen one.

Red fluttered down to his shoulder as he yawned, chirping that he ought to go to bed.

“I’m so close. Just one more lesson.”

Xxx

Camila blinked blearily at her alarm as it beeped at her. She yawned, changing into her scrubs and heading down the stairs. The kitchen light was still on, Hunter slumped on the table, his algebra book open next to him. Camila gently slid the pencil out of his hand, scooping him up and moving him to the couch. He nestled into the cushions with a sigh, Red landing on his chest and closing its eyes with a sleepy cheep

“Oh, what am I going to do with you?” Camila sighed. She glanced at the textbook, then grabbed a few sticky notes, writing ‘remember to take a break’ on them and sticking them in the book every few lessons. She shook her head, grabbing her keys and flipping off the kitchen light. “Buenos noches, mijo.”

Xxx

“Hunter. Hey, Hunter. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuunter.”

Hunter snapped awake, sitting up so fast he nearly head-butted Luz in the face. Red slid off of his chest, flapping its wings frantically to right itself.

“Wow, you’re twitchy.”

Hunter yawned. When had he moved to the couch? He didn’t even remember falling asleep! “Hngh—what time is it?”

“Nine-o-clock, sleepy-head! Hey, you know a lot about titan’s blood, right? You think you could look over some stuff and tell me which you think is most likely to be a wild portal?”

Hunter rubbed his eyes. “If you can see the demon realm in the water, it’s a wild portal. Oh, or if the water is boiling hot.”

“You mean like a geyser?”

“I wouldn’t recommend jumping into one of those, but yes. Like a geyser.”

“Hmmmm.” Luz picked up his sketchpad from the table. “You need any help with math? Can’t say I’ll actually be ABLE to help you, but—”

Hunter snatched the sketchpad away. “I don’t need help,” he snapped.

“Yeesh. Okay. Have fun with your numbers.”

Hunter shuffled to the table. A single sticky note was stuck to the cover of the book.

Don’t forget to eat breakfast, it read cheerfully.

Ah. Camila.

Hunter went to the pantry and shoved a protein bar in his mouth. There. Breakfast. He opened the math textbook again, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Alright. Three quarters of a math book, one day to go before summer school. He could do this. One more all-nighter.

“Whoa.” Vee peered over his shoulder at his sketchpad. “Hey, why don’t you… come on out with me. I’ll introduce you to my friends from cabin seven. You need to touch grass.”

Hunter scribbled through a line of numbers. Wrong. “Nope. I’m busy.”

“You know that you’re supposed to learn this stuff at summer school, right? Not two days beforehand.”

“I’m learning it now, so I’ll be prepared for what they want me to do there.”

“Uh… that’s not how it’s supposed to—”

“I can’t be in the class with the failures!” Hunter blurted.

Vee blinked. “Oh.”

Hunter flipped the cover of the book back and forth, his other hand tapping on the table. “I’ve got to learn this now, so that they’ll move me up to the next subject—I’m two years behind, Vee, and don’t even get me started on history!”

“That’s not your fault.”

“I can’t fail here—being here in the human realm is my second chance, and I can’t blow it! Camila thinks I’m smart, and I can’t prove her wrong!”

Vee sat down at the table next to him. “Whoa. Okay. Calm down, Hunter. You are smart, and that has nothing to do with how good at math you are.” She gestured to his sketchpad. “Look at how far you came in a day by yourself!”

Hunter slammed his hand down on the table. “It’s not enough, I’m still way behind!”

“Hunter. Hey, Hunter. Listen. You… don’t have to be the best at everything, okay?”

“Yes, I do, that’s how this works.”

“No. It’s really not. You don’t have to be the best. As long as you’re doing as well as you can… that’s what matters to Camila, okay? Even if you don’t succeed. Camila thinks you’re smart because you are. You don’t have to prove it to her. And you don’t have to pull all-nighters and learn the entirety of algebra in two days to be smart. C’mon, you need to quit focusing on school for a few hours.”

Hunter ran a hand through his hair. “Just a few more lessons—

“No.” Vee snatched the textbook away. “I’m going to keep this until you take a break. And maybe a nap, you look like you didn’t get any sleep.”

“What? No, I didn’t mean to, but I did fall asleep.”

“Hunter.”

“Fine, fine, you win. I’ll just steal it back later.”

She yanked his hood over his head. “Good luck. Just a couple of hours not doing algebra, Hunter.”

“Fine. I guess I can do that.”

“Good. Come on, let’s go meet up with my friends, they’ll predict your future with hexes hold ‘em cards.”

“I understood all of those words separately. Are your friends…okay?”

Vee grinned. “Trust me. They’re gonna love you.”

[yanara126-writing]

The Adventures of Hildraed Dawnsbane - Watching and Fucking Morals (4/?)

Farmer, Pirate, Menace, Captain, Dawnsbane. Hildraed has many titles, she really could have lived well without Watcher.

-

Read here or on Ao3. (1827 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

I recommend listening to this song, as it was the inspiration for the fever trip that made me wright this. It’s really good, I promise.^^

-

Hildraed was mad. And she hated this town. Why was she even still here? Because fucking damnit she felt bad for these people. It had started with the damn cook, continued with the poor abused woman (had the fucker not been dead she’d have killed him herself) And then there was the blacksmith who’d promised her a discount, Aufra with her probably soulless baby (not that she’d told her that), and then the goddamn farmers. Because it always came down to farmers, didn’t it? And now she was slouching back in the inn, nursing some bad ale. And the stupid hunk was smiling at her. Fuck him. Eh, maybe later.

Aloth was far better to focus on, with his companionable grouchiness.

With a more desperate than enthusiastic swing she drained her cup and it slammed it down again, trying to pretend the ale wasn’t more water than alcohol.

“I hate this place.” Edér’s stupid grin only got wider. Hildraed glared some more at the cup. She wasn’t drunk enough for this.

“Does that mean we can finally leave?” Hildraed didn’t miss the desperation in Aloth’s tone and almost felt bad for him. Only almost though, she felt way worse for herself.

“Yeah. Yeah we can. In fact, we will right now.” Originally she’d intended to stay one more night and leave in the morning, but if she had to continue seeing Edér’s stupid, satisfied smirk she was going to punch him after all. She slammed a few coins on the table, not bothering with counting out the exact amount, grabbed her bag and stomped out the door. Behind her she could hear her new companions scrambling to finish their own drinks and hurry after her.

Outside she had mercy on them and waited a bit for them to catch up, grinning again at Aloth’s relieved sigh. It was too easy to play him. She’d have to teach him a bit to avoid having him be all to easy to manipulate.

Edér apparently wasn’t in quite as much of a hurry, and while waiting for his heavy footsteps to join them, Hildraed found her attention wandering through the miserable town. And of course, her gaze once again landed on the tree. Ever since her first meeting with the dwarf woman she drifted back to the fucking tree. There were no more souls left there, she’d checked far more than she would ever admit, and still her steps kept pulling her back there. And so now again.

The stench was in her nose before she was even aware what she was doing. Dangling, rotting limbs filled her vision as she stared up, wood and flesh melting together. All around her there were purple shimmers, whisperings that drover her mad all around the clock, but looking up there there was nothing, and somehow that was worse. She’d seen hangings before of course. She’d seen people she’d known and even liked hang much the same way. But something about this made her angrier.

This was messy. This wasn’t justice, it was a blood rage. The pirates she’d seen hung had known the risks. Perhaps they hadn’t deserved it either, some had been good people, some had absolutely asked for it, but all of them known. These people up in the tree had just lived, had perhaps never broken a law in their lives, had been punished for suffering a tragedy.

A hand landed on her shoulder and Hildraed flinched, cursing herself for losing focus. That was dangerous at the best of times, which this was not. Just this time the universe seemed to forgive her mistake though, and Edér stood next to her, chewing on his pipe. He didn’t say anything, only stood there, looking up as well, his rough hand, marred much like her own, on her shoulder.

Hildraed didn’t know what triggered it, maybe it was the sleep deprivation, maybe the weight of the last few days were finally drowning her, maybe it was that thrice-damned look of defeat in his eyes, but something in her mind clicked into place and she knew what she still had to do here. It was a terrible idea, would bare way too much to these people she barely knew, but she had to nonetheless.

“You know what my favourite song is? T’s about a boat.” Edér glanced at her, surprised and confused, but still amused.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental now? I thought you don’t do empathy?”

“Shut up, I’m drunk.” No she wasn’t, she hadn’t drunk enough of the water ale for that, but he didn’t need to know that.

“No, you’re not.” Well so much for her reputation then. She narrowed her eyes at him, glaring with all the intensity she could muster through all the aches of her body and constant buzz of soul fizzles pressing against her new senses.

“You. I don’t like you.” That didn’t seem to intimidate him at all, if anything he just got softer. Hildraed sighed and looked away again. What crew had she gotten herself here? One who was easier to play than a fiddle but had a wrong string and one who already laughed at her. And still…

“My mom always sang it when we were down on our luck. It’s about a crew saving their boat after it already sank. It was the first chant I learnt. I’ve sung it every time the universe hated me especially.” It had carried her through her 35 years of life even when nothing else had. She’d shared it every time she’d sung it, just as she’d been taught. This one thing wasn’t something to keep to herself. She had no intention of sharing anything else, the secret of her past would die with her as far she was concerned, but this one thing she’d keep throwing into the world as often as necessary. And right now it was very necessary.

With another look at Edér, and not the fucking tree, she turned around and stalked out of the pit. Aloth was standing a bit away in the shadow of a wall, trying to keep himself out of the public eye. Hildraed sat down not far from him at the edge of the pit and pulled her old lute from her back. She gave it a loving pat, before starting to pluck the strings in a familiar tune. Behind she could hear Aloth shift a little closer, in front of her could see Edér settling down next to her, but she ignored both of them.

“She went down last mid-winter in a pouring driving rain…” It had been a while since she’d last played it, and the familiar notes rang something deep in her, tugging at places within herself that she didn’t have a name for before.

“There were just us five aboard her when she finally was awash

We'd worked like hell to save her, all heedless of the cost…” It had taken her own boat to really understand it. In her youth it had been a nice story, and good tune with an inspirational message. Now as an adult it meant so much more. Her fingers danced over the strings with more elegance than she’d been able to work up in weeks, her foot tapped the rhythm, her body swayed with waves that weren’t there, her mouth formed the words that had accompanied her for so long.

“But we talked of her all winter, some days around the clock,

For she's worth a quarter million, just floatin’ at the dock

And with every jar that hit the bar, we swore we would remain…” Another foot joined in the rhythm, but Hildraed didn’t look up. Chanting was always exhilarating, but this was special in another way. She felt the words reverberate around her, felt souls stirring as the story continued to follow the melody. There was a clarity that had never been there before, an awareness that had nothing and everything to do with this song so dear to her. More souls were drawn closer, and it felt like drowning in life.

“All spring, now, we've been with her on a barge lent by a friend

Three dives a day in hard hat suit and twice I've had the bends

Thank God it's only sixty feet and the currents here are slow

Or I'd never have the strength to go below

But we've patched her rents, stopped her vents, dogged hatch and porthole down

Put cables to her, 'fore and aft and girded her around

Tomorrow, noon, we hit the air and then take up the strain…” There were people all around now, and somewhere the logical part of Hildraed knew she needed to be careful, to be aware of everyone around her, to not let herself be caught off-guard again. Unfortunately, that part was buried deep under the emotions and sensations flooding everything else. At this point she wasn’t sure what was hers anymore, she just kept playing and singing, surrounded by more whispers than ever. Whispers of pasts, of uncertain futures.

“And you, to whom adversity has dealt a mortal blow

With smiling bastards lying to you everywhere you go

Turn to, and put out all your strength of arm and heart and brain

And like the Mary Ellyn Carter, rise again!

Rise again, rise again; though your heart it be broken

And life about to end

No matter what you've lost, be it a home, a love, a friend

Like the Mary Ellyn Carter, rise again!”

She played the final cord, sung the final tune, and her fingers and tongue stilled. The whispers were still there, ringing loudly in her ears and rising to a crescendo, making her head hurt even more- Wait, no, that was clapping. A few hands clapping around her, and Hildraed finally looked up, eyes a little bit clearer now. It wasn’t as many people as she’d thought, a few guests from the inn, a few people from the surrounding houses. And Hildraed stared.

It wasn’t so much that she minded the audience, quite the opposite really, she’d always enjoyed hogging people’s attention. But that had been before this stupid shit. Before she’d started noticing way too fucking much, while losing focus of everything else.

But then, as it always was, it didn’t take too long for the people to notice that the show was over, and they dispersed again, throwing strange looks in her direction that she didn’t bother to notice. She’d be gone now anyway, let them think what they want.

In the end only two were left, one on each side, though when Aloth moved next to her she couldn’t say. Her head still hurt, she was confused more than ever, and she still hated this place, and yet she felt a little lighter now. The tree was still there, and it was still abominable, but maybe now she could finally stop looking at it.

And maybe now they could finally fuck off.

[level247-table-tech]

like, i recognize to a lot of people the formality reads as generalized ‘early episode weirdness’, and i won’t pretend to think it was all intentional, but looking back it reads as progression. even knowing that things they share, or that we learn about them in general as they open up, are directed to the audience- made clear even by the camera angle - they are talking to each other in-universe, and i get the sense that they are learning about each other as characters too.

important note toward that point: they know what everyone else does, due to their functions, as well as knowing enough about each other’s specific inputs on various matters to clash about them. but as characters, i would argue they are unfamiliar to each other; they aren’t on a first-name basis and there’s little evidence of them interacting offscreen aside from said clashes. by getting to know each other by character, rather than just by function, they are more able to work together, come into agreement, and work toward a happier, more completely fulfilled thomas.  as a couple extra notes, them being characters is what nondiegetically allows them to speak at all, therefore indirectly what allows them to come to conclusions together.  there’s a neat symmetry in the concept that knowing each other’s characters is what allows them to work through things together more efficiently in-universe also.  a more fulfilled thomas seems like the natural result of his sides being happier, given that they are his aspects, and that’s what all of them are working toward. them knowing and being decent to one another seems conducive to that. self-love, and all, but more on that later.

everyone seems less likely to show up, in earlier episodes, unless their function is pertinent[or they are called upon]. this is where we find one- or two-character installments. less of a group discussion, more just a necessity. in particular i’d argue that any of their appearances to thomas pre-series were more akin to either the example arguments in mind vs. heart[not mvh itself; thomas called them for that talk] or one-on-one discussions in the mode of way too adult[talking about what these represent from a non-imaginary point of view could be interesting, but not on this post]: they show up when they have a stance on whatever’s at hand. this more minimal dynamic holds up in early episodes, and correlating to this theory, the change from that is due to advancement in-universe. though it is pointed out by anxiety in alone on valentine’s day that he can’t just sit things out if he doesn’t want to participate. most likely it’s just because he has feelings about the topic of discussion and does not care to go unheard, but it’s worth noting.

early appearances of all sides[in dilemmatic episodes, that is; generally only anxiety is antagonistic where there’s no particular argument] are more hostile, but early episodes also focus more on reconciling their various areas. again, we can exclude single-character focus episodes[princey is barely in taking on anxiety and he’s called up by thomas. it’s an anxiety episode], but there are more 2-sided arguments in the early episodes. the heart vs. the mind is a good example, with morality and logic talking through their previous arguments, and working toward compromise. that word’s gonna crop up again a lot. of course, one does get the impression that there’s little animosity related to past arguments! but that, i believe, can be chalked up to civility. that, and potentially regret is someone else’s domain, or thomas prefers not to dwell on it. in any case, they come to an understanding that if they work with each other rather than against each other, thomas can come to conclusions more than conflict, which are satisfactory to both parties, and which removes a stressor. the dark side of disney showcases a discussion between two sides who are less inclined to civility in ordinary clashes: princey takes his duty very personally, and anxiety is conflated with his negativity in a way that frames him as antagonistic to others and to thomas. yet this is a more casual discussion, less about conflicts or life events great or small, and more about interpretation. presumably this is just thomas pondering disney plots, on that level of thinking[listen there are three whole layers of reality in this show; i can’t just say diegetic or in-universe. the viewers are real, the sides are imaginary, and character thomas is having thoughts. i don’t know what to call it], and the results of this discussion won’t impact much other than tarnishing disney’s image. it’s just a disembodied ideal based on an external, unrelated body of work. anxiety proceeds to point out flaws in the ideal. many of which are valid points, and princey anticipates anxiety bringing up stockholm syndrome in the context of beauty and the beast, demonstrating that he already recognizes these flaws, and is just more accustomed to not focussing on the negative. different values of the critical. by the end of the episode, though, anxiety also admits that he appreciates disney movies despite their flaws. princey saw the flaws, but didn’t want to dismiss works outright for them; anxiety in truth shared this position but was unwilling to let the praise stand without a critical eye: a valid condition[pretending disney is flawless is setting a bad, bad precedent]. from then on more discussions ensue wherein more sides have opinions to bring to the table, presumably because it works and they have input, up to my negative thinking, wherein morality and princey are tabled, put offscreen. they provide excuses for their absence. already, there is enough precedent for all sides being present to these talks that absence calls for justification, at least in the opinion of thomas[not sure if anyone else was writing by that point? them too]. this is less one of those compromise episodes, and more an early appearance of how applying logic to problems is really effective, but it acknowledges anxiety’s opinions/feelings as being legitimate[in the sense that feeling that way is valid, not that he’s right], and addresses the cognitive distortions that lead to this kind of downward extrapolation. anxiety was wrong, but them working together brought thomas to a place where he had a more realistic projection of the effects of his actions. less relatedly logic admits to appreciating anxiety’s adherence to the formal debate format[for as much as he did so, at least], and says that while he frequently disagrees with anxiety, he isn’t as opposed to him as anxiety seemed to believe. this is a debate between a side with that civility i mentioned, and one without. but anxiety mostly does not express that civility due to that mentioned conflation of him with his negativity, which logic does not engage in as much here; logic points out failures in reasoning without edging in on personal attacks, dismissing anxiety’s arguments due to fallacies, and not because he attributes them simply to anxiety being a negative person[side? you know what i mean]. the result is fairly peaceable. now, keep in mind this talk about anxiety, we’ll focus more on him in a bit.

another angle of progression is in time they actually spend together[not during the course of an episode; i hesitate to just say ‘not counting times where thomas is present’ but you understand. time not occupied by dilemmas, maybe]. as mentioned, there’s little proof they’ve seen each other pre-series outside the occasional argument[also that dollar morality borrowed, but what even was that? it was also with princey, who he seems to have the most in common with], but as end-cards made appearances, we could see the sides spending time together. in an after-the-scenes sort of sense, to be sure, where it feels like they’re sticking around after filming because they somehow have to. at least, that’s the impression i get from the losing my motivation end-card; princey and anxiety probably would not want to spend time together at that point in time. i’ll chalk the ‘necessity’ of that up to the bizarre non-diegetic framing[like, in that scene he calls his agent. i have no idea what they were trying to imply]. at other times, though, it does read more as the sides generally hanging out, such as in mind vs. heart, where it reads more as them spending time together in an unofficial, personal sense[if only because logic has the presence of mind that during any official capacity in which they would spend time together he probably wouldn’t be so loose-tongued as to let that joke slip] and other goofier, more personal moments. it’s hard to place the dark side of disney’s endcard between these possibilities for that reason; they’re goofing around, and it’s not so implausible to believe that they’re sticking around out of preference. aside from end-cards, which take a bit of a turn at the end of the season and fall almost completely into the ‘personal’, ‘unofficial’ setting, there’s more evidence of them spending time together off-camera in later episodes, after the familial progress. offscreen things like anxiety mentioning morality paid him a dollar to make a pun, a flashback from princey of him seemingly in the midst of a casual conversation with at least one other side[the one where he alludes to not being a huge jelly guy], and a bit further back, princey and morality revealing that they’d worked together on the holiday sweaters. furthermore, as less of an offscreen moment and less of an unofficial setting but still worth bringing up: morality’s appearance in losing my motivation. he shows up in costume to match logic’s, to help solve a problem he has no particular stake in[that we and they know of yet]. this can be attributed to a couple factors: he wants to be helpful, and he wants to spend time with logic. potentially that second factor is linked to him already feeling they have bonded from the then-recent mind vs. heart; their shared love of onesie pajamas[and wordplay, much as logic will deny it] causes morality to feel closer to logic, and wanting to spend more quality time. he’s the most sentimental side; it makes sense that morality would be the first to feel more personally attached to the other sides. and even though the events of lmm are problem-solving in an official capacity[by their standards], it’s also said to be playing[dress-up]. spending time together. morality’s sentimentality and attachment to other sides doesn’t end there. that is only the beginning. but further such declarations are less within the realm of quality time and more business hours, so let’s move on to our next focus.

i don’t care to think up a diegetic reason they all started showing up in the first place[the first episode relates directly to the audience with a fine mist of a 4th wall], but anxiety has been present too, since early on in the series. he barely misses out on any discussions, and that’s if you count the initial introduction as a discussion. and he makes good points at times, too. his initial episode is about how to work him down from a heightened state, but in future episodes, he offers legitimate arguments and good points. things like more realistic goals[he says he knows thomas’ limits, a fair assessment], saner plans, emotional insight, honesty that is brutal but ultimately helpful, and reflections on past events. he has issues at times with identifying the reasons behind some feelings, but anxiety is irrational[the feeling, not the character], and we can only guess how much insight he has into that anyway. what we know is that when he identifies problems, he really wants to be heard, and he’s not the best at telling whether problems he’s identified are as legitimate concerns as he’s guessed due to cognitive distortions. these are thoughts thomas has, and anxiety gives voice to. other sides, in the past, have been less willing to help with working through these concerns, and more willing to just shoot down anything he says on the grounds of he said it. and even if he has trouble with which hesitancies are reasonable, he’s worried about them ignoring actual problems if he doesn’t point them out. anxiety wants to be listened to, until he doesn’t. there are a few contributors to that, logic demonstrating his concern as being excessive, disparaging remarks about how unhelpful/relentlessly negative he is hitting home, how successful all their talks have actually been in solving problems, any number of these;very likely a combination. we shall focus on the third: they’ve all been communicating with one another, which has been helping a lot to work through problems. they are identifying problems, and solving them. anxiety feels that things they’ve said about him causing problems are right, and that he isn’t needed/is holding thomas back. but as mentioned, anxiety has been there since nearly the start, appearing just as often as anyone else. he’s been there throughout the developments the others have been making; as they all communicated, he was communicating too, and in fact contributed to the solutions of multiple problems. he’s been there all along as the family came together; he may feel like an outsider, but he’s as much a part of the group as anyone. morality’s card said family. the specific label was a product of sentiment[not inaccurate by any means though], but it was accurate in depicting them as a unit. they do work primarily as a unit from that point on.

now to address more recent events. deceit and the duke have made an appearance, the others[pros: accurate. cons: this is a word i want to use for other purposes, such as that one there], or ‘dark sides’[pros: distinctive. cons: reductive] have been confirmed to be a group. that said, they are only confirmed as a group, not a cohesive unit. who knows to what extent they communicate or operate as a team. there is still ambiguity, however, about whether they are more of a unit than the ‘light sides’[pros: distinctive. cons: exclusive] or famILY[pros: accurate. cons: unhelpfully inclusive, contains capital letters, sentiment-ridden] were before season one. no dark side we have encountered seems like the type to both have and act on the kind of sentimentality that attached morality to his family, but there is much greater evidence of them interacting offscreen before.  yet that evidence shows no signs of particularly positive interactions. anxiety and deceit evidently know each other, but there's little evidence of what their past was actually like, and their interactions now are frigid, to say the least. deceit and the duke had a conversation about transparency, which was heavily paraphrased[i have to assume so at least] and occurred after deceit revealed himself in the first place. that seemed like less of a group decision and more an idea deceit had. furthermore, that idea seemed to be in response to events and actions on the part of the light sides. so who can say if the dark sides ever worked together. but it’s hard to imagine they’d have done so more than the light sides had been.

to be clear, my emphasizing morality as the one who declared them a family out of sentiment should not be read as disagreement with him saying so; i do not seriously believe anyone included in that family disagrees. he is the one who said it first, acted on it first, and initiated more of the social bonding. and referring to sentimentality as a factor should not be read as negative. that’s just what these are being attributed to. it’s a trait he has in spades, more than any other side, that contributes to his decision-making.

i know i said i was going to talk about self-love later, but that’s gonna be another time. besides, i have raw data to collect on that first.

i feel like i write more about the older episodes because they’re easier to parse, and i don’t know why. maybe it’s that they don’t have as many instances of people keeping their goals close to the chest. or it could be that they’re less of a time investment to rewatch. maybe the characters talking more like characters than people makes them speak less straightforwardly. maybe the fact that new episodes are caused by ‘real’[to character thomas] events and less about unprompted introspection is leaving some things to the imagination. maybe they’re trying to leave more to the imagination now! to be fair, imagining is fun. but insight lets me do things like this.

i did a whole separate section on virgil. to be fair, he could use the validation. he’s 100% a part of this family. plus, i’m not opposed to writing about other characters i love to the same extent. 8)

if you have thoughts about this, let me know! if you have questions, be assured i will be more upset if you don’t ask them than if you do.

[roman-writing]

two, across (3/?)

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Hilda Valentine Goneril / Lysithea von Ordelia

Rating: T

Wordcount: 6,415

Summary: Lysithea can barely keep afloat under the workload of giving undergrad lectures and finishing off her PhD thesis. Meanwhile Dr. Hilda V. Goneril is somehow both the laziest person as well as the most successful young professor she has ever known. It’s absolutely aggravating.

Read it here on AO3 or read it below the cut

Lysithea forgets to bring her mug back. She had even seen it at Hilda’s that morning, hidden behind a stack of cups and sauce pans, when she had gone hunting for where Hilda kept her plates. The urge to tidy everything in the cupboards into an orderly fashion had been so strong, that Lysithea had instead channeled her energy into trying to figure out the logic behind where Hilda kept everything in her kitchen. And by that point, she had completely forgotten about grabbing her mug and bringing it home with her. 

So it is that at two in the afternoon, Lysithea arrives back at her own apartment, because Hilda had engaged her in lively conversation about new reference material she could use in her thesis, which made Lysithea miss two trains. By the time she fishes the keys from her bag, it has begun to rain. The sky above is a cloudbank of iron grey. Lysithea rushes to stick the key into the lock and get the door open. 

The apartment inside is partially obscured by shadow. It's messy, but it's a far cry from Hilda's apartment. And Lysithea is comforted by the fact that none of this is her own mess. Indeed, it would have looked a great deal messier had it also included the usual football gear heaped into the entryway corner, but Raphael is out at practice on Sundays until five.

At the sound of Lysithea shutting the door behind her, Marianne drifts into the living room from the kitchen. She is holding a cup of something warm, and wearing her faded blue scrubs. "Oh, Lysithea. I was wondering what had happened to you."

"Sorry," Lysithea toes off her shoes and lines them up neatly on the rack by the door. Numerous other pairs are propped against the wire shoe rack as well, belonging to the various flatmates she shares the apartment with. "I spent the night at a friend's house."

Marianne leans against the kitchen doorway, looking as though she is on the verge of falling asleep where she stands. It’s her perennial state of being, as far as Lysithea can tell. A product of her ungodly work hours as a resident at the local hospital. “Is Edelgard in town?” 

“No,” Lysithea slips her bag off her shoulder as an excuse to not meet Marianne’s questioning gaze. “It’s - It’s a different friend. Her name is Hilda.” 

“Oh,” Marianne says. “Okay.”

“It isn’t like that. She’s a colleague at the university. We’re not - We’re not dating or anything.”

Marianne blinks, slow and languid. “I never said that. I’m just glad you’re alright. You usually tell one of us when you’re not going to come home. That’s all.”

Lysithea’s stomach sinks. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright.”

“I’ll be sure to text you next time.” 

The words pop out before Lysithea can even comprehend that she has thought them. She had not intended for there to be a next time at all, but clearly that is not the case. 

Marianne doesn’t seem to notice Lysithea’s moment of aporetic self-reflection. “Okay. Do you want some cocoa? I made a bit extra here, thinking Ignatz was still around but he’s gone to the studio for the afternoon.” 

“Thanks. Cocoa sounds great.”

--

Hilda sends her the notes on the latest thesis draft the next week, and Lysithea returns the favour with her own laborious notes on Hilda’s article. Whereas her notes are typed and colour-coded, Hilda's are scrawled across margins with whole sections circled and arrows pointed to other pages.

It's early morning before Hilda's first class. The two of them are crowded over the newspaper. They sit so closely that their knees are pressed together, and Lysithea can feel the jitter of Hilda’s foot against her ankle. It had stopped bothering her ages ago. She doesn’t even notice it now.  

Lysithea points to a section of her thesis that Hilda has scrawled across, trying to decipher the notes there. "What's this one here say?" 

"AMATEUR," Hilda says.

Lysithea jerks her head up. "What?"

"Fifteen down. It's 'AMATEUR'." Hilda pens in the answer to the crossword.

Relief sweeps through Lysithea, and her shoulders relax. "Oh, that."

When Hilda has finished writing in the word, she sets the pen down and leans closer to look over Lysithea's shoulder. She reads her own notes, then points to the arrow in question. "This means you should move this whole section to the beginning of the chapter. You have a bad habit of waiting to tell the reader the point. Probably because you like the drama of the big reveal."

"I do not!"

"Listen. I'm into it. Like, a lot."

Lysithea can feel her cheeks warm, and then Hilda continues.

"But -" Hilda taps the circled section with her finger. "You gotta tell the audience this stuff way earlier. It's the right wording. You've just put it in the wrong place. Rearrange some stuff where I've indicated, and it'll flow way better. Trust me."

Lysithea deflates. "Thanks."

Hilda taps the underside of Lysithea's chin. "Hey, now. Chin up! You just know so much about this topic you forget that the audience isn't clued in yet. You're going to smash this last draft out of the park."

"Mmm," Lysithea says, unconvinced.

"Thesis notes away," Hilda scolds, prising the pages from Lysithea's grasp and setting them aside. 

"But -!"

"Do the crossword with me." Hilda replaces the pages with the pen she had been wielding earlier, pressing Lysithea's fingers around it. "It will make you feel better. And if you don't do it, I know you'll have a bad day. So, c'mon."

With a huff of irritation at the fact that Hilda is right -- for nothing is so aggravating as Hilda being smug in her knowledge of anything -- Lysithea takes the pen and sets herself to task on the crossword. 

"FASCINATOR," she writes in the word for fourteen across.

"Nice one! That's what I'm talking about!" Hilda bumps their shoulders together. 

They are still wearing their coats. Outside, autumn has well and truly settled in, and the air is crisp as a good apple. Hilda has begun to dress in stylish black peacoats with gold buttons and pink scarves, while Lysithea stashes extra hand warming packets into her bag in anticipation for the coming winter. 

As they steadily work their way through the crossword, Hilda's phone alarm begins to beep at her. Groaning in dismay, Hilda turns it off. 

“This sucks,” Hilda leans her elbows on the table and props her chin in her hands. “I have to stay after hours today, too. They have a big assignment due at the end of the week, and I told them I’d be in my office this afternoon to answer any last minute questions. Who actually takes up professors like me on office hours?” 

There’s a pause while they both think about the answer to that question, and then in unison they say, “Flayn.” 

“She is my best student, though,” Lysithea adds.

Hilda is running her hands down her face. “I know. I know. And I like the little runt, but she asks way too many questions, and I just want to go home.”

“How many grandmothers have you killed this term?” Lysithea asks idly. She taps her ballpoint against the newspaper margin and chews on her lower lip until the answer for fifteen across comes to her. 

“So so many. I am the bane of octogenarians everywhere. I haunt rest homes.” Hilda angles herself so that she’s facing Lysithea instead of the desk. “Wanna bet I’ve killed more than you?” 

At that, Lysithea glances up from the crossword. “What are the stakes?”

A triumphant grin has already spread across Hilda’s face. “Loser takes the winner out to dinner next Friday.” 

“Deal. How many of your students have claimed a grandparent died this term?” 

“Four,” Hilda announces, as though she’s won.

Lysithea smiles. “Five.” 

Hilda’s face falls. “What? Bullshit. What?” 

In answer, Lysithea only shrugs. 

“Okay, backup, backup. What kind of hardass assignments have you been giving out that killed five grandmothers?” Hilda cuts herself off with a gasp of realisation. “Oh, you’re one of those professors.”

“Because I’m nice,” Lysithea says pointedly, returning to the crossword, “I’ll let you take me to my favourite gelato place instead of a full dinner. We can get takeaway at your place after.” 

“Pfft. ‘Nice’. Thank god I’m not one of your students, and you actually like me.” 

Lysithea doesn’t debate that. She simply gestures to Hilda’s phone. “You’re going to be even later than usual.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” Hilda stands up, then points to fourteen across. “ASPIRANTS.”

--

Lysithea finishes the crossword that morning, and she’s only mildly irritated that Hilda was right. Her day goes far better having ticked off one of the steps in her routine. Plus, she gets free gelato, dinner, and another evening spent at Hilda’s apartment, which is starting to become a regular occurrence. 

This time she makes sure to text Marianne. She receives a thumbs-up emoji in response, and nothing else. Marianne has probably only managed to send that in between patients. 

It's not weird, Lysithea tells herself the next Friday when she's unwinding her scarf in Hilda's messy living room. It's an opportunity to work on her thesis some more. She even brings her laptop with every intention to do just that. And she does manage to get some extra work done despite Hilda's best efforts to derail her progress, which means that it is definitely alright for her to put her laptop away at seven in the evening and finish off the serving of takeaway she had left in the fridge. 

"Lysithea," Hilda calls, her voice drifting from the bedroom. "Hurry up! I wanna put on the next season!" 

"Just a minute!" 

Lysithea is searching for a fork to no avail. Her carton of takeaway sits on the counter. She begins to systematically open up every drawer in Hilda's kitchen in her efforts. She hadn’t seen Hilda pull out their forks earlier that evening, and has no idea where they might be kept. No matter how much Lysithea understands that Hilda has a System, she cannot shake the feeling that things seem to be stored completely at random. She nearly has a crisis of faith when she opens up a cupboard to find a three piece bamboo steamer stowed alongside the cutting boards. 

Finally -- after opening and closing nearly every drawer in the kitchen -- she finds what she's looking for.

"Hilda, who puts cutlery in the second to last drawer by the refrigerator?"

"Legends and kings."

Exasperated, Lysithea heads back to the bedroom. She nearly trips on the step down from the kitchen to the living room. The long hems of the black-branded sweatpants she is wearing are still too long even after rolling up the waistband. Hilda had lent her a set of clothes to sleep in, and Lysithea couldn't even pretend that she did not want to use them since she had forgone bringing her own set of pajamas to Hilda's apartment.

Bringing her own pajamas would be admitting that this was far more than what she was willing to label it. Not that she thought Hilda would have minded. Indeed, Hilda had made a show of handing Lysithea a brand new toothbrush still in its packaging, when they had entered the apartment earlier that evening. 

Using one hand to tug at the waistband of the sweatpants, Lysithea plods into Hilda's bedroom and sits on the bed. Hilda already has another episode ready on the laptop screen. 

"No spilling on the bed, please." Hilda says without looking up from where she's fiddling with her tablet. 

"Your sheets are safe from me."

"Shame," Hilda sighs.

Shooting her an unimpressed glare, Lysithea hits the spacebar to play the episode. She defiantly ignores Hilda's smirk, and focuses instead on finishing her dinner and enjoying the show.

The evening occurs much like the last time she had spent the night, except this time when they fall asleep Hilda steals most of the blankets, and Lysithea is forced to wrestle them back. Hilda whines and mumbles something, but is clearly still fast asleep even as her back presses up against Lysithea's side. 

Lysithea doesn't push Hilda away. She is, after all, cold.

She wakes to rain lashing the window overshadowing the side of Hilda's bed that Lysithea has begun to frequent. The sky is dark enough that she cannot determine what time it is. Lysithea clambers from the end of the bed so as not to disturb a slumbering Hilda, and grabs her bag from where it sits in a corner. 

When she enters the bathroom and locks the door, she notices two things. One: Hilda owns a washing and drying machine, which she had not noticed on her first visit because they had been hidden under a mountain of laundry. Two: Hilda's bathroom is probably the tidiest room in the apartment, in terms of actual clear floor space.

Lysithea performs the same morning routine as ever. She takes out her hard-lined med case. She lines up all her pill bottles on the ledge of the sink. She twists off the first cap. She shakes a small round white pill into the centre of her palm. This time however, when she reaches for the sink tap, prepared to cup the water in one hand, she pauses. 

Blinking, she has to rub at one of her eyes, thinking that she is seeing things. And yet there, clear as day, nestled alongside Hilda's various makeup and hair products on the sink sits her travel mug. Gingerly, Lysithea reaches out and picks it up. The mug has been cleaned. Its pastel purples and whites and cartoon kittens stand out among a sea of vibrantly coloured bottles and jars. 

She sticks it under the tap and uses it to take her meds. She leaves it where she had found it. She does not put it into her bag to take it away. 

There is the muted shuffle of bare footsteps through the door. Lysithea emerges from the bathroom, clutching her bag, to discover that the bed is empty and Hilda is nowhere in sight. Something clatters in the kitchen. Lysithea sets her bag down in the same corner as before, and wanders into the hallway.

Hilda is making breakfast, and Lysithea watches in bewildered fascination as the event unfolds. Just by walking from one side of the kitchen to the other, Hilda is somehow miraculously able to do everything needed to cook breakfast without ever needing to retrace her steps. What Lysithea had initially assumed was completely random turns out to have alien logic when Hilda does it. Indeed, the placement of everything is because that’s what is the most efficient layout for her to save time when doing set tasks, so that she can perform actions with as little effort as possible.

Hilda notices her presence, and yawns around one hand while maneuvering a frying pan with the other. “Morning. Sleep well?” 

“Yeah,” Lysithea says. 

She continues to watch Hilda move about the kitchen, arrested by how easily she seems to be able to move from one action to another until, finally, Hilda is seated atop one of the counters with a plate of scrambled eggs on toast in her lap, drumming her heels lightly against one of the cupboards that has been strategically draped with a soft towel to cushion the blows. Another plate of food has already been set aside for her, without Lysithea needing to ask for it. 

Hilda is -- much to her absolute horror -- beginning to make sense. 

--

Despite the increased time spent in one another’s company, it remains a mystery how Hilda can do so much in her day. Slowly, Lysithea incorporates all of Hanneman's and Hilda's latest notes on her thesis. And at the same time she does her best to uncover the secret behind Hilda's System. 

She has never met a person so dedicated to being lazy, that it means she is that much more efficient with every task. Nobody else Lysithea knows can automate their routine troubles the way Hilda can. Lysithea has known marketers and sales people of the highest calibre -- thanks to El's vast family network -- and none of them compare to Hilda, whose powers extend to the realm of uncanny. She can convince anyone of doing things for her so that she doesn't have to do them herself. Most bizarrely, they always seem to be pleased that they are doing it.

Case and point: she often sees Hilda's TA, a beleaguered young man who doesn't seem to actually have a name and whose face is as forgettable as his personality, running amok doing Hilda's grocery shopping and dry cleaning, on top of grading the papers turned in by her undergrad students. 

Which isn’t to say that he doesn’t seem absolutely thrilled at the prospect of pleasing his professorial overlord, because he does. And which also isn’t to say that Hilda never does work, because she must. 

Not that Lysithea has ever actually seen Hilda doing work -- thesis notes and lectures notwithstanding. The woman avoids work like it’s out of fashion. 

It’s a further mystery how Hilda manages to have time to go to the gym when Lysithea knows her schedule must be crazy. But sure enough, she sees Hilda walk by her office one day in her gym clothes looking sweaty and wearing nothing but black tights and a pink sports bra with a small black towel draped around her neck like a stole. Her long pink-dyed hair is pulled back; it's damp at the temples.

She pauses in the doorway to Lysithea’s office, tilting her head back to drink from a water bottle, then says, “You doing anything tomorrow?” 

Lysithea takes a moment to answer. Her finger is pressed down on the ‘J’ key of her laptop, sending a spiral of letters down the email she had been penning to Hanneman. Jerking her hands from the keyboard, she clears her throat. “Actually, I’m - uh - going out with my flatmates tomorrow for my birthday.” 

“Oh, nice! Happy birthday!” Hilda glances around the floor for a moment, then gestures to the office with her water bottle. “No live pony as a gift from your mystery millionaire?”

In answer, Lysithea pushes her chair slightly out of the way to reveal the enormous box that had been shipped in earlier that afternoon, and which she had stashed under her desk to keep out of the way. 

“Of course.” Hilda snorts with laughter, but it sounds genuinely amused. Had it been anyone else, Lysithea might have worried she was resentful, but not Hilda. “Want to come over tonight, then? We can bake you an early birthday cake, and then I can leave you alone tomorrow to hang out with your other friends."

Cake is a more than adequate method of bribery for Lysithea on any occasion, and these days she doesn't require much convincing to go to Hilda's apartment.

“You can come along if you -?” Lysithea begins to offer, but Hilda shakes her head. 

“Nah. I’m a terrible third wheel. And you should chill with them.” 

Lysithea thinks about her workload for the week. “I can do tonight.”

Hilda’s smile blinds like the midmorning sun. “Great! Just swing by anytime after four.”

She turns and walks into her own office before Lysithea can even respond. Lysithea watches, half twisted around atop her chair, as Hilda hums to herself while she rifles around her office. Hilda finds whatever she had been looking for, then turns off the lights and locks the door, and as she starts off back down the hallway, she waves in Lysithea’s direction with a parting wink.

Lysithea cranes her neck to watch Hilda swan away. It takes her a whole minute to remember that she had been writing an email.

-- 

Lysithea is digging into a sack of flour when her phone rings in her bag. “Can you get that for me?”

Behind her she can hear the zipper of her bag being opened. Hilda doesn’t mention the medicine case, and puts the bag down once she’s found the phone. 

“Sure thing. It’s -” Hilda turns over Lysithea’s phone to check the name. “- ‘Mom’.” 

“Oh, it’s not actually my mother. That’s Edelgard. It’s a joke,” Lysithea explains. “Just text her that -”

But Hilda has already pressed the green answer button, and is lifting the phone to her ear. “Hi, Mom!! Lysithea can’t come to the phone right now. How can I help?”

Lysithea hisses Hilda’s name, and puts down the sack of flour and measuring cup she had been holding. She tries to jump up and take the phone, but can’t reach it when Hilda straightens to her full height.

There is silence on the other line, and then Edelgard’s distinct, cultured voice. “You must be Hilda. I’ve heard so much about you.”

A wide grin splits Hilda’s face. “Oh, you have, have you? Tell me more.”

“No, no, no, no, no.” Lysithea holds up her flour-smeared hands in a threatening manner. “I will put handprints on everything in your closet.”

Hilda makes a face at her. “Booo!”

“We’re making a cake,” Lysithea raises her voice so that Edelgard can hear through the mic. “Actually, I’m making a cake. Someone -” she aims a pointed glare at Hilda, “- isn’t helping very much.”

“It’s called ‘supervising,’” Hilda interrupts in her defense. “And let it be known that I got everything down from the high shelves for you.”

"Just -! Put her on speaker phone please."

“Fine, fine.” Hilda hits a button on the phone, and puts it down on the counter between them.

Edelgard’s voice issues from the speakers. “Is this a bad time?”

“No.” Lysithea continues to sift in flour to a large steel-brushed bowl, raising her voice a little for the phone’s mic to pick up. "My hands have stuff all over them because someone doesn't own a mixer."

"I own a perfectly good mixer! It's right here!" Hilda opens up a ground level cupboard with her foot and gestures to, admittedly, a very nice mixer.

"For which I can't find the paddle attachment," Lysithea counters.

"That's what -"

"Do not say: 'That's what she said.' Do not!"

“- the spatula is for,” Hilda finishes, trying and failing to look innocent. “You see? I didn’t say anything of the sort. Now what must your friend think of me?”

“Nothing that wasn’t true, I imagine,” is Edelgard’s dry response. 

Lysithea wipes off her hands and snatches up her phone. “Hilda, can you -?” she gestures to the beginnings of the cake batter.

Hilda waves her off. “I’m on it. Shoo.”

Hitting the button to turn off speaker, Lysithea moves out of the kitchen. The only place that has a door between her and the kitchen is either outside or Hilda’s bedroom, so Lysithea wanders into Hilda’s bedroom and closes the door behind her. It feels odd being in this space without Hilda there, like she’s wandered into the forbidden temple of an ancient fashion deity. 

“Sorry about that,” Lysithea says once the door is shut behind her.

“Well, I’m relieved to hear you two actually get along.”

“Yeah. We do. She’s - ” Sitting on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinks beneath Lysithea’s weight. “- nice.”

“I didn’t think you’d like her if she wasn’t. You’re awfully sensible about things like that.” In the background, Lysithea can hear Hubert’s low voice murmur something unintelligible. Edelgard pulls the phone away from her ear momentarily, before relaying the message. “Hubert says he can’t say much for your taste, but that Dr. Goneril does not pose a significant threat on your life unless you happen to be a clay pigeon. Hubert, I don’t know what that means.”

Lysithea screws up her face in bewilderment, but all she says is, “Tell Hubert to keep his nose out of my business.”

“A futile effort, Lys. You know that.” Edelgard switches topics, and there’s the sound of footsteps, as though she too is leaving for another room. “I have meetings all day tomorrow, so I figured I would ring to wish you an early happy birthday, rather than a belated one. Did you get my package?”

“Thank you. And yes. It’s too much, as usual.” 

There’s a huff of amusement down the line. “Nonsense.” 

“You really do spoil me, you know. You don’t have to -”

“Lysithea,” Edelgard interrupts, her tone firm. “We’ve already had this discussion.”

Lysithea bites her tongue, but she can’t stop the guilty squirm in her gut at being unable to properly reciprocate Edelgard’s lavish generosity. For years, Edelgard had insisted her kindness and friendship was enough in return, but it had never sat well with her. 

“Yeah, I know,” Lysithea relents. 

“Don’t go eating everything in the box all at once.”

“That,” Lysithea says primly, “would be physically impossible.”

“No, not you. That message was for Raphael.”

At that, Lysithea laughs softly. “I’ll be sure to tell him to keep his paws off my birthday haul. He and the rest of the flat are taking me out to dinner tomorrow.”

“The usual place?” 

“Mmm,” Lysithea’s answer is a wordless hum of affirmation. Then she frowns. “Hang on. What time is it over there?”

“Not that late,” Edelgard says, but she sounds cagey, like an animal that has been cornered. 

“When you have meetings all day tomorrow, too,” Lysithea scolds. 

“I always have meetings.”

“Go to sleep, El.”

A sigh crackles through the speakers. “Has anyone told you you’re rather bossy?” Edelgard says not unkindly.

“Hilda does. All the time.”

“She really does know you, then.”

“Good night, El,” Lysithea says in a warning tone. 

She can almost see the smile down the line when Edelgard says, “Good night. And again -- happy birthday.”

Lysithea lingers on the bed for a moment after the phone call ends. The bed has an extra mattress stacked beneath it, and she is too short for her feet to touch the ground. For a long moment, she looks down at the phone in her hands, before hopping off the bed and making her way back to the kitchen. 

Hilda is finishing up the cake batter, when Lysithea walks in. "Is she gone already? I didn't get to tell her how much I admire her for trying to dress you in Valentino, and also maybe if she could send a few things in some bigger sizes."

“Good luck with that. She doesn’t trust easy.” Lysithea checks that the oven has been preheated, and then takes over from Hilda.

Hilda gives up control of the cake batter without complaint. "How did you meet mystery millionaire, anyway?"

"We were admitted at the same hospital when we were kids. Turns out having the same rare disease since childhood is a bonding experience."

Hilda hums a contemplative note at the back of her throat, but does not pry. Even so Lysithea can feel Hilda's eyes upon her. She can't bring herself to meet Hilda's gaze.

"It's -" Lysithea scrapes the cake mix into the baking tin, and levels it out with the spatula. "It's manageable. I'm managing it. I just don't like to talk about it much, because then it becomes the only thing people ever talk about. And I like talking to you about other things, so we should just -"

Hilda places a hand over hers, stopping Lysithea's fiddling. She takes the spatula from Lysithea's fingers, and sets it aside on the counter. "Lysithea, I need to ask you something."

Swallowing past a nervous lump in her throat, Lysithea looks anywhere but at Hilda, who has stepped closer, trapping her against the counter. "Wh-What?"

Hilda turns their clasped hands over so that she can run her thumb over the back of Lysithea's knuckles. She seems to take an age to inspect Lysithea's fingers before she says, "Will you let me do your nails while the cake is in the oven?"

Lysithea’s answering laugh is relieved. She puts the cake into the oven, sets a timer on her phone, and then allows herself to be led into Hilda’s room. There, Hilda starts excitedly rummaging through a drawer of her workstation. She sets out a plethora of colour options on the bed, and allows Lysithea to pick one. No sooner has Lysithea pointed at a pale lilac colour, than she is on Hilda’s bed, and one of her hands has been pulled into Hilda’s lap.

Hilda bows over Lysithea’s wrist, directing Lysithea’s fingers this way and that while she first files her nails back. Her own fingernails are perfectly shaped, blunt half-moons of bold red polish. On anyone else, they might have clashed with pink, but Hilda somehow makes it work.

Hilda fills the silence with chatter, pausing at one point to put on some music from her tablet on the bedside table. She crosses her legs atop the bed and shuffles closer so that she can get a better angle on Lysithea’s nails. Her hands are warm yet calloused, as though she had spent years wielding a woodman’s axe. 

“Do you play sports?” Lysithea wonders aloud.

Hilda dips the tiny polish brush back into its bottle -- this is the second coat of colour after a clear coat, which Lysithea had never known was a necessary step until now. “Okay this is going to sound a little weird, but you know skeet shooting? The sport with shotguns where you shoot clay targets that are flung into the air?”

“Yes?” 

Hilda shrugs. “My family’s kinda famous for it. My brother’s an Olympian. He got bronze a few years ago or something, and now he’s, like, a hometown hero or whatever. I used to compete until I was, like, fifteen and then decided that it really wasn’t for me, thanks.”

“That is,” Lysithea thinks back to her phone call with Edelgard, which suddenly makes sense, “probably not the strangest thing I could have learned about you. Though I can’t imagine holding up a shotgun requires you to do much lifting at the gym.”  

“I would make a ‘guns’ joke, but I know you’d yell at me.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?”

“No, but in the past I wasn’t doing your nails, and I have priorities. Besides,” Hilda finishes the final coat and takes a moment to blow on Lysithea’s nails. “If I’m very very good, you might let me show you how to apply makeup, too.”

Lysithea leans over to glance at her phone on the bedside table. “Only if it takes less than fifteen minutes.”

Immediately, Hilda bounds off the bed, and goes racing to the bathroom, from which she emerges clutching a small velvet bag. Her eyes are alight. When she jumps back onto the bed, she says in excitement, “I’ve been dreaming of this moment.”

Lysithea eyes the bag warily. “I’m suddenly nervous for some reason.” 

“I just have that effect on people.” 

Hilda starts pulling out various bottles and brushes, and gets to work. She explains each and every step of what she’s doing with the familiarity of someone who has worn makeup nearly every day since the age of fourteen. She directs Lysithea with soft touches to her jaw and cheek, and it does not take long for Lysithea to become utterly distracted. 

She is saved by the timer going off, and Hilda pronouncing her nails and makeup finished just in time to pull the cake from the oven. While Lysithea starts on the frosting, Hilda puts together a separate makeup case for her, stuffing it into Lysithea’s bag beside her laptop with specific instructions to use it. 

They barely wait for the frosting to be applied before pulling out forks and digging in. They don’t bother with cutting slices. It isn’t the worst cake Lysithea has ever made, but it certainly isn’t the best. And yet, she is hard pressed the remember the last time she had enjoyed a cake as much. 

Eventually, Lysithea leans to one side to get a better look out the window. “It’s getting late.”

Licking the frosting off her fork, Hilda shrugs, as unflappable as ever. “You can stay the night again, if you want.”

For a moment, Lysithea pauses. She cannot tell if Hilda seems almost too nonchalant, or if that is just how Hilda always was. 

“I should head back to my apartment,” Lysithea says slowly.

Hilda smiles around the fork before removing it from her mouth and saying, “Next time, then.”

“Next time.” 

--

When Lysithea returns to her own apartment later that evening, Ignatz looks up from where he's reading on the couch. "Oh! Lysithea, you look nice!"

Her hand tightens around the strap of her bag digging into her shoulder. "Thanks."

She stays up later than she normally would. She tells herself it’s because she wants to hang out with her flatmates, and not because she knows that when she goes to bed she’ll have to wash her face. 

--

Lysithea has been twenty-five for three weeks, and still the oddest thing about living to be a quarter of a century is that she has miraculously finished a final draft of her doctoral thesis. Twelve years ago, she might have said living to be twenty-five was the miracle, but those days are long behind her.  

It’s Friday, and it’s the first day of snowfall after a week of crisp autumnal weather. Lysithea reads and re-reads her thesis document for any changes she might need to make, even though Hanneman has already responded to her email saying that if he were an examiner he would be more than pleased to pass it. 

For all intents and purposes, it is ready to submit. Subject to Tomas’ approval. 

Her fingers tremble slightly with adrenaline as she types up the email to Tomas. She goes back multiple times to re-word sections of the email, even though the end result is functionally the same. Finally, Lysithea closes her laptop in triumph, and then immediately pulls out her phone, brimming with excitement. Her fingers fly across the screen, dialing the first person she can think of. 

She wants to tell someone. She wants someone to know and share in this feeling. She wants -

“Hey there, short stack! How’d it go with Professor Handyman? He give you the all clear?” Hilda’s voice comes through the receiver, clear and bright as day. 

Lysithea feels her mouth curve into a smile despite herself. “You know he hates it when you call him that.”

“Then he should pay the eighty six dollars to get a legal name change. I’ve given him the paperwork before.” 

Lysithea snorts in amusement. “He thinks my updated draft is great, by the way.”

“And -?” Hilda drawls, waiting for more. 

“And -” Lysithea bites her lower lip. “I’ve given the final version to Tomas for approval. I just need to wait for his sign off, and I’m done.”

Hilda crows down the line, and Lysithea has to hold the phone away from her ear. “Now that’s what I like to hear right before the weekend! You still at the office?” 

“Just packing up now.” Lysithea pushes at the floor with her feet so that her office chair spins slowly. She stops herself after one rotation. 

“Good.” There’s the distinct sound of a breeze cutting across Hilda’s phone, as though she has just stepped outside. “Meet me downstairs in five minutes. This calls for victory ice cream at that favourite gelato bar of yours downtown.”

“Hilda, it’s negative two degrees outside.” 

“Yeah, and I want an ice cream sundae with warm brownies and an espresso. Get with the program!”

Lysithea shakes her head, but she can’t keep the grin from her face. She hasn’t been able to ever since she had hit the send button on that email. “Alright. Five minutes.” She stands up to pack her laptop away.

“Maybe make it ten.”

Lysithea rolls her eyes, and sits back down. “Just text me when you’re a block away from campus.” 

“You got it.”

The text arrives eleven minutes later, and Lysithea has been sitting with her bag in her lap, ready to depart for four minutes. A quick elevator ride downstairs, and Hilda is striding towards her on the ground floor. As if to spite the light dusting of snow on the pavement, Hilda is wearing black high-heeled shoes with blood red undersides, like she’d walked across a valley of dead men to arrive at her destination.

It shouldn’t send a thrill skittering up Lysithea’s spine, but it does anyway. 

Where Lysithea is wearing woolen gloves that Ignatz had knitted for her birthday, Hilda rubs her hands together and blows on them for warmth when they step outside. 

“Fuck. It’s freezing.”

“Here.” Lysithea reaches into her bag, and pulls out a pocket hand warmer. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thankyou.” 

“I can’t believe you still want ice cream.” 

“This won’t be a problem once we’re done with the sundaes and back at my place with a hot toddy.” 

“I shouldn’t have to explain to a molecular biologist the reason why drinking alcohol in freezing weather is a bad idea.”

“Unless you’re planning on abandoning me on the bleak wasteland that is high street, I think I’ll take my chances.” Hilda walks in such a way that Lysithea’s shoulder brushes up against her arm. “Thanks for the handwarmer.” 

“Don’t mention it. Really. Don’t.”

Vaguely, Lysithea wonders if she is turning into one of those patsies that Hilda unloads all of her work onto, but in that moment Hilda is smiling softly down at her, and she can’t bring herself to care. She has only a mind for the promise of a warm brownie and Hilda’s company. Together they walk down the street to the nearby train station while fresh snow gathers at their footsteps. 

--

NOTES

I swear the Olympic skeet shooting thing didn’t just come out of nowhere. Hilda’s relic is called “Freikugel” which is from a medieval German legend about a Freischütz. A Freischütz makes a contract with the devil, and in return receives seven magic bullets (called “Freikugeln”). Six of these bullets will hit their target without fail, whereas the seventh bullet belongs to the devil, and which he can use at his discretion.

Now, I went back and forth about making Hilda’s family a military one because of Holst, but then after doing a bit of digging I decided to run with the Freischütz legend and make it a joke about Hilda’s guns instead.  

Also I can’t be bothered to try to work out what season Lysithea’s birthday actually falls in, so it’s late autumn now. Because reasons.

[alchemist-shizun]

I Can See My Kingdom Now

Read on Ao3!

Chapter 3: Time and again boys are raised to be men

Word Count: 10,176

Characters: Virgil, Roman, Logan, Patton, Deceit.

Pairing(s): Eventual Logicality and Prinxiety. (hints to Royality, they’re forced into an arranged marriage)

Warnings: -Mild cursing (there's just one cuss word) -Minor character death -Negative thoughts -Panic attack -Insomnia -Some kind of selective mutism -Toxic parental behavior -Mentions of hallucinations -Food mention -Self-esteem issues and self-deprecation

Summary:  Growing up isn't easy for anybody. Especially when you're the new around, when you feel like you lost everything or when it seems you have the world against you.

A/N: Or of how I’m projecting slightly into one of the characters. As for the next update, I don't have much ready so you'll have to be waiting a bit for it, nothing specific this time. I'm currently working on a Prinxiety one-shot that I hope I can release soon, plus in September I'll be participating in the little event with daily prompts dedicated to the series. Also, I'll be soon starting the last year of high school, so updates will be definitely slower, but I won't give up, promise. Thank you for sticking around till now, I'll hear from you soon!

✾

❝ You are broken and callow Cautious and safe You are boundless in beauty With fright in your face ❞

The first years through his “learning how to be a valuable prince” had passed, and Roman was already grateful for the castle servants, who seldom sneaked in his room extra food. It wasn't like they were making it too hard for him and basically throwing knowledge at him or expecting him to be a natural and ace every single lesson.

His teachers adjusted to him, they let him take his time and were more than happy to explain concepts more than once.

It was just that he felt like he had to learn how to live all over again: first came posture, back at the orphanage none really cared if you were walking, skipping along the pavement, even running at times.

Here you had to keep your body in a particular position, your head straight, especially among other aristocrats. Your step had to be measured, every part of your body talked for you most of the times.

A step back could mean disdain, fright, a step forward could be interest, trust, a hand towards you is a chance to dance or an offer for a hug.

Roman had met many nobles, apart from the royals from Tinfea, after he came back to the palace; they all wanted to congratulate his parents and meet the famous lost prince. The story they knew was that a naïve servant had let the gates open and he had wandered outside by himself until he got lost for good.

As a child, he liked the attention of numerous people, but how to behave around them wasn't exactly his expertise.

Every time he did something unusual, the strangers would mention how adorable he was. His parents would smile and stroke his hair gently, a sign that, regardless of his inexperience, he was doing a good job.

To help him to get used to it, servants that casually met him in the hallways reminded him of his posture. Eventually, he got there.

While also practicing that, which reminded him to always look up to people and never look down on them, he learnt what kind of behavior he had to keep during meals, which silverware to use, how many servings there were in each meal, which one was his reserved seat.

To make it fun, he established a game between him and his parents: it consisted on guessing the food that was going to be served by the kitchen servants. It was a secret between him and the cook, but he'd occasionally sneak in the kitchen to get a “general idea”, as he liked to call it, of the possibilities. He totally wasn't cheating. Besides, he loved how his parents compared him to a magician every time he succeeded.

They made everything easier for his age, enjoyable even.

Everyday he learnt something new and everyday he was aghast: it happened even as he woke up in his chambers for the first time.

He had been woken up by the gentle daylight of the morning that was peering through the translucent curtains, pulled apart by one of the servants he had seen going around the corridors before going to sleep.

He had tried to snuggle closer to the covers and the pillows, shielding himself from the eventual tasks he had to complete during the day.

The servant had approached him and, with honey-like words, they persuaded him to get up. Only that he was simply expected to sit up on his bed.

Ever since he came to the castle, a servant would meet him in the morning to wake him up, then they'd be helped by a couple more to bring in the room a dressing table with a mirror, a chair, some objects and utensils they needed, meanwhile one of them would look into a wooden case full of rich fabrics that Roman didn't even know to distinguish.

The servants always helped him get up on his feet, they led him to the chair to sit down and they washed his face, his hair got combed and treated with products that made them soft and perfumed. Different types of oils and creams were smeared every day on his skin as they undressed him, careful not to get the night vest dirty.

No wonder they forced him to take a hot bath every night.

When they were done with that he got up, almost completely naked, and they proceeded to help him put on his clothes, which were layers on layers of various types of cloth. He didn't even know all of their names.

He looked at his minute figure on the tall mirror nailed on the wall which was perpendicular to the bed: splashes of red, gold, white and black blinded his sight as he noticed his hair tied at the nape of his neck.

After breakfast he had his first lessons of reading and writing in the library; his teacher was the same one that taught him about the history of their kingdom. She was an old lady with a streak of bright green in her white hair and a perpetual knowing look that made her seem like she had lived as long as the planet had existed. As if she knew everything there was to know.

Roman had always found her somewhat intimidating, which led to an ever-growing respect towards her: in a couple of months he had been able to read fluently and write with little to no mistakes.

The lady was amazed at how he kept practicing and demanding for books narrating fables. To the point that, unable to stop herself, she finally asked.

« What is it that interests you so much? » she lent him the second book that week, she was afraid she would run out of them soon. She made a mental note to send a man to the nearest kingdom.

« They remind me of the village I was in. » he said, eyeing the book cover with enthusiasm.

« How so? »

« I used to make up stories with a friend! » he looked up at her with a warm smile « Father said I'll visit him soon. » he added, excitement in his eyes.

Something sour set in the lady's mouth. She knew better, as always.

She couldn't help but smile back and place her hands her hips.

« Perhaps after you learn a bit of those history lessons I gave you, will you? A prince has to know everything about his kingdom if he wants to rule someday, understood? »

He let out a small huff « Of course, ma'am. »

She pat his head. « That's good. » and, as she stared at his back to check his posture while he walked away, a sad look couldn't help but make its way through her face.

After Roman had mastered all the first lessons, he was taught how to speak properly in the presence of nobles, elders, young people and the plebs in general. It was a surprisingly young servant that helped him, since sometimes it could happen that some wise and skilled enough servants could be “promoted” as teachers for the king's children.

All the letters in front of the prince seemed to swirl around his head and pressing at both sides when he looked at all the different meanings a single word could have. All the different ways that you could say something so that you could be understood by all types of audiences. The best moments were when he used the wrong linguistic register and he ended up talking to a kid the way you would treat an emperor.

At the same time he took up art lessons with that same servant. Roman found out they were not only good at how to behave with someone but they could also make the nicest instant portraits. The first one she did of him, he hanged it right after in his room, on the side of his half-empty bookshelf he asked his parents to bring in after a couple of gifts from his history teacher.

The second reaction was simply a request to teach him how to be as good as them. So they started going out of the palace daily, then into the gardens, to just sit down and draw from reference. He kept trying, transforming nature in swirls of colors and pencil figures.

Before he could say he was pretty good at it, a couple of years would have to pass, but he was content enough with just staying outside and enjoy the artistic point of view his servant offered him.

Twice a week, on the other hand, they stayed inside and flipped through a history of art book, full of pictures and analysis of the paintings or architectures.

Then, there was one of Roman's favorite things: he began sword fighting lessons. A valuable prince needed to have an eclectic knowledge and skills, but most of all if he wanted to protect a whole kingdom, he had to be able to protect himself first.

One of the Royal Guard's knights was lent to teach him; Roman believed he was going to have one of those basic lessons in which you went into the backyard of the castle, out of earshot not to disturb anyone with the clanging noise of metal.

Never in his life he would have imagined to be led into a ballroom and met with a curly dark petrol-haired man and a mischievous smile: he had two perfectly created wooden swords behind his back, like a ninja about to unsheathe his own katanas.

Roman approached the man with a confused yet composed look and when he stopped a few feet away, he held that stare.

The knight's expression shifted to a thoughtful one, never leaving that slight curve of his lips; he saw Roman, a tiny child, refraining from taking his eyes off of him, a well-trained man from the Royal Guard. And he didn't find fear in those honey-like irises, he was expectant. Rigid, but ready.

At this point silence had been enough to still keep her around. The knight threw a sword at the boy with no warning, it was definitely a test for his reflexes.

It was a habit that he always did with his new apprentices, it felt like some kind of superstitious gesture, if the person didn't catch it was probably going to have a lot of trouble teaching. On the other hand if they did …

The knight could only watch as the hilt of the wooden sword flew in Roman's hand, perfectly adjusting to his grip.

… well, it was going to be fun.

« I like you. »

The prince flashed him a satisfied smile.

The older man got a few steps closer and leaned down, Roman could see the red in his eyes that previously he thought was an unusual shade of brown.

« Shall we dance? »

Always busy with lessons and writing down stories to read to his loving parents, Roman found himself being fifteen, the village and its inhabitants was a distant memory he couldn't have the luxury to think about.

He didn't even realize he stopped asking about Virgil. He didn't realise he stopped thinking about him or the orphanage. It was less hurtful to pretend it all didn't exist than accept he would have never been able to come back. They hated him by now, probably.

His history lessons were so persistent he could now recite all his ancestors' lives backwards. Or in alphabetic order. Or in any kind of order, really. As he let go of the lessons he had mastered, new ones would come up almost instantly and, sometimes, take away even more time than the ones he had before.

Not that he wanted to complain, he'd be exhausted enough to have no trouble sleeping and never waking up a single time in the middle of the night. Which made the actual waking up ten times more challenging.

But most of all, he loved a lot of the lessons he got. Especially singing. You don't know where Roman is and it's time for his daily walk around the front garden's sculptures? He's probably moving around a large room and singing his heart out.

What was frustrating but also very surprising was how good he sang, as if he was a natural, born to entertain those around him with enchanting melodies.

His teacher couldn't believe it the first time he heard him. Soon enough, they had started a duet of voice and harp strings, creating symphonies in every different possible way.

Sometimes they really had to drag him out of rooms to participate to at least thirty minutes of his other teachings, and yes, a prince needs to know about the gods, the pontifex can't do everything by themselves.

Roman walked down the castle's external stairs, as white as the clouds above him, he occasionally thought that maybe there was a spell keeping them so clean and candid.

There was an old sage leading him towards the marble sculptures that ran along the garden's limit. Same impeccable color of the castle.

Nothing got ruined in their royal bubble, it seemed there was an invisible defense around their property. That was were the odd legend of their kingdom came from.

« Remember this one? » the sage, another one of the teachers, pointed to the marble figure they were standing in front of, halfway through the garden.

« Yes. » Roman studied the sculpture, an androgynous-looking anthropomorphic god stared him down, eyes white and empty, they had a crown on their half extended left arm, with bifurcated tips at the top.

The other hand kept their vest up, pressing it on their chest, over their heart. The pattern on it displayed, in a bas-relief, detailed and messy curves and swirls.

« The God of Death, ruler of the Underworld, also called “Dark Kingdom”. That's the reason of the crown. » the old man nodded, satisfied with the answer, but that wasn't where Roman had finished. « The vest suggests the symbol of dark magic, as they were believed to be the First Sorcerer. »

« You could have stopped before … »

Roman arched an eyebrow, it was unlikely for a man like him to be skeptical towards the Forbidden Topic. « I'm not afraid of two words. »

« You're aware of the reason why we refrain to mention it, aren't you? »

« I am. But I don't think it is right to belittle a God, or conceal one of their most important features, only because of a human dilemma. Isn't it impious to bend a deity's description to a mortal rule? » Roman turned back to his teacher, expecting a frown on the man's face.

Instead, the facade the sage was keeping up suddenly fell, only to be replaced by a satisfied and content expression; he pat the top of the boy's head while nodding slightly.

« Very good, Roman. I take you've read those books I suggested? »

The little prince showed a sheepish smile. « I guess I enjoy myths. »

Their conversation went on, the topics somehow brushing philosophy at times, but was soon abruptly interrupted by the loud noise of hooves on the stone pavement between the two sections of the garden.

Their glances turned towards the entrance, where a carriage was let in through the gates.

Both prince and sage straightened their postures and waited for the mysterious person to show themselves. They didn't expect a boy around Roman's age to come out of the carriage, all dressed up as an obvious piece of nobility, by himself.

As he got closer, Roman could notice the sneering look that engulfed him, red hair almost looked like fire under the hit of the sun rays.

The boy stopped a few feet away from them, then bowed down. « I am Desmond Ananke, marquis of the kingdom of Elis. » when he looked up, he found himself transfixed by those pitch-black eyes, as dark as a moonless night, or the moment right before your eyes adjust to the blackness of a room.

He felt dizzy for a second, was that even natural? Magic?

He came back to life when he felt the sage's hand being placed on his shoulder, when he looked over to the teacher he surprisingly found a sour expression. Roman decided to just nod at the boy, a cue for him to state the meaning of the visit.

« My parents agreed upon sending me for the monthly donation we had planned decades ago. » he turned his head to the older man. « I'm positive you wouldn't mind if I helped myself up the stairs to meet the sovereigns. » a smirk was all he needed to show for the man to understand.

He stayed silent for a few beats, then let go of the prince and stepped aside.

Desmond, before excusing himself, got a closer look to the boy. « So you must be the famous Roman Bia, I suppose. » he held his hand towards him, if he expected a handshake, he wasn't ready for the marquis to take his own hand and place a kiss on the top of his knuckles.

He looked up at him, Roman's hand still close to his lips « Your surname means “brutal strength”. I wonder if your delicacy can contrast that. »

Roman had no clue what that meant, he felt Desmond's stare on him, the warmth his hand was irradiating on his skin and the general discomfort of the whole situation. Was he supposed to answer? Was it a compliment? Did he know …

« I wonder if you're aware our prince is only fifteen and has been promised to the prince of Tinfea for five years by now. » Roman was glad his sword fighting teacher had come to the rescue, he was probably being late to his lesson.

The marquis eyed him, his smile slightly faltered and he carefully snatched his hand away.

Without any further word, he excused himself and began pacing towards the palace.

Roman had retrieved his hand as if he had just touched a burning pot, only that the only fire he felt right under his skin was dancing around his cheeks and ears because of the embarrassment. He looked at the place where the marquis once stood with a confused expression.

What was his deal?

« That motherf- »

« Language! »

« Gods! » the knight put his hands on his face and slid them up on his hair in a desperate gesture. « Stop lecturing me, dad. »

« I am not your father. » the sage gave him a puzzled look while the knight rolled his eyes.

« Maybe when you stop treating me like a child, you won't be. Well! » he clasped his gloved hands together and turned to a silent Roman that was wondering whether or not he should have let them have their moment and leave. « Ready for your lesson, kid? » Roman simply nodded.

They excused themselves from the elder and the knight, Crowley was his name, as he finally recalled, slid his arm around Roman's shoulder in a friendly way, only to lower down a little and speak to him more clearly.

« Look, that guy from before? Bad news. » he made a face. « I'll tell you, just because our kingdom is so awesome, the more outer people try to take advantage and benefit from us. »

« They're envious? »

« That's an understatement, but yeah, pretty much. » Roman felt some kind of burning feeling in his chest.

« Can't they just focus on improving their own kingdom instead of taking things from us? »

Crowley grinned. « Oh, is our prince getting bitter? »

« Hah. Not at all. I'm keeping my cool here. I'm in perfect conditions. » he flashed him a perfectly constructed smile. « See? »

« Sure, my lord. In perfect conditions of pretending, should I call the jester and tell him to call some actors to join you? »

« Oh, gladly, thank you so much. »

As they entered the fighting room, chuckling, they made their way towards their steel swords and started their usual sparring.

« Still, you should know … » the swords kept on clashing with no result. « … that boy from before talked about a donation. »

Roman started to lose some ground. « Yes? I never heard of that. »

« In my opinion, it's stupid. Arcadia has to donate part of our treasure to help other kingdoms. »

« What? » Roman's movements looked even more aggressive, tenacious.

« Apparently, it's the only way to assure they don't move war against us. » he sighed as Roman made a mistake in his posture, but regained it quickly.

« Wouldn't that lead us to eventually fall? It's not like the gods gift us gold every month. »

« That's what I've been saying. And the king's advisor too. They're ruining us anyway, this is only the slower method, the king said. »

« This is ridiculous. » the knight noticed Roman was basically throwing all his hits on him.

« I know, not to mention that marquis clearly wanted to woo you. »

« Woo me? »

« He wanted to marry you, to, of course, get your nobility status from the kingdom's alliance. There's no love there. » Crowley noticed Roman's expression hardening with rage. « Only strategy. » the prince scoffed, annoyed. « Like a mere tool. »

That's when Crowley realized his tactic was working and, in a matter of seconds, he found his sword clattering to the floor. Roman stopped moving, awed by his own doing and looked up to his teacher both smiling widely.

« Well done, kid. » he reached to pat his head, but Roman ignored that and wrapped his hands around him in a happy hug. He literally started screaming of joy.

« Gods, I did it! Did you see that? Did you see how I landed that sword? That was awesome! » he trailed off complimenting himself and pacing around the room, excitement printed on his face.

Crowley, amused, kept on watching Roman's little burst of happiness. Still, he realized it was now time for him to let other lessons take up his time. Like …

« Courting. This guy needs to learn courting. »

He was sixteen when it happened. Roman was enjoying one of the books his literature teacher had recommended, sitting at the library's table. He loved those lessons and was waiting for them to start.

His eyes lit up when he heard the door opening, but he never expected to find one of his servants and a gloomy expression. They approached him and took his hand while watery eyes threatened to start tearing up.

« Crowley is dead. »

That was the last thing he heard before zoning out, his heart sank and he felt numb; his hearing stopped working, it was as if the servant was talking to an inanimate object. They continued talking about how he died while helping a kingdom in a battle and was found lifeless, but Roman's mind couldn't process any more information.

Crowley is dead.

He could still see his mischievous red eyes in the corner of his own, now covered by a tragic and dark veil, his mouth agape as if he wanted to say something but there was nothing else to say at the same time. It was written all over his face.

Crowley is dead.

The servant brought him back to consciousness by touching his shoulder, the memory of his teacher doing the same burned in his mind, tears welled up in his eyes and found the strength to sprint away from a startled servant and run down the castle halls.

Crowley is dead.

He knew who he was looking for. His sight was clouded, making it harder to recognize his surroundings. He didn't care he was running, he didn't care his sobs could have been audible from outer space. He received concerned but knowing looks by anyone he crossed paths with. Then he found the room.

Crowley is dead.

His trembling hand turned the shiny and cold handle that almost blinded him. After closing the door behind him he rushed over to the person he knew needed comfort the most, just like him.

Roman hugged the sage, Nicephorus, he hugged him tight and pretended they didn't notice each other's red eyes. They also pretended they didn't hear their crying, seemingly unstoppable. Nicephorus pretended he didn't lose who could have seemed like his son, Roman pretended he didn't lose the brother he never had.

You can never judge whether someone's life was happy until it's gone.

Roman was seventeen. He was also finally allowed to make little trips outside of the palace and meet his people: he went mostly around the center, where his parents didn't prohibit him to go. Seven years kept inside the castle, busy with his education and getting to know his parents and kingdom, and everything about the village was now long gone from his mind, a distant memory he didn't dig into anymore.

Saying that he was well recognized by his people was an understatement. The people loved him. They cheered for him when his carriage made its way towards the center's plaza. He'd greet every single one of them, he let them hold his hands, he kissed little children's heads and willingly let them lead him through the city.

He wasn't like those royal people that looked down on the plebs with indifference from their carriages, he enjoyed interacting with others, being able to confront his life with the one of the others.

He often listened to their problems and realized that this type of confrontation helped the royalty greatly in fixing the kingdom's problems for the better; dealing directly with the people that faced issues that could be resolved was one of their best mechanisms.

And not only had he a great relationship with his people, but also the one with his servants couldn't be of any less importance. They were happy to spend time with him when his parents couldn't, as much as he was grateful for them for anything they had done.

People outside stopped believing he was a real prince, how could someone so kind-hearted have no dark feature?

They didn't know about his nightmares, for sure.

Or all the times he felt like he was remembering something of the night he disappeared, only to break down right after, the only comfort being his mother's embrace.

And despite being surrounded by a multitude of loved ones who loved him back, they didn't know about the loneliness he felt when he finally reached eighteen.

« Roman, dear, the Pais family is coming very soon, will you come to meet them? »

Yes, even with a guaranteed fiancé.

Royal courting was weird in their days: the two promised could see each other little to no time at all, preferably spending as less time together as they could. Meals with parents were fine, they even had the luxury to sit in front of each other, talk sometimes, but out of those? One or two hours a day were enough, thank you very much.

So, what the Tinfea and Arcadia families were doing to follow these unfathomable laws was meeting once a year, celebrating one year less to the upcoming wedding.

And now that Roman was eighteen, well, things were only starting to get faster.

« We're going to speed up the preparations with them today, you can finally spend some more time with the lovable Patton, aren't you happy? » his father was at his left as they made their way towards the entrance of the castle.

« Truly charmed. » he mused, not particularly focused on his question. It wasn't like he didn't want to meet him, or thought he wasn't at all an appreciable companion, but the little time they spent together wasn't enough for him. He wasn't even allowed to send letters; their relationship only started as acquaintances and went back to strangers after a couple of months of not seeing each other.

Roman thought that was ridiculously inconvenient for both of them.

« Wait, is Logan going to be here? »

« Honey, of course, he's always been. » Roman made a slightly frustrated pout at that.

« Don't be like that. He's their closest advisor. »

« I know, but I don't like him. He makes me feel incompetent. »

« He's older than you, Roman, it's normal if his knowledge is higher than yours. »

« And you should respect him as such. Then you will get along just fine. »

The prince sighed, he couldn't argue with that. What they always said was that he could at least act like he was glad to have someone as guest.

Furthermore, he loved acting. He couldn't remember how many times he had sneaked out to get to the local theatre to watch actors perform, or perform himself after he made sure none was there.

« Oh, I forgot to tell you! » Roman's mother turned to him, beaming. « This time, they're going to stay here longer. We're going to put into action what Logan had suggested two years ago. »

Well, that was certainly new.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Patton had often wondered why things were a certain way.

He sounded like a kid when he kept on asking different questions about the subject he was debating with someone.

Why were clouds like that? Are stars motionless? Why is grass green and not blue? How come animals didn't talk, do they even understand us?

As he grew up and reached adulthood, the questions would change into more soul-searching ones.

Does happiness really exist? Is the mind more important than the heart? What's the difference between justice and revenge? When is it required to be selfless and when is it allowed to be selfish?

One time at fourteen he found himself stargazing and wondering if he could even reach the stars one day, that sky glitter that winked and smiled at him every night. He had approached Logan's chamber and ran in the room out of breath, at which a startled seer blinked a couple of times, frozen still, and looked at him with arched eyebrows.

« Hey Lo- » a couple of short breaths. « You're a magician, right? »

A slow nod came from the older boy, whose gears began turning in his head, trying to predict which kind of outcome that conversation was going to lead to.

« So can you fly?! » Pat had clasped his hands together in little fists in front of his mouth and leaned in towards the chair his friend was sitting in.

Logan wondered if he could have either expected that kind of question or if he definitely wasn't aware this scenario could have ever taken place.

Eventually, he decided to get up from his chair and, kindly, escort Patton out of his room, while the prince whined about wanting to reach the sky.

After he closed the door behind himself, he pinched the bridge of his nose as he fought back an amused smile that was threatening to form on his lips.

Of course, he lost, but in his defense, he was pretty tired.

After the prince's fifteenth birthday, Logan wondered sadly why they had to unquestionably stop attending lessons together; they had less time to spend with each other now that Patton was up to courting lessons most of his day, while he retreated to his room pretty much always to self-teach himself the remaining of magic knowledge. His sovereigns told him he didn't need teachers anymore, they meant to praise him for his own talents at such a young age. But he didn't somehow feel satisfied.

On the contrary, his heart sank when he stopped in front of their closed room and heard that they were actually glad their son was going to spend less time with him and that they couldn't wait to get rid of him.

He stayed silent and moved on.

When Patton reached sixteen, Logan decided he hated feelings.

He hated feelings because he could not conceive his kingdom's rules and what sometimes they did to people, how it changed them and made them treat him from a respectable member to a simple servant undeserving of any kind of attention. He decided to stop showing such feelings as he now found them useless: what could he do with his emptiness? The anger? Disappointment? Loneliness? All the other emotions he didn't want to name? Things that only slowed down his work?

Well, there was one thing he surely could do, which was bury them deep inside and never listen to them again.

And so he did.

At seventeen, Patton was having a mental breakdown. Too many things were happening at once: preparations for the wedding (already, though Roman was still fourteen), the fate of the curse approaching which he tried to ignore, his teenage mood swings, him reaching soon adulthood and the always more persistent lessons. About literally anything.

It was especially the lessons that stressed him out. In one of them in particular, in which he had to learn how to dance but was failing miserably, he concluded it was best to abruptly storm out of the room and take his frustration out on the grass he was stomping as he made a beeline for the flower garden of the east side of the castle.

Stressful tears were prickling his eyes, he carefully wiped them away on his sleeve, growing discontent was spreading inside him since he didn't want to cry, and yet he was too vulnerable to stop himself. Why did he feel so weak?

Patton took a deep breath and made his way through the garden, hands curled in fists at his side, when he eventually had to stop himself once again.

Logan was sitting on the ground, a couple of feet away from him, he was leaning on some flowers, examining them, while some objects – related to magic, Patton thought – were lying all around him.

Suddenly aware of a viewer, his friend- wait, were they even still friends? How long ago was the last time they talked for real?

Patton grimaced, he couldn't even remember that.

Nonetheless, Logan looked up at him with a blank stare, it only faltered for a moment as he noticed the slight redness around the prince's pupils.

They kept staring silently, until eventually the mage broke the silence between them, after he turned his attention back to the flowers he was observing attentively.

« What can I help you with? » there was no real interest in his voice, no signs of concern (although he definitely knew Patton was missing his lesson), the lack of anything bothered the prince in a way he couldn't comprehend. It's like that uneasiness you feel when someone slightly moved everything in your room and you can't tell what has changed.

Patton as well couldn't tell what had happened to make their relationship so different from before.

And maybe it was exactly because of that, maybe because of how much pressure they were putting in him, the expectation of his parents that he could master all his teachings in no time, the absence of the comfort he once found in friendship with his servants, whatever case it may have been, that he found himself dropping on his knees and throwing his arms around Logan's shoulders.

Patton tried to hide his face on the other's robes, tightening his grip as little sobs shook his body.

Whatever grudge Logan could have been holding against him (which, mind you, he didn't, since Patton was just that impossible to despise), he cast that aside and surrounded the younger one's chest with his own arms, hesitantly.

They sat there for a couple of minutes as the prince let out all the displeasure and the other boy just tried to help with soft rubs on his back.

As soon as he felt an ounce of relief, Patton broke the hug and took a deep breath, after muttering an apology.

« I don't know what's happening. To me, or in general. » he sighed, a hand touching his forehead while he looked down.

Since they had basically been ignoring each other, he was expecting a remark, he thought he was going to tell him he was an idiot and it was his fault, he would have believed that.

Instead, Logan nodded. « That's perfectly understandable. »

Patton looked up at him in confusion and disbelief. « How? »

A humming sound escaped the mage's throat. « How about you describe what is bothering you? »

« Uh. » he was looking at the sky, but focusing on his thoughts. « It's like I'm in a cage. Everybody's telling me what to do, what to wear, how to act. Or who I have to talk to. » he looked Logan in the eyes. « When was even the last time talked properly? » his azure irises darkened in a greyish color. « I feel like I have no friends anymore. »

Logan's heart sank at the words, he knew he was included in that group and he couldn't help but feel ashamed for accepting the distance they suddenly began to keep, instead of doing something about it.

« It is only normal that you're getting badly affected by the situation. Look at yourself, » Patton lifted his hands to observe them. « you're clearly stressed out. Are you getting enough sleep? » there were so many questions he wanted to ask. They barely saw each other out of meals.

« Do I, they expect me to be asleep the moment they escort me to my chamber. »

One problem less ticked off of Logan's mental list.

« We both know your drinking and eating schedules are practically perfect, so I guess this is partially about pressure. Everything at once. »

« Yeah, it's mostly because of this “perfect” you said. Everyone expects me to be perfect, my parents- »

« That's it! » Logan abruptly interrupted, pointing a finger towards the sky, a knowing smile making his way through his face. He dropped the objects he was carefully putting away in his bag.

« Uh? I barely finished … »

« Listen. Don't you think your parents are a bit … too much into this? They have started preparations way ahead of time, they can't stop talking about the wedding's details when neither you nor Roman reached adulthood yet. It seems to me that they want this more than you do. To the point that they don't care about your feelings. » the words tasted sour in his mouth, talking badly about your king and queen wasn't exactly the main topic in a kingdom, but he saw the prince slowly nod in agreement.

It wasn't the first time he had noticed that, either.

« My feelings … yeah, they're definitely messed up. » he found the will to giggle.

After a beat, Logan continued with his reasoning « I can't honestly believe you forgot my most important lessons. » he looked away to open the only vial that was lying on the ground and poured a drop of its content on a dying withered flower that immediately blossomed in a soft pink hue. When he looked back at his friend he met a confused but pensive gaze, mixed with amazement by the little magic trick.

« You're your own person, Patton. You don't have to act like anyone but yourself. Break free of those puppet strings, they're not unbreakable. You can be a prince in your own way. »

Patton showed him one of his brightest smiles, gaining all the inspiration he could have ever possibly asked for. He could still be himself while having lessons or while in front of other nobility members.

« You're right! » he beamed, getting confidently on his feet. He felt like he could take on the world by himself. « Plus, how much can they go against a prince? »

Logan rolled his eyes. « As much as they like if he starts getting full of himself. »

« Aw, come on, I was just kidding. »

They made their way towards the castle's ballroom, while catching up on the things they had been up to in the past year.

Time, of course, flew by in an instant and they were already facing the entrance of the ballroom. They stopped in their tracks.

Patton turned to the magician. « I don't know if a “thank you” is enough. But I appreciate that you didn't reject me being all emotional. » he then shrugged with a small smile. « Sometimes I get overwhelmed by the smallest things. »

Logan shook his head. « You don't have to thank me. I only helped a friend in need. »

The prince almost jumped in joy at the label, it was a sign their relationship wasn't destroyed by outer circumstances, which was what Patton had feared the most. How could he have gotten such an amazing friend? He felt the desire to surround himself with more people like him.

« And remember, if you don't understand something, write it down. Only then it might become clearer. » the seer shared one of the most important pieces of information he could give in order to prevent future breakdowns anytime soon.

Patton considered carefully his words as if he had just found out a glowing treasure, then nodded. « Will do. » he made to turn away, placing his hand on the door's handle.

« Sorry for forgetting what you taught me! » he apologized with a sheepish grin. Logan only chuckled and started to step away, when he got called again.

« And Lo? » he gave him his full attention and suddenly found Patton's hand on his arm.

Patton gazed deeply in his dark eyes. « Please, talk to me more. »

And just like that, he disappeared into the room, resuming his dance lesson with a lighter feeling in his chest.

It was the moment in which Logan felt a colder spot where the prince's hand once was and his cheeks burning red that he decided he hated feelings even more.

At eighteen Patton understood that he could be a bit freer, but his parents wouldn't let it slide so easily. At least not without some guilt trip or psychological pressure.

King, queen, prince and seer (who had also become their personal adviser since they didn't find a way to get rid of him) were sitting on a carriage, seemingly talking about topics of no relevance. But one would know better than believe aristocrats didn't measure their every word, sticking hidden meanings or snide remarks in sentences here and there.

It was their charm, how they could hold a conversation while talking about something completely different.

« Did you hear about this? They say that Roman kid had already caught up with his lost lessons in less than two years, isn't that a prodigy? » their favorite topic was throwing Patton down with their “oh-so-perfect” examples.

They always told him so many things about him, things he wasn't even sure were entirely true. So many voices went around castles. Ever since Arcadia's prince came back, he had been in everyone's words and minds.

Of course, Patton's parents used all the information they could get, thinking they could have been able to attach those puppet strings back to his body.

They tried and sometimes they succeeded in grazing even just slightly his self-worth.

Self-esteem issues weren't late to the party as well.

Patton noticed a pattern in the arguments: they would find anything that didn't please them, blame him and eventually start to criticize him. His looks, his behavior, his intelligence, either the first thing they saw or the first thought that came to their mind.

Initially he apologized as much as it felt fake. But he didn't like lying every time there was a fight, though doing the opposite made the situation worse.

His parents would get frustrated by his silence, the yelling would increase for minutes until they got tired and gave up on him.

So Patton only stared at the marble pavement, his eyes danced around its colored details, a blank expression surrounded his face; when they finally let him free he'd only run back to his room.

After that there were two different outcomes: one would simply picture him crying to let out all of the horrible things they told him, as if he could shake them off and forget about it.

The other would display him lying down with a weird feeling in his guts. It was something that mixed with wanting to fight someone and wanting to fight himself. As if he deserved to feel pain. But the only thing he allowed himself was to think of all the remarks he could have done, if only they didn't make the situation worse.

Many could wonder how he managed to endure the whole thing. Patton had the kindness of his servants to get him through the day, the food they sneaked in every time he left during meals because he couldn't just bear it.

And he had a best friend he could rely on anytime he wanted or needed to vent. Especially when he saved him from annoying situations.

The conversation between his parents continued, their eulogy towards Roman never seemed to stop.

Patton breathed out slow and deep through his nose, he knew the last thing he needed was a reminder of his inferiority complex when he was on his way to Roman.

The funny thing about it was that he couldn't even blame Roman for how he felt, on the contrary the boy was always so sweet and welcoming. It was more how everybody portrayed him to be the perfect prince he could never achieve.

« On the topic of talents. » Logan, the foretold savior, spoke only after giving a sidelong glance to the younger boy.

The sovereigns immediately shut their conversation to Patton's relief.

« Since we are second in prosperity to Arcadia, I was thinking we should value our people more. » he had them hanging on his every word. « Maybe we should organize some kind of event that aims at that specific goal. »

The two adults' faces lit up, ideas flowing in their minds. Every argument on how to somehow be better than Arcadia was valid for both of them, it was the perfect diversion.

« We definitely agree. Please do tell us what you have in mind. »

Instead of going off with one of his explanations, (that often became monologues), he turned to Patton.

« What about you? Would you like that? » a faint smile crossed the prince's lips, ignoring the voices in his mind that said “How can he give his opinion? He understands nothing of it!”

« I would love that, Logan. » he nodded. « It would be ideal for our people to stand out in their specialties. I'd want to know if the best poems ever written belonged to one of our humble and simple villagers. » he stopped looking out the window to glance at his parents' shocked expressions, their mouths left hung open upon hearing his valid opinion. Suddenly they didn't have anything to remark.

He felt something very similar to pure bliss. Then he shifted his gaze to Logan. « Don't you think? »

Pride glimmered in the magician's eyes. « Exactly my thought. We could also participate or just watch, if so you desire. »

« Thank you for your suggestion! » Patton smiled even wider and Logan knew that he also silently thanked him for the attention.

After Logan finished displaying his idea, the sovereigns kept quiet for the whole trip to Arcadia's castle and Patton couldn't have been any more glad about it.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

How could he have been such an idiot?

Hopes and dreams, fake abstract concepts made up only to ruin people's expectations.

What was hope? It only meant relate to the future in a way that will eventually result in experiencing anxiety and anguish, whether it is a happy future you're looking for or a negative outcome that you're fearing. It is never something that helps you relax, but it keeps you in a restless mood, always unsettled because you know you're waiting for something and you're paying very much attention to it.

It is as if you're waiting for a delivery that has even the infinitesimal possibility to get lost into the nothingness. Or waiting for a person that promised to come back, a promise that has a high percent chance to be broken anyway.

But your hopes get in the way and erase any pessimistic belief, without realizing you're actually deteriorating yourself. With hope comes illusion and after that you're only left with pain.

Growing up, Virgil learnt to take nothing for granted and have very little trust in all the people who presented themselves in front of him.

To say that his parting from Roman had been a hard hit for him was an understatement: ever since then, he had never been able to get close to someone just as much or have any friendship quite as strong. It didn't feel worth it anymore.

Everything constantly reminded him of Roman and he just was so tired, he wanted the world to stop.

There had been many attempts by the school's children to get him to cheer up, but every single gesture failed its goal like they weren't even trying hard enough. But they were, when he wandered in the streets the villagers would greet him with a genuine smile on their lips, Virgil would only nod at them, unimpressed by the sudden interest.

Kids had tried to play with him, offered to go spend time in the woods together, but nothing could do. It reminded him too much of him and their memories were the last things he wanted to experience all over again.

He was eleven when hope started to fade out and disappointment took over him, a wave of sadness brushed his feet as strange thoughts began to force themselves into his mind.

These thoughts were the ones that tried to keep him awake at night, they persuaded him to think that it was better to embrace the darkness of the night, in which none would bother him as they all drifted off to sleep.

At first they scared him, so much he tried to scream to throw them away, panic didn't help his breathing problems and every other night his parents were kneeling down in his room, trying to steady him in every possible way.

At twelve, things were getting impossibly worse, because he couldn't help but comply to those musings. The first time, he found himself getting up from the small mattress, a myriad of thoughts screaming at him, so much that he preferred to stay silent, afraid that if he were to part his lips the harshness of howl-like shrieks would escape his mouth and leave him with little to no voice. The second time, he was found deadly still, bloodshot stapled open eyes, in front of the village's town hall at five in the morning by a pair of very concerned and frightened parents.

At thirteen night didn't exist anymore and the fair skin under his eyes slowly faded into a dark and purple-ish tone, he decided it was not worth to have those oniric impossible encounters in dreams or nightmares, even if his sleep deprivation did quite help making the unreal look real during his waking hours. His daylight hallucinations.

He had stopped talking at all, only considering someone when he really thought it necessary, scared they could catch him interacting with the unreal, unable to tell one from the other.

At fourteen he had visited all the doctors and magicians his family could reach, and at times their solutions were too … expensive. Out of the eight of them, there was one that stuck with Virgil, his words often played in his head as a reminder that, yes, something was definitely wrong with him. He couldn't remember his full name, something with Emile … was it? He was the only one that talked about his head. His mind; Emile's eyes had glowed, a light that made him look quite mischievous, though he truly was kind-hearted, and Virgil felt like he was piercing through his soul.

He had told him it was a mess, inside his mind. Virgil could have sworn he had heard a crack in his voice, as if he had been about to cry or needed consolation, after feeling how he did daily; but then again his reality was fake most of the time.

At fifteen the tables turned. Most of the villagers just chose to avoid him. Even if bullying didn't exist in his school, his classmates would have been too scared to approach him. A little part of him was glad he could occupy his mind with all the issues that rained down on him at once, so that he could shove his oldest problem in the deepest part of his heart and never think about it again.

It had been five years.

He couldn't say he was always successful, the best case scenario displayed a train of different thoughts that would suppress the topic he didn't want to think about. But other times … the outcome would destroy his mind.

He had never gotten angry at Roman for disappearing into the void.

He couldn't help but put the blame on himself; for god knows what reason why, he started feeling like Roman had now found better people, what if they had been friends out of pity? Sure, they were good at make-believe, and yet … Roman had never left him alone. He did feel genuine, after all.

There was too much contrast between his beliefs, but somehow he still couldn't help but crumble down in his own self-deprecation. It was none else's fault but his if he never came back. For all that he could know, by now Roman had probably already found plenty of people like him; better than him, perhaps, which wasn't that much of an impossible quest. It wasn't like he had any particular talent or was special in any way, really. Being replaced could have been just as easy even in his small little village.

He was still fifteen when he finally stepped into their forest after 5 years, for some reason he had gotten sentimental and, almost magically, his feet led him in front of the forest's entrance. He was retracing the same path they had followed the last time they were together, the sparkles caused by the sun hitting the water were already blinding his eyes as he stepped down the hill that now looked much smaller than how he remembered.

And then, the one thing that would change his life forever.

He looked at his left and that same fox from five years earlier was standing there, a cold glare piercing him through golden irises, Virgil thought he had lost his mind and the hallucinations due to lack of sleep were getting worse.

But the creature looked different, yet quite the same, he could tell it was the same one he saw, even though it seemed older.

Black fur was now added to its former colors at the base of its paws. It seemed it wanted to frighten him, but also persuade him.

Virgil held its stare, the animal didn't seem to move an inch.

« What? » he snapped, arms slightly opening in the act.

The yellow-eyed fox started pacing towards him, an elegant posture was still somehow kept in its cautious movements.

Virgil didn't take his eyes off of it, it felt like 5 years earlier: it was as if there was some sort of force tugging him in a particular direction. It was stronger than before and the lingering feeling of the animal's glare on him provoked some sort of persuasion and curiosity altogether.

The little villager just stood and watched as the creature paced forward until little to no space was left between them, then something switched in its expression after it looked around and set its focus back on Virgil with gloomy eyes.

Was it looking for Roman?

« He's not here. » Virgil wished he had said it with the most collected tone, but surprisingly found his voice cracked as if it had been smashed through a thousand palaces. It sounded rough, colliding with the ethereal aura of the place. The fox tilted its head slightly.

« What are you waiting for? It's not like he will come back. » another crash, he felt himself rapidly break down like most of the times when he listened to the thoughts screaming and raging in his head. He let his burning eyes fall to the ground and close, as the dark corners of his mind took completely over him.

« … ever. He won't- » his breath hitched and when he opened his eyes again he was on the ground, almost at eye-level with the pitying creature. He looked at his hands in terror, they were trembling visibly, his breathing grew shorter, sharp, but never like those wheezes he learnt to recognize. This was something else. How long had it been since he had last spoken to someone?

This was worse. So much worse.

His fingers brushed his cheek to find it soaking in overflowing tears already making their way on his skin; he digged his hands in his hair as to hold on for dear life. He hated when this happened. He had no control over himself, he felt hopeless, more helpless than usual, rationality flew out of his body, it was as if all of his feelings had smashed the button of “overload”, while a clutching sensation weighted down his stomach.

His mind raced between flashbacks of his childhood, belittling himself, the urge to just give up and lie down forever until someone would eventually pick him up and live his life in his place.

He was completely huddled on himself when he felt something soft trying to make its way through his limbs, as if it wanted him to relax his body and get his arms away from his face. Virgil had no choice but to comply and let the fox … help him? He felt too weak to care about what was happening anyway.

When the animal started brushing its head against Virgil's hand, he suddenly remembered about one of the doctors' suggestion; he opened his eyes and focused on his surroundings.

Five things he could see. The green blades of grass, the glimmering lake, those funny shaped clouds, the trees all around him and the fox by his side. He took another deep breath that he let out from the mouth.

Four things he could touch. The lightweight of his simple clothes, the soles of his shoes, his bangs brushing his forehead and the soft fur through his fingers. He closed his eyes.

Three things he could hear. Birds flying out of their nests to get some food for their nestlings, his rapid breath slowing down, little fishes occasionally jumping out of the lake and then back on the water.

Two things he could smell. The flowers that had started blossoming in that period, the simple essence of the forest's nature.

One thing he could taste. Oh. Had he eaten yet today?

His evened out and steady breathing had him finally relaxed, he kind of felt a smile tugging at his lips for some reason, maybe it was the comfort of the little animal, maybe because he finally got a hold of himself.

But while he pet the unusual friend, there was something he didn't notice. Someone he didn't see, but that could see him. It was somewhere Virgil had never reached. One of the deepest parts of the forest.

The man grinned in his dark room while the only source of light was a cloud of magic smoke in front of him, beaming with the picture of Virgil sitting on the grass and smiling at the fox.

The brightness touched his face with delicacy, yet you could make out the details of it with simplicity.

Like the burnt skin on the left side of his face that made it look like little scales were all over his cheek. Or the literal glowing, bright yellow eyes that slowly turned into a mild shade of white as the vision and smoke both faded away.

The man in the dark smirked.

« Perfect. »

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[winterverses]

Walking Wounded - Chapter Seventy

Coming home to a quiet, empty apartment didn’t settle his mind. “Anne?” he called when he walked in. There was no music, no one in the living room. A familiar smell that he couldn’t place wafted from the kitchen, but it was silent in that direction too. Nevertheless, that was the best place to start. Anne probably wouldn’t have left the house with food cooking.

As he came into the kitchen, he saw why it was so quiet and still. Out on the balcony scattered little lights flickered in the breeze, providing just enough illumination to be comfortable, little pools of wavering light in Yorktown’s night cycle. Uhura sat at the little table, her Charellian joyeuse in her lap, her fingers plucking at the strings and her lips curved in a soft, amused smile. Anne and Spock stood nearby, Spock positioning Anne’s arm, turning her chin, very clearly instructing her. Anne was listening intently, her eyes fixed on him. Curious, Kirk watched from the darkness of the kitchen as Spock lifted his head, said something to Uhura, and then stood across from Anne.

Uhura paused, resettled her joyeuse, and then began to pluck the strings again. As she did, Spock and Anne began to step slowly in a circle, watching each other. It took a moment to register that this was a dance, slow and stately, with sweeping, graceful gestures that Kirk didn’t recognize. A Vulcan dance? Kirk hadn’t ever heard anything one way or another about Vulcans considering dance an art form. And… Spock? It boggled the mind.

Not wanting to interrupt, Kirk watched for a few moments more, wondering if there was some sort of alternate reality leak, or maybe a lingering side effect from that last mind meld. He eventually discarded those possibilities as unlikely, if Uhura was calmly playing for them rather than raising the alarms. But still. Spock? Dancing?

When Spock stopped Anne, correcting one of her movements, Kirk decided he’d better just go out and join them before they caught him gaping at them. Shaking his head, he grabbed a cold beer and stepped outside.

Anne noticed him immediately, and her eyes brightened in a silent welcome, but she stayed where she was, listening to Spock’s explanation. “...as a trickster figure, T’Kay’s part is necessarily represented with more complex movements, steps that deceive the eye, while Shariel is represented with strength and bolder movements. T’Kay is the more demanding role, but I believe with your previous training you are capable of it, so long as you practice it.” Having seen her sidelong glance, he looked up, unsurprised to see Kirk. “Good evening, Captain. I trust you are well.”

“We’re off-duty, Spock,” Kirk said, popping the cap on his beer and seating himself beside Uhura. “Don’t let me interrupt your lesson. It sounds pretty interesting.” As far as he understood, Vulcans didn’t actually believe their mythology to be true, but it was still honored as a part of their history. It made sense that it would be preserved in dance as well as sculpture, like the bust of Shariel Spock had in his quarters.

“Normally, one does not share these practices with outsiders. Dance has long been seen as a pastime for children, to be set aside as one ages. Still, it would be a loss to our culture as a whole if these dances were to disappear. The practices of children are as important as the industry and art of adults in determining the true nature of a species.”

If Kirk hadn’t known better, he might have thought he heard a little bit of defensiveness there. Spock was right, though-- if no one thought these things important enough to pass on, something of value would be lost, especially since Vulcan children now were far more likely to take on the pastimes of other races due to their fragmented population. When he looked at it that way, it seemed logical in the extreme. “Mind catching me up on what I’m watching?”

“It’s a trickster story,” Nyota said. “How the trickster got her immortality. There are a few different versions of the myth, but in most of them, T’Kay dies of old age and her katra tricks Shariel into giving her back her body when it was young and strong. Once he realizes his mistake he chases her and tries to capture her, but when he corners her, she convinces him that since she’s a katra in a body and not a naturally born creature, a powerful sacrifice of some sort is necessary for her to give it up and go back to the underworld. In the end, he becomes temporarily mortal and dies to try to separate her from her body, and she’s able to escape him again because he’s trapped in his own underworld until he regains his godhood.” Nyota smiled. “Apparently he considered it a draw after that and left her alone. Personally, I think she won.”

“There are other interpretations of that same myth that posit that Shariel’s persistence was out of love for T’Kay, or that she had upset the balance of life and death with her actions. Some of them have Shariel succeeding in the end and giving her penances to perform to restore the balance of life and death, and some of them have her returning to the underworld willingly to visit with him, both of them having learned to respect the other. It is an engaging myth, one that figures largely in children’s pastimes. T’Kay’s flight inspired one of the practices I remember from my childhood, a game not unlike the human game ‘hide and seek’, although far more complex and intellectually demanding.” Spock looked back to Anne. “If your interest persists, we should continue the lesson.”

“Of course,” Anne said. “It’s fascinating. I’m immensely flattered that you’re willing to teach me. I’ve never heard dance mentioned in the same breath as Vulcan art before, not even when I was there.”

“As I said, it is not shared with outsiders or practiced by adults, but your respect for our culture is clear, as is our need to preserve our practices. I am gratified by your enthusiasm. Now, let us continue.” Spock looked at Uhura, who repositioned her hands on the joyeuse and began to play.

Once the mythology was explained, the themes in both the music and the accompanying dance were more obvious. Anne played her part as best she could, the dance obviously new to her, but she looked as if she enjoyed every second of it, responding instantly to any of Spock’s murmured corrections. Spock, on the other hand, looked as stone-faced as ever; if Kirk hadn’t known him so well, he might have missed how pleased Spock was by Anne’s interest and willingness to learn. The music resolved itself into a less stately motif for the trickster T’Kay, something complicated and hard to follow that matched Anne’s footwork and the way she appeared to start toward one direction only to end up elsewhere. Shariel, on the other hand, was slower and more forceful, Spock’s movements reflecting his attempts to catch the elusive T’Kay. Though stylized, Kirk thought he could even make out the basic structure of the story.

It figured that Vulcan playtime for kids involved complex choreography, though. Something like basketball or tag would have been just too simple.

After a time, Spock called off any more repetitions, having stopped and started a few times to work on different parts of the dance. “It would please me very much to know that you will practice this,” he said to Anne as they came over to the table.

Anne rested her hip on the arm of Kirk’s chair, leaning over him to grab a glass of water that was sitting on the table. “Of course I will. But I do have to ask-- what about performing it? I don’t mind keeping it to myself, but a dance as beautiful as that should be seen.”

Spock had to consider this for a moment, regarding her with a small frown. “I would not recommend performing it unless you have a Vulcan partner,” he said finally. “Otherwise you are likely to face derision from those who would undermine an expression of my culture’s art simply because you are not a Vulcan. I myself have faced prejudice due to perceived lack of Vulcan authenticity more than I care to say; it is unfortunate, but since that is the case, I have no reason to believe a human would be met with more acceptance, no matter how respectful you may be.”

“That is unfortunate,” Anne sighed. “I’ll be very careful about it. I don’t want seem like I’m insulting your culture. But it’s always bothered me that the measures taken to keep a culture ‘pure’ after a diaspora are also the ones that run the most risk of killing off the practices entirely through restriction.”

“There is no adequate solution. I trust you will use your judgment, and perform or teach only when you believe your audience or student is appropriate.” Spock looked down at Uhura, who grinned back up at him. “I appreciate your willingness to play for us, Nyota.” Anne echoed his thanks.

“You know I like this sort of thing,” Nyota said. “It’s getting late, though. We should think about dinner. Did you want to go out, or would you rather just punch something up?”

“Oh, no need for that,” Anne said. “I put something on to simmer when I went in last time.”

Uhura frowned, looking uncertain. “That was hours ago. Are you sure it’s okay?”

“It smelled great when I was in there,” Kirk said.

“Don’t worry. Stews just get better the longer you leave them alone. Just relax, I’ll go dish up for everyone.” Anne stood, running her hand through Kirk’s hair and looking fondly down at him.

“Nah, I’ll come help,” he said. “It feels wrong not to do anything to contribute to the evening.”

“Your presence is contribution enough, cher, but I won’t refuse the help,” Anne said, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes and revealing that damn dimple. She looked back up at Spock and Uhura. “Do either of you want me to get anything else while I’m inside?  More beer, more water, some wine?”

“I’d enjoy some wine. Maybe one of the bottles we brought? If they’ll go well, of course,” Uhura said.

“That Riesling should be perfect,” Anne answered, a secret smile lurking in her eyes.

Kirk followed her to the kitchen, noting that the window was closed and waiting for the door to shut behind them before speaking. “What have you got going?” he asked, pretending to be suspicious.

Anne turned and grinned at him. “Oh, it’s nothing really. I just hope you all like dinner.”

“I thought it smelled familiar. What is it?” Kirk asked, catching her hand and gently tugging her toward him. She came willingly, her body flowing up against his, her arms sliding around his waist.

It definitely wasn’t the time for more than a brief kiss, but it was impossible not to make it last longer than it should have. Kissing her was just too captivating. By the time she pulled away, he’d almost forgotten his question, and her cheeks were a bit flushed. “You’ll see. I don’t want to tell you until you’ve had a chance to try it and guess.” Anne said, turning to get the dishes set out, a smile lingering on her lips. “Do you mind opening the wine and bringing out some glasses? I can handle the rest.”

“You got it, gorgeous,” Kirk said. At Anne’s direction, he found the wine in the bar, already chilled. Bringing it back out, he set the glasses on the table and poured for each of them, glancing back to see if Anne needed anything else.

Evidently she didn’t; she came out shortly, carrying a tray. The smell of the stew was definitely familiar, but Kirk still couldn’t place it. He saw Uhura suddenly look as if she’d gotten a private joke, and Spock frowned slightly, looking like he felt the same way as Kirk. Anne set the dishes down and sat beside Kirk, picking up her spoon and watching the others. “Don’t you say anything,” she warned Uhura, who laughed. Anne then looked to Kirk and Spock. “I want to see how well I got it. Try it and tell me whether you recognize it.”

Kirk obliged her, taking a bite, and the spicy taste immediately pushed the nostalgia buttons in his brain. He remembered it, but couldn’t place it, the taste eluding him even as the spice began to build. It quickly reached a burn just barely within the limits of comfort.

After a moment of contemplation, the heat failing to make a dent in his demeanor, Spock spoke up. “If I possessed a tail, it would indeed have a kink.”

Anne and Uhura burst out laughing, and Kirk joined them with a shake of his head. Sivaoan food. Tail-kinkers. After their talk of tricksters, he was surprised he hadn’t remembered it sooner; that was, after all, where they’d met a real life trickster of a sort. Taking another bite, he tried to recall any differences between the taste of the grabfoot stew they’d eaten and the stew that Anne had set in front of them. It seemed subtly different, but not in a way he could define, and not such that it stood out as a reproduction. Even the meat seemed more like the tiny, colorful little dinosaur-beasts than anything from Earth. “Damn. How’d you put this together?” Kirk asked.

“The genetic information was in the Enterprise database. It took some trial and error to translate it into the synthesizer-- you would not believe some of the terrors that came out. Luckily, I knew of a little Sivaoan community here in Yorktown and enlisted their help in return for giving them the synth pattern. Of course they prefer the real thing, but they were happy to know they’d be able to synth something that tasted right in a pinch.” Anne smiled and sipped her wine. “This was for you, Spock. Nyota said you liked tail-kinkers. If the ones in the stew are acceptable, I’ll send you the synth pattern.”

“It is more than acceptable. I am flattered that you went to the trouble on my behalf,” Spock said gravely.

“It was no trouble. It gave me something to work on during the days. Now I’ll have to find a new project.”

“Can’t sit still, huh?” Uhura asked. “Any idea what you’re going to work on next?”

Anne’s pleasure dimmed. “Yeah, actually. I was going to help Ben and Hikaru with their appeals. Ethics had a problem with letting them adopt Lilla, something about the fact that they already had a kid. I don’t know much about the whole thing, but I can at least make calls and fill out forms.”

Nyota grimaced. “I heard about that. Sulu seemed to expect it. I don’t think it’s going to be that big a problem, but I’m glad you’re helping out. I told him, but I’ll tell you too, let us know if there’s anything we can do, okay?”

“Yes, of course,” Anne said, then brightened. “And then there’s the party to plan, too…”

Spock and Uhura were coming, of course, regardless of the actual date. Kirk would have been shocked if they’d declined. What did surprise him, however, was how fast Anne and Nyota went from casual discussion to planning, then actually starting to put things in motion. By the time the first bottle of wine was finished, they had decided on a guest list and a menu (with input from both himself and Spock, of course); by the time the second one was finished, they had already figured out how much of what would set up the bar, what playlists to use, in exactly what order and how far ahead every dish would have to be made, and the likelihood that they would need aircars standing by to transport anyone who had overimbibed. Upon reflection, Kirk decided that his surprise was unwarranted. Nyota was an organizer by nature. He’d known that since they’d been in the Xenolinguistics Club together back in the Academy. She’d always been on his ass about the club accounts and bookkeeping, which, of course, had been her job as President-- keeping her Treasurer on the straight and narrow. And he already knew Anne was detail-oriented, self-motivated, and used to considering issues from multiple angles.

“I wonder what would happen if they were ever posted to Ops,” Kirk murmured to Spock, watching them systematically wipe out task after task, right down to sending out messages to the sources Anne had chosen for the food.

“By my calculations, we would see an increase in efficiency on the close order of thirty-four percent,” Spock said blandly. “Perhaps more, if they were allowed to dictate repercussions for poor performance.”

Kirk was pretty sure that was a joke. “Let’s just hope they’re free if we ever need to plan a war.”

Catching his comment, Uhura raised her eyebrows at Anne. “I think they’re getting restless. The wisecracking has started.”

“Well, we have enough done for now. I’ll call you tomorrow after five-- oh, wait. We have that damn interview.” Anne rolled her eyes. “What a pain. I’ll call you the day after.”

“Sounds good.” Uhura looked over at Kirk. “And if you said you were going to send out invitations, you’d better get cracking. I want to know we’ve heard back from everyone by Sunday.”

“All right, all right,” Kirk laughed. Somehow this had become her party too. He didn’t mind. It was kind of neat watching his friends take a random whim of his and make it into a group endeavor. It was something that wouldn’t have happened this way if Anne hadn’t been around. The dynamic was different, more balanced. He was less set apart somehow. Was it easier for them to ignore the shipboard pecking order because Anne didn’t have a real rank? But it wasn’t like Nyota had ever been excessively deferential in the first place, and Spock was just Spock, no matter what rank either of them had ever held.

Setting his thoughts aside as Nyota and Spock rose to leave, he and Anne escorted them to the door, saying their goodbyes. Once they were gone the place felt emptier, but not entirely, as if they’d left some of their companionable warmth behind them.

Anne leaned into his side, looking affectionately up at him. “I’ve got to go clean up, cher. Will you run us a bath if you’re not too tired?”

“Sure.” The thought of the advice he’d been given, both by Ella and by Carol, made him pause. Was it better to talk about these things now?

“What is it?” Anne asked, curious.

Damn. She was getting to know him too well. No point in putting it off. “A couple things. You need a communicator, for one.”

“Why?” Anne asked, annoyance flitting across her features.

“Because if you have one, I won’t have to worry that you won’t be able to reach me if you’re in trouble.”

She knew he had a point, even though she wasn’t happy about it. What was wrong with having a communicator? His puzzlement must have shown on his face, because she answered immediately. “I just don’t like the idea of anyone being able to bother me wherever I am and no matter what I’m doing. If I get a separate comm code, will you keep it to yourself?”

Reluctantly, he said, “That’s probably not a great idea. If there was an emergency and I couldn’t give the code to someone else for whatever reasons…”

Sighing, she rested her head against his arm. “All right. But only because you think it’s necessary. The moment it’s no longer necessary, I’m getting rid of it.”

“That’s fair.” Was that enough for the moment? Was she too annoyed to take it well if he brought up the other thing? Deciding it was best to get it all over at once, he said, “And… if things don’t work out for you, would you consider staying aboard the Enterprise? I know it’s not… I mean, I know you think you’re not cut out for Starfleet and all that, but… it’s an option. Or at least I could make it an option. If you wanted.”

By the time he’d finished speaking, she’d gone entirely still, her hurt wordlessly radiating from every line of her body. Wasn’t great for the old ego. He had to admit, though, that he knew just how important her writing was to her by how assiduously she avoided the subject, and how relentlessly she filled up her time. And that was just what he saw; he had a feeling that was the tip of the iceberg when it came to her feelings about her writing. Might as well ask him to stay with her if he’d lost his ability to be the Captain. It would be like cutting out half his personality, his life, the person he thought of as himself. She wouldn’t be able to replace that for him, no matter what he felt for her.

But… it would help. Having someone who cared that much for him would help. Wouldn’t it? He wasn’t in her position. He couldn’t tell.

After a long while, she pressed her cheek harder against him. “Yes,” she said, her voice small and quiet. “I’ll go with you, if it comes to that.”

He’d thought it would make him… well, definitely not happy, not when he’d known she would be hurt. Relieved, maybe? More settled? Instead, it just felt unutterably selfish, and he wished he hadn’t said anything. Even though he didn’t mean it that way, it must have sounded like he didn’t have any confidence in her, and even if she knew better on one level, that didn’t negate how it must have felt. “We don’t need to talk about it again,” he added, wishing that he could forget it entirely. But Carol had been right-- it needed to be addressed. He needed to know, so he could take any steps that needed to be taken. “Just… come with me when I go back, if that’s what works.”

Anne must have had some idea he would bring it up, but even if it had to be said, that didn’t make it hurt her any less. Her body was tense, as if she’d just been hit and was trying to master her reaction so she could choose how she wanted to respond. After a while, she spoke, her voice still quiet but a little more controlled. “I need to be alone for a bit. I’ll be on the balcony. Go to sleep, if you like. You’ve had a long day.”

There was no way Kirk could sleep, not now. Not until she came back to him. But he knew better than to put that on her too. “I won’t bother you,” he said. He wished he could do something to comfort her-- hold her, make her laugh, something-- but pushing himself on her just to assuage his own guilt would be unforgivable. Instead, he stood still as she pulled away from him, only his eyes following her as she left.

After he heard the balcony door open, he decided he would run that bath. Maybe see what was in the refrigerator, get some rum chilling. It was the only thing he could think to do that wouldn’t be intrusive, that might help to smooth things over. He tried not to gawk when he went into the kitchen and the bedroom, but he did see that she was working in the garden. That was good. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if she’d been just sitting there crying the way he’d half-expected, aside from feel about a thousand times worse.

By the time he heard the balcony door open again, the bath had been full for long enough that he had to set the temperature to hold, or else it would have cooled too much to be comfortable. Kirk himself was seated on one of the couches, going over the most recently released court schedules. No word on Loche’s trial date yet, but the schedules were only mapped a couple weeks ahead. He concentrated on the padd in his hands to avoid wondering whether she would approach him or if he should go to speak to her.

Her footsteps on the carpet told him he had no reason to wonder. She didn’t say anything, but she came to sit beside him. When he looked at her, he saw that her eyes were a little red, and immediately felt like the galaxy’s biggest heel. She smiled, though, and even if she wasn’t happy, at least she wasn’t angry or resentful. “You should have gone to bed, cher. It’s late.”

“I’m fine. Not like I haven’t done it before.” He started to set the padd aside, then a thought occurred to him. “If you want, I’ll stay home tomorrow. They say they need me but they really don’t, it’s just the same boring old shit again. All little guys they’ve got airtight cases on anyway.”

Anne’s eyes lightened a bit, becoming instantly less guarded and more transparent, the turmoil of her emotions clearer. “You don’t have to,” she said.

Kirk lifted the padd and began to tap out a message. He’d seen that little bit of hopefulness in amidst her hurt feelings and self-doubt. “I’m sick of it anyway. I need a day off. And then maybe we can get that interview done with earlier and not have to spend our whole day waiting for it to be over.”

“I’d like that,” she said, resting her head against his shoulder.

Kirk finished his message and tossed the padd aside, sliding his arm around her. Missing a few trials shouldn’t be a problem. They had them in the bag already. After a short silence, one that was far more comfortable than the ones preceding it, he said, “I ran the bath for you. Do you want to go relax?”

“Will you come with me?” Anne asked.

“Of course.” Good. Not that he would have begrudged her privacy, but… good. Knowing she wanted him around made him feel less like he’d taken a baseball bat to a glass sculpture. He would never have felt this way if it had been Carol, or any of his other lovers-- he would have just thought anyone else needed to grow a thicker skin if even a sidelong reference could hurt them that badly. Anne was different. She was still recovering, and things she might be able to handle from others had more potential to hurt coming from him. That she wanted him around meant that she didn’t blame him, when she would have been justified in doing so.

It was better to stop thinking about it. She was fine, she would recover, and he hadn’t permanently fucked anything up. Kirk escorted her toward the bath, noting that she’d taken down or turned off all those flickering little lights outside. “Were those actual candles?” he asked. He’d taken them for holographs at first, but there had been a faint scent of burning to them...

“Yes,” Anne said, looking back at him with a hint of a smile.

How… quaint. Where would she even find something like that on Yorktown? One of those grey markets she seemed to effortlessly find? Well, they might be handy. She must have liked them a lot if she’d somehow dug them up out here. “I’m gonna go grab them. They’re in the kitchen, right?”

“Yes,” she said again, her smile growing just a little. He left her to get them, and found a little torch sitting beside them, presumably to light them with.

When he brought them to the washroom, he’d barely stepped inside before she was in his arms. “You are so sweet to me,” she murmured, and the warmth in her voice settled him further. “I didn’t realize you’d been paying that much attention.”

He glanced over at the tiny loaf of fresh-baked bread and the bits of cheeses he’d brought in for her. Sure, they didn’t look as nice as hers, but it was a pretty respectable effort. The starfruit and strawberry slices had turned out better. “It’s not like I made the thing. I just took some of the dough and put it in the oven after it had sat a while. The rest of it was just cutting things.”

“Still.” She looked up at him, her smile wide enough to reveal that dimple. “Let me guess, there’s something in the icebox here too.” He nodded. “I’ll pour us some drinks if you set up those candles. Then, into the bath. Oh, and let’s have some music, don’t you think? You pick.”

Sounded good. Great, in fact. So long as things returned to equilibrium, he was happy.

[truthbeetoldmedia]

Ain't I a Woman?: The Unbalanced Portrayal of Strong Women on 'The 100'

It must be said that women have come leaps and bounds as it relates to representation in popular media. I’ve seen more WOC, LGBTQA women and disabled women on my various screens in the past 3 years than I have in decades of TV viewership and that’s a wonderful thing. I will always celebrate the presence of more women, especially increasingly diverse women, in film and television. The traditionally male-dominated world of television is slowly opening the doors to allow for voices like my own to be heard, and audiences are overwhelmingly receptive. Obviously, we’ve not reached perfect equality, but we are seeing growth. Unfortunately, not all growth is good.

For all the positive changes we’ve seen there are strong reminders that, even as women become more than just housewives and child bearers, the men who control the writers’ rooms they come from don’t always understand what it means to be a strong woman. The forward movement of women in popular culture is sometimes at complete odds with the oftentimes unintentional reinforcement of outdated gender roles or the inability to allow women to be both strong and emotional, intelligent and soft, love interests and warriors, be sexual beings and not have that same sexuality used as a tool.  It feels like writers believe there is only one way a woman can be strong, and it often comes at a detriment to the characters and the women who watch them.

Today I want to tackle this issue as it affects one of my favorite shows: The 100. If you had to choose one (singular) amazing thing about this show, it’s just how many women there are (and have been) and how integral they are to the plot. The “Core Four” of the show (made up of Clarke Griffin, Raven Reyes, Octavia Blake and Bellamy Blake) is almost all women, the leaders of the opposing groups in each season are almost always women, the plot is almost always being driven by the actions of women.

At its core, The 100 is a show about women and what they are willing to do to ensure the safety of those they love and that’s a powerful message….when it’s done right, that is. The first season handled the dichotomy of womanhood almost perfectly. All of our women were placed in difficult situations that often required them to make decisions logically, but we were also shown the emotional impact of those decisions. The show even begins with a mother (Abby) making the decision to send her only child down to a possibly toxic Earth, because the alternative is certain death as opposed to a chance at a real life.

We follow Clarke and her big heart as she navigates the trials of leadership, made all the more complicated by her difficulty relating to a group of delinquents who won’t listen to her due to ingrained class differences to a safer space, as she tries to save a boy others would have left for dead (Jasper Jordan), as she learns more about the Grounders and their ways and reacts with horror at the thought of a child being forced into battle so young.

We see Raven’s love for Finn give her the determination to repair a dropship that’s a hundred years too old for safe use and hurtle through the skies to the ground and, later, love for herself allow her to walk away from her romantic relationship with Finn. We see Octavia, brimming with curiosity and wonder at her first taste of true freedom, eager to see all that the world has to offer but also finding a hidden ferocity within herself.

It’s not until the show’s second season that we begin to see issues with how women in positions of power are portrayed, and it’s all thanks to our closer look into the Grounder society. Grounder society, even more so than Arkadian, is extremely matriarchal. Women are in positions of leadership across the board and you’d think that’d be a good thing. Unfortunately for us, and the show, Grounderism is also rooted in heavily racist allegories.

The list of tropes The 100 shoehorns in as it relates to the Grounders is almost unparalleled by any other show with a “native” group. We deal with the “Badass Native”, wherein, because indigenous people just love going to war, they must all be badasses of some sort or other; the “Savage Native”, wherein the indigenous people immediately reject outsiders by violent and forceful methods; the “Proud Warrior Race Guy”, who seeks battle specifically because his culture teaches that war is the only way to earn true honor; the “Angry Black Woman”, characterized by a black woman who is — almost always — angry, and many more. They all mean that, when the Grounders actually start to have meaningful interactions with out main characters, they all come out worse as a result.

The change is most obvious in our lead character, Clarke Griffin, which makes sense. She remains emotionally vulnerable but capable of making the hard decisions, right up until the aftermath of Finn’s death. I’d like to note here — before we go any further — that I obviously expected making the decision to kill Finn to emotionally impact, and, yes, even devastate, Clarke. It’s a decision no one should have to make and one only Clarke can ever truly bear the weight of.

The problem is in the bad advice this show gives our heroine through one Lexa kom Trikru. At Finn’s funeral pyre, Lexa tells Clarke that true leadership is made possible only in remembering that “Love is weakness.” In all fairness to the show, it is initially presented as a bad ideology; her actions in allowing the bomb to fall on Ton D.C. were shown as horrifying to her mother and her choice to lie to Bellamy about Octavia’s safety is seen as the betrayal that it was and, ultimately, the plan that she concocted with Lexa failed. It’s not until Clarke is reunited with her friends and sees her mother, who she loves, being dragged to the draining table that the plan succeeds. But the lessons that Clarke learned in this season, namely “love is weakness,” and “I  bear it so they don’t have to” follow Clarke for seasons to come and continues a downward spiral for the show and for Clarke — and the other women — going forward.

Season 2 sets an ugly precedent that The 100 has had a hard time walking back from. Although our characters’ actions are almost always motivated by love for their family and friends, we are also continuously shown that that same love causes them to behave in irrational and sometimes harmful (to themselves and to others) ways. There is no bigger example of this than our main character’s actions over the course of Season 5. I suppose we should have expected this, should have seen it coming, because a large part of the hiatus between Seasons 4 and 5 was spent pushing the fact that Clarke was a “Mama Bear” now, which was apparently short form for “Now that Clarke has an adopted daughter she’ll lose all semblance of logic and reason because of the power of love!”

The lesson that The 100 continues to teach women everywhere is that, in order to be a good leader, logic and reason cannot coexist with love. Every single last one of our female leaders deals with this quandary and ultimately, every time they chose to prioritize love over logic and reason, they lose.

The pattern begins with Lexa in Season 3, choosing to turn her back on the traditions of her people, motivated by Clarke (who she loved). While Lexa isn’t killed because she’s a lesbian (there’s a complicated mix of contract obligations, plot lines to introduce and more that factored in there), we can’t deny that Lexa choosing to love Clarke (her enemy) and choosing to listen to Clarke’s advice over the traditions and desires of the people she was sworn to lead was a huge factor in her death.

It continues into Season 4 when Abby’s love for Clarke results in her destroying the radiation chamber before the Nightblood can be tested again — a solution that would have worked goes untested and results in her daughter being left with only one other companion on a barren Earth for six years. In Season 5, Clarke’s love for Madi results in her leaving her best friend to die, joining up with a serial killer, shocklashing her daughter and more.

Maybe I’m alone in feeling as if the show tells women that, if we want to be leaders, seen as strong and capable people, we can’t afford to have emotional attachments, but I don’t think I am. Woman are capable of being both emotional and good leaders, capable of loving people and also recognizing that sometimes you can’t always put the ones you love first, capable of compromise in the face of hard choices. We are strong because of our emotions, because of our humanity, not in spite of it.

Women deserve to be shown on screen as we are in life, and sometimes that means that the men who far too often run writers’ rooms need to step back and lead by listening. I promise the (mostly female) audience for your show will thank you for it.

[taeken-my-heart]

Independent {f} - Chapter 7

Summary: Your mom calls you stubborn, your friends call you wild, and the boys you’ve left in your wake call you a frigid bitch.  You’ve built a life of independence and you like it that way. Kim Taehyung, however; seems to be able to change your mind.

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

Genre: Light fluff

Word Count: 4900

Friday should be a day that fills you with peace; the end of the week, an opportunity to relax, go out with friends, go on dates if you felt like it…but this Friday was different. You woke to a pounding at your front door and leapt from your bed in a sleep filled haze of confusion. Your baggy pajama shirt fell to the middle of your thighs, covering your lack of decency and sagged from your shoulder as you made your way to the door.

Pulling the front door open you found Taehyung standing there, grin wide and bouncing on the balls of his feet with two coffee cups in hand. “Morning!” He chirped happily.

You blinked at him groggily, running fingers through sleep mussed hair as the sun reflecting from the fresh fallen snow glimmered in your eyes. “What time is it?” You mumbled.

Taehyung glanced down at his watch. “7:30.” He replied.

“7:30?!” You exclaimed, back straightening like a rod. “What the hell are you doing here at 7:30 in the morning, Taehyung?”

“I brought coffee!” He smiled, as though he thought that might make this situation any less bizarre or acceptable. Perhaps he was right. You stood off to the side as he stepped into the foyer and you pointed up to the kitchen, closing the front door tight.

You followed after him, sitting down at the kitchen table and seizing the cup of steaming coffee he’d set down in front of you. He sat across from you, watching over the rim of his cup as you gripped yours in both hands, holding it up to your nose and inhaling deeply.

The cold from outside had cooled the liquid lava to an acceptable temperature and you hummed softly into your cup. You opened your eyes to find Taehyung smiling softly at you and you licked your lips nervously, gazing back down into your coffee.

“How’d you know I like cream and sugar?” You murmured, not brave enough to look at his face.

“I remember from a few days ago when I walked you home. You mentioned you liked coffee with three creamers and two sugars.”

“I remember,” you mumbled, “I just didn’t think you would.”

“I did.” He said softly, smiling down into his cup.

You pushed a piece of untamed hair away from your forehead and cleared your throat awkwardly. “What are you doing here, Taehyung?”

“The recital is today!” He beamed, setting his coffee down on the table in front of him. He looked at you as though you were somehow supposed to figure out why that meant he needed to be sitting at your kitchen table at 7:30 in the morning.

“And?” You questioned, “That’s not for six more hours.”

Taehyung shrugged, “I know, but I don’t have any classes today and I’m excited so I wanted to talk to someone.”

“And you couldn’t talk to your roommates?” You muttered.

Taehyung shook his head, “Jin has an early morning chem lab, Jimin left to the dance studio, Sam stayed in the recording studio all night working on music, and Jungkook would literally kill me if I woke him up this early.”

“So, your logical next step was to come to my house?”

“Yeah.” Taehyung admitted sheepishly.

“Who’s to say I won’t kill you?” You griped, eyebrow rising.

“You’re too sweet!” Taehyung grinned and you rolled your eyes, “Plus, I brought you coffee!”

You sighed, taking another sip of your drink and nodded reluctantly. “That you did.” Running your hand down one side of your face, you sighed again. “Fine, we can talk.”

The light flickering in Taehyung’s eyes was enough to convince you that you would manage the sleep deprivation and you smirked as he began to prattle away about all the things he was looking forward to when the evening came and how he couldn’t wait to blow away the audience.

You were still sitting at the kitchen table, legs curled under your baggy shirt, an hour later when Anna emerged sleepily from her room. She stopped suddenly when she noticed the both of you and raised her eyebrows in question.

“Anna, this is Taehyung, Taehyung this is Anna, my roommate and Sarah’s twin sister.”

Taehyung stood, offering his hand and a smile. “I can see the resemblance!” Anna smiled, eyeing you from the corner of her eye and you could see the questions she wanted to ask.

“I think I’ve heard of you. You’re in the recital, right?” Anna asked, stepping towards the fridge and pulling out the orange juice.

“Yeah!” Taehyung enthused. “I’m dancing in it. Are you coming?”

Anna poured herself a glass of juice before returning it to the fridge and turning to lean against the counter. “Actually, yeah, my boyfriend thought it would be a fun date night.”

“I don’t think he’ll be disappointed,” Taehyung grinned, “the other dancers, actors, and musicians are honestly so talented. I’ve been so excited to see what happens that I had to come talk to someone.”

Anna smiled, looking down at her phone, “At 8:40 in the morning?”

You laughed, shaking your head, “Oh no, he was here at 7:30.”

Anna gaped at the two of you and Taehyung at least had the decency to look embarrassed, “I didn’t really think about the hour at the time.”

Smiling, you stood, carefully, so that you didn’t expose yourself, and threw your empty cup in the trash. “I’m gonna get dressed really quick, I’ll be back.”

You retreated to your room, closing the door softly and lifting your top to fall on your unmade bed. You grabbed a pair of dark wash skinny jeans, sliding them up your legs and searching around for a sweater to wear before grabbing an extra-large chunky red and white sweater that hung almost to your knees and pulling it over your head. You loved this sweater because it made you feel small, as though you were the pint-sized cutie your brother always insisted you were. The sleeves hung too long over the edges of your finger tips and you’d had to roll them just to be able to grab anything.

You combed your fingers through your hair as you assessed the damage your sleep had done in your vanity mirror. You grabbed a pair of thick knitted socks and pulled them on before padding back out into the kitchen.

Taehyung and Anna were still chatting as though they were old friends so you made your way to the bathroom to wash your face and brush your teeth. Sighing, you decided your shower would have to wait until later when Taehyung wasn’t sitting just outside the door.  

You walked back into the kitchen, sitting down at the table as Taehyung glanced at you and smiled. “I like that sweater! It makes you look tiny and cute.”

“Thanks.” You mumbled, embarrassed. Perhaps you should have worn something less cute.

“How many classes do you have today?” He asked.

“Three.” You said as Anna watched you calmly from the kitchen sink.

“Which classes are they?” He asked and you couldn’t understand why he was so curious.

“History, Photo Journalism, and English.” You said frowning. “Why?”

He shrugged, picking at his nails, “I was just thinking, if you didn’t mind, maybe I could join you?”

“You have the day off and instead you want to go to three classes that aren’t even yours?” You asked in complete bewilderment.

“Sure,” he said, smiling, “It could be fun to try new things.”

“Taehyung, I don’t understand.” You said, shaking your head.

“I just want to keep hanging out.” He said shrugging.

You sighed, “Well, it’s a free country, I can’t really stop you, can I?”

Taehyung beamed, shaking his head. “It’ll be fun, you’ll see!”

“It’s not supposed to be fun,” you mumbled, “it’s meant to be educational.”

Anna smirked and returned to her room to grab her shower stuff and you sighed again, retrieving your bag from your room and motioning for Taehyung to follow you. To his credit, he wasn’t a huge distraction in any of your classes, he listened eagerly, even taking notes and participating and would only occasionally learn over to whisper something funny in your ear.

He insisted Photo Journalism was his favorite of the day as you sat in the cafeteria with a burrito and some fries. He raved on and on about how Professor Shultz was a visionary and really, he couldn’t understand why he was working as an underpaid professor when surely, he could be selling his pieces to art museums or something.

You listened with so much enthusiasm that you surprised even yourself. Everything he said was so impassioned that you couldn’t help but feel inspired by each of his speeches. He could be talking about a banana split for all your cared and you’d agree with him. He just spoke with so much conviction.

You glanced at your phone, noting the time and realizing that there were only a few hours left before the recital would begin. Taehyung needed to go and get ready and you really needed to take a shower before you dragged yourself back out into the cold to fulfill your promise to the silly, head in the clouds man next to you.

“Hey, I don’t mean to cut this conversation short, but there’s only a few hours left before the recital and I really need to take a shower.” You said.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything.” He trailed off and you threw a fry at his laughing face. He caught it easily in his mouth and chewed with the biggest, dumbest grin you’d ever seen and it took everything in you not to grin like a lunatic in return.

You stood, shaking your head and discarding the trash before putting the tray away. “Anyway, I’ll see you on the stage.” You said, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. Taehyung stood too, grabbing you and pulling you into his arms and you stiffened like a board in surprise.

Taehyung lowered his head onto your shoulder and you could hear his low, shaky breaths. He was nervous. You bit the inside of your cheek as nervousness bubbled in your own stomach before wrapping your arms around his waist and holding him close.

“You’ll be great.” You said, trying to impress upon him your own conviction of his skills. You could feel his smile on your shoulder before he stepped back.

“Thanks,” he murmured, “I really needed that.” He rubbed his thumb along the outside of your cheek gently before dropping his hand to his side. “I’ll see you in a few hours. I’ll make sure you’ve got a really good spot!” He waved and then quickly made his way out of the cafeteria and down towards the fine arts building.

Your cheek felt like it was on fire where Taehyung had left the imprint of his thumb and you swallowed nervously, a shuddering breath leaving you. You were getting too deep into this…whatever it was.

After slipping off your shoes in the hallway of your home and dropping your bag in your room you gabbed your towel and headed for the bathroom. Anna was sitting at the kitchen table combing through one of her school books when she looked up at you and her soft smile turned smug.

“So, Taehyung, huh?”

You groaned softly, leaning against the doorjamb to the bathroom. “Don’t look too far into it, Anna, we’re just hanging out.”

“I don’t think he’s just trying to “hang out” with you.” Anna smirked. “What kind of guy shows up at 7:30 in the morning and then goes to all your classes with you on a free day? He seemed pretty damn interested, if you ask me.”

“Well I didn’t ask.” You clucked, turning on your heel and walking into the bathroom, closing the door on your friends laughing face. Too many people were too invested in what was going on with Taehyung and it honestly made you feel uncomfortable. There was a pressure there to make something of the relationship that you just weren’t ready for.

 Two hours later you were hurriedly scarfing down a sandwich before heading in the direction of the recital hall. Once you’d entered the room you could feel the buzz of the people through your toes and all the way out your fingertips. Flashy men and women looking for an evening of glitz and glamour, ready to be dazzled by the most talented few of your student body.

You could see Jimin and Jungkook waving to you from the third row to the front and you made your way towards them, noting a piece of paper with your name had been attached to the chair beside Jimin.

“Hey!” He beamed, motioning for you to sit down “Taehyung is gonna be so glad you made it. He’s been pretty nervous, texting us the last few hours worrying he’ll mess something up and won’t be noticed by anyone worthwhile. He always tries to play it cool like this experience is just for fun, but I think he really hopes something will come of it.”

“He doesn’t need to worry,” You insisted, “he’s honestly so talented it makes me sick. He dances in circles around half the guys in here.”

Jungkook smiled, “he’s just a worrier when it comes to the big things.”

“I offered him Xanax, but he refused.” A man on the other side of Jungkook grumbled and you looked over at him, eyebrows furrowing.

“He’s joking,” Jimin laughed tersely. “Y/N, this is Sam, our other roommate. Sam, this is Y/N.”

Sam nodded briefly at you before turning back to study the stage. He had light, shaggy blonde hair that fell just past his eyebrows, dark, hooded brown eyes, pale skin, and what looked to be a permanent frown. He was handsome enough, but he seemed grumpy and you were beginning to understand why they called him grandpa.

Jungkook and Jimin smiled at you sheepishly and you smirked, shrugging. He was brash and it’s not like you weren’t used to that. Charlotte was similar in ways, her laziness pushing her to find the simplest forms of communication in an effort to expel less energy. You lived with her so sitting with him for a couple hours would honestly be easy.

The three of you chatted casually, with Sam throwing in little tid bits now and then while you waited for the show to start and you took the opportunities you had when the conversation paused to survey the room. It was nearly filled to the brim now, with people beginning to crowd around the edges of the auditorium from lack of seating and you noticed with some trepidation just how many talent scouts and agents there actually were.

You felt suddenly nervous for Taehyung and Jin. You’d seen how hard they worked, how talented they were, but would it be enough? You could really understand why anyone in the fine arts field would want to be a part of this recital, it was make or break in a way. That suddenly left you wondering why Jimin and Jungkook weren’t in the program and you turned to voice your thoughts.

“It’s usually for upper classmen.” Jimin stated. “They select a few sophomores if they show real promise. I was actually selected to participate but because of a semester long project I’ve had to be a part of for one of my classes I couldn’t do it this year.”

You nodded in understanding, looking at Jungkook’s frowning face. “I’m just a freshman,” he sighed, “but I’ll do it next year for sure!”

“I like your confidence!” You smiled and Jungkook grinned. Suddenly the host for the evening walked onto the stage and the lights began to dim. You settled further into your seat as you trained your vision on the stage and prepared to watch the show for the 13th time. Really, you should have been sick of it by now, but the excitement in the room, the set and costumes finally being finished, and the burning energy you could feel from the performers left you deeply excited to see the final masterpiece.

You’d never had the opportunity to just sit back and watch, always seeing from behind the lens of a camera and focusing on zoom, lighting, and angle, you hadn’t had time to really pay attention to what was happening. The recital was a beautiful conglomeration of artistic talents. It was like a musical, the singers foretelling the story of the actors with the musicians highlighting their plight and the dancers finalizing their tale in a fantastic display of swan like grace and agility.

Your eyes were glued to Taehyung as though you’d never seen him before. Every move was so fluid, like he was born dancing and you felt entranced. His willowy frame curled like the sinews of a tree; beautiful, twisted, and strong. You could see the passion burning in his eyes, the beads of perspiration that lined his temples as he let the music move him. It was in this moment that you remembered the talent agencies littering the room and felt a sense of sadness amidst the awe. He was so talented; you had no doubt that at least one of the agents in the room would try to snatch him up. Would he take the offer? Would he finish school first? Was this the last time you’d really see him? You pushed those thoughts to the back of your mind as the recital ended and everyone gave a standing ovation.

Really, everyone had been incredible, the talent displayed was mind blowing. You were of course most impressed by Taehyung and by Jin. There was no doubt in your mind he’d receive some offers tonight; he really was an incredible actor.

“Wow!” Jimin beamed, “wasn’t that amazing? I can’t wait to participate next year.” He sighed dreamily.

Jungkook and Jimin babbled to one another as they walked forward and you fell behind and into step with Sam. “So, what did you think?” You asked.

Sam smiled and you watched him quietly as he appeared to be organizing his own thoughts.

“They were pretty great,” he remarked calmly, “talent agencies would be stupid to pass either of them up.” You smiled at the sweet compliment and nodded.

“Let’s hope they’re not stupid, then.”

The four of you waited in the lobby of the fine arts building chatting and watching as the performers all began to greet families, friends, and the agencies began their introductions. Your group stood around for what felt like forever before you finally saw Taehyung walking towards you, beaming, dark hair slicked away from his face and under a baseball cap.

The guys all cheered, clapping him on the back and giving hugs and Taehyung laughed breathlessly as he greeted each one. He turned to face you, his smile softening as he watched you.

“You came.” He said softly.

“I said I would.” You smiled. He nodded, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into a hug. Your whole body tingled at the contact and you wrapped your arms around his neck, hugging him back. If this was really the end, if he received some crazy, impossible to pass up opportunity, you wanted to enjoy this hug. Maybe it would be your last.

“So, did you talk to anyone interesting?” Jimin asked, and you pulled back as each one of you watched him with baited breath. His face broke into an even brighter grin and he shrugged.

“I might have gotten a few pretty solid offers.”

Jungkook and Jimin both shouted loudly, wrapping their arms around his neck happily and Sam smiled, nodding. “I figured you would.” He said.

“What about Jin?” Jungkook asked.

“He’s talking to some people now. He told us not to wait for him.” Taehyung said. 

“OK, well let’s go back home and celebrate. Are you coming with, Y/N?” Jimin asked, turning to look at you.

“Of course,” you smiled, “I wouldn’t want to miss a celebration!”

The five of you made the short journey back to the guy’s apartment and threw your coats over hangers and the backs of the kitchen table chairs. You sat watching as Jimin reached into the fridge, pulling out a bottle of champagne and Jungkook pulled out a group of mismatched mugs and cups from the cupboards. 

“Oh,” you murmured, “you got the goods!”

Jimin smiled, popping the top and the guys cheered, as the drinks were poured. “To Taehyung,” Jungkook said, lifting his glass to his friend, “to an incredible show and an equally incredible future. You’re gonna knock ‘em dead, man.”

Cheers were echoed around the room as you each took big gulps of your drinks and then grilled Taehyung all about the offers, he’d gotten. The Talent Investment Group, one of the biggest and best in the country had been the first to approach Taehyung and you found yourself having to hide your expression of discomfort behind your glass of Champaign. You were happy for him, honestly you were…but there was this stirring in the pit of your stomach that traveled up to your chest that made you feel sick and you couldn’t explain it, but you didn’t like it.

“What do you think you’ll do?” Jimin asked as the night wore on and Taehyung had finished telling you about all the different companies that had approached him.

“Well, I took all of their business cards and told them I needed to think on it and that I’d get back to them soon. There’s a lot of pretty big choices to make.”

“You’d be crazy not to take one.” Sam said matter of factly and despite the fact that you agreed, you couldn’t help the biting annoyance swimming in your chest. If he took one, he’d be whisked away and that left you feeling confused.

You shook off the unsettling feeling and smiled at him as he glanced at you. “You should do whatever you feel good about.” You murmured.

Taehyung glanced at you, eyebrows furrowing slightly before rubbing his lips together and nodding. “Anyway,” he said, clapping his hand to the back of his neck and smiling sheepishly, “I’ve still got some time to decide what I’m going to do.”

“I wonder what Jin will do.” Jungkook pondered aloud and that led into another tangent that left you feeling dazed. You’d certainly dealt with this before. When your friend, Eleanor, had been approached last year by multiple different agencies you’d sat up with her all night, along with Anna and Sarah, raving about how you couldn’t believe what was happening. Life had gone from so normal to mind blowing in the span of a few hours and if she accepted any of the offer’s things would only become more intense.

Life had changed for her after that, it had changed for all of you. She dropped out of school, moved across the country and began preparing an album. Writing songs, learning choreography, learning the ins and outs of an industry she’d long dreamed of. The rest of you had been left behind to happily cheer her on…but you missed her. Life wasn’t the same without her. You’d known Eleanor almost as long as you’d known the twins so not having her with you felt like you were missing a limb.

You knew exactly what these guys were facing, how much it would change them and you only hoped they’d come out alright on the other end. There was just so much at stake on either side, you were happy that you didn’t have to make the decision for them.

As the night waned further, Jimin and Jungkook went out to a party, Jin, who had joined the group after a few hours, went to finish some homework in his room, and Sam went back to the studio to work on more of his music. You pitied him a little, he looked tired, dark circles under his eyes and shoulders sagging with exhaustion. You supposed that was what passion for music must feel like.

You watched curiously as Taehyung grabbed the empty mugs and cups from the table, stacking them neatly in the dishwasher and you finished the last of your drink, standing from the table and walking towards him, cup extended.

“I should probably go.” You said softly, as he took the glass from your hands, rinsing it out and placing it with the rest of the evening’s cups. He turned to look at you, eyes widened with surprise.

“Oh, I was hoping we could talk a little more. I wanted to kind of sound board off you, but I understand if you’re tired.”

He turned his back to you, closing the dishwasher and wiping his hands on the dishrag. Though he didn’t say it, you could see the disappointment bunching in his shoulders and you sighed, shrugging to yourself. What’s the harm?

“I can stay for another half an hour, if you’d like.” You offered. He turned to you, eyes bright and smile wide.

“Really?”

“Yeah, why not? Tomorrow is Saturday anyway.”

“Alright, cool. Let’s go sit down in the living room so we don’t disturb Jin.” He motioned for you to follow and led you towards the couch, sitting at the end, his back leaning against the arm and legs crisscrossed in front of him on the cushions. You sat down next to him, angling your body towards him as he sighed, rubbing his jaw.

“So, what are you thinking?” You asked.

“I’m not really sure what to think,” Taehyung sighed, “they’re really good offers, it would honestly be stupid of me not to accept any of them, but I’ve got all this self-doubt. I honestly just wonder if they made a mistake and thought I was someone else, like Jin.”

“Why do you think they wouldn’t want you?”

He looked down at the hands folded in his lap, shrugging. “There were a lot of really talented people in the show tonight, so why me? Jin is obvious, he’s talented and really handsome, kind of a no brainer. I don’t want to disappoint them if their expectations are too high.”

“You’ve really got to stop doubting yourself.” You insisted, “you’re also handsome and talented. The worst thing you can do at this moment in time is doubt yourself into passing up on these opportunities. If you do, fair warning, I’m gonna beat your ass.”

Taehyung chuckled and you continued. “What you have to decide is how much you’re willing to change your life. My friend was in the same position as you last year. She’s an amazing singer and got some really incredible offers that took her out of school and across the country. She’s right on the cusp of something amazing, but she had to give things up to get there so are you willing to do the same?”

Taehyung bit his lip in thought. “Do you think they’d let me finish school before doing anything that extreme?”

You shrugged, “I don’t know. That’s something you’d have to talk about, but you should definitely prepare yourself for any reality.”

“Do you really think I’m talented?” Taehyung asked softly and for the first time you felt like you were really seeing him. He always put up a brave front filled with confidence and goofy laughter and until this moment you hadn’t realized how afraid he actually was. Sitting here, watching him as he studied you, you could see the fear; the hesitation. He was looking for approval, not just from you but from himself. He was looking for someone to tell him that it was alright to chase his dreams, that he really was worthy of them.

“I really do.” You smiled. Taehyung leaned forward, pulling you into a hug and sighing deeply into your shoulder. You gripped onto his back, hoping to offer any sort of reassurance you could. You hoped he did take an offer, even though you would feel sad. This could change his life forever and you only hoped it would be for the better.

“Thank you for coming tonight.” He mumbled into your shirt and you smiled. “It really meant a lot to me to know that you were out there supporting me.”

“I’m glad I could come.” You said as he pulled away and began to mess with a small rogue string that was attached to his jeans.

“I should probably get you home.” He sighed and you looked down at your phone, nodding.

“Yeah, it’s pretty late.” You murmured. Taehyung stood, grabbing your hand and pulling you up. You pulled on your coat and Taehyung followed you out and into the midnight black evening to deliver you back to your house where, of course, you would spend the next hour tossing and turning; wondering if you were about to lose someone else who was beginning to mean so much to you.

Feelings sucked.

Whoops, I guess I had just enough inspiration to finish this chapter! Haha

Hope you enjoy. Please let me know what you think, I love hearing your thoughts <3

Chapter 6

Chapter 8

Copyright © 2017  by taeken-my-heart (Nora.) All rights reserved.

[heartofhryule]

Heart of Wisdom - Chapter 4

Chapter 4 - Setting up for things getting real.

WARNINGS: Contains Hyrule Warriors spoilers and story items. I highly recommend playing the game if you haven’t! It’s complete fluff, but fun fluff…. minus Lana. ______________________________

Heart of Wisdom - a Tale after Hyrule Warriors | Chapter 4 - Allies and Enemies

Another week went by and preparations were being made for the envoys departures to the North and South. Zelda watched the courtyard bustling with activity as the caravans were stocked with supplies, horses reshod, and travellers conversing. They would be leaving that afternoon after she addressed them, directly after the Council meeting. The same Council meeting at which she would be informing the Council that Link was to be her betrothed.

There wasn't’ much call for her overseeing the preparations happening, Link was personally taking care of that. That, however, was precisely why she was watching. Her Hero was helping lift crates and barrels onto the carts, sleeves rolled up and his growing hair tied back in a small ponytail at the nape of his neck. The sun glistened on his face, perspiration from his exertion highlighting his cheekbones and drawing many internal and fluttered sighs from the princess as she observed.

“You’ve been sighing like a schoolgirl for days.” Zelda startled at Impa’s voice from behind her. Though Impa was well capable of sneaking up on her if the General so chose, Zelda knew it was instead her fixation on Link that had brought it about this time, rather than Impa’s effort.

Smiling guiltily, the princess nodded. “Has it been so noticeable?”

“Quite.”

Turning back to watch Link, she found him looking up to her from the courtyard. Ond hand shading his eyes from the sun, he raised his other to wave, and Zelda rewarded him with a smile and wiggle of her fingers back. “Can you blame me?”

Impa rolled her eyes good-naturedly and came to stand next to Zelda in the arch of the breezeway. “I hope the Council shares my understanding. But that will be dealt with later. I came to let you know there is a visitor here requesting an audience. I think you will want to speak with him.”

***

In the throne room, the great double doors opened to reveal a familiar shape in red armor. His helm, made of hammered steel and the same red metal as his full, heavy battle armor was forged, bore two long, steel horns that curled around his cheeks.  Zelda knew the helm mimicked the magical beast of which the man was capable of taking the form. Though once an enemy, heart twisted by Darkness, Zelda now smiled genuinely to see Volga, the Dragonknight striding towards her.

Taking a knee at the base of the dais, Volga bowed his head in respect. “Rise, noble Dragonknight,” Impa said from her spot on Zelda’s right, the three of them the only ones now present as the heralds closed the doors behind them.

As Volga stood, Zelda beamed. “Volga. It is good to see you well.”

“Highness,” he said respectfully in his deep, and gravelled voice. “I come with an offer of information and aid.”

“Oh?”

With a nod, he looked from Zelda to Impa and back. “I have heard of the Gerudan woman, Naburoo’s words and came quickly as I was able. As you know, my lands are further North than here in Castle Town. I saw them through nearly a week hence now, and have heard of the man, this Warlord Griffin of the Outlands. He is cruel and power hungry, and bitter over his exile, as I’m sure you might have guessed.”

“We had,” Zelda confirmed, her heart in her throat to have such news confirmed.

“Have you heard that many believe him to be the reincarnation of the very foe we slew not a fortnight ago?”

Both Zelda and Impa tensed, sharing a concerned glance. “What do you mean?” Impa asked, coming down the dais steps slowly, to stand on the same level with Volga. Zelda too joined them, her heart threatening to stop at this new concept.

“It is true,” The Dragonknight confirmed, removing his horned helmet to reveal his brassy blonde hair and ruby red eyes. He looked concerned. “What worries me is that I had a dream the same night the Gerudan Envoy travelled through. A dream of Lana.”

“Lana?” Impa asked in surprise, “I thought she had returned to the Sorceress’s Sanctum and her vows to not intervene.”

“I do not know for certain she was doing such on purpose,” Volga confessed. “The dream was strange. I was in the woods, much like the first time I met her other half, Cia, the first time. But instead of an approach and offer of power, Lana was weeping in a clearing. I was the only one there to approach and asked her what was wrong. She seemed, distracted, distant - saying that if Cia had never done what she did, then things would not be as they are - it seems the Triforce of Power has been reclaimed.”

“Reclaimed?” a voice echoed from the side door. Link appeared, sweaty from work tanned from the sun, but without a trace of fatigue about him as he strode forward. Reaching out, he and Volga clasped arms. “Nice to see you, Volga.”

“And you, Hero. And yes, it seems that the Triforce that Lana had taken into her protection disappeared. The only thing that can pluck such a force from the Guardian of Balance and Time is when the soul of Ganondorf has Awakened. And Lana was weeping in the dream, because it meant this life, Hyrule would face Darkness for a second time.”

Zelda wanted to move closer to Link, this news striking true fear in her heart. If the threat of normal war wasn’t frightening enough in the shambles Hyrule’s defenses found themselves currently, the idea of another battle with Darkness so soon… was unthinkable. “How can this be?” Impa asked, crossing her arms and beginning to pace.

“Cia interrupted the Cycle,” Zelda voiced softly. “Every generation, every Cycle has a Hero,” she said and reached her hand out to Link, that he took without hesitation, “A guardian of Wisdom, and the Darkness. The Ganondorf that we battled was the very soul of Darkness, not the incarnation of the Wielder of Power for our time.”

“That is what I was led to understand, yes,” the Dragonknight nodded. “Due to the Hero’s bindings there was not to be a reincarnation of the Darkness,” he sighed, “but then through Cia’s machinations, enough of the darkness was released that it seems the Warlord has Awakened. At least partially.”

“But we sealed the Darkness with the Master Sword,” Link contested, reaching to rest his arm around Zelda’s shoulders, as if he could feel her need of his strength.

Volga noticed this, and his lips quirked with a smile. “That is the question, is it not? This is why I have come to offer my services. I know of the Cycle, of the reincarnations that Cia went on about in her madness. I know who the two of you are, and who the Warlord is believed to be. If he is having memories, perhaps he will recall the most recent happenings, and see me as an ally. Either way, I wish to accompany your envoy North to the Outlands and see what information I can glean from the situation. I am a Noble of Hyrule, and have every reason to be there logically, as my land is closer to his borders. I believe my presence will not be seen as odd.”

Leaning ever so slightly against Link, Zelda nodded. “There is a Council meeting today. I will bring this up, and would request your presence. I agree that you will be a valuable addition to this envoy, for many reasons, and thank you graciously for your offer.”

Volga nodded and gave Zelda a bow. “Thank you, Highness.”

“Come,” Impa said and nodded to Volga, “Let us have a room prepared for you. I will have a squire summoned to polish your armor while you rest before the Council meeting.”

Turning on heel in his expectedly militant manner, Volga followed Impa out of the Throne room, leaving Zelda alone with Link.

“Don’t say you’re okay,” Link started, holding her closer with his arms around her shoulders. “I know-”

“I’m not,” she said honestly, fearing her knees were going to buckle. “Hyrule cannot withstand another war with the Darkness. Not so soon. If Volga and the rumors are correct, we will be nearly defenseless.”

As if he could read her mind, Link bent down and swept her feet from under her, gathering Zelda into his arms as she wrapped her arms around his neck with a squeak of surprised protest. She tried to say she could walk, despite her uncertainty, but he ignored her. Walking without a word out of the throne room and up the stairs from the corridor outside of her study, he carried her directly to her bedchamber, the one they had been sharing every night for the last week.

Laying her down on the bed, he crawled up next to her and gathered her into his arms, laying a chaste kiss in her hair. “We will figure it out,” he said finally, one hand rubbing her side affectionately. “But we don’t have to do it right this instant. What can I get you?”

There was a lump in her throat she couldn’t speak around. The fear she had now for her land and the people inhabiting coupled with the gratitude and love she felt at his empathy were overwhelming. Hot tears, tears of anger, fear and love for Link’s insight and affection stung her eyes, leaving her able to merely shake her head. “Hold me?” she managed hoarsely through her emotions.

“Always,” Link whispered and tightening his arms around her, laying there in the bed that was now theirs and letting her cry as long as she needed before the Council meeting.

***

“This is preposterous!” Lord Thrang of the Council declared, glaring at Link. Link just smirked back. He wasn’t afraid of the red faced old man. It seemed already the old codger was in the minority, and while the soft Noble attacking a trained soldier like himself would have ended poorly, Link also knew having both Impa and Volga at his back would dissuade any such actions from occurring.

Zelda was scowling at the man, hands on the table where she leaned forward. “Your objection is noted, Lord Thrang. Do any others share his sentiment?”

“How does this benefit the Kingdom?”

“What boon would come from marrying a peasant come knight?”

“What does it matter? He’s the Hero of the land…”

“Why not one of the tribal leaders of the Gerudo?”

“Yes! Settle the discourse in the South!”

The voices began to rise in a crescendo, and if the expression on her face as she stood was any indication, Link guessed Zelda was realizing slowly that perhaps she had been mistaken about the understanding and empathy of the Council. Discreetly, he reached out to take her hand where it could not be seen as they stood side by side. The hero took a breath to speak, but to his surprise it was Volga that stepped forward.

“Gentlemen!” he commanded loud enough to get their attention without shouting. The din died down as all eyes turned to the imposing knight. “If I may?”

“And you are, sir?”

“I am Volga, the Dragonknight, Baron of Snowpeak to the North, near the borders with the Outlands. And while I have been invited by her Highness to speak to you today of the warlord in the North, I find that as a knight of the realm, my interest is invested in Hyrule’s future and that perhaps I can bring perspective to this discussion as well. With her Highness’s blessing?” Volga turned his face away from the Council with his request of Zelda, but gave her a wink where the Lords could not see.

Not knowing his game, Link was interested and Zelda hesitant, but she nodded in a choice to trust their ally.

“Is it not so that Link, the Hero of Hyrule is well received and accepted by the people?” he asked turning to address the Council once more. “That his rise from obscurity to knighthood, and to save the realm is an inspiration to the common man, and to the army to achieve more than they are?” Volga’s intense red eyes swept over the assembled, a few of the Lords nodding, others swallowing in trepidation, too nervous in the presence of the tall, intimidating knight to voice arguement.

“The Baron is right,” Impa added, stepping forward. “The Hero’s accomplishments inspire the army, and have even brought us new recruits in his name, their hopes of achievement driving them to follow his footsteps. He is respected by the people.”

“And at the end of every good story, does the Hero not gain the hand of his Princess?” Volga added, turning to look at Link. “I have no doubt that the affections that ignite this desire for courtship are genuine, but also that Her Highness and the Hero of Hyrule have also considered the good it will do for the land, especially in a time there is yet threat of war. A Kingdom united will not only appear inspired and stronger, but will be so in the face of threats from the Outlands.”

The Council looked to one another, murmuring amongst themselves as Link smirked to Volga. Clapping him on the shoulder, it would have inappropriate to thank him in front of the gathered, but he hoped the Baron understood.

“Has there been a formal proposal?” another Lord asked, this one seeming far less interested or hot on the subject of Hyrule’s ruler choosing who she was going to spend her life with.

“No,” Link said but remained confident.

“We were discussing details,” Zelda started, but Link squeezed her hand in silent request to continue. She looked to him and nodded.

“I was waiting for the appropriate time. I think I’ve found it though.” With his hand now visibly in hers, Link tugged Zelda away from the Council table to a place they could both be seen by all gathered. Taking a moment to compose himself, his excitement was starting to get the better of him. She was beautiful, beautiful beyond words as she looked at him with timid excitement. She was the bearer of Wisdom, he had no doubt she’d already guessed where this was going.

Taking a knee in front of her, the rest of the Council chambered melted away from his perception. There was no one but Zelda in that moment, no one but the vision of compassion, and beauty and grace and battle prowess… despite her skirts and softer crown today for the Council, she was still his warrior goddess.

Swallowing his heart back into his throat, he brought her hand to his lips to kiss. He’d run over the words in his mind a few times, but now he did not entirely trust his voice. “The first time I laid eyes on you, there was no one more beautiful in all of Hyrule. The first time we spoke, there was no voice I would rather hear. You are the strongest, kindest, most fearsome and skilled, talented and beautiful woman I have ever had the joy of walking alongside.” His eyes were locked with hers, her tears of happiness beginning to spill as her smile grew. His words were crafted for the Council, but Link meant so much more. As she had said, eternity was different for them - so when he said “ever had the joy of walking alongside”, he hoped she understood it was not just this lifetime to which he referred.

“Zelda, you are the air I breathe, and the very heart in my chest. Would you do me the honor of marrying me?”

The air was thick with tension, even Impa was leaned a touch forward, as Zelda tried to find her voice to answer. Lips moving inaudible, she seemed to be searching for words to give him in return, but Link smiled when she gave up and merely nodded tearfully saying, “Yes!”

A round of cheers went up, and it seemed that while not all despondents were swayed, the majority voted in favor of the union. Link hugged his bride to be, and stole a kiss from her neck surreptitiously before they returned to her seat at the table to go over the envoy to the Northern Outlands.

After his inspiring speech, Volga had endeared himself and was given no resistance on leading the caravan to meeting with the Warlord Griffin. As Council broke session, Volga congratulated his friends, but quickly followed Impa to finish preparing to leave forthwith, and while Zelda had to prepare for her address to the travellers, Link found she stopped him before they parted.

“Yes?” He said with a warm smile, coming to give her his undivided attention as the now empty chamber gave them privacy.

Again, her lips moved, jaw working as she searched for words, but nothing came out. She snapped her jaw shut so quickly it clicked, and before he could react Link found himself being tackled. Her lips pressed to his just as many of their sweet chaste kisses had, but with her arms about his neck, her lips parted to deepen this kiss unlike any before.

Link shuddered head to toe and had no hesitation in obliging her, his arms encircling her waist to crush her sweet weight against him as he slowly moved his tongue to taste hers for the first time. Her mouth was soft and sweet and intoxicating against his, and Link lost track of how much time passed, or how long his heart fully stopped.

When eventually she broke to gasp for breath, the smile she wore branded his heart. “What was that for?” he asked coyly, very much wondering if he could shirk the rest of his day for more of those kisses.

“For being eloquent, and brave, and romantic… and because I love you, my darling Link.”

If her smile had branded him, her words sealed his fate. His expression fell from coy amusement and desire to that of the insurmountable love he felt for her both from lifetimes past, and purely his own of this life. “And I love you, my Zelda.”

[ravenmorganleigh]

25 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT PLOT

Previous iterations of the “25 Things” series:

25 Things Every Writer Should Know

25 Things You Should Know About Storytelling

25 Things You Should Know About Character

And now…

1. WHAT THE FIDDLY FUCK IS “PLOT,” ANYWAY?

A plot is the sequence of narrative events as witnessed by the audience.

2. THE WRONG QUESTION

Some folks will ask, incorrectly, “What’s the plot?” which, were you to answer them strictly, you would begin to recite for them a litany of events, each separated by a deep breath and the words, “And then…” They probably don’t want that. What they mean to ask is, “What’s the story?” or, “What’s this about?” Otherwise you’re just telling them what happened, start to finish. In other words: snore.

3. A GOOD PLOT IS LIKE A SKELETON: CRITICAL, YET INVISIBLE

A plot functions like a skeleton: it is both structural and supportive. Further, it isn’t entirely linear. A plot has many moving parts (sub-plots and pivot points) that act as limbs and joints. The best plots are plots we don’t see, or rather, that the audience never has to think about. As soon as we think about it, it’s like a needle manifests out of thin air and pops the balloon or lances that blister. Remember, we don’t walk around with our skeletons on the outside of our body, which is good because, ew. What are we, ants? So don’t show off your plot. Let the plot remain hidden, invisible.

4. SHIT’S GOTTA MAKE SENSE, SON

The biggest plot crime of them all is a plot that doesn’t make a lick of goddamn sense. That’s a one way ticket to plot jail. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200 dollars. Do not drop the soap. The elegance of a great plot is that, when the events are all strung together, there exists a natural order as if this was the only way they could fit together. It’s like dominoes tumbling. Your plot is not a chimera: random parts mashed together because you didn’t think it through. Test the plot. Show people. Pull the pieces apart and ask, “Is there a better way?” Nonsense plots betray the potency of story.

5. THE QUINTESSENTIAL PLOT

The simplest motherfucker of a plot is this: things get worse until they get better. A straight-up escalation of conflict. It goes from “Uh-oh, that’s bad,” to, “Uh-oh, it’s getting worse,” to “Oh, holy shit, it can’t get any worse,” to, “I think I maybe maybe fixed it, or at least stopped it from being so totally and completely fucked.” When in doubt, just know that your next step as a storyteller is to bring the pain, amp the misery, and escalate the conflict. That’s what they mean by the advice, “Have a man with a gun walk through the door.” You can take that literally, sure, but what it means is: the bad news just got worse.

6. IN LIFE WE AVOID CONFLICT, IN FICTION WE SEEK IT

Fiction is driven by characters in conflict, or, put differently, the flame of fiction grows brighter through friction. A match-tip lights only when struck; so too is the mechanism by which a gun fires a bullet. Impact. Tension. Fear. Danger. Need to know what impels your plot forward? Look to the theme of Man Versus [fill-in-the-blank]. Man versus his fellow man. Woman versus nature. Man versus himself. Woman versus an angry badger riding a unicorn. Find the essential conflict and look for events that are emblematic to that.

7. WANT VERSUS FEAR

Of course, the essence of the essential conflict — the one below all that Wo/Man versus stuff — is a character’s wants versus a character’s fears. Plot grows from this fecund garden. The character wants life, revenge, children, a pony — and that which he fears must stand in his way. John McClane must battle terrorists to return to his wife. Indiana Jones must put up with snakes and irritating sidekicks to uncover the artifact. I must put up with walking downstairs to make myself a gin-and-tonic. Everything that stands in a character’s way — the speedbumps, roadblocks, knife-wielding monkeys, ninja clones, tornadoes, and sentient Krispy Kreme donuts sent from the future to destroy man via morbid obesity — are events in the greater narrative sequence: they are pieces of the plot.

8. GROW THE PLOT, DON’T BUILD IT

A plot grows within the story you’re telling. A story is all the important parts swirling together: world, character, theme, mood, and of course, plot. An artificial plot is something you have to wrestle into place, a structure you have to bend and mutilate and duct tape to get it to work — it is a square peg headbutted into a circle hole, and you’re the poor bastard doing all the headbutting.

9. THE TENSION AND RECOIL OF CHOICE AND CONSEQUENCE

An organic plot grows like this: characters make decisions — sometimes bad decisions, other times decisions whose risks outweigh the rewards, and other times still decisions that are just plain uncertain in their outcome — and then characters must deal with the consequences of those decisions. A character gives up a baby. Or buys a gun. Or enters the dark forest to slay Lady Gaga. Anytime a character makes a choice, the narrative branches. Events unfold because she chose a path. That’s it. That’s plot. Choice and consequence tighten together, ratcheting tension, creating suspense. Choice begets event.

10. PLOT IS PROMISE

Plot offers the promise of Chekov and his gun, of Hitchcock and his bomb under the table. An event here leads to a choice there which spawns another event over there. Foreshadowing isn’t just a literary technique used sparingly: it lurks in the shadow of every plot turn. Plot promises pay-off. A good plot often betrays this promise and does something different than the audience expects. That’s not a bad thing. You don’t owe the audience anything but your best story. But a plot can also make hay by doing exactly what you expect: show them the gun and now they want to see it fire.

11. LET CHARACTERS DO THEY HEAVY LIFTING

Characters will tell you your plot. Even better: let them run and they’ll goddamn give it to you on a platter. Certainly plot can happen from an external locus of control — but you’re not charting the extinction of the dinosaurs or the lifecycle of the slow loris. Plot is like Soylent Green: it’s made of people. Characters say things, do things, and that creates plot. It really can be that simple. Authentic plot comes from internal emotions, not external mechanics.

12. CHART THE SHORTEST POINT BETWEEN BEGINNING AND END

One way to be shut of the nonsensical, untenable plot is to cut through all the knots. If we are to assume that a plot is motivated by the choices and actions of characters — and we must assume that, because who else acts as prime mover? — then we can also assume that characters will take the most direct path through the story as they can. That’s not to say it’ll be the smartest path, but it will be forthright as the character sees it. No character creates for himself a convoluted path. Complex, perhaps. Convoluted? Never. Characters want what they want and that means they will cut as clear a path to that goal as they can. A convoluted, needlessly complex plot is just the storyteller showing off how clever he is. And no audience wants that. Around these parts, we hunt and kill the preening peacocks and wear their tail-feathers as a headdress.

13. ON THE SUBJECT OF “PLOT HOLES”

Plot holes — where logic and good sense and comprehensible sequence fall into a sinking story-pit — happen for a handful of reasons. One, you weren’t paying attention. Two, your plot is too convoluted and its untenable nature cannot sustain itself. Three, you don’t know what the fuck is happening, and maybe also, you’re drunk. Four, the plot is artificial, not organic, and isn’t coming out naturally from what the characters need and want to do. Five, you offended Plot Jesus by not sacrificing a goat. You can’t just fix a plot hole by spackling it over. It’s like a busted pipe in a wall. You need to do some demo. Get in there. Rip out more than what’s broken. Fill in more than what’s missing.

13. IF THE CHARACTERS HAVE TO PLAN, SO DO YOU

Many writers don’t like to outline. Here’s how you know if you should, though: if your characters are required to plan and plot something — a heist, an attack on a moon bunker, a corporate take-over — then you’re a fool if you think these imaginary people have to plan but you don’t. This is doubly true of genre material. A murder mystery for example lives and dies by a compelling, sensible plot. So plan the plot, for Chrissakes. This isn’t improvisational dance. Take some fucking notes, will you?

14. SET UP YOUR TENTPOLES

A big tent is propped up by tentpoles. So too is your plot. Easy way to plan without getting crazy: find those events in your plot that are critical, that must happen for the whole story to come together. “Mary Meets Gordon. Belial Betrays Satan. An Earthquake Swallows Snooki.” Chart these half-dozen events. Know that you must get to them somehow.

15. THE HERKY JERKY PLOT SHUFFLE PIVOT POINT BOOGIE

You’ve seen Freytag’s Triangle. It’s fine. But it doesn’t tell the whole story. This is the Internet. This is the future. We have CGI. We have 3-D. Gaze upon the plot from the top-down. It isn’t a linear stomp up a steep mountain. It’s a zig-zagging quad ride through dunes and jungles, over rivers and across gulleys. You’re a hawk over the quad-rider’s shoulder — watch it jerk left, pull right, jump a log, squash a frog. More obstacles. Greater danger. Faster and faster. Every turn is a pivot point. A point when the narrative shifts, when the audience goes right and the story feints left.

16. PLOT IS THE BEAT THAT SETS THE STORY’S RHYTHM

Plot comprises beats. Each action, a new beat, a new bullet point in the sequence of events. These establish rhythm. Stories are paced according to the emotions and moods they are presently attempting to evoke. Plot is the drummer. Plot keeps the sizzling beat. Like Enrique “Kiki” Garcia, of Miami Sound Machine.

17. EVERY NIGHT NEEDS A SLOW DANCE

I know I said that plot, at its core, is how everything gets worse and worse and worse until it gets better. Overall, that’s true. But you need to pull back from that. Release the tension. Soften the recoil. Not constantly, but periodically. Learn to embrace the false victories, the fun & games, the momentary lapses of danger. If only to mess with the heads of the audience. Which, after all, is your totally awesome job.

18. THE NAME OF MY NEW BAND IS “BEAT SHEET MANIFESTO”

You can move well beyond the tentpoles. You can free-fall from the 30,000 foot view, smash into the earth, and get a macro-level micro-view of all the ants and the pill-bugs and the sprouts from seeds. What I mean is, you can track every single beat — every tiny action — that pops up in your plot. You don’t need to do this before you write, but you can and should do it after. You’ll see where stuff doesn’t make sense. You’ll see where plot holes occur. Also: wow. A Meat Beat Manifesto joke?

19. BEATS BECOME SCENES BECOME SEQUENCES BECOME ACTS

Plot is narrative, and narrative has units of measurement: momentary beats become scenes of a single place, scenes glom together to form whole sequences of action and event, and sequences elbow one another in the giant elevator known as an “act,” where the story manifests a single direction before zig-zagging to another (at which point, another act shifts). Think first in acts. Then sequences. Then scenes. And finally, beats. Again, take that 30,000 foot view, but then jump out of the plane and watch the ground come to meet you.

20. YOUR SEXY MISTRESS, THE SUBPLOT

In real life, don’t cheat on your spouse or lover. Not cool, man. Not cool. As a writer, you don’t cheat on your manuscript, either: while working on one script or novel, don’t go porking another one behind the shed. But inside the narrative? The laws change. You need to cheat on your primary plot. Have dalliances with sub-plots — this is a side-story, or the “B-story.” Lighter impact. Smaller significance. Highlights supporting characters. But the sub-plot always has the DNA of the larger plot and supports or runs parallel to the themes present. Better still is when the sub-plot affects, influences or dovetails with the larger plot.

21. BENEATH SUBPLOT, A NOUGATY LAYER OF MICRO-PLOT

Every little component of your story threatens — in a good way, like how storms threaten to give way to sun, or how a woman threatens to dress up as your favorite Farscape puppet and sex you down to galaxy-town — to spin off into its own plot. Your tale is unwittingly composed of tiny micro-plots: filaments woven together. A character needs to buy a gun but can’t pass the legal check. His dog runs away. He hasn’t paid his power bill. Small inciting incidents. Itty-bitty conflicts. They don’t overwhelm the story, but they exist just the same, enriching the whole. A big plot is in some ways just a lot of little plots lashed together and moving in a singular direction. Like a herd of stampeding marmots.

22. EXPOSITION IS SAND IN THE STORY’S PANTIES

Look at plot construction advice and you’ll see a portion set aside for “exposition.” Consider exposition a dirty word. It is a synonym for “info-dump,” and an info-dump is when you, the storyteller, squat over the audience’s mouth and expel your narrative waste into their open maw. Take the section reserved for exposition and fold it gently into the rest of the work as if you were baking a light and fluffy cake. Let information come out through action. Even better: withhold exposition as long as you can. Tantric storytelling, ladies and germs: deny the audience’s expectation ejaculation until you can do so no longer.

23. ON THE SUBJECT OF THE “PLOT TWIST”

A plot twist is the kid who’s too cool for school — ultimately shallow, without substance, and a total tool. It’s a gimmick. Let your story be magic, not a magic trick. Not to say plot twists can’t work, but they only work when they function as the only way the story could go from the get-go. Again: organic, not artificial.

24. THE ENDING IS THE ANSWER TO A VERY LONG EQUATION

Plot is math, except instead of numbers and variables it’s characters, events, themes, and yes, variables. The ending is one such variable. An ending should feel like it’s the only answer one can get when he adds up all parts of the plot. This actually isn’t true: you can try on any number of endings and you likely have a whole host that can work. But there’s one ending that works for you, and when it works for you, it works for them. And by “them” I don’t mean the men in the flower delivery van who are watching your every move. I mean “them” as in, the audience. P.S., don’t forget to wear your tinfoil hat because the flowers are listening.

25. PLOT IS ONLY MEANS TO AN END

Speaking of ends, plot is just a tool. A means to an end. Think of it as a character- and conflict-delivery-system. Plot is conveyance. It still needs to work, still needs to come together and make sense — but plot is rarely the reason someone cares about a story. They care about characters, about the way it makes them feel, about the thing you-as-storyteller are trying to say. Note, though, that the opposite is true: plot may not make them love a story, but it can damn sure make them hate it.

* * *

If you dig on the apeshit crazy-face no-holds-barred profanity-soaked writing advice found here at terribleminds, then you may want to take a wee bitty gander-peek at: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY, which is available now! Buy for Kindle (US), Kindle (UK), Nook, or PDF.

[kristablogs]

These volunteers are filling in missing pieces of the world map, and helping humanity at the same time

Greenland glacier; 29 April 2019. <br> Today, more than 700 orbiting objects watch Earth all the time, some continually producing images. (European Space Agency/)

The snow hasn’t started yet this October evening in Boulder, Colorado, but the sharp wind and low clouds around Backcountry Pizza & Tap House foretell an early winter storm. Just before 6 p.m., Diane Fritz comes in from the cold, passing pinball machines and pool tables on her way to the back room. Setting down her bag, she takes off her down jacket and quickly orders an IPA before happy hour ends. “Lots of people probably won’t make it,” she says, guessing they’ll be reluctant to brave frozen roads. She shrugs and pulls out her Mac bearing a sticker that reads: “Map Porn.”

Fritz works for Auraria Library in Denver, assisting people who want to incorporate spatial information into their research. If a student were doing a project about energy, for example, she’d show them how to include the location of every oil well in the state. Outside of her job, Fritz also helps lead a MeetUp group—gathering here tonight—that’s merging data about buildings into a crowdsourced map of the area. The project could eventually help emergency services reach people more rapidly, make small businesses more visible, and show residents how their city (one of the fastest growing in the nation) is changing. About 40 people have volunteered so far.

Fritz flips open her laptop to find the how-to presentation she’ll give to any newcomers who venture in. For now, though, her only audience hangs above her: beer signs scattered around the room.

As her computer powers up, the other MeetUp leader, data scientist Margaret Spyker, arrives with member Jim McAndrew, who moved to Pennsylvania and is back for a visit. “If you order quick, you’ll make happy hour,” Fritz urges them.

Spyker grabs a menu from the table, the pair orders with just two minutes to spare, and the triad begins chatting. “Jimmy’s already checked in here on Foursquare,” Spyker says.

McAndrew smiles and shrugs: guilty. Speaking of, Fritz remembers, she’s been meaning to compliment him on a recent sprint on the fitness app Strava, where he tracks his impressively fast runs.

They pause and laugh at their predictability. Even their small talk is geospatial—all about things related to place and time—exactly as you’d expect from people who build maps in their spare hours.

Tonight, they hope to make progress on the so-called Denver Building Import. They’ll overlay shapes, sizes, and addresses from a government database onto a crowdsourced, free map of the world, and merge the two so that the structures become a permanent feature of the digital geography.

The project is part of an international effort called OpenStreetMap, founded in 2004. A cartographic Wikipedia, OSM relies on volunteers—a million since its start, making it the largest such endeavor—to create an ever-evolving representation of the planet. You can view it in a browser or within a platform like Facebook, which relies on it for location information. And although individuals work on it just for fun, it underpins services at huge companies like Amazon and Microsoft. OSM is important and different from maps like Google’s because it’s made by and for the people. It contains information its participants want—not, as McAndrew puts it, “what will make Google Maps money.”

Southern Mongolia; August 15, 2015. <br> The data from satellites sent up by government agencies like NASA and the European Space Agency is often public. (European Space Agency/)

All over, nerdy normals are using mappy data for specific pursuits: Archaeologists have uncovered hidden tombs; police have found missing people; relief organizations have dispatched aid to flood victims; retired spies have located weapons caches; conservationists have detected deforestation; artists have pinpointed secret military installations; and retailers have gauged vacancies in competitors’ parking lots.

A policy adviser and analyst named Josef Koller believes this plethora of frequently updated information might lead to a tipping point he dubs the Geoint Singularity: a time when people with no particular expertise or wealth have access to geospatial data and its interpretation in real time, providing the power to investigate any place as it is right now. In effect, anyone could find a live view of whatever spot on the planet they wanted to see. “The world basically becomes transparent,” says Koller, a systems director at the Aerospace Corporation, a federally funded research and development center in Southern California.

Koller has been monitoring the space industry since around 2015, taking note as satellites became easier and cheaper to build and launch. Today, more than 700 orbiting objects watch Earth all the time, up from 192 in 2014. That growth means that some continuously produce images, showing your house not as it looked in 2016 but as it looks while you read this. He has also seen artificial intelligence getting smarter. It can, using finely tuned algorithms, count cars and identify cats or your cousin. Finally, he’s seen that with phones and fast networks, people can stream such analyses. Take that to its logical endpoint, and—voilà!—a Geoint Singularity.

We’re not there yet, but we’re well on our way: Satellites capture images of a given sea or skyscraper daily. AI is good at narrow, specific tasks, like recognizing trees or gauging traffic, but integrating different streams—aerial pictures, CCTV feeds, Twitter threads, addresses, current trash-truck locations—remains a wicked problem. Given all that, no one can say if this singularity will come, or how, exactly, regular earthlings’ experiences would change if it did. Maybe people will watch the ice caps melt minute by minute. Maybe they will fact-check municipal claims about building new housing, or whether foreign ships are docking nearby. Maybe they will know, at all times, the best open parking space in the whole city. Or maybe they won’t care very much at all, and mapping skills will remain important but niche, deployed mostly by intelligence agencies, humanitarian groups, and corporations.

At Backcountry, the OpenStreetMap volunteers represent a future in which people do care. They want to know all about their place on the globe. McAndrew pulls up a video on his computer and puts it on loop to set the mood. A dark globe appears on the screen. Bright dots and lines flash across its surface in a DayGlo seizure, tracing countries and cities and the spaces between. It’s an atlas of Earth, drawn chronologically as people add roads, houses, and schools. Other crowdsourced projects serve specific niches; StoryMap lets users highlight the locations in a series of events; Ushahidi helps people share information about things like police encounters. But OpenStreetMap has the broadest ambitions: to capture the entire, always changing planet, and whatever people in each place care about.

McAndrew says, “Every line you see is an edit”—a place now on the map, now truer to the real world.

Northwest Algeria; January 2018. <br> Around the world people have been inspired by satellite imagery. Teachers send kids on global scavenger hunts. (European Space Agency/)

Koller named the Geoint Singularity the way you might name an unbuilt city for which you hadn’t drawn blueprints yet. While the future it represents still seems far off, the technology to achieve it has been developing for decades. The US government launched its first picture-taking satellites in the 1960s, and followed with ones dedicated to military and intelligence needs. Entities like NASA, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, and the United States Geological Survey sent up craft for scientific use. Their data is largely public, giving access to decades-old records that anyone can compare with today’s.

In the 1990s, business joined in, largely so it could sell pictures to spooky agencies. WorldView Imaging Corporation, now called Maxar, deployed the first privately owned cameras to peer down at Earth. Today the company also sells data to oil and gas companies to monitor pipelines, to mega-retailers to keep an eye on store traffic, and to developers to survey potential construction zones.

In the meantime, a virtual panopticon has emerged, one that no longer just takes pictures. Satellites also nab radio transmissions, weather information, infrared images, and radar data. Drones overfly the planet, street cameras keep watch closer to the ground, smart devices broadcast locations, and governmental datasets—from curb cuts to county lines—live online. With each uptick in detail, the singularity draws closer.

It can only happen, though, if data reaches the public—not exactly the strong suit of private companies. Still, they do sometimes share. Maxar, for instance, ran the first major effort to involve laypeople in image analysis and mapmaking. Called Tomnod, the nine-year program enlisted amateurs during disasters, like the Malaysia Airlines crash in 2014, or for scientific research, such as counting Weddell seals in Antarctica for a 2016 census. During crises, Maxar also makes imagery available to groups like Humanitarian OpenStreetMap, which sponsors crowdsourced efforts to plot crisis-plagued regions—say, after earthquakes, or to chart vaccine distribution, or understand refugee migration.

Companies also occasionally give their data to scientists who are studying climate change, journalists reporting on hard-to-reach places, and analysts trying to suss out global tensions. One of those is David Schmerler, who researches nuclear-weapon and missile developments at the Middlebury Institute of International Studies at Monterey in California.

Schmerler doesn’t really have formal training in satellite-image analysis, but with his morning coffee in hand, he logs on to the website of a company called Planet, which operates around 140 satellites that take pictures of all the land on Earth every day. Some groups use the data to track deforestation, or calculate how many cargo ships reached a given port on Tuesday. But, as the caffeine hits, Schmerler zooms in on a few sites in North Korea. “If I see a lot of road activity, or if a building blows up, or they changed the roof, something is happening there,” he says. In the old days, you would learn of such things only days or months later, when an overscheduled satellite got around to taking a look. Today, you can see it today.

Schmerler sees all this geospatial data as a path to truth in a twisty world. “You can verify all sorts of claims using satellite imagery,” he points out. And when he says “you,” he means it. “When someone says something is changing in the world, we don’t have to rely on that statement. If someone says the ice caps are melting, you can log on and see that happen.”

Colorado is a geospatial hub of sorts: It’s home to Maxar, NOAA offices, and a cluster of younger satellite startups, all of them full of people whose geo-knowledge base is generally better than average. Geospatial Amateurs, based in the Denver metro area, is another MeetUp that believes in the personal utility of all this data. “Amateurs” is a cheeky name. Many members, some of whom are also part of OSM, work in fields at least somewhat related to mapping or Earth observation, like environmental science or transportation. They don’t want sponsorships or corporate meddling or professional influence. Instead, the group wants to foster what leader Brian Timoney calls “roll your own” projects. It’s DIY, but with images, sensor readings, and maps instead of needle, thread, and aida cloth. “The idea,” he says, “is you can answer geospatial questions that impact your everyday life.”

To keep the club more approachable, Timoney—a data analyst who runs a consulting firm—has tried to create a low-key vibe, starting with the MeetUp descriptions themselves. Take the invitation to the August 2019 gathering: A scientist demonstrates how to use radar and laser data to calculate snow depths on whatever black-or-blue slopes the attendees personally care about. “After this presentation, you’ll be looking around your ski mountain with a subtler eye,” read the website, “while the basic chads clogging I-70 will still be taking a resort’s mid-mountain snowpack-depth reading at face value.”

At other meetings, members show-and-tell their homebrewed solutions, which use municipal datasets, open-source information from agencies like NOAA, and legal hacks of companies like the Car2Go rental service. An actual Chad made a pedestrian map of sidewalks in the Denver area. Member Adam Bickford helped a city-council candidate optimize canvassing routes. And Ricardo Oliveira took the real-time feed of bus locations and created his own display. (Those examples happened before big political campaigns and organizations built their own versions.) “We want to get the word out about the rich variety of datasets that are available,” Timoney says, “and inspire people.”

Around the world, people have been inspired, particularly by satellite imagery. Teachers send kids on global scavenger hunts. Homebodies see places they might never visit, guided by websites like Google Sightseeing (not affiliated with Google but rather with two guys). Farmers figuring out where their corn should go overlay snaps with Google Earth satellite maps. Hikers pore over them to find unmarked trails. Hunters consult them to predict where the animals will be.

If the singularity arrives, those pursuits, though, will look different: Second graders and skilled alpinists will be aware of the planet as it is—not as it was last week, last month, or last year. What if you could watch the travels of a specific herd of elk every day? What if you could tell how crowded your tourist destination was an hour ago? What if day-trippers could peep the percentage of fall-turned leaves before they set out on the road?

Bolovian Salt Flats; May 2017. <br> DIY groups hope the availability of satellite data will lead to more localized mapping projects. (European Space Agency/)

At Backcountry Pizza, meanwhile, the mappers finally have a new arrival, someone who has never worked on this project before: Travis Burt, a developer with utility company Franklin Energy. Burt immediately pulls out his laptop to learn how to begin merging Denver building data with the OpenStreetMap grid.

While Spyker and McAndrew chat in the corner, group leader Fritz tells Burt how to register so that he can see data from the Denver Regional Council of Governments—which, according to Fritz, “we lovingly call Dr. Cog.” Every two years, Dr. Cog pays to fly picture-taking planes over the metro area. Analysts then use that imagery to trace the boundaries of buildings, accurate to around 3 inches. While all of the information is public and free, it’s not especially layperson-friendly. But once it’s in OpenStreetMap, it won’t be much harder for anyone to access and understand than Google Maps.

Pinning numbers to virtual buildings is as important as the shapes and spots on the ground. “We don’t actually know, even in our super-urban area, what the addresses are,” Spyker says. That’s a problem for 911 operators, who can’t send responders to a location if they don’t know exactly where it is. Because the Denver area is changing so rapidly, the mappers hope to keep updating the buildings, creating a historical record—a sort of pencil-mark-on-the-doorjamb growth chart—of how the city becomes what it will be. In the OSM, you can check out the archive of edits just like you can on Wikipedia.

Denver, of course, isn’t the only city lacking user-friendly data, and the problem is even more acute in rural and developing areas. Across the world, more than 150 OpenStreetMap chapters are helping to make their regions visible, tracking an ever-shifting landscape of roads and borders.

Coloring in the map can also just be fun. Spyker and Fritz are creating a city art directory, and soon they’ll be able to peg graffiti and murals to the walls of specific structures. Green thumbs could one day calculate how many hours of sunshine their building-shadowed urban gardens will get. A bookstore owner could estimate how many people will walk by their window display.

Under Fritz’s helpful tutelage, Burt finally gets to the point of actually working. He stares mirror-eyed at the map, all of its layers shining from his screen, waiting for him to paint on another. “Ah,” he says, “this looks beautiful.”

“Did you hear that?” Fritz asks Spyker, who’s pulling up a site she made to help people plan pub crawls on bikes. “He said it was beautiful.”

The MeetUp group at Backcountry Pizza tonight represents the vanguard of the Geoint Singularity. But it’s also fair to ask if a tipping point is something the average person wants, needs, or will ever care about. Consider, for instance, that most folks are content with spinning through Google Earth, where the images are usually a couple of years old. “That satisfies most people’s basic curiosity,” says Geospatial Amateurs’ Timoney.

The phenomenon’s godfather, Koller, notes that the singularity really requires a useful idea, one that cheaply and easily integrates real-time data and analysis, probably through a smartphone or browser interface. The glut of information is too much for our puny brains to parse quickly, which means we’ll also need AI to get smarter than it is now, and have the particular kind of savvy to serve up what people actually want. “The key point will be to find that killer application,” he says, a reason that an all-seeing eye on Earth would make the everyday easier or more efficient. “I don’t think anybody has really identified that yet.”

This wouldn’t be the first time we couldn’t clearly see the future. “If someone had asked me some question in 1980 about GPS, I’d be like, ‘I don’t know if it’s useful to see where you are,’” says Georgia Tech’s Mariel Borowitz, author of Open Space: The Global Effort for Open Access to Environmental Satellite Data. But here we are, with Tinder and Yelp and our general inability to navigate without a robot voice in our ear, because of GPS and our smartphones’ ability to put them in our palms.

Borowitz has questions, though, about how privacy protections will evolve. “I can imagine when you have ubiquitous data, your ability to track individuals or specific individual movements increases,” she says. The rub for watching the whole world change is that you are part of that world.

And not every “you” will get access to that change. “What I think stands in the way of closing the digital divide is the growing trend of the rich versus the poor,” Koller says. When only the wealthy can reach the bounty, they also control how information gets collected, used, and interpreted.

That’s why self-rolled initiatives aim to put power in more hands. Like, for example, the hands of people currently PayPaling their share of the pizza bill to Fritz. Only one of them—Burt—has mapped anything tonight. But that’s fine. As much as this group is about geospatial data, it’s also about connecting a community, and forging bright lines between them.

McAndrew tilts his eyes toward the window. The storm has fully arrived. He stares for a second before pulling out his phone and punching up a real-time traffic display. “You can tell where the snow’s the worst,” he says, flashing his screen toward us. Green segments, where cars are flowing, slam into red ones, where drivers have slowed, flakes undoubtedly hypnotic in their headlights.

When we step outside, our eyes confirm the situation: The snow has begun to stick. It piles up on cars and blades of grass. It reveals the outlines of everything, showing our footprints as we walk away from each other, past buildings yet to be imported.

This story appears in the Spring 2020, Origins issue of Popular Science.

[scootoaster]

These volunteers are filling in missing pieces of the world map, and helping humanity at the same time

Greenland glacier; 29 April 2019. <br> Today, more than 700 orbiting objects watch Earth all the time, some continually producing images. (European Space Agency/)

The snow hasn’t started yet this October evening in Boulder, Colorado, but the sharp wind and low clouds around Backcountry Pizza & Tap House foretell an early winter storm. Just before 6 p.m., Diane Fritz comes in from the cold, passing pinball machines and pool tables on her way to the back room. Setting down her bag, she takes off her down jacket and quickly orders an IPA before happy hour ends. “Lots of people probably won’t make it,” she says, guessing they’ll be reluctant to brave frozen roads. She shrugs and pulls out her Mac bearing a sticker that reads: “Map Porn.”

Fritz works for Auraria Library in Denver, assisting people who want to incorporate spatial information into their research. If a student were doing a project about energy, for example, she’d show them how to include the location of every oil well in the state. Outside of her job, Fritz also helps lead a MeetUp group—gathering here tonight—that’s merging data about buildings into a crowdsourced map of the area. The project could eventually help emergency services reach people more rapidly, make small businesses more visible, and show residents how their city (one of the fastest growing in the nation) is changing. About 40 people have volunteered so far.

Fritz flips open her laptop to find the how-to presentation she’ll give to any newcomers who venture in. For now, though, her only audience hangs above her: beer signs scattered around the room.

As her computer powers up, the other MeetUp leader, data scientist Margaret Spyker, arrives with member Jim McAndrew, who moved to Pennsylvania and is back for a visit. “If you order quick, you’ll make happy hour,” Fritz urges them.

Spyker grabs a menu from the table, the pair orders with just two minutes to spare, and the triad begins chatting. “Jimmy’s already checked in here on Foursquare,” Spyker says.

McAndrew smiles and shrugs: guilty. Speaking of, Fritz remembers, she’s been meaning to compliment him on a recent sprint on the fitness app Strava, where he tracks his impressively fast runs.

They pause and laugh at their predictability. Even their small talk is geospatial—all about things related to place and time—exactly as you’d expect from people who build maps in their spare hours.

Tonight, they hope to make progress on the so-called Denver Building Import. They’ll overlay shapes, sizes, and addresses from a government database onto a crowdsourced, free map of the world, and merge the two so that the structures become a permanent feature of the digital geography.

The project is part of an international effort called OpenStreetMap, founded in 2004. A cartographic Wikipedia, OSM relies on volunteers—a million since its start, making it the largest such endeavor—to create an ever-evolving representation of the planet. You can view it in a browser or within a platform like Facebook, which relies on it for location information. And although individuals work on it just for fun, it underpins services at huge companies like Amazon and Microsoft. OSM is important and different from maps like Google’s because it’s made by and for the people. It contains information its participants want—not, as McAndrew puts it, “what will make Google Maps money.”

Southern Mongolia; August 15, 2015. <br> The data from satellites sent up by government agencies like NASA and the European Space Agency is often public. (European Space Agency/)

All over, nerdy normals are using mappy data for specific pursuits: Archaeologists have uncovered hidden tombs; police have found missing people; relief organizations have dispatched aid to flood victims; retired spies have located weapons caches; conservationists have detected deforestation; artists have pinpointed secret military installations; and retailers have gauged vacancies in competitors’ parking lots.

A policy adviser and analyst named Josef Koller believes this plethora of frequently updated information might lead to a tipping point he dubs the Geoint Singularity: a time when people with no particular expertise or wealth have access to geospatial data and its interpretation in real time, providing the power to investigate any place as it is right now. In effect, anyone could find a live view of whatever spot on the planet they wanted to see. “The world basically becomes transparent,” says Koller, a systems director at the Aerospace Corporation, a federally funded research and development center in Southern California.

Koller has been monitoring the space industry since around 2015, taking note as satellites became easier and cheaper to build and launch. Today, more than 700 orbiting objects watch Earth all the time, up from 192 in 2014. That growth means that some continuously produce images, showing your house not as it looked in 2016 but as it looks while you read this. He has also seen artificial intelligence getting smarter. It can, using finely tuned algorithms, count cars and identify cats or your cousin. Finally, he’s seen that with phones and fast networks, people can stream such analyses. Take that to its logical endpoint, and—voilà!—a Geoint Singularity.

We’re not there yet, but we’re well on our way: Satellites capture images of a given sea or skyscraper daily. AI is good at narrow, specific tasks, like recognizing trees or gauging traffic, but integrating different streams—aerial pictures, CCTV feeds, Twitter threads, addresses, current trash-truck locations—remains a wicked problem. Given all that, no one can say if this singularity will come, or how, exactly, regular earthlings’ experiences would change if it did. Maybe people will watch the ice caps melt minute by minute. Maybe they will fact-check municipal claims about building new housing, or whether foreign ships are docking nearby. Maybe they will know, at all times, the best open parking space in the whole city. Or maybe they won’t care very much at all, and mapping skills will remain important but niche, deployed mostly by intelligence agencies, humanitarian groups, and corporations.

At Backcountry, the OpenStreetMap volunteers represent a future in which people do care. They want to know all about their place on the globe. McAndrew pulls up a video on his computer and puts it on loop to set the mood. A dark globe appears on the screen. Bright dots and lines flash across its surface in a DayGlo seizure, tracing countries and cities and the spaces between. It’s an atlas of Earth, drawn chronologically as people add roads, houses, and schools. Other crowdsourced projects serve specific niches; StoryMap lets users highlight the locations in a series of events; Ushahidi helps people share information about things like police encounters. But OpenStreetMap has the broadest ambitions: to capture the entire, always changing planet, and whatever people in each place care about.

McAndrew says, “Every line you see is an edit”—a place now on the map, now truer to the real world.

Northwest Algeria; January 2018. <br> Around the world people have been inspired by satellite imagery. Teachers send kids on global scavenger hunts. (European Space Agency/)

Koller named the Geoint Singularity the way you might name an unbuilt city for which you hadn’t drawn blueprints yet. While the future it represents still seems far off, the technology to achieve it has been developing for decades. The US government launched its first picture-taking satellites in the 1960s, and followed with ones dedicated to military and intelligence needs. Entities like NASA, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, and the United States Geological Survey sent up craft for scientific use. Their data is largely public, giving access to decades-old records that anyone can compare with today’s.

In the 1990s, business joined in, largely so it could sell pictures to spooky agencies. WorldView Imaging Corporation, now called Maxar, deployed the first privately owned cameras to peer down at Earth. Today the company also sells data to oil and gas companies to monitor pipelines, to mega-retailers to keep an eye on store traffic, and to developers to survey potential construction zones.

In the meantime, a virtual panopticon has emerged, one that no longer just takes pictures. Satellites also nab radio transmissions, weather information, infrared images, and radar data. Drones overfly the planet, street cameras keep watch closer to the ground, smart devices broadcast locations, and governmental datasets—from curb cuts to county lines—live online. With each uptick in detail, the singularity draws closer.

It can only happen, though, if data reaches the public—not exactly the strong suit of private companies. Still, they do sometimes share. Maxar, for instance, ran the first major effort to involve laypeople in image analysis and mapmaking. Called Tomnod, the nine-year program enlisted amateurs during disasters, like the Malaysia Airlines crash in 2014, or for scientific research, such as counting Weddell seals in Antarctica for a 2016 census. During crises, Maxar also makes imagery available to groups like Humanitarian OpenStreetMap, which sponsors crowdsourced efforts to plot crisis-plagued regions—say, after earthquakes, or to chart vaccine distribution, or understand refugee migration.

Companies also occasionally give their data to scientists who are studying climate change, journalists reporting on hard-to-reach places, and analysts trying to suss out global tensions. One of those is David Schmerler, who researches nuclear-weapon and missile developments at the Middlebury Institute of International Studies at Monterey in California.

Schmerler doesn’t really have formal training in satellite-image analysis, but with his morning coffee in hand, he logs on to the website of a company called Planet, which operates around 140 satellites that take pictures of all the land on Earth every day. Some groups use the data to track deforestation, or calculate how many cargo ships reached a given port on Tuesday. But, as the caffeine hits, Schmerler zooms in on a few sites in North Korea. “If I see a lot of road activity, or if a building blows up, or they changed the roof, something is happening there,” he says. In the old days, you would learn of such things only days or months later, when an overscheduled satellite got around to taking a look. Today, you can see it today.

Schmerler sees all this geospatial data as a path to truth in a twisty world. “You can verify all sorts of claims using satellite imagery,” he points out. And when he says “you,” he means it. “When someone says something is changing in the world, we don’t have to rely on that statement. If someone says the ice caps are melting, you can log on and see that happen.”

Colorado is a geospatial hub of sorts: It’s home to Maxar, NOAA offices, and a cluster of younger satellite startups, all of them full of people whose geo-knowledge base is generally better than average. Geospatial Amateurs, based in the Denver metro area, is another MeetUp that believes in the personal utility of all this data. “Amateurs” is a cheeky name. Many members, some of whom are also part of OSM, work in fields at least somewhat related to mapping or Earth observation, like environmental science or transportation. They don’t want sponsorships or corporate meddling or professional influence. Instead, the group wants to foster what leader Brian Timoney calls “roll your own” projects. It’s DIY, but with images, sensor readings, and maps instead of needle, thread, and aida cloth. “The idea,” he says, “is you can answer geospatial questions that impact your everyday life.”

To keep the club more approachable, Timoney—a data analyst who runs a consulting firm—has tried to create a low-key vibe, starting with the MeetUp descriptions themselves. Take the invitation to the August 2019 gathering: A scientist demonstrates how to use radar and laser data to calculate snow depths on whatever black-or-blue slopes the attendees personally care about. “After this presentation, you’ll be looking around your ski mountain with a subtler eye,” read the website, “while the basic chads clogging I-70 will still be taking a resort’s mid-mountain snowpack-depth reading at face value.”

At other meetings, members show-and-tell their homebrewed solutions, which use municipal datasets, open-source information from agencies like NOAA, and legal hacks of companies like the Car2Go rental service. An actual Chad made a pedestrian map of sidewalks in the Denver area. Member Adam Bickford helped a city-council candidate optimize canvassing routes. And Ricardo Oliveira took the real-time feed of bus locations and created his own display. (Those examples happened before big political campaigns and organizations built their own versions.) “We want to get the word out about the rich variety of datasets that are available,” Timoney says, “and inspire people.”

Around the world, people have been inspired, particularly by satellite imagery. Teachers send kids on global scavenger hunts. Homebodies see places they might never visit, guided by websites like Google Sightseeing (not affiliated with Google but rather with two guys). Farmers figuring out where their corn should go overlay snaps with Google Earth satellite maps. Hikers pore over them to find unmarked trails. Hunters consult them to predict where the animals will be.

If the singularity arrives, those pursuits, though, will look different: Second graders and skilled alpinists will be aware of the planet as it is—not as it was last week, last month, or last year. What if you could watch the travels of a specific herd of elk every day? What if you could tell how crowded your tourist destination was an hour ago? What if day-trippers could peep the percentage of fall-turned leaves before they set out on the road?

Bolovian Salt Flats; May 2017. <br> DIY groups hope the availability of satellite data will lead to more localized mapping projects. (European Space Agency/)

At Backcountry Pizza, meanwhile, the mappers finally have a new arrival, someone who has never worked on this project before: Travis Burt, a developer with utility company Franklin Energy. Burt immediately pulls out his laptop to learn how to begin merging Denver building data with the OpenStreetMap grid.

While Spyker and McAndrew chat in the corner, group leader Fritz tells Burt how to register so that he can see data from the Denver Regional Council of Governments—which, according to Fritz, “we lovingly call Dr. Cog.” Every two years, Dr. Cog pays to fly picture-taking planes over the metro area. Analysts then use that imagery to trace the boundaries of buildings, accurate to around 3 inches. While all of the information is public and free, it’s not especially layperson-friendly. But once it’s in OpenStreetMap, it won’t be much harder for anyone to access and understand than Google Maps.

Pinning numbers to virtual buildings is as important as the shapes and spots on the ground. “We don’t actually know, even in our super-urban area, what the addresses are,” Spyker says. That’s a problem for 911 operators, who can’t send responders to a location if they don’t know exactly where it is. Because the Denver area is changing so rapidly, the mappers hope to keep updating the buildings, creating a historical record—a sort of pencil-mark-on-the-doorjamb growth chart—of how the city becomes what it will be. In the OSM, you can check out the archive of edits just like you can on Wikipedia.

Denver, of course, isn’t the only city lacking user-friendly data, and the problem is even more acute in rural and developing areas. Across the world, more than 150 OpenStreetMap chapters are helping to make their regions visible, tracking an ever-shifting landscape of roads and borders.

Coloring in the map can also just be fun. Spyker and Fritz are creating a city art directory, and soon they’ll be able to peg graffiti and murals to the walls of specific structures. Green thumbs could one day calculate how many hours of sunshine their building-shadowed urban gardens will get. A bookstore owner could estimate how many people will walk by their window display.

Under Fritz’s helpful tutelage, Burt finally gets to the point of actually working. He stares mirror-eyed at the map, all of its layers shining from his screen, waiting for him to paint on another. “Ah,” he says, “this looks beautiful.”

“Did you hear that?” Fritz asks Spyker, who’s pulling up a site she made to help people plan pub crawls on bikes. “He said it was beautiful.”

The MeetUp group at Backcountry Pizza tonight represents the vanguard of the Geoint Singularity. But it’s also fair to ask if a tipping point is something the average person wants, needs, or will ever care about. Consider, for instance, that most folks are content with spinning through Google Earth, where the images are usually a couple of years old. “That satisfies most people’s basic curiosity,” says Geospatial Amateurs’ Timoney.

The phenomenon’s godfather, Koller, notes that the singularity really requires a useful idea, one that cheaply and easily integrates real-time data and analysis, probably through a smartphone or browser interface. The glut of information is too much for our puny brains to parse quickly, which means we’ll also need AI to get smarter than it is now, and have the particular kind of savvy to serve up what people actually want. “The key point will be to find that killer application,” he says, a reason that an all-seeing eye on Earth would make the everyday easier or more efficient. “I don’t think anybody has really identified that yet.”

This wouldn’t be the first time we couldn’t clearly see the future. “If someone had asked me some question in 1980 about GPS, I’d be like, ‘I don’t know if it’s useful to see where you are,’” says Georgia Tech’s Mariel Borowitz, author of Open Space: The Global Effort for Open Access to Environmental Satellite Data. But here we are, with Tinder and Yelp and our general inability to navigate without a robot voice in our ear, because of GPS and our smartphones’ ability to put them in our palms.

Borowitz has questions, though, about how privacy protections will evolve. “I can imagine when you have ubiquitous data, your ability to track individuals or specific individual movements increases,” she says. The rub for watching the whole world change is that you are part of that world.

And not every “you” will get access to that change. “What I think stands in the way of closing the digital divide is the growing trend of the rich versus the poor,” Koller says. When only the wealthy can reach the bounty, they also control how information gets collected, used, and interpreted.

That’s why self-rolled initiatives aim to put power in more hands. Like, for example, the hands of people currently PayPaling their share of the pizza bill to Fritz. Only one of them—Burt—has mapped anything tonight. But that’s fine. As much as this group is about geospatial data, it’s also about connecting a community, and forging bright lines between them.

McAndrew tilts his eyes toward the window. The storm has fully arrived. He stares for a second before pulling out his phone and punching up a real-time traffic display. “You can tell where the snow’s the worst,” he says, flashing his screen toward us. Green segments, where cars are flowing, slam into red ones, where drivers have slowed, flakes undoubtedly hypnotic in their headlights.

When we step outside, our eyes confirm the situation: The snow has begun to stick. It piles up on cars and blades of grass. It reveals the outlines of everything, showing our footprints as we walk away from each other, past buildings yet to be imported.

This story appears in the Spring 2020, Origins issue of Popular Science.

[antarprince-blog]

Kings Never Die

Chapter 1/?

Rating – M(FF.N)/Explicit(AO3)/Explicit(Tumblr)

Pairing – As yet Undecided 

Disclaimer – I do not own Harry Potter or any of its associated characters: all rights belong to JK Rowling. I do not own any crossover references used in the story: all rights belong to their original creators. I do own any OC spells explained at the end of a chapter.

Spoiler - Everything, to be safe

Summary - A Response to my own Hail to the King/Overlord of Magic Challenge. For those of us climbing to the top of the food chain, there can be no mercy. There is but one rule: hunt or be hunted. I have zero tolerance for betrayal, which they will soon indelibly learn...

Warnings: Slash, Lots of Politics, Blood, Death, and Violence. And because Some are idiots OOCness

Authors Note: Here we go again. Here's hoping... So, Most of the Notes are at the end of the Chapter, BUT it has been brought to my attention that Some may not know what an Absolute Monarchy is. So, Crash course: It's very simple. Unlike a constitutional Monarchy which is Often seen as a Figurehead (It isn't) and whose Power is confined to a Constitution, An Absolute Monarchs power is Absolute. Their word is Law

Also, to be Clear, this will have Slash and Het. However, being Gay it will be more Heavily Slash. If this Bothers you, You know where the Back button is. Also, the fic doesn't focus on Smut, but it will probably happen. 

Challenge Information:

Plot: For nearly five years Harry has watched the Prejudice and corruption of the Magical Community, suffered their slings and arrows, but no more! When the Dark Lord returns and the people turn on him again he's had enough. If the Wizards can't take care of themselves than he will do it for them - by force!

Rules:

Must begin after the Third Task, or Summer before 5th Year

Harry Must Declare Himself King of the Wizards

Absolute Monarchy

There Must be an Actual War, with Soldiers and Armies (Always hated the Term "War with Voldemort")

The Ministry and Dumbledore Must Oppose Harry

The Weasley Family, including Percy, must be Monarchists and pledge themselves to Harry (Just for fun, a Break from the Bashing)

All Affinities Welcome – Grey with Dark leanings considering what he sets out to do

All Pairs welcome except Forbidden

Super powerful, or OP Harry

Superpowered Voldemort and Dumbledore

Guidelines/Optional:

Master of Death Harry - Accepted

Harry becomes emancipated and Claims his Family Titles (Nobility) - Accepted

Super Intelligent/Genius Harry (Think Lelouch or Light) - Accepted

Fawkes bonds with Harry as his Familiar - Accepted

As a result of the new bond, Fawkes transforms into a Dark Phoenix with Powers associated with Death (i.e. Poison Tears, Cry that kills etc...) – Depends on how DARK Harry Gets

The Muggle Crown Opposes Harry - Accepted

Neville becomes The Ministry's Poster Boy – Accepted (I love him but Authors Always make him Loyal to Harry)

Sirius and/or Ron become Harry's Knight of Honor – No (I have Other idea's)

Harry becomes the first of his name, creating a New line (i.e. Targaryen, Britannia etc...) –No

Multiple Partners (Harry IS Starting a Dynasty) –Maybe

Slash - Accepted

M/M/F Pairs - Accepted

M/F/F Pair - No

Crossover - References

Suggested Pairs:(Optional and Not Required!)

Harry/Tonks (Haven't seen this in ages, and as a Black could lend Legitimacy to Harry's claim)

Harry/Luna

Harry/Ginny (Don't like it, but I can see it here)

Harry/Member of the Muggle Royal Family - OC, NOT Real Person)

Harry/Cedric (If he Lives) -Undecided, but Probably. I can never Not (Thank my Friend Storm Wolfsong)

Harry/Seamus

Harry/Blaise (NOT Female. hate that)

Harry/Marcus Flint

Any Combo of those Listed

Forbidden:

Harry Siding with Voldemort

Giving up his Crusade

Weak/or Unintelligent Harry

Harry/Hermione

Harry/Fem!Blaise

Fem!Harry

constitutional Wizard Monarchy

Ottery St. Catchpole was a small quaint little town just outside of Devonshire. It was a mostly open field filled with sheep and wheat, but it was nice. It was quiet. That quiet, however, was about to be broken.

A small cabin sat in the field surrounded by a fence with nothing around it for good kilometer. Light spilled from the open windows and casts a warm glow over the area, but the silence of the night was soon broken by panicked yelling and the sound of running footsteps.

Inside the house, Amos Diggory sat in his study in front of a warm fireplace with a glass of brandy in hand. The flickering firelight casting in eerie glow over mahogany walls and making shadows dance, and the tumbler of the brandy to look like gold.

One might wonder how such an elegant room could fit with the decor of a cozy cottage, but when it came to wizards nothing was as it seemed.

Amos sat staring blindly into the flames and contemplating the last month of his life. It had nearly been irrevocably changed. At the end of June, during the Tri-Wizard tournament, Amos Diggory had nearly lost his son. He still wasn't sure what happened that night, but his son Cedric had exited the maze of the third task covered in dirt and bruised, and yelling incoherently that Harry Potter, the boy who lived was in trouble - in danger - and that the Dark Lord had returned.

And wasn't that just a kick in the teeth. The Dark Lord returned to power. His stomach flopped at the mere thought of it. He remembered the Dark Lord's first rise and the had no urge to relive it.

He believed his son. Cedric wasn't a liar; if he said that the Dark Lord was back then Amos believed him, but it was only natural that such a proclamation would cause a panic. At first, the silence was deafening, and then the erupted in shouts of denial and anger and fear. The headmasters of the various schools and the minister had come barreling down to meet Cedric, all shouting questions and accusations and demanding to know what happened. It was pure bedlam.

And then it all stopped, interrupted by an ear-splitting earthshaking boom that forced the mob to go silent. They all stopped and looked around them. It was one of the Stadium audience that said first. "It's Harry Potter!" She yelled.

Amos remembered thinking the impossible. The boy had Apparated – bypassing the wards of Hogwarts, seemingly by sheer force of will.

Everyone rushed toward the boy, all shouting questions at once and surrounding him but Cedric forced his way through the crowd with a glare that would put a basilisk to shame, and the shouts quieted to a dull roar. His son turned to Harry checking him over for himself.

All the while Harry simply smiled in relief. "You made it…" He whispered and grinned tiredly before collapsing into unconsciousness.

As he had said before, Amos wasn't sure what it happened in that maze, or afterward if you listened to Harry's story when he woke up. Cedric had won the tournament that evening, but according to Cedric Harry had saved his life that day and as far as Amos was concerned Harry was a hero.

Amos was broken from his thoughts by the sound of muffled yelling in the other room making his head swivel around to investigate. The silencing charms around the house weren't particularly strong, but it must've been loud to pierce it.

That was Cedric's voice. Amos paled at the realization and nearly slammed his glass down on the side table in his rush to get up. Hastily exiting his study, he made his way through the house toward his son's room. "Cedric!" He called loudly as he neared. He reached for his wand to undo the locking charm, but it was unnecessary the door was already open.

Roberta - Cedric's mother - sat on his bed with a worried expression as she watched her son pace back and forth across his room in the dark. Amos looks to her questioningly, but she only shook her head with the lost expression.

Meanwhile, hearing his father call his name Cedric turned to face his father and moved to meet him. The hallway light exposed Cedric's pale, sweat-drenched face. "Dad! We have to do something, Harry's in trouble… Dementors'…"

Cedric was frantic, speaking too fast to properly understand. All he heard was Harry, trouble, and Dementors'. "Whoa, whoa, slow down son. Take a breath and try again."

Cedric stopped and took a deep breath, swallowing hard before repeating himself slower. "Harry is in trouble. He's being attacked by Dementors'"

Amos's face fell, flooded with concern by Cedric's assertion, but it didn't make any sense. Dumbledore said that Harry was safe where he was, and even if he wasn't there was no way that Cedric would know if he was in trouble or not, was there? Amos took a minute to assess the situation. He looked around his son's room and comprehension dawned on him. "Now just take a minute and relax Cedric," he said as calmly as possible. "I'm sure it was just a dream. After all, you have been through a very traumatic experience."

This only seemed to irritate Cedric more. "No dad," he shook his head violently. "I mean yes, I was sleeping but I know that Harry is in trouble."

"Now Cedric…" He began to speak but cut himself off and instead chose to take a more logical track. "Think about this logically. How could you possibly know if Harry was in trouble?"

Cedric took a minute to again calm himself and try to collect his thoughts. Now was not the time to panic, he told himself. He locked his gaze on his father and addressed him in an eerily cold and calm tone. "I would know," he said simply. "We - I have to help him, dad. I owe him my life." He said that last bit with a very pointed expression.

A heavy protracted silence fell over the room like a massive weight pressing down on them. They all stood there in silence for another few seconds observing one another, and not speaking a word. The gravity of his statement hitting them like a ton of bricks.

Amos's lips thinned into a hard line. Cedric was right. He owed Harry Potter a debt of life. In theory, he would know when Harry Potter was in danger, and even if he was wrong that wasn't a chance that they could take. "… All right, I'll contact Dumbledore."

Cedric nodded in relief and moved to follow his father as he exited the room.

Amos knew that Cedric was following him as he made his way to his bedroom to retrieve the mirror the Dumbledore had given him for emergency communications. As a rule, Cedric did not enter his parents' bedroom. He never had, but in this case, Amos ignored it in favor of the emergency. He went to his bedside table and retrieve the two-way mirror from the drawer. "Albus Dumbledore…"

The glass fogged and turned for a moment before it connected to the other side. "What can I help you with Amos," Dumbledore said as his face filled the other side. He held the same kind grandfatherly tone that he always did, but he did sound slightly distracted.

"Well Albus," he responded sounding slightly apologetic. "This may sound strange, but we believe that Harry Potter may be in some danger."

Dumbledore's face became slightly grim. "I'm aware," he confirmed. "I'm on my way to headquarters to summon the order."

Amos's brow furrowed. How would Dumbledore know so soon if Harry were in trouble? He shook his head and decided to let it go. "All right," he said and paused, considering his next words carefully. "We will be there in a few moments."

Albus nodded and the mirror fogged and cleared. He put the mirror back in the drawer and turned to face Cedric intending to tell him to get dressed, but the boy had already pulled his wand and transfigured his pajamas into jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Amos nodded. He could try and tell his son not to go, but he knew it would be a fight. "I'll make a portkey…"

Amos sighed, Roberta was not going to be happy.

-x-

Magnolia Crescent - a few minutes earlier

Harry Potter had faced death before many times. Well, four times before, but for an average person that was three times too many. He was rather used to it. Something about this time, however, was different. His cousin was on the ground, curled up into the fetal position in a gibbering mess of fear unable to see their assailants, but Harry could see them… Black-robed figures gliding down the street toward them, the very specter of death and Harry had lost his wand - thank you very much Dudley Dursley! For the first time in his life, Harry Potter felt true fear. Not the adrenaline rush that comes with a survival instinct, but true, cold and paralyzing fear.

One of the Dementors descended on him, reaching out with a skeletal hand whose flesh still clung to the bone, and grabbed him by the shirt collar and lifted him off his feet. This close to a dementor Harry felt a chill settle over him like a bucket of ice water over his bones. He could hear the literal soul-sucking noise behind the dark void of the creature's hood.

His vision began to waver and blur, darkness creeping around the edges, and he had one thought as the darkness claimed him:

I don't want to die!

The first thing that he heard when he regained consciousness was the marry and soothing crackle of a fire. Must be the hospital wing, Harry thought to himself. Wherever he was, was soft as well. With his eyes still closed he ran his palm over silk sheets. The cold was gone too. He felt warm and cozy, a feeling that seeped into his very bones like the cold of the Dementors, but much nicer...

Remembering the Dementors gave him a jolt. His eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright in bed, looking around frantically. Seeing no danger Harry took a moment to collect himself, taking in his surroundings. The room was indeed cozy. The walls were made of a rich stained holly wood paneling, contrasted by flickering shadows cast by the firelight. The floor was covered in thick crimson carpeting that Harry imagined would be very pleasant under his bare feet; except for the space right in front of the fireplace that looked to be smooth gray cobblestone.

On closer inspection, however, he noticed that the room was in great disarray. There was a desk on the far wall, for example, that was filled with junk of all kinds: old broken toys, dirty tattered clothes, and all kinds of odds and ends. On the far opposite wall, and the one to his left was empty bookshelves, the books having long since fallen to the floor; some of them splayed open others stacked haphazardly against the wall covered in dust as if they hadn't been touched in ages. Likewise, there were loose pieces of paper and parchment scattered all over the floor of the room; and the entire room, Harry noticed was covered in the thinnest sheen of dust.

On the mantle above the fireplace sat four precious stones over varying size and color. One that was a small sapphire the size of his fist, another with the smaller blood red Ruby, the third a crystal-clear diamond, and the fourth was a large black obsidian shard the size of three hands that seemed to absorb the light the room. Unlike the other objects in the room, these four gems appeared to be mounted to the mantle.

On the far end of the room, just out of Harry's field of vision and obscured in the darkest part of the room sat an empty St. Andrew's cross made of dull, strained and crack hew whose leather straps hung loosely at the ends.

"Finally, with me I see," said a soft feminine voice that Harry thought he would recognize nearly anywhere.

Harry's head whipped around toward the source of the voice which were two chairs in front of the fireplace, facing away from him, the reminded him of the all-too-familiar furniture in Gryffindor tower. He scrambled out of bed and over to the fireplace, his face filled with happiness, excitement, worry, and sadness all in equal measure. The woman that was now next to him had long flowing auburn hair and eyes that shine like emeralds in the firelight. "Mum…" He said quietly around the lump that was forming in his throat.

Lily Potter looked up at her son and smiled lovingly. "Hello baby," she said softly. "My Harrison…" Before she could continue Harry launched himself at her and broke down into tears - crying. She just wrapped her arms around him smiling sadly and soothed him. "Shhhh, it's alright baby… It's alright," she repeated softly rocking back and forth as Harry cried, releasing 14 years of pent-up emotion.

It seemed like ages before Harry finally calms down and stop crying. Finally pulling away with the sniffle, Harry smiled awkwardly at his mother an apology. She just smiled and rubbed his back comfortingly.

Harry noticed when he pulled away that the room had grown considerably darker. The shadows and become darker – heavier - and the fire in the hearth and died a little. He sat down in the other chair cautiously. He had so many questions to ask, but he settled on the most obvious. "H-how are you here, and what is this place," he asked." Are you a ghost?"

Lily laughed. Although he was biased, Harry thought it sounded like music, but then again this was the first time Harry had heard his mother's voice without hearing her scream. "Straight to the point. I suppose it makes sense because we don't have much time. Simply put - we aren't physically here." She explained and Harry looked confused, so she explained. "This is in your mind. It is what some people call a mind palace, a metaphysical representation of your mind. Although, the wizards and witches call it your magical core." Here she gestured to a low burning fire.

"Wait a minute," Harry interrupted. He understood most of it, but there were few things that were lost on him. "If this is my mind then why is it such a mess. It looks like no one's used this room in ages, and how are you here and what are those?"

Lily laughed fondly at her son, and Harry blushed in response. He knew he was babbling, but this was all so strange and he was curious. "It's alright Harry," she reassured him. "It is a bit disorganized. Although you can't fix that… Everything you see around you is a part of you: memories, knowledge, things you learned. With time and practice, you could organize and access it quickly."

"To answer your question, however, I have always been here." She explained quickly before Harry could interrupt again. "The night the dark lord came for you your father and I performed a very ancient ritual of Japanese origin. Using this, I sealed up part of my magic and a tiny piece of myself inside your core. It's why Voldemort could never touch you before last year."

"He did something to you that night though." Her face grew very grim and he came to this part. "Like me, Voldemort sealed a piece of himself inside of you and for the last 13 years I have contained him, binding him so that he could not affect you." Here she saw fear enter Harry's eyes when she gestured to the abandoned St. Andrew's cross concealed in the darkness. She stood up and moved to wrap her arms around him to comfort him even as she reassured him. "It's alright!" She said forcibly as she felt Harry stiffen in her arms. "It's alright baby, he's gone now. My guess is that whatever ritual he used to bring himself back last year used that part of himself. That's why he needed you and your blood."

Harry nodded and extricated himself from her, sitting down stiffly. They sat in silence for a few minutes as Harry contemplated what his mother told him. He knew that he should be scared. The idea of Voldemort having ever been part of him was terrifying, but the anger he felt learning this overpowered the fear. He felt slightly violated and that infuriated him.

After a few minutes, Harry sighed and refocused. "And the jewels?"

Here Lily smirked and it was heartwarming to see how very much like Harry she was in that moment." Well, those… Those are interesting. Tell me, Harry," she said conspicuously. "Since your time at Hogwarts, how many people have you saved?"

Harry looked at her confused. How many people he saved? It didn't make much sense, not that he kept track of it. Still, he took a moment to think about it: "Well, I don't really know. Let's see, there was Ginny in second year, Sirius in my third year and… Cedric last year." He realized, counting. "But that's only three and there are four crystals, and what does that have to do with anything?"

Lily nodded to the row of jewels with a smile. "Go on, go touch one - reach out to it with your magic."

Harry went over and choosing a random crystal reached out with his palm and placed it on the diamond. When he thought about pushing his magic into the object the fireplace flared weekly before settling again. As he pushed the power into the diamond he felt it respond and grow warm as power flowed back into him in reciprocation. It was like having a cup of tea. He felt energized, but more than that he also felt stronger.

He was about to draw away and look at his mother to explain but he never got the chance. He gasped as images flashed before his eyes. He saw 10-year-old boy excitedly opening what he knew to be his first broom on his birthday and running out into the yard to climb on.

Just as quickly the image changed again. This time it was an 11-year-old boy -the same 11-year-old boy. He felt pride emanating from him. He had received his Hogwarts letter and excitedly showed his parents.

Images continued to flash before him. Some of them in quick succession and he couldn't identify them. Others were clearer. He saw the boy watching a Quidditch match at 13 years old, watching a 14-year-old Oliver Wood Fly on his broom in front of the goal posts and blushing madly. There was one in the Hogwarts library at the age of 16 of him helping a young Chinese girl that Harry recognized as Cho Chang in the library at Hogwarts with her charms homework. She would grin and him shyly and he would look back smiling flirtatiously.

Finally, Harry had enough and wrenched his hand away, finding himself back in his mind palace. He looked back at his mother in shock. "Those were Cedric Diggory's memories! What the hell was that!"

"Each one of those crystals represents a life debt that isowed to you. Those four individuals are bound to you, and you to them."

Harry took a minute to digest this information. His immediate reaction was to object but he knew that it would do no good and suppressed the urge. "Okay," he said exasperatedly. "That's only three though, what's the fourth one?"

Here Lily's eyes flashed with sadness. "That one is Severus - a life debt that you inherited from your father."

Harry looked at her flabbergasted.

"But enough of that," Lily said abruptly. "We are running out of time. The Dementor is about to claim you." Suddenly Harry was reminded of his dilemma and noticed that the room had grown extremely dark. The fire was nearly gone and the darkness encroaching on them. It barely illuminated the space in front of them now.

Suddenly the survival instinct that Harry was familiar with took hold. His eyes darkened in determination. He would not die tonight! "I'm open to suggestions mum."

Lily's expression mirrored Harry's. "I want you to use the crystal again. Connect with it and draw power into you. Use it to help you stave off the Dementor once you're in the physical world. She paused and considered what he was going to say next. "… I will give myself in your place."

Harry looked at his mother bug-eyed, as if she were insane. "No mother!" He objected. "I'm not going to let the Dementor take your soul, or your magic or whatever is that you are now." As Harry was speaking a massive black hole vortex formed in the center of the room, the powerful sucking noise it made sounding like ripping paper.

Lily put herself between the vortex and Harry, pushing him away back towards the fireplace. "Harry James Potter!" She yelled over the sound of the vortex to be heard. "Do as you are told! I am your mother and it is my job to protect you, I always have and I will do so again!" Harry looked at his mother in despair but said nothing. "GO… And, I love you!"

Harry forced himself to turn away and climbed his eyes shut against the tears. Squaring his shoulders as he marched up to the mantle and placed his hand upon the diamond represented Cedric, connecting and pulling power from it. As he did so, he heard his own voice echoing around his mind palace in a soft whisper. "Help me… I don't want to die, I will not die!

Harry's eyes snapped open, but they were different. He's Emerald eyes glowed with fire as green as the killing curse that he knew intimately. He felt rage and anger build up inside of him like he'd never felt before. He grasped it like a vice with his mind, remembering his core and his mind palace and pulled on it imagining them as strings of palpable power and lashed out, releasing the anger and rage in waves. "Get off of me!" He snarled and his voice echoed with power. The Dementor was thrown backward as if he had hit a brick wall at full GeForce speed. If it had not been the Dementor than and probably would've turned into a puddle of goo.

He hit the pavement in a crouch, tossing his arms out to catch himself and scraping them on the concrete. He stood up and look at the creature with loathing. He hated Dementors. He despised them. They were foul creatures and he didn't just want to drive them off, no he wanted to decimate them.

Acting on instinct he extended his arm in the direction that he remembered his wand being in and felt it fly into his hand with an audible slapping sound. It'd returned to his hand with such force that stung on his scraped palm.

"Incindia Inferno," he intoned a low and deadly voice the promised pain and death. This street before him cracked and split as if the mouth of hell itself were opening, and in a way, it was. Fire and lava begin to spew out from the cracks, interrupting like a volcano. Streams of magical flame followed suit lashing out at the Dementors like whips.

They screeched and dodged and backpedaled trying to avoid the flames but wherever they moved new cracks appeared and the process repeated itself. Eventually, the beasts were driven into the lava and their robes caught fire. They screeched in an ungodly sound as the flames consume them burning them until they were ash.

Harry stood there for a moment scanning the area looking for threats. Seeing none he released his hold on power and his eyes faded returning to their normal green.

He heaved to breathe tiredly and was about to go check on his cousin, but before he could do so the sound of several cracks reminiscent of his fourth year, remembering the sound of apparition. He clenched his wand tightly bringing it to bear.

"Drop your wand!" Several voices called out frantically. "Drop it now!"

Harry looked at them as if they were stupid. "Identify yourself and I'll think about it!"

"Drop your wand now!" They repeated forcefully "Department of Magical Law enforcement! If you do not lower your wand we will fire."

Harry considered his options. Even if they weren't who they said they were, taking on a few mindless creatures were different than taking on four arms wizards and he wasn't stupid. He looked at them closely trying to remember their faces for identification later. Two of them were very tall one of them a black man that looked to be of South African descent. The other was a tall grisly redhead that eyed him as if he were a dangerous animal.

The two others were women, likely their partners. One was a slight of a girl that looked vaguely familiar to him. What he found interesting was that her features kept changing and her hair shifting colors. He got the distinct impression she was nervous. The other Harry didn't recognize she was a hard-faced woman looking to be in her early thirties to survey the scene with a critical eye like a veteran.

"All right, all right." He said placing his wand slowly on the ground and raising his hands above his head in the universal sign for surrender. "If you are Auror's then check on my cousin Dudley. He does not look well."

The two male officers moved forward, one taking his wand and the other approaching him cautiously. The woman with the shifting features moved toward his cousin to check on him and the fourth kept watch.

The girl checked Dudley and looked back up grimly. "He's dead. It looks like you souls been removed as well." Harry should have been horrified but he wasn't. He found himself slightly amused. The Dementors didn't kill, they took your soul. Fat bastard must've died of a heart attack. Harry smirked.

The grisly redhead placed a firm hand on Harry's shoulder and pushed him to his knees. Oddly, Harry noticed that he did not look happy about it. "Put your hands behind your back please." He grunted as Harry did as he was told. "Harry James Potter, you are under arrest for breach of the statute is secrecy, violation of the underage magic restriction, and the apparent murder of a Muggle, and other such charges as the ministry deems appropriate."

""You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"

Well, Fuck…

End Notes:

First and Foremost, Oh my GOD the Feels! I know, I'm an awful Person. And I'm sure some of you Realize what I did with Lilly and where I took it from. I couldn't resist.

To DZ2: I told you I was gonna use Your Mind Palace concept. I hope you don't mind and you like it

Roberta Diggory:

Cedric's mother's name is never actually given according to anything that I can find. So I simply took it from Robert Himself :)

OC Spell: Incindia Inferno - Fires of Hell

Also, the Challenge info is Posted. Feel free to write your own responses, but send me a Link

Lastly, I do not currently have a Beta Editor. If you’re interested Drop me a line.

[kristablogs]

These volunteers are filling in missing pieces of the world map, and helping humanity at the same time

Greenland glacier; 29 April 2019. <br> Today, more than 700 orbiting objects watch Earth all the time, some continually producing images. (European Space Agency/)

The snow hasn’t started yet this October evening in Boulder, Colorado, but the sharp wind and low clouds around Backcountry Pizza & Tap House foretell an early winter storm. Just before 6 p.m., Diane Fritz comes in from the cold, passing pinball machines and pool tables on her way to the back room. Setting down her bag, she takes off her down jacket and quickly orders an IPA before happy hour ends. “Lots of people probably won’t make it,” she says, guessing they’ll be reluctant to brave frozen roads. She shrugs and pulls out her Mac bearing a sticker that reads: “Map Porn.”

Fritz works for Auraria Library in Denver, assisting people who want to incorporate spatial information into their research. If a student were doing a project about energy, for example, she’d show them how to include the location of every oil well in the state. Outside of her job, Fritz also helps lead a MeetUp group—gathering here tonight—that’s merging data about buildings into a crowdsourced map of the area. The project could eventually help emergency services reach people more rapidly, make small businesses more visible, and show residents how their city (one of the fastest growing in the nation) is changing. About 40 people have volunteered so far.

Fritz flips open her laptop to find the how-to presentation she’ll give to any newcomers who venture in. For now, though, her only audience hangs above her: beer signs scattered around the room.

As her computer powers up, the other MeetUp leader, data scientist Margaret Spyker, arrives with member Jim McAndrew, who moved to Pennsylvania and is back for a visit. “If you order quick, you’ll make happy hour,” Fritz urges them.

Spyker grabs a menu from the table, the pair orders with just two minutes to spare, and the triad begins chatting. “Jimmy’s already checked in here on Foursquare,” Spyker says.

McAndrew smiles and shrugs: guilty. Speaking of, Fritz remembers, she’s been meaning to compliment him on a recent sprint on the fitness app Strava, where he tracks his impressively fast runs.

They pause and laugh at their predictability. Even their small talk is geospatial—all about things related to place and time—exactly as you’d expect from people who build maps in their spare hours.

Tonight, they hope to make progress on the so-called Denver Building Import. They’ll overlay shapes, sizes, and addresses from a government database onto a crowdsourced, free map of the world, and merge the two so that the structures become a permanent feature of the digital geography.

The project is part of an international effort called OpenStreetMap, founded in 2004. A cartographic Wikipedia, OSM relies on volunteers—a million since its start, making it the largest such endeavor—to create an ever-evolving representation of the planet. You can view it in a browser or within a platform like Facebook, which relies on it for location information. And although individuals work on it just for fun, it underpins services at huge companies like Amazon and Microsoft. OSM is important and different from maps like Google’s because it’s made by and for the people. It contains information its participants want—not, as McAndrew puts it, “what will make Google Maps money.”

Southern Mongolia; August 15, 2015. <br> The data from satellites sent up by government agencies like NASA and the European Space Agency is often public. (European Space Agency/)

All over, nerdy normals are using mappy data for specific pursuits: Archaeologists have uncovered hidden tombs; police have found missing people; relief organizations have dispatched aid to flood victims; retired spies have located weapons caches; conservationists have detected deforestation; artists have pinpointed secret military installations; and retailers have gauged vacancies in competitors’ parking lots.

A policy adviser and analyst named Josef Koller believes this plethora of frequently updated information might lead to a tipping point he dubs the Geoint Singularity: a time when people with no particular expertise or wealth have access to geospatial data and its interpretation in real time, providing the power to investigate any place as it is right now. In effect, anyone could find a live view of whatever spot on the planet they wanted to see. “The world basically becomes transparent,” says Koller, a systems director at the Aerospace Corporation, a federally funded research and development center in Southern California.

Koller has been monitoring the space industry since around 2015, taking note as satellites became easier and cheaper to build and launch. Today, more than 700 orbiting objects watch Earth all the time, up from 192 in 2014. That growth means that some continuously produce images, showing your house not as it looked in 2016 but as it looks while you read this. He has also seen artificial intelligence getting smarter. It can, using finely tuned algorithms, count cars and identify cats or your cousin. Finally, he’s seen that with phones and fast networks, people can stream such analyses. Take that to its logical endpoint, and—voilà!—a Geoint Singularity.

We’re not there yet, but we’re well on our way: Satellites capture images of a given sea or skyscraper daily. AI is good at narrow, specific tasks, like recognizing trees or gauging traffic, but integrating different streams—aerial pictures, CCTV feeds, Twitter threads, addresses, current trash-truck locations—remains a wicked problem. Given all that, no one can say if this singularity will come, or how, exactly, regular earthlings’ experiences would change if it did. Maybe people will watch the ice caps melt minute by minute. Maybe they will fact-check municipal claims about building new housing, or whether foreign ships are docking nearby. Maybe they will know, at all times, the best open parking space in the whole city. Or maybe they won’t care very much at all, and mapping skills will remain important but niche, deployed mostly by intelligence agencies, humanitarian groups, and corporations.

At Backcountry, the OpenStreetMap volunteers represent a future in which people do care. They want to know all about their place on the globe. McAndrew pulls up a video on his computer and puts it on loop to set the mood. A dark globe appears on the screen. Bright dots and lines flash across its surface in a DayGlo seizure, tracing countries and cities and the spaces between. It’s an atlas of Earth, drawn chronologically as people add roads, houses, and schools. Other crowdsourced projects serve specific niches; StoryMap lets users highlight the locations in a series of events; Ushahidi helps people share information about things like police encounters. But OpenStreetMap has the broadest ambitions: to capture the entire, always changing planet, and whatever people in each place care about.

McAndrew says, “Every line you see is an edit”—a place now on the map, now truer to the real world.

Northwest Algeria; January 2018. <br> Around the world people have been inspired by satellite imagery. Teachers send kids on global scavenger hunts. (European Space Agency/)

Koller named the Geoint Singularity the way you might name an unbuilt city for which you hadn’t drawn blueprints yet. While the future it represents still seems far off, the technology to achieve it has been developing for decades. The US government launched its first picture-taking satellites in the 1960s, and followed with ones dedicated to military and intelligence needs. Entities like NASA, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, and the United States Geological Survey sent up craft for scientific use. Their data is largely public, giving access to decades-old records that anyone can compare with today’s.

In the 1990s, business joined in, largely so it could sell pictures to spooky agencies. WorldView Imaging Corporation, now called Maxar, deployed the first privately owned cameras to peer down at Earth. Today the company also sells data to oil and gas companies to monitor pipelines, to mega-retailers to keep an eye on store traffic, and to developers to survey potential construction zones.

In the meantime, a virtual panopticon has emerged, one that no longer just takes pictures. Satellites also nab radio transmissions, weather information, infrared images, and radar data. Drones overfly the planet, street cameras keep watch closer to the ground, smart devices broadcast locations, and governmental datasets—from curb cuts to county lines—live online. With each uptick in detail, the singularity draws closer.

It can only happen, though, if data reaches the public—not exactly the strong suit of private companies. Still, they do sometimes share. Maxar, for instance, ran the first major effort to involve laypeople in image analysis and mapmaking. Called Tomnod, the nine-year program enlisted amateurs during disasters, like the Malaysia Airlines crash in 2014, or for scientific research, such as counting Weddell seals in Antarctica for a 2016 census. During crises, Maxar also makes imagery available to groups like Humanitarian OpenStreetMap, which sponsors crowdsourced efforts to plot crisis-plagued regions—say, after earthquakes, or to chart vaccine distribution, or understand refugee migration.

Companies also occasionally give their data to scientists who are studying climate change, journalists reporting on hard-to-reach places, and analysts trying to suss out global tensions. One of those is David Schmerler, who researches nuclear-weapon and missile developments at the Middlebury Institute of International Studies at Monterey in California.

Schmerler doesn’t really have formal training in satellite-image analysis, but with his morning coffee in hand, he logs on to the website of a company called Planet, which operates around 140 satellites that take pictures of all the land on Earth every day. Some groups use the data to track deforestation, or calculate how many cargo ships reached a given port on Tuesday. But, as the caffeine hits, Schmerler zooms in on a few sites in North Korea. “If I see a lot of road activity, or if a building blows up, or they changed the roof, something is happening there,” he says. In the old days, you would learn of such things only days or months later, when an overscheduled satellite got around to taking a look. Today, you can see it today.

Schmerler sees all this geospatial data as a path to truth in a twisty world. “You can verify all sorts of claims using satellite imagery,” he points out. And when he says “you,” he means it. “When someone says something is changing in the world, we don’t have to rely on that statement. If someone says the ice caps are melting, you can log on and see that happen.”

Colorado is a geospatial hub of sorts: It’s home to Maxar, NOAA offices, and a cluster of younger satellite startups, all of them full of people whose geo-knowledge base is generally better than average. Geospatial Amateurs, based in the Denver metro area, is another MeetUp that believes in the personal utility of all this data. “Amateurs” is a cheeky name. Many members, some of whom are also part of OSM, work in fields at least somewhat related to mapping or Earth observation, like environmental science or transportation. They don’t want sponsorships or corporate meddling or professional influence. Instead, the group wants to foster what leader Brian Timoney calls “roll your own” projects. It’s DIY, but with images, sensor readings, and maps instead of needle, thread, and aida cloth. “The idea,” he says, “is you can answer geospatial questions that impact your everyday life.”

To keep the club more approachable, Timoney—a data analyst who runs a consulting firm—has tried to create a low-key vibe, starting with the MeetUp descriptions themselves. Take the invitation to the August 2019 gathering: A scientist demonstrates how to use radar and laser data to calculate snow depths on whatever black-or-blue slopes the attendees personally care about. “After this presentation, you’ll be looking around your ski mountain with a subtler eye,” read the website, “while the basic chads clogging I-70 will still be taking a resort’s mid-mountain snowpack-depth reading at face value.”

At other meetings, members show-and-tell their homebrewed solutions, which use municipal datasets, open-source information from agencies like NOAA, and legal hacks of companies like the Car2Go rental service. An actual Chad made a pedestrian map of sidewalks in the Denver area. Member Adam Bickford helped a city-council candidate optimize canvassing routes. And Ricardo Oliveira took the real-time feed of bus locations and created his own display. (Those examples happened before big political campaigns and organizations built their own versions.) “We want to get the word out about the rich variety of datasets that are available,” Timoney says, “and inspire people.”

Around the world, people have been inspired, particularly by satellite imagery. Teachers send kids on global scavenger hunts. Homebodies see places they might never visit, guided by websites like Google Sightseeing (not affiliated with Google but rather with two guys). Farmers figuring out where their corn should go overlay snaps with Google Earth satellite maps. Hikers pore over them to find unmarked trails. Hunters consult them to predict where the animals will be.

If the singularity arrives, those pursuits, though, will look different: Second graders and skilled alpinists will be aware of the planet as it is—not as it was last week, last month, or last year. What if you could watch the travels of a specific herd of elk every day? What if you could tell how crowded your tourist destination was an hour ago? What if day-trippers could peep the percentage of fall-turned leaves before they set out on the road?

Bolovian Salt Flats; May 2017. <br> DIY groups hope the availability of satellite data will lead to more localized mapping projects. (European Space Agency/)

At Backcountry Pizza, meanwhile, the mappers finally have a new arrival, someone who has never worked on this project before: Travis Burt, a developer with utility company Franklin Energy. Burt immediately pulls out his laptop to learn how to begin merging Denver building data with the OpenStreetMap grid.

While Spyker and McAndrew chat in the corner, group leader Fritz tells Burt how to register so that he can see data from the Denver Regional Council of Governments—which, according to Fritz, “we lovingly call Dr. Cog.” Every two years, Dr. Cog pays to fly picture-taking planes over the metro area. Analysts then use that imagery to trace the boundaries of buildings, accurate to around 3 inches. While all of the information is public and free, it’s not especially layperson-friendly. But once it’s in OpenStreetMap, it won’t be much harder for anyone to access and understand than Google Maps.

Pinning numbers to virtual buildings is as important as the shapes and spots on the ground. “We don’t actually know, even in our super-urban area, what the addresses are,” Spyker says. That’s a problem for 911 operators, who can’t send responders to a location if they don’t know exactly where it is. Because the Denver area is changing so rapidly, the mappers hope to keep updating the buildings, creating a historical record—a sort of pencil-mark-on-the-doorjamb growth chart—of how the city becomes what it will be. In the OSM, you can check out the archive of edits just like you can on Wikipedia.

Denver, of course, isn’t the only city lacking user-friendly data, and the problem is even more acute in rural and developing areas. Across the world, more than 150 OpenStreetMap chapters are helping to make their regions visible, tracking an ever-shifting landscape of roads and borders.

Coloring in the map can also just be fun. Spyker and Fritz are creating a city art directory, and soon they’ll be able to peg graffiti and murals to the walls of specific structures. Green thumbs could one day calculate how many hours of sunshine their building-shadowed urban gardens will get. A bookstore owner could estimate how many people will walk by their window display.

Under Fritz’s helpful tutelage, Burt finally gets to the point of actually working. He stares mirror-eyed at the map, all of its layers shining from his screen, waiting for him to paint on another. “Ah,” he says, “this looks beautiful.”

“Did you hear that?” Fritz asks Spyker, who’s pulling up a site she made to help people plan pub crawls on bikes. “He said it was beautiful.”

The MeetUp group at Backcountry Pizza tonight represents the vanguard of the Geoint Singularity. But it’s also fair to ask if a tipping point is something the average person wants, needs, or will ever care about. Consider, for instance, that most folks are content with spinning through Google Earth, where the images are usually a couple of years old. “That satisfies most people’s basic curiosity,” says Geospatial Amateurs’ Timoney.

The phenomenon’s godfather, Koller, notes that the singularity really requires a useful idea, one that cheaply and easily integrates real-time data and analysis, probably through a smartphone or browser interface. The glut of information is too much for our puny brains to parse quickly, which means we’ll also need AI to get smarter than it is now, and have the particular kind of savvy to serve up what people actually want. “The key point will be to find that killer application,” he says, a reason that an all-seeing eye on Earth would make the everyday easier or more efficient. “I don’t think anybody has really identified that yet.”

This wouldn’t be the first time we couldn’t clearly see the future. “If someone had asked me some question in 1980 about GPS, I’d be like, ‘I don’t know if it’s useful to see where you are,’” says Georgia Tech’s Mariel Borowitz, author of Open Space: The Global Effort for Open Access to Environmental Satellite Data. But here we are, with Tinder and Yelp and our general inability to navigate without a robot voice in our ear, because of GPS and our smartphones’ ability to put them in our palms.

Borowitz has questions, though, about how privacy protections will evolve. “I can imagine when you have ubiquitous data, your ability to track individuals or specific individual movements increases,” she says. The rub for watching the whole world change is that you are part of that world.

And not every “you” will get access to that change. “What I think stands in the way of closing the digital divide is the growing trend of the rich versus the poor,” Koller says. When only the wealthy can reach the bounty, they also control how information gets collected, used, and interpreted.

That’s why self-rolled initiatives aim to put power in more hands. Like, for example, the hands of people currently PayPaling their share of the pizza bill to Fritz. Only one of them—Burt—has mapped anything tonight. But that’s fine. As much as this group is about geospatial data, it’s also about connecting a community, and forging bright lines between them.

McAndrew tilts his eyes toward the window. The storm has fully arrived. He stares for a second before pulling out his phone and punching up a real-time traffic display. “You can tell where the snow’s the worst,” he says, flashing his screen toward us. Green segments, where cars are flowing, slam into red ones, where drivers have slowed, flakes undoubtedly hypnotic in their headlights.

When we step outside, our eyes confirm the situation: The snow has begun to stick. It piles up on cars and blades of grass. It reveals the outlines of everything, showing our footprints as we walk away from each other, past buildings yet to be imported.

This story appears in the Spring 2020, Origins issue of Popular Science.