#reach at least SOME level of gray area thinking. especially since spare already has the understanding of rules =/= morality 🤔🤔🤔)

[oceandiagonale]

So I know I said that I was going to lean a lot more into the existential horror of her situation with Spare, but I'm starting to think I might be too good at it because I am genuinely starting to feel sorry for her and feel like a monster for what I'm doing to her. Heck when thinking through on the implications of a few things I even had thoughts of "wait but that would mean...oh jeez". Which I think k is a sign of good horror writing but I'm a very empathic person so I feel really bad for her.

One of the things that I realized is that she never learned how to learn. I know that sounds like nonsense but it is a real thing in early childhood development. All of her knowledge is just uploaded into her brain and covers everything Arceus thinks she should know. Info important to her mission and stuff a little girl should know. If she ever needs to know something that Arceus didn't consider he just updates her. A scene early on has her realize that she doesn't know how to tie her shoes. Arceus just gives her full knowledge of shoes so that in a second she goes from "not being able to tie them" to "could probably make a designer shoe with the right tools and materials".

So yeah her only frames of reference for knowledge and skills is "nothing" and "master" because Arceus went for overkill because why not? As such she has a hard time grasping different levels of knowledge and competence from various people because she herself has never experienced the gradual growth and understanding of learning something new.

Naturally this makes interactions with other people hard. It also means that for any knowledge she doesn't have that Arceus didn't give her she has no frame of reference for learning. No understanding of trial and error, building foundational information and working up from fundamentals, etc. She has to learn that learning is a thing.

And that's just one of many things that are wrong with her creation. Another is that she doesn't feel that human life has any inherent value so there is definitely going to be a scene where she tries to kill villains and someone has to stop Spare before she does so. Because she literally doesn't understanding why she shouldn't kill them.

You also mentioned that hopefully Spare's mother could be of help to her? Hoo boy, Spare has enough mother issues to spontaneously resurrect Sigmund Freud. For starters Spare doesn't really view her as her mother but as a victim whose life was rewritten against her will in order to accommodate Spare like some sort of parasite. Spare also feels guilt at her mother loving her because she knows it is artificial and that she has no choice but to love her. At the same time she wants to embrace that love and compassion (because Spare is ultimately a scared kid in over her head even if she can't understand that) but tying into the previous points that makes her feel guilty because she feel like doing so would take advantage of the poor woman for her own selfish reasons.

The more I go on the more I feel like Spare would look at WIP Cream's situation and ultimately go "Wow, wish I was put together that well."

OH NO that’s like gifted kid syndrome but infinitely more fucked up, I feel so bad for this kid D’:

(like at least gene is allowed to be bad at things - sometimes very bad at things - and actively works on learning, especially new battle styles etc. that didn’t exist when celebi made him 😭😭😭)

I mean if someone stops her from doing violence (not as a treat 😔) she might have to start learning about people at least -- because it’s not like arceus is going to show her any of that stuff, right??

@theoryfan205 

[papercinders]

exile

PART II OF ENIGMA

PAIRING: obi-wan/reader RATING: PG WORD COUNT: 3.0k SUMMARY: he had a home, once, but now it is gone. you offer yours, if only for the night. or: the second time you ask obi-wan who he is. A/N: this is the second installment of enigma, a six-part series; updates every saturday. let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist. otherwise, enjoy!

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By the time you reach the farm, night has almost fallen. It’s not cold, but compared to the blistering heat of day, Tatooine by night is pleasant. The sky is painted in strokes of bluish gray and amber, the brighter of the two stars following the other as it sinks below the horizon. Soon, the farmstead will be cast in an expanse of pure darkness.

You hold the reins of the eopies, watching from a distance as Ben carries the bundle to the two silhouettes standing at the edge of their settlement. It’s a humble abode. The landscape is barren. You watch as the infant is passed between them. His name is Luke, you remind yourself.

You wonder who these people are. They take the baby with outstretched hands and little words, and the man wraps an arm around the woman as they turn toward the sunset, as if they are the last people in the galaxy, standing against some insurmountable obstacle. It’s just a baby, you tell yourself. It’s just an orphaned baby, and not even orphaned anymore.

Ben stands there for a moment, cloaked, a dark stain against the residual light of Tatooine’s binary sunset, but only for a moment. Then he turns back toward you, face unreadable, and though he arrived in Tatooine with empty hands, it doesn’t look like he has let go of anything.

When he is near enough for you to call out to him, you hold back words. He stops before you, eyes not meeting yours, and then slowly raises his head to meet your gaze. The world remains silent for another moment, and then ― 

“I haven’t even asked for your name.”

He says it as if you haven’t noticed. To him, you suppose you’re just a speck in a sky of grief. His face seems to fit into the mold of a smile so well, so often, and yet he has shown you little joy. You suspect he is here because of some unspeakable tragedy.

You realize that he is still watching you, and you say your name quietly, as if afraid to give too much of yourself away. Even though names, at their base level, are meaningless ― you learn far more about a person from actions and words ― there is something in that uselessness that makes a name all the more intimate.

Ben pauses for a moment, eyes still holding yours, and then he nods once, a single acknowledgment. “Thank you,” he says, but he does not repeat your name. You wonder why.

He crosses to one of the two eopies and hauls himself over the side of the creature and into the saddle; casts a glance at you from the side, and then dips his head in some form of goodbye.

Before he pulls the reins, the words come pouring out of your mouth. Part of it is genuine curiosity, but the other part of it is some desperate desire for him to stay. You tell yourself it’s because you haven’t figured him out yet. Just like before, you can’t quite explain why you speak. But just like before, you do.

“Where will you go?”

There’s a lull in the breeze, and everything holds its breath before he forms words. Ben searches your eyes. “Here,” he says, and from beneath his cloak, produces a few credits. They clink together. He holds out his hand for you to take the credits.

You look at the offered credits, glinting in the quickly-fading light, and then back to Ben. His hand is still outstretched, open. “I said I’d be your guide for free,” you say, and make no move to take the money.

Slowly, he pulls his hand back and stows the credits away again, still watching you. His eyes are blue like water, or maybe an ocean. You’ve seen bodies of water before, of course, but they don’t exist on Tatooine. At least, not until he arrived.

“Where will I go?” Ben muses, and he finally breaks eye contact, sweeping a gaze over the endless landscape of sand and horizon, interrupted only by the farmstead. “My ship, I suppose. I’ll return the eopies.”

“And after that?”

“After that?” he repeats, glancing at you briefly. His eyes are not wholly troubled, but neither does he seem unburdened or at peace. Exhausted, maybe. He sighs, shoulders rising and falling. “I’ll find somewhere to stay. Somewhere near here.”

“On Tatooine?” you say, and you can’t keep the disbelief from bleeding into your voice. He has a working ship, from the looks of it, enough credits to spare, and no reason to remain on Tatooine. Who would willingly stay here?

Ben is quiet for a beat. “Yes.”

The word why almost slips past your lips unhindered, but you remind yourself that you are still strangers. It’s one thing to know where he is going and how he will get there; it’s another to ask him to explain. Especially when he doesn’t seem keen to answer.

You follow his gaze to the small, round house on the edge of the moisture farm. The couple has disappeared inside with the baby. You wonder what Luke is to Ben; what it meant to take care of him, what it meant to give him up. You have the barest of ideas that he intends to stay on Tatooine for the child, but you wonder why, then, he gave him up in the first place.

“I should leave now,” Ben says.

Both stars have disappeared beneath the horizon. Light still radiates where sky meets land, but with every minute, it is leeched away. Darkness has already rendered the clouds gray and the opposite horizon a palette of muted tones.

Night is falling. He’s right. He should leave now.

But instead, you ask, “You have nowhere to go?” Behind the question is a variety of implications. You hope he takes it at face value. A ship, after all, is not a home.

He hesitates, as if weighing whether he considers a single-pilot starfighter to be sufficient. In the end, the silence stretches on, and you decide for him.

“There’s an extra room at my place,” you say, but your voice is quiet. You’re suddenly aware that you’re offering to let a stranger into your home ― even if your home isn’t much ― and you don’t even know what he does for a living or what his surname is. It’s in a different category than offering to be a guide.

Ben’s brow furrows, and he looks at you as if trying to figure out why you would offer something of yours so freely. “Why?” he asks, and it’s a fair question.

You’re not sure what to say, so you settle on honesty. “A ship is not a home.”

“Do you offer a room to every traveler passing through Tatooine?”

“No,” you say. A pause. “But you’re not a traveler passing through.” You know why he asked the previous question. He’s unsure of your motives; you can read it through more than just his words. “You just…” You search for words to describe what you know of grief. It’s futile. “You seem lost. Alone.”

When there’s more silence, you nearly backtrack, take back all of your words as if they are crumbs you can sweep from the floor and throw away.

But before you can retract your offer, Ben says your name. It sounds strange, unfamiliar ― it has been a long time since anyone has called you anything except girl and you ― but it is a part of you, after all.

“You’ve already been kind to me,” he says, and his voice is soft, even in the slow breeze as it rolls over the sand dunes. “I only need a place to stay for the night. At first light, I’ll be on my way.”

You’re surprised. He doesn’t come across as the kind of person who would accept help without a fight. But then again, he seems tired. Weary. Perhaps a little broken ― or a lot. Maybe, you decide, he has already survived a battle. A war. And maybe that’s why you have given him your time, your home, and your kindness.

The Republic is now the Empire. The war is now the past. It has left behind pieces and shards and ashes, and perhaps it is your job to pick them up. Or perhaps you only tell yourself that because you have no other purpose in this endless, lonely expanse of desert and empty wind.

//

You don’t have much food to offer him, but you don’t bother apologizing. You know he’ll say that he doesn’t mind. You know he’ll bring up the fact that you’ve offered your home up to a stranger.

The truth is, it’s not really a home ― you throw around the term because it’s loosely accurate, but house is a better word for it. Or hut, if you were more precise. All it is is a clay and synstone hut with two rooms and a common area. You don’t know who built it, or who lived in it before you. But it’s yours, now.

Over a meager dinner ― ahrisa and haroun bread, nearly stale ― you sit in silence. A few words are exchanged, but his voice is soft and in the dim evening, when eye contact is softened and movements dampened, you don’t mind the quiet. You’re tired, and you suspect Ben is, too.

But he is the first to break the silence. “Why are you on Tatooine?”

The question is odd. You tilt your head to the side, unsure if he knows what he’s asking. There’s the easy answer, and then there’s the difficult one. You lean back in your seat, regarding him in the faint, diffused darkness. “Let’s make a deal.”

His eyebrows pull together in curiosity, but he humors you with the slightest of nods.

“I’ll tell you why I’m here if you tell me,” you say. You’ve been wondering for the past few hours, postulating about Luke, about the couple that took him in, about where Ben comes from and why his ship glints bright and clean in the sun.

There’s a beat of silence ― hesitation, you think, but it’s hard to tell ― and then Ben nods again, pulling forward to rest his arms on the surface of the dining table. “Well, then, you first.” Something in his voice sounds almost playful, and though it surprises you, it also seems strangely natural to him, some side of his that has had little chance to show itself.

Again, there’s that sense that Ben is changed, somehow, different from who he really is. You can’t say for sure because you’ve just met him, but on a few instances, you wonder what he’s actually like. Whether he smiles often or his voice has a lilt to it; if he laughs openly or softly; if his eyes can show as much joy as they can grief.

You shut away those thoughts. You first, he said, and you try to decide how much of yourself you’re willing to give away. The silence does not cease, so you speak.

“I don’t come from anywhere in particular,” you say, keenly aware of Ben’s eyes on you. “I ended up on Tatooine out of sheer dumb luck. Ran out of money.”

A beat of silence. “Ran out of money?” Ben repeats softly.

“I was scammed,” you say, and shrug, though it’s a weak shrug, born not of indifference but of wearied regret. There’s nothing you could’ve done, and Tatooine is not known for being kind to newcomers. But the sand and the desert here are tempered by some broken-in mix of resentment and acceptance.

Ben’s voice comes out of the silence again. “Is that why you helped me?”

He poses it as a question, but both of you know he’s right, at least to some degree. Still, to answer would be to cross a boundary. “That’s not part of the deal,” you say, and for some odd reason, the brief tug on the corners of your lips is not wholly unnatural. “It’s your turn.”

“I suppose it is,” Ben says, and you can’t read his tone. He hesitates ― this, you think you’re sure of. “I came to Tatooine to find Luke a home. His parents are dead, and I cannot be his guardian.”

You notice that he does not say why he can’t take care of Luke, so you don’t ask. Instead, you say, “Why stay on Tatooine?”

Ben is silent again, but before you can retract your words, he answers you. “I had a home before the war,” he says, eyes downcast, form still cast in darkness. “During the war, even. But it’s gone now.”

Gone? you want to ask, but your mind is reminded by your heart that the absence of loved things and places is painful to talk about. And you are reminded by your head that despite everything, Ben is still a stranger, an unknown, and though he sits in your house and eats your food and answers your questions, he is just another traveler torn from his home by the war.

It’s easier to think about when you’re reminded of how wide the galaxy is; when you think about it in terms of numbers and not faces. It’s better that way, isn’t it?

“Tatooine is fitting for the lost,” Ben says. You find his eyes in the dark, and his gaze is soft. His voice is quiet. “It’s fitting for who I am now.”

“And who are you?” you say, even though just a moment ago you were so sure that considering incomprehensible numbers and entire galaxies is preferable to faces and voices.

Still, Ben answers. “An exile,” he says, and though the word is inherently hopeless, he is not entirely grief-stricken. Not entirely. Not yet, perhaps.

An exile, you repeat to yourself, and you wonder what his home looked like before the war took it away from him. In the music of his voice alone, you decide that his home must have been complete. Or complete enough, for nobody misses what is already lacking.

You don’t ask him any more questions after that. It doesn’t matter that there’s some tentative bond in mutual loneliness, or that you’re both indebted to each other in different ways. You tell yourself that strangers are strangers and must remain that way; that even though Ben says he will stay on Tatooine, no one with a ship stays for long. Not when the rest of the galaxy can offer so much more than here.

The night is deep and long, and conversation is extinguished. You show Ben to the extra room, holding back an apology for the dust because you know all he wants is to rest. The house is still and quiet, and as you switch off the last lantern, true night descends. You close your door and lie in bed and try not to think about the stranger who does not seem like a stranger. The wanderer who does not wander; the exile who cannot be only that. You thought he was a puzzle to be solved; a riddle to be answered. But perhaps, you think, as you drift off, people are more complicated than messages to be decoded or secrets to be found.

//

In the dead of night, you’re woken up. You think it’s because you heard someone cry out. You’re not sure. The house is silent, the air unmoving, and for a few moments, you lie in bed, blinking exhaustion out of your eyes. You’re already on edge because there’s someone unfamiliar in your house, so you try to convince yourself that’s the only reason why you’re awake and unable to fall back asleep.

You still can’t sleep, so you slip out of bed, creaking the door of your room open and then padding past the dining table and finally, to the other closed door on the other side of the house. You stand in front of the door, in the darkness. Part of you is sure that you heard nothing and you should go to sleep instead of disturbing Ben. The other part of you is convinced that you’re just afraid to knock.

In the end, you step away from the door, quietly, and retreat away from the extra room and the stranger that resides within. Go to sleep, you tell yourself, and you’re sure that everything will make sense when the suns rise over the horizon and light fills your house again and darkness does not prompt your mind to invent what cannot exist.

But before you’ve gone a few paces away from the shut door, in the utter silence of night, there is the soft click of a door being cracked open. You turn at the sound. Ben stands in the opening of the door. It’s too dark to make out his face clearly, but what dim light exists reflects off his eyes, which peer at you.

“Did I wake you?” you say quietly, even though you’re certain that it’s the other way around.

Ben is silent for a few moments, and in the padded, inaudible night, you’re unsure of how much time lapses between your voice and his.

“No,” he says, finally. “I couldn’t sleep, anyway.” There’s something behind his voice that you can’t figure out, but you resist the urge to theorize about what kind of sadness has crept into the music of his words.

I’m sorry, you want to say, because you know that he’s lost a home and a friend, at least. But you merely nod, even though you’re not sure if he can make see much in the gloom. There is nothing more to say ― nothing that would not cross the boundaries of strangers ― so you murmur a goodnight for the second time and cross the distance back to your own room. You do not wake until morning.

And in the morning, he is gone. A few credits are lined up on the dining table, glinting softly in the early light. The blanket in the extra room is folded and set on the bed, the door wide open.

The air is still, the morning silent, and your only companion is the first of the suns as it climbs above the horizon. It’s quiet, and your house feels strangely empty.

//

taglist (i tagged users who reblogged or commented on the first part; let me know if you don’t want to be tagged): @coraxaviary @princessxkenobi @fortunately-golden @ravenoushela @damalseer​

[silverrenagade-blog]

Marks of changes -Chapter 1

Appearance

Keith’s knife clattered to the ground, bouncing off the pristine white floor. It all happened so fast he even moved to bring the luxite blade up to defend himself agenst his attacker. Luckily he noticed with seconds to spare and vaulted to the floor to avoid the blue blade of the castle’s training robot, set to difficulty 9. Highest it’s ever been set to.

Highest anyone has ever reached still alive.

“Stop training session!” Keith gasped before the robot could round on him and take his head. The blue and white guardian froze midstep before evaporateing back into the rooms code.

Keith rose on shaky legs from his defensive position on the floor, moving unsteadily to where the purple blade lay in contrast to the shining white that took the whole room. He had strode through the doors of the training room hours ago, itching to blow off steam since he couldn’t take his anger out on the one who caused it.

Lance.

Moronic imbecile that he was decided it was a good idea to start prying at the fact that Keith was part Galra. Making fun of Keith had been one thing, but when he had the audacity the relate what happened to Shiro, Keith’s brother in every way but blood, to him being Galra? Keith lost it. If Allura hadn’t been standing right there waiting for him to do something, anything, slightly close to the behavior of a Galra, Keith would have driven his luxite blade right through Lance for ever comparing him to the monsters that held Shiro.

So Keith stormed out, his mind full of anger and self loathing. Truth be told the anger had diminished well before he had reached the training room, but his mind had wondered to the fact that Lance may not have been wrong.

The Galra did those horrible things to Shiro, enough to make him lose himself sometimes. Shiro was always terrifying when that happened, nothing but pure rage and an animalistic focus to kill, but the most horrifying thing? That came when they brought Shiro back and he fell apart at the memories of being experimented on and forced to fight in an arena. Yes the Galra did that to him.

And Keith was part Galra.

With his mind lost in the dark thoughts he started his training at level one. The way the room was set up you eaither beat the guardian or survived an hour. Keith had only beat the first three.

Keith’s right shoulder flared in burning pain as he reached down to retrieve his knife. Strange, he pondered wondering where the sharp pain was coming from, he didn’t remember being hit by the guardian’s blade but it was entirely possible he was so focused he didn’t feel the skin get torn.

Tentatively Keith reached his left hand over his right shoulder and gently traced the area. More pain erupted, worse than before, but when he pulled his hand away there was no blood covering his finger tips.

Keith didn’t have time to question his pain as Hunk’s ever cheery voice came over the loud speaker or intercom or whatever Altean device ran through the castle, alerting the castles residents that dinner was ready and to report immediately to the dinning hall.

He stood there in that pristine white room wondering if training and possibly causing more pain was batter than having to sit though the concoction that Hunk and Coran had created, but ultimately decided agenst it.

Sheathing his dagger with his injured arm proved to be difficult but he managed before walking out of the blinding training room and down the hall, his boot clicking agenst the flooring the whole way.

Dinner was... awkward. The air around the table was heavy, almost suffocatingly so. Hunk , Pidge, and Coran ate happily not noticing the atmosphere that hung over the others, each giving off a slightly different emotion to add to the ever growing storm.

Lance had his head down. He sat abnormally still and quiet while he pushed his food around the plate in front of him. Lance always, Always are like truck. No matter what it tasted like he ate as much as he could as fast as he could all while blabbering endlessly. Not tonight though. Tonight he just sat quietly and listened to the small conversations that had begun on the other end of the table.

On Lance’s right, Shiro seemed nervous. His shoulders were tense and he looked like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if he should. He kept looking between lance and Keith, his gaze lingering on Keith longer than Lance as if he was worried.

At the head of the table, Keith could feel Allura’s gaze burning into him refusing to let him out of her sight while the others were around. She hadn’t reacted very well to him being part Galra. Her hands were clenched tightly around her silverware making her normally dark knuckles turn pale. She wore her armor as if she was expecting a fight and wanted the upper hand.

Keith was just trying to not be noticed. The occasional pain in his shoulder had transformed into a throb and every few minutes it would spike again sending agony throughout his body. His hands were shaking badly and he didn’t even try to eat knowing it would be impossible with the tremors in his fingers. He kept his eyes trained on the table trying desperately not to show he was in pain but as the seconds ticked by it was becomeing more challenging. He was sweating but he could blame that on the training. Keith was always quiet but he at least ate most days.

Dinner ticked by with agonizing speed but eventually people started to wander off, Hunk going to the kitchen to clean, Pidge heading toward the green lions hanger, Allura, Coran and Shiro heading to the bridge. Keith tried to make a B-line to his room but was cut off by a certain blue eyed Cuban.

“Keith, can we talk?” Lance came up beside him before curving in front of him, effectively making Keith stop in the hallway. “Look Keith I’m sorry about what I said earlier. That was totally upt of line and if I had been thinking strait I would never have said it. I didn’t even realize what I was saying before it was coming out of my mouth and I regret every second of that fight. I’m so sorry. You know I dont think of you as a monster right? Because I don’t think of you as a monster! You know I always got your back right buddy? I mean we’re Paladins! I’ll always have your back! I’m just so sorry that any of this happened, I’m sorry I said that, it was totally uncalled for especially in front of Allura who already kinda hates you-”

Lance babbled on about how sorry he was but Keith was in so much pain he didn’t even listen. Lance had said he was sorry wasn’t that enough? It had been a stupid comment and now it was done. Keith wasn’t mad but he was starting to lose control over his stoic facade, he knew he couldn’t take this much longer without showing his pain. “Lance! It’s ok. You don’t have to apologize. It was a stupid comment that you obviously didn’t mean to say.”

“So we’re good?” Lance asked. This wasn’t like Keith to just forgive and forget. Something was off here. Now that lance was really looking Keith looked paler than usual, if that was even possible, and he kept looking past Lance to his room. “Hey, dude, you ok?”

Lance reached out a hand and set it down on his right shoulder. Keith tried so hard not to flinch when the hand settled on his right shoulder but he couldn’t help it. It Hurt. Lance retracted his hand almost immediately, “Keith, your freezing” That wasn’t exactly what Keith thought he was going to say but he took the opportunity.

“We’re good, Lance” Keith muttered before pushing past Lance and making his way to his room. One he got inside he immediately shut his eyes and let out a pained sigh. He was freezing, he hadn’t even noticed until lance had said something but he was cold.

He stumbled farther into the bare room and all but collapsed on the bed. Keith placed his head in his hand for a moment trying to regain even a little bit of his normal composure, but he couldn’t ignore the sweat collecting on the back of his neck, or the way his entire body what shaking both from mindless pain and the fridgid tempature of his body. Wait, he was sweating and shivering? That can’t be right.

Keith rose from the mattress before he slowly made his way towed the bathroom, his vision we swirling with dark and light spots as his hip bone collided with the sink, that thing was at a dangerous height. He gazed into the mirror shocked by how pale and tired he looked. Lance must have though he was dying... no wonder he tried to be nice. They may have been “rivals”, as lance would say, but apparently he still cared if Keith was healthy or not.

That was the question, what was wrong with Keith? Why was he in so much pain?

As if being summoned another shap stabb of pain exploded in his shoulder, so painful that his knees gave out. Keith wildly threw his hands out and caught the edge of the sink before his head did.

A sob wrenched its way up his throat as he used both arms to steady his legs again. Keith looked back up in the mirror, tired, painfilled,amethyst eyes gazed back at him.

Keith gently grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted it slightly, he was immediately met by more pain. Determination setting in, Keith griped the fabric hard and wrenched it over his head trying desperately to ignore the scream of agony that rose from the action.

When the gray shirt was removed it left Keith looking at his bare chest, almost to scared to turn around, but he had to! He had to see what was happening! He had to see... didn’t he? Keith closed his eyes,took a deep breath and turns so he was facing sideways to the mirror. He knew he should open his eyes but he was terrified of what was happening to him, mostly because he didn’t know what was happening. Shaking Keith opened his eyes and his breath hitched.

What the hell?

Just below his right shoulder blade was a patch of pale purple. Tiny purple tendrils spread out from every direction causing th skin around the purple to become red and irritated. It looked like some kind of disease. The darkest section of it was a mix of a dozen different shades of purple and was centerd on the cloud shaped bruse. Was it a bruse? If it was it was the strangest bruse he had ever seen, and Keith had seen his fair share.

He didn’t know how long he sat there staring at his back, But eventually his shivers had disappeared and he knew that was a bad thing. It took him ten minuets to get his shirt back over both arms, it gave him time to think. He knew he needed help but he didn’t know who he should go to.

Allura and Coran were obviously not a choice. He didn’t know what was happening but he bet it had something to do with him being Galra. Allura would rather shoot Keith before even considering helping him, and while Coran didn’t say anything he had distanced himself from Keith tremendously since his announcement.

Pidge wa vetoed almost as quickly seeing as she would help by running tests. Lots of tests. Keith didn’t like tests he hated needles and the thought of being strapped down. Plus Keith wasn’t sure if Pidge actually had emotions, he was convinced she was a robot like the training gaurdians.

He considered asking Hunk for help but out of all the paladins Hunk k ew the least about him, and was more likely to get scared or sick than to be truly helpful.

That left Shiro and Lance.

Shiro was like a brother to him. He had taken Keith under his wing when Keith’s father had died. They always looked after each other no matter what. That was all before the Kerberos mission. Things had changed quite a bit from when it was just them racing speeders in the desert. Things like the Galra. And while Lance had admitted he was out of line Keith couldn’t help but think about what he had said. Keith was part Galra. Part the race that tourtured Shiro for a year! The thought of asking Shiro to help him with this immediately made he feel sick. Keith had not right to put Shiro through that.

That left only one person

Keith exited his bathroom and glanced at the clock by his bed. On earth it would be close to three in the morning. Everyone would be asleep. It took Keith by surprise that he had been in that bathroom for hours , but a stab of pain brought him back from faxing off again.

He left his room quietly. He wasn’t to worried about waking people up as he snuck out of his room in the middle of the night most of the time and become quite skilled at moving silently. His destination was just around the corner, it took him to time to get there. Every step he took jostled his shoulder causing it to take much longer to get to the door than he would have liked. He knocked on the door so he couldn’t talk himself out of asking for help. The door opened seconds after to reveal his choice of help.

“Lance-“

[lillotte17]

Some high-ranking elf decides to try and boss Aili into letting them hold the baby, this was a Mistake on their part.

Aili’s experience with motherhood thus far has been comparable to sprinting up a long flight of stairs blindfolded, while also juggling a set of flaming torches and reciting historical ballads backwards.

Still, she thinks that she would not trade this for anything.

It took a few months of adjustment on everyone’s part, but now things seem to be settling into an almost comfortable rhythm. It still feels odd some days though, to wake up in a bedroom that is more spacious than the whole of her living quarters in the Lower City, and walk into her son’s nursery, which is just as big, and carry him into their little garden area so he can watch the enchantment made to emulate the sky as she feeds him his breakfast. And then he can play in the sitting room for a while if he wants, or they can pick out a book in the reading room, or she can clean him up in their own private bathroom before they go out to explore the city.

It is just…so much.

So much space.

When she was little, and had outgrown her crib, her parents did not have enough room to put in a bed for her. So, she had spent several years sleeping all curled together on a single large bed instead. Like peas in a pod. Arms and legs tangled up in one continuous embrace, safe and warm.

Eventually, she had gotten too big for that as well, and her mother had to go and put her foot down with the requisition’s manager about adding a bedroom for her to their quarters. And Aili had hated it. Her new room had felt huge and empty and dark. She felt abandoned and out of place and ostracized, and she had cried about it every night for a solid week.

Her new home in June’s tower feels a bit like that sometimes, when she actually gets half a moment to even think about such things. Like this whole place and everyone in it is some huge mechanical beast made of screws and gears and cogs all working together, and she just…doesn’t quite fit. This is Uthvir’s place, with rooms and luxuries that suit their status, and now it is their son’s place as well. When he gets older, Fenris will be mid-ranking, or even higher, if he cares to reach for such things, and he will be able to live in the sort of comforts that he is accustomed to. As it should be. And Aili…

She will be sent back to the Lower City, most likely. Back to her little room on the top floor of a tall gray building with her one window looking out in the general direction of where her son is. She could probably even see the tower if she climbed up onto her roof. Which is probably as close as she is going to get to seeing him, most days. Not that she would begrudge him the opportunities for a higher position and, most likely, a better life than she has, but…

There are times when he is napping, and she is in a different room taking care of something else, and she finds herself missing him. She misses his discontented burbling and the way the two little dark smudges of his brows furrow when he gazes at something intently. How surprised he sounds when he laughs at something. The rare magic of his smiles.

There is time, she knows. Aili will have two and a half decades of watching him grow and caring for him and seeing him almost every day. Helping him with his studies and encouraging him in whatever path he chooses to carve for himself. Smoothing the way for him where she can. And yet, she thinks that time will pass all too quickly. Already, he seems so set on  breaking free of his dependence on them. So anxious to be running and climbing and reaching things through his own power.

Which is why she is just going to have to milk whatever time she has with him for all it is worth, before he figures out how to get along without her or his nanae.

One of the stranger bonding activities their son seems to enjoy is going to the practice field, and one such morning Fenris is dutifully whacking away at a dummy in a somewhat secluded corner with his little shovel, Uthvir is sparring with Squish and helping a few of the younger scouts with their technique, and Aili…

Aili is trying her level best to improve her archery.

She is not bad at it precisely, but there had never been much of an opportunity for practice with her normal regimen of duties. And, to be perfectly frank, she would vastly prefer a blade. Her skill with a dagger is passable, but she hasn’t had training with anything larger. Uthvir would probably help her if she asked, but they are busy at the moment, and someone needs to have enough focus to spare to ensure that Fenris does not hurt himself.

It is a bit strange that a child his age seems so intent on the idea of training. Or at least pretending to train. Perhaps, being so fiercely set on being able to achieve his own physical independence, he had seen the other fighters building their own prowess and assumed that might be the quickest means to an end. Aili had been worried he would injure himself at first, but he seems to know what he is about, and outside of rubbing his palms a little sore, he never seems to be any worse for wear afterwards.    

Her own training is not nearly so satisfactory. Her hands are raw and the inside of her forearm smarts from where she keeps overextending it in her stance. She has only managed to hit the bullseye a handful of times, but at least she generally tends to hit some part of the target. With a bit more time and practice, she could be a fairly good shot. And, if nothing else, it should help build up her strength in her arms and back, which will make toting babies and hauling injured Uthvirs out of trouble that much easier.

Aili heads down to collect her arrows for another round, and casts an eye over at Fenris to see whether or not he is beginning to get tired.

Another elf walks past her. A warrior bearing Sylaise’s markings. There is nothing of any particular interest in this corner of the training grounds. Just a bench and a wash basin and the one lone dummy for precision practice.

And her son.

“Wait!” she calls out, but their stride is sure and quick, purposeful, and she is farther away than she might have been if she had still been shooting instead of setting up for a new round. Most of June’s people know better than to bother Fenris by now, but the followers of other evanruis, especially high-ranking ones, always seem to think they have the right to fawn over him as they like. “Stop! Please, he doesn’t like to be touched.”

“We’re just having a good natured chat, aren’t we, little man?” the stranger asks, crouching down next to Fenris.

“No,” he answers curtly, pausing his assault on the practice dummy just long enough to scowl at the intruder.

“Hey now, don’t be like that,” they say, still smiling despite the growing hostility emanating from both the child in front of them and his hastily approaching caretaker, “My name is Telfanim. You’ve got a pretty impressive swing there; do you want to be a warrior when you grow up? I could help with that, you know.”

“No,” Fenris repeats, brandishing his little shovel at them menacingly. Telfanim laughs in delight as Aili finally trots over to their side.

“I’m sorry, but my son is uncomfortable around people he doesn’t know,” she tries, not wanting to seem rude.The quality of their armor suggests that they are likely one of Sylaise’s favored, and they could probably make life extremely difficult for her and Uthvir if they felt like it. Possibly even for Fenris, if they are the sort to hold a grudge.

“There is no need to apologize,” Telfanim says smilingly, clearly undaunted, “He just has to get used to me, that’s all. He’s that baby with the bad parents, right? The one the General brought back to Arlathan?”

“His name is Fenris,” Aili supplies with a frown, edging forward to gather up her child and hopefully beat a hasty and inconspicuous retreat from this whole situation.

“Fenris, huh?” Telfanim muses, plucking him up and away from both his practice dummy and his mother’s reaching arms and slowly walking towards the other end of the field, “How would you like to go look at the weapons racks with me, little man? You can tell me which one you like best.”

“No!” Fenris objects vehemently, squirming in their arms and doing his best to whack them with his shovel, “Want down!”

“Give him to me,” Aili demands striding after them, her civility seeping away at the sight of her child’s distress. He is only radiating unhappiness for the time being, and not outright fear, so there is still some room for a shred of calm. But not much. “He doesn’t want to go with you. And even if he did, I don’t want him to go with you. He’s too young to be around real weapons. He could hurt himself.”

Telfanim makes a face at her, continuing to move away from her, keeping just out of reach.

“Don’t be so stingy,” they say with the first hint of a bite to their tone, “He belongs to one of the General’s people, right? I was sparring with her earlier this morning, she won’t mind if I play with him. Besides, you’re just a servant, aren’t you? You probably only got asked to co-parent so there’d be someone else to watch him when his real parent had to work. Your job is to babysit, but you don’t need to horde him away from everyone else whenever his nanae is busy. You won’t get in trouble if I hold him for a while.”

“Listen, you-” but that is as far as she gets before they start walking off again, this time in the direction of the eluvian that leads back into the tower.

Aili curses under her breath. She can’t just tackle them to the ground or throw something at him without putting Fenris in the line of fire. Usually magic would be her first resort in such an instance anyway, since she doesn’t have much chance of physically overpowering one of Sylaise’s best fighters, but she doesn’t want to traumatize her son any more than necessary to get him out of danger.

“Ah-lee?” Fenris calls uncertainly, reaching back for her over Telfanim’s shoulder, the first little curl of fear spiraling out towards her.

Her jaw clenches. Right.

“I said, stop!” she snarls, shooting a blast of ice at their feet, freezing them to the ground.

Fenris makes a startled sound of dismay at the flash of the spell, but he seems more surprised than anything. For their part, Telfanfim nearly tips over onto their backside, pilfered infant and all. They manage to catch themselves in time, however, and shoot Aili a scathing look over their shoulder.

“Attacking someone holding a child?” they sneer, “Your superiors won’t be happy to hear that. Who knows, maybe I should see if someone in June’s upper ranks is interested in offering a petition to counter yours. Clearly, this is more than you can handle.”

Telfanim waves a hand, summoning the heat required to thaw their frozen feet, the glowing light of the spellwork dancing over the face of the child in their arms.

Fenris screams. Blind terror sweeping out of him like the swell of a huge crashing wave. The whole of his little body trembling like a leaf.

“MAMA!”

Aili closes the distance between them in a flash. In one great bounding leap, moving on instinct more than anything else. Shifting into the shape of a fox in mid-air. Suddenly built of claws and fur and fury.

She sinks her teeth deep into the meat of Telfanim’s arm.

They let out a pained yelp and try to shake her off, but there is not much they can do without relinquishing their hold on Fenris.

“What is going on here?”

She turns her gaze as much as she can without loosening her grip on the attempted kidnapper, and sees that Uthvir and Squish have come to investigate the source of all the distress. Along with what appears to be every other elf in the training grounds. All of them solemn and stony-faced and gripping their weapons with varying degrees of agitation.

“Give me my son,” Uthvir says coldly, stepping forward and holding their arms out expectantly.

Fenris is still crying hard enough to verge on full blown hysteria. Desire looks as though she is about one wrong move away from planting her axe between Telfanim’s eyes. They gulp thickly, and pass the child back to their parent without further protestation.

As soon as Fenris is safely in his nanae’s care, Aili surrenders her grip on Telfanim’s arm. Dropping to the ground and scampering out of attack range before the warrior can finish thawing the ice around their legs. She bares her teeth at them again briefly, before shifting back into an elf at Uthvir’s side.

Aili reaches out for her son, who is still sobbing somewhere in the vicinity of Uthivr’s neck. He flinches away from her, a little burst of fear resurfacing again, and she draws back. Her expression crumbling.

It seems to be enough for Telfanim to regain a bit of their confidence.

“She mauled me,” they point out with a hint of a sneer, “Is that really the sort of person you want around your child?”

“Fenris is just as much Aili’s son as he is mine,” Uthvir says firmly, “And I am fairly certain that every mother I have met would be willing to bite someone to keep their child from harm.”  

“I am certain the General would be thrilled to hear that you think she would gnaw on someone’s arm like a savage,” Telfanim scoffs.

“Why don’t you go ask her and see?” Uthvir suggests.

“Now,” Squish advises, “While you still can.”~Aili spends a solid hour being talked down to by Propriety and a few other regulations managers in a small office while sitting in a small chair, feeling very much like a naughty child who did something inappropriate at the dinner table. But at least things turned out more or less in her favor. It was deemed that she was acting in defense of her child, so the fact that she attempted to brutalize one of Sylaise’s highest ranking followers is at least somewhat pardonable. She’ll likely have to do some grueling menial labor in the near future. Mucking out stables or something equally as pleasant, depending on how affronted Sylaise decides to be about the whole ordeal. On the brighter side of things, Telfanim has been banned from the tower indefinitely, unless invited in some official capacity by June or as part of their lady’s retinue.

It is quiet when she returns to their rooms. Uthvir had gotten permission to postpone a few of the duties they were meant to see to this afternoon in order to look after Fenris, due to his recent upset, and they should be here. Somewhere.

She searches their rooms with slow cautious steps, trying to keep quiet in the likely event that their son is napping.

When she finally makes it to the reading room, she opens the door slightly and peeks her head through to see Uthvir lounging on the pillows of the bed they still haven’t moved out yet, book in hand. Fenris is sprawled across their chest, eyes closed, one fist shoved into his mouth. They look almost serene, and she would hate to wake them if they are sleeping peacefully.    

Aili shifts back into her fox shape and slips in through the doorway on silent nimble paws. She lightly hops onto the edge of the mattress and scoots her way up to check on her son.

“He’s sleeping,” Uthvir whispers, startling her a bit.

“How is he?” she asks, ears drooping as she continues to gaze at his face, “He was so frightened.”

“I think he is alright,” Uthvir tells her, “He seemed to calm down fairly quickly as soon as I got him home. I do not know if he will be eager to return to the training grounds after this, though.”

“I should have stayed closer to him,” she whimpers, “This never would have happened if I-”

“You were close enough to save him,” Uthvir points out softly, “And I do not think any of us expected someone in June’s own tower to attempt to make off with him. It is a rather stupid plan, if you think about it. There is now way they would have made it onto the streets without someone recognizing Fenris and taking him away from them.”

“They should not have even been close enough to touch him,” Aili insists, intent on being miserable, “And I used magic in front of him, and he was so scared. He didn’t even want me to hold him…”

“He was in shock,” they tell her, setting down their book in order to scratch lightly behind one of her ears, “He was asking for you when you did not come home with us. He still needs you. You are his mother, after all.”

Fenris stirs slightly, pulled from sleep by the sound of talking. He blinks his eyes open slowly, tensing a bit when he catches sight of the fox on the bed. Aili lets out a low whine of canine distress, setting her chin on Uthvir’s chest to peer over at him with wide pleading eyes.

He regards her in silence for what feels like an age, green eyes boring into her critically. Accusing or assessing, it is difficult to say.

“Ah-lee?” he finally asks, as though wishing to confirm that some other woodland creature has not managed to break into their rooms.

“I am so sorry, baby,” she whispers tearfully.

After a few more moments of consideration, Fenris heaves a deep sigh and, with what appears to be a great deal of seriousness and magnanimity, he reaches out one pudgy little hand and pats her head. Twice. A gesture of forgiveness.

“No again,“ he tells her flatly, almost scolding.

“Not ever,” she agrees.

Uthvir rubs Fenris’ back as a sign of their approval before picking up their book and beginning to read aloud to him again. Aili curls up beside them in contentment, snuggling up somewhere around Uthvir’s hip, and soon enough all three of them have nodded off together in a nest of pillows and blankets. Safe and warm, like peas in a pod.