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dragonrajafanfiction · 4 years

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Serial Killers

The day of mobilization was unseasonably warm and bright. All the members of the execution department that were chosen to participate in the effort and passed the training gathered before a massive private jet off campus. It wasn’t just any jet. It was a jumbo ‘Beluga’ style aircraft, the type of plane that could house a plane inside its massive cargo hold.

It was an impressive sight but also a comical one, with its portly silhouette undercutting the awe of its humongous size. It looked like a plane that needed to go on a diet.

Grant Baldwin of the Executive Department stood in front of the line of students and read out rollcall. Every student shouted present when their name was called.

Brian’s heart quivered inside his chest as he came to the realization that this was it. There was no going back. He had made his decision to give his all to the mission. He’d said goodbye to Ru’Yi, he’d let go of his fascination with her father. When his name was called, he shouted out strong, “Present!”

The rollcall continued and he let out a breath. He hoped Ru’Yi wouldn’t cry if he never came back. It would be hard. A mission like this didn’t usually get follow up to next of kin. Childhood friends had no chance. He said a silent prayer to himself that she would be able to move on even without knowing what happened.

“Chu Meixiu!”

“Present!”

Brian’s eyes went wide and stayed that way. His gaze shifted without moving his head to the short female figure standing at the end of the row.

“We’ll be referring to this project as ‘Project Skyfall’ from now on. Grab your bags and line up orderly to board. We leave now.” Baldwin tucked the clipboard under his arm and walked away, avoiding Brian’s angry glare.

What was she doing here? Why was she here? Didn’t he say she wasn’t recruited?

As they lined up, on the tall stairwell, Brian tried to turn to look but Ru’Yi was hidden in the back. There had to be some mistake. They said that they didn’t clear her for this mission. They changed their minds? Were they crazy? She wasn’t at any of the training!

At the top of the stairs, Brian looked for Mr. Baldwin but he was standing in the cockpit talking to the pilot. Brian stared at him, trying to catch his attention, but was pushed from behind and urged to move by an impatient student.

The plane was massive but the cargo area took up most of the room. The passenger area was just like any other plane with rows of seats next to windows. Brian took his assigned seat and watched as Ru’Yi walked into the plane wearing the Executive Department uniform. It fit her well, her tie perfectly set about her neck like she’d been doing this for years.

As soon as she saw him, guilt and embarrassment filled her face. Brian knew how hard he was glaring. What in the hell was she thinking? She had no idea what she was getting into!

Another student in dark glasses sat next to him. “Dude, chill.” He said after one look, blowing a bubble of gum.

“What do you mean chill?” He hissed back. “She’s not supposed to be here!”

He turned to him and pulled down his dark glasses revealing a mocking brown eyed gaze. “Listen to you talk. She’s S-ranked. If anyone’s supposed to be here, it’s her.”

Brian pressed his lips together firmly unable to argue with that. He turned and stared at the back of the seat.

“She’s got you all shook up. I never thought I’d see the day.” He chuckled.

“This isn’t a joke. She’s not trained.”

The other young man shrugged his shoulders and stared at the onflight entertainment screen.

Despite Brian’s dismay at having his feelings out in the open, he couldn’t calm down. He leaned against the window and pretended to try to fall asleep.

The plane taxied down the runway, gunned its massive engines and took off towards the sky. Once they were at cruising altitude. Mr. Baldwin stood up in front of the group. “We’ll be landing on an Aircraft carrier in the middle of the Atlantic, 370 North west of St. Helena. There’s nothing out there but water and a massive storm system that is growing by the day.”

This Aircraft Carrier was commissioned by the West African Executive Department on the condition of absolute secrecy. You’ve all sworn to confidentiality. As far as you’re concerned, no matter what happens, this was a vacation. Anyone who is caught sending out any information on this mission will be immediately expelled. None of your names will go on record as part of this operation. You will be the unsung heroes of Cassell.”

A murmur went through the group. “I don’t owe any of you an explanation. However… because I understand you might have questions I’ll give you the one I can give.”

“Anjou died twenty years ago. Despite all his contributions to the secret society, people have already started to forget his legacy and his enemies have started to covet his secrets. As of today, only the select members of the executive West Africa Branch know of this mission. The awakening of a Dragon has not occurred for over twenty years and this may well be the last one. Everyone who’s ever wanted to be a dragonslayer will want to be on this mission. We’ve selected you, not only because you are the best, but you are the most loyal and experienced and proven to be discreet with information.”

Mr. Baldwin scanned the group who were now silent. “Let’s bring the era of dragons to a quiet ignominious end.”

With that statement, Mr. Baldwin turned and pushed away the curtain separating his section of the aircraft from theirs.

Brian could take it no longer. He stood up. He roughly crossed over his protesting seatmate and walked back to Ru’Yi’s seat. “Who signed you up? Was it Maranis? Fingel?”

She looked up at him with an owlish expression. “No one signed me up. I volunteered!”

Brian’s jaw dropped. “You wanna explain? What happened to ‘not wanting to kill anyone’? Not wanting to be a dragonslayer? All this stuff you told me before?”

Ru’Yi’s shoulders lifted and she leaned away from him. “I changed my mind.”

“Why?” He asked, incredulous.

Ru’Yi twined her fingers, meek and embarrassed. “I thought about what you said. That whole conversation we had. And I couldn’t just… stay behind any more.”

“What I said? Nothing about what I said was encouraging you to volunteer! If anything, I was happy you weren’t going!”

“But you told me the truth! You were honest with me!” Ru’Yi’s eyes grew dimmer. “Unlike my parents.”

Brian froze.

“Everyone here really respects my mom and dad. But the truth is, I’ve only known my mom as a mom and my dad as a tour boat operator. These people that slay dragons and fight to the death… they might as well be a fairy tale. What really got to me was… when you said my Dad wasn’t like the other dragonslayers you’d met. You were looking to me for answers to questions I didn’t even know were there. I felt like you knew my Dad more than I did!”

“You came here for such a… emotional reason? You could die and then where would that leave your parents?”

“I know.” She looked up at him, pleading. “It’s just… this is my last chance to understand them. I need to understand them.”

“Really? That’s it…?” Brian shook his head in dismay. “Alright.” He ran his hand through his hair and went back to his seat.

Ru’Yi sat back in her chair and let out a breath, suddenly aware of the tense awkwardness of the room. She gave her seatmate an apologetic look.

He gave her two thumbs up, his eyes twinkling behind a mop of overlong bangs that hung over his eyes like a sheep dog. “You did great standing up to him, honey! Did you see the look on his face?”

“Doesn’t feel great…” She murmured.

“Don’t take it so personal. He’s always been a bit of a jerk.”

“No he hasn’t.”

Her certainty shocked the man. “He hasn’t?”

“No. He wasn’t always like this.” Ru’Yi thought that maybe if she went on this mission she might understand him a bit more too.

“I didn’t realize you two went that far back.” The young man rubbed his chin. Then he laughed. “Don’t worry. We’ll all do our best to make sure you come home safe and sound.”

The flight was long and uncomfortable and mostly silent. Executive Department members were supposed to be the highest trained of the force of Dragonslayers, but looking at this group, they mostly slept, read, or stared out the windows listening to earbuds. Despite their crisp and disciplined uniforms, they looked at the moment like a bunch of cats lazing in the sun.

She poked her seatmate, “Can I ask you something?”

“Huh? Oh sure? What’s up. The name’s Rodney Samuelson by the way.”

”Thanks Rodney… um… how long have you been doing this?”

“This, as in Exec stuff? This is my fourth year. I graduate next semester. And then I’ll get placed as an agent somewhere in the world! Hopefully somewhere warm!”

“Oh… so you’ll be doing more of this after graduation…” Ru’Yi said thoughtfully.

“Yep. The threat of dragons doesn’t end with dragons unfortunately. Until today, almost everything I dealt with had to do with other hybrids.”

Ru’Yi immediately felt a chill. “Unstable hybrids?”

“Yep.” Rodney’s expression softened but he didn’t mince words. “You’re thinking of that blind guy right? People like him? That's a normal mission. Didn’t Brian tell you this?”

“No, but I probably should have known.” She sat back.

“Brian’s very good at those missions.” Rodney lowered his voice. “We have authorization to use deadly force against them. But for him, authorization is almost like a command. If he can kill them, he will.”

“Does he enjoy it?” Ru’Yi asked numbly.

Rodney rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t say enjoy it. He’s just not affected by it. Violence doesn’t bother him like it does some people. He’s good at his job, but he’s one step away from psycho if that’s what you mean. Hate to burst your bubble.” Rodney grimaced.

“You’re fine.” She shook her head, but her expression was withdrawn.

“You don’t look okay.”

“I just remembered something he said to me. He actually did try to warn me about that.” Ru’Yi thought back to their first meeting. He’d said that if he hadn’t joined the Executive Department he would have been a serial killer. She’d thought he was making a crude joke.

“Wow…” Rodney’s jaw dropped. “I guess things are more complicated than they seem on the surface.”

Ru’Yi nodded. She thought back to her father who had seemed so kind and gentle, compassionate and caring. Her mother who would work so hard so that the genetically disadvantaged hybrid could have a life. That idyllic view in her mind suddenly was stained a shade of red.

The light in her eyes grew even dimmer.

#Dragon Raja #Fanfic #Class of 2032

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razieltwelve · 4 years

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Keeper of the Dead (RWBY AU Snippet)

Note: This goes with Dragon, The Queen of Winter, and the Desert Rose.

X X X

Blake looked upon the sea of Grimm that awaited her and saw only a fitting death and long-awaited glory. Around her, the rest of the White Fang stirred, and a small, sad smile crossed her lips. How many battles had they fought together since Menagerie fell? She'd been a child then, and so had they. And now, here they were, faced with the same choice as their dead kin.

For a moment, she closed her eyes. She could almost hear the sounds of horns and trumpets and see the long-lost banners fluttering in the breeze.

"We could retreat princess," Tukson murmured. The old warrior's lips curled. "We are outnumbered at least fifteen to one."

"Retreat?" Blake shook her head and glanced back at the city behind them, the city with its walls in ruins and its people doing their best to cram onto ships to flee the coming storm. "Who would stand between the city and the Grimm if we fled? There are already too few ships to take them and not nearly enough time for the ships they do have to get to safety. They would be slaughtered, every last man, woman, and child. Speak truly, old friend, would you really have us run away?"

"No," Tukson replied. "But I am an old man now, and my best days are far behind me. The one I called king is dead, and so are my brothers and sisters in arms. To join them would be no great sorrow for me. But you and most of the others are still young. You could have long lives ahead of you if you leave."

"And where would we go? The Grimm the would still find us even if we fled to the edge of the world." Blake shook her head again. "Menagerie is gone. Should we now abandon Mistral, the only kingdom that took us in, the same kingdom that granted us sanctuary and lands to call our own when all others turned us away? We have run and run and run since Menagerie fell, but to run now… the shame would be unbearable."

Tukson smiled, and were she younger, Blake knew he would have ruffled her hair. "You are your father's daughter, princess. I ran once when I wished I could have stayed. I will not run again. If I die here, so be it. There are worse places to die and worse causes to die for."

Blake turned to the others, to the riders five hundred strong, who had already ridden through fire and ruin with her across dozens of battlefields. Not far away, she saw Adam. Her friend's eyes were shining, and there was something close to joy in his gaze. His father, his mother, his brothers, his sisters, his uncles, his aunts - all had fallen on that distant shore so many years ago, so he and others could live. Now, at last, it was his turn. He, of all people, would not shy from death. He would ride into the very jaws of death, banner held high, a roar on his lips, dragging as many of the Grimm down with him as he could.

"You see the enemy before us," Blake cried, voice rising over the gathering din as the Grimm grew closer. Her gaze swept over the riders, her riders. "You know that if we ride, then we ride to our deaths." Like her, so many of them were so young. But seventeen was old enough to carry a sword, which meant seventeen was also old enough to die with one in hand. "If any of you wishes to leave, you may go, and I will give you my blessing. But if you stay, you should know what we die for." She pointed to the city behind them. "Behind us stands a city of ten thousand. We cannot hope to defend it. We are too few, and its walls have been torn down. But if we die well, if we make the Grimm pay in blood for every one of us they kill, then perhaps we will buy them enough time to flee. They have ships, not enough for all of them, but enough for some. Years ago, our kin faced the same choice. You know what they decided."

A solemn silence spread, and the chaos of the coming battle was momentarily forgotten as memories of blood-stained shores and proud banners torn and trampled stirred. For a moment, Blake could hear the Horn of Menagerie sounding one last time in the deep. She could almost see the glorious battle standards of her people before they had been trampled into the sand and the blood and the muck of that awful battle. The moment passed, and then another, and still no one moved to leave.

She smiled. "I am not much of a princess. I have no lands to call my own, nor a crown to wear upon my brow. But you are my people, and I could not be prouder." She turned and gestured, and one of the others raised the banner of the White Fang high in the air. "Twelve years ago, Menagerie fell, but our kin did not die quietly. They were not sheep to the slaughter. They were wolves and they fought as wolves did - together, snarling, biting, and clawing until the end. They piled the shore high with the bodies of the Grimm, and the Grimm had to bury them beneath their sheer numbers. Today, we ride. Today, we die. The Grimm, I am sure, thought they would never again feel the sting of the sword sand spears of the sons and daughters of Menagerie after the slew so many of us. Today, we remind them that although Menagerie fell, its sons and daughters never forgot. Once again, they will feel the bitter sting of our swords and spears!"

A great cheer went up, and Blake turned to Tukson.

"Sound the charge, old friend. We meet them head on."

And so they rode, the hooves of their horses churning the mud beneath them. Blake's mind drifted back to the day Menagerie had fallen, to a place she saw so often in her dreams.

X X X

There is a place where the seas are still stained red and black, and the waves lap against a lonely, bone-strewn shore. Few have ever seen it except from a distance, and even they do not like to speak of it. It was there, on that forsaken shore, on those bloodstained sands, that Menagerie died.

X X X

Menagerie was founded by outcasts for outcasts, or so the legend said. For a thousand years it prospered, hidden from the world by powerful magic. Yet the Grimm would not be so easily thwarted. Their blood was bitter poison, and although they died in their thousands trying to overcome the kingdom's magic, the corruption in their blood seeped into the land and weakened Menagerie's protection.

Years passed until finally the magic protecting Menagerie failed, and the Grimm poured into the kingdom. For ten long and bloody years, the people of Menagerie fought to hold them at bay. They were brave and skilled, but there were not many of them, and there were so many, many Grimm. For every monster they slew, another ten would take its place. Back and back the Grimm pushed them until they had only the sea behind them and a handful of ships, too few to take all those who still remained.

It was there, with the Grimm arriving in numbers beyond counting, that King Ghira, the Last King of Menagerie, made his choice. He ordered that the children be put on the ships, along with some others to watch over them. There was no room for anyone else. Instead, the rest would fight and buy the ships the time they needed to reach safety.

They would die, yes, for the Grimm were too many to defeat. But if Menagerie was to fall, he would have it be such an end as to echo in the halls of legend until the sun burned out and the mountains were ground to dust.

A thousand tales could be told of the valour that beach bore witness to, and a thousand songs could be sung of the courage and honour of those who stayed behind. But what all those on the ships would always remember were the proud banners fluttering in the sea breeze, the regal battle standards of a kingdom of outcast who would prove themselves worthier than any kingdom of knights or nobles.

There in the centre, was the king's banner. To his left was the banner of the queen, and to his right was the banner of the White Fang. There were countless other banners there too, so many that no one could name them all, for all the remaining might of Menagerie had been gathered for that last stand. The air was rent by the sound of horns and trumpets, and a forest of swords and spears flashed in the morning sun. It was a sight from legend, and for a moment, those on the ships dared to believe that victory might be possible.

But the Grimm do not care about legends, nor do they believe in mercy.

They did not die easily, those brave warriors on the shore. They did not go quietly into the long, lonely night that awaits the dead. They roared like lions and fought like heroes, but die they did, every single one of them. And all those proud banners were trampled into the dust and stained with blood and muck, and at the last, the king himself was struck down. As he fell, he raised the Horn of Menagerie to his lips. One last time did the horn sound in the din of battle, a long, defiant note that carried the weight of a thousand years of courage and defiance before it too was broken and silenced forever.

The other kingdoms call that place the Bloody Shore, for all the blood that was spilled there. But the survivors of Menagerie call it the Bay of Tears, for never before or since have their people wept as they did when all the glory of Menagerie was cut down, and all its brave, noble warriors slain.

X X X

Long did the survivors of Menagerie wander, for none were willing to take them in. The Grimm had besieged every kingdom, and they would only burden those who helped them, for most of them were children.

Instead, they wandered, lost but seeking, desperate to be found. It was a hard life, a cruel life, but it made the children of Menagerie strong. They learned the ways of the warrior but also the ways of thieves, spies, assassins, and even merchants. But no matter how far they wandered or how many days passed, they never forgot that distant, bloody shore, or the last lingering notes of the Horn of Menagerie.

"We are the keepers of the dead," Tukson told Blake when she asked. "As long as we live and remember them, the dead are not gone. They are with us, all of us. It is a heavy burden, but it is one we must bear. The dead cannot speak for themselves. They cannot tell of their deeds, of their courage and valour. Instead, we must speak for them. We are the ones who keep their legacy, the ones who remember so that they are never forgotten."

Eventually, the children of Menagerie grew strong enough that the survivors could form their own mercenary company. They called themselves the White Fang to honour the elite warriors who had served the king and who had perished alongside him, loyal to the last. Blake became its leader, and Tuckson was her second in command. He was one of the few adults who had been sent with the children, for he had been wounded before the Bay of Tears, and so the king had ordered him to leave and care for the children as best he could once he recovered.

For three long years, the White Fang fought battle after battle, proving themselves over and over again. Their skill at arms and bravery were without question, and their hatred of the Grimm gave them strength and resolve when many others would have faltered. Their kin had died like heroes, how could they do any less? At last, though, they were given sanctuary in Mistral. The once mighty kingdom was in dire need of warriors, and in exchange for swearing fealty and fighting the Grimm, they were given land of their own.

Finally, the survivors would have a place to call home. It could never be what Menagerie had been, but it was a start. By then, Blake was a girl of fifteen, and she was as skilled as any youth could be with sword, spear, or lance. Tukson had trained her well, and Blake was an eager pupil. When she closed her eyes, she still saw the banners fluttering in the breeze and heard the horn sounding in the deep. When she closed her eyes, she saw her father fall and all his brave warriors with him.

Many were the battles the White Fang fought for Mistral, and their banner became famed throughout the land. No warrior amongst them was more eager to prove himself than Adam whose whole family had fallen in the Bay of Tears. No matter how difficult the battle or how mighty the foe, he was ever at the forefront, his blade a deadly whirlwind as he cut down Grimm after Grimm.

They called him the Bull, for he knew not how to take a backward step, and wherever Blake went, he followed, for Tukson was not a young man anymore, and his sword arm was not so mighty as it had been. More than once, Adam told Blake of what he desired most.

"I wish to die as my family did," Adam would whisper, staring at the banner of the White Fang and imagining all the banners that had been trampled into the dust, still clutched in the dying hands of those who bore them. "In service to Menagerie and its people. We may be exiles, but we have honour still. It would be a good death, a worthy death, and I would be able to look my family in the eyes when I meet them in the halls of the dead."

When Blake was seventeen, the White Fang were sent to relieve a beleaguered city. She rode there with what strength the White Fang could spare, and they fought off the first wave of Grimm. But the walls of the city were broken, and many of its streets left open to attack. They had but five hundred of their number when the second wave of Grimm drew near, a much larger host than the first, and that was when Blake knew that the same fate that had befallen her father now awaited her.

X X X

Blake struck one Grimm down, and her horse trampled another under its hooves. A spear flashed by, and a Grimm fell, impaled through the throat. Her lance shattered, and she drew her sword and called out for those around her to stay close, lest the Grimm split them apart and slay them one by one.

Onward they charged, the Grimm falling beneath the weight of their charge, but there were so many Grimm. At last, their charge ground to a halt. One by one, the riders were dragged off their horses and into the mud. Claws cleaved flesh, and fangs tore out throats, and the proud banner of the White Fang slipped from the dead hands of its bearer.

Crawling through the mud, Blake scrambled to her feet. She could not see Adam or Tukson, but still she took up the tattered banner and held it aloft. Not until all of them were slain had the White Fang on that distant shore allowed their banner to fall. She could do no less. And the Grimm swarmed toward her, and any who stood between her and them were cut down. At last they reached her, but Adam was there to meet them with her, for he had cut a path through the battle to reach her.

For a time they held them at bay, fighting back to back, and the bodies of their foes were piled high around them. But eventually, they tired, and Adam was struck from behind, and he could only laugh from bloodied lips as he turned to slay his foe before falling himself, a claw driven clean through the armour on his chest. And then Blake herself was overrun, dragged beneath a tide of claws and teeth.

And the last thought she had was of the prayer her mother had whispered to her before leaving her on the ship.

X X X

My scales are black And my fire is too My teeth are swords And my claws are spears I carry the weight of the dead And I can call them back I was a dragon once And I will be a dragon again

X X X

Tukson cried out in anguish as he saw first Adam and then Blake fall. With strength he did not know he possessed, he fought until he reached the place where they had fallen. Yet although he could see Adam's body - a smile was on his lips - he could not find Blake's. Surrounded on all sides, his princess gone, and the remnants of the White Fang in disarray, he knew his death was close at hand.

But he was not afraid.

For years, he had carried the weight of his shame. He had been a keeper of the dead, one of the many to remember them when he should have been amongst them. His brothers and sisters in arms were all dead, and even his king and queen had perished. Yet he still lived. Had he been alone, he could never have withstood the shame. Only for Blake's sake, and the sake of the other children, had he been able to force himself to continue. Now, at last, he would meet his end and join his long-dead comrades.

So instead of weeping, he laughed, and his laugh was long and loud. Taking up the banner of the White Fang and wiping off as much mud as he could, he thrust it into the air and glared defiantly at the Grimm as he bellowed his challenge.

"Menagerie might have fallen, but a son of Menagerie stands before you now. I was not there when my king died and when my brothers and sisters fell alongside him. Yet I am here now! You will not find me easy prey!"

But as the Grimm moved to strike him down, a sound filled the air. It was a sound he had not heard in years, a sound he had never thought to hear again.

"I know that horn," he whispered, voice filled with puzzlement and wonder. "That is the Horn of Menagerie. I would know it anywhere. But how can that be? It was lost."

And yet, from the darkness of the west where the sun had begun to set, came the sounds of more horns and trumpets, each as familiar as the last. And though the darkness had begun to fall, enough daylight yet remained to shine upon the great host that had arrived. Tukson stared at them, unbelieving, as did all those who still lived.

For the banners fluttering in the breeze could not be mistaken. They had seen them before when their bearers had been slain, and the banners were trampled in the dust.

There at the centre, gleaming, was the king's banner, and to his right the White Fang's and on his left the queen's. And alongside them were so many others, too many to name, the banners of all the might and glory of Menagerie that had been lost. As the force drew closer, Tukson saw them clearly. They were not people, no. They were spectres, ghosts.

But he knew them. He knew their faces. These were the dead of Menagerie. They had been called back somehow. These were the glorious warriors of that broken shore, standing proudly once more, resplendent in their shining armour, a forest of swords and spears held aloft as once again the Horn of Menagerie sounded in the deep.

"How can this be?" Tukson whispered.

The answer came a moment later. Black fire rained from the sky, and a huge shape winged overhead.

"Dragon!" Tukson cried, and the cry was taken up by all those still living. His heart swelled, and his soul sang. "Dragon!"

Dimly, he remembered the legend, the old stories of dragon's blood amongst the outcasts of Menagerie. There had been a dragon once that even the others had been wary of. The Keeper of Dead. Aye, that was its name, a dragon who carried the weight of the dead but who could call them back if they were willing to answer the call.

The sounds of trumpets and horns faded, and ten thousand of the lost who had been found, who had heard the call and had answered, fighting their way through the darkness and tearing themselves from the clutches of death, gave voice to words that had not been spoken for an age. Their words cut through the air like thunder, and they were heard as much in the heart and soul as in the ear

The shadow falls The dragon calls Let the dead come back to witness Let all fallen warriors fight

Our enemies claim the night But it was never theirs Let the banners fly, the horns and trumpets blare Behold, take heart, the coming of the unconquered dead

And then the host of spectres charged, and the Grimm fell before them like wheat before the scythe.

X X X

Tukson stared in awe as the shades of his long-dead comrades stood at silent attention. The Grimm had been slain, and the city had been made safe. Now, the dead stood, awaiting the one who had called them.

"My king." Tukson knelt as the ghost of the King Ghira stood before him.

The old king helped his friend stand. "I barely recognise you. You've gotten old."

"I shouldn't have. I should have died at your side like all the others."

"Perhaps, but it was better for you to have lived at Blake's side than to have died at mine." Ghira's gaze shifted, and Tukson saw the ghost of Adam standing amongst his kin, more at peace in death than he had ever been in life. He carried a banner of the White Fang, and the banner was as pristine and pure as freshly fallen snow. "Blake carries the weight of the dead, old friend. And it is a heavy weight, for all that it is powerful. When she calls, the dead may answer. I know that we always will. In the days to come, she will need your wise counsel more than ever."

"She will have it."

There was another cry from overhead, and the black dragon banked and came in to land. A moment later, it was gone, and Blake remained. Her eyes were brighter than they had been, the same shade now as a Hunter's Moon. It was fitting. At her approach, the dead snapped to attention, and even the king moved to let her pass, a proud smile on his lips.

"Tukson…" Blake murmured before she reached out to embrace him. "I had feared the worst."

"This old man has a few years left in him yet," Tukson replied. "And you… you are a dragon."

"So it would seem." Blake's gaze shifted to the dead. They were growing hazy now, vanishing on the breeze like mist before the dawn. Doubtless, she could call them back if needed, but the battle was won, and it could not be easy for even a dragon to bring so many of the dead back into the realm of the living. "I… I could take back Menagerie. I could call the dead once more - all the dead of our homeland - and scour it clean of Grimm." Her gaze drifted to the city, to the crowds of people on the wall and in the streets. For so long, their faces had reflected only despair. Now, at last, there was hope amongst them. "But if I left, Mistral would fall."

"It would."

Blake nodded, as much to herself as to him. "Then we will stay. Menagerie is our homeland, but I could not look the honoured dead in the eye if I forsook so many still in need. Only when Mistral is safe or has a dragon of its own will I leave." She took a deep breath, and Tukson could have sworn he saw vast wings of shadow spread out behind her, big enough to shelter the whole world. "Gather the others, Tukson. Our fight is not yet over. It has only just begun."

X X X

Author's Notes

With this, the RWBY dragon cycle is complete since we've got snippets for each of the four characters. I'm still considering where to go from here, but we'll just have to wait and see. Blake is a character who is, in many ways, chained to her past. Here those chains are more than metaphorical, and the dead are not mere shades that linger in memory and song. Only someone with such strong links to them could ever have called them back, so it is fitting that Blake is the one who does. Admittedly, it's a little creepy, but you can't argue with results.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

You can find my original fiction on Amazon here. In fact, I’ve just released a new story, Attempted Adventuring. If you like humour, action, and adventure, be sure to check it out.

#rwby #fanfiction #blake belladonna #adam taurus #tukson

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jeanjauthor · 4 years

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Addams Family Thanksgiving

As a white person...

I was genuinely thrilled with this “plot twist.”

Rewatching it decades later?

Still thrilled.

But as for the reality of how indigenous people are treated in America? (And Canada, since y’all are right there with us in this, in the sense of not actually treating First Nations peoples very well... *glares at the Highway of Tears, & at its curiously unconcerned goddamn government*)

Not Thrilled At ALL.

Now, disclaimer: Most of my ancestors were lily-ass-white colonizers. I am even related to four of the Pilgrim families at Plymouth Rock. You know, the ones who came over on the Mayflower? The ones like “Sarah Miller” in this video clip? Yeah, related to those ungrateful patriarchal fucked-up-the-rest-of-our-society-for-CENTURIES sons of bitches & daughters of bastards.

On the other hand, one of my ancestresses a century or two later was Haudanusaunee (Iroquois Confederacy), specifically Kanienkehaka (Mohawk), and yes, she married an European...after Europeans brought diseases that decimated or even flat-out destroyed various indigenous populations...and then further desecrated & destroyed populations via actual warfare, poisoning (it’s an ongoing thing to this day) naturally lactose intolerant people with charity-offered cheeses, and far too much more.

I am literally missing millions of my kin in this world because their ancestors were wiped out--either unwittingly or maliciously--by my other ancestors, before they could beget a next generation, and a next...

But mostly it wasn’t just accidental deaths through the introduction of unfailiar diseases that became massive plagues parallel to COVID-19. Colonizers were far more intolerant than they were tolerant...and the reason why I despise what they did is because the Paradox of Tolerance applies to what they did. Too many of their descendants are still far too intolerant to this day...and the Paradox of Tolerance applies to them as well.

By the way, the “blood quantum” cards or whatever they’re called? The ones that count “how much of X Tribe” you are, if you’re Native American / Indigenous North American? They only count ONE tribe affiliation by blood. So if you’re 6/16ths Blackfoot and 7/16ths Apache and 3/16ths European...you only get to count EITHER your Blackfoot OR your Apache status, and the other nation doesn’t get counted. (This was only an example bloodline, not a real one.)

Oh, and you have to be at LEAST 1/16th of any one particular tribe (indigenous nation, etc) to “count” as a tribal member...and some require 1/4th. Btw...1/16th means one great-great grandparent; my ancestress was two generations further back, making me 1/64th...and no, I am not claiming I’m Mohawk in any shape or way. I literally live over 2,000 miles away from Iroquois territory, I don’t know the culture, the history, the people...why would I claim something I don’t know?

...Which introduces the horrors of forced assimilation, ripping children away from their families to incarcerate them in indoctrination (brainwashing) camps, aka “white education centers” and “boarding school institutions”...which means they don’t grow up learning anything about their culture, their parents grow old, their elders die, and within 3 generations, they won’t know NEARLY enough about their own culture...but I digress. Let’s get back to how much ancestry you have, and why it’s genocidally regulated.

Blood quantum measurements are enforced by white-made laws DELIBERATELY to force indigenous populations to either inbreed themselves to death...or outbreed themselves or other indigenous nations to extinction.

To retain “enough native blood” to qualify, you have to keep inbreeding into the same gene pool generation after generation...and since those genepools were whittle down by disease & violence brought against them...they aren’t very large pools to begin with. Not like they could’ve been.

If you’re supposed to “stick with your own kind” but you cross-marry into another tribe / nation...then you have to decide what inheritance your children “get” to claim...and that means denying any other genetic affiliations / inheritances they may have. If you’re forced to go with the Apache in the above example because it’s bigger in percentage than your blood quantum for Blackfoot...what if Blackfoot’s population loses too many people to outbreeding “thinning the bloodlines”...?

And that’s without the consideration of, what if you’re 1/16th Kanienkehaka (Mohawk, remember), and you fall in love with someone from, oh, say, Thailand? If you marry that person and have children with them (presuming it’s a pairing that you can do that with them)...then your children will be 1/32nd...too low to “count”.

Even if you raise them to know and honor their heritage as a member of the Eastern Door of the Great Longhouse of the Iroquois Confederacy.

Your choice is to marry & live with & raise children with the person you genuinely love and care about...but reduce the future population of your nation...or never get to have children with the person you love, and find someone to tolerate who will keep your indigenous heritage headcount alive.

Blood quantum laws are genocide.

Now...why would this bother me so much?

Well, aside from the fact it’s genocide, and yes that bothers me quite a lot...

I’m a romance author. I grew up reading (and not knowing better) the “Sweet Savage Love” style romance novels, historical westerns with the hunky tanned shirtless Native American and the barely bodiced babe clinging to him, her skirt hiked up far too high on her thigh, blah blah blah. (Don’t @ me, I can love images of muscular guys, including non-European-descended muscular guys, and being bi, I can totally admire a sexily posed lady, too!) And some of the stories actually addressed issues of social stigmas, racism, & so forth.

But what those books did, in a much more insidious way, was not just fetishize Indigenous North American men (and women, in very rare cases), but promoted how romantic it is to thin indigenous bloodlines, even as these blood quantum laws existed, through the fetishization of the “romantic native romance hero” archetypes and plot tropes.

Now, this is not to say I am against “interbreeding” (I am literally gagging at having to put it that way, sorry; bear with me here). What I am AGAINST is the demand that you “have” to be X amount of blood and ONLY X-Amount-Or-Higher To Qualify.

Being a part of a nation, a culture, a bloodline, isn’t a goddamn carnival ride!

That is what I am against.

Membership in an indigenous nation / tribe should be a matter of being a member, and that means being in the community, interacting positively with the culture, promoting the continuation of the community / culture / nation, its knowledge, its belief systems, its historical records, its various traditions. Ideally one should have blood ties to that indigenous population...but it’s literally the participation in the culture that keeps that particular culture alive.

What I’d love to see is something like this:

You could be less than 1/16th of a particular tribe / nation, and still be counted, if (say for example) the community / elders sign off on your “membership” via how much you do participate--this would bring spouses into the community headcount, if that spouse (or domestic partner) willingly & helpfully participates in the culture. Why the spouse / partner? Because through participation, they can help teach the next generation, whether that’s their own kids with their partner, or other kids in the community.

Additionally, I want to see cross-quantum affiliations. If you’re Blackfoot AND Apache, if you participate in both cultures, both should be able to claim you! And if you don’t, but you still have a strong blood tie to both, you should be counted for both.

There is a fine balance between preserving a genetic inheritance in sustainable ways...and not restricting all aspects of one’s inheritance so much that it does lead to an essentially effective genocide by legal fiat.

...Remember, all that reservation land (what little is left of it over the centuries of theft by colonizer whites) goes back to the white folks’ nation, if there are no more members left of the indigenous nation...according to the “rules” the white folks insist everyone has to play by.

So yeah, I am genuinely thrilled at what Wednesday & the other outcast children at that summer camp decided to do.

There are some vengeance stories that just need to be told...even if they’re fictional.

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sstthings · 4 years

Text

President John Tyler - by Dr. Lyon Gardiner Tyler

My granddaddy, John Tyler, was President of the US way back in 1841-45. He was born in 1790, 228 years ago. My Aunt Pearl died in 1947 at a ripe old age and whose grandfather was John Tyler, Sr., the president’s father, who was born in 1747. This marvel, that 3 generations could span 200 years, was written up in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. My “little 89 year old brother” and I are already at the 228 year old mark.

I heard too much about presidents growing up. A few years ago I met a lady who told me that she had come to our house in Virginia when I was probably 3 or 4 years old and I met her at the front door. She said that she had asked me, “Are you going to be President when you grow up?” and I said, “I’ll bite yo head off.” She said she said “And what will you do with the bones?” and I replied, “I’ll pit ‘em out!” In college, a buddy of mine brought me down to earth by saying, “Tyler, the best part of your family is underground.” I had to agree.

John Tyler was President of the United States from 1841-45. He agreed with the principles of the Jeffersonian tradition of limited federal government, strict construction of the Constitution and fiscal frugality. He opposed the American System of Henry Clay and John Quincy Adams, which advocated federal building of roads and canals, a Bank of the United States, controlled by private interests, and a high tariff on imported goods. Tyler believed in the so-called “manifest destiny” of the United States to expand across the continent and to help. the blessings of freedom__ and democracy around the world.

John Tyler’s father, also named John, was Thomas Jefferson’s roommate at the College of William and Mary. Jefferson and John Tyler, Sr. shared the same political views, played their fiddles together in college and remained life-long friends. John Tyler, Sr. was speaker of the House of Burgesses, and he and Patrick Henry organized a militia company just prior to the American Revolution. John, Sr., served in the Virginia legislature, where he made the motion that eventually led to the United States Constitutional Convention. He also served successively as Judge of the Admiralty Court, the General Court and the Supreme Court of Appeals, as well as on the U.S. District Court at President Jefferson’s urging. He also was Governor of Virginia. He had 8 children. After his wife died, when the future President was just seven years old, the father took care of all of them, besides serving as surrogate father for 15 or 20 foster children. A busy man!

John Tyler entered the College of William and Mary at age 13 and graduated soon after his 17th birthday. He gave the Valedictory address, remarkably, about the importance of women’s rights – especially in the field of education.

Before I attempt to discuss Tyler’s presidency, let me say a few words about his previous career and some things that can show us the kind of man he was:John Tyler was a state legislator in his early 20’s. Then he was a congressman, Governor of Virginia and US Senator. As a senator he was a loyal Democrat, but was disturbed by some of President Andrew Jackson’s over-reactions, similar to his earlier unauthorized invasion of Spanish Florida and his later reaction to the South Carolina attempt to nullify the Federal tariff when Jackson threatened to hang John C. Calhoun, his Vice President.

Both Jackson and Tyler opposed the recharter of the Bank of the United States, a privately owned bank which kept the government’s funds, but Tyler thought Jackson had gone too far when he removed the government’s money from the bank before its charter expired and put it in state banks which had supported him, hence known as Jackson’s “pet banks.”

Tyler in his campaign for the U.S. Senate had stated that as a Senator he would obey the instructions that might be given him by the state legislature. But he would soon face a dilemma concerning that promise. The US Senate had adopted a resolution to censure Jackson for removing the funds from the Bank. Then the Virginia legislature instructed Tyler to support a measure that would rescind the censure, which he felt was wrong because Jackson had broken the law. At the same time Tyler could not go back on his campaign promise to obey the state legislature. So he resigned and made this statement:By the surrender of the high station to which I was called by the people of Virginia, I shall teach them to regard as nothing place or office, when either is to be obtained or held at the sacrifice of honor.President John F. Kennedy included John Tyler in his Profiles of Courage for this incident.

It was always his children who were his primary concern. In his letters to his many sons and daughters the need for honesty is a regular refrain. Hear, for example, this from a letter to his son, John, Jr., back in 1832:

Truth should always be uttered no matter what the consequences. Nothing so degrades a man as equivocation and deceit. When I am in company with a double-dealing man – one who has one language on his tongue and another in his heart—I am involuntarily made to avoid him as I would a poisonous reptile. Trust such a person with not even the slightest circumstance on earth; for he will deceive you, if it be to his interest to do so. Learn then, my son, to speak the truth always. By doing so in trifling matters, it will grow into a habit from which you will not afterwards separate yourself.

In the words of a toast once offered to Tyler, he was a man “too firm to be driven from his principles—too upright to be swerved by the laws of ambition or power.” Indeed he was known as “Honest John.”

In 1840, the Whigs chose as their candidate William Henry Harrison, former Governor of the Indiana Territory, and victor over the Indians in the Battle of Tippecanoe and then the British in Canada in the War of 1812. For the Vice Presidential spot Henry Clay and the Whig Party settled on John Tyler of Virginia, hoping he could attract disgruntled Democrats.

It’s interesting that the future President Harrison and Vice President Tyler in this election grew up in the same small Virginia County just ten miles apart. Actually through Tyler’s mother they were kin. Through my mother’s side I am not descended from President Harrison, but I am from his father, Benjamin Harrison, Governor of Virginia and signer of the Declaration of Independence.

The Whig campaign of 1840 was the first modern campaign with all the trimmings: buttons and banners, songs and slogans. The Whig slogan “Tippecanoe and Tyler too,” really meant, “We’ll give you Harrison, a war hero. He’s for a strong national government, roads and canals, a national bank, and a high tariff, but if you don’t like that; we’ll give you Tyler. He’s for states’ rights and against all that other stuff.

The Whigs won easily and Harrison became president, but Harrison had already given away the store. He had agreed to be a one-term president and to have just one vote in the Cabinet which was to be hand-picked by Henry Clay, but Harrison died of pneumonia a month after the election. Nobody, including John Tyler, expected that he’d become president. The Whigs in Congress were shocked. They refused to recognize Tyler as the real president, since this was the first time a president had died in office.

But Tyler believed that according to the Constitution he was the President and he was determined to be President. He would make the decisions. He would not promise to let Henry Clay run the show. As a matter of fact when Henry Clay showed up to tell the Accidental President whom to appoint and how to conduct his office, Tyler thundered, “You go, Mr. Clay, to your end of the Avenue where stands the Capitol and there do your duty as you see fit and, so help me God, I will do mine at this end of the Avenue as I see fit.” From then on Clay had the votes but Tyler had the vetoes.

Tyler’s first act as President was to proclaim a National Day of Fasting and Prayer, to mourn the death of President Harrison, in which he stated, “When a Christian people feel themselves to be overtaken by a great public calamity, it becomes them to humble themselves under the dispensation of Divine Providence, to recognize His righteous government over the children of men… and to supplicate His merciful protection for the future.”

If Tyler had gone along with Clay and the Whig majority in Congress he could have had an easy road and many would have deemed his presidency successful. But he refused to take the easy road. He vetoed the bill to re-charter the Bank of the United States and the Whigs read him out of the Party. The veto caused his Cabinet to resign, except for Daniel Webster, his Secretary of State. Instead Tyler proposed a banking system with a Board in Washington and branches in various parts of the country, a system almost identical to the Federal Reserve System which was subsequently adopted in 1913.

Tyler was unable to do much of anything in the domestic area, but his administration is being increasingly recognized for his accomplishments in foreign affairs, including the settlement of the boundary line between the United States and Canada over half way across the continent. Tyler invoked the Monroe Doctrine to prevent the British and French from taking over the Hawaiian Islands. He sent the first American mission to China, which resulted in a treaty in 1844, opening for the first time the profitable trade between the two countries and granting American citizens in China extraterritoriality, the right to be governed by their own laws and not those of China. Tyler pushed through the annexation of Texas at very end of his administration by the novel use of a joint resolution by both houses of Congress.

Tyler’s first major biographer called him a Champion of the Old South – but I believe that is “incorrect.” Tyler had troubling doubts about slavery and never saw it as a positive good, though he was a slave owner. In 1832 he had introduced a bill to end the slave trade in the District of Columbia. He was also president of the Virginia Colonization Society, which aimed to resettle freed slaves in Liberia.

Tyler’s administration was hog-tied but its social life excelled. His first wife Letitia Christian, a beautiful Christian woman, was an invalid when Tyler became president and died during his second year in office. His daughter-in-law, Priscilla Cooper Tyler, then served as White House hostess, with the help of former first lady, Dolly Madison.

Tyler’s second wife was Julia Gardiner, my grandmother, a 24 year old debutante and beauty from Long Island, New York, who married the President when he was 54. Tyler was completely captivated by her vivacity, good humor, poise and stamina. When someone asked him if he wasn’t too old for her, he replied, “Well, I’m in my prime.” The reply was “When she’s in her prime, where will your prime be?” But John Tyler kept his into his seventies, later siring seven more children by her.

There was tragedy in their love affair, however. The navy had a new ship, the “Princeton, which was equipped with a huge new cannon dubbed the “Peace Maker.” The President, his cabinet, and all the important people in Washington were invited to a cruise down the Potomac. The cannon was fired when they passed Mount Vernon and everyone retired below for food and music. On the return trip someone suggested they fire the cannon again. Most of the people went up on deck but the President and Miss Gardiner stayed to hear one more song. The cannon was fired and it exploded killing the Secretary of State Abel P. Upshire, the Secretary of the Navy Thomas Gilmer, and others, including Miss Gardiner’s father. She fainted at the tragic news and President Tyler carried her down the gangway and sent her to the White House. Soon afterwards they eloped to New York City and were married there.

Tyler’s new young bride, Julia Gardiner Tyler, was a great political asset. The Whigs called Tyler “a man without a party,” but most everyone in Washington turned out for Julia’s parties. Julia had made the grand tour of Europe and had been presented at royal courts. She had been the first woman ever to be featured in a newspaper ad. She was called the Rose of Long Island.

After John Tyler retired, the couple went back to Virginia to the place he had purchased during his term in office. For a time he was very unpopular but he harbored no bitterness and he eventually regained the respect and admiration of the people of his state. Since he had incurred the displeasure of both parties and since he was accused of being an outlaw like Robin Hood, he renamed his plantation “Sherwood Forrest.” Julia made the plantation the social center of Charles City County. She decorated and they enlarged the dwelling until at 100 yards in length, it became the longest frame house in America. John and Julia had seven children to go with the eight that he had produced in his first marriage. The ex-president loved children. He never tired of them, took them hunting, fishing, riding and boating. On summer evenings, he would play the fiddle and sing with the black and white children.

He ran the farm himself. There were no whips, lashes, or brutal overseers. He saw that the slaves were adequately fed, clothed and honored. He would not sell any or break up families.

My great, great grandfather on my mother’s side was Edmund Ruffin, known as the “Father of scientific agriculture in America.” He was the same age as the ex-president but two more generations back from me. He had opposed Tyler, but he came to visit and was captivated by him. Ruffin would give up farming and research for politics. He was to be one of the fire-eaters who stirred up the South to Secession and he hated Yankees. He would wrap himself in a Confederate flag and commit suicide after the South lost the war and leave these last words in his diary, “Would that I could bequeath these words to every Southerner living or yet to be born, to have no traffic with Yankees nor any political, social or business dealings with the vile, perfidious and malignant Yankee race.”

Nevertheless, Ruffin could recognize virtue even though he could not seem to exercise it. In spite of all the ex-President’s enemies, Ruffin had hardly heard an unkind or hostile remark from Tyler and he would confide to his diary after the ex-President’s death in 1862 these thoughts: “How difficult and how much worse would I have acted in this their situation. I should have returned these undeserved manifestations of hostility, and of ingratitude, with scorn, contempt and hatred. I would have so increased and kept alive and increasing, the hostile feelings of all other persons to me - and I should have become a miserable misanthrope, living and dying without a friend. But more wiser and more politic was John Tyler.” Ruffin would even say that John Tyler completely exemplified the description of love as found in St. Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians.

After Henry Clay died, Tyler spoke at his memorial service. Tyler admitted that “We gave each other a few bruises, but he was a great man.” He noted Clay’s many accomplishments including his work in effecting the Compromises of 1820 and 1850, which helped to keep the nation together for a considerable time.

When the Deep South states seceded Tyler pleaded with the Virginia legislature to call a meeting of the Border States to try and form a bridge between the two sections. But the state delayed and invited all the states to what was called the “Peace Convention” which sought to find a way to restore the Union and prevent a war. John Tyler addressed the assembly in this manner:” Our godlike fathers created; we have to preserve; they built up. You have a new task equally grand, you have to preserve the Government and to renew and invigorate the Constitution. If you reach the height of this great occasion, your children’s children will rise up and call you blessed.”

But it was too late. On the same date the convention met at the Willard Hotel in Washington, the seven Deep South states met in Montgomery, Alabama, to establish the Confederate States of America. President elect Abraham Lincoln soon after arrived in the Capitol City in disguise for fear of assassination and told Tyler that it was too late to reconcile the sections, that the die was already cast.

When Virginia seceded Tyler saw no other course than to stick with his state. Elected to the Confederate Congress, he died suddenly before he could take his seat in 1862.

The unknown President could be an example to us all. We might ponder these observations from people who knew him:

“An honest, affectionate, benevolent, loving man, who had fought the battles of his life bravely and truly, doing his whole great duty without fear, though not without much unjust reproach.” (Henry A. Wise)

“A career which for rapidity in achievement, consistency of conduct, and exalted moral character, finds few equals, and no superior in the annals of American history.” (George L. Christian)

On the grave marker of his horse “General,” John Tyler wrote these words: “He never stumbled. Would that his master could say the same.” John Tyler was not perfect, but he came close.

#john tyler #lyon gardiner tyler

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courtorderedcake · 5 years

Text

Hallow : ch xiv - CSSNS 2019

“The Goblin King was prepared to host the Darkness, stealing Fae women away to their corrupted lands underneath the ground as concubines. The Darkness chose another in his stead, but not before this selected vessel enacted a devastating attack in its vengeance, revealing its hatred & rage. The battle was a lesson the old kings had forgotten; never underestimate an opponent.

Many more lives were lost as they razed over any who dared defy The Goblin King’s will. Only the pure love of our rulers united in matrimony, breaking the Vorpal Dagger, sealed the darkness and the Goblin menace away. The light flourished under their fair rule, and the queen bore a child as pure as moon beams, swan feathers, and starlight. They lived happily ever after, and shall be written in history as Heroes for All Time.”

This is the history Princess Emma memorizes from the day she is born, paraded about and presented only with the highest protection. The palace is a cage she wishes to escape, desperately. Not careful what wishes she made, Emma discovers history is written by the victors - The Dark One has an entirely different version of the events that took place.

Read on AO3 here.

Rated E for explicit themes, Mature situations, and Fae fuckery.

Written for @cssns

Ch / ?? - In which they will always find each other

He woke to Lilly sitting beside Emma, holding her hand in her own. The sight made his stomach lurch. While things were still jumbled in his head, he could distinctly remember her betrayal as she burned the castle they were in to the ground as a Dragon, and her indifference on the beach as Emma was drained. She looked up to see him watching, and he could see she was crying, tears falling over a bitter frown.

“I know. I don’t have any excuses… Cruella manipulated me as if I was a puppet. I couldn’t see it before, but now it’s like I see everything.” Lilly looked down, lightly smoothing Emma’s hair. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how - I don’t think I’m a match for her here or there. She’s so much more powerful than I ever could imagine. She fooled us all.”

“Did you see Emma? I couldn’t get to her before I woke. Isaac pulled me into some kind of bubble. She looks even weaker, and last I saw her…”

“Cruella is draining so much more than usual. I don’t understand how or why Cruella keeps taking her magic, but Emma is falling apart. Her dreams are sometimes unstable, her magic is too powerful to be contained within the rites, and it’s not always Isaac in control. I am really frightened for her.” Lilly swallowed hard. “I saw Cruella talking to this… this thing; a big black monster wearing a no face, I mean, a husk mask. It spoke in a thousand voices, and was almost gelatinous, forming limbs as it pleased. Emma swore she saw the same monster in the bath house here, and it told her that it was ‘Hungry’. I didn’t believe her then, but I heard it say the same thing as Cruella soothed it. She promised it that she would free it soon, as soon as she was done fattening it up. Does she mean for it to eat Emma? Why would she befriend that thing?”

Isaac’s words began to return to him.

“The hungry ghosts. Cruella wants Emma to be a husk. If Emma falls and loses herself, Cruella will be more than powerful, practically unstoppable, with Emma’s magic fueling her own. That creature you saw is what’s left of the husk’s who got lost in those fantasies, tricked by Cruella. Isaac has an idea - Emma has to hang on, has to shock herself awake through nightmare after nightmare, but not lose herself in the process.”

“Cruella is not going to go down without a fight,” Lilly warned, and he nodded, Emma’s pull making him suddenly tired. “I’ll keep watch. Get Emma out of there, and please keep her safe.”

“That’s the plan. I won’t leave her.” He closed his eyes, feeling himself leave the cathedral.

A noise stopped him and as if he was a ghost, he looked down at Emma, himself, and Lilly struggling against two men. One carried a crowbar while the other brandished a club, swiping at her as she looked back to where they lay. With a pucker of her lips and a deep breath, Lilly blew fire in a circle around them all, the men stalking the perimeter.

“Now now, Lillykins. That wasn’t very fair, considering. Horace and Jasper just wanted to greet you with a firm salutation.” Cruella stepped across the flames, the orange fire going green as she passed through. She smiled in her spotted dress as Lilly backed up against the dais.

“What more do you want? You’re killing her!” Lilly yelled, and Cruella laughed.

“I’ve been doing this for a long time now, luvvie. If I’d do it to my own kin, what makes her anything special? It’s poetry that she’s also an enemy, and so strong, but I’d have manipulated this outcome regardless.” Cruella smiled, approaching where Emma slept. “Now listen, be a darling little beast and move out of the way so I can make sure no one interferes anymore. It’ll only take a minute.”

“No! Why are you doing this? What do you mean your own kind? I don’t understand, I -"

The man with the club connected it hard to Lilly’s skull, Cruella looking on with a piteous grimace. The Dragon princess crumpled, falling to the floor and twitching, Killian’s view stuttering as she lost consciousness. Cruella tried to push Lilly aside with her foot, but grew annoyed within seconds.

"Horace! Jasper! Throw her in the crypts. I have work to do.”

The taller of the men picked up Lilly as the Dragon groaned, Killian relieved to see her alive. They stepped out, and his vision of the cathedral grew foggy. The pull was getting too strong to resist as Lilly faded further into his mind, regardless of his grounding anger towards the Kitsune queen.

“Oh, Princess. You will be the finest of my collection. When my ghosts get a taste of you, oh, how they’ll feast. You’ll all be so angry,” Cruella cackled, her voice far away now. “I cannot wait to see what the full extent of your magic can do.”

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The explanation Killian had given Queen Snow was thorough, but much more like a briefing than the story of what had all gone on. He intentionally skirted around his and Emma’s misunderstandings, both good and bad, and left out as much of Her Grace’s mistakes as possible. If that conversation was to be had, it belonged rightfully to Emma. Telling her that Emma’s determination and belief that he had faith in her was enough to place her in peril would be more than enough of a conversation between him and the queen. It didn’t help that he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from praise, Emma’s unselfish, kind, and courageous attempts to save him from cruelty while he should have been protecting her forefront in his mind now that Cruella preyed on them so openly.

“So, a sleeping curse cast by none other than Cruella De Villé. I wish I could say I was surprised. I truly had hoped Maleficent’s influence and Regina staying the sword over their necks would have changed their ways.” The queen sighed deeply. “That still begs the question, why did you run to my daughter’s aid?"

Because I would do anything to save her. I owe her that, a thousand times moreover. Because I…

"I already destroyed my own family once and that was hard enough.” He kept his tone formal, although his nerves felt like they were fraying as the queen observed him with an owlish glare. His unfinished thought rattled him. Did she know? “But knowing that I destroyed yours, too? I just—I didn’t know how I could live with that."

"Interesting, but not an answer that relates directly to Emma. From what I have gathered, you have saved my daughter several times now, nearly meeting very unpleasant consequences for doing so. The way you danced with her, your mannerisms and candor, it all belies a sense of familiarity that goes past friendship.” She raised an eyebrow, and he could feel the burn of her eyes on him. “Considering your… track record as it were, I’m wondering what you see of value in Emma that you would risk injury for. How do I know you haven’t just poisoned her into a cursed sleep like you did to me?”

Killian gulped, and her eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know how to live with myself after I…” The pause was awkwardly long, but the queen nodded in understanding, encouraging him to continue.

“Knowing fully, being unable to escape it in my cowardice by fleeing to Darkness - I can’t do that with her next to me. Every action I took, the massacre I committed haunts me, and I carry its weight as I should, and as I have to. Most killed weren’t even men; we trained green boys to go to a slaughter. I see their faces over and over without the ability to stop myself. I failed them, and I lost them. So many lost men, lost boys, all of them at my hand but not my will. I will never forget them. I can’t forget that night or so many like it following the dagger’s commands. I am trying to overcome this, to make sure that I am never a danger again, Darkness or not.”

“Lost boys and men come back to haunt anyone with a part in the war, but you have to be first on their list. You say you had no control, and now you do because of my daughter’s presence. Are you sure my Emma is not a crutch for you?” she asked.

“She isn’t. She asks of me to lay with her -” Her reaction was vicious and instantaneous, the blade to his neck back and closer to spilling his blood than before.

“You’ve been intimate with my daughter? I should kill you right now for that alone and pray it sticks!"

"I swear on Liam and his honor, I haven’t touched her other than to lay beside her -” Killian rasped, pressed back into the wall. The queen was smaller than him or even Emma, but she was faster and far stronger than he’d expected.

The sword jutted up harder, and he tried not to swear.

“With no intentions more than soothing her from the shock she’s developed.”

The queen lowered her sword, looking surprised. She backed up a step still pointing the blade at him. “Emma has developed…"

"She is unable to rest at all without having fits of panic in her sleep. It isn’t my place to say, but she has seen more bloodshed than most nobles, even when I have tried to guard her from it.” He rubbed his neck breathing hard, the queen biting her lip and looking aside. “There’s also her fear of Nil, especially considering what he’s said he wants to do to her.”

“My poor… Oh, my Emma,” she whispered.

“I swear to you that I have no plans to have any sort of relationship with her after this. The Darkness will never allow it and I can’t risk hurting her.” He laid out his hands in a gesture of supplication, the queen sheathing her sword. “I want her to be happy.”

The queen took a moment to smooth her dress and tuck in her sword under a bit of skirt. After the moment of silence, she spoke quietly.

“You sound as if you have feelings for her, though.”

She was as perceptive as Emma, staring through him like glass.

Killian shook his head. “Only in a place where I am allowed to have them. I’m not as lucky in the waking world. I’m aware in both of my…” He grimaced, and clasped his hands behind his back. “I know I am far below the mark for who is worthy of her, even without her status, and I am very aware of my limitations regarding my curse. I carry the Darkness, outside of these rites. I can’t be around her, I can’t have feelings for anyone, let alone her. I also know my limitations regarding my history with everyone she holds dear. I would never allow that sort of pain for her. When she wakes, she will have forgotten this, and anything other than undergoing the rites."

"Hm. Well,” she mused, and pressed her hand to her cheek. “Let’s see how Emma responds to these emotions of yours, knowing that you are under my watchful gaze and in great peril should you be anything less than her standards. You may be poisoning her heart and mind, as you sentenced me to sleep without waking. Although…"

Her shoulders tightened as she opened the door to let them out of the dim study. He almost did not hear her whisper when it came.

"Emma is a surprisingly good judge of character, except when it comes to you, apparently."

He nodded. "That I wholeheartedly agree with, Your Majesty.”

They walked back through the corridor and into the ballroom where Anna, Ingrid, and Emma looked up with surprised delight.

“There you are! We were just telling the princess about your skill at sailing and the sword. She’s never been on the sea, you know.” Ingrid smiled coyly, pulling a goblet to her lips to drink. Emma blushed, and Anna curtsied at the queen who waved her off.

“Anna, you never need do all that. Formality went out of our shared window when you brought ducklings into our dormitories and I somehow became their mum. As far as I am concerned, while David is my husband, you were clearly my first partner.” Anna laughed brightly, and the queen gave Killian a nod as she pulled Ingrid and Anna away.

“I take it my father is sulking somewhere from my mother’s tongue lashing?” Emma asked, wringing her hands.

Killian snorted at the truth of the situation, but pulled a chair out, offering her a seat. She sat with a sigh, playing with a leftover bit of cheese on her small tasting plate.

“Something like that. He was just worried is all. My family doesn’t have the best legacy -"

"You and Captain Liam have fixed that legacy ten times over, and the Arendelle kingdom sings your house’s praises! What nonsense! Why I -” Emma huffed, crossing her arms.

“How do you know all that?” he interrupted to ask, looking at her as she opened her mouth to speak, then abruptly closed it. She thought for a moment, then pressed fingers to her temples.

“I don’t know, actually,” Emma murmured after a long pause. “I know so much about you that I can not figure out how I have learned. Like I said before, it’s like I know you."

"Tell me something about myself, and if it’s right, I’ll reciprocate. If it’s not, you know that you’re just overwhelmed by your neverending duties to people who you feel don’t care about the real you, but only as some figurehead ideal, and you have created some elaborate, imagined story for me.” Her head shot up as she looked at him in shock. “You may find we know a lot about the other somehow, instinctually. As if you’ve known all along.”

“How…? Alright. Alright then.” Emma straightened, squaring her shoulders and locking her eyes with his. “You hate hot chocolate, even with cinnamon, which is a dreadful shame. You take Chicory instead, black as night, and like all sorts of bitter things. You don’t like thunderstorms, or like things out of your prescribed order, and both make you tense; the former more than the latter. You won’t admit that you enjoy dancing, but you do, and my theory is that it is a way for you to separate your mind from the action that is almost muscle memory. While you are very skilled with a sword, you are better with a cutlass that’s a bit longer, and better still with a pole, trident, or halberd. You know the constellations in the night sky as if they were friends you are describing, and can identify just about any fish or plant.”

Emma paused, thinking hard. “In fact, actually - I think you’re smarter than me, both in ways of the outside world’s workings which is to be understood, but rarer still, better read than me. What I don’t know you do, and the things that have escaped your knowledge, I am well versed on. The only thing we both don’t know is history, but that’s because it’s all based on testimony…”

Her eyes widened, but she stopped, her lip pulled between her teeth as her mind turned over what she’d discovered.

Smiling, he leaned forward. “That was more than one, love. But, then again, you only pretend to like rules. Truly you find them suffocating. You love hot chocolate but also have a penchant for tarts, cookies, and cinnamon pastries preferably with glaze. You would eat granite rocks if they came with frosting on top, I’m almost positive.” Emma laughed, then covered her mouth with a blush. He continued.

“You lived - live within a precise and fine tuned schedule, reveling in chaos where you cou - can make it. You have napped in the library shelves to escape nannies, tormented Granny the cook with her own granddaughter just behind, and have played more tricks on visitors than you dare admit to. You don’t like the idea of being trapped anywhere, but have accepted it as your duty. It makes you sad, but the thought of disappointing your family makes you feel even worse.” She let him take her hand, and he could hear her breathing hitch. “You’re a good person, and lovely inside and out. You have an uncanny ability to bring people together and find the silver linings in the world that others can’t see. It may be frustrating sometimes to have to try and dissuade you from your efforts of playing savior, but you come out on top regardless.”

“Captain,” she began, slowly. He interrupted her with a laugh, and she raised an eyebrow.

“I was never a captain,” he managed to chuckle out, and she gave him a look of confusion. He squeezed her hand lightly. “Please - For you, it is always Killian.”

She nodded. “That’s right. You are - were - a lieutenant, but I don't… I don’t understand any of this.”

“You don’t have to. If you don’t mind, I’d love to see this world with you. You talk about it often and it would be nice to have a visual to go with your stories."

"So we do know each other then?” He nodded and she smiled wide. “Do we - are we courting?"

"Not exactly, but for all intents and purposes, here we have the opportunity to if you wish it.” She blushed, but her grin remained.

“What is 'here’? My home, the palace? Or -"

He grimaced, trying to figure out any way to summarize. "That gets… It all becomes more difficult to unravel the further you go.”

“Well, the quicker you begin the story of how this all came to be, the quicker you will be out of it.” Emma smirked, rising. “I do so love a challenge.”

“Alright. Then I’ll start at the beginning, aye?"

"And I shall do the same, come.” Emma took his hand in hers, pulling him with her behind a curtain. Her body seemed to relax, the spring in her step more playful as she ducked into a corridor. “Let me spirit you away to my world.”

She led him to the library while he gave parts of their tale, pointing out to him towering shelves and long ladders leading to hidden alcoves, although her favorites for napping or hiding away were the highlights in her introduction of the grand space. Conspiratorially she showed him the hidden shelf that she hid illicit novels, the descriptions making her blush when he read them aloud.

“Devoted Acolyte and Priestess, Jeriline Clearbrook, has been devoted to her craft of healing all lost souls who wander through her temple. She serves as a perfect student of the Goddess Wü, her vow to preserve her maidenhood under the teachings sacramount.

When a non-believer from the barbaric North Kingdom is trapped within the temple walls by the magic of the Goddess, Jeriline fears that a terrible cosmic error has been made. Kadejah is rugged, unrefined, and headstrong in his beliefs - especially his belief that he should be free of his cursed confinement. His interest in Jeriline starts purely to gain his freedom, but slowly morphs into something more, challenging everything they both hold dear and their very identities.”

“It’s not as trite as the description would lead you to believe -” Emma sputtered, but as he read a particularly wicked passage about the priestess’s seduction, she ripped the book away from him.

“I thought it was illuminating, how despite their differences and the very Gods forbidding it,” Killian teased, trailing a finger over the color that graced her neck, “Kadejah still managed to make her 'scream his name as he filled her to the brim with his massive -’ "

"I can’t imagine why I don’t remember you at all,” Emma hissed, pushing the book back into its nook. “Such grand and supportive fun you offer.”

His teasing earned him a steely review of their next stops, as Emma tried to regain her calm amid his flustering her. The great hall and grand stairway were beautiful, and as Emma relaxed again, she seemed to remember him further. His comments began to meet her own, their rapport beginning to follow its normal beat. In the tapestry vault, she lingered closer to him, watching him carefully as he smoothed out long banners and throws. When Killian met her gaze, she did not flutter away or panic, but instead studied him closer still, looking for answers he knew she would find.

They spent time in the menagerie area where the royal collection of animals were kept, talking about everything they could remember about each other. When a topic changed, he brought up twenty questions or silly word games while Emma remembered more by the second. She stroked a bright yellow elephant, feeding it mango as Killian puzzled over guessing what his name might be.

“Mouse?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“Smaller, and more colorful, with almost infinite varieties.” Emma stroked behind the beast’s ear, earning a half trumpeted snort. “Think things that fly, but are hardy -"

"Bird?"

"No, but closer! Tinier still, although some can be large, I suppose. Same letter, and birds eat them.” Emma shrugged.

Killian snapped his fingers, sitting up. “Bug?"

Emma grinned, nodding. She tossed him a mango, and he approached cautiously, Bug lifting his long yellow trunk to grab the ripe fruit. "I ride him every odd occasion, in parades or into meetings if I feel the need to have a dramatic entrance."

"Well, he does make quite the statement,” Killian laughed.

Emma motioned her hand, and the elephant lifted him with ease, despite his yelp. After a moment he was seated along with her on its back, Bug carefully trotting down a hallway.

“This obviously wouldn’t be allowed normally, but I have always wanted to do this. My mother would lose her mind if she even got wind of the idea!” Emma giggled, and he laughed too. “I wonder how dream mom would react -"

"She’s not a dream, actually. At least I don’t think so. Do you remember everything yet, or…?” Killian asked. Emma shook her head, leaning back into him.

“Some things,” she whispered. “I am dreaming, and so are you, but you and I have feelings for each other. I can control some aspects, but there is a great evil lurking. I am being drained of my magic, and it hurts terribly."

"I am sorry. I should never have -"

"It’s alright. You and Lilly came in after me, but these dreams… They’re remarkable in their realness. It’s easy to get lost within them, and no one but us or a handful of others are cognizant of what is happening. The Other, Cruella and her different disguises, they’re used to this place. It’s giving them an advantage, and she’s using that to try to keep you and Lilly away from me.”

“Yes. You’re under a sleeping curse.” Bug stopped, and Emma hopped down from his back. Killian followed, Emma leading him to a familiar portrait. He took a deep breath, looking up at his brother painted so meticulously and true to life, it almost hurt.

“I remember sitting here more vividly now than ever,” she whispered, sadly. “I think this was the easiest world yet to let myself get lost in, truly lost in here. I’m a breath away from forgetting everything, especially if it meant having everything back, and you…”

“Your mum - the Queen, she may actually be here, love. She and I spoke,” Killian swallowed, deciding to keep the incident with Cruella to himself, as not to unload too much at once. “She seems to be in here with us somehow.”

Emma cocked her head to the side, looking thoughtful. “My mom was under a sleeping curse before, when…” She looked at him, then at her feet. “When the Goblin King made you…"

"When I poisoned your mum? And it’s any wonder she let me near you.” He tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat.

“Killian…” Emma took his hand, and smiled gently. “If she didn’t ram a sword down your throat, it’s a sign that she has a bit of hope for you.”

He chuckled, unable to stop himself. “She tried. I believe that like you discovered, I’m much too much of a hassle to dispose of that way.” Emma laughed, swatting at him. When he caught her hand, she led him away from Liam’s portrait and outdoors. They entered a pretty solarium, partially shaded and hidden by a copse of willows. Stained glass peppered the ceiling and walls in different shapes, casting rainbows on the stonework floor.

Flowers bloomed everywhere, pots and planters overflowing with blossoms. Emma walked towards the closed exit door, pushing hard to reveal an atrium of some sort, the door itself concealed behind a tall painting. French doors with intricate wood inlay stood partially open on one side of them, a sitting area and entry table in front of them. Another door lay beyond that, in what Killian guessed must be her bedroom. Emma closed the hidden passage behind them with a soft click.

“This is my chambers, and one of the secret ways in. That solarium is usually fully hidden unless you know the way.” Emma tugged him forward slightly, pointing at the artwork covering the passage. It was a forest scene, light streaming down onto foggy moss and wet leaves, the greens verdant and many colored leaves bright. “I was given this by a Contessa, who offered me so many different treasures. This was the only one that I found worthwhile, and truly beautiful.”

“You have good taste,” said a voice from behind them. They turned to see Emma’s father walking from her room. “Must have gotten it from someone.”

“Daddy! You scared me, what are you -” Emma attempted to take a step forward towards him, but Killian held her back. “What -?"

"Ask him something only your father would know.” Killian stared down the King, Emma continuing to look perplexed.

“Um…” she began. “Let me think I guess - uh -"

The King plunged a dagger through Killian’s chest, Emma screaming in shock at the sudden and unpredicted violence.

"I hate having to keep doing this, simply because you won’t listen, like a good puppy,” Cruella sneered, twisting the blade before wrenching it out. “Wake up, and stay out.”

The last thing he saw before everything faded to black was Emma’s terrified face.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

David N'lan was many things, even by Emma’s measure as his daughter. He could have a ferocious temper, as it had been written about in legends of his fierceness in battle or noted in his proud family history as a raging fury passed down from his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, brutal warriors who made their marks as Kings. Emma had not learned much about them outside of the ballads of their victories or heroics, her father inheriting only some of their battlelust, the majority apparently settling in his twin brother James moreover. Her mother had said that Emma had a calming effect on him, even more so than their marriage had. Unless either of his 'favorite girls’ were threatened, the King was a fair, kind, jovial, and moderate man.

Emma had seen him truly angry only in a few circumstances, usually after the majority of whatever had vexed him seemed to have dissipated. Graham was terrified of her father after his threats, and the few instances that Emma had been hurt or could have been severely injured by carelessness had drawn his ire. Emma remembered his silliness, laughter, and his love first in any situation, followed by his ability to find humor and be overall lighthearted.

She had never seen the malice in his eyes, or the ravenous look of greed that curled his lips as Killian crumpled in front of her. Whoever, whatever , stood in front of her was no father of hers, and in no way could be any version of him.

Feeling panic try and root her to the spot, Emma pushed out an exhale, doing the opposite. The fear of what she believed wore her father’s face still tore a scream from her, but it was better to do so while running than allow it any more time near her. She heard it scrabble behind her, but willed her eyes to not look as she tore through the halls. Killian had said that her mother was potentially here, and Snow N'lan would never have let Killian get far with Emma if there were any threats or she had any possibility of worry - a cursed sleep met both requirements.

The flash of a reflection on the floor caught her eye, a sun spot bounced off a mirror. Following it with her gaze Emma made the quick turn as Cruella sounded right behind, and saw a great white and black dog creature crash into the wall out of the corner of her eyes. Emma barely kept her own footing, managing to grab her mother’s hand as the giant dog-like thing shook itself and gnashed its jaws.

Pushing Emma behind her and pulling her bow taut, Snow let arrows fly in rapid succession, Cruella falling dead in the form of a massive, wolf-like fox spirit, so close that their skirt hems ruffled with her last exhale.

“Sorry I couldn’t get her sooner. I’d hoped the Dark One would be more useful in providing protection for you, but -"

Emma hugged her mom, wrapping her arms tightly around her and sobbing like a child. The Queen stumbled slightly but as she laid her bow and quiver down, she wrapped her arms around her daughter in turn, soothing her gently.

"Hey now, hey my little buttercup, it’s alright. I’ve missed you so much Emma, we all do. We’re all so worried about you -"

"I’m so happy you’re here, Mom. I love you so much. Are you all OK? Please tell me you are all safe and alive - everything is so messed up, I don’t know what to do -"

"We’re surviving, and everyone is alright. Worse for wear, but alright considering. The Dark One said as much about things being difficult, if he is to be believed. I’m so sorry we didn’t prepare you better, I’m so sorry for sending you here with him. I should have gone with you, or your father…"

"I’m so glad you are all alive, oh Gods, I’ve been so scared! And yes, he is to be believed, he's… I trust him with my life."

"So I’ve heard, but I thought it was one-sided, or a falsehood. I suppose that he was telling me the truth.” Snow furrowed her brows. Glancing back at the dead animal, she pinched the bridge of her nose, and ushered Emma away from it. “Come, Emma. Let’s take tea in the drawing room until either that thing comes back, the Dark One returns, or we figure out a way to get you free of this. I feel we may need to talk.”

Emma nodded, watching Cruella fade away completely before standing up. Her mother led her to the sunny drawing room, its elegant doors open to a beautiful courtyard. They sat together while a servant fetched them tea and small cakes, both making small conversation. She found that she couldn’t recall the last time her mother had been free enough to do something as banal as tea between only the two of them, let alone idly chatting. When Emma felt relaxed, her mother struck.

“The conversation I had earlier, with the Dark One…” Her mother set her teacup down slowly, sliding the cup so the handle sat just so on the saucer. “You fell for him then, truly?"

"That’s what you’re focusing on? Seriously Mom?” Emma exploded, exasperated. Her mother eyed her shrewdly, and Emma felt a rage rise in her that roared like a lion. She pushed it down, the uncalled for and frightening urge to smack the calculated calm from her mother’s face too tempting after everything that had happened. “I’m hoping beyond hope that you are real, because yes, I did. He’s helped me navigate through all of your mistakes. He’s different when we’re together, and I -"

"Your father is going to go mad at this development,” Snow said, using both hands to pick up and sip at her tea. She sighed. “This was not what I meant when I said destroy the Darkness. As for my mistakes, I am aware of my rash judgements in the past but they certainly - ”

“Destroy? It’s not destroyed, it’s still in him. He’s just caging it, he - ”

“Emma. Do you know how we stopped him, and how we broke the Dagger?”

“True Love’s Kiss. It woke you from a sleeping curse. The Dark One poisoned you, his orders to preserve you for execution by the Goblin King. Father woke you as the Goblin King commanded the Dark One to kill you both -"

"Our kiss shattered the Dagger, and stunned the Darkness. I could feel it when I was filled with that power, when the light hit it. The tiniest smidgen hung on by a thread. That bit of Dark is what is left, and it can be destroyed no matter how loud it declares it cannot. If you love him - truly, unabashedly, love him - and if he can put enough faith in trusting himself to love you with complete denial of the Darkness’ pull, you could have a chance of True Love outside of this place. It’s the smallest chance of happiness, but there is a chance to save him. It means you risk everything: you risk breaking your heart for his benefit, and I don’t want that for you.”

“All love comes with the chance of heartbreak, Mom. All love means risk, and all love is a dangerous gamble. You and Daddy were a gamble; he risked everything for you, and to give you that kiss. You risked everything by agreeing to ascend to the throne, becoming a singular target. You both took chances and ended up making decisions based on faith in each other - I want that. I think Killian and I could have that. I finally feel like I have met someone who understands the walls I didn’t know I had built up. I love what I see when I bring down his own, and who he is.”

“You’ve grown so much, Emma. You almost sound as if you know what heartache this will bring you, as if you can fathom it, or understand the lengths men like him would go to, just to use you.”

“I do understand, Mom! I did grow up! I’ve been torn apart by this world and put myself back together only to get chewed up and spat out. I had to grow. There wasn’t an option, alright? Killian, he has been both the worst and the best, and he is growing too. He’s fighting for control for himself, first and foremost, and because he wants to be better. I wish you could just for one moment realize how much bullshit you’ve made me overcome!” Emma yelled, standing up in anger and knocking her tea cup to the floor. It shattered, and Emma let out a frustrated noise before taking in a deep breath, bending down to pick up the shards.

Her mother looked appalled, but kept quiet, staring at her as if she was a stranger.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I miss you so much. I miss all of you, and Father. I have longed for your counsel and tried so hard - I’ve had to undo and learn so much… It’s been a lot. I… I don’t feel like myself anymore. I’m a different Emma than you knew, and I am not sorry for that, just sad you can’t see what made me change and why I am making my decisions.”

Her mother’s face was unreadable, the expression one Emma hadn’t seen before: a cross between pensive anxiety and concerned sadness. Emma swallowed thickly, her mother a stranger before her as she had become a stranger herself.

“I…” Emma began, and choked down the sudden feeling of intense guilt that flooded her. “I need a moment. I think I’ll wait for Killian in the garden.”

“If you’re sure?” the Queen asked, and Emma nodded, the tone of voice her mother was using confirming her decision. When difficult dignitaries or events took place, her mother used that gentle firmness as an indication she wanted to be done, her tone to excuse herself politely.

Emma nodded, armor up and engaged, knowing that this truly was her mother in her dreamscape. Only a mother could twist her heart like this, and still wring out only love. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll find you later.”

Her mother left quickly, and Emma felt relief, which in turn only made her feel even worse.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Killian woke up with a start, the feeling of being eaten alive by the malignant Darkness, its sharp teeth leaving him stunned, like his bones were sucked clean of offal. He looked around for Emma and found her still sleeping, her pallor gray. She shivered and let out a tiny noise when he tried to wake her, skin clammy to his touch, Isaac’s thrall still holding tightly.

He let out a huff of frustration, his jaw muscle tight.

“Bloody hell."

He laid his head down beside her own, falling easily back into the curse. The Darkness resisted burning away, the tearing feeling of being flayed as the curse peeled it off of him like drowning in liquid flame.

You will regret this whence you return. This I promise.

I may not be able to stop you now, but I can certainly hurt her in this weakened state.

When it was done, he stumbled into the dreamscape gulping for air. Emma was waiting for him in the garden, looking exhausted but stunningly beautiful. The breeze was cool, flowers swaying, the pink color of their petals dappled with afternoon sunlight. The cloak she wore moved to the side, her white gown showing a long column of neck. Killian took a deep breath, remembering himself, remembering her and Gods was that a mistake when the cloak fell away. It was a wonder that anyone could look at her at all in her court dresses, everything tailored to stun, leaving him in awe even with his bias.

"You’re back! I swear to you, that wasn’t my father!” She ran to him, and he caught her as she examined him, checking to make sure he was awake. He swallowed hard, no, anything but hard, her hands trailing up the sleeves of his uniform. “I thought you left me alone in this place, I thought you abandoned me, and you weren’t coming back - ”

“Never. I’d never. If you have need of me, I will always come back. Did she hurt you? Do you know where we -"

"Yes. Yes, we’re in the dream, and I can feel I don’t have much time. It’s getting worse, the forgetting and them taking my magic. She tried, clawed me pretty good, but I ran. She’s getting stronger, Killian."

"I know, we are trying. We have to go through the nightmares soon -"

"In case you fail, I have a request,” Emma whispered against his chest.

“Anything. We’re going to get you out of here, but anything -"

Killian’s shoulders tensed when her lips pressed against his, the sharp inhale of surprise that he was sure she could feel when she let them press together. His panic left it chaste and awkward, leaving her to pull away in embarrassment.

With her face reddening, Emma stammered and stepped away. "I’m sorry. I just, I’ve never been kissed properly by you when we both - I mean, we both are aware and I - I thought that we were more than friends or companions or whatever we are. I wanted to remember, and if I was to remember anything it would be that. I shouldn’t have done that, please forgive me.” He caught her by the arm before she could escape, fighting back a well of emotion that ached.

At least she would forget as she had forgotten him before in these dreams, all the imagined early morning conversations, her kisses and the way he always came so close to wanting her while holding himself back. Even against not realizing what was going on, and understanding this was all fantasy, he had kept his lust for more of her tamped firmly down. He had known on some level what he was unable to remember, that she was more, and that she deserved consent.

The constants were now Killian finding her, and forgetting until it was too late - but always, always , wishing this was real.

#Hallow #Courtorderedcake #CSSNS #CSSNS 2019 #Captain Swan #Captain Swan Supernatural Summer #Captain Swan Fan Fiction #Captain Swan Kiss #Captain Swan Fanfiction #CS #CS FF #CS AU #CS Fanfiction #CS Fan Fiction #Captain Swan Fanart

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anghraine · 4 years

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pro patria, chapters 1-7

I don’t actually expect people to read this, but I want it over here for completeness’s sake, so—the Guild Wars 2 fic!

This one is ... different, apart from being for a canon that I think maybe three of my friends are interested in, because instead of writing a one-shot in my format of seven sections of seven sentences each, I've written an entire 70k+ fic that way. Each chapter is precisely 49 sentences long, which makes for a lot of very short chapters, so I'm bunching them up into groups of (of course!) seven.

It’s business as usual, however, in having copious footnotes (these ones assume everyone’s unfamiliar with the canon story).

title: pro patria (1-7/?) stuff that happens: a young Ascalonian woman grows from a sheltered aristocrat, to a hero rushing into danger to help a nearby village, to the investigator of a series of mysterious abductions and thefts tied to the Ministry itself. verse: Ascalonian grudgefic characters/relationships: PC (mesmer / human / noble origin / missing sister [Ascalonian]), Lord Faren, Minister Ailoda, Deborah, Countess Anise, Logan Thackeray; PC & Ailoda, PC & Deborah, PC & Anise, PC & Faren

ONE 1 I always thought of myself as Ascalonian first, and Krytan second. Both of my parents were Ascalonian—my mother came from a family of Rurikton refugees fallen on good times, my father from Ebonhawke, and I was born there, myself. Mother had resigned from the Ministry over some quarrel with Minister Caudecus, and hammered in her protest by uprooting the entire family for an extended holiday with my aunt Elwin in Ebonhawke. This was long before the Rurikton gate got fixed on Ebonhawke, so in the off phases, people generally took “going to visit family in Ebonhawke” as a euphemism for something. But Mother being Mother, she headed through Lion’s Arch to the Black Citadel of all places, carved her way through only the gods knew what to the gates of Ebonhawke, turned herself over to the Vanguard, and waited for Aunt Elwin to show up and get them released. She was seven months pregnant with me by the time she arrived, Father and five-year-old Deborah in tow. And two months later, she delivered me there, Father and Aunt Elwin at her side, and Charr siege engines in her ears. 2 Father always wanted to go back to Kryta, for Deborah’s sake and mine. And during the times that the Rurikton gate got switched to Ebonhawke, when our kin in Divinity’s Reach rushed supplies through, requests for Mother’s return to the Ministry came with them. She only said, “We need soldiers, not supplies—yes, I know centaurs are attacking them, but —” “We need to go home,” said Father. A Charr attack shook her resolve more than he did: one that briefly broke through the walls while Deborah was out walking with Aunt Elwin. But it was Aunt Elwin who convinced Mother that she could do more to help our people in the Ministry than as one more staff against the Charr legions. She accepted the latest offer from the Ministry, this time to serve as representative of the Salma District itself, and we headed—home, to a place I’d never seen. 3 My father was a Fairchild, a descendant—if collateral—of Duke Barradin himself, while my mother was only a Langmar, and a Langmar of mixed heritage, no less. But Langmar meant nearly as much as Fairchild in Rurikton, where the family had owned a mansion for generations. When we first arrived, I’d never seen anything like it, for Aunt Elwin’s house in struggling Ebonhawke couldn’t begin to compare to the splendid gardens and shining marble of a mansion in Divinity’s Reach. Even Deborah, her eleven-year-old dignity often stronger than any other feeling, couldn’t help staring around with wide eyes. Mother, meanwhile, gained a still greater mansion in the Salma District upon receiving her appointment as representative, but she wanted us safe from the politicking and corruption of the Ministry. Deborah and I grew up quietly in Langmar Manor, educated with other Ascalonian nobles by Ascalonian tutors, familiar with every corner of Rurikton and very little beyond it. Deborah chafed at the confinement, but I was a little girl, content enough to spend my days playing and studying with Yolanda, Corone, and Faren, new and lifelong friends. 4 Deborah joined the Seraph the day she turned twenty. “I don’t understand,” I said blankly. “We call ourselves Ascalonians,” she told me, “and that means more than tracing our family trees. You don’t remember Ebonhawke, but those are real Ascalonians, fighting for what they love—like our ancestors fought for what they loved—but we’re happy to boast of their names without doing anything. Captain Thackeray could just sit back and enjoy everything he gets for being Gwen Thackeray’s heir, but he isn’t, and I won’t either. Ascalon is lost, even if Rurikton and the Settlement and Ebonhawke will never admit it, but as long as Kryta stands, we have something to fight for.” Deborah as a Seraph, solving crimes, keeping order, and skirmishing with the occasional bandit raid, wasn’t half so chilling a prospect as Deborah fighting legions of Charr, so I didn’t say what I thought—as long as Ebonhawke stands, we have Ascalon to fight for. 5 Deborah’s departure left the whole family scattered: my mother in Salma, my father dead, my aunt and cousins in Ebonhawke, my sister stationed all the way down in Claypool, and some remote relations and me in Rurikton. Mother, still grieving Father and anxious over Debs, decided that at fifteen, I was old enough to come live with her in her Ministry mansion. I’d felt lonely and restless in Langmar Manor, but I still received the news with very little short of horror. “You’re going the next district over, not across the world,” said Yolanda. “I’ll take a house in Manor Hill too,” Faren said recklessly, “and we’ll have amazing parties.” Faren being Faren, he actually did, aided by his father’s relief at him showing interest in something beyond Rurikton high society—even if that thing was only Salma high society. My mother kissed me when we arrived, and with a smile, told Faren, “It’s a pleasure to know you’ll be keeping my girl company, and of course, just to see you—you’re looking so well!” He preened. 6 We spent those early weeks exploring Salma, curious and cheerful despite ourselves, suppressing giggles as we followed a dour guide about the district. “Orr was destroyed,” the guide was saying, “Ascalon was ravaged by the Foefire; only Kryta is left, and that by a narrow margin.” “Ascalon was ravaged by the Searing,” I said sharply, all laughter gone. Nobody would call Faren a great wit, but when it came to conversation and society, his instincts were impeccable. “You must have gotten the order confused, good sir—the Searing came first, the Foefire when everything was already wrecked—but a simple mistake, I’m sure—you were saying something about Kryta?” Biting back the first words that came to my lips, I forced myself to smile and say, “Sorry, we’re Ascalonian.” “I guessed,” said the guide. 7 I suppose I was a callow, coddled creature in those days, spoiled if not malicious—and though three years of even more luxury in Salma didn’t change that, a single letter did. To Minister Ailoda Langmar, I regret to inform you of the loss of Falcon Company in a centaur raid. Your daughter, Sergeant Deborah Fairchild, died honourably in battle. With my deepest condolences to you and your family, Captain J. Tervelan of the Seraph (Queensdale) As Mother staggered backwards, I caught her, and somehow afterwards, that was always the clearest memory: her weight in my arms, the letter falling out of her hand, fluttering downwards until it reached the floor, nothing visible but the seal of the Seraph. Until then, I’d been little more than an irritable butterfly, but with Mother shattered, I found myself willingly shouldering the work of mourning: the formal letters and heartbroken notes, the refusal of Deborah’s pension, the visits from friends and allies and enemies—I was warm and grateful to the Mashewes and Baroness Jasmina; coldly civil to that ass Zamon, whose commiseration fell little short of gloating; brave and dignified to Corone and his friend Edmonds; grieved but composed with Faren and Yolanda. Like a creature of a thousand faces, I sometimes thought in exhausted moments: not at all a proper Ascalonian hero, more Anise than Deborah—but it was the only way I knew to be strong.

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1) Ascalonian first: the PC from the first game was a resident of the human kingdom of Ascalon when the Charr, a species of giant cat people who lived in Ascalon a thousand years earlier, orchestrated a massive magical attack that killed thousands of Ascalonian civilians and devastated the landscape. Surviving Ascalonians were afterwards mostly killed or enslaved, except a few groups that escaped. The king then went mad and turned himself and the last survivors into vengeful ghosts.

2) and Krytan second: in GW1, the PC helps Prince Rurik of Ascalon lead a group of Ascalonian refugees into the neighbouring kingdom of Kryta. Some Ascalonians establish a settlement there while others live in the cities; generations later, this has resulted in a minority population of Krytan Ascalonians within broader Krytan culture, which the GW2 PC can belong to (though it has no impact on gameplay, which is what inspired the fic). In-game, Ascalonians are fiercely proud of their heritage.

3) Rurikton refugees: Rurikton, named after the Rurik in #2 (who was killed in the journey to Kryta), is the Ascalonian district of the Krytan capital, Divinity’s Reach.

4) Ebonhawke: a stronghold in the furthest reaches Ascalon built by elite Ascalonian soldiers and the civilians they fought to protect. It fell just outside of the king’s curse and has managed to survive the onslaughts of the Charr for 250 years.

5) I was born there [Ebonhawke]: there is no evidence for the PC being born outside Divinity's Reach, so this is probably one of the creakiest elements as far as canon goes. DR is canonically the PC’s home, and they strongly suggest they’ve never seen anything else. I made her very young when she arrived to finagle it, but it’s mostly there because I’m interested in the dynamic between Ebonhawke Ascalonians and Kryta Ascalonians, so I wanted to give her a foot in both worlds.

6) Minister Caudecus: a deeply corrupt Krytan minister who shows up in various storylines.

7) my aunt Elwin: Elwin Fairchild is a noblewoman of Ebonhawke in the game, a proud Ascalonian ambivalent over Krytan involvement in Ebonhawke’s affairs.

8) Rurikton gate: Asura gates are magic/technological portals created by a species of small, floppy-eared, ethically questionable scientists and researchers. They have a gate in Rurikton that will instantly transport you to the one in Ebonhawke, but it seems that it’s only recently been permanently fixed on Ebonhawke.

9) Lion’s Arch: the former capital of Kryta; after a cataclysm caused by giant eldritch dragons, the original Lion’s Arch was sunk and the city rebuilt into an independent city-state, while Divinity’s Reach became the new capital.

10) The Black Citadel: the capital of Charr-controlled Ascalon, built on top of the former human capital (and human remains, according to one Charr).

11) turned herself over to the Vanguard: the Ebon Vanguard defends and seems to largely control Ebonhawke.

12) five-year-old Deborah: we don’t know the exact age gap between Deborah and the PC, but Deborah seems to be older.

13) the Salma District: the PC will always live in Salma, regardless of origin, even though the city has sharp class and ethnic divisions and you can belong to one of the minority populations.

14) Duke Barradin himself: Duke Barradin was the heir to the previous royal family in GW1, but loyal to the elected king, Adelbern. His daughter was engaged to Adelbern’s son Rurik, but both were killed, so he has no direct descendants. However, the PC’s friend Faren is explicitly descended from royalty, the noble PC is implied to be so, and the Duke of Ebonhawke is descended from Ascalonian kings in particular, so it seems likely that their progenitor was some relation of Barradin’s.

15) only a Langmar: Captain Langmar led the elite Ascalonian soldiers that ultimately founded Ebonhawke, though she died in the process. There’s no sign that she had anything like an aristocratic background, but we’re told that class hierarchy in Rurikton is rooted in descent from Searing-era heroes, as Langmar was.

16) mixed heritage: GW2 Ascalonians, especially in Kryta, are a lot less homogeneous than in GW1. We see NPCs of all sorts of RL ethnicities identifying as Ascalonian or strongly implied to be Ascalonian. OTOH, Ebonhawke Ascalonians are implied to regard Krytan Ascalonians as "less" Ascalonian than they are, and there's a remark about Logan Thackeray’s beige heartthrob status being partly because he’s pure Ascalonian. The NPC I appropriated as their mother is a minister with default Krytan design, but who is talking with a Krytan who tells her to get over the Searing.

17) safe from the politicking and corruption of the Ministry: per #13, Salma is canonically the PC’s home and I’m stretching canon. The game is pretty emphatic that Ascalonians live in Rurikton or the Ascalon Settlement, and since there are nobles and mansions in Rurikton, it can’t even be a matter of “but the noble ones are up on Manor Hill.” The real explanation is that the choice of ethnicity is purely cosmetic and not considered any further, but that’s boring, and we’re never told that the PC has always lived in Salma.

18) Yolanda, Corone, and Faren: Faren is a shallow flibbertigibbet, but he seems to genuinely care for the PC; Yolanda and Corone are two of the friendliest guests at the party he throws for you.

19) the Seraph: the Seraph are a cross between soldiers and police in Kryta, principally involved in fighting off centaur and bandit attacks.

20) Captain Thackeray: Logan Thackeray, the Seraph commander of Divinity’s Reach and ultimate mentor/friend to the PC. He’s the descendant of Gwen Thackeray from GW1/GW: Eye of the North, who was the BEST CHARACTER IN GUILD WARS enslaved by the Charr as a child, but escaped to fight them for the rest of her life between succeeding Captain Langmar, finding love, and establishing Ebonhawke. She’s an iconic hero to Ascalonians.

21) Ascalon was ravaged by the Foefire: you don’t get a chance to correct the Salma Guide, but otherwise these are his exact words. The Foefire was the mad king Adelbern’s final curse that turned him and the last survivors into ghosts; the game tends to emphasize this rather than the Searing + brutal invasion that led to it. (It’s particularly glaring in this case, as you personally see Ascalon ravaged by the Searing in GW1 and spend a good deal of time fighting there, years before the Foefire.)

22) Minister Ailoda Langmar: the Krytan-Ascalonian minister I mentioned above is simply "Minister Ailoda," with no other name given. There's no sign of any connection to the PC, but eh, game mechanics.

23) the Mashewes...Jasmina...that ass Zamon...Corone and his friend Edmonds: Lady Mashewe is a pleasant acquaintance who says her mother prayed for the PC; Jasmina's a noblewoman avoiding Faren; Zamon and the PC insult each other; Edmonds talks to the PC with Corone.

24) Anise: Anise is the charming, enigmatic, and powerful mesmer leader of the queen’s personal guard, the Shining Blade.

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TWO

1 My sister’s gravestone read: Deborah Fairchild Daughter of Kryta and Ascalon Died serving her country with honour, faith, and courage. No body rested beneath the stone; neither the Seraph nor Mother’s Ministry guards ever managed to recover the missing corpses. I never saw a ghost, never heard the merest whisper of her spirit. The grave was the nearest approximation we had, but I often felt drawn to it, dry-eyed and somber. A day rarely passed when I spoke her name, and a day rarely passed when I did not think of her, memories jumbled up with horror at what that missing body must mean. When Debs joined the Seraph, she spoke of Logan Thackeray, of Ebonhawke, of the ancestral heroes whose names brought us respect and luxury—not of Mother, Aunt Elwin, certainly not me. Yet I could not help feeling that somehow, had I done something different, been someone different, she would never have left us. 2 For a year, I played my part in what increasingly seemed a theatre of grief: three months’ withdrawal into mourning, gradual emergence into a solemn, reserved public life over the next six months, and another quarter-year to return to my old habits of gaiety and grudges—yet little altered for me, at court or during my weekly vigils at the grave. Not, at least, until one of the latter was interrupted by a familiar voice, saying: “Indulgence doesn’t suit you, darling.” “Anise?” I exclaimed, too surprised for offence; Countess Anise was a longtime friend of our family—only the Six knew how long—but I rarely saw her away from court, much less in the guarded seclusion of the Langmar cemetery. “All those faces of yours,” said Anise, her drawl indistinguishable from every other time I’d heard her, “and you’re squandering them on self-pity and an empty coffin.” “She wanted to be a real Ascalonian,” I blurted out—I, who hadn’t confided in my mother or my aunt or my friends, and somehow I couldn’t help but babble on, “a hero fighting for her home and her cause, and now—now she’s just like them, a martyr and a defiled corpse somewhere—” “You’re getting hysterical,” Anise said, not unkindly, and added, “Is martyrdom what it means to be Ascalonian, now?” I’d always liked Anise, a clever lady mesmer like my namesake, but alive and undefeated; I respected her uncharted skills and enjoyed her inscrutable charm, but until that moment, I never realized: she was Ascalonian, too. 3 Teach me, I found myself begging Anise, though I myself didn’t quite know what I meant—maneuvering in the court, or chaos magic, or defending another person, or outwitting potential threats, or generating clones, or simply surviving in prosperity—perhaps I did not mean anything in particular. I couldn’t be Deborah, and in my heart I didn’t want to be Deborah, a soldier locked into hierarchies and orders and thrown into small doomed skirmishes. In any case, I hadn’t Deborah’s resilience, or Captain Thackeray’s unwavering loyalty, or his foremother Gwen’s relentless courage—but if I did not envision myself as equal to Anise, hers were footsteps I could see myself following, regardless of the particulars. Even as I pleaded with her, I expected little from a woman at once detached and preoccupied—and thought little of what had driven her to intercede in the first place. But Anise, taking the request on its face, smiled. “Chaos for a devotee of Kormir? Delightful—I’ll expect you at moonrise.” 4 My life reformed itself over that next year. Mother, relieved to see me interested in something of substance, readily relinquished me to Anise’s patronage; Anise herself proved an exacting but gracious mentor, dispensing advice, demands, criticism, and praise in equal measure; and my friends found me more and more myself. Small concerns crept back into my mind: the superiority of silk over velvet, Barradin wine over Eldvin ale, Gwen Thackeray over Queen Salma. Greater ones, of course, drew my attention as well: the downfall of the Meades, one of the oldest Ascalonian houses in Kryta, and consequent disappearance of our childhood friend Kasmeer Meade; the desperation of the war in my birthplace and heightened Krytan aid; the murder of an Ascalonian minister. I miss Debs every day, I wrote to my aunt, but I know I have to make something of my own life, in my own way. I’ve been thinking of returning to Ebonhawke to help, since Anise says I am ‘highly proficient’ as an aetherist. I haven’t left Divinity’s Reach in years, though, so before I try myself against the Charr, I’m planning on making my way around Queensdale—at least Shaemoor. 5 To the world, my story began the day I stepped through Dwayna’s Gate into Shaemoor. The world is wrong, of course; my life didn’t begin with centaurs clubbing a frightened man the instant that I set foot in Shaemoor, with stalls and cottages roaring into flame, with a boy as blond as Debs huddled in a corner, with the blood and brains and screams of that day. It didn’t begin with the barely-heard orders from Corporal Beirne—with the indistinct impulse that had me running forward rather than back, urging strangers towards the inn, catching the boy up in my arms, consoling a woman over the slaughter of her dog as I dragged her with my free hand—with the furious spells tumbling from my mouth, focused through the weak wooden sceptre in my hand. I was someone before I became the hero of Shaemoor. I was myself, with my own history, my own concerns, my own people … the man, that man slaughtered before my eyes, was Ascalonian, and the boy too. If they had not been, perhaps the instinct of the moment would not have flung me into the horror as if I’d been tempered by the Searing, instead of sheltered in Divinity’s Reach. Or perhaps it ran deeper than that, and I would have turned onto that path had the man been Zamon, or an Asura, or even a Charr—but still, it was the turn, not the beginning. 6 Something did begin at Shaemoor, however: my association with Logan Thackeray. I’d met him before, socially, but only just—and in perfect honesty, knew him more as the butt of Anise’s wit than anything else. But I respected him from what I’d heard of his service to Divinity’s Reach, and for his determination to follow his ancestress’s footsteps and not just her name. In the midst of all that panic and death, it seemed only natural to rush to his aid when I heard that he was being overwhelmed. I had no sword, like Logan, or Deborah; I struck from among magical decoys, twisting chaos about our enemies from each direction—but it was something, and an hour from leaving the city for the first time, I was at Logan’s side, blasting aether at a massive earth elemental and the many smaller ones. He didn’t know me from Kormir, or at least from Kasmeer, but I knew we were a Langmar and a Thackeray again, thrown into another desperate fight, and there were worse ways to die. But we didn’t die; we lived and we triumphed, and by the time that I awoke in the care of a priestess of Dwayna, every Seraph from Logan on down knew who I was. 7 All my life, I had been Minister Ailoda’s other girl or the lady Elwin’s niece or Sergeant Fairchild’s sister or a Langmar, you know, on the mother’s side—or, now and then, merely my lady. I rarely heard my own name outside my little circle of Ascalonian nobles. I also rarely heard it in the immediate wake of Shaemoor. But now I wasn’t a satellite about greater relations, extensions of my mother or aunt or sister or heroic ancestors. I was the hero, myself, even as I wandered about Shaemoor in a daze. I didn’t do much: fought off little wyrms and harpies, found missing herds, gathered apples. Yet there was no my lady there, much less So-and-so’s relation: only the hero of Shaemoor.

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1) clever lady mesmer like my namesake: the PC's name isn't explicitly stated in this section, but those familiar with the original Guild Wars: Prophecies can probably figure it out from this reference.

2) Chaos for a devotee of Kormir?: all human characters choose a patron god/goddess, and the choice of god and the choice of profession are completely independent. But Kormir, goddess of order and truth, is a rather odd choice for a chaos magic-using mesmer.

3) the murder of an Ascalonian minister: Minister Brios, the representative for the Ascalonian Settlement, is poisoned in Divinity's Reach before a meeting with Anise. There are very few Ascalonian ministers, so the murder of one of them seems likely to be particularly troubling to Ascalonians.

4) before I try myself against the Charr: you can get to Ebonhawke straight from the starting zone of Divinity’s Reach, but Ebonhawke is in a level 30+ zone.

5) a boy as blond as Debs: Deborah will be blonde if you choose to be Ascalonian.

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THREE 1 These days, I knew better than to let myself get consumed by grief. Still, as I flung spells at spiders, giant worms, bandits, centaurs, anything, I couldn’t help but wish that Deborah could see me now. At the garrison, I snatched up a rusty sword and poured magic through it with every swing at a centaur; what would she think? Me, fighting with a sword? Maybe not the way she or the other Seraph did, but still! She wouldn’t believe it. She’d be proud, I thought—wouldn’t she? 2 I’d barely passed beyond Shaemoor when I heard from Faren: positively hasty, for him. His pet raven delivered a gushing note that, in the space of a few sentences, managed to tease me about my injuries, urge me to talk him up to my healer, and summon me to a party—at my own house. I could only laugh; ridiculous as he often was, I loved him dearly, and always had. Even as children, we’d been friends and companions, but after Kasmeer vanished and Deborah died, we found ourselves inseparable. We were among the last of that quiet, secure little Ascalonian world in which we’d grown up at Rurikton—certainly the closest. Deborah’s death had changed me, driven me beyond the walls of Rurikton and Manor Hill, beyond letters and parties and court gossip. But I remained Faren’s friend, as I would always be. 3 Many people, I think, assumed Faren and I were lovers; in fact, to our own bemusement, nothing could be further from the truth. When we were seventeen, he said, “I don’t understand it. You’re pretty—I’m gorgeous—but I really think I’d throw up.” I might have been offended had I not felt exactly the same. “Inbreeding, I expect,” I told him. Faren brightened. “Grandmama was a Fairchild.” 4 Faren waited ahead of the party—a sacrifice, in the world of Faren—to greet me with his most grandiose bow. “The hero of Shaemoor returns!” I shook my head, but I grinned despite myself. It turned out that my servants had gleefully conspired with him, and when I entered the courtyard, I found it full of strangers and friends alike, along with food, gossip, and a wizard. I’d enjoyed exploring Queensdale, pushing myself to further and further limits; it was good to know that I could enjoy simpler pleasures, too, although it didn’t extend to the dog fights and bear baiting that a cousin of Faren’s called for. “Not in my home,” I snapped, “and if you want to stay, don’t mention that again.” When I heard someone say my name, I seized the chance to turn away—only to find myself facing my mother’s most hated rival. 5 “Minister Zamon.” “You’ve done well for yourself,” Zamon said acidly. “All it takes for a noble to be a hero is a bit of swordplay, a few bottles of cheap brandy, and an inflated sense of self-importance.” He had said much the same of Deborah’s swift rise among the Seraph; she’d never responded, holding herself above partisan squabbles. “Then you’re almost a hero already, my lord,” I replied, smiling. “All you lack is the brandy and swordplay.” I was not Deborah. 6 Even my old friends seemed to see the hero of Shaemoor more than anything else. Corone, brought up with Faren and Kasmeer and me, and now a respected warrior, regarded me as if he’d never seen me before, and said he’d be honoured to fight beside me. Yolanda hailed me as a heroine—before chiding me for associating so much with Faren, “that rascal!” In his imagination, maybe. Fending off her interrogation about Logan Thackeray, I’d never been happier to see Faren bounce towards me. And the moment that I muttered something about being tired, he assured me that he was done with the party as well, and headed off to make our excuses to the servants. I was ignoring Yolanda’s meaningful stare when I heard him scream. 7 Corone got his wish sooner than either of us could have imagined. We easily trounced the bandits who swept into the party, but it didn’t matter: Faren was already gone. With Corone and Edmonds protecting the guests, I ran out of Manor Hill and into the district plaza, desperately trying to catch any sign of Faren, or even the bandits; they’d have to have some way to recognize each other, wouldn’t they? But there was nothing, just ordinary people carrying on with ordinary business, merchants calling out sales, the old tour guide talking to a woman with a red handkerchief about her neck … with that over her mouth, she’d look just like the bandits who had abducted Faren— “Madam?” said someone near us, and then “ma'am!” as I blasted the bandit with a bolt of aether. I fought at least half a dozen across the district, tracking them one by one to a house at the opposite end of Salma. At the sight of me, bandits poured out of the house, but I didn’t care: they’d learn what it meant to cross a daughter of Ascalon.

FOUR

1 After Shaemoor, the bandits were nothing. They kept jumping out of their safehouse one by one—idiocy—and flailed at my clones, even their supposed leader. “Soon, you’ll beg me for death!” he shouted. I laughed, and blew up the clones. He went down like a basket of eggs. But I never laughed for long. I’d yet to see Faren, and images of bandits beating him, tormenting him, cutting his throat, flickered before me, each as vivid as every spell I cast. 2 Inside the bandits’ safehouse, I raced upstairs, barely wasting attention on the few guards left inside. Fear and victory kept my blood rushing fast: I didn’t even think about Anise’s lessons, but my feet landed exactly as she’d taught me, my body slipped away from each attack, and every spell hit its mark. Beyond them, I could just see Faren. He seemed alive, thank the gods, but stretched out in magical chains that turned my anger and fear to raw fury. I fought through a haze of rage, but one that illuminated rather than blinded—everything seemed crisp and bright and clear, more than ever before. When the last of them collapsed, I scrambled the rest of the way up the stairs, and tried to clear my head. “Um,” said Faren, “a little help here?” 3 When I broke the chains, relief flooding through me, he gave a hoarse laugh. “Am I pleased to see you!” he exclaimed, then grinned and added, “though if you wanted me to leave the party, a simple ‘Begone, freeloader!’ would have sufficed.” Captivity or no, Faren clearly remained Faren. “I’ll make a note of that,” I said dryly, and asked after any information he might have picked up on what the devil was going on. But he knew only that they operated out of a house in Shaemoor, where they’d meant to lock him up, and that in recent months, they’d turned more brazen, bloodthirsty, and focused on rebellion against the crown. “I can't save you and leave the others to rot,” I decided, and managed to smile at him. “Bad form, you know.” 4 Faren, looking determined (for him), said, “Count me in—I may not be a centaur-killing berserker like you, but I can take care of myself.” I’d believe that when I saw it. On the way to the bandits' den, I said, “Glad to have you with me, but do me a favour? Stay close”—I poked him with my sceptre—“and that way, we can protect each other.” Faren shrugged that off, which didn’t comfort me, but he actually managed himself well enough; he didn’t even get blood on his clothes as we fought our way into the concealed and guarded caves, nor when we rescued all the prisoners caged inside, so it counted as a success as far as he was concerned. “If you know any fair maidens, be sure to tell them who rescued you,” he said, and added with a grin, “the dashing Lord Faren … and his friend!” 5 The mission did count as a success for me, too; one of the captives had filched papers about a plot in Divinity’s Reach. We escorted him and the others out, taking down the remaining bandits with impatience (me) and glee (Faren). “We showed them what Ascalonians are made of!” he said triumphantly, and I straightened right up. “That’s right.” When Logan Thackeray arrived to help, Faren swaggered up and said, “My friend and I defeated these delinquents with panache and aplomb; you're just in time to celebrate our victory.” “I’m … amazed,” said Captain Thackeray. I knew the feeling. 6 “Then again,” he said, favouring me with a respectful nod, “I should have known that the hero of Shaemoor wouldn’t let your kidnapping go unanswered.” I remembered Shaemoor, fighting alongside Captain Thackeray with my stick of a sceptre just like Gwen and Langmar once had, all those years ago, and tried not to think too much of it; we’d barely met, outside of a few social occasions he clearly didn’t remember. But I also thought of Faren struggling in his chains, and danger spreading to the home that was supposed to keep us safe, and that we were all Ascalonians together. “No one hurts my friends without answering to me,” I said firmly. I handed over the papers we’d acquired, but to my surprise, it was Faren(!) who proved most useful; he noticed the quality of the paper, and even knew of the papermaker I could track down to identify it. I promised, “I'll get the information you need, without anyone realizing the Seraph are aware of the traitor in the city.” “Be careful,” said Captain Thackeray. 7 Although he warned me, I didn’t realize so many skale existed in the world as I wiped out on that trip—luckily, I found a new sceptre on the way, so I managed to keep them at a distance, and my clothes remained as pristine as Faren’s. When I arrived, I found the paper maker he’d mentioned; Fursarai was a small, prissy man, an impression not helped by his quite beautiful waistcoat, but it didn’t stop him from shouting at a departing Norn about getting his supplies back to the city. “You there—you look like you can handle yourself in a fight!” he announced, gaze fixed on something in my direction; I glanced over my shoulder, but none of the Seraph seemed to be behind me, nor anyone else. He gabbled something about the garrison and cowardly guards at the empty air—unless—unless "you there" was supposed to mean me? What a boor: but unfortunately, a boor who could direct me to Faren’s attackers. Friendship had its sacrifices. I looked at my silk sleeves, and sighed. FIVE 1 “What do you cost?” Cin Fursarai demanded, and now I preferred to believe he wanted a replacement for that Norn. It was flattering, I suppose, that he looked at me—a young noblewoman in silk, wool, and fine leather, carrying only a sceptre and a small sword—and thought I looked like someone who could fight. “I’m not a mercenary,” I said, and added: “I'm here to ask for help identifying the craftsmanship of a piece of handmade paper.” Fursarai sniffed. “If you found quality paper in Divinity’s Reach, I can assure you, I made it.” By sheer force of will, I didn’t roll my eyes—I had a conspiracy to unearth, never mind how irritating this little prig was—and instead requested his help, only for him to sniff again and go on about how he had no loyalty to the crown, because he happened to live in Lion’s Arch. He had red hair and dressed in high Rurikton fashion; he had to be Ascalonian, descendant of refugees saved by Kryta’s rulers, yet—yet— 2 It didn’t matter. It didn’t, not right now—and anyway, our fashions had spread far and wide, Lion’s Arch had long ago drowned its history, and true Ascalonian identity meant more than ancestry, whatever they might say in Rurikton. Deborah had taught me that much; if he didn’t care about it, then I wouldn’t, either. Easier said than done, though. “I need this information as soon as possible,” I told him. “But why should I trust you?” he retorted. “Who are you, anyway?” 3 I lifted my chin, and for all I might tell myself, I felt as if the pride of generations clustered about me, even with my foremothers’ spirits hopefully at peace in the Hall of Echoes. I had not forgotten what I came from. All those Langmars, the children and children’s children of Gwen Thackeray’s great captain. The Krytans they’d married now and then, abandoning an easy heritage to transplant themselves into Rurikton, absorbed into Ascalonian life and identity. The Fairchilds in Ebonhawke, kin of the last kings, of the duke who still haunted Ascalon and his martyred daughter. They’d fought a long defeat, on and on, yet managed to keep a last corner of human Ascalon alive; my aunt still worked to keep Ebonhawke standing while this man sneered over paper. “I am Lady Althea Fairchild of Divinity’s Reach and Ebonhawke,” I said. 4 Fursarai eyed me suspiciously. “Well, which one?” Despite myself, my defiance flickered. I would always be Ascalonian above all else, yet I would always serve the queen, too, and set myself against the enemies of Kryta. I belonged to Ebonhawke, my father’s land, my birthplace and my pride; I belonged to Divinity’s Reach, the only home I knew, where my mother’s people had lived and fought for generations. Anise always called me a creature of two faces, and I supposed I was. “I don’t know,” I admitted. 5 He grunted. “Explains why you don’t stink like the rest, anyway.” “Thank you,” I replied dryly. After a minute of meditation (not helped by Fursarai’s string of complaints), we headed out. I was just about ready to kill him myself by the time we got to the Shaemoor garrison; he’d have easily died without me fighting skale and centaurs and one exceptionally large spider by sceptre and sword, but he made not the slightest attempt to defend himself, just cowering against his bull and yelping the entire way there. That was before I had to take down three centaur catapults and Lyssa knew how many centaurs, with maybe two Seraph backing me up. Naturally, his gratitude upon entering the garrison amounted to checking his supplies three times, turning to me, and pronouncing: “I feel like I was run over by a herd of marauding dolyaks!” 6 Irritation aside, he did supply the information I needed, admitting that he sold his paper to Minister Zamon. Zamon, the man who’d all but gloated at my mother when Deborah died, purely—I thought then—because of malice at the suffering of a rival. And then, not long ago: the man who’d sneered at my defense of Shaemoor. “He has excellent taste,” Fursarai said, his glance clearly implying that I didn’t. As if he’d know. I silently decided that I’d never buy anything from him, even if I had to go to Lion’s Arch myself to find another papermaker. I smiled and said, “Don’t leave Divinity’s Reach.” 7 I found Captain Thackeray in the Seraph Headquarters, deep in a discussion with Anise, of all people, but his head snapped up when he caught sight of me. “Do you have any news?” “Fursarai admitted he made the paper for Minister Zamon,” I said, suppressing any signs of satisfaction. Well, mostly; Anise cast an amused look in my direction. “Setting up citizens to be robbed and brutalized?” exclaimed Captain Thackeray. “That's out-and-out treason.” Why, so it was.

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1) The Fairchilds in Ebonhawke, kin of ... the duke who still haunted Ascalon and his martyred daughter: i.e., Duke Barradin, while his daughter, Lady Althea—this Althea’s namesake—was burned alive by the Charr.

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SIX 1 “But where are my manners?” said Captain Thackeray, whom I’d never seen with so much as a wrinkle in his surcoat or a hair out of place. “Allow me to introduce you to Countess Anise, Master Exemplar of the Shining Blade.” Bemused, I nodded at my mentor of years, while Anise bowed with a faint, ironic smile. Disregarding the matter of manners, she said smoothly, “Minister Wi’s hosting a party tonight; it’ll be a good opportunity to eavesdrop on ministers, their allies, and enemies.” Captain Thackeray couldn’t quite bring himself to disagree, but clearly wanted to; he proposed a (perfectly legal) raid on Zamon’s house instead, and worse still, left the choice to me, insisting that he couldn’t give me orders—even though he clearly had no idea who I was. In fact, I wasn’t even sure he’d realized I had a name. 2 Naturally, I consulted with Anise—Thackeray or no Thackeray, she was my guide and teacher. “Personally,” she said in her light voice, “I prefer convivial, face-to-face situations. Then again, cloak-and-dagger skulduggery is always fun.” I laughed. “The way you describe it, it all sounds so charming; I’ll have to think it over.” I didn’t, actually. Minister Wi lived in Rurikton, and Faren was my best friend; if I knew anything, it was Rurikton parties. 3 “Minister Wi’s party,” I announced. “I’ll see what I can learn.” “Are you sure?” said Captain Thackeray, though with a distinct note of resignation. “You can’t break into Zamon’s place if you attend Minister Wi’s party.” “I’m sure,” I told him. “Minister Wi’s party it is.” He sighed. 4 “Your fellow nobles seem to have a knack for making my life interesting,” Captain Thackeray told me, clearly putting the best face on it. “Let’s see if we can’t return the favour.” “We nobles, Captain Thackeray?” I said, amused; everyone knew about his relationship to Gwen—and his relationship to Queen Jennah, too. “A step down from royalty making your life interesting, I’m sure.” To my surprise, he flinched. Some lover’s spat, perhaps; I decided it was none of my business, and turned to Anise, who promised to meet me at the party—because it wouldn’t do to make us share the spotlight during our entrance. Of course. 5 I listened to a few complaints and registered some unsolved crimes after Anise left, then headed out. At least, I meant to, but on my way to the door out of Seraph Headquarters, I caught sight of an open book—a register. “That lists the names of all Seraph soldiers for the last two decades,” an officer told me proudly. I glanced over my shoulder, undoubtedly looking as suspect as a priest of Grenth on Wintersday, but nobody seemed to be paying attention; the officer had drifted over to settle a dispute over a farm, Captain Thackeray was talking to a lieutenant, and everybody else looked up to their ears in work. I opened the book, scolding myself for being foolish, giving into a pointless sentimentality that would achieve nothing, recover no corpse for a grave—but still, I turned the pages, searching for the name I would know. I felt like a spy, flipping through pages, for all that the registry was open to the public and I had every right to look—and then, there it was, near the head of its page. Sgt Deborah Fairchild; missing in action, assumed dead. 6 “Are you looking for someone?” said Captain Thackeray. I nearly jumped straight into the air; as it was, I flinched as violently as he had. “No, sir,” I said, and realized—Debs would have said no, sir in the exact same tone, would have stood in this very room as I did now, would know it all better than I did. What would she have thought, if she’d known that one day I would be investigating crimes for the Seraph, reporting to Captain Thackeray himself? She’d never pressed me to be anything I wasn’t, never seemed to love me less for being the thoughtless, frivolous creature I was then, but I couldn’t help but imagine she’d have been proud. Imagine how this whole thing might have gone if she’d been alive—maybe we’d be investigating Zamon together, or— “Good luck, Captain Thackeray,” I said, and walked out. 7 By happy coincidence, I already had an invitation, of sorts. My mother’s said Minister Ailoda Langmar and one other. “You want to go?” said Mother, looking startled. “I would have thought you’d be busy slaying monsters or saving people or whatever else you do these days.” I frowned, unsure how to take this; it might have been pride, if not for her studiously neutral tone—did she think all this unimportant, or regrettable, or beneath us? Or was it fear, with Deborah dead on Seraph business? For a wild moment, I longed to tell her, cling to her and admit that I was frightened and angry as well as resolved, to confide in someone who would always see Althea first and the hero of Shaemoor second. “I need to keep an eye on Faren,” I said.

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1) his relationship to Queen Jennah: Jennah is the Queen of Kryta, and a beautiful young woman; it’s widely rumoured that she and Logan are having an affair. The last time royalty made his life especially interesting was when he deserted his dragon-hunting guild, Destiny's Edge, out of love for Jennah.

--------------------------------------------------------------------- SEVEN 1 I headed back to Rurikton for the party, though a good while before it was set to begin. I hadn’t been home for a while—months, though it felt like longer—and I wanted to get my bearings. I strolled past the familiar stone gryphons, a light calm settling over me. It deepened as I made my way down the streets, passing refugees and servants who gave slight bows: respectful, no more. Clusters of nobles nodded familiarly at me. I stopped by local traders, most of whom I knew by name. One bookseller had a pair of rare books on Ascalonian history, one of which I’d wanted for ages; I purchased them on the spot, and after these weeks of fighting and investigating and rescuing, it was a pleasure to let it all slide for a moment, and decide that today was already a success. 2 I personally carried my books to Langmar Manor, since I’d forgotten to bring any servants, and didn’t feel very much inclined to send for one now. Oddly enough, I had gotten used to managing on my own. The walk from the district square was a short and easy one in any case; I strolled down the streets, encountering nothing worse than a few seditious posters I tore down, and a man complaining about Captain Thackeray to an unsympathetic friend. “You know, just because your wife’s taken a shine to Logan Thackeray doesn’t make him a bad guy—he’s cursed.” At the first man’s scoff, the friend added, “Cursed with good looks and true Ascalonian blood! It’s not his fault that every woman fawns over him.” Not every woman, I thought. 3 The people of Rurikton had always mingled at the Maiden’s Whisper as well as Rurikton at large, so I attracted no particular curiosity when I strolled into the tavern. Several other lords and ladies stood near the entrance, smiling and lifting their glasses towards me as I passed, while everyone else simply continued their own conversations—despite the Norn inexplicably towering at the side of the room. “I like that Minister Caudecus,” one girl announced. “To Queen Jennah!” someone just out of sight said, echoed by a dozen toasts to the queen, Divinity’s Reach, Captain Thackeray, and assorted ministers. Across the hall, a man bellowed drunkenly, “Show me a woman who can wrestle a bear, and I’ll show you a keeper!” “If the Charr think they can come here,” said a woman, her voice clear and pleasant, “me and my meat cleaver will tell them otherwise.” I smiled; despite everything, it really was good to be home. 4 I spent the last few hours before the party skulking around Rurikton, but found nothing beyond a particularly incompetent group of adventurers and ordinary conversation on the street. Returning to the inn, I searched for a relatively secluded place, found it in a library, and closed my eyes, peering through those of a near-invisible clone as she drifted through Minister Wi’s manor. She wasn’t caught, but turned up nothing except preparations for the party. I was sure there had to be something we’d missed, but apparently not. Well, Zamon might be acting in secrecy. Might. I resigned myself to the inevitable: I would only discover what I needed to know at the party, and I would have no preparation beyond what I already knew. 5 When I arrived at the manor in person, the place was positively oozing Ministry guards, for no particular reason. Anise slanted them a glance that betrayed nothing, then eyed my finery with nearly smug approval. “This will be delightful,” she said, apparently no more inclined than usual to bother with such minutia as greetings and farewells. “Having the hero of Shaemoor on my arm will make tongues wag.” Even though it was just Anise, I flushed. So much for separate entrances—but it was like Anise to enjoy disrupting plans, even her own. “Thank you for letting me join you this evening, Countess,” I said, because it was like me, too. 6 “Mingle,” she said. “Speak to everyone—you never know who’ll say something they regret later.” It was an encouraging thought. “Second,” said Anise, “don’t limit your conversation to nobility; servants and guards see everything.” “Understood,” I replied, adding, “I suppose it goes without saying that I should be discreet?” “You catch on fast,” she told me, and touched her finger to the end of my nose, eliciting a startled laugh. “Go and charm the masses.” 7 “You know where to find me if you need me, pet,” Anise concluded, while I still tried to wrap my mind and dignity around the fact that she’d bopped my nose. But at the moment, I found her at my side, setting my hand on her arm and marching forward in her tall boots. She actually smiled when I matched my steps to hers, even if I could hardly match the total assurance of her stride and her drawl—but she smiled more at the sudden hush that fell over the grand room when we entered. “The Countess Anise,” the servant at the door announced, and after a suitably dramatic pause, continued, “and the hero of Shaemoor!” Virtually everyone in this room had known me from childhood, but they all bowed anyway, as if my mother herself stood in my place, rather than the other way around; she’d abruptly developed a cold when she heard Zamon would be there. Zamon himself was nowhere to be seen. Interesting.

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1) Cursed with good looks and true Ascalonian blood: this (and much of the dialogue here) is part of the ambient dialogue near the inn.

#anghraine's gaming #anghraine's fic #ascalonian grudgefic #ascalonian grudgeblog #althea fairchild #ailoda langmar #countess anise #marius corone #deborah fairchild #edmund fairchild #elwin fairchild #lord faren #julius zamon #logan thackeray #captain tervelan #guild wars 2 #pro patria #footnotes ahoy!

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sirotras · 5 years

Text

Go Down Swinging

started thinking abt a certain reveal and a possible what if. mostly it’s irene being Dramatic.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Ortega asked, “If I’m wrong, please, prove me wrong. But I don’t think I am.”

She was frozen. Numb. He knew. He knew. Shit. There was no use denying it, was there? Did she even want to? She wasn’t sure she did.

“Why are you trying to ruin this?” Her voice was weak. Defeated. Tired. Her hands didn’t shake. She would have thought they would. She searched his face and- damn his static brain. Anyone else, and she’d at least know how they felt. But not him. She felt desperate, and she hated that, but she was also so, so, tired. “Don’t we - isn’t this enough? Why do you want to ruin this.”

“Can’t you give me a straight answer, Irene?” Ortega sounded desperate, too. Funny, how they could both feel backed into a corner. “Just this once? Tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” She echoed, everything was so far away. “Is that what you really want?”

He had no idea what he was asking for.

“Thats what I said, isn’t it?”

And it all came rushing in.

“Alright, fine.” Hard. Sharp. Angry. Anger was easy. She could do anger, and she could do it well. Lot’s of practice. If he wanted to break this, she was going to fucking destroy it. Go hard or go home, right?

“Yeah, you got me. I’m Nobody.” Her lips twisted in a snarl. Like breaking the surface of a frozen lake and, God, the ice cold never felt so good. “You happy? Is that what you wanted to hear? I’m Nobody.”

She couldn’t really read the look on his face. Hurt, definitely, and… resignation? Some strange sort of relief? Let’s see how long that lasts

“I’m Nobody,” she repeated, “but if you want the truth, you’re getting the WHOLE truth.

I’m Eden”

“What?” That got him. He looked at her, bewildered. Blindsided. She got a strange and sort of satisfaction from that. Hadn’t expected that, had you, old man?

“Yeah, you know, that hot blonde you met at the dojo? She was me the whole time.” She started to pace, couldn’t stand being still any longer. The truth was. Intoxicating. Cathartic. Fuck, might as well burn herself to the ground. Might as well twist the metaphorical knife. He asked for this, after all. “Found the body in the hospital, brain dead. No next of kin. No one to miss. So I took it. Rode it around like a meat suit.”

That stung. Good. The truth.

She was on a roll now.

“You had no idea I was that strong, did you? They didn’t either.”

“They?” He was still. Quiet. Trying to piece it all together? Good luck.

“You know. They. The ones who made me. Grew me.” Once she got started she couldn’t stop, there was a sick sense of pleasure, of release. Finally, finally. It was all coming out. What is it they say? The truth will set you free? This isn’t what she thought freedom would feel like. But she doesn’t know why she imagined it any other way.

This is it. This is it.

“The ones who programed the little chip in my skull so that I can think. The ones who shot me up with hero drug to see what new toy they’d get. The ones who gave me that training Chen was always so suspicious of. The ones who sign your paycheck.

The ones who scraped me off the ground after Heartbreak and forced me back together. Never throw away a good tool. Because you see—”

She turned away and, in one fluid motion, her shirt was off. The outer one anyway. That was always going to be the easy part. Her hands reached for the hem of her undershirt and for one stark and sobering moment she stilled.

There was no going back. This would change everything. The point of no return. All this time she dreaded what he would think and it was smothering her. She’d had enough. At least now she’d finally know. The truth, and her skin, would finally, finally be laid bare. Time to go for broke.

She spun to face him as she yanked the shirt up, “I’m not even human.”

Like glass breaking from pressure. She’d been falling for ages and she finally hit the ground.

It was over. Just like that. She always knew this- this- thing between them would end. Horribly. And this was it. Like watching a car crash in slow motion. She thought they would have more time, selfish as that was. But no more. No more waiting for it to all come crashing down. She took a sledgehammer to it herself, and there was power in that.

His face was still unreadable. And his mind was still static. Always static. It was infuriating. Couldn’t he at least give her the finality of rejection?

She stood in silence, waiting, waiting, waiting, and God, God it felt like hours.

Let it end.

“Well?” she threw her hands out, “For God’s sake, say something, damnit!”

#fallen hero #fallen hero spoilers #fallen hero: retribution #irene becker #im read to be hurt again #ortega #mostly i just had the image of irene aggressively whipping off her top and dramatically saying shes [redacted]#cuts off before ortega's reaction bc faohsz;dif how tf am i supposed to know that!!! i dont know shit!!!#it's past midnight #which as we all know #is the optimal time to post things yeah?

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frayedcobweb · 5 years

Text

Girls Girls Girls Tag Game

Back into my tag games of yore lol, this one was from March again. I was tagged by @jaywrites101 and got to read about her amazing female characters... I thought I would use this to have fun with and basically create a couple of wonderful women in my new WIP Tempus Fugit - The Time Creature.

Characters - Alawin Thess (A) and Keril Parrah (K).

Rules: Answer these seven questions in the voice of a female OC and then tag others.

Who was your mother and what did she teach you?

A: My mother is Shalara Thess, teacher of everything. Haha, no, well, kinda. She’s the head of the Harmonium, the school in our home, Holdring Fen. She’s fifty-five and has pretty much taught everyone in Fen for their formative years. What has she taught me... She’s my hero really, she taught me everything honestly. How to be strong, how to look at the world and find the treasure wherever it’s hidden, how to learn, how to treat others... My mother is amazing.

K: Oh come on Alawin, really? You haven’t left me anything to say. So, Shalara has pretty much raised me too because my parents were too busy running away from the Orderfolk and stealing things to actually take care of me. She taught me that blood doesn’t make you and thanks to her I ended up in the raphern apprenticeship program. If it wasn’t for Shalara I would never have had the chance to find out that I have a talent for raphei magic or that folding starril was what my hands do best.

Do you have any sisters (related or not)?

A: Keril is my sister in every way that matters. I wouldn’t be half the woman I am without her. I do have a kin-sister, but she’s almost six years younger than me and she went to live in Holdring Dell over by Eastlake a while back so we never see each other.

K: Shadows save us! Winwin! Are you trying to make me cry? Hush your mouth and stop making me blush. Seriously though, Alawin is my sis from Shalara-miss. She’s been beside me through everything and just between you and me, she was the one responsible for talking the whole Harmonium into singing off key that one time, I had nothing to do with it.

A: Nightghosts take you Keril! How old am I going to be before you stop calling me Winwin! I thought you grew out of that...

K: *smirks triumphantly*

How has your gender shaped your path in life?

A: Being a woman has been really helpful in my life as a future-hunter. The time creatures of all kinds are well known to respond better to female hunters as a general rule. No one really knows why, and there are male hunters who are very successful, but all of the scholars who study Timekind agree that women are more likely to enrapture them and be gifted a futureview.

K: Having small hands is good for rapherns, so that’s played in my favor. Being a woman... There are a few who reckon that men are better at magic in general, but that attitude is way better than it was and seems to be dying out for the most part.

What does the woman you admire look like? Who is she?

A: I think I ranted about my mother in a previous question. And Keril. And I better not talk about Keril any more because her head will get too big to fit through the archways in the Holdring Main Circle. If you’re after a description, my mother... She has curly dark hair that falls to her shoulders and blue-beaded plaits behind her ears that are almost down to her hips. Her skin is darker than mine, but I didn’t inherit the golden tones she got from the Yilliren blood on her father’s side. She always wears the red head-scarf that signifies her status as a teacher in the Harmonium. As long as I can remember she has dressed in practical leathers coupled with earth-toned wraps.

K: You know what I’m going to say Winwin. Nothing you can do about it, nope, covering my mouth won’t work!

*Brief pause for scuffling*

Alawin is the woman I admire! Hah! Said it and I’m not taking it back. She’s got long, black, curly hair that hardly ever goes frizzy and dark brown eyes that are almost black. She’s got gorgeous deep brown skin and the biggest smile ever. And she’s short and tough and... Hey! She didn’t describe me as her most admired woman! Oh my wounded heart... How dare she say that someone as awesome as me has a big ego!

A: Just ignore her, she’ll go on like this for a while. *whispers* Honestly, I do admire Karil, Dammit. Okay, so I admire Karil. She’s so tall that she gives me a crick in my neck sometimes and it’s great that she can get things down for me from high places. She’s got long pretty light brown hair that reminds me of autumn and greeny-blue eyes. Sometimes I worry that she’s so skinny, I’ve seen her forget to eat for a couple of days, but then I see her inhale a whole loaf of bread in one sitting and I don’t worry so much. Oh yeah, and she’s so pale that I’ve seen her get sunburned walking between patches of shade. I think that’s about it.

K: There. Was that so hard? Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put something on my sunburn and eat a whole chicken. *sticks out tongue*

Why do you think women are considered the gentler sex?

A: Gentler sex huh? I like your sense of humor. I haven’t met anyone tougher than me except my mother. Oh and Keril definitely isn’t any gentler than any of my male friends.

K: Yeah, that sort of thinking fell out of fashion a while ago. The last guy to try and treat me like a delicate flower got pushed in the lake. Admittedly that was when we were about four years old.

What is a piece of your personality that you’re proud of?

A: I’m generally pretty proud of myself really. I’m a good person and I try to make other people’s lives better as much as I can. What can I say, my parents are a couple of great role models and Karil doesn’t let me get away with being an ass for very long.

K: I’m wonderful too! Better than Alawin, that’s for sure! Haha just kidding, honestly I’d say it’s my fantastic outlook on life and my sense of humor. Even Winwin will admit, I’m just a ray of sunshine come to earth.

A: *muttering darky* I’ll give you blood Winwin.

When did you accept your own body and its strengths/weaknesses?

A: When I was younger I was a bit jealous of Karil and the other girls who could wear dresses and not look like a dressed up marlcow, but I got over that when I was in my mid-teens. Being strong and tough lets me do things on my own and I’ll admit that I like being able to rely on myself and my strengths.

K: Now it’s my turn to give Alawin a big head. She kind of knows this, but I’ve always been a bit envious of how strong she is. And fit. Oh spirits preserve me, she could run rings about me while I’d be busy passing out. That being said though, I believe I’m doing precisely what my body is made for and I’ve never really been terribly critical of my physical shape and that.

Tagging @pens-swords-stuff @writingwordsanddrawingpictures @marewriteblr @intheeunder @aarrimas @thatchaoticneutraltrainwreck @vhum @cawolters@sheabutterskyes @focusdumbass @storiesandaisies @bookishdiplodocus @inkspilledqueen @drist-n-dither @fourohfourlifenotfound (remember just give me a shout if you don’t want to be tagged in tag games :) I don’t want to be tagging you if you’d rather not).

#tag game #Tempus Fugit #writeblr #girls girls girls #my writing #my characters #character development #fantasy #my wips

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welcometoyournewhell · 5 years

Text

No Tears for Papa

Kiribaku Week: Day 2/Children

After being insulted by Todoroki, Kirishima starts to spiral into a mental break down from years filled with mistakes and errors. Bakugou takes it upon himself and his next of kin (well... little gremlins) to cheer his husband up. _

Bakugou sighed as he re entered the dorm that he and his family would be staying in until the sports festival was over. The school had invited them, along with other past graduates with see the festival in person and maybe influence the students attending.

Naturally, the two ran into some former classmates and friends; Including Izuku and Shoto Midoriya. Their adopted son was competeing this year and they wanted to support him. They were taking him out to eat when they invited the Bakugou family to join.

The blonde should have known something was sorry when he made eye contact with the surnamed Todoroki, but he kept quiet as Eijiro seemed excited. It was there, in the middle of dinner, in front of multiple people, that the shorter Midoriya opened his mouth.

Shoto called their marriage a quirk marriage, spoke of their children with slight disgusting (or at least the way they obtained their babies), and shamed Kirishima for never opening his eyes to it all. He stormed out before anyone could say anything, taking his son and baby with him.

Izuku was furious and tried to apologize on his husband's behalf. They all knew some things about the marriage hit too close to home for the guy, but that wasn't an excuse. Kirishima shook his head before looking to Bakugou, he wanted to go back.

Leaving their part of the bill, the family returned to the dorms. The older needed to let off steam, so he took the girls for a walk around the campus. He should have known better than to leave Kirishima alone but he didn't want to blow up on him.

All of this was his fault anyway. He had the obsession with power, he wanted to use the lab in hopes of powerful children; But he also cha he'd after they were born. It wasn't the surrogate dying who changed his mind set, it was the smaller twin that.... frankly they didn't know they were having.

So under weight, so fragile, his little Kiseki nearly died in his arms on the spot. They rushed both twins to a real hospital and from there.... it had been nothing but rough seas. The Jeanist agreed not to fire him, in fact he gave him a raise after being informed Kirishima would have to stay home with the babes.

Putting a poor soul in charge of a baby who was constantly having to go to the hospital and another who had already started to develop quirks, was too much. It didn't help that a viral video for awareness of the lab was broadcasted across the nation before the girls were born.

A little girl looking at her mother with pure fear before she morphed into a Nomu. The lab wasn't a cleanly place, mutations and multiple quirks apperead over time. The fact Hikari had one before the age if two scared Kirishima even more.

Sure, it was Bakugou's quirk, but she shouldn't have gotten it until older. She didn't use it like Bakugou though. Her hands never sparked, but when she sneezed.... there was mini explosions. But they were here to put that behind them, all of it; Just for a week.

But then Todoroki opened his mouth to reopen the patched wound. They knew they messed up, but they had to live with the results of their mistakes. They loved their kids more than anything and feared the though if more than one quirk.

The thought of both morphing into Nomu's before their eyes. It was enough to send the red head into a melt down. Coming home, Bakugou was quick to notice the shaking lump on the single bed given.

He sighed before taking the small blonde out if the stroller. Walking over, he pushed at the lump. "Oi, she ain't the cat but I think she'll help." He was trying to sound joking to the other. The small babe's eyes widened before she reached for her papa in fear. No cry! Little hands went to work, wiping away at the stains.

The older than brought the dark haired babe over and snuggled with her beside Kirishima. A wanted hand rubbed the younger dad's back. "They'll be okay. We did the DNA test, remember? They aren't getting any other quirk than ours. Look at the icy hot jerk, he had two and he's fine."

Kirishima rolled over with Kiseki in his arms. "Still.... just.... I know we messed up, we've been shunned already by everyone.... I don't like my kids just being insulted like that. I know what our marriage may have seemed like, but.... these are our kids Bakugou."

The shorter frowned. At least Kirishima wasn't convinced this was a quirk marriage, that was a plus. "Hey, he's got his own issues, huh?" Red eyes narrowed. "He was fine with adopting and asked his sister to be a surrogate. There was no 'oh they won't have my quirk', or 'ih they'll be too weak or too strong'."

The older sighed. "Eijiro, what’s done is done,” he was mainly reminding himself more so than reassuring the other. The other looked up before frowning more and snuggling closer. “I’m.... I’m sorry.” He moved the babe up more before kissing her head. “The only reason we get more of the negative attention is because I work for an agency as a hero, your aware of that right?” The other peered up at him before looking to the babe on Bakugou’s chest.

“I guess,” he sighed. He had dreams, he wanted to live in a big city and fight crime. But what was he doing? He was playing a house husband and stay at home dad, relying solely on his husband for support. That alone brought tears to his eyes as they’d fought over the matter before. Their life wasn’t a fairy tale, far from it actually. They had a house, they had a family, a pet, but their love life was straining.

“Eijiro,” Katsuki sighed. Watering, red eyes peered up at him. It broke the older’s heart. The blonde frowned a bit more before wiping away some of the falling tears. “Hey, what happened to that smiling goof ball that lived in the building across the street, huh?” “He grew up and... can’t do this anymore.” More tears came from the other’s eyes as he snuggled closer. The constant fear of something happening to his babies, the reminders of their mistakes, he reminders from Bakugou (unintentionally) that he would never be a hero.

“Hey, Eijiro, relax.” But he was too far gone. Both girls were looking between tehir fathers in confusion. “Pa,” Kiseki asked as she pulled at his shirt. It merely made the red head cry more. He didn’t want to loose his babies, not like that. Watching them morph into mindless beings. “Pa?” Hikari looked up to her father before pointing to Kirishima. God did Katsuki want to sock Shoto one. He set the babe down before taking her twin away from Kirishima.

“Suki,” the other huffed with slight rage. Bakugou seemed a bit shocked but shrugged it off before hovering over the younger. “You need to calm down. The girls are safe, nothing is going to happen to them. Alright?” He wiped tears away before giving out some eskimo kisses and butterfly kisses. “It’s gonna be okay, alright? It’s okay.” The other father nodded softly as he whimpered. “Your a good dad, your a good husband, a good person, and your a great hero.”

The shark dad blinked before looking up at him. “What?” “Pa!” Little hands held onto Kirishima’s arm as a little face came closer to his. “I know it’s not the hero gig you wanted, and I’m sorry. But your their hero Eijiro,” he gave him another kiss on the cheek. “Your my hero, dumb a,” he caught himself, “dummy.” The other blushed a bit before smiling. His eyes were watering again, but for another reason. “Man, you can’t just say that manly stuff to me,” he giggled softly. Butterflies were emerging in his tummy as his husband leaned down more.

“Did I fluster you, huh?” Another butterfly kiss. “Knock it off you dork,” Kirishima giggled as he bent his arms to rub Hikari’s little back. The babe watched her parents before watching her fraternal twin crawl past her. “Pa,” Kiseki cooed before taking some of his hair and giving it a kiss. Bakugou and Kirishima stopped before laughing softly. “What, you wanna cheer pap up too?” He picked his frailer child up before moving her to the other side of the body form Hikari.

“What are you thnking,” Eijiro asked with a wary tone. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” The threat of a kiss was interrupted with two other mouths. The girls were starting to leave little kisses on their papa’s face from watching their dad comfort him. “Oh my god,” Kirishima giggled before rubbing his babies’ backs. Katsuki smiled softy before getting an idea. He started to poke at the covered tummy from on top of the covers, earning giggles and squeaks. “Whahahit, nhoh.” No? Both twins sat up in confusion before watching the evil hands draw giggles from their papa.

“I forgot how much my idiot needed tickles. A touch starved Eijiro is a depressed Eijiro,” he hummed. Kiseki let out an “ah” before crawling down to her father and trying to stop his hands. “What,” he growled playfully. “You wanna be on the reciving end? Huh, do ya’?” He poked at the little blonde’s tummy, earning giggles and squeals before small hands pushed at the finger. “Nah!” He gave her a little eskimo kiss before pulled back a bit. “What do you want then, huh? You wanna tickle papa?” Red eyes widened.

“Katsuki Bakugou, don’t you dare!” The older smirked before calling the small, dark haired baby over. He showed them the evil claw that earned shries alone from the two, before showing them how to properly use it. Kirishima’s head fell back slightly as he giggled and squirmed. “Suki, chahaome on,” he begged. “This si what we do when papa is upset, otherwise.... he starts to upset the world.” God, Kirishima married a dork.

Okay, maybe his pouting face used to bring down Class 1-A, but he had more of a baby face. he was a grown man now, a dad. Little hands started to squeeze slightly at the surface, earning softer giggles. “Yhahhaour actuhahally dhahoing thahais?” The blonde nodded. “Of course.”

He moved away form the babes to sit his husband up some before slipping beneath him. Taking Kirishima’s hands, he rested the red head torso on his own. One pair of little, red eyes looked up in confusion as other little hands continued to squeeze at Kirishima’s tummy. “Theheh hehell ahahre yhahaou doing,” Eijiro asked his husband as he peered up at him. The older kissed his husband’s head before smirking. “In high school I used to tickle you all the time, when we had days off from work after getting married, it was something that always relaxed you and made you feel better. “I’ve been lacking in my duties as your husband and apparently it’s gotten far enough that your breaking down. It was a form of bonding that we both enjoyed, and I’m sorry I stopped.” He kissed the other’s head again before rubbing his thumbs on the knuckles he held hostage. The younger’s face soften, not realizing that the tickling had stopped. “Dang it man, your, your doing this on purpose.” Freckled cheeks dusted pink before the shark man looked away.

“Huh?” “The sweetness, the manliness, are you trying to melt me down or something?” Bakugou sighed with a soft chuckle. “Guess it’s been far to long then.” He held the arms up more, wrapping them behind his neck. With his head beside Kirishima’s, he smiled to the babes. “Attack!” Ah yes, little minions. Little hands squeezed at his ribs and underarm, making the red head squeak and giggle around helplessly.

“Hehehehe!” Eijiro couldn’t think of anything to say that would get his sweeties to stop, or that they’d really understand. They seemed to be having a lot of fun cheering him up, which warmed the older husband’s heart. They were more like Kirishima than him, which in Bakugou’s eyes.... was a good thing. “Ghahahrils, sthahahop it,” Eijiro giggled weakly as he squirmed slightly.

When the kids fell asleep, Bakugou would have to give his man some real cheer up tickles. One that little hands didn’t have the power or coordination to do. “Kiseki,” Bakugou chuckled. She squirmed to move under the covers more, little butt shaking as she tried to worm her way under. “Whahat ahahre yhahaou dhahaoing, ya dhahaork,” Kirishima teased before taking his hand back and poking at a little socked foot.

Small giggles escped from the tiny, wiggling mound before the dark haired twin joined her sister. Bakugou let go of Kirishima’s hand before poking at Hikari’s side. Each time he’s poke her, she would giggle and look at the finger before pushing at it and trying to tickle her papa again .The younger father giggled softly, even during the breaks as his babes were just too cute.

Hikari was getting a bit fussy from Bakugou’s actions until her papa picked her up and laid her on his chest. Kiseki seemed to have fallen asleep, her little feet and butt sticking out from the covers like a puppies. “Think it’s bed time, huh,” Kirishima asked softly. Heavy lid tried to fight the urge but.... papa’s warmth was too powerful. The little face fell forward into his chest as the older twin passed out.

“Well, at least their taken care of,” the red head sighed. “Yeah, now it’s your turn,” Bakugou sighed before disturbing the three as he slipped out form under his husband. “Not when their sleeping Suki. I don’t want to have to deal with fussy babies.” The blonde chuckled. “Why? I’m already dealing with one fussy baby.” He earned an eye roll and sigh. “Good night Katsuki,” Eijiro sighed. “Night shitty hair,” Katski chuckled before giving a final day’s kiss and snuggling against his husband.

#kiribaku week #day 2 #children #ocs #tickle #tickling #ticklish #tickle fight #family tickle fight

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