#peaceful soul sharper lance

[dragons-ire]

Rhys.

He didn't know shit about the kid. Hingan, Doman, whatever, and he kind of didn't care. After he stormed off, Breandan took a moment to put into practice some kind of meditation. Cleaning up whiskey glasses and wine glasses and a stoneware mug full of the remnants of a cocktail that was sweet but not cloying and tasted faintly of coffee on the tongue.

People liked to interrupt Breandan's meditation by chiding him for brooding. By coming over and trying to cheer him up. Tell him to be happy. Lavish him with things like they were sensing a void in him, something that needed to be filled so he could be a complete and whole person.

He didn't want to be complete. He liked the idea of himself as a work in progress. 

He didn’t think about the particularly of how that whole exchange went down.  That he could unspin later with time.

Nobles have to learn the same as everyone else, sure. But he couldn't help but sense something else in the young man, a furious struggle that he couldn't help but feel a kind of connection and kinship to the young man. Trying hard to sell it in a world that didn't let him. Maybe trying to relate to a world that was strange to relate to.

Just like so many, many people he knew in the surprising vastness of people he knew. Just another lost and angry soul, so much like him. Lost. Angry. The scowl on his face reminded Breandan of how he felt when he was up in Ishgard; trapped by things he was obligated to play at for awhile longer. Frustrated because he had to be slow and patient, but a good exercise in patience. And skills

He thought about some of those people, scattered as they were all over the world. He thought about the office that he worked out of and the people who inhabited it. Old friends and new; people with whom he worked. Who he trusted, even if he didn't always act like that.

He thought about the Dufresne Bellworks, and what it would mean when the finest military force in Eorzea pressed with the rest of the Alliance across the Ghimlyt Dark and into burning Garlemald. The weapons the Ishgardian forces carried would have to be sourced with care. He'd have to walk on that one.

He thought about the Runner. About that boisterous air crew finally back in the air at last. Who invited him for drinks and on excursions and called him a friend. A precious kind of experience to him, that rare and unique airship with capabilities he didn’t even know. He only ever got to see the lounge.

And he thought about the mysterious White Lotus Inn, his destination after whatever last business meeting he had to be at. He'd been working very hard in Ishgard and Ul'dah, and maybe he actually deserved a vacation. Even if it wound up not being quite a vacation and just gentler work in a place he’d not seen much of. He wanted to see all of it. Including the professional Felore seemed to have specifically brought into Ishgard just so he could get a look.

He wanted different things. He wanted a peaceful soul.

The glasses cleaned up, he returned to his office and opened the weapons locker behind the archway. He pulled out an object that had been commissioned for him by Isrun Whitewood, Horizon Contractors' head of security. He wasn't even sure why. Maybe he'd been too interested in the rare history behind her weaponskill that he'd never heard of.

Maybe Isrun felt he'd just disrespected her weapon by playing with it like a shiny new toy. Either way, it felt appropriate, like a sinner’s penance.

He loaded one, plain, unimbued bullet into the gunblade's revolving chamber.

He...thought he understood why he couldn't ever bring Rhys into Ishgard the same way he'd brought Felore or anyone else. He knew that what he might need to do next would need to be executed with a kind of care, the way a difficult thing needed to be. Not a warning sign as much as a request for more insight before he decided what he wanted to do

Hopefully it wouldn’t go too badly.

He checked in, then wandered outside into the sun and up the ramp into Otolin's vegetable garden. Tipped his dark glasses down over his eyes to keep the glare of the sun that was worse than normal after that fucked up job and took a deep breath of peaceful air. Thought about what he wanted, and what he needed. He held the weapon in his hands with the kind of love and care that Isrun would. Like an artifact, a treasure. Something to be wielded with respect of its power and capability.

Then he fired a single bullet into the grass of Otolin Stone's yard. He was a terrible shot, but precision didn't matter when you were pointing the weapon in the dirt. Once it was done, he dug it out of the ground with his fingers and packaged it for Otolin’s front door.

Then he wandered back to the office to shuffle papers around.

He left the gunblade sitting on his desk with the door unlocked.

[turtle-steverogers]

steve getting caught in the rain on the way home from work and barging through the front door bangs dripping and cheeks pink and bucky looking up from his spot on the sofa with alpine and thinking i’m fucked

so it's like 1 am and this was going to be something chaotic and smutty but it ended up being a view of steve's pain from the eyes of bucky

oop anway:

In From the Cold

-

From Stevie: Left my key at home. Can you let me in?

Bucky gets the text right before there’s a knock at the front door, and he presses to his feet, shifting Alpine off his lap. It takes a moment to undo all the latches and locks, and by the time he does, Steve has knocked again-- sharper. Frantic. Bucky frowns and opens the door.

“Shit, Steve,” he says, and steps to the side to let Steve in past him.

He’s soaked, straight through to his skin. His hair is plastered to his forehead, clumped and stiff with sleet. His nose and cheeks are bright against his otherwise pale skin, and his lips are a tad blue.

He’s shaking. Hard.

It’s then that Bucky realizes that sleet is coming down outside, the sky blanketed a gloomy grey. The storm had been on the radar, but somehow he’d forgotten about it. Steve, it seemed, had forgotten as well when he’d left for his meeting that morning.

“Yeah,” Steve says, taking off his jacket. His movements are stiff and Bucky reaches out a hand, taking the soaked jacket from him before he can hang it on its hook. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Go ahead and take off the rest of your clothes. I’ll throw them in the wash. Do you want a bath?”

Steve swallows, a shudder running visibly through him and Bucky doesn’t need a psych degree to guess what’s going on. Between the wet and the cold, this is hardly Steve’s preferred state to be in. There’s a vacancy in his eyes that makes Bucky’s blood run cold.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yes. Please.”

-

Bucky’s blood runs cold as a cough wracks Steve’s body, and he instinctively listens for a rattle in his lungs. The cough is not dry, though. Silver linings.

His hair is plastered to his forehead, and Bucky curses, reaching out to usher Steve inside. His clothes are soaked and sticking to his frame, hugging him in a way that seems to accentuate his size. Make him look even smaller. He coughs again.

“Jesus, you got a death wish?” Bucky hisses, hands working to unbutton Steve’s shirt-- get the wet fabric off, because it’s going to make him sick and Steve just got over his last fucking cold.

Steve bats his hand away, leveling him with a glare.

“No, shut up,” he says, and the harshness is dampened by the chattering of his teeth. He unbuttons his own shirt and tosses it aside, the bruises on his collarbone from a work mishap earlier that week stark and purple. Bucky wants to reach out and soothe his fingers over them-- kiss them away.

Instead, he goes to his closet and pulls out a clean shirt and some boxer shorts that will be too big on Steve, but at least they’re warm.

“I thought you were seeing your ma,” Bucky says, handing Steve the clothes. Steve strips naked right there in their hallway. He’s unabashed and it makes the lithe lines of his body all the more beautiful.

“I was,” Steve says. It’s clipped and Bucky’s gut twinges. Sarah had gotten sick a week or so ago-- an awful, wracking cough. Bucky had hoped, fucking prayed that it wasn’t the worst. But Sarah worked in a TB ward, and life didn’t seem so kind to the Rogers family. “They wouldn’t let me in.”

“Shit,” Bucky says.

Steve is dressed now, Bucky’s boxers barely clinging to his hips. He sits down on Bucky’s bed, and Bucky sits, too.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and he’s holding himself so tightly that Bucky’s afraid he might snap.

-

Steve holds himself tightly as he sits on the edge of the tub, his eyes on the rising water level, but mind clearly elsewhere. Bucky watches him for a moment as he returns from the laundry room-- watches his chest heave and hands tremble.

He is naked where he sits, and the way he hunches in on himself makes him look smaller. Bucky’s chest aches and he desperately wishes he could reach out and break the spell-- break the hold Steve’s mind seems to have on him right now. But he knows a thing or two about triggers, and he may not know what happened when Steve crashed that plane-- not details anyhow-- but he knows damn well that Steve still isn’t healed from that particular wound. It will likely follow him to his real grave. The pain. The fear. The damning finality of it.

-

And it seems like a final damnation. One not so beautiful as the perdition that was Steve taking Bucky into his body. But a much starker one. As unforgiving as a son losing his mother can be when he’s already lost his father. Steve says he hadn’t cared much when Joseph finally died-- his own faults pulling him under the current. But there’s a shame there that he can’t seem to quell. Regret that runs in the tightness of his eyes, smoldering and masked by a harshness that doesn’t fit the gentleness that is the skin of Steve Rogers. The soul and bones that are so hurt by a world keen on hurting them.

There’s a grief that wants to rise in Bucky’s own chest. Sarah doesn’t deserve this-- he wishes he could change it. Make it untrue. Make it better.

But he can deal with his own shit later. Right now, Steve is hurting and Bucky needs to coax him out of his shell. Lance some of that pain.

His hair is still dripping from the storm outside and Bucky reaches out, brushes his fingers through the sopping strands. Steve looks at him, eyes hollow and shining-- a strange dichotomy.

“Let me run you a bath?”

-

Steve sinks into the bath water, eyes closed as his chest hitches and stutters. He sinks down until the water covers his chest, stops at his chin. And it would be an endearing sight if he didn’t look so damn troubled.

Bucky hesitates.

“Do you want me here? Or would you rather be alone.”

Please God, he thinks. Please let me in. Let me stay. Let me shoulder some of your pain.

Steve’s jaw shifts, then clenches. He battles with himself, caught between the draw of comfort and his own internal walls telling him to close the gates.

Bucky waits.

“Can you wash my hair?” Steve eventually asks.

Bucky smiles. “Of course, pal.”

-

Bucky takes off his shirt so it won’t get wet and kneels by the edge of the tub. Steve leans back to wet his hair. It seems like instinct more than anything. His hair was already pretty damn wet. Bucky picks up the shampoo-- half empty and a little crusted around the cap-- and squirts some out onto his palm.

Lathering it up, he leans closer.

“Ready?”

“Mhm.”

“Close your eyes, sweetheart.”

Steve closes his eyes and Bucky begins to work the shampoo into his hair, pressing his fingers into his scalp, around his temples. Tension seems to ebb out of Steve in increments and Bucky is hopeful for a moment that he’s leaching out some of the shock.

And he must have taken away the numbness, because then Steve is sobbing, and Bucky is cursing softly as he strips out of the rest of his clothes, climbing into the tub behind Steve. He rinses his hair, and doesn’t bother with soft nothings. Because it isn’t okay. And Steve doesn’t deserve dismissal like that.

Instead, he pulls him close and buries his nose in his hair.

-

With practiced hands, Bucky works his coconut shampoo into Steve’s hair. It’s his favorite even if he won’t admit it and never buys it for himself. That’s alright, though. Bucky doesn’t mind sharing.

He feels Steve’s skin warm up-- rinses his hair with rhythmic and soothing touches, skittering his hands down Steve’s shoulders and across his chest as he goes, aiming to ground him. But Steve is not speaking and he is still shaking.

“Steve?” Bucky prompts gently.

Steve looks at him, gaze darting to his eyes, then his cheek, fixating there. A shudder rolls through him and he goes impossibly more pale.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Steve,” Bucky says again, alarmed, and then Steve’s chest is heaving as his breaths start to speed up. “Shit.”

Bucky strips off his clothes, and climbs into the tub with Steve, keeping a hand on him as he sinks into the water.

“Can I hold you?” he asks, and Steve manages a nod. He’s going to hyperventilate if they don’t get a hold of this now. Bucky pulls Steve back against his chest and buries his nose in his hair. “Breathe with me. Just feel me, Steve. Just feel me and breathe.”

Steve does.

-

Steve is worn out by the time they’re settling in bed, and Bucky shifts him so his head is on his chest. They’re quiet for a long time, watching the sun set, shadows moving across the ceiling.

“I’m scared,” Steve says, his voice hoarse from crying.

Bucky tenses. “I know.”

“I don’t want to lose her.”

Bucky closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

There isn’t anything for it. Bucky wants to promise that he won’t leave. That he’ll be there, but Steve knows that and reiterating it will only exacerbate the pain of those who can’t be there for him.

“I’m so tired,” Steve whimpers.

-

“I’m so fucking tired of this,” Steve says as he comes down, voice tight and teeth chattering. At least he’s breathing on his own now.

Then rest, Bucky wants to say. Come in from the cold. Let us help. Let people help.

“I know,” he says instead. “I know, honey. But you did so good just now.”

Steve shrugs. “Can we get out?”

“Sure thing.”

They dry off together, and settle into bed, naked still and wrapped up in each other. Steve settles on his chest, head tucked under Bucky’s chin. An age old position-- Steve will always fit right in Bucky’s arms.

-

Steve falls asleep with his hand clinging to Bucky’s. He usually looks more peaceful when he is resting, but now his mouth is turned down-- the lines of his face seem to deepen. He looks much older than he actually is, but Bucky has always sort of thought that. Steve, he thinks, has had to grow up too fast.

There’s a moment where Steve seems to drift awake, eyes opening then shutting again. He makes a soft noise and shifts closer to Bucky.

Bucky holds him and prays he feels held.

-

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Steve says. It was worth a shot.

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Can I do anything?”

Steve swallows, arms tightening around Bucky’s middle. “Just hold me?”

“Of course,” Bucky says, and he hitches Steve closer, kisses the top of his head.

“This helps,” Steve whispers, and Bucky holds his breath. “You holding me. It feels safe.”

“I’m so glad,” Bucky says. His throat feels tight and he ducks his head to kiss Steve’s temple. It settles something in him, knowing Steve feels safe in his arms. “I’ll always hold you.”

-

thanks for reading, chiefs!

[bibleteachingbyolga]

Am I really a Christian?

Perhaps for you, that question looms like a shadow in the back of the soul, threatening your dearest hopes and peace. Others may struggle to understand why. You bear all the outward marks of a Christian: You read, pray, and gather with your church faithfully. You serve and sacrifice your time. You look for opportunities to share Christ with neighbors. You hide no secret sins.

But “the heart knows its own bitterness” (Proverbs 14:10), and so too its own darkness. No matter how much you obey on the outside, when you look within you find a mass of conflicting desires and warring ambitions. Every godly impulse seems mixed with an ungodly one; every holy desire with something shameful. You can’t pray earnestly without feeling proud of yourself afterward. You can’t serve without some part of you wanting to be praised.

You remember Judas and Demas, men whose outward appearance deceived others and deceived themselves. You know that on the last day many will find themselves surprised, knocking on the door of heaven only to hear four haunting words: “I never knew you” (Matthew 7:23; 25:11–12).

And so, in the stillness before sleep, in quiet moments of the day, and sometimes in the middle of worship itself, the shadow returns: Am I real — or am I just deceiving myself?

‘With You There Is Forgiveness’

Sometimes, the most apt answers to our most pressing questions are buried hundreds of years ago. And when it comes to assurance in particular, we may never surpass the pastoral wisdom of those seventeenth-century soul physicians, the Puritans.

Assurance proved to be a common struggle for the Christians of that era, such that John Owen devoted over three hundred pages to the topic in his masterful Exposition of Psalm 130, most of which addresses a single verse: “With you there is forgiveness, that you may be feared” (Psalm 130:4).

With God there is forgiveness — free forgiveness, abundant forgiveness, glad forgiveness, based on the blood and righteousness of Jesus Christ. But Owen knew that some Christians would hesitate to believe that forgiveness was for them. He knew that some introspective believers, bruised with a sense of their indwelling sin, would respond, “Yes, there is forgiveness with God, but I see so much darkness within myself — is there forgiveness for me?”

In a way, Owen’s entire book is his answer to that question. But he devotes special attention to such believers in one brief section — not aiming, necessarily, to remove every doubt (something only God can do), but merely to help readers see themselves from a new, more gracious angle.

Grief can be a good sign.

When some Christians search their hearts, they have eyes only for their sin. Their highest worship seems tainted with self-focus; their best obedience seems spoiled by strains of insincerity. They are ready to sigh with David, “My iniquities have overtaken me, and I cannot see; they are more than the hairs of my head; my heart fails me” (Psalm 40:12). But such grief can be a good sign.

Owen asks us to imagine a man with a numb leg. As long as his leg has lost sensation, the man “endures deep cuts and lancings, and feels them not.” Yet as soon as his nerves awake, he “feels the least cut, and may think the instruments sharper than they were before, when all the difference is, that he hath got a quickness of sense” (Works of John Owen, 6:604).

Outside of Christ, our souls are numb to the evil of sin. The guilt and the consequences of sin may have wounded us from time to time, but its evil we could hardly feel (if at all) — no matter how often it thrust us through. But once our souls come alive, we need only a paper cut to wince. Sin burdens us, oppresses us, grieves us, not because we are worse than we were before, but because we finally feel sin for what it is: the thorns that crowned our Savior’s head, the spear that pierced our Lord.

So, Owen writes, “‘Oh wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?’ [Romans 7:24] is a better evidence of grace and holiness than ‘God, I thank thee I am not as other men’ [Luke 18:11]” (601). Grief over our sin, far from disqualifying us from the kingdom, suggests that comfort is on the way (Matthew 5:4).

Your resistance, not sin’s persistence, matters most.

Temptation is frustratingly persistent. Sin would grieve us less if it left us alone more often: if pride were not ready to rise on all occasions, if anger did not flame up from the smallest sparks, if foolish thoughts did not fill our minds so often. Can we have any confidence of assurance if we find sin so relentlessly tempting?

Owen takes us to 1 Peter 2:11, where the apostle writes, “Abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul.” He comments, “Now, to war is not to make faint or gentle opposition, . . . but it is to go out with great strength, to use craft, subtlety, and force, so as to put the whole issue to a hazard. So these lusts war” (605).

Sin wars — and not against those whom it holds captive, but against those who have been rescued from its authority and now fight below Christ’s banner. When it comes to assurance, then, what matters most is not sin’s persistence, but our resistance. Or as Owen puts it, “Your state is not at all to be measured by the opposition that sin makes to you, but by the opposition you make to it” (605).

Sin may burden and tempt you, oppose and oppress you. Every army does. But do you, for your part, resist? Do you run up the watchtower and raise an alarm? Do you grip your shield and swing your sword? Do you labor, strive, watch, pray, and keep close to your Captain? Then sin’s warfare against you may be a sign that you are in Christ’s service.

Christ purifies our obedience.

The most sensitive Christians, Owen writes, often “find their hearts weak, and all their duties worthless. . . . In the best of them there is such a mixture of self, hypocrisy, unbelief, vain-glory, that they are even ashamed and confounded with the remembrance of them” (600). Whatever fruit they bear seems covered with the mold of indwelling sin.

But often, God sees more grace in his sin-burdened people than they see in themselves. Remember Sarah, Owen says: even when she was walking in unbelief, God took notice of the fact — a trifle in our eyes — that she called her husband “lord” (Genesis 18:12; 1 Peter 3:6). So too, on the last day, Jesus will commend his people for good works they have long forgotten and struggle even to recognize (Matthew 25:37–40).

Of course, God’s “well done” says less about the worth of our works than about the wonder of his mercy. Our Father hangs our pictures upon his wall because Christ adorns them with the jewels of his own crown. Owen writes,

Jesus Christ takes whatever is evil and unsavoury out of them, and makes them acceptable. . . . All the ingredients of self that are in them on any account he takes away, and adds incense to what remains, and presents it to God. . . . So that God accepts a little, and Christ makes our little a great deal. (603)

The only works that God accepts are those that have been washed in the blood of Jesus (Revelation 7:14). And any work that is washed in the blood of Jesus becomes transfigured, a small but resplendent reflection of “Christ in you, the hope of glory” (Colossians 1:27). And therefore God, in unspeakable grace, “remembers the duties which we forget, and forgets the sins which we remember” (603).

Assurance arises from faith.

Owen’s final piece of counsel may feel counterintuitive to the unassured heart. Many who struggle with assurance hesitate to rest their full weight on Christ’s saving promises until they feel some warrant from within that the promises belong to them. They wait to come boldly to the throne of grace until they find something to bring with them. But this gets the order exactly backward.

Owen writes, “Do not resolve not to eat thy meat until thou art strong, when thou hast no means of being strong but by eating” (603). When we wait to focus our gaze on Christ’s promises until we are holy enough, we are like a man waiting to eat until he becomes strong, or waiting to sleep until he feels energized, or waiting to study until he grows wise. Sinclair Ferguson, a modern-day pupil of Owen, puts it this way:

Believing [gives] rise to obedience, not obedience . . . to assurance irrespective of believing. Such faith cannot be forced into us by our efforts to be obedient; it arises only from larger and clearer views of Christ. (The Whole Christ, 204)

The faith that nourishes both obedience and assurance arises only from larger and clearer views of Christ. If we stay away from Jesus until we are holy enough, we will stay away forever. But if we come to him right now and every morning hereafter, no matter how dead we feel, looking for welcome on the basis of his blood rather than our efforts, then we can hope, in time, to find faith flowering in fuller obedience and deeper assurance.

But we will come only if we know, with Owen, that “with you there is forgiveness, that you may be feared” (Psalm 130:4). All who come to Christ, trust in Christ, and embrace Christ find the forgiveness that is with Christ. And you are no exception.

[audiovizualna]

Happy Yuletide everybody! May your Christmas be merry and bright. I hope you enjoyed this short CC story as I enjoyed writing it for you :* Once more I have to thank @flabbergabst for being fantastic beta and all of you for support. This last part should be satisfying enough.

(I own nothing)

~

“You’re Not Him”

Part 1: “For Him”

Part 2: “About Him”

Part 3: “From Him”

Part 4: ”With Him”

Minutes passed. Liquor disappeared. But the candles were still burning when Leo sat closer to White Canary to talk or at least to try to do so.

”What’s going on in your head Sara? Why were you so angry earlier this morning even if I haven’t given you a proper reason to be angry?” Leo’s eyes glimmered in the candle light, waiting for the answer.

”I’m sorry, Len…um, Leo. I just didn’t expect this situation to ever be possible. The only thing I can tell you is that I am hurt. Really hurt. But that, you already noticed,” Sara whispered, staring at the floor. She paused to find the bravery to look at him through her long lashes.

Sara took a deep breath and continued. ”It physically hurts me to see you striding through the halls of Waverider and knowing you have no idea why I feel that way. Apparenly, I haven’t dealt with Leonard’s sacrifice yet. No matter what I tell myself. There are so many things I wanted to tell him. So many fears and responsibilities I’d like to share, but he’s gone. He’s gone and he’s never coming back.”

By the time she was finished, tears of anger, sorrow, and regret were streaming down her face. It left Earth-X Snart to do the only thing he could. He held her tight, never wanting to let go. Feeling her firm small body clenching to his own, fitting so perfectly - it felt too familiar. It was almost deja vu. But that was one of his stories - one he was not ready to share. Not now.

Leo closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath to collect his thoughts. The assassin enveloped in his embrace needed comfort, not another trauma.

When her sobs became silent, she loosend the grip on Leo’s arms, burying her blonde head in Citizen Cold’s neck and slowly breathing in his spicy scent.

”You even smell like him. But you’re not him. I know that. You’ll never be him and it hurts so much.  I should be with Len right now. I should have told him, but I never had a chance,” Sara raised the head up to look in those beautiful eyes she knows too well, and held the air in her lungs.

”I could say the same, Birdie,” Leo stated, tucking in a single strand of golden locks behind the woman’s ear. ”You’re not him. You’re not the love of my life. You’re not Ray Terrill. But here I am. And although my subconsious is telling me that I should be spending this holy night with him, us together helping poor souls who never had a chance to spend a normal, peaceful Christmas during the war...”

He took some time to carefully choose his words before speaking again.

”Yet another part of me can’t imagine being anywhere else than here, by your side. You may think you’re broken, but the truth is you’ve became stronger and sharper because of many mistakes and unused opportunities. You are like a diamond, Sara Lance - beautiful and unbreakable. Your Len saw that too, didn’t he? You allowed this crook to see every part of your soul. And he loved you. He loved you as you are.”

Every word seemed scarier than the previous one. Sara felt naked, bare like an open book, but she found herself too frozen to answer so she just stared at his eyes and waited for another remark.

”Do you know how I figured it out?” he asked, helping her to stand up and cupping her freckled face into both hands. ”Because that’s exactly what I would do if I’d been  given a chance. You’re the most complicated woman I’ve ever met and that’s fascinating. On my Earth, all the women are hard to read but they don’t have a choice. You have one and even if you can ask for help, you prefer to fight your demons by yourself. Demons that don’t defy you. I see it clearly, let alone your Leonard.”

Sara slightly pushed him away from her body and looked down, abashed.

”He was never mine,” she replied, letting soft sobs escape her lips. ”We did not have enough time to specify our feelings. But talking to you, I realised… maybe I loved him after all. Anyway, now it’s too late to find out. You have a privilage to say you love Ray. You’re certain and willing to go back to him when your work here is done. But I feel like someone had cut off my wings in that matter. I can’t tell him I’ll come back to him. I can’t ask him to come back to me.

The captain slowly relaxed her muscles, willed her tears to stop from falling and waited patiently for Leo’s reaction to that confession.

”Yes, I do have the privilage to say that I know the meaning of love. I can’t imagine life without Ray by my side, because if not for him, I would have given up the fight a long time ago,” Leo began. ”Time will come for me to go back on Earth-X and reunite with him, but now I’d like to accompany you to your quarters. So, Captain Lance, shall we?” he ended, nonchalantly giving her his hand, which she willingly took.

The two walked off, their fingers intertwined and her other hand clenching Snart’s arm, causing cool shivers down the spine, but she didn’t let go. It felt right

Leonard stopped in front of the large door of her room and lightly kissed back of Sara’s hand, not breaking eye contact. She held her breath for a second.

”Goodnight Sara. I’m glad we finally had a talk without arguing,” Len smiled genuinely and left her where she stood.

The assassin turned around and asked Gideon to let her in the room, but stopped halfway through and shifted her body slightly just to bump on Leo’s form. He stood right behind her and within a second, closed the space between their lips.

This was unexpected and the sensation was hard to describe. His right hand was tangled in her golden curls while his left one held her by the waist. Leo tasted like liquor and cranberries, his lips warm and soft.

He stole the kiss. One that Earth-1 Leonard never got to steal. And she loved it, even if small voice in her head reminded her that it’s not him. But it was – Leonard Snart, flesh and bone - only for this moment and only for her.

They broke the kiss eventually, breathing heavily with eyes closed. Leo pressed their foreheads together and whispered softly.

”I’m sorry if I hurt you with this, but I had to know what it’s like,” Leo said. ”You’re also not the first Sara Lance in my life and,” he looked at her emphatically and finished a bit louder, ”I suppose you deserve to know what happened with your doppleganger on Earth-X.”

Sara was still processing what has happened  a few moments ago, but the idea of a sleepless Christmas night, including true stories from both sides, was tempting enough.

”Let’s hear it. I have to admit, you’re quite convincing, Leo. I guess you are on every earth,” the captain smoothed the collar of the man’s black turtleneck and raised her shiny eyes to meet his. ”Also, since it’s going to be long night filled with not so fluffy bedtime stories, would you be so nice to...”

”…bring us some hot cocoa with mini-marshmallows and more eggnog? Sure,” Leo finished the sentence for her like it was the most obvious thing to do. He gave her the sweetest kiss on the forehead before he leaving the captain’s room.

”Storytime. Here we go,” the fierce blonde said to herself , preparing  two comfortable spots on her bed.

Although this situation still felt a bit odd, especially on Christmas Day, which she never had a chance to spend with her crook, Sara was full of hope and sure he’ll come back to her with sweets in his hands and a smirk on the face. Most importantly, and however strange it may sound, she felt Leonard’s  presence through his doppleganger from  Earth-X.

Her Leonard Snart was with her tonight and she was not alone.

[dragons-ire]

#28 - Irenic

He studied the examples of people he wanted to be more like. Tried to emulate on some level. Read the histories of dead ones and studied the moves of living ones.

No matter who they were, they shared one thing:

They reflected calm on the outside. Remained centered even as the world was falling to chaos around them.

Not him, so much. Some days he felt like he wore his ill temper right on top of his skin like a tailored garment. Always simmering beneath the surface. Always quick to his tongue. Like every little thing was there just to be in his way and frustrate him and piss him off.

It wasn't a way to be. Not outside a field of conflict. He could stay centered in a fight like the eye of a storm - it was waiting around for the next one that fucked him up.

I want a peaceful soul. When he said it, it was to Ser Erembourc when the older elezen was staying in his home on their way through Ishgard. Immediately awkward at the turn of phrase, immediately a little shy. Like he was expecting to be belittled or laughed at, even if in all of their years, the fencing master had never once made him feel small in that fashion.

Like...you. Nothing ever bothers you How do you do it?

His shoulders hunched like he was still an awkward and rambunctious teenager, out in the field with the crew. Except, maybe at last, he seemed ready to listen.

Erembourc put their coffee cup down and folded their rough and scarred hands

I find my greatest achievement in the success of other people. They went on. I allow my anger to be righteous and do not apologize unless I have hurt someone without cause. I do not punish myself for my mistakes. I thank myself for the opportunity to learn and to grow. And I try to hold people up to their own best standards. Not my standard. I can make excuses or exceptions for other people. But not for myself.

Breandan lowered his head and took a moment to think about every time he kicked himself in the face for something before someone else had the opportunity to. Every time he'd gone along with something because it was easier than fighting, and every time he'd fought something that wound up being stupid and not even worth it. Every time he’d sucked his teeth and fell into the trap of wanting approval from people who would probably never give it to him, even though he godsdamned well should know better at this point.

Peace, he reminded himself. The man and the dragon, at peace with each other.

It's a struggle almost every day.  Erembourc  went on; the introspection of the teacher voiced for the benefit of the student. 

I would never put it that way, but you're right. That's what it feels like..

A peaceful soul.

[dragons-ire]

#19 - Where the Heart Is

Sitting on the cool floor of her home, his sister's hand settles evenly at the pulse point at his throat, and he understands something.

He reaches out to touch the same point under her jaw. And he's not a chirurgeon, not the healer that she is and claims she is not, but he can't help but think about it all the same.

Which one of them is the one who is off.

He assumes it's him: too fast. Like the match that got dropped into his aether in the Congregation set him on fire down to the blood. Blood calls to blood, like they said when they put the enchanted armor on him, the weapon in his hand. Dragon's blood, dragon's bone. Burning too hot inside the marrow  of his incredibly human and mortal bones, likely to send him careening towards an early grave from the stress of it.

It seldom occurs to him that it might be her instead, but it could be: too slow. Cold against a world that never seems to want her and didn't know what to do with her. Always reaching for things that don't settle quite right. Reaching towards a cold darkness that keeps her patient and measured, but is always pulling. Pulling.

Two opposite forces circling each other: too hot and too cold like bowls of porridge from a children's story. Is this why they're having so many problems?

In the dim memory of a past that never quite took off and stopped being important to remember, he recalls it like a wheel; wind fire lightning up top, earth water ice below. Something in the image seems to fit even if he can't explain where the logic came from

She's the magician of them, after all,  the aetherologist. He'd never quite had the head for such things, even under the patient and gentle instruction of Ser Erembourc, his fencing master. Even when she tells him of the things she's learned that are always so fascinating.

He assumes it's him so he goes looking for what might fix it. He dusts off a dueling saber from the armory and thinks about what it means to have balance while he practices the forms of it. To be white and black in equal portions. He goes stranger places, places he'd never thought he'd even be considering, but feels obligated to consider: maybe you could throw it away and take that dive. Maybe what is holding you back is what in you that is still man.

Going down those roads of utter chaos, he'd missed the part where she had been working, too. And she comes with a solution, at least something of one.

You expend a lot of aether in very large manifestations. It's all you do with it. Maybe if you practiced something more subtle, it would help you.

And she holds the training device she brought with her from the Old World and shows him how it's done.

The Sharlayan device immediately closes on three of this fingers and snaps him in the face, hard, the first time he picks it up. He kicks it across the room angrily, but then he picks it up.

Like breath, she says, so he tries to breathe. One finger curling after the other in agonizing slowness, like the little bones of them had been broken and he's trying to relearn their use. They get bandage after bandage around them as he slowly  figures out how to manipulate the mechanisms. One orbit one way, the opposite orbit of the interior workings at the same time.

Two opposite forces in counter-balance.

Like breath. And when the thing sits in his hand, balanced a few ilms above his fingers, he breathes more evenly, and he can feel the pulse in his throat returning to something a little slower. More natural.

And when he looks through the spinning disks of it, he can almost always make her out on the other side no matter where she might be

[dragons-ire]

Build a house

Build a house in your head

Erembourc's firm voice came drifting back as he lay on the carpet in front of the fire in the pit, just staring at the flame as it slowly died down. Things his old teacher said for when shit got bad. Find a center, build a house there. Make it look like a place you'd want to live in.

The memory of all the conversations and occasions and good things that had happened in the downstairs were things he tried to hold in his mind.

Build a house in your head.

The notebook of sketches and strategy, questions he'd brought to the debriefing that had fallen by the wayside still lay in his hand where he could see it. He'd prepared, since the job. He'd analyzed the situation, researched what he could, pulled in Brighid's astromancy to research further. Brought things he knew were valuable for a strategic situation. At least, he tried.

Otolin had been through hell and of course there were things that needed to be said and nurtured in the room before they planned. He brought a physical assessment of the situation and some questions about aetheric capabilities that he wasn't an expert on and tried to wait patiently for a time that he might ask some things and offer suggestions.

The time never came.

Build a house in your head

He thought about Silvestre, utterly confused and lost in this situation with no time to explain. No briefing, no debriefing. Silvestre, just looking at him to help deescalate a situation that spiraled further and further out of control  until there was no saving it. Maybe he should walk it back, try and think from the more soft civilian perspective., but that wasn't what made him good at what he did.

Sometimes his military training and background felt like more of a detriment than anything else for all he used it.

Build a house in your head

He thought about where Valka was off to. Lost to her own trauma, unable to be reasoned with for reasons he couldn't blame her for. He'd never been to Dalmasca, but he'd lived through the hell of the Dragonsong War. He got plenty touchy about plenty of things himself, sure. He understood as much as he was able to understand.

He'd tried so hard to help her find her place here, find a niche, and he had failed. Maybe he could have tried harder. Maybe the fault of that was actually on him. 

Valka's only suggestion to him was to go away and rest and let the adults handle everything. Valka, a fellow soldier, a leader of soldiers, looked at him and called him an indolent child, and his rage had been so raw he couldn't do anything. It brought back every memory of every instructor and highborn shithead who'd given him hell in the Dragoons. Leaders he followed into hell because he had no other choice, not because he wanted to.

He liked plenty of things about Valka, but he didn't like being treated like he didn't know anything.

Build a house in your head

He thought about the words that fell from Otolin's mother's lips and he found himself flinching because he knew what they meant. Watched the demeanor of a man shift to something awful that stoked the fires of fury in his heart to a raw kind of anguish.

Little shit.

Emelyn Stone said little shit and Enguerrand Dzemael said dear boy and they hit the same raw nerve. Because he didn't need to see the look on Otolin's face to know what it could do to someone to hear those words as a grown adult. He heard it every time he sat in his dying father's room reading from outdated holy texts and trying not to die himself.

He hated Emelyn in a way that he hadn't hated any enemy since he'd been conditioned to hate Dravanians. Red and angry and squeezing his heart so hard he thought he might choke. Looking at her was like wearing the drachen armor in a dive, the helmet picking up the roar of dragonsong when it caught the wind like an echo chamber.

How dare you make him feel so small.

Build a house in your head.

He thought about Severine curled up behind the bar trying to drink herself into unconsciousness. Severine, who watched everyone she called a friend turn on each other while the unit cohesion came down. Who couldn't let herself stay in a place that only became hatred and murder and killing. And Breandan, unashamed of his expertise in hatred and murder and killing, knew that there was a time that even he needed to walk himself back from it. 

He couldn’t solve everything.

He was the only person here who knew what Severine meant when she said I can't stay here and the awfulness of it was like a knife in the heart.

The problem was, he wasn't any good at building houses. He could hammer shingles and sand bar counters, but he couldn't build from scratch, from the foundation. Sometimes, he could imagine what a room might look like. Furniture, people. Never a complete sanctuary. He could plot out the idea of what a house might look like, but he couldn't

If he tried to think about it, he was done in about ten minutes. Nothing else but to lay there and think about nothing instead.

His true father had been a carpenter, but Ancelin Ducaille spent his life building houses for other people to live in.

But what if you cant?

He didn't answer the question he posed to himself as he watched the embers. Didn't think about anywhere he might go if he couldn't live here anymore either. If the cohesion of the unit of this office broke apart and left separate people who couldn't communicate or coordinate. The idea of it made him angry too, and that anger coiling in his bones kept him warm in the way the dying fire couldn't.

That's what SHE WANTS.

How convenient of Emelyn Stone to arrive on the scene like a portent, at the right moment where some chaos would have turned the tide.

Don't let her fucking win.