#losing his holy shit over the merchants in the temple that one time

[unproduciblesmackdown]

speaking of how anger can be as necessary as any other feeling, can be an appropriate and healthy emotional response, and can be entirely positive, and yet some people will say that anger is always wrong / to be avoided

i shouldve bookmarked it because of course i forget where i found it or who posted it, but yesterday on twitter someone had started a thread talking about how they for years tried to suppress their own anger and avoid conflict whenever they could because they had it pushed on them so strongly from a religious (christian) angle that anger was just like straight up a sin. and then they were asking about other people’s experiences with considering a broad emotional area being off-limits or inexpressible because other ppl were telling them it wasn’t an option. / having an emotional reaction of theirs just being ignored or condemned because frustration or whatever is a sign of not being good enough in whatever way

anyways it reminded me abt the whole christian approach to never expressing anger in the whole misinterpreted “turn the other cheek” thing....its kind of wild the way really christian concepts and ideas can be embedded in these nonreligious aspects of society, and considered to be a “common sense” type of perspective rather than a christian-informed one, and often involves societal/historical factors that altered US christianity which turned around to contribute right back into social/historical spheres...

like, how some kind of puritan-adjacent Moral Living agenda thought up by some dude back in the day and obsessed with asceticism & lack of self-indulgent comforts & definitely-no-masturbation as part of a Health Initiative that was sort of like this US-wheat centric cult. and today we have the breakfast cereal aisle largely in thanks to this one guy and his take on religion

or how the concept of Hard Work has been taken on by industrialized capitalism (especially post-wwii and its never-since-dropped Moral Necessity of time-efficiency above all else) to justify poverty (they deserve it) and worker exploitation (they also deserve it or they’re just lazy and thus deserve even worse poverty) and racism (they deserve it! or should just Hard Work their way out of it!) and sexism (women are paid less because they dont do men’s Hard Work! stay at home moms dont do real Hard Work! working moms arent Working Hard enough if their family work cuts back on the time and attention and energy they can give their paid job) and classism (if you cant Work Hard enough to escape poverty then you deserve the poverty) and ableism (if you cant do the same Hard Work of any other abled person then why are you alive tbh :/) and racist & anti muslim anti immigration (uhhh they both Work Too Hard and keep white people from getting in their Hard Work and also don’t don’t Work Hard Enough & steal from white people’s Hard Work) and you see how it goes........everything

and this whole concept comes from the protestant values of early colonizers......they believed very much in the necessity of the religious value of labor and suffering and self-denial and sort of grim survival and all. harken back to the wheat-worshipping cold-baths don’t-spank-it Cereal Dude.

and then there’s how US christianity was deliberately altered to not only accommodate the idea of a morally acceptable institution of chattel slavery, but to also actually promote it as morally necessary. it censored bible readings of pro-abolitionist passages & censored anyone who would preach against slavery. i think the whole still-existent branch of “southern baptist” churches was created post-abolition as a white refusal to drop the pro-slavery religious stance? and then there’s the ways that white christianity still had to justify segregation to itself, and all the other forms and practices of racism, up to today, and which i should be aware of more concrete examples of how this manifested historically. but like it sure does like continue man

anyways tldr protestant values and perspectives are often conflated with universal/“common sense” ones or outright pushed as core/necessary “american” values, and that’s an important factor to take into consideration when thinking about like, anything, because it’s so far reaching in influence that it’s probably a part of anything you look far enough into. like, again, the cereal guy. no wheaties if not for puritans. would we have chex mix in a universe where the vvitch couldnt be made because what are pilgrims? you crucify one guy and suddenly cheerios are possible because of one weirdo two millenia down the line.

anyways. there’s a lot of factors stemming from christianity that can go beyond technical religious beliefs/practices. seeing as i just complained about how anyone imposing a requirement to completely suppress any feeling or expression of anger is at best, unhealthy, and at worst, unhealthy AND abusive, it seems relevant to take into account people invoking arguments (especially to kids or anyone else over whom they have authority) about anger being an actual Sin. jesus was getting p.o’d all the time, not only about that classic temple shit but also when people interrupted his nap or when he was denied snackage. and that “turn the other cheek” bit was about NOT letting people hit/exploit you. theres no argument for needing to not express anger in order to be properly christian. and the suppression of necessary, justified anger can be used to sustain and support a ton of fucked up and violent and unethical practices then and now so fuck that in all its forms tbh

[belladxne]

i will see you where the shadow ends | chapter 5

[see notes for ao3 and ff links]

part of the put your faith in the light that you cannot see series AU: Breath of the Wild pairing: KiriBaku word count: 6,400

chapter 5: i will hold on hope, and i won’t let you choke on the noose around your neck

Eijiro wakes the next morning to Inko having laid out two simple white shirts and a pair of trousers for him—he can tell as soon as he runs his fingers over the shirts that unlike what he’s wearing now, they’re made of soft and comfortable material. It feels sturdier, too, but that may just be because anything’s bound to feel sturdier than clothes left to rot for a hundred years. Beside them are a padded doublet, clearly designed for warmth, and a pair of thick gloves.

He looks up to see Inko humming as she merrily gathers food for breakfast—eggs and rice. He’s relieved to see she looks none the worse for the wear after losing out on her bed for the night.

“Where did you get these?” he asks, curiously. It’s… not exactly like there are any merchants or tailors able to get up onto the plateau. Inko hums, distracted, before she glances up and seems to remember what he’s talking about, and a bright smile crosses her face.

“They’re old. They were all too big for me, so I took some time last night to tailor the shirts and trousers to something I thought might fit you better.”

“Oh,” he says, looking down at them. He’s focusing real hard on not having a repeat of yesterday—he’s so immensely thankful, but he’s gonna try not to get emotional about it. Well, too emotional about it. Well, okay, he’s already really emotional about it, but he can at least try to not get choked up. “I—thank, you, so much, I really don’t know how I can—”

“If I hear another word about repayment out of you,” she scolds teasingly, but Eijiro can tell she doesn’t have any sort of threat to actually finish the sentence. Still, he gets the message, laughing softly.

“Okay, okay,” he relents, “I just—I really do appreciate it.”

She knows, of course. He’s just glad he’s said it enough to make it clear.

After they finish the omurice Inko’s made, the two of them both get ready for the day. Eijiro’s got a few plans, but his main priority is finding somewhere private and getting this scratchy hell shirt off of himself.

As Inko’s tugging on her boots, she makes a face, more confused than bothered. She pulls the offending boot back off, turning it upside down and giving it a shake, and a familiar-looking seed comes clattering out onto the stone floor. Inko doesn’t pay it any mind, but Eijiro blinks.

“Is that a Korok seed?” he asks, thinking of the five he's collected so far. He hasn’t seen any seeds just loose before—they’ve all come directly from the hands of a tiny forest spirit, delighted to have been found in their odd little hiding spot.

“Hm?” Her tone is distracted, but when she follows his gaze realization crosses her face. “Oh, yes.”

“You see them?” He’d thought—the first Korok he’d met seemed so surprised when he’d seen him. Eijiro thought most people couldn’t…?

“Oh, no, not very often,” Inko replies as she pulls on her other boot and stands, straightening her clothes out. “I think they have more fun playing their games and causing mischief if they keep themselves hidden. But they do seem to like me an awful lot; they’re always leaving me funny little gifts. The seeds only started about a week ago. Why, would you like it?”

Huh. She talks so casually about it, like she has no idea how out of the ordinary it is. Of course, he thinks if he were a Korok, he’d probably think Inko was great, too, but still. It’s a little odd, but it doesn’t take much of his focus as they both carry on with their day. He’s in too much of a rush to find someplace to change to dwell on it.

The verdict when Eijiro does find a more secluded area and get into the new clothes is oh, thank the gods, this is so much better, holy shit. His pants actually reach his ankles. The plain, undyed shirts she’s given him are probably better suited to being undershirts, worn under a tunic or something, but they’re so much better than something itchy and falling apart at the seams.

He might burn the old one, honestly. Or he guesses he could keep it as a rag. Cutting it up could be cathartic.

With that out of the way, Inko had suggested he try fishing, and he at least wants to make sure he leaves her something to have for lunch before he spends all day hiking up cliffs and mountains and undertaking trials. He knows Inko has banned all talk of paying her back, but he figures this is the easiest and sneakiest way to make sure she gets something for her troubles.

He’s just a little proud of how crafty he feels, concocting this plan.

Eijiro finds himself aware of three different facts by the time he’s returning to Inko’s house with two freshly-caught Hyrule bass in hand, and he’s not sure how many of them should have already been obvious.

One—Koroks really are absolutely, ridiculously everywhere. He accidentally found one in the water while he was fishing, and there’s even one hiding out on top of Inko’s house. She must not have been wrong when she said they liked her. He’s genuinely not sure how it took him so long to start running into them yesterday, because it feels like he’s stumbling into one every other step now.

Two—the longer he spends around the plateau, the more he’s forced to realize… there’s something odd about Inko. Like, really odd.

For one, she’s everywhere. Almost every time he’s turned around on this plateau since yesterday, she’s been there. Every time he’s been anywhere near the campfire outside the Shrine of Resurrection, she’s been at the campfire. Every time he’s been anywhere near her house, she’s at her house. When he raised the tower, suddenly she was at the tower. When he did his first shrine trial, she was at the shrine. She pops out of nowhere sometimes, and more than once he’s thought she moved awfully quick for her age.

Then there’s the odd amount of information she knows—and that’s just including what she’s told him. She’d said she didn’t know much about Sheikah buildings, but she’d seemed to know that his slate had been what activated the tower—and then she’d pulled out all sorts of information on his slate, too. And fast travel! She’d also been able to tell him the shrine only started glowing at the same moment the tower had risen, but she’d come from the opposite direction of the shrine.

And there was the day before, too… she’d been so frazzled as soon as he was going to the shrine surrounded by the old machines, and just as much so afterwards. Like she’d known what he was going to run into—why else would she be so scared for him with that shrine, but not the other?

He thinks maybe he’s just being paranoid, like when he’d jumped to the conclusion that he’s dead, or been fully convinced he’d gotten possessed, but he can’t shake the feeling that there might just be more to Inko than she’s admitting. It’s not like it matters, though—he can’t mistrust her, even if it is true. She’s done too much to help for him to ever be able to believe she could be untrustworthy.

And three—his little scheme to repay Inko right under her nose was doomed from the start.

He was going to just leave her the fish and go forage something for himself that he won’t have to cook to take up the mountain, but the second he offers her the fish, she puts him to work. She’s not letting him go up the peaks at the southern end of the plateau unprepared, she informs him very adamantly, and so instead she takes the next hour and then some to walk him through the recipe and cooking processes of several more dishes.

She tells him all about how when spicy peppers are cooked right, they make the body run warmer—and makes sure he sees how she does it when she cooks them into a meat and seafood fry with the last of the fox meat from last night, and an abundance of seafood rice balls. She wraps them all carefully in parcels made of paper, to keep them until he needs to eat them.

He’s a little afraid his mouth won’t survive the dishes, with all those peppers cooked in, but she swears that between them and the warm doublet and gloves she’d given him, he’ll be comfortable for as long as he has to spend on the snow-covered cliffs. He’s grateful, but he’s also been foiled as she uses all of the food that he’d meant for her to help him.

He’s going to do something nice for her to make up for this all, he’s really going to. Eventually he’ll find an act of kindness she can’t counter!

As much as he wishes he’d been able to get away with his little plot, he’s barely five minutes up the path behind the Temple of Time before he’s so glad for the spicy dishes. The padded doublet she’d given him didn’t cover his arms, but he thought he’d been smart about accounting for that—as much at it had pained him, he’d put his first, awful, itchy shirt back on and then layered both of his new shirts over it.

Unfortunately, the layers only did so much, and he could feel the wind whipping through them and biting at his arms. But Inko had had his back—so he’d pulled out the meat and seafood fry, torn the paper back, and gone to town on the meal as he walked along the riverbank.

Yes, his mouth was absolutely on fire like he’d feared, and he might be crying, like, just a little bit, but he’s sweating within minutes. He’d be kept warm as long as he hurried and was smart about rationing the food, exactly as she’s promised. If that came at the expense of looking ridiculous as he walked along with his mouth wide open in hopes the frigid air would soothe his burning mouth, then so be it.

When he reaches the bridge he’d seen on the map, he has a problem. He hadn’t noticed that the bridge is collapsed—the supports are all still there, but most of the planks on his side of the river have fallen through. He spends just enough time despairing over the prospect of having to go all the way back to try and go around the river the other way to feel frustration welling up intensely, but then, of course, he remembers.

He can fucking do magic now. He had to walk past the giant, ruined metal doors of a collapsed gate just beside this bridge to even inspect the damage—after the hour and a half he’d spent puzzling out every potential creative usage of the magnesis rune in the shrine yesterday, he can’t believe it takes him as long as five minutes to think of laying the two massive doors over the gaps in the bridge.

It’s not the neatest job, or the most stable, but it gets him across safely enough. He does allow himself to be a little proud of his problem solving.

He’s all over the southern side of the plateau for the next few hours. The worst of his difficulties are over after the bridge, and the path to both shrines are mostly straightforward apart from a couple of surprise Koroks—seriously, even in the cold, high altitudes? They’re forest spirits, where’s the forest here?—and a handful of monster camps.

At Keh Namut Shrine, Eijiro spends over an hour figuring out all the applications of the cryonis rune—which allows him to make solid pillars of ice erupt out of any source of water. Even if his water source is shallow, barely ankle-deep, the pillars are always at least eight feet tall, and the great blocks of ice will even erupt sideways out of waterfalls. This… he thinks this one might be the most useful yet.

He can use it for a vantage point, for cover, to get to things out of his reach, to lift things out of the water, as stepping stones or bridges… and, if Inko’s idea to get him off the plateau doesn’t work, he might just be able to use it to hop down the waterfall that spills off the plateau, pillar by pillar.

He finally feels like he’s made tangible progress.

Owa Daim Shrine, across the plateau, isn’t so simple to reach. He’s left with only one spicy seafood rice ball by the time he’s painstakingly scaling down to where the shrine rests, halfway up the cliffside, but he’s relieved at least that the temperature becomes more bearable on its own the lower he goes. He can save the rice ball for the return trip and move quickly.

Inside the shrine, the pattern holds, and he’s gifted another rune: the stasis rune. The description the slate gives him of this rune takes longer for him to puzzle out than the others—it uses phrases like ‘storing kinetic energy’ and ‘stopping an object in time’, the first phrase confusing him for lack of surety at its meaning, the second confusing him for lack of ability to visualize its possibility.

Thankfully, the trial the shrine offers, just like the others, is nothing if not a perfect set of puzzles to allow him to figure it out. The rune has a wide range of uses—securing safe passageways from moving or unstable objects, halting oncoming projectiles and other dangers, and making temporarily immovable obstacles for others to traverse, to name the ones he grasps quickest.

The most important use, however, is the one where the stored energy comes into play—it takes him a little to work it out, but once he does, he’s able to send even the most giant of obstacles flying out of his path. And to use them as projectiles. Even large, heavy stones can be moved by something as insignificant as arrows shot from a distance, as long as he hits it with enough of them for the force to compound. It’s awesome, and it gives him the same giddy delight that the magnesis rune had.

When the last of the monks hidden away in the shrines on this plateau fades to nothing, Eijiro can’t really deny that this spirit thing they keep doing to him is really getting to him. He might not be possessed, sure, but the bizarre feeling that’s overtaken him after each ‘gift’ has only gotten stronger with each instance, and it’s not fading.

There’s—something, he’s not sure, an energy maybe, that feels like it’s thrumming under his skin and the sensation is so unsettling. It’s supposed to be the strength of their spirits, or whatever they’d said, but he doesn’t feel stronger, necessarily, just—just—just very noticeably affected!

He can feel whatever it is and it’s distracting. He’s not sure how it’s supposed to help him.

It’s late afternoon by the time Eijiro emerges from the entrance to the shrine, and he’s confronted with the obvious evidence that his most worrisome of theories is true. Inko is not a normal old woman; can’t be.

She can’t be, because there she stands, on the wide ledge that houses Owa Daim Shrine, and there’s just no way a simple old woman could be here. There’s no possible explanation for it. She’d either have had to cross a wide chasm behind her house and then scale the cliffside up to reach him, or hiked the unforgiving eastern slopes of the plateau and then scaled the cliffside down. Neither is a reasonable task for a woman of her age.

So—so there it is, then. He knows now. There’s something odd about Inko, something she’s been keeping from him about her nature. He’s obviously not so surprised as he could be, but it’s still—it’s still—hard to process that the woman who’s helped him so much has been lying to him. All he can manage is a quiet, “Oh.”

“Hello, Eijiro,” she greets him, but her heart is clearly not entirely in it. There’s something in her tone—she obviously knows as well as he does that this marks the end of—of whatever simple and easy experience they’ve been having together so far. A change is coming whether she chooses to explain what she’s been hiding or not, and they both understand that.

“So, you’ve finally explored all the plateau’s shrines,” she notes, a gentle and rueful smile just barely touching at her features. Eijiro can only nod as he shuffles his feet, watching her with equal parts expectation and dread. “You worked hard to reach them all. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” he manages, tone barely audible.

Inko sighs. “That means it’s time, I think, to finally give you an explanation. I can’t keep shielding you from the worst of it forever, and I think you’ve more than earned the right to hear… well, everything.”

Eijiro doesn’t know how to respond, there’s too much going through his mind—he opens his mouth to say—to ask—something, anything to grant him some clarification, but the words get caught in his throat. He stands there with his mouth opened somewhat helplessly, but it seems Inko wasn’t intending to wait for a response.

“Meet me at the temple of time,” she requests gently. “I’ll be waiting for you there, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“Why—” There’s so many questions he needs to ask that all start with that word, that they all tumble over each other before he can sort them out, but the most pressing of them is, of course, why can’t you explain it here? He wants to ask, but Inko smiles apologetically, and she—

—she just fades.

It startles him, when he suddenly realizes that he can see through her, just a little bit—and then just a little bit more, and then all at once he almost yelps as she starts to glow and eerie flames spring up around her. It’s not like watching the monks turn into motes of light that disperse up and away; she stays in one piece, but the light emanating off of her and the color of the flames hovering near to her are the same otherworldly blue-green glow.

Shaken, Eijiro stares blankly at the spot where she disappears for a few moments after she’s gone, before slowly he sinks down to sit on the surface of the shrine. It’s only a minute, that’s all he needs, but—but he closes his eyes and uses all of that minute to try and process, and work through as much of what he’s seen since awakening as he can.

The temple somehow seems more daunting when he emerges onto the path that leads from it, rubbing at his arms.

He takes a steadying breath, eyeing the decayed machines that dot the front of the structure around its entrance, and then shifts his gaze to the side of the building instead. On the side facing him, one of the massive, soaring windows that reach the entire height of the temple is empty—both of glass and the metal bars that make up the decoration and frame of the other windows.

The temple is huge, so with the window being one of the ones nearest to the back of the structure, it’s a good distance away from the closest machine. And Inko hadn’t said he had to come in the front door of the structure, so—he doesn’t feel any shame in beelining towards the window, hoisting himself up, and toppling with at least some amount of grace into the sweeping structure.

The space is incredibly open—not just due to the high, vaulted ceiling or the lack of walls in the giant structure, but because a massive hole has been ripped out of almost the entire front half of the opposite side of the building. He only barely notices that, though, because the feature that claims his attention—nearly all of it—

—is a stylized, towering winged statue of Bakusatsuo that dominates the space. It’s stationed to his right, against the back wall of the temple, and it must be fifteen feet tall, at least. And it’s glowing. Faint, iridescent light seems to be shining straight up from the bottom and Eijiro just… is drawn to it.

He hasn’t even looked around for Inko yet, but his feet carry him towards the figure without him really having to think about it. It’s a crude and simple likeness of the god in the way all the shrines to him across the country are, not proportioned in such a way as to actually resemble a real being, and the statue’s hands are spread out to its sides, palms up. The expression isn’t incredibly detailed, but Eijiro thinks most people would see it as calm, if not quite serene. But Eijiro—he swears its eyes follow him as he approaches, and he would swear the look carved into its face was almost tender.

He climbs the steps that lead up to the statue and instinctively drops to one knee before it, though he doesn’t bow his head in prayer. He keeps his eyes upturned to meet the figure’s gaze as the faint light at its feet seems to flare, almost like it’s reaching for him, and Eijiro swears he feels something like fondness radiating off of the statue, towards him.

You’ve done well, comes a faint whisper at the edge of his mind, and it—it sounds so much like the voice in Hyrule Castle. It’s so similar but—but it’s not quite the same, and Eijiro feels his jaw drop.

A warmth settles over him that somehow feels like the voice sounds, and that bizarre energy he’s felt humming under his skin finally dissipates. It’s not exactly like it goes away, more like it—like it finally settles, almost. It feels like the strange force that’s been lingering there finally seeps into him fully, and finally feels like it’s part of him. He realizes, when it finally happens, that he does feel stronger. Heartier, like Inko had said. Some of the aches and soreness that have built up in the past couple of days fade, just a little, as he stares at the statue in awe.

Go, and bring peace to Hyrule…

Like that, the glowing fades, and Eijiro almost feels like he imagined it all. That’s… he’s pretty sure Bakusatsuo just spoke to him. The god. The patron god of Hyrule. Beloved of the Three Goddesses and protector of the entire realm, and he’d spoken to Eijiro. With clear affection in his tone. It’s… unreal.

“Eijiro!” Inko’s voice hails him, startling him out of his moment of shock. He stands, the motion stiff with his distraction, and it takes him a few moments to locate her once he’s turned around. Of all the places to spot her, it turns out she’s peering down at him through the gaping hole in the partially collapsed roof.

“You’ll have to meet me up here, I’m afraid,” she calls down to him, before both her luminous figure and the tongues of blue-green fire that hover around her retreat out of his sight.

Eijiro stares at the spot he’d last seen her and he gives a shaky sigh. He doesn’t know what’s coming, but he wants to, very badly. So he’s going to find out.

There’s a ladder that runs the height of the building.

Even though it stands just beside the collapsed temple wall—on the far end from the machines, thankfully—it remains intact. Stable, even, though he figures out about a third of the way up that he needs to let his dragonscales overtake his hands if he doesn’t want to get splinters.

Inko is visible immediately from across the definitely unsound and precarious roof, waiting in the tower of the steeple at the front of the temple, still emitting that eerie light.

Balancing his way across the peak of the roof, he pulls himself up the rubble into the steeple to meet her, and despite having all this time to figure out where to begin, he’s—he’s still at a loss for words. Inko seems nearly as unsure how to start as he is—or simply reluctant. Either way, she heaves a mild sigh and attempts a sad smile.

“You’ve done so well since waking up, Kirishima Eijiro. I hope you know that,” she says, voice emphatic if a little quiet and somber. He startles at the full name—it’s—he hadn’t even given thought to whether Eijiro was his given or family name, let alone what the rest of his name might be. He’s had so much else on his mind. And this whole time—this whole time, Inko has known it? And not said anything?

“You don’t know me,” she continues with her eyes downcast. “At least—not very well, my son only brought you around a few times, and we never really spoke. But my name is Midoriya Inko. You should know, Eijiro—I know I’ve told you some, but the kingdom is not like it was when you entered your slumber. The Kingdom of Hyrule… it doesn’t exist anymore.”

Eijiro swallows, but he nods when her eyes flick up to gauge his reaction. The ruins everywhere—the monstrosity enshrouding the castle—the scarcity in meeting or even seeing other people—it all points to the same conclusion. He doesn’t remember much—anything, really. He can’t say if he’s ever been to any of the ruins that dot the landscape as far as the eye can see, can’t say if he ever knew anyone that lived in any of them—but he can say that he knows, knows deeply and inherently the wrongness of it all, to see or even think about.

The kingdom, or lack of it, isn’t how he’d remember if he could, and he knows that.

As Inko speaks, a transformation seems to come over her—she looks the same, and yet, there appears another version of her like a second image overlaid atop. Decades younger, maybe only forty or so.

“The Great Calamity was merciless when it swept out over the kingdom. There was nothing in its path that it didn’t devastate a century ago. I was one of the few who were lucky—the Sheikah village was remote and hard to reach, and well out of the Calamity’s focus. I lived a long, full life after it was said and done, but I couldn’t bring myself to move on, because… well, I’m getting ahead of myself.”

Inko heaves a sigh once more, and the look she gives Eijiro is apologetic. “There’s a lot I haven’t told you, but you have to understand. What you’ve been through—it was awful, Eijiro, and it would traumatize anyone. It would have been unfair and dangerous to overwhelm you with too much horrible news so soon after you woke, with your memory still fragile. I’m sorry.”

“I...” Eijiro manages, but his voice is weak. Overwhelmed is exactly the word for it, so he understands, but he only has more questions because of the time spent keeping things from him. He just wants to know already. “It’s… it’s okay.”

“Such a sweet boy,” she echoes the sentiment she’d told him last night quietly, before seeming to steel herself as she turns away to face the view of the castle through the steeple’s window. “But you’re ready, now, I think, to hear what happened one hundred years ago. All for One… that horrible monstrosity we can see from here—the stories said that long ago, that demon king was born into this kingdom, before he transformed into… into that.”

“I… I remember the legends, I think,” Eijiro tells her honestly. “That… that he’d barely been more than a fairy tale, a scary story people told, but—but didn’t really believe until… more recently.”

It’s so frustrating, what he does remember and where the blanks are instead. He remembers the tales, remembers that there’d been a shift from them being treated as fiction to being treated as an impending reality, but he doesn’t remember when or why.

Inko, for her part, nods, and seems to pick up on his frustration. “There was a prophecy,” she informs him, “Maybe twenty years or so before the Calamity came to pass. We knew it would be coming back, but the prophecy also promised a way to stop it, lying dormant beneath the ground. The Sheikah, the royal family—the entire kingdom came together, to try and find the aid the prophecy mentioned, and they were quick to find several ancient relics made by the hands of our distant ancestors.”

“The Divine Beasts,” Eijiro supplies, though his tone isn’t certain. But—but he knows this information, he thinks.

“Yes. Four giant machines, to be piloted by warriors,” she says, affirming the information that he thinks he has in his mind. “And, later, we discovered creations our research eventually taught us were called Guardians.”

The lifeless robots, decaying and overgrown with nature, which dot the plateau flash into his mind as his breath catches and his fists clench. As soon as she says the name, he’s sure of it.

“They were meant to be an army of mechanical soldiers, that fought autonomously to aid us. We realized—in the ancient legends we’d heard echoed so often, many of them told of these machines. That meant all of the legends—the prince with a sacred power, and his appointed knight who was chosen by the Sword that Seals the Darkness, who were the only ones who could truly seal All for One away with the aid of the relics we were discovering—all of it must be true.”

Yes, he knows those legends. Everyone knows those legends—there were far more of them than simply the ones centered around these ancient creations.

“One hundred years ago, there was a prince who would come to wield that power,” Inko continues, before she turns her head to meet Eijiro’s eyes, “and a skilled knight who fought at his side. The path laid before us was obvious, even without the prophecy. There were too many legends that echoed it all. So four Champions were chosen from across the kingdom to pilot the Divine Beasts, and together with the prince and his appointed knight, we were so sure we would be able to turn back All for One’s assault the moment it began. We had—we had all the pieces in place, after all.”

With that, Inko’s voice suddenly breaks. She turns away from Eijiro once more, with her hands pressed to her eyes. “We didn’t know—we couldn’t have—we never realized, All for One had spent all of those thousands of years plotting to—we never imagined it would appear from below Hyrule Castle itself, or take control of the Guardians and Divine Beasts. All that time spent restoring the machines to—to protect, and—”

Eijiro’s heart breaks with how devastated she sounds, and he stumbles forwards a few steps, reaching out a hand to—to—he doesn’t know, but he just wants to help. He wants to fix this, though he knows there’s no changing what’s already happened. He doesn’t remember any of this, but it hurts to hear, hurts to imagine.

“The Champions were killed, so many in the castle, in nearly every town nearby—and the appointed knight nearly lost his life in protection of the prince. He almost didn’t survive his wounds, he was in no shape to continue the fight. If the prince hadn’t survived, and returned to the castle with—with another chosen of Farore—if they hadn’t gone to fight the beast, alone, there would have been no hope for those who survived.”

Taking a shuddering breath, Inko chokes off the beginning of a sob, and Eijiro stumbles the last few steps forward to place a hand on her shoulder. It’s little comfort after everything, but she sags with the gesture.

“Eijiro, that other chosen of Farore… he’s my baby, my Izuku, and he’s risking his life to help Prince Katsuki hold All for One off. And the courageous knight, the one who kept Prince Katsuki safe until the very end, so that he could make it there at all…. Oh, Eijiro, honey, it was you. You were so brave, you did—you did so well, but even you couldn’t endure such an onslaught.”

Despite the tears still flowing freely down her face—and, shit, he realizes now that his own cheeks are wet, though he doesn’t remember any of this—she lays her hand over his on her shoulder, and the gesture somehow feels comforting even though he was the one trying to comfort her.

“You were carried here, to the Shrine of Resurrection, and spent one hundred years healing. I couldn’t rest with my Izuku still trapped in the castle, and I couldn’t bear to think of you awakening here alone, with no one to turn to, so my spirit settled here naturally when I died. I’ve been looking after you as best I can. And… and the voice you’ve been hearing, guiding you since you woke, that’s Prince Katsuki himself.”

Eijiro’s eyes pull from her face, and he finds himself looking out towards the castle with a feeling of desperation. Katsuki. That’s the name he can put to the voice. Katsuki, fighting with Izuku. Katsuki, who asked for his help.

“He’s still there, with my baby, fighting to restrain the Calamity, and—oh, Eijiro, honey, you’re so young to ask this of you, all three of you boys, you’re all so young—but they won’t be able to hold out for much longer before they’re going to need you. You’re—you’re the only one who can help them stop the Calamity from consuming all life left in the land. It’s so unfair to ask this of you, I—I can hardly bear to, but please save my son. Please bring my Izuku home, and destroy All for One before it can destroy anything else.”

Clearing his throat and swallowing roughly, Eijiro manages, “I will. I’ll—I’ll do it.”

This only makes Inko cry harder. “You shouldn’t have to. I’m so sorry.” She turns and embraces him suddenly, and the feeling now that she’s revealed her nature as a spirit is odd. Somehow warm and cold at the same time, but it doesn’t matter—he wraps his arms around her tightly. When she speaks again, her voice is muffled against the doublet she’d given him.

“You can’t go to the castle yet. Even Prince Katsuki wouldn’t expect that of you. There are things you still need to know, and—and All for One still has control of the Divine Beasts, and all of the Guardians. Please, please promise me you won’t make straight for the castle.”

“But...” Eijiro’s voice is still wobbly, and his hands are still too occupied to try wiping at his eyes. “I have to help them. Where else...”

Inko pulls back as he trails off, and she does her best to draw to her full height and look stern through a faceful of openly flowing tears. “You won’t be helping them or anyone else by charging off towards certain death before you’re fully recovered from your slumber. You should make for Kakariko Village, down the eastern road that cuts between the Dueling Peaks. The young man who leads the Sheikah, Aizawa, was an advisor to the Prince, and he’ll be able to give you counsel on the best steps for you to take. You’ll want to speak to him.”

Eijiro’s brow furrows, and he casts a look at the castle. Katsuki needs him, had asked him to hurry. “How long do I have? Before they run out of time in the castle? Do you know?”

“Long enough,” Inko says firmly, though the effect is somewhat undermined by the sniffle that follows. “Prince Katsuki would expect you to be smart about this, and he would know that will take time. Meet with Aizawa.”

Every fiber of his being wants to charge off, but… as painful as it is to promise, he tears his gaze from the castle to meet Inko’s eyes, and nods numbly. “Okay. I will.”

Relief floods Inko’s features. “Thank you. And you—you’ll need these.” She turns, then, to grab something he hadn’t noticed before; a pack that’s considerably less aged than his current one, with lots of different compartments. Flapping one such compartment open, she withdraws what she’d been seeming to work on the night before, and holds it out to him.

What he’d mistaken for a blanket, he now sees could never have been one—it’s too small, and the fabric is more like canvas, though it’s not quite as stiff. Still, he can tell that air won’t flow through the fabric easily, and even water would have a hard time soaking the material. He takes it from her, noting two wooden handles that run the length of its sides. “What’s…?”

“It’s a paraglider,” she informs him, managing a small smile. “It will support your weight and let you glide down from the plateau. And this bag is enchanted by Koroks. It belonged to my son, but he didn’t think… he didn’t think he would need it, to go to the castle. Each of its compartments can hold much more than it should, and it will be nearly weightless.”

He looks up from the gifts to meet her eyes once more, and the tear tracks on both their cheeks are still wet as he breathes, “Thank you. For everything.”

Inko’s smile grows, and she begins to fade once more as she presses the bag into his hands. “The best way to thank me is by staying safe. Take care, Eijiro. I’m so proud of you.”

Fifteen minutes later sees Eijiro standing at the very eastern edge of the plateau. The sun is setting, and the wise thing to do would be to rest for the night and set out in the morning, so he isn’t traveling in the dark.

Eijiro can’t wait. Impatience hums in his veins, making him twitchy and full of restless energy. Katsuki needs him, Inko’s son needs him, and he needs to be doing something. He won’t be able to stand the wait. So Eijiro takes a deep breath, new bag strapped to his back and paraglider clutched tightly in his hands.

And he leaps.

[silverfootstepswrites]

Middle Ground [2]

Stage 2: Desert Level

“Naruto.”

“Yeah?”

“What’re you doing?”

“Chewing on a leaf.”

Sasuke pinched the bridge of his nose. “I mean... I can see that. Just... why?” he pressed. 

Naruto, sitting on a stump, stared up at him, eyes wide. “This is supposed to have medicinal properties. It’ll heal me, like a few health points, I guess,” answered Naruto. 

Sasuke stared at Naruto. Then pointed at Sakura who stood a couple feet away. Also staring. 

“Why don’t you just go to Sakura instead of chewing on a plant?”

Naruto shrugged a shoulder. “An old lady in a cave told me this would heal me a couple points. So I wanted to try it. I guess I feel a little better,” Naruto answered. 

Sasuke turned around to look at Sakura, who just shook her head. 

“Where’d you even get that?” Sasuke then pressed. 

Naruto’s expression brightened. “Oh! Off that big spider we killed yesterday.”

Sakura’s forehead wrinkled. “Why... how... How would a spider be carrying a medicinal herb?” she demanded. 

Naruto shrugged again. “In its... inventory, I guess?”

Both Sasuke and Sakura turned around to look pleadingly at Kakashi. “Do you understand him”” Sakura asked. 

“I rarely understand anything the three of you talk about,” answered Kakashi before burying his nose deeper in his battered book.

-----

Once their party united, they took the quiet merchant’s path through the forests. Where the biggest danger were the occasional mosquitoes that swarmed them whenever they passed by water. 

After several days, the terrain grew more and more rocky. And the lush carpet of moss and plants began to turn scraggly. Withering up until all that was left was stone and sand. Soon, even those plants disappeared, and they found themselves on the edge of a massive desert. 

“We don’t have the supplies for this,” Neji warned as they surveyed the area. 

“And where are we even going anyway?” Sakura then demanded, turning to Naruto. 

“Oh, shit. Did I not show you the map?” Naruto replied. He set his pack down to pull a map from inside. It was made of tattered parchment. He glanced around before Sasuke pointed at a slab of rock jutting out of the ground. Nodding, Naruto walked over to it to spread the map open. Everyone followed to look at it. 

“So, we’re... here,” Naruto said. He pointed to a spot on the map. Neji leaned over to nudge Naruto’s finger into the right spot. Naruto gave a sheepish laugh.  Sakura pinched the bridge of her nose. 

“And we gotta go all the way up to the Deadman’s Peak,” explained Naruto. The tip of his finger traced a path through the desert, through a stretch of blue, and then up a jagged mountain range on the other side. “There’s an ancient temple that’s supposed to house a portal to the Abyss.” 

“And once we’re there, what do we do? ‘Hey there, Demon King’ and-” Tenten interrupted. And then she made a jabbing gesture as she blew a raspberry. Neji snorted beside her. 

“Well, no. I’m supposed to get some legendary weapon along the way. It’s at the bottom of the Sleeping Gulf,” Naruto recited as he recalled some sort of prophecy. 

“Naruto,” Sakura called. 

Eyes bright, Naruto lifted his head to look at her. “Yeah, Sakura?”

“Isn’t the Sleeping Gulf a sea?” she inquired. She pointed at the looping letters that spelled out the name. 

Naruto glanced down at her finger, then back up at her face to nod. “Yep.”

Just to confirm that she wasn’t losing her mind, Sakura looked over her shoulder at the rest of the party. Neji shook his head, as if to warn her that it was pointless to have this conversation. Kisame also made a face as he squinted down at the map. Sasuke didn’t give her any sort of reaction- just stared off into the distance.

“Naruto, can you swim?” Sakura queried. 

Naruto gave a cheerful “nope”, lips popping at the end of the word. 

Sakura nodded a little. “Okay, well, do you have some kind of artifact to get us there, then?”

Naruto shook his head. Normally, this was the part where Sasuke made a sarcastic remark. Oddly enough, he remained silent. Instead, he began very slowly rubbing his temples.

Sakura nodded again. “Fine. Last question.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” questioned Sakura, a sweet smile curving her lips. 

Naruto shrugged. “I figured someone would come up with a plan. This kind of stuff always just works out, right?” he replied. 

As Sasuke’s expression turned murderous, Kakashi, who had read the warning signs in his face, seized him by the back of the cloak. At the same time, Sakura grabbed his hand before he had a chance to grab an arrow from the quiver on his back. 

“Okay. Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page,” Sakura declared in a light voice. 

“He’s gonna get us killed,” Sasuke growled. 

“I know. I know,” Sakura sighed. She used her other hand to pat his back.

They both looked up when they felt a hand clap down on their shoulders. It was Kisame, who gave them a smile. 

“I saw a town a few miles back. Let’s get drunk,” he suggested. 

“Fine,” Sasuke agreed right away. 

“Tenten, let’s go!” Sakura called over her shoulder as she followed after them. 

“Wait for me!” Naruto yelled, scrambling to fold his map up. 

They got uproariously drunk. The kind of drunk where the room started to spin when they turned their heads too fast. 

“Tenten,” Sakura said, patting the back of the other woman’s hand. 

“Yeah?” A smile on her lips, Tenten turned to her. “What?”

“I’m...” Sakura paused to hiccup and then tried again. “I’m so glad you’re here.” And then she leaned in closer. Tenten copied her. 

“I mean, like.... do you- do you see what I have to put up with?” Sakura added. And then both of them looked over at Naruto attempting to chug down an entire tankard of ale. This wouldn’t have been that impressive had they not noticed the five empty tankards sitting beside him. His feat had gathered a small crowd of spectators. A roar of approval rose when Naruto banged his tankard on the table and demanded another. 

Across from Naruto sat Kisame, who was the loudest voice encouraging him to keep drinking. Sasuke sat beside Naruto, still scowling. The plus side was that he didn’t seem intent on attacking Naruto anymore. Asuma had struck up a conversation with a troupe of traveling musicians on the other side of the tavern. His easy smile made it easy for him to ingratiate himself with almost anyone, Sakura had noticed. Kakashi sat in a corner where he had a clear view of both everyone in their party and the door. 

Sakura’s eyes returned to Naruto when she heard him cough. He sputtered on his drink, drawing more laughter and some jeers as they urged him to finish. She wondered whether they had a tab riding on what seemed to be a rather intense competition. 

“The bartender says that if someone vomits, we need to clean it up,” Neji announced as he set more drinks down in front of them. 

“Lovely,” muttered Tenten. And then she shared a snicker with Neji as they stole glances at the grizzled old man staring at them from behind the bar. Sakura barely even noticed this interaction as she heard Naruto slam down his empty drink. Another cheer rose from the crowd that had gathered around his table on the other side of the room.

Sakura continued watching a little longer before she raised her right hand. Her holy symbol hung from a golden chain that she kept wrapped around her forearm. It was probably meant to be worn around the neck, but she preferred it closer to her hand. Plus, the gold eagle was a beautiful work of craftsmanship. 

Tenten’s eyes followed her as she cast a little spell. Sparkles appeared around the tankards that had just arrived at Naruto’s table. None of the people who grabbed the drinks seemed to notice anything unusual. 

“What was that?” asked Tenten. 

“I purified their drinks. It’ll taste the same, but there’s no alcohol in them,” Sakura explained. She watched as Naruto and Kisame each took huge gulps. Their eyes locked and they both began chugging as quickly as possible. “That should keep them from getting too drunk. For now,” she added. 

“Cool. Could you do that for ours, too?” Tenten then queried. 

Sakura turned her attention to their tankards. 

“I mean, yeah, I could,” she admitted. 

“Well don’t. We need to get more drunk,” Tenten then instructed. She grabbed the handle of her drink. Laughing, Sakura lifted hers to knock it against Tenten’s. And then they looked at Neji, waiting. He heaved a sigh, a smile crossing his face as he obliged them with a knock of his drink too.

After another hour or so, Tenten complained of a headache and went to get some air. Before Sakura could suggest that Neji go with her, he turned to give her a pointed look. 

“Go. Go,” she urged him with flaps of her hand. Neji hesitated to look around the room. He locked eyes with Kakashi before he looked at Sakura. Kakashi dipped his head. And then Neji was out of his chair to hurry after Tenten, who apparently was prone to starting fights when she drank too much. 

Sakura watched him, a smirk on her lips. She hadn’t understood what Sasuke had meant all those weeks back. Why would Tenten be the reason why Neji was so tolerant of other races? Elves, especially sun elves, were well-known for their superiority complex. It was the sort of arrogance that rubbed most people the wrong way. But after spending every day together with them, Sakura finally got it. Caught the way his gaze lingered on her. How he smiled just listening to her speak. She wondered whether Tenten had any idea of the elf’s complete infatuation with her. 

“Well hello there, pretty lady.”

Sakura clicked her tongue as someone sat down across from her.

Across the room, Kisame’s head perked up as he heard the slurred pick-up line. Sakura had the expression of someone trying to ignore a mosquito whining in her ear. In front of her sat one of the bar’s other patrons, who had been quietly sitting by himself up until now. As he leaned in to speak, Sakura wrinkled her nose.

Kisame slammed his tankard down. Wiping the foam on his mouth with the back of his hand, he got out of his chair. But as he took a step forward, he saw both Sasuke and Naruto shaking their heads. 

“Don’t bother. It’s faster if she handles it,” Naruto assured him.  

“Five gold that she sends him flying across the room,” Sasuke bet. 

“Nah. She’s gonna set his cloak on fire,” insisted Naruto. And when they both noticed Kisame still standing, they motioned for him to sit. Grunting, Kisame eased back down in his seat, glaring.

Across the room, Sakura heaved a sigh. She had tried telling her unwelcome companion that she was waiting for her friends to return. And that she wasn’t interested in any more company. But the man just went on rambling about himself, her beauty, and mostly himself.

As she began to feel a headache building in her temples, Sakura spoke again: “Hey. Buddy.”

“Yeah, angel?”

Sakura finally looked up, resting her chin in her hand. “How about you go fuck yourself?” she suggested with a sweet smile. And then she opened her mouth to release a flood of black insects. 

“Holy fuck!” the man exclaimed, stumbling backwards. 

A few of the tavern’s other patrons jumped out of their seats too until they saw that the insects only followed the man as he ran around the room. Some grumbled as he knocked into their tables, sloshing their drinks. As the bugs caught up to him, they began biting his neck, his hands, even his face. Screaming, he burst out of the tavern, coughing when some of the bugs flew into his mouth.

He took off into the night, squeals of terror mingling with the fading buzz of insect wings. 

Sakura closed her mouth. A funny look crossed her face. She spat out one last bug into her hand. It gave a pitiful whine as it took off into the air, trying to catch up to the rest of the horde. 

Naruto and Kisame roared with laughter, fists banging against the table. Sasuke smirked as he took another gulp of his alcohol. He scooted over as Sakura settled in beside him. 

“I’m curious about something,” Kisame suddenly said. Everyone looked at him. 

“If that’s what he gets on the first date, what does he get on the second?”

Naruto burst into hysterical giggles. Sakura kept a straight face for about five seconds before she threw her head back and laughed too. 

When Tenten and Neji re-entered the room a couple minutes later, they found Sakura and Naruto both howling with laughter. Naruto banged his fists on the table. Sakura sat with her head pillowed on her arms, just her back shaking. It almost looked like she was crying until she lifted her head and they could see her bright red cheeks.

“You should’ve told him to buzz off,” Kisame suggested. This was evidently not the first pun he had unleashed because Sasuke groaned, his forehead hitting the table. 

The following morning, their party was back on the road. Although Tenten and Asuma winced a little at the sunlight, they seemed to otherwise be in fine shape. Even Naruto, who had earned death glares from the barkeep for drinking an entire cask, was sprightly as they headed down the dirt path. 

Kisame squinted at Naruto’s back. And then he hung back a little to fall into step with Sakura. She shook her head when he offered his canteen of water. 

“So.... Doc,” he said. 

“Yeah?”

“You seem kind of winded,” Kisame began. 

“Do I?” Sakura answered with a smile. 

But Kisame went on. “Yeah. Almost like you’re tired from casting some kind of healing spell on all of us or something,” he observed. 

Sakura looked away from him. But she glanced back when he didn’t say anything else. He was studying her. Black eyes narrowed as he seemed to measure her. 

“Why would you burn a spell slot for something like that?” he wondered. 

It was Sakura’s turn to give him a look. 

“Is wanting my friends to not suffer weird to you?” she asked in return, scowling. Kisame stood dumbfounded as she trudged on. But then she glanced over her shoulder at him to add: “Besides, Sasuke whines non-stop when he’s hungover. Come on. We’re falling behind.”

-----

It took a full day to stock up on all the supplies they would need to travel through the desert wasteland. Once they ventured onto the hot sand, the complaints began. The only exception was Sasuke. As a fire genasi, he was part flame and therefore unbothered by any additional heat. His lack of discomfort offended Sakura, who spared no opportunity to glare at him. 

“Sasuke,” she called. 

“Yeah?” he heaved a sigh. Already rolling his eyes. 

“I just wanted to let you know, from the bottom of my heart, I hate you right now,” she informed him. She squinted up at the sun, then at Sasuke’s sweat-free form. 

“Thank you for that update,” he responded, not looking back at her. 

“If we have to kill one more poisonous snake, I’m gonna lose my mind,” grumbled Kisame, wiping sweat from his brow. 

“You know, if you remove the venom sacs correctly, those are pretty tasty,” Sasuke pointed out, gesturing to the long corpses strewn across the sand. 

Sakura stifled a giggle as Kisame grumbled where Sasuke could shove those venom sacs. But that laugh disappeared as they felt a rumble under their feet. The ground beneath them began to shift. Slowly, they could see scales. Gleaming eyes. Sharp fangs. 

They scrambled backward, grasping for weapons as a gigantic snake rose from its hiding place in the sand. It opened its mouth to let out a hiss. 

“....Well... shit,” Kakashi muttered. Before anyone could talk strategy, Naruto charged at the enormous serpent, greataxe swinging through the air. 

“I like your style, kid!” roared Kisame, charging right after him. 

Groaning, Sasuke turned to Sakura to share at least one commiserating look. Instead, he found her chasing Naruto, trying to grab him so she could cast resistance over him. When he jumped out of her reach, Sakura ground her back molars together. 

“Ah, screw it,” Sakura snapped. She extended her hand, holy symbol glowing as she conjured a spiritual weapon. Which was a spear that jabbed into the side of the snake. It let out a shriek of agony as purple blood spurting from the wound. 

“Nice!” laughed Naruto as he brought his axe down on the snake’s tail. 

The fight itself wasn’t so difficult. It ended rather cleanly with Naruto severing its head from the rest of its body. All was well until a young dragon stumbled out of its cave, drawn by the smell of blood. It opened its mouth to spray their party with fire. Tenten and Sasuke easily leapt out of the way. So did Kakashi and Asuma. Naruto was close enough that he grabbed Sakura and raised his shield just in time to protect them from the blast of heat. 

But the flames engulfed Neji’s arm and shoulder as he dodged a second too late. Kisame grabbed him by the cloak and yanked him out of the way. He threw him to the ground, smacking his hair and clothes to put out the flames.

“Asuma, back me up!” Tenten called as she rolled out from behind her cover to throw several knives at the dragon. Some bounced harmlessly off the tough hide. One burrowed into the soft spot on its throat. It roared in response.

“Got it!” yelled Asuma in return. 

“Naruto, get me to Neji,” Sakura said, shaking his arm a little. Without hesitation, Naruto grabbed her and threw her as hard as he could across the sand. She collided with Kisame’s back. She didn’t have time to apologize as she shoved past him. 

Neji grit his teeth, good hand clenching into the sand. Through the singed fabric of his shirt, she could see his skin- red and shiny. Already blistering where it had come into contact with the flames. They could hear the dragon unleash another roar as it swiped its claw out toward them. Sasuke’s swords slashed down onto its foot. A shriek filled the air as the beast turned on Sasuke instead, momentarily distracted.

“This is gonna hurt,” Sakura warned. Before Neji could ask, she placed her hand on his raw skin and recited the spell that would knit his skin back together. The downside was that meant that all his nerve endings regrew together along with his skin. Sakura knew first-hand how excruciating it could be. Which was why Sakura was unsurprised when Neji cried out. 

The dragon, which had been bashing the ground with a spiked tail, froze. Smoke puffing from its nostrils, it turned back toward them. 

“Fuck fuck fuck- Sakura! Look out!” Naruto shouted.

As the scales around the dragon’s throat began to glow, Sakura could see more smoke billowing from its mouth. Throwing her hand up, she drew on her magic to cast a command spell on it. She wasn’t even sure whether the spell had taken hold before she screamed, “STOP!” as loudly as she could.

And for a moment, the dragon froze. It stood there, glaring at her with bloodshot eyes. 

“Cool. My turn!”

The dragon turned in the direction of the voice right in time for Naruto’s javelin to pierce its right eye. The screech that left its mouth made Sakura’s ears ring. 

“Alright. Time to go, folks,” Kakashi announced, shuffling away from the dragon. 

“Naruto, you idiot! Warn us before you pull shit like this!” Sasuke howled. He grabbed a fistful of Asuma’s shirt and hauled him to his feet. 

“Sorry!” Naruto yelled right back as he fled.

Sakura’s gaze flickered from the enraged dragon to Neji still lying in the sand. As she tried to figure out how best to move him, Kisame scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder. At the same time, he did the same for Neji and threw him over his other shoulder. And then he began running as fast as he could. 

A column of swirling flame erupted from the dragon’s jaws.

“Run faster!” she yelped, slapping Kisame’s back. But even as he raced across the sand, she could see the tongues of flames drawing closer and closer. Squeezing her eyes shut, she cast a shield around Kisame, praying that it would be enough to protect all three of them.

“Shit!” Sakura exclaimed as the flash of heat burned across her hand. The falcon emblem fell from her grasp, landing in the sand.  But besides the stinging in her palm, everything else seemed alright. When she squeezed one eye open, she understood why. 

Neji, barely conscious, had managed to conjure a sleet storm over the beast. As the snow and rain pelted the sand, they extinguished the flame. The dragon scrabbled for purchase on the slick ice that had covered the sand. It huffed more fire as it struggled to gain its footing. But after a moment, it skid on a particularly slick patch and fell to the ground. 

“Eat shit, dragon tits!” Tenten howled as she raised her crossbow and unleashed a bolt in the dragon’s direction. The scaly beast writhed as the bolt drove deep into its side. 

“Kill it! I’m almost out of spell slots!” Sakura called to no one in particular. 

“Dibs!” Naruto whooped as he raised his greataxe. 

“Put your back into it, kid!” Kisame reminded him. And then, a moment later, Kisame added in a smaller voice, “Oh, shit, the ice.”

“Oh,” Sakura and Neji both said. 

Everyone watched as Naruto slipped. His momentum sent him barreling straight into the dragon, the blade of his axe plunging into the moaning creature’s  chest. 

“Oh, nevermind. That was good,” Sakura sighed with relief. 

“OW!”

With its final breath, the dragon mustered enough energy to smash its tail into Naruto’s chest, knocking him to the ground. 

“... sort of,” Sakura amended. 

Everyone waited to make sure that the dragon had stopped moving before they slowly began moving. Tenten hunted down the weapons she had dropped in her hurry. And once she had collected those, she climbed atop the fallen beast to wrench her knives from its leathery flesh. 

“Owwww. Sakuraaaa. Fix me!” Naruto whined, waving a hand in no particular direction. The front of his shirt was soaked dark red as his blood soaked through. It couldn’t have been anything too serious from the way he was both conscious and speaking. But Sakura still didn’t feel like risking it. 

“Do you want me to take you over there?” asked Kisame. 

Sakura glanced at him. She had forgotten that she was still flopped over Kisame’s shoulder. She noticed a faint scar running along the side of his neck, all the way from behind his ear, disappearing into his shirt. 

“Nah. This one’s verbal. I don’t have to touch him,” she replied.

Closing her eyes, Sakura muttered the healing prayer that she had learned many years ago. Green light encased her hand. As the divine energy flowed through her, the red streak on her hand shrunk and faded. And from on top of the melting ice, she heard Naruto inform her, “Thanks, Sakura! I’m good!”

Kisame looked from Sakura to Neji. He scratched his nose as he thought. And then he said, “You know, you guys can get down now.”

“Don’t feel like it,” Sakura responded. 

“Your shoulder is really comfortable,” Neji agreed. 

Glowering, Kisame shrugged and sent both of them tumbling into the sand. 

By the time they’d gathered their things (and Kakashi, for some reason, had harvested some of the dragon’s teeth of all things), it was time to start thinking about setting up camp. Kakashi started a fire while Asuma went to explore the dragon’s cave to see if they could take shelter inside. As Sasuke went looking for water, Sakura patted her bare wrist. She searched her pockets. 

“Ah, shit, I think I lost my holy symbol,” she announced. 

Naruto’s ears perked up. Throwing his head back, he cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Sasuke!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. 

Tenten snorted, hand on her hips. “Naruto, there’s no way he’ll hear you.” 

Ignoring her, Naruto tried again. Louder this time. “SASUKE!”

And then, there was a faint reply from far away. 

“What?!”

Kisame let out a snort. Neji shook his head in disbelief. 

“Sakura lost her holy symbol!”

There was a pause. And then Sasuke called, “Her what?”

Naruto wrinkled his nose. “Her necklace, stupid!”

There was an even longer pause. 

“Then find it, stupid!”

Naruto tilted his head to one side as he considered that. “Oh yeah.” And then he spun around once, staring at the sand surrounding them on all sides. 

“Where’d you last have your necklace thingy, Sakura? Sakura?”

Naruto turned back around to find Sakura squatting in the sand, her head in her hands. He rushed over to her. 

“Are you alright? Are you sick? Is it because you don’t have your god necklace?” babbled Naruto, shaking her shoulder. It took Sakura a long time to raise her head. And when she did, she was pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. 

“Naruto.”

“Yeah?”

“....If I knew where I had my symbol last, do you think it would still be lost?” she questioned slowly. Patiently. 

Naruto tilted his head to the other side, taking a long time to think. And then he looked at Sakura to shrug. “I don’t know. I’m not the one who lost it,” he answered. He looked bewildered as Kisame walked past to slap him a high five. Naruto’s confusion lasted for all of five seconds before he looked over and saw that Sakura was gone. He spotted her disappearing over a dune of sand, Tenten and Neji running not far behind her. 

“Hey! Wait up!” Naruto yelled. He grabbed the sleeve of Kisame’s tunic as he took off. 

“Why are you dragging me too?” demanded Kisame, scrambling to keep up with him. 

“It’s not fair if Sakura gets a buddy and I don’t. Duh,” Naruto answered before he continued on in his mad dash through the sand. Kisame toyed with the idea of gnawing his own arm off to escape before he sighed and decided to follow along. 

They scoured the sands for several minutes. It was easy to see where they’d been from the corpses of snakes littering their path. Some of them were missing. There were plenty of hungry scavengers in the desert who were probably glad for a free meal. Tenten kicked one of the snakes aside to check underneath.

“Dude, help me move this,” said Naruto, pointing at a giant boulder. Neji stared at him. 

“Why would it be under there?” demanded Neji. 

Naruto rubbed the side of his nose. “Dunno. Maybe it crawled under there? With god powers? Can it do that?”

Neji just continued staring at him. But Naruto started to really think now. 

“Hey, Sakura, can your holy thing move on its own? Is it, like, alive?” wondered Naruto. 

“I think Naruto’s saying something,” Tenten pointed out. Sakura straightened, dusting sand from her hands. 

“Just ignore him. He’ll stop eventually,” muttered Sakura in return. 

“Oh. There it is. Right by your foot,” Naruto pointed out a little while later. Sakura followed his finger. She squinted until she saw a little glint of gold next to Kisame’s boot.

For some reason, Kisame hesitated. His eyes darted from the gleaming symbol to Naruto. But when Sakura took a step forward, Kisame held out his hand to stop her.

“It’s alright. I got it,” Kisame assured her. He grabbed it and handed it over to her. Sakura accepted it with a smile. But as he turned away, he flexed his hand. Clenching and unclenching his fingers. Forehead wrinkling, Sakura began to wonder about it before she heard Naruto call her name.

“It’s gonna get dark. Let’s go back!” Naruto urged. 

Sakura hesitated for one last second. Feeling her stare, Kisame glanced over his shoulder at her. His eyes sharpened for a moment as he caught her gaze. Sakura didn’t look away as she thought. Slowly, she offered him a smile. 

“Let’s go, big guy,” she said. 

After a moment, Kisame smiled, too. “Sure, Doc,” he replied.

They turned around and headed back in the direction of their camp for the night.

[goforwardgreenwriter-blog]

The Worm Reads: The Assassin’s Blade, Ch 28-29

A great way to start your first year in college is reading shitty YA novels.

We open up with Celery and some other assassins helping Ilias and the Master.

A few sniffs revealed that the wine had been laced with a small amount of gloriella, just enough to paralyze him, not kill him. (...) How had he not noticed it before he drank? Perhaps he wasn’t as humble as he seemed; perhaps he’d been arrogant enough to believe that he was safe here.

I am going to lose my shit. I am actually going to go insane.

You didn’t fucking notice either Celery you goddamn waste of space piece of shit!!!!!!! You were drugged the same as him, you don’t get to act all high and mighty!!!!! Fuck you, Celery. I was considering snarking the rest of the series but Jesus Christ this is actually making me fucking exhausted to the point where I don’t know if I can handle it.

The next few pages do that shitty thing where each scene is only a sentence or two long and they have to use the scene indicator a million times and it looks fucking ugly. Look at this.

Shit’s ugly, man. Anyways, Celery lets Ansel go even though she murdered innocent people and generally fucked everything up because of reasons, I suppose.

The Master calls Celery into his room later to talk (yeah, he can talk now) to her about how poor Ansel lost her family. Yeah, still doesn’t justify her murdering Mikhail and other people who considered her their friends.

He walked to a latticework hutch, as if he were giving her the time to regain her composure, and pulled out a letter. By the time he returned to her, Celaena’s eyes were clear. “When you give this to your master, hold your head high.” She took the letter. Her recommendation.

I wish the Master was in a better book, he truly deserves it.

He also gives Celery a bunch of gold to help pay off her debts, and even though I hate Celery and she doesn’t deserve it, the Master is too pure, too good for this world?

Sunlight gleamed on the gold inside, reflecting through the room like light on water. All that gold … and the piece of Spidersilk the merchant had given her … she couldn’t think of the possibilities that wealth would open to her, not right now. “When you give your master his letter, also give him this. And tell him that in the Red Desert, we do not abuse our disciples.

I think I stan him now? Yeah, I stan a minor character whose never gonna appear again. That’s how shitty the cast is in this book.

With that, that brings this shitty, shitty story to a close. I hate this one the most so far; horrible writing, horrible characters, Celery continues to grow even more unlikable, and there wasn’t even any Sammy in there to cling onto. Let’s just start the next one.

The next story is called The Assassin and the Underworld. Ow the edge.

The cavernous entrance hall of the Assassins’ Keep was silent as Celaena Sardothien stalked across the marble floor, a letter clutched between her fingers.

And we’re starting off with another Celery POV. Joy. At least The Healer short story allowed us tiny breaks with Yrene. Will I ever get my beloved Sammy POV?

So Celery marches into Arobynn’s study and tosses the letter at him, growing immediately pissy when he doesn’t open it.

She looked at the exquisite red carpet beneath her feet. Someone had done a splendid job of getting all the blood out. How much of the blood on the carpet had been hers—and how much of it had belonged to Sam Cortland, her rival and co-conspirator in the destruction of Arobynn’s slave agreement?

Good lord SJM, we know who Sammy is, stop info dumping us about shit we already know.

“If I could take back that night, Celaena, I would.” He leaned over the edge of the desk, his hands now forming fists.

So Arobynn pulls the abuse shtick of apologizing again and again for abusing Celery, and I hope to god she isn’t stupid enough to fall for it.

“Every day,” he went on. “Every day since you left, I’ve gone to the temple of Kiva to pray for forgiveness.” She might have snorted at the idea of the King of the Assassins kneeling before a statue of the God of Atonement, but his words were so raw. Was it possible that he actually regretted what he had done?

I swear to fucking god if I have to read Celery forgiving her abuser and handwaving his abuse away I am actually going to Kermit

Father, brother, lover—he’d never really declared himself any of them. Certainly not the lover part, though if Celaena had been another sort of girl, and if Arobynn had raised her differently, perhaps it might have come to that. He loved her like family, yet he put her in the most dangerous positions. He nurtured and educated her, yet he’d obliterated her innocence the first time he’d made her end a life. He’d given her everything, but he’d also taken everything away.

I am actually cringing so hard right now this is a major Yikes. Regardless of how many presents he buys you or if he acts nice sometimes, he’s still an abuser! He still beat the shit out of you and threatened to kick you out of your home if you didn’t get what he wanted!

So yeah Celery decides “oh well I’m not telling him about the gold I have and my plans to leave him” so fuck the Mute Master for giving you all that gold, I guess? Fuck you, Celery, just fuck you.

“Benzo Doneval is coming to Rifthold,” Arobynn said. Celaena cocked her head. She’d heard of Doneval—he was an immensely powerful businessman from Melisande, a country far to the southwest, and one of Adarlan’s newer conquests

Another boring fucker like Lord Berick who probably won’t even make an appearance? Seems likely.

Doneval is friends with a queen of Melisande that surrendered her crown to the King of Adarlan and he’s here to discuss building a trading road to help get some wealth rolling in Melisande.

Doneval also wants to set up a slavery trade in Adarlan, so Arobynn has been hired to take him out. Great. More of using slaves to prop Celery up, I see.

She was beginning to see where this was going. Doneval was practically wrapped in a ribbon for her. All she had to do was find out what time the meeting would take place, learn his defenses, and figure out a way around them.

I cannot wait to see how she fucks up this supposedly easy mission.

And even though there was no excuse in this world for what he had done, Arobynn was all she had. The history that lay between them, dark and twisted and full of secrets, was forged by more than just gold. And if she left him, if she paid off her debts right now and never saw him again …

Yeah, you read that right. Celery forgives her abuser because he raised her. Holy fuck, this is very uncomfortable for personal reasons I’m not going to get into, but just because someone raises you doesn’t mean you owe them shit. Fucking hell, SJM, do you know how humans function? Do you read your own shitty novels before you send them off to be printed?

Celery peaces out of there after lowkey forgiving her abuser which is. sjkhakdhkadhjk.

A passing servant bowed his head, eyes averted. Everyone who worked here knew more or less who she was, and would keep her identity secret on pain of death

But like??? Just???? Why?? Why is this a thing why why why why.

She clenched her hands into fists and was about to whirl and stomp back down the stairs to tell Arobynn that she was leaving and that he no longer owned her, when someone stepped into the elegantly appointed hall. Sam Cortland.

THERE HE IS THERE’S MY BOY THERE’S MY BOY

I missed Sammy so much holy shit, I can’t believe I’m actually excited to read this book for once. Sammy deserves such a better series.

No missing limbs, no limp, no indication of anything haunting him. His chestnut hair had gotten a little longer, but it suited him. And he was tan—gloriously tan, as if he’d spent the whole summer basking in the sun.

I’m so happy in fact, I barely did more than roll my eyes at the tanning thing. Sammy is here and he’s not maimed or harmed! No doubt that’ll change by the end for Celery’s angst but let me have this while it lasts.

“Are you hurt?” Sam asked quietly, taking another step closer. It took her a moment to realize that his imagination had probably taken him to a far, far worse place when she said someone had held a blade to her throat.

Please tell me that wasn’t a casual reference to sexual assault. Please tell me.

He was now looking more closely at her, at the almost invisible white line along her cheek—another gift from Ansel—at her hands, at everything. His lean, muscled body tensed. His chest had gotten broader, too.

I love how Sammy was implied to be an average sized dude until SJM decided Celery needs to thirst for him, and then BAM instant broad shouldered buff hottie. This series is so fucking ridiculous we are reaching Twilight levels.

“Sam!” a dark-haired, green-eyed young woman chided, laughter on her lips. “There you—” The girl’s eyes met Celaena’s. Celaena stopped smiling as she recognized her.

Oh great, more fucking girl hate. Listen, I’m not gonna pretend all women are perfect delicate angels who do nothing wrong and that all women get along 100% of the time but I’m sick and tired of all girls in YA not getting along. Why can’t girls just... be friends? Be civil and kind to one another? You know, how it mostly is in real life?

“Lysandra,” Celaena echoed. She’d met Lysandra when they were both ten, and in the seven years that they’d known each other, Celaena couldn’t recall a time when she didn’t want to beat in the girl’s face with a brick.

Oh great, it’s Lysandra to boot. Those who read my E0S know she was a decent character, certainly one who deserved better than to be a love interest for Assdion. Can’t wait for Celery to slut shame her a million times in this novel!

Apparently Lysandra and Celery cat fight all the time and one time Lysandra stole a fan from Celery so she beat the shit out of her. Lovely.

“[Arobynn] invited your future clients here?” “Oh, no.” Lysandra giggled. “This is just for me and the girls. And Clarisse, of course.” She used her madam’s name, too, like a weapon, a word meant to crush and dominate—a word that whispered: I am more important than you; I have more influence than you; I am everything and you are nothing.

Literally nothing that Lysandra said implied any of that, but go off on how important you supposedly are, Celery. She doesn’t have the brain power to comprehend people’s lives don’t revolve around her.

Lysandra lifted her chin, looking down her delicately freckled nose at Celaena. “My Bidding is in six days. They expect me to break all the records.” Celaena had seen a few young courtesans go through the Bidding process—girls trained until they were seventeen, when their virginity was sold to the highest bidder.

I know shit like this happened in real life, but the fact that Lysandra is excited about it is.... bleh. I already know SJM is gonna be super fucking tasteless about serious topics like this.

“Sam,” Lysandra went on, putting a slender hand on his arm, “has been so helpful with making sure all the preparations are ready for my Bidding party.” Celaena was surprised at the swiftness of her desire to rip that hand right off Lysandra’s wrist. Just because he sympathized with the courtesans didn’t mean he had to be so … friendly with them.

Oh, fuck you, Celery. Just because you have a crush on Sammy doesn’t mean he owes you shit. If he wants to be with Lysandra, that’s his right and he has no obligations to return your feelings!!! But no, use it as an excuse to slut shame Lysandra. You fucking piece of shit.

Though Lysandra’s virginity was unquestionable—it had to be—there were plenty of other things that she could still do. Things that she might have done with Sam …

This fucking bitch I swear to god.

1. Way to slut shame and portray it as a good thing if the girl “‘deserves it”“, SJM!

2. So what if Sammy and Lysandra had sex with each other? Sammy has no obligation to like you back or save himself for you. Jesus fucking christ.

Celery runs off to have a cry and literally nobody gives a shit. The end.

[scapegoated]

One Month [Chapter 2]

Chapter 1 HERE

-- Sleep In

Kaid’s eyes opened, with a sense of disorientation. He was lying in a bed… a very comfortable bed… and not on the hard ground in a somewhat cramped Tiny Hut. Three adventurers and a God do take up a fair bit of space.

However, this bed was only occupied by himself at the moment… he sat up with a start. What time is it…? A warm glow was coming in the window, so he assumed it was the Underdark equivalent of daytime. It was easy to lose track down here, but less so in the Crystal City with its multi-coloured, faceted and glowing structure. It was bright enough now that Oz had probably left to perform his clerical duties.

Gazing about the room he took in the simple but sturdy furniture, topped with various crafts and knickknacks. It spoke of a comfortable life spent mostly in one place. Even as a child Kaid and his parents were always on the move. As travelling merchants their life wasn’t unstable, but it also was less than stationary. That being said, they caravan was cozy, and his father especially loved collecting souvenirs—much to his more practical mother’s chagrin. Something about the room stirred a feeling of nostalgia in Kaid.

Hopping out of bed, he Levitated the bedcovers with a flick of the hand, easily tidying up, yet with a seeping thought in the back of his mind—did using his powers make the psychic beacon coming from him stronger?

Ah… where’s my stuff… he wondered, then realizing that he’d left his pack behind in his rush to escape that meeting the night before.

Shit… he pulled on the rest of his clothes, recalling his paper-thin excuse from yesterday. Kaid anticipated at least some teasing about that.

Heading downstairs, and upon entering the kitchen he spotted something shiny on the table, along with a note. A key…? Written on the paper was a short message,

Had to leave for work, but didn’t want to wake you. Here’s a key to the place. You can add it to your collection. See you later!

Oz

With a smile creeping onto his face Kaid untied the rope of the necklace around his neck and added the freshly made house key.

 -- Dynamo, baby

 Kaid’s walk back to the seat of the government was somewhat more leisurely than his dash to find Oz, but he was still in a bit of a hurry as he walked through the parks of the Sanctuary of Ermath—the temple district of the Crystal City. It was also a lot less frantic than the last time he was here. When the city was under attack by fanatical Crystal Cultists, things were understandably tenser. ­­­

Now he could see members of the predominantly Dwarven population out and about with their families. Playing, socializing, having picnics. It was, to put it simply, nice. He put a little more hustle in his step.

 Back at the Seat of the Triumvirate, Hans and Charlie were already talking with the appropriate parties to make preparations for the coming plans when Kaid slunk into the chamber. Of course the hinges on the door creaked as he opened it, earning him an assortment of pointed and couple of perceptive looks before, mercifully, everyone returned to their discussions. Cringing, Kaid approached, trying to get a feel of the conversation before jumping in.

“Charlie, what’s the scoop?” he whispered to the Dhampir ranger.

“We just got Andre to hook us up with some more Dynamo Stones for when we leave. Plus,” he held out his hand, revealing two more detonator rings, “Now we can all set them off.”

“Damn, nice!” Kaid replied, taking one of the rings. “I’m pretty sure we can fit everything in the Handy Haversack…” he trailed off. “We took that with us to our room last night, don’t even worry about it. How was the library situation? Didn’t know it was open so late.” Charlie grinned, his one crystal fang shining as he gave Kaid a nudge in the arm.

“Uhh, yeah, learning never stops, I always say.” Kaid fumbled for a witty reply.

Hans was standing tall, arms folded across his chest, talking to Gordon, the head of the city guard and now one of the three Triumvirate members. “Aye, looking into these attacks on yonder Mushroom Folk is a wise idea, lad.” Gordon and Hans had had quite the buddy cop dynamic, and it seems they were slipping back into it with ease. “It may take, ach, two maybe three weeks ta comb that area, with the information ye provided. Will ye wait for the expedition ta come back or will ye lads be heading out?”

Kaid looked back and forth between Charlie and Hans, he knew they’d chomping at the bit to get on the road but… Please please let’s stay. For a little while. He had closed his eyes, and opening them again Kaid wasn’t entirely sure if he’d sent that out telepathically or not, from the way his teammates glanced back.

“It would be ideal to have that information before we resurface,” Hans declared, turning back to Gordon. The stout Dwarf reached up to clap the much taller half-elf Rogue on the back. Kaid’s heart did a flip flop with relief, and excitement, Two or three weeks!

“T’will be advantageous to have ye around again, von Panzer! The lads of the guard could do with a little training, can’t have us gettin’ lax just ‘cause you dealt with the previous threat. Best be on our toes.”

“Training, huh? I feel like I’m just about to break through to my next level of potential,” Hans von Panzer had a familiar glint in his eye, “Let’s get to it.” That red cape billowed impressively as he and Gordon strolled off, the Dwarf struggling just a little to match his stride.

 -- Armor for Charlie

 “Here’s your stuff, Kaid,” Charlie easily lifted the enchanted bag, handing it to the tiefling, “Don’t worry, we didn’t peek.” Kaid had to laugh at that, since it was mostly shared items; the Dynamo Stones, some gems they’d picked up, some chunks of mithril ore, their dwindling rations, various books. “That’s fine, I think you know most of my inventory already.”

“Speaking of, did you get some new bling?” Charlie nodded towards the freshly acquired key around his neck.

Shit. “Uh, yeah…” he wondered if there was any point in keeping up this pretence, after all he was only being evasive because he was shy.

“So, was thinking of going to the archery range, but I should totally look into getting that mithril armor made while we’re here. Been in touch with your Forge Cleric…” he coughed, “boyfriend?”

Kaid covered his face for a minute. Scratch that. There was absolutely no point in keeping up the pretence, “Yeah, I was there last night… I don’t think Oz makes armor, but he would definitely know someone who does. Can I get back to you with a recommendation?”

Charlie beamed—though it’s hard to picture a Dhampir beaming, Charlie is an expert—clapping Kaid on the shoulder, “Yeah, buddy! I’m gonna hit the archery range, then. Can’t let these arms get rusty!” he made his signature pose before walking off with a wave over his shoulder at Kaid.

 -- The Library, actually

 The Warlock didn’t have any books to return, but he did truly need to go to the Library. That at least had only been partially a lie. There were two pressing issues. First of all, they were slated to return from the Underdark to the topside of Cymmeria, which they’d left because it was infested with vampires. Thus, they needed as much information on the creatures as possible.

Secondly, there was the lingering prophecy that had been following him around—literally—most likely connected to the shadowy figures, and certainly connected to the Mind Flayers.

 MADNESS WILL FOLLOW YOU WHEREVER YOU GO

YOUR SALVATION LIES IN THE UNBREAKABLE SPIRE

 A comforting thought. Earlier communication with Kaid’s mentor, the Mage named Malfier, had revealed some details. Mainly that this “Unbreakable Spire”—possibly named The Temple of Cryx—was in the Underdark, but it was beyond The Abyss. Also a Shadow Dragon was taking up residence there. Oh, not to mention, The Abyss is Mind Flayer City. Of course.

With these two issues in his periphery, he found himself at the city’s Library. An impressive structure, found in The Arcanum, hub of magical research and arcane experimentation. There was also a library in The Temple district, but he figured with the sought after topics, The Arcanum was his best bet.

Kaid walked up to the front desk and leaned on the counter, whispering “Do I need to fill out a form to get a library card?”

An older Dwarven woman, red hair streaked with grey, peered up at him through thick glasses, “My, don’t ye look familiar? Aren’t ye one of the heroes in that statue in the park?”

Not really used to such notoriety, Kaid was a little startled but mostly pleased, “Uh, yeah! That’s me, Kaid Valvenom.”

“Right’ye are! Mr. Valvenom. Well don’t you be frettin’ about the library card, I don’t s’ppose yer settling down here? I’ve known a few adventurers in my time. Not much for settlin’ down.” She gets a misty look in her eye, and before Kaid can answer she starts up, “Well, look at me, talkin’ yer ear off. If ye need any help just give me a holler, Miss Yergi to ya. Jus’ don’t make me track ye down for late fees.”

“Just Kaid is fine—actually I have two topics I’m interested in, if you could help me out…”

It didn’t take Miss Yergi too long to locate some heavy tomes, most of which she carried to a little reading nook, carved out of the crystal. It had a small light, and some cushions. Kaid figured he would make a dent in some reading here, save himself some effort in carrying them back to... Oz’s. Lifting wasn’t his forte, and using Telekenesis was kind of overkill.  Sinking into the cushions he tucked into the first book, “The Vampire, In Lore and Legend”.

 Losing track of the time, Kaid’s notebook became filled with information about the various weaknesses and strengths of their foes above. Radiant damage, stakes, resting places, Holy water… The Temple of Cryx proved to be more elusive, but there was one text that seemed like it had relevant information, so that’s the one he packed up for further reading when Miss Yergi gently informed him that the library was closing for the night.

Not a 24 hour establishment after all; noted.

It was at that point that Kaid realized he had no idea what time it was, as well as no idea when Oz actually finished up with his Cleric work for the day. Better get a move on.

“I’ll bring this back soon!” he mentioned to the kindly librarian in a hushed tone, before heading off into the softly glowing city.

TO BE CONTINUED...

[poorquentyn]

I'm re reading IT right now (slowly, as adult life is getting in the way) and was wondering what other bad storytelling choices you thought king made besides the. Uh. Sewer scene? Its been years since ive read it and nothing else really stood out to me as poor storytelling that i can remember. I'll read it for myself eventually but was curious of your thoughts. Love your blog!

Thanks! Stephen King often veers into caricature with his supporting characters, and It is no exception. The way he describes Eddie’s mom and wife physically goes well beyond the narratively useful purpose of establishing how their weight disorders have intertwined with Eddie’s hypochondria and into “ugh fat people are gross” territory. I don’t think King has conscious malignance in this area, because he finds a proper balance with Ben: the latter describes in realistic detail how he lost weight over time, his mom is upset that he’s eating less but is presented humanely (as someone who associates her son eating a lot with her doing well as a single mother), and King manages to avoid shaming Ben for his weight while also acknowledging that Ben personally feels a lot better about himself after having shed it–or rather, because of the confidence he gained in himself by taking charge of the situation. The idea here is not “Ben needs to lose weight because gross” but rather “Ben needs to be in control of his body.” 

The good doesn’t wipe out the bad, nor vice versa; gotta consider them both in context. Main characters are naturally going to get more nuance than supporting characters, but necessary shorthand can easily turn into harmful caricature. And of course, a storytelling choice that seems solid in isolation can become a problem within the work as a whole. Beverly is sexualized throughout It in a way that’s often very unpleasant to read, associated throughout with violence and misogyny. Sometimes this works, as a way of peeling back the layers of petty ego driving a man’s man like her husband Tom; he explodes at her in their introductory scene because her paying attention to Mike’s call instead of him makes him feel like he’s literally not there. Other times it doesn’t, like when King lingers on the “smell” that Bev and her father “make together” now that she’s reaching puberty. We don’t need that to get the point that Bev’s father has inappropriate feelings for her–we got that from Bev’s mom asking if he ever touches her. When you put both sides of the coin together with the infamous sex scene in the sewers and the amount of time spent on whether Bev will choose Ben or Bill, it starts to look less like King was taking a stand against objectification by showing its omnipresence than that he simply didn’t know what to do with Bev as a character without constantly making reference to sex, rape, assault, and molestation. While she does get some right to response on these matters, I don’t think it’s nearly enough. It pushes back against a mindset that casually treats women like objects, but fails to establish a counter-narrative rooted in the female characters as individuals, fleshed out beyond their relationships to the men around them. It’s less a question of Does Stephen King Hate Women than one of imagination and empathy. 

Of course, some flaws are lessened by context, rather than enhanced by it. Take, for example, our protagonist William Denbrough, a blatant author insert. Bill is a popular horror author (check) whose books are increasingly being adapted for TV and film (check) and who has a rather tense relationship with critics and academics (double check). The latter is spelled out in an extended flashback to Bill’s college days, in which he takes a stand that ought to be very familiar to anyone steeped in modern media discourse:

Here is a poor boy from the state of Maine who goes to the University on a scholarship. All his life he has wanted to be a writer, but when he enrolls in the writing courses he finds himself lost without a compass in a strange and frightening land. There’s one guy who wants to be Updike. There’s another one who wants to be a New England version of Faulkner-only he wants to write novels about the grim lives of the poor in blank verse. There’s a girl who admires Joyce Carol Gates but feels that because Oates was nurtured in a sexist society she is “radioactive in a literary sense.” Oates is unable to be clean, this girl says. She will be cleaner. There’s the short fat grad student who can’t or won’t speak above a mutter. This guy has written a play in which there are nine characters. Each of them says only a single word. Little by little the playgoers realize that when you put the single words together you come out with “War is the tool of the sexist death merchants.” This fellow’s play receives an A from the man who teaches Eh-141 (Creative Writing Honors Seminar). This instructor has published four books of poetry and his master’s thesis, all with the University Press. He smokes pot and wears a peace medallion. The fat mutterer’s play is produced by a guerrilla theater group during the strike to end the war which shuts down the campus in May of 1970. The instructor plays one of the characters.

Bill Denbrough, meanwhile, has written one locked-room mystery tale, three science-fiction stories, and several horror tales which owe a great deal to Edgar Allan Poe, H. P. Lovecraft, and Richard Matheson-in later years he will say those stories resembled a mid-1800s funeral hack equipped with a supercharger and painted Day-Glo red.

One of the sf tales earns him a B.

“This is better,” the instructor writes on the title page. “In the alien counterstrike we see the vicious circle in which violence begets violence; I particularly liked the “needle-nosed” spacecraft as a symbol of socio-sexual incursion. While this remains a slightly confused undertone throughout, it is interesting.”

All the others do no better than a C.

Finally he stands up in class one day, after the discussion of a sallow young woman’s vignette about a cow’s examination of a discarded engine block in a deserted field (this may or may not be after a nuclear war) has gone on for seventy minutes or so. The sallow girl, who smokes one Winston after another and picks occasionally at the pimples which nestle in the hollows of her temples, insists that the vignette is a socio-political statement in the manner of the early Orwell. Most of the class-and the instructor-agree, but still the discussion drones on.

When Bill stands up, the class looks at him. He is tail, and has a certain presence.

Speaking carefully, not stuttering (he has not stuttered in better than five years), he says: “I don’t understand this at all. I don’t understand any of this. Why does a story have to be socio-anything? Politics… culture… history… aren’t those natural ingredients in any story, if it’s told well? I mean… ” He looks around, sees hostile eyes, and realizes dimly that they see this as some sort of attack. Maybe it even is. They are thinking, he realizes, that maybe there is a sexist death merchant in their midst. “I mean… can’t you guys just let a story be a story?”

No one replies. Silence spins out. He stands there looking from one cool set of eyes to the next. The sallow girl chuffs out smoke and snubs her cigarette in an ashtray she has brought along in her backpack.

Finally the instructor says softly, as if to a child having an inexplicable tantrum, “do you believe William Faulkner was ‘just telling stories’? Do you believe Shakespeare was just interested in making a buck? Come now, Bill. Tell us what you think.”

“I think that’s pretty close to the truth,” Bill says after a long moment in which he honestly considers the question, and in their eyes he reads a kind of damnation.

“I suggest,” the instructor says, toying with his pen and smiling at Bill with half-lidded eyes, “that you have a great deal to learn.”

The applause starts somewhere in the back of the room.

Bill leaves… but returns the next week, determined to stick with it. In the time between he has written a story called “The Dark,” a tale about a small boy who discovers a monster in the cellar of his house. The little boy faces it, battles it, finally kills it. He feels a land of holy exaltation as he goes about the business of writing this story; he even feels that he is not so much telling the story as he is allowing the story to flow through him. At one point he puts his pen down and takes his hot and aching hand out into ten-degree December cold where it nearly smokes from the temperature change. He walks around, green cut-off boots squeaking in the snow like tiny shutter-hinges which need oil, and his head seems to bulge with the story; it is a little scary, the way it needs to get out. He feels that if it cannot escape by way of his racing hand that it will pop his eyes out in its urgency to escape and be concrete. “Going to knock the shit out of it,” he confides to the blowing winter dark, and laughs a little-a shaky laugh. He is aware that he has finally discovered how to do just that-after ten years of trying he has suddenly found the starter button on the vast dead bulldozer taking up so much space inside his head. It has started up. It is revving, revving. It is nothing pretty, this big machine. It was not made for taking pretty girls to proms. It is not a status symbol. It means business. It can knock things down. If he isn’t careful, it will knock him down.

He rushes inside and finishes “The Dark” at white heat, writing until four o'clock in the morning and finally falling asleep over his ring-binder. If someone had suggested to him that he was really writing about his brother, George, he would have been surprised. He has not thought about George in years-or so he honestly believes.

The story comes back from the instructor with an F slashed into the tide page. Two words are scrawled beneath, in capital letters. PULP, screams one. CRAP, screams the other.

Bill takes the fifteen-page sheaf of manuscript over to the wood-stove and opens the door. He is within a bare inch of tossing it in when the absurdity of what he is doing strikes him. He sits down in his rocking chair, looks at a Grateful Dead poster, and starts to laugh. Pulp? Fine! Let it be pulp! The woods were full of it!

“Let them fucking trees fall!” Bill exclaims, and laughs until tears spurt from his eyes and roll down his face.

He retypes the title page, the one with the instructor’s judgment on it, and sends it off to a men’s magazine named White Tie (although from what Bill can see, it really should be titled Naked Girls Who Look Like Drug Users). Yet his battered Writer’s Market says they buy horror stories, and the two issues he has bought down at the local mom-and-pop store have indeed contained four horror stories sandwiched between the naked girls and the ads for dirty movies and potency pills. One of them, by a man named Dennis Etchison, is actually quite good.

He sends “The Dark” off with no real hopes-he has submitted a good many stories to magazines before with nothing to show for it but rejection slips-and is flabbergasted and delighted when the fiction editor of White Tie buys it for two hundred dollars, payment on publication. The assistant editor adds a short note which calls it “the best damned horror story since Ray Bradbury’s "The Jar.” He adds, “Too bad only about seventy people coast to coast will read it,” but Bill Denbrough does not care. Two hundred dollars!

He goes to his advisor with a drop card for Eh-141. His advisor initials it. Bill Denbrough staples the drop card to the assistant fiction editor’s congratulatory note and tacks both to the bulletin board on the creative-writing instructor’s door. In the corner of the bulletin board he sees an anti-war cartoon. And suddenly, as if moving of its own accord, his fingers pluck his pen from his breast pocket and across the cartoon he writes this: If fiction and politics ever really do become interchangeable, I’m going to kill myself, because I won’t know what else to do. You see, politics always change. Stories never do. He pauses, and then, feeling a bit small (but unable to help himself), he adds: I suggest you have a lot to learn.

You can easily imagine this argument–a timeless appeal is being ruined by lefty college kids and their postmodern analyses–being made today by an alt-right YouTuber out to cleanse the game industry of SJWs. Throughout It, King keeps cutting back to an image of a librarian reading “The Billy Goats Gruff” to a group of kids, the latter enthralled (King tells us) by the primal purity of the kind of monster stories upon which both King and Denbrough have built their careers. “Will the monster be bested…or will It feed?” That’s King declaring that Bill’s his professors were wrong to wave aside his short horror stories. See? See?! I made it, and you pretentious eggheads were wrong to ever doubt me! This aspect of It is frankly embarrassing, especially as time marches on and we see how this mindset has taken root in the next generation.

But! While King very clearly believes this stuff, he’s also self-aware enough to include auto-critiques in his writing. Stan’s wife Patty picks up one of Bill’s novels and dismisses it as practically pornographic in its horror imagery. King goes too far in casting Patty’s dislike of Bill’s work as reflecting a lack of imagination on her part, but he then goes on to sympathetically explore how the grounded relatable struggles Patty has faced (anti-Semitism, her father mocking and dismissing Stan, their inability to have children) have led her to consider “horrorbooks” as shallow escapism. The real world, It admits, has horrors beyond anything the Kings and Denbroughs can come up with. “Werewolves, shit. What did a man like that know about werewolves?” 

Later on, when Ben is telling his triumphant story about calling out a high school coach who taunted him for his weight, Bill gently notes that as an author, he has trouble believing any kid really talked like that. That’s King using his self-insert to wryly poke fun at his own oft-overheated dialogue. Self-awareness and self-deprecation are absolutely vital to making a book as thematically and structurally ambitious as this one work. 

And while some of It’s politics make me cringe, other aspects make me perk up and take notice. King wrote It over the course of four years in which HIV and AIDS became a national crisis that was being largely ignored by said nation’s government. There was a growing conventional wisdom that the afflicted deserved their punishment and should be more or less left to rot. This was all part and parcel with the ascension of the religious right in American politics, especially within the Reagan White House. A huge part of the Reagan narrative (as we see in the “Morning in America” ad, also released while King was writing It) was a portrait of lily-white small-town America as a social ideal being beset by all sorts of ills that the left was either letting happen or actively supporting, and The Gays were most certainly among them.

It opens with a scene that seems to dovetail with that narrative: an idealized ‘50s small town in which an adorable innocent white boy from a good Christian family is horribly murdered by (what seems to be) a nightmarish external force that takes advantage of that innocence. Already, you can see a potential Reaganite spin–It as the Other, the “bear in the woods” threatening the ideal of Derry. 

But that’s not what It is about. The second chapter jumps forward a generation, into the mid-1980s in which King was writing, and onto a scene of violence that cannot be wrapped into the meta-narrative of the religious right. Three men attack a gay man on a bridge, their delicate sensibilities offended by his flamboyance. They beat him within an inch of his life and toss him over the side…where he finds It waiting for him with a gleaming sharp-toothed smile. Both the victim’s boyfriend and one of the assailants tell the cops and lawyers involved about the demon clown who finished the victim off, but the powers that be cover it up for the sake of a successful prosecution.

The idea being that they’re dealing with the symptoms, not the disease–the violence, but not the hand-me-down hate driving it. The bereft boyfriend tells the cops that he tried to warn his new-to-town lover that despite its cheery appearance, Derry is a “bad place,” one positively crawling with “AIDS is God’s punishment” homophobia. Moreover, he whispers through his tears, he realized while staring into Its silver eyes as It ate his true love that “It was Derry…It was this town.” 

So while the first chapter seemingly wrapped the era’s conservative politics in a cozy semiotic blanket, it was only baiting the hook so that the second can rip that blanket off like a Band-Aid. As Reagan strolled to re-election with 49 states at his back, as the Democrats’ convictions wavered and they began to drift rightward, as thousands of Americans wasted away while their government and so many of their fellow citizens watched pitilessly, here comes Stevie King to stick his middle finger in the Moral Majority’s face and say: gays aren’t the monsters, you are the monsters, you are the ones eating your children. He built a thousand-page Lovecraftian epic around that idea, and made it a bestseller. How fucking awesome is that?

Again, it’s all always going to be complicated. The good not only coexists with the bad–they’re often inextricable. The author who slipped a rant against leftist academics ruinin’ his storybooks into It is also the guy who now declares his support for BLM and his disgust for Trump, and It is both a deeply flawed work and one of my very favorite novels.