#since he kept trying to convince her there was something fundamentally wrong with her and acting like she's completely stubborn

[suncaptor]

Amelia accusing Link for gaslighting her is so frustrating that isn't what gaslighting is. You literally did tell him you wanted him to ask nonspontaneously ask to marry you. And even if he somehow didn't understand how is he convincing you you're insane to not understand what you want? Gaslighting is such a severe thing to do to someone it's not something you accuse your boyfriend of because he wants things from you that you don't want from him and doesn't seem to get it. Like maybe you do need someone who can communicate and get you better? But you never even told him you didn't want another kid, that that's what through you off? And even if you did, how is that the same thing as marriage? And even if he personally misunderstood you how is it gaslighting to do something you don't want because of that?

[extasiswings]

genuine question because i saw your tag on a post but how is natalia possibly being his ana worse than another taylor? eddieana was boring but essentially did nothing. i don’t think the relationship itself was harmful. it just wasn’t something that worked for eddie. buck and taylor seemed to drown each other in misery and actively did both a disservice.

It’s definitely a matter of perspective, for sure. Taylor was an act of self-harm, a miserable, soul-sucking slog of a relationship that he knew was never going to be right because he knew they were fundamentally incompatible (“I thought I could learn to live with it.”), but at least there was an awareness there. It was intentional, Buck knew what he was doing and he knew it was wrong and that’s why he kept her at arm’s length/never really tried that hard and also why in the end he was able to break it off once he felt like he had a support system back (like it’s genuinely almost funny how quickly he comes to his senses once he has both Maddie home and Eddie in a stable place/no longer pushing him away).

(I also disagree that Eddie’s relationship with Ana wasn’t harmful. He spent months drowning himself in repression trying to force himself to play a role that didn’t fit, that wasn’t him, all to make something work with a woman who was perfect on paper because he convinced himself it was what he needed and what Christopher needed to finally move on, which was not only fucked up in general, it vastly impeded any of the very real healing he needed to do and fed into his worst impulses).

But anyway, back to Buck—with Natalia, I don’t think he has anything close to the awareness he had with Taylor. He likes her because she enables his worst impulses, because since she only sees the mask he wants her to see, she not only isn’t going to call him on his shit (which, for all her flaws, Taylor actually did for a decent stretch of their relationship, 5B being where things went downhill for her self-respect), she will affirm him in his insistence that he doesn’t need help, doesn’t need to grow or change or do any work on himself, doesn’t need to reevaluate his relationship with death. She will, at worst (although obviously this is just speculation at this point) actively support him in not developing the healthy fear of death and boundaries and true desire to live that he does need. But he believes himself when he says things like “she really sees me,” he doesn’t see this as a bad thing, he doesn’t realize he’s making the same mistakes, he actively wants this to be something, a relationship that will encourage him to die when that’s the last thing he needs. I said she’s his Ana because this has “the idea of us” written all over it, only it’s really “the idea of him”—the relationship that won’t make him look in the mirror, that won’t ask him to heal, that will let him play pretend until all that acting eventually blows up in his face. And to me, yeah, that’s worse than Taylor.

[slytherhys]

Strung-Out Heart VIII

A/N - A few things: 1. Keep in mind this is a FLASHBACK chapter. 2. Only part of it was beta'ed so please forgive me for any mistakes 🙏 3. I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter. I've been tweaking it for days to make sure Rowan's every emotion was as clear as possible because it's fundamental for this chapter so I really hope I delivered something worthy. Enjoy ♥

TW - mature themes, strong language, mention of an abusive relationship

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII

Rowan – 2 years ago

One year.

It had been twelve months and twelve days since Aelin had left, and Rowan still couldn’t wrap his head around what the fuck had happened. How had he gotten here? Where, exactly, had everything gone so tremendously wrong? A year ago, he had thought he was finally making all the right choices, finally moving forward with his life with the woman he loved beside him. Now, looking down his empty bottle with a frown, surrounded by his closest friends in what was supposed to be his birthday celebration, he felt more like he was 17 than his recently made 27.

He stared at the offending bottle, wondering if his friends would get mad if he left early. He hardly felt like celebrating, and he was pretty sure Lorcan was purposely giving him half-empty beer bottles.

He should probably switch to whiskey anyway – it was his birthday, after all.

All of his friends sat around one table at the back of Fenrys’ bar – Lorcan, Elide, Aedion and his boyfriend Kyllian and Fenrys. Even Chaol, a recent addition to their friend group Rowan wasn’t entirely sure he approved of, would drop by whenever he had a break from the bar. Everyone was having fun, and that was what mattered, he supposed. Even if he felt like getting shitfaced alone and maybe finding someone to go home with. Heaven knew he could use the distraction.

“To Rowan,” Elide’s sweet voice called from his left as she raised her glass of red wine. “Here’s to new beginnings – even in your old age.” She smirked, giving him a side-hug as the rest of the table cheered, jeering and chuckling as they took sips from their drinks. Rowan frowned at his drink again, but Lorcan handed him a new bottle before he could protest. A full one, too.

Weird.

“You okay?” His best friend asked just as everyone else started discussing Elide’s new bakery. It had only been open for two weeks but it was already doing amazing numbers. Rowan wasn’t surprised – it was a known fact she was an amazing baker.

“Yup.” He said simply, taking a sip from his new bottle. Lorcan frowned, probably not convinced, but Rowan had stopped trying to be convincing a long time ago – he no longer had the energy for it.

Sure, he should be celebrating. He had a new apartment, Cadre’s Ink was doing better than what they hoped for and just two days ago he had gone on an okay date with a very nice girl – but those things barely felt gratifying. Everyone avoided talking about the reason why, exactly, that was, but it hung over them, like a haunting presence that refused to leave them alone. Even if Elide toasted to new beginnings, he wasn’t sure she truly believed her own words. Hellas knew he didn’t.

He should let it all go – it was nothing he didn’t already know – but his mother had always told him his stubbornness would bite him in the ass one day, and it seemed like it applied to this as well.

Maybe he was a masochist – Elide had accused him of such just a few weeks earlier when she was helping him pack his things so he could move out of their old apartment. Maybe she had a point. Maybe there was no use in keeping most of the things he had kept, but his life with Aelin had been a fundamental part of who he was and getting rid of those memories felt too much like getting rid of a part of him he wasn’t willing to let go. Not yet at least.

“Are you still going to Wendlyn for Christmas?” Lorcan asked casually. Too casually. His friend knew better than anyone that Rowan was getting tired of constantly being coddled by everyone, but it never stopped him from constantly monitoring him. Rowan supposed he should be grateful for the friends he had but his birthday was clearly not meant to be a happy occasion.

Would she call him? Maybe leave a message?

Would she even remember it was his birthday?

Rowan shook his head, trying to get rid of his intrusive thoughts as he refocused on his friend. “Yeah, I think so.” He shrugged. He missed his family and being around them would probably do him some good. The Gods knew he needed a change of scenery.

“And…” Lorcan eyed him, lowering his voice so only Rowan could hear his next words. “Have you thought about moving?” He cleared his throat just as Elide’s and Fenrys’ laughter boomed around them.

Rowan quickly shook his head, dismissing the idea completely. “I’m your partner, Lorcan.” He took another sip, wishing for something stronger to numb the anger bubbling inside his chest. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Lorcan clearly heard what he wasn’t saying, and Rowan swallowed the bitterness that threatened to claw its way out. His anger had clearly made him entirely too transparent in recent months if even someone like Lorcan could read him that easily. “I would understand, Ro.”

“No.” He simply said, leaving no room for debate. “I’m not leaving you.”

Lorcan sighed, sounding tired. “Maybe Wendlyn would do you some good, though.”

“Yeah, and that’s why I’m going there on Christmas.” He shrugged, smirking at his friend. “Do you want to get rid of me that much?”

Lorcan ignored his attempt at humour. Hellas, it was his birthday – couldn’t he just give him a break?  “We’ve talked about opening a second location,” He shrugged, leaning against his chair, feigning serenity Rowan doubted he possessed. “Why not do it in your hometown?”

“It’s not happening, Lorcan.”

“Just because she left doesn’t mean you can’t leave too Rowan.” His jaw clenched even if his friend’s words were cautious. Gentle. “It’s not the same thing.”

“Will you fucking drop it?” He exploded, the joyous laughter around them ceasing suddenly as all eyes fell on him. Fucking great. “I’m going to get another drink.” He muttered, leaving before anyone could stop him.

When he had told Lorcan he was thinking about going back home he didn’t expect his best friend to be so eager about seeing him leave. It had been a passing thought; the consequence of too much alcohol and not enough sleep. Sure, it had sounded logical for a second – there wasn’t anything really keeping him in Orynth, so he saw no point in staying. But much like most of his thoughts these days, it was meaningless banter, as if testing his thoughts out loud to see if they felt right.

Truth be told, nothing felt right but staying in Orynth. Even if Aelin wasn’t around anymore, his entire life was here. He had a career – a purpose – his friends and his own apartment, however empty it might be still. Despite everything, he had created roots in Orynth and since the only person that might have made him consider leaving had left herself, nothing now could possibly drag him out of this city. 

Rowan ordered a glass of whiskey which Chaol promptly served him before attending to his other customers, but a hand on his shoulder interrupted him before he could take a sip. He fought the need to growl, instead smiling as he noticed it was Elide eyeing him with open curiosity. Rowan waited for the questions, the coddling, but she gave him nothing but a raised eyebrow.

“Are you sure you should be drinking whiskey?” He tilted his head. “You’re supposed to help me tomorrow, remember?”

Rowan rolled his eyes, smiling softly at her teasing. All the men were helping out Elide since she couldn’t afford to hire someone else, and tomorrow was his turn. Even if he had to get up at an abnormal hour, Elide knew damn well he wouldn’t slack off on his duties.

“I’m 27, El.”

Elide pursed his lips, taking the stool by his side. “I know, old man. That’s why I’m concerned.” She smirked and Rowan shook his head, laughing for the first time that night.

“Lorcan means well, you know.” She said as she signalled Chaol for a refill. “He can be a brute,” she shrugged. “But he’s looking out for you.”

“I know that.” And he did. He was just being an ass for the sake of it, apparently. “I’m just having a shit day.”

Elide nodded, wrinkling her brows as she stared at the wooden counter. “Some days are worse than others.” She smiled. “We can all try to help you but no one really knows what’s going inside your head, Ro.” She leaned against his arm, resting her head on his shoulder as they remained staring ahead of them. “But that’s a choice you’re making on your own.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

She chuckled at his indignant tone. “We’ve been trying to help you all year long and you’ve done nothing but push us away, Whitethorn.”

“It’s easier.” He said softly.

“I know,” She stood straighter as Chaol approached with her favoured wine, serving them with a smile and immediately leaving. “But you haven’t even tried.” She took a sip, a knowing glint in her brown eyes as she watched Rowan. “We’ve all been through shit. You know that.” She nodded towards the table where her friends were. “Fenrys can’t keep a relationship even if his life depends on it, Aedion has been ignoring his boyfriend all night long and Lorcan spent years of his life in an abusive relationship.” She said quietly, her eyes unseeing as she stared at their friends. “We all have all sorts of fucked up advice we could give you and yet you refuse us the honour.” She smirked slightly, blinking once before turning her eyes back on Rowan.

“And you?”

“Well, I’ll be here when the good parts begin.” She grinned, but a sliver of sadness crept into her eyes.

Rowan huffed, shaking his head as he took another sip of liquid courage. “And when do we get to that?” It was a rhetorical question. Kinda.

“You’d have to try and get over the bad.”

Rowan glanced at Elide, noting her smug smile as she took yet another sip. “When did you get so wise?”

She hopped off the stool, sending him a grin that lit up the entire room. “My wisdom has always been my greatest asset.” And then she was walking back to her boyfriend; to their friends, who were all celebrating his life with a happy smile on their faces.

So he went as well - the least he could do was try.

..............................

Birthdays could actually be fun if one stopped thinking about all the ways their life had gone to shit, Rowan thought with a chuckle as he finally managed to open the door to his new apartment. It still smelled slightly musty despite the open windows, and the walls were painted in a hideous yellow that made his eyes hurt but for the first time since he had bought it, it felt like home.

His room had already been painted sage-green, the smell of paint lingering in the air as he navigated through the card boxes that were standing as furniture until he finally unpacked his things, and even though it still lacked any decoration at all, it already felt like his room. The mattress was on the floor, since the bed frame he had ordered earlier that week was yet to arrive, but there were books by its side and his reading glasses on top of them next to a picture frame of his family. It wasn’t much, but they were pieces of him; of his new life.

He bent down, sitting on the mattress as he opened the closest box, where he knew a warmer duvet was stored. Maybe opening the windows in October hadn’t been the greatest idea, but he’d rather freeze than have a musty apartment. He pulled a wool duvet, a gift from his mother when he first moved to Terrasen, but a soft thud made his head snap back to the box. A book – a small paperback edition of Persuasion by Jane Austen. It wasn’t his book, but Rowan knew it had been on the bedside table, collecting dust. Elide had probably added it to the box without thinking twice, but now Rowan wondered if there was a reason…

He blinked once. Twice.

He’d promised Elide he would try just a few hours ago, but maybe this was a sign that he should try and talk to her. Just one last time. Maybe she would hear him and maybe he could kiss her again. He liked that idea. A lot.

Before his sluggish brain could catch up, Rowan was looking down at a picture of a smiling Aelin, his thumb hovering above the call button. Hellas, he had missed seeing her face. Why had he stopped? He couldn’t remember right now. He put his phone against his ear, letting the seconds go by as he tried to think of something clever to say.

Maybe it was the whiskey talking, but he had a good feeling about this.

He sighed, leaning against the wall, and ignoring the way his stomach seemed to be turning. “Hi, fireheart.” He closed his eyes, the name sounding sour on his tongue. Did she even like being called that anymore? He highly doubted it. “It’s my birthday.” He added lamely. “I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve been thinking a lot about you. Lorcan doesn’t like it, though.” He chuckled quietly, clearing his voice before he tried again. “Aedion told me you found friends and a new apartment, so I suppose that’s a good thing. I wonder if you ever miss me though,” he huffed, thinking of all the texts and calls he had hoped for and never received. “But I guess I know the answer to that.”

He hummed, suddenly feeling tired. “You were my best friend before I ever even kissed you, Aelin.” He sighed, suddenly feeling glum. What the fuck was he doing? “I don’t know what’s the point of this call, but I guess I wish I could see you again.” A pause. “Hear your voice.” Was his speech slurred? “It’s been a year and I’m still not entirely convinced I can live without you, fireheart. Do you think I’ll ever learn?” He would soon go mad if he didn’t.

Rowan stayed silent, trying to make sense of his thoughts. Would she even hear this? Or would she get the notification and delete it as easily as she had deleted him from her life? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but maybe it was a good thing future Rowan would be the one dealing with the consequences of his present actions – mainly considering he was seconds away from barfing.

“I’ll always love you, Aelin.” He said to the dimly lit room, promising himself it would be the last time he ever said the words. “Even if I’m not sure you deserve it.”

..............................

Rowan stared at his phone unblinking as he sipped from his third coffee that morning – an incredible perk of helping at the bakery, he supposed. Elide sat across from him, her eyes flickering between the counter, his phone, and his face.

He knew he looked like shit – he felt like it too. He had avoided looking in the mirror before he left his apartment and rushed to Elide’s bakery, asking for a cannoli and a black coffee in the hopes they would, somehow, make all his shitty actions more bearable.

Needless to say, they didn’t.

It was the middle of the morning, the first break they had since Elide’s opened, and even if he was exhausted, dragging his feet with every step he took, he suddenly wished for more customers to flood the bakery; to numb himself in exhaustion so he wouldn’t feel absolutely revolted with himself.  

“Ro?” Elide called gently, her hand reaching for his and pushing his phone down on the table. Rowan looked up at her, hating the understanding smile on her face.

“It didn’t send.” He simply muttered.

The first thing Rowan had done when he got to Elide minutes before she opened shop was tell her exactly what he had done last night, incapable of dealing with his heavy conscience. Elide had frowned and though he could see the curiosity in her eyes, she refrained from commenting; refrained from talking to him at all if he was being honest.

Somehow, he preferred her pitiful smiles to her silences, so he’d take what he could get.

He hadn’t been able to check his phone all morning, dreading whatever truth lied inside of it, and the more he stared at the screen the more he wished he was as oblivious as he had been those blissful five seconds when he had woken up. All good things in his life were short-lived, apparently.

“What?”

“It didn’t send.” He looked outside, unable to meet her knowing gaze and focusing on the heavy pour instead. November had come with a vengeance, it seemed. “Apparently the number doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Oh.” Elide frowned, opening her mouth as if about to say something when the door of the bakery opened again, the bell above it ringing pleasantly and signalling the arrival of more customers. Rowan stood up, giving Elide a kiss on the top of her head before turning to leave, but she stopped him before he could leave – his shift was over, anyway. “Is it time, then?” She asked, but Rowan furrowed his brows in confusion. “To move on, I mean.”

But Rowan wasn’t sure, so he sent her what he hoped was a reassuring smile before leaving the bakery, cursing under his breath as the rain seemed to come down even harder than before. He eyed the bar on the other side of the street. Was Fenrys already in?

Rowan rushed to the other side of the street, pushing the (thankfully) open door and letting it close behind him, drowning out the sounds of the storm. The lights were on, but there was no sight of Fenrys other than the sound of his voice.

“…when I can visit. Give me time, okay?” He sighed and Rowan walked towards the sound of his friend’s voice. “I don’t think I’m ready to see your new life, yet.” A pause followed by a low chuckle. “I’m sure I will, but it’s not him I’m concerned about. Are you happy, Aelin?”

Rowan went still, the breath in his lungs making a quick escape as he felt the colour drain out of his face. Was Fenrys talking to Aelin? His Aelin? Was that even possible? She changed numbers – he knew that for a fact now – and Aedion had told him she barely even talked to him.

“Not really,” Fenrys’ voice interrupted his thoughts. “But he’s surviving.” Rowan felt his stomach twist. Were they talking about him? The thought left a tart taste in his mouth. He didn’t want them talking about him. He didn’t even like the idea of Aelin being concerned over his well-being. Not anymore.

All the emotions of the previous night seemed to freeze inside his chest, locking away all the hopes he had foolishly nursed over a cursed book.

He's surviving.

And she was enjoying her new life, wasn’t she? Inviting old friends to see her after she had left without a single goodbye, gone in the middle of the night like a coward. Rowan reached for the ring he, for some reason, still carried with himself, squeezing the cold metal between his fingers, feeling the bite of the small diamond against his skin.

He walked away silently, ignoring the rain as he returned to his apartment. He’d text Fenrys later, but he couldn’t be with his friend right now.

Aedion had told him months ago that Aelin wasn’t coming back but some foolish part of him had refused to believe it. He had waited by their apartment for days, hadn’t sold it for months until he couldn’t stand the sight of it. He still felt his every cell looking for her every time he was in public. Was he cursed to live the rest of his days like this? Rowan refused.

She had clearly moved on and instead of doing the same, Rowan had held onto every bad omen like they were proof of her return. Could he blame his friends for their pitying gazes? He had spent an entire year going round in circles, waiting for her because he’d convinced himself that’s what you do when you love somebody. But what had he gained from it all? An unused engagement ring and an empty apartment decorated with cardboard boxes containing memories that didn’t feel like his anymore.

Rowan entered his apartment, ignoring the fact he was dripping all over the wooden floors, and walked to his room, opening the closet and reaching for the tiny velvet box he had kept inside.

He had carried his wishes all year around, holding onto hope that Aelin would return to him, like he always believed she meant to, and that maybe they could restart again. But Aelin, in true Aelin fashion, had dropped the fatal blow. She was living her life, reaching out to old friends and moving on swiftly. Why shouldn’t he do the same?

Rowan looked at the ring one last time before setting it back in its original box, closing it with a resonant snap.

It was time to move on.



…………….

TAG LIST: @superspiritfestival @llyncooljones @leiawritesstories @morganofthewildfire @bookcide @loves-books @thegreyj

[lightsovermonaco]

His Good Sweater: Chapter 9

Masterlist

As always thank you to my beautiful bestie @acollectionofficsandshit you can also thank her for all the Max content in this chapter. Its a long one, enjoy!

Word Count: 9.6k

Recommended song: “Hate the way” by G-Easy and blackbear

The one thing that never failed to lift your spirits was your dad's homemade blueberry chocolate chip pancakes. Whenever you were upset as a kid, whether it be your team losing a sporting event, your high-school boyfriend dumping you for the head cheerleader, or getting rejected from an ivy league college you never expected to get into in the first place, his pancakes had been there to cushion the fall. Clever as he was, he always messed them up in some insignificant way like leaving off the whipped cream and hiding the container so you were forced to talk to him in order to remedy it. Then he would crack some stupid joke or cheesy pun that would just barely have the ghost of a smile curling your lips.

Blueberry chocolate chip pancakes were no match for the heartbreak of losing your best friend.

The morning after, you only trudge to the kitchen when your stomach's demands to be fed become too loud to ignore. A steaming pile of fluffy pancakes sits at your usual spot, no syrup in sight. You don't have the energy to find your dad and ask where he's hidden it, instead picking at them. You knew the flavor should be fruity and sweet but every bite tastes like ash. One pancake is all you can manage before nausea roils, threatening to make your meager brunch resurface. 

"Some is better than none," Ben murmurs behind you and you drop your chin in the barest of nods. "We can save the rest and you can warm them up later."

"Thanks," you mumble when he takes your plate. You pull your blanket tight around your shoulders as your gaze turns to the window while your brother washes your dishes, wishing for all the world that you could make your uncooperative limbs move and help him but the mental effort it requires is too taxing. Instead you stay curled up on the chair, the noises of the house waking up around you a dull buzz in your ears. At some point your mother kisses your head and hustles out the door to work, her husband close behind. Ben is the last to leave and is reluctant to do so.

"Promise you'll text me if you need me," he says. "Mom already gave me permission to cut class after trigonometry."

"Sure." You both know it's a lie and a bad one at that. Your voice is dull and flat, completely void of emotion. 

"Mom said she's coming home early anyway,” he tries. “Something about overstaffing at the greenhouse."

"Okay."

The mechanical spooling of the garage door tells you he's finally gone. Your elbows slide forward until your head rests on the table, unable to hold it up any longer.

Every fiber of your being yearns for him, to hear the distinct r's and flowery lilt of his accent as he comforts you through the heartbreak, always knowing exactly what to say. It was second nature to call one another when either of you had had a bad day or a good day or just a normal day - you'd talked so often that last year you had convinced your parents to add international minutes to your phone plan. 

Your fingers itch to dial the number you had long since memorized, knowing it would ring no more than twice before he picked up. He never let it go to voicemail unless he absolutely couldn't avoid it and you had a hunch he was waiting for your call.

Despite knowing better, you scroll through the messages on your phone. Love was evident in each witty remark and wish goodnight, pulling at your heartstrings. Your finger hovers over the delete conversation button, and after a minute of debate, you can't bring yourself to do it. You would allow yourself one reprieve to look back on and remember the good.

It would be so much easier if he had given you a reason to hate him. If he'd cheated or intentionally led the media to your house, hating him would be easy. You wouldn't have to admit that you still loved him because his betrayal would have yanked out the newly blooming bud of love you nurtured and crushed the fragile petals. Instead, you were left knowing that it had been your choice to inflict damage in him. You had no right to seek comfort in his arms or even ask how he was doing. You deserved to be miserable for causing him to feel the same way. 

Yuki is the first to check in on you. You don’t know what he expects; you lie through your teeth when you tell him you were fine.

The press is asking me for my thoughts. No idea why. I told them not to stick their noses where they don't belong.

At least someone had the guts to stand up to those bloodsuckers. Yuki was the last person you'd suspect to do so, but the scrappy twenty-something continued to surprise you.

Thanks, you type back. How is he?

You hesitate. You didn't really want to know the answer. Pierre was devastated and just as broken as you are. You delete the last part and opt to refrain from subjecting yourself to biting off more than you could chew.

I'm here if you need me, is Yuki's reply.

Charles, Daniel, and his newly promoted girlfriend were the next ones to text you, all offering varying degrees of support. Daniel's friend was the one that offered to sucker punch anyone that came near you without your permission, and actually dragged a single huff of laughter from your aching lungs.

I'm good thanks. But if I need a bodyguard you'll be first on the list.

Just because Daniel can lift me with one arm doesn't mean I'm not punchy!

I believe you.

Spent, you set your phone down and retreat under the down comforter. The bright pink clashed with your earthy decor, but at least the old blanket didn't smell like Pierre. Your mother had taken it upon herself to erase all trace of him from your room when she had managed to coax you into a shower, and the half hour you had spent letting the scalding water run over your skin had given her plenty of time to do so. The absence of him hurts almost as much as the trace of cedar you know you're imagining when you breathe deep.

It has to be impossible for so much agony to be contained in your body. No matter how much you try, the tears won't stop flowing because Pierre's crushed expression had taken up residence at the forefront of your consciousness. 

It didn't help that so many of your recent memories were touched by his presence. Getting into university served to remind you of the ecstatic call you'd gotten after his race that Sunday, voice strained with a mix of excitement for you and the disappointment of his race ending crash on the opening lap. Even something as simple as staring at the saggy bean bag chair in the corner brought back the memory of the countless times he had lounged there, sprawled out like he owned it.

Max's text brings you briefly back to reality.

You doing okay? Dan told me what happened.

No, was all you say back. Within a minute, Max's face occupies your screen. You sigh but accept the call, laying the phone on the pillow.

"I don't feel like talking, Max."

"That bad huh?" He asks, concern lacing his usually chipper voice.

"Yeah. That bad." As if that summed up getting your heart torn to shreds.

He's uncharacteristically quiet for a beat. "Wanna hear about Vic's day? She had some crazy clients at her salon- it'll take your mind off it."

"I guess," you say, utterly nonplussed. You could care less if he kept talking or not, you wouldn't be paying attention. He prattles on for a few minutes, seemingly unaffected by your silence as his words pass through one ear and out the other.

"Told you it was crazy," he says finally, your cue to respond. You hum noncommittally and Max just sighs.

"Look, I don't know how I can help you unless you come here. I know you have a flight booked- do you still wanna come to the gala? My date's been stolen so I'm in need of one."

"Who stole your-"

The realization hits you before you can finish. Pierre. Pierre stole Max's sister and left him without a date. Something about his willingness to replace you so quickly rubs you the wrong way. It shouldn't have been so easy for him to find someone new; he should be hurting just as much as you. Fundamentally, you knew nothing would happen between Pierre and Victoria. She wouldn't go for him out of respect for both of you and you were thankful in the knowledge that it was completely platonic. Still, it was like rubbing salt in a wound. 

"You know what? I'll go." It was the most you'd said all day, your throat scratchy with disuse. Max whoops on the other line and you could almost see him punching the air in victory.

"Great! When's your flight get in? I'll bring the Acura and pick you up." 

You put him on speaker and login to the airlines website to punch in the flight number. Last night you'd debated canceling the flight that Pierre had paid for, determined to stay home and be miserable. Looking back you were glad you'd trusted your gut and left the reservation untouched. If he could find someone else to attend the gala with, so could you. "I land in Nice at noon on Friday. It'll be a short flight, I can text you when we take off."

"Sounds good. I'll set up the spare room for you. Victoria is staying here too, I'm sure she would love to help you get ready and do whatever it is girls do before fancy events."

"Hey, Max?"

"Whats up?"

You trace patterns through the condensation left by the glass on your nightstand. "Thank you. For understanding."

"That's what friends are for," he assures you. "Is there anything you wanna talk about now? Or are you planning to wait until you're here?"

"Ben's been keeping an eye on me. I'm okay for now." Better now that you had something to look forward to.

"All you have to do is call," he promises. "I'll listen, I don't have anything going on this week besides streaming."

You latch on to the small redirection and run with it. "You and the twitch quartet?"

"They've been kind enough to allow me to join them on the sim this week, yeah."

"I'll try to catch a race. No promises though." 

"See you Friday. Try to contain your excitement."

Your lips twitch upward. "Bye Max."

**********

The rest of the week was more of the same. You stayed home and your family dealt with the swarms of people that still gathered on the lawn each morning not so patiently waiting for you to tell your side of the story. You had decided that the best course of action was to keep your mouth shut and let them figure out for themselves that there was no longer a story to report thanks to the wedge they had driven in your relationship.

By the time Ben drives you to the airport Friday the buzz has died down. You hug your brother tight before checking in for the flight and texting Max. His response is immediate, letting you know he's excited to see you.

You wish you could return the sentiment. You wanted to see your friend, sure, but you were beginning to dread the upcoming gala. Max would be your crutch and you knew he was okay with that, but it still felt wrong. 

Unlike your brother, Max was waiting at the curb when you arrived in Nice. A nondescript cap was perched on his head, the oversized sunglasses he wore hiding his eyes from passersby. His gleaming orange peel of a car attracted more attention than he did for once, people stopping to ogle the Acura as they came and went.

"Hey you," Max greets, a broad grin causing his trademark dimple to appear as he wraps you in a rare hug. You cling to him, throat going tight at the intimacy of it. Max wasn't a physical person by any stretch; if he was hugging you this tightly it meant he knew how broken you were.

He waited for you to break contact first, giving you all the time you need. You sniff and wipe the single tear that had somehow escaped and laugh lightly.

"Hey," you say, voice scratchy. "Thanks for picking me up." 

He waves a hand, brushing it off. "Vic wanted to come but she changed her mind when I told her I was driving."

"Probably a smart choice," you observe, letting him pop the trunk- which was in the front of the car, since the Acura NSX was a mid-engined beast of a Japanese supercar- "and considering your choice of car, she wouldn't have fit anyway."

"This is true." He starts the engine, the roar of which makes a poor old woman a few yards away drop her purse.

The drive back is near silent, broken only by Max's occasional quips about a landmark or an observation about someone's driving. It was impossible for any driver to turn off the analytical part of their brain, their Formula 1 habits crossing into their daily lives. 

When Max parks at the curb outside his apartment, you move to open the door but he hits the lock button. You glance over your shoulder at him and quirk a brow.

"Am I your prisoner?"

"Are you gonna talk about what happened?"

Sighing, you sink back into the seat. The way the bolstering hugs your sides almost makes you believe you could fade into it if you try hard enough. "I wasn't really planning on it."

It had only been a handful of days since you had broken it off, the wound still leaking fresh blood when you poked at it. It refused to scab over or give you any kind of reprieve from the torture.

"You know you'll have to face him tomorrow at some point. He'll want to talk to you."

"That's why I'm going with you. You won't have a problem telling him to leave me alone."

Max sighs. "Yeah, I suppose. If that's what you think is best."

The trudge up the stairs and subsequent silent elevator ride allows your thoughts to wander to Victoria. It wasn't her fault that Pierre had asked her to come with him after you'd canceled, after all she was already planning on going and the late notice meant it was likely no one else could make it, but it didn't stop the pang of jealousy that rocketed through you each time you ruminate on it.

It didn't help when she wrapped you in a hug the moment she saw you and whispered an apology in your ear, like she knew she'd done something wrong. Tears spring to your eyes again and Victoria shoots Max a leave us alone look.

"Uh, I'm gonna hop on the sim. Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge if you're hungry."

"Thanks Max." Your eyes are pinned to a smudge of dirt on the wood floor, safely out of range of anything triggering. Keeping it together was more of a struggle than you'd expected.

"I hope you don't hate me," Victoria starts genuine concern lacing the words. "It was just easiest-"

"I know," you cut in. "And I don't." Your smile is tight, not quite hitting home as she returns it.

"Well then. Let's figure out how we're gonna do your hair tomorrow, shall we?"

**********

The dress was a single, simple piece of fabric, spun of sunset orange and free of any bells or whistles. The feather light chiffon hugged every supple curve through your hips until flaring out slightly at the bottom just enough to allow you range of motion. The deep vee of the neckline prominently displayed your cleavage, toeing the line between attention grabbing and scandal starting and leaving little to the imagination. The back dropped low, leaving the elegant curve of your spine free to be kissed by the salty Mediterranean breeze.

The dress is nothing special compared to the thousand dollar pieces that the other boy's dates would be wearing, but you didn't have the money- or the will- to find something new. It by no means broke the bank when you picked it up from the second hand store last year, but it looked the part. It had been a showstopper at the spring formal you'd originally worn it to and judging by Max's reaction, it still was.

He let out a low whistle when you stepped into the living room. "I'm sorry, did you pick that out with me in mind?" He laughs and despite yourself, heat rises to your cheeks. You hated being the center of attention, even among friends. "It's the perfect shade of orange to match my tie. I swear I didn't plan it that way!"

"I know you didn't." You give him a forced smile, praying he doesn't call you out on it. The dress you wore hadn't been your first choice. The one you originally planned to wear still sat in your closet at home collecting dust. It had been the perfect shade of blue to compliment Pierre's sky eyes, but it didn't match Max's deeper ocean blue. So at home it had stayed, and you had chosen the orange one because it made the necklace at your throat pop.

Your fingers engulf the stone before you can stop yourself, as they always do when your thoughts wander to him. Him, because you could scarcely think his name before your heart wretches at the reminder of what you'd lost. Flashes of bright smiles and soft kisses filter through your mind, making you lock up. You swear you can feel the ghost of plush lips to your throat and the scrape of callouses over the curve of your spine. Your eyes fall shut, desperate to get lost in the idea of him like you used to.

"You good?"

Max's quiet words startle you back into the present. No, you were in no way shape or form good, but you had no choice to fall back on the familiar mask of humor to cover up your inner turmoil.

"The real question is are you?" You smirk and look him over. The Red Bull navy suit strains over his broad shoulders, suggesting he had put on muscle since the last time he'd been forced into it. "You look stiff as a board in that tux."

"I feel so awkward." He straightens the suit coat and absentmindedly lifts a hand to tousle his hair. You grab his wrist just in time to keep him from ruining his sister's hard work and shoot him a chiding look. He grins sheepishly and lowers his hand.

"Vic would kill me if you got to the gala looking like you got run over." 

"That's a good point." He offers you his arm and you accept the lifeline he unwittingly offers you. "But I refuse to leave the windows up on this beautiful night, so we'll test how well it'll hold."

You quirk an eyebrow at him. "You're driving us there?"

"Well duh. I always drive when I'm at home."

You glance sidelong at the glaringly orange Acura parked at the curb a few floors below. Your dress would blend right in with the paint, but perhaps that was a good thing. It would provide that much more of a shock factor when you arrived and stepped out.

"Just don't crash out on the hairpin," you tease half heartedly. 

He rolls his eyes. "At least it's just the two of us so I don't have to call an uber. Vic's getting picked up by-'' Max cuts himself off and gives you an apologetic smile.

"You can say his name," you whisper, eyes trained on the tile of the hallway as you walk. "It's not like he's gone."

"Getting picked up by... Pierre," Max tries, carefully monitoring his neutral tone. God, you thought you could handle it but you can't, stumbling over your own feet with only Max's grip on your arm to catch you.

He'd dance with Vic tonight, and probably countless other women, his hands drifting over their bodies like they'd done on yours only days ago. You'd be forced to watch from the sidelines and make small talk that no one would remember come morning, utterly unable to do anything about it. At least Daniel’s girlfriend would be there to be the voice of reason, if you could peel her away from Daniel long enough to speak with her for any length of time.

Max was uncharacteristically quiet on the ride to the venue, leaving you to study the city as he drove. Few yachts were left in the harbor as the sun was swallowed by the sea, the owners undoubtedly set sail for a weekend getaway. Your gaze involuntarily searched for the slip that held Charles' Ferrari red speedboat that you'd visited countless times with Pierre. The eyesore was hard to miss when surrounded by its monotone brethren, memories flooding back in droves at the sight of it.

Sighing, you turn away to glimpse what you can of the city through the ridiculously tiny sliver of windshield. How anyone could confidently drive the Acura while having so little field of vision was beyond you. It was probably second nature to Max, who weaves through the narrow streets with practiced ease and barely lets off the gas through the corners. 

The city of Monaco rarely slept, and tonight was no different. Soft yellow fluorescent glow seeps from high rise balconies, the occupants soaking up the last dregs of sunlight before heading out to the casinos and clubs. People spilled out of cafes onto the sidewalks, their laughter lingering on the breeze as you speed past.

The list of people you trust enough to get in the car with and let them drive with such intensity is short: Max and Pierre. Not even Daniel made the final cut, not when his then not-girlfriend had recounted the tale of him losing the rear of his McLaren 570s at a track day and nearly sending them into the wall. According to her, he'd been too busy ogling her to keep his full attention on the road, but it was enough for you to question his judgement at times.

If you close your eyes, you could pretend it was someone else next to you, cutting through the gears like a hot knife through butter and coaxing every inch of performance out of the car that he could with the light traffic. You draw a surf-scented breath deep, lungs aching with the effort. 

Max joins the queue of cars waiting to park outside the venue, your attention trained on the guests stepping out of cars and climbing the wide set of marble steps leading to the sleek glass building. The modern structure is slightly out of place among the Roman-esque buildings surrounding it but the air of importance it exudes overrules any who dare say it doesn't belong.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that there's an open bar," Max remarks, hanging his head out the window to wave at someone. "It makes these events so much easier."

"You're telling me," you mumble, searching involuntarily for a familiar head of dusty blond hair in the droves of people arriving. Instead of sight, it's the unforgettable rumble of his Civic Type R's exhaust that alerts you to his arrival. Your head whips around, eyes eating up the pearl white paint of Pierre's favored car as it slides in behind you. You silently thank whatever deity is listening that his windshield is tinted, protecting you from seeing the smirk you are certain is playing on his lips.

Once upon a time, the cockpit of that car had been your favorite place in the world. You'd spent countless hours inside it eating shitty gas station cuisine and singing along to the radio at the top of your lungs as Pierre drove you to whatever adventure he had planned for the day. 

Max waves at your- his friend, you remind yourself sharply- and revs his Acura in response. He leaves the keys with the valet, picking up on the tension in your shoulders as the white car parks behind you. Max tugs your arm in attempt to turn you away, but your feet are rooted to the spot. 

“I see you found another date-” The flash of a grin on Pierre's face as he steps out is immediately dashed when he notices you on Max's arm.

If looks could kill, Max would keel over then and there. A muscle in Pierre's jaw flutters as he takes in the sight of the two of you together, your hand on the Dutchman's forearm and your matching attire looking for all the world as if it was purposefully coordinated. 

Max lifts his chin, spine going straight under Pierre's threatening glare. “Her airfare was already paid for and she already had the dress. Someone had to take her.”

Your stomach sinks; the last thing you wanted to do was become a point of contention between the two boys, but you refused to apologize for at least attempting to enjoy yourself. 

Pierre doesn't speak again, only nods to Max and pointedly avoids your stare. He tosses the keys to the smart-dressed kid serving as his valet, coming around to open Victoria's door. With his back turned to you, you take a moment to study the crisp white suit he's chosen for tonight. You had always told him black wasn't his color and he seemed to have taken it to heart. White was what you loved seeing him in, and the tight cut brought back memories of a different type of suit in an entirely different city only a few weeks ago. You'd peeled him out of that Alpha Tauri race suit the moment he made it to the trailer, eager to worship him after his podium. You'd be lying if you said it hasn't been the best sex of your life.

"Come on," Max urges, placing a chaste hand on your upper back and turning you around. He leads you up the stairs, his comforting touch never leaving your skin for a moment. The callouses were all wrong, the fingers too broad to be who you wanted it to be, and yet you couldn't help but imagine it was Pierre leading you up, stopping to smile for the few cameras scattered around.

Flashes spot your vision as you pull your face into an expression of excitement. Max murmurs something in your ear that you think is encouragement but the din of reporters is too deafening to be sure.

"How come you aren't with Pierre?"

The shouted question comes from an unknown assailant but it strikes you like a physical blow. You freeze, mouth going dry as you search for a suitable excuse. Max grants you the space of a single heartbeat to respond before he does so on your behalf.

"How about you mind your own damn business and worry about your cheating wife?"

The man who had bombarded you goes slack jawed, Max's wild guess clearly somehow hitting him just as hard as he had hit you.

"Keep walking," he urges you, leading you through the blinding sea of flashing lights. When you hear the same question directed at Pierre, his flippant laugh grates on your nerves.  

You don't have it in you to appreciate the grand architecture of the entrance hall, too busy trying to keep your breathing in check. Max steers you off to the side and places his hands on your shoulders.

"Look at me," he demands, and you drag your eyes up to his face. "Breathe. He's hurting just as bad as you, only difference is he's better at hiding it. Just enjoy the night okay? I'll grab you a drink and we can find Daniel and his friend and you two can catch up."

You nod, placing a hand on your throat. The delicate chain of the necklace is a vice around your neck, the reminder of him pulling it tight. Your pulse hammers beneath your fingers and you focus on it until it slows. "Get me whatever you're having."

Max disappears in the crowd, and you take a seat at the bench tucked in the corner. No one pays you any heed as they walk past, entranced by the elegant decor and fragrant florals. Your head falls forward to rest in your hands and you struggle to take deep, calming breaths.

Pierre was here. Inhale.

He looked happy. Exhale.

He was getting by. Inhale.

You could get by, too. Exhale.

Renewed, you glance up in time to find Max standing before you with a drink of dark liquid adorned with maraschino cherries in each hand. He extends one glass to you and you don't bother to question what it is before swallowing half in one go. "Better?"

"Much." You stand and brush out the wrinkles in your dress. "Where are we sitting?"

"Er, about that," Max starts, rubbing his neck sheepishly. "They put two teams at each table. We're at the Red Bull Alpha Tauri table."

"I see." You take another deep, steadying breath, letting the anxiety ebbing in your veins fade out with the exhale. It was times like this that you channeled Daniel a bit. It sounded silly and you would never admit it, but the slogans on his helmets worked if you focused on them hard enough. All good, all ways.

If Pierre could get through tonight, so could you.

“I can try to see if I can switch tables-”

"It's fine," you say and down the rest of the drink. “I can handle it.”

Max shifts on his feet, his discomfort something you rarely see from him. He usually excelled at keeping a straight face in uncomfortable situations but it seems that your unease rubbed off on him. “We should get going then, dinner will be served any minute.”

You once again take the arm he offers you, the liquor in your veins already granting you false courage. “We would have time to mingle if you hadn’t taken the scenic route.”

“It was nice out,” he protests, and pulls you to a halt when he spots Daniel across the hall. His girlfriend waves at you with a sad smile. She gestures between the two of you to indicate that you’ll talk later before Daniel pulls her towards the McLaren table. That boy was punctual to a fault and would be caught dead before he was late to anything.

Thankfully, the two of you arrive before Victoria and her date and are able to secure seats that ensure there’s a buffer between you. By some small miracle Christian Horner and his wife were absent and instead a few engineers and their significant others sat at the packed table. Max greets Gianpiero while you take your seat, happy to observe.

“Hey!”

You twist in time to see Yuki’s short frame emerge from the crowd and point to the empty seat to your right. “This one taken?”

You shake your head, standing to give him a quick hug. “How are you doing? Where’s your date?”

“Ah, she couldn’t make it. Had some family stuff to take care of. You look great, by the way.”

You dip your chin in thanks, unsure how else to respond. He was in a white suit that you were sure would wind up stained five minutes into dinner. “Did they mandate that you wear white?”

He shakes his head with a rueful smile. “Honestly, it’s the only one I own. I haven't been to enough events to build up my closet yet."

"Well I think it's…"

You spot Pierre before he sees you. His brow is slightly creased as he hunts for the correct table using the same focused determination as when driving his Alpha. For a split second, he meets your gaze. The cacophony of the event fades to background noise and suddenly it's just the two of you and you damn near lift your hand in a wave. You're positive he can see your heart beating out of your chest like in an old cartoon as you curl your fingers into a fist in your lap. Your restraint proves fatal, the floor falling out from beneath your feet when he drops your stare. This was your new normal, you remind yourself. Stolen glances were all you would get.

"I can move," Yuki says, starting to rise. You grip his wrist, holding him in place.

"Please don't." The only other open seats were across the table, and at least then you didn't have to worry about brushing elbows with him all night long.

Yuki nods, slowly settling back in. Max finally takes his seat after giving your shoulder a supportive squeeze.

"You don't have to say anything to him," he reminds you, barely audible over the scrape of chairs and various chatter.

You find anywhere else to look as Pierre pulls out Vic's chair for her and makes his rounds to greet everyone. Daniel and his girlfriend are seated a few tables away and you distract yourself by attempting to read their lips. You manage a few minutes of tenuous peace, catching snippets of Daniel's cheesy jokes and her disapproving, yet flirty, responses.

"Damn, we clean up well, huh?"

You squeeze your eyes shut at the sound of home. His words are honey and you lap them up like you'd never tasted anything sweeter. They weren't even directed at you and yet somehow you twist them to fit your narrative.

Pierre stands at the bottom of the stairs like a chaste high school prom date patiently waiting for your grand entrance. He checks his watch and rakes a hand through his messy hair. You stifle your laugh with a hand, amused by his unnecessary nervous energy.

Taking mercy on him, you clear your throat. His gaze snaps up to you, mouth falling open. You take your time gathering the orange fabric of your dress and descending the stairs, savoring the way he eats you up. He was resplendent in his crisp white tuxedo and you had half a mind to make him late for the gala and strip him out of it then and there and devour him.

Your heels clack on the marble floor of his entirely too fancy apartment and you pause to do a little spin for him, earning you an appreciative whistle for your trouble. A laugh bubbles out of you and you place your hands on his shoulders. His own settle on your waist to pull you flush against him, his body heat soaking through the thin fabric of your dress to warm your core.

"Damn, we clean up well, huh?"

You start when knuckles graze the back of your bare neck. The touch is there and gone but you know immediately that it's Pierre. It's slight enough to be brushed off as accidental to anyone else, but nothing was accidental with Pierre. The barely there contact conveys more than any words ever could. 

He still loved you. You looked stunning. He wishes you were still his so he could prove it to you. All this and so much more contained in a half second brush of his skin to yours.

It all comes back to you in a rush, the emotion you'd so carefully tucked away in a locked box in the back of your mind finally set free. His touch ignites any other thought in your mind that isn't him, burning it away until it's ashes on the wind. 

Despite your better judgement, you lean into him, giving him permission to unravel you. This time you sigh when his fingers ghost over your skin, electricity sparking in their wake. You didn't care who might be watching; the tiny touches were slowly repairing your shattered heart. Your traitorous mind replaces his fingers with the brush of his lips to your nape, imagining the heat as he slides the strap of your dress off your shoulder, lips moving to follow.

You bite your lip to stifle a groan when his heat is withdrawn, leaving you feeling inexplicably naked. You open your eyes to find Victoria's pitying stare paired with an apologetic smile. Max nudges you with his elbow, and you realize someone has addressed you.

"Um, what?"

"I said I like how you guys coordinated outfits," Pierre repeats and openly prods your shoulder. "Obviously Max chose the color."

His tone is playful, but his words are clipped in a way only you understand. Craning your neck, you twist to look up at him. His eyes are cloudy and his smile doesn't reach them, more for show than anything else. "It was an accident."

"Doesn't look that way."

Your retort is ready on your tongue but he doesn't give you a chance to reply before retreating to his seat. His ability to act as if nothing has changed astounds you, as your head is still reeling from the pinpricks of his skin on yours. Instead of being rendered speechless, he strikes up a conversation with Yuki about the Alpha's performance, leaving out the confidential details but giving enough away that it surprises you.

The sheer fact that he can so easily switch off whatever feelings he harbors is unfair. The sensation of his fingers on your neck still lingers and it's all you can do to keep from stepping around the table and slotting yourself between his legs like you had in that bar in London. Your nails bite into your palms, listening in if only for his voice to wash over you and calm your racing heart.

When he mentions the rake angle, you know it's just to mislead anyone who might be eavesdropping. He'd told you the exact angle in the past, and it certainly was not one degree, and it did not cause the level of understeer he was describing.

"The understeer comes from improper tire selection," you blurt. "And driver error."

All eyes turn to you and you straighten. You knew enough about the construction of a Formula 1 car to be positive your assessment was correct. You were almost as certain that he'd said it to force you into speaking to him whether you liked it or not.

"What was that?"

If Pierre could torment you with his subtle touches, you could do the same and call him out when he was wrong.

"Driver error caused the rear end to slide out around that turn in Japan, not the rake angle. That's got nothing to do with it. Your tires were blistered because of you taking an imperfect racing line and they were old. You miscalculated the level of traction they'd give you."

Why no one else had pointed it out was beyond you.

"So you're an engineer now?" Pierre challenges, crossing his arms. Something about the arrogance radiating from him rubbed you the wrong way. You let all the emotion of the past few days surface and add fuel to the fire.

"No, but I've learned enough to see through the bullshit drivers spin to mislead other teams."

Max murmurs your name in warning but your frustration is boiling over. He replaced you tonight, didn't even pause to consider going alone and instead choosing to take Victoria. Sure, it had been your fault that he was dateless, but that didn't give him the right to hurt you too. He knew it would destroy you to see him with anyone else even if it was completely platonic, but he did it anyway.

"Why don't you tell me where I should brake on turn ten since you're an expert all of a sudden?" Victoria lays a hand on his arm but he yanks it out of her grip. "What crack in the pavement? Or is it a mark on the barrier? Drive one lap in my car and then you can tell me how to drive."

It wasn't your analysis that had upset him. You'd done so plenty of times and he had always taken your criticism with an open mind, using it to tweak his driving style to improve his lap time or turn it into a teaching experience so you could learn. No, judging by the way his eyes are lined with silver that he fights to blink away, it's your betrayal that upsets him and rightfully so. You glance around the table but no one is willing to meet your eyes save for Max, who angles his head as if to say fight for it.

But you can't. It's monumentally easier to let Pierre win and sweep it under the rug than to address the deeper issue. "I was trying to help," you say lamely, picking at the salad in front of you.

"You don't get to do that anymore."

The venomous words hit like knives, knocking the breath out of you. Your mouth hangs open like a fish gasping for air but any reply you think up dies on your tongue.

As the music fades out and a man climbs up onto the stage, Pierre gets up and leaves. You track his progress as he weaves through tables, noting Daniel reaching for him as he passes. You flinch when the balcony door slams behind him, an astonished murmur rocking through the crowd.

"You should probably talk to him," Max whispers.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak. You had no idea what you would say. 'Sorry' was insignificant and 'I love you' would be cruel when the barest of thought regarding how the media treated you made your stomach churn. 

Max pulls his phone out under the table and you think you see Charles' name on the screen. Good; someone had to make sure Pierre didn't do anything he would regret in the morning and if it wasn't you, Charles was the next best chaperone. A minute later, the Ferrari driver leaves his seat too, exiting the same way as Pierre. 

Focusing on what's said on stage proves fruitless. Try as you might, your attention is trained on the side door Pierre had disappeared through, praying he returns despite knowing it would mean more barbed words hurled at you. Neither he nor Charles return at any point during the presentation. His absence was quickly becoming a gaping black hole, swallowing up any semblance of sanity you had managed to gather in preparation for tonight.

"Try to have some fun," Max says, nudging you with an elbow. "As soon as this guy shuts up I’ll get us some more drinks and then we can eat and get out on the dance floor and forget about everything, yeah?"

You nod. You already feel the buzz of the first drink, and one or two more would push you thoroughly over the edge into blissful forgetfulness. "I don't wanna be sad anymore."

**********

He didn't know where he was going. All he knew was that he had to get away from you before he said something that would tear whatever hope he held of repairing what was between you to ribbons. He registers Daniel's low, "Gas, you good?" as he breezes past, but doesn't pause to answer. His sights are locked on the wide, carved oak doors that lead to fresh air.

The breath whooshes out of him when he flings open the balcony doors. They slam behind him and he winces. Chalk that up as something else for Helmut to pick him apart for on Monday.

Pierre rakes a trembling hand through his hair and rests his elbows on the railing, sucking in lungfuls of air like he'd just surfaced from a dive in the harbor. 

When you'd agreed to come to the gala with him, he had been overjoyed. You hadn't made it to the winter gala earlier this year due to a last minute exam and he had sulked the entire night. He still had the place card embossed with your name in the fishbowl by his door, the sizable container nearly overflowing with memories of you. Everything from forgotten earrings to plastic hotel key cards filled the bowl and it was a bright reminder of your adventures together. His plan had been to add another place card to the mix after tonight but after what he'd just said to you, he'd rather forget today ever happened. 

He fucking hurt. Everything just hurt, from the shirt collar scratching at his neck to the bone deep ache that had started when he laid eyes on you on those steps, arm locked with Max's. You'd stolen the words from his mouth, the jab he'd planned to toss at Max dying at the sight of you. 

He hadn't expected you to come tonight. Despite anyone's objections, he'd been fully prepared to get completely shit faced to the point that the ghost of your skin no longer haunted his fingertips and your voice no longer sang in his head. But seeing your damned face had shattered the false reality he had constructed, the one where you never broke him and left him scrambling to piece himself back together.

The universe had dealt him another low blow when he discovered Red Bull and Alpha Tauri would be at the same table and he'd be forced to endure your presence at arms length, close enough to touch but absolutely not allowed to do so. It was his own personal hell, constructed solely to punish him for whatever transgressions he'd made in his life.

And that fucking dress. 

The orange painted the aquamarine charm at the hollow of your throat in sharp relief, showing it off like he somehow still owned you. If you had arrived with him, he would have already led you back to the Civic and bunched that damned dress up past your hips to drag his favorite sounds from you with his tongue. If he could just get you alone, he's sure it wouldn't take more than a single touch to have you crashing into him and begging for more.

Seeing you with Max tonight paints an entirely different picture.

It's Max he sees tearing off the dress at the end of the night when you get back to his apartment. Max's hands slide over your hips and you laugh, walking back so you can keep your lips on his as he slams the door shut behind you. You dip your head back when he presses you to the wall, Max unfaltering as his lips and teeth trace the curve of your exposed throat and he slips the straps of the matching dress of your shoulders to let it pool at your feet. Max's name breezes past your lips on a shaky exhale as you become putty beneath his fingers.

No matter how loud Pierre calls your name, you don't hear him, instead cupping the back of the Dutchman's head and pulling him in for a heated kiss. When you do finally notice him observing from afar, agony wracking his body, all you do is grin. It feels real, even though Pierre is certain it's a crazed fever dream, his mind spinning his worst fear to life: you seeking comfort in the company of someone that wasn't him.

Pierre starts when the door squeaks open, the nightmare thankfully dissolving. Charles steps out clad head to toe in blazing Ferrari red and instantly he knows who sent him. The thought alone stokes rage in his chest, the image of your lips on Max's still fresh.

"Not as easy as you expected it to be, is it?" He asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Fuck off," Pierre growls and immediately regrets it. Beyond you, Charles was his closest friend. They had known each other for ages. It wasn’t a friendship he was willing to sacrifice just because he felt like shit. Pierre sighs and throws him an apologetic glance. "No it's not."

"Why don't you talk to her?"

"She doesn't want to fucking talk, Charles. Take one look at her, she's hanging on Max like she can't get enough of him." Pierre hangs his head in his hands, emotions shifting faster than he did on race day. "I can't go back in there and watch her choose him over me."

"You don't really believe that bullshit, do you?" Charles asks, joining him at the railing.

Not entirely, but he still struggled to understand your thought process. He thought he knew you, but you being here tonight when he had been certain you wouldn't be proved he didn't. 

"I don't know what to believe anymore. I thought it would be forever, that I'd finally found someone who didn't mind my lifestyle and accepted it for what it was, who loved me unconditionally. I thought she was my forever."

"You think she's done with you just because some assholes invaded her privacy?" Charles shakes his head. "She's loved you for a long time, years even. You haven't seen the looks she gives you, but the rest of us have. You hung the moon in her sky, Pierre. That kind of thing doesn't just get swept away by the breeze."

His shoulders curl inward in an attempt to hide the frustrated tear that escapes him. "What am I supposed to do?"

Charles shrugs. "I don't think there's a right answer to that. Try giving her some space. She didn't grow up in the spotlight like we did. It's not an easy adjustment for some people, mate. And blowing up on her when she tries to make conversation doesn't help anything," he says gently. "Let her figure it out and come to you when she's ready."

The concept of letting you go even temporarily was terrifying to him. Waiting on you to make the first move was even worse because he was setting his fate in your hands. 

"I miss her," he murmurs, turning his face to his friend.

"I know." Charles throws an arm around the taller man's shoulders and follows his gaze out over the tiered streets of Monaco's city center. "My suggestion is to throw yourself into the season. Show her you know how to fight, y'know?"

Pierre nods. He could do that. It was how he normally handled his problems anyway; let the track wick away whatever was on his mind and force him to hone in on the details surrounding him in each moment. 

"You ready to head inside?" Charles asks.

"I don't think I can go back just yet."

"Want me to hang out here with you?"

"No. I'll be back eventually."

Charles' hand falls from his shoulder after a short squeeze, the sound of a tinny voice over the speakers temporarily flooding the balcony as Charles returns to the banquet. Pierre allows himself a few more moments of reprieve before slipping back inside just as the applause starts. Rather than returning to the delicately portioned meal that sat cooling before his empty chair, he orders a drink. Whiskey on the rocks, his go to in times of crisis. He takes one sip before the reminder of you ordering it for him in London makes holding the glass of caramel liquid unbearable and he downs it in a single swallow, going back to order a beer instead.

He nurses the green bottle of Heineken as he leans against the wall until the meal is finished and the chit chat starts. You stand with Max, practically pressed against him as you snatch a flute of champagne from a passing server. You search the crowd, brows drawing together when you don't locate your quarry. Pierre had made sure that he was tucked out of the low lighting, unsure if he could survive you stealing worried glances at him all night. 

Charles winds his way over to pass off a roll he snagged from dinner, practically forcing the Frenchman to eat it before returning to his date. He nibbles at it absentmindedly, entirely too focused on you to divert an ounce of focus elsewhere.

Your dress is a glowing sun in a sea of earth tone garments, drawing his eye as you pull Max out onto the wood platform serving as the dance floor before the tables are fully cleared. The flush in your cheeks tells him you're deeper in your cups than you should be; Max didn't know your limit as well as he did. Three drinks was all you could manage before you got tipsy, five if you wanted to be completely blitzed. 

The lights dim and his hiding spot is no longer quite as good as the party lights sweep over him from time to time. Max places one hand on your hip and you place one on his shoulder and grin up at him. Judging by the fit of giggles that requires you to lean into Max for support, you were teetering dangerously on the edge of being wholly drunk. You throw your head back and laugh at whatever Max says in response to your fit, Pierre straining to hear the musical sound over the band. 

"Hey," Victoria says, breaking his concentration. "You wanna get out there?"

Pierre grimaces. He had managed to completely forget about her, too stuck in his own head. "Sorry, Vic. I don't think I'd be a very good partner tonight."

"No worries," she says, a soft, understanding smile on her lips. "I can keep myself busy."

Pierre nods his thanks, his attention immediately returning to the dance floor. Daniel and his girlfriend steal the show, both laughing as he dips and twirls her across the floor. 

Being together was so fucking easy for them, effortless in a way it wasn't for you and Pierre. They never once paid any heed to the photographers that swarmed them or the headlines printed about them, they just laughed the rumors off and carried on. No one could question their love for each other because they were vocal about it- sometimes annoyingly so- and Daniel was rarely seen in public without her at his side. They were always touching, holding hands or stealing kisses or even the near scandal of his hand blatantly on her ass at the podium a few races back, and neither of them cared.

Their love was all that mattered. They didn't care who knew it.

But you and Pierre were far too private to be like that, at least not when you were still trying to figure things out yourself. The first sign of outside pressure had you cracking, and he wouldn't stand for knowing he was the source of your pain.

He tries and fails to convince himself he isn't jealous of the way Dan's hand so easily glides under the navy blue silk of her dress to caress her back without a second thought, wishing he could do the same to you. If he's being honest, he's living vicariously through Daniel for the next few songs, pretending he was someone else observing you and himself on the dance floor instead. It almost works; the way she shudders when his lips graze her ear is strikingly similar to how you'd react. The smile she flashes up at him is agonizingly close to your own wicked grin.

When her mouth finds his, Pierre gathers his wits and turns away. Their blatant public affection flipped a switch inside him, disgust rocking through him for a split second before he pushed it away.

He was happy for them. He knew what a long, rocky road it had been for them to become lovers instead of friends, had firsthand knowledge of the stress they'd gone through before they'd finally admitted their feelings to each other, put their pride aside and got together. Pierre had been the one to offer her advice on a night not much different than this one months ago, helping repair the damage Daniel's idiotic, thoughtless words had caused. 

But Pierre had since become the person who was sickened at the sight of others in love. It reminded him that part of himself was missing and he hated it.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep his eyes from wandering back to you. You still occasionally scan the room as Max struggles to lead you through a dance. By some stroke of bad luck your gaze snags on him just as a spotlight illuminates his face and he grimaces. A slow blink is the only surprise you let show before laying your head on Max's shoulder. Jealousy spikes through him like wildfire, igniting his blood and tinging his vision with red.

He wants to march over and rip you off Max. He wants you tucked safely against him as his thumb rubs circles on the bare skin of the small of your back. He wants, more than anything, to take you to his apartment and half carry you up the stairs, having to shush you because you're giggling loud enough to wake the dead, and lay you down in his bed. He wants to help you out of that stunning dress and into a pair of his sweats and curl up against you, letting you sleep off your hangover until noon.

He'd fucked up that chance though, hadn't he? He had slipped up and driven you straight into your friend's arms, who he trusted not to make a move on you but not enough to negate the jealousy coursing through him.

In that moment, he hates you. He hates the hold you have on him, the way a simple gesture between half-drunk friends could send him into a spiral so steep he didn't recognize himself. He hates that he can't keep his eyes off you, your gravity too strong for him to resist.

Most of all, he hates that he doesn’t know how to quit you.

@seasidetom @flashcal @limp-wrist-max​ @sunshinesewis​ @lifeofzoemichael @ninuffi @perfectfantasies22 @lamboleglerg @ladyperceval 

[herglowinggirl]

Hello, familiar anon here, I didn't ask the question about an SOK ending where Yun lives and gains redemption. I also wouldn't mind having my own tag. I haven't found any other evidence of Yun shipping Kyoshi and Rangi outside of "The Boy From Makapu". How does Kyoshi view Yun later in her life( up to the first year after "The Meeting", creating Kyoshi Island nearly 25 years later, the last years of her life)? Would Kyoshi ever mention or talk about Yun after the events of The Shadow of Kyoshi?

hello! and yes I have some thoughts on this and how it would impact the advice Kyoshi gave to Roku and Aang. this got long but I’d love to break down parts of it to write fic, which I think I will do and perhaps post before Kyoshi Fortnight. But I digress, it’s long enough that I have decided to use subtitles. If anything skip to the end about the advice she gave Roku and Aang I think it’s most relevant to what I want to say and also my favorite part.

what I talk about under the cut: the ways I believe yun’s death would impact kyoshi’s actions after tsok and what the advice she gave aang and roku actually means (my thoughts on “only justice will bring peace” means)

would kyoshi talk about yun during her lifetime?

Yes. First off, it would be impossible to avoid him in the political landscape, because it is mentioned that he passed lots of judgements and signed treaties, ect. Although Kyoshi has grown in her leadership style and it’s turned a little (a lot) anti-establishment, she would still need to deal with the fallout of Yun not being the Avatar, because there would be a need to re-sign treaties and settle disputes with people seeking to take advantage of others now that the Avatar has “changed” would have to be dealt with and in tandem, Yun’s legacy.

But also, in a duology that features grief, I find it a natural continuation of the narrative that Yun would be mourned. You don’t stop knowing or loving someone after they pass, and I feel like mourning all of Yun—the boy he was, where he came from, his legacy, the decisions he made, the impact he had on the people around him, even how he hurt people—is only natural and is slightly unavoidable. I think Kyoshi mourns all of her deceased loved ones. 

Just, like the concept of this: she’s always hated pai sho but now when she faces a board in her gut and in her throat things feel wrong because it reminds her of what Yun had to do to survive. A breeze smells like the flour and air Kelsang sent into her face the moments before everything changed. She collects pebbles that Lek would’ve liked. Rangi brings her fire lilies for an anniversary and she starts crying. She sings songs with Wong that were her parent’s favorites that coincidentally, Kelsang knew too.

community in grief and kyoshi’s relationships

He was Rangi’s friend, too. Auntie Mui and Hei-Ran are sure to mourn him in their own ways. In tSoK Kyoshi calls her team Avatar a group of contradictions and misfits and in his way, Yun was too. The false Avatar. What a title! 

A continuation of the concept: Rangi and Kyoshi remind each other of him every day for a while, swapping stories about him when it gets to be too much, making eye contact when they can hear his voice making light of something stupid an official has said. Hei-Ran makes her do drills she made Yun do. Auntie Mui makes his favorite dish on his birthday that they do not pass in silence, because then what would they be, that group of misfits, to forget another outcast? If they don’t mourn the boy from Yokoya who will mourn them, or who would’ve mourned them if they hadn’t been so lucky? Who will care for the beggars and orphans of the world if not the Avatar who was once one of them and her companions? In a way, the retribution and pain of it all is justice for the life that Kyoshi took. Like, there’s just so much to unpack in the way she says “Was I right about anything at all? What will they say about me? Avatar Kyoshi, who killed her friend because she couldn’t save him?” But I don’t think her guilt would silence her. 

That being said, Yun was fundamentally a victim of a system that failed him. The same one that failed Kyoshi. In another way, her actions are justice on a world that failed her and her best friend and the similarities they shared, and she’s able to take those actions because of the way that Yun impacted her, for better or for worse. So yes, I think during her lifetime, she would speak of Yun and who he was, not letting people forget the ways they (and she) failed him and how easily everyone wants to forget their failure. It brings me to the way she was so angry with the Earth Kingdom establishment for discarding him and trying to hide history away. I don’t think she’d ever do that, even if she did...uh, dispatch him.

kyoshi, immortality, and her role as an avatar

I’d like to turn to two passages:

Kyoshi: “The way you describe it, you’d have to decide what version of yourself you’d be stuck as, forever.”

Lao Ge: “Exactly! Those who grow, live and die. The stagnant pool is immortal, while the clear flowing river dies an uncountable number of deaths.”

and

In the future, perhaps, she’d become finalized like carved stone. It would be easier to deal with the world then. She could only hope.

[...]

She still had to be careful not to lose her balance and fall. Kyoshi kept her eyes focused on her difficult path, sometimes stumbling but making sure to catch herself, taking one step at a time.

This isn’t directly related to what I think she would say, but more about how she lets her experiences, and therefore, her experiences and relationship with Yun, affect who she is. Here, F.C. Yee is detailing the person we see in her cameo in A:tLA. It’s a testament to her growth, yes, but also to how she lived so long. She’s allowed to grow now, while she’s young and still learning. But eventually Kyoshi’s growth will wane, leaving us with the iron woman we saw in A:tLA. 

Remember when I said I would call F.C. Yee a sap for the very last Kyoshi POV line? It’s the last sentence in my second excerpt, is that Kyoshi is allowing herself make mistakes. It’s pretty obviously a little deeper than the concept of walking down a slope: She became one of the most revered Avatars, we know how her story ends, if not lots of the in-betweens, but F.C. Yee tells us right here in that sentence. She changed and she learned. 

I think, however, that eventually she had to pick a place to stop in order to stop aging. If I had to pick a point where she became “immortal” I’d pick Rangi’s peaceful and timely death surrounded by her loved ones on Yokoya (not Kyoshi Island since I’m going to maintain that her A;tLA cameo was “immortal” Kyoshi) and I think Lao Ge killed her—or at least convinced her to let go.

further thoughts on her longevity: rangi’s role and future

Ok before anybody comes into my inbox like “um zey herglowinggirl I need you to know that actually Rangi also lived to 230 😌″ because I understand the sentiment it’s more like here’s what I’d like to discuss: Kyoshi can’t be immortal around Rangi because Rangi is in so many ways her catalyst for growth. First off, it would be completely out of character for Rangi to be immortal, because she’s constantly moving and being and feeling and judging and that changes her. Positive jing. And Lao Ge says it: “those who grow, live and die.” Rangi believes in the best and strives for the best, for perfection. For Kyoshi to freeze herself and become immortal, that would require picking an imperfect state. And as we know, Sei’naka women do not accept imperfection 😤. 

Although Rangi promises to always be by Kyoshi’s side, I think in the latter years of Kyoshi’s live it’s more like the impact that Rangi has had on her in that frozen state. That voice of Rangi’s is part of Kyoshi in those years. However, without Rangi, it is unlikely that Kyoshi will always or commonly choose to act on it. It’s stated multiple times throughout the novels that Rangi is Kyoshi’s center and that she doesn’t know who she’d be without Rangi, but I think the logical conclusion is immortal. With Rangi’s death she becomes her own center by stopping her growth; with Rangi’s death she just becomes...that stone she was talking about, where it does get easier to make decisions because you’re not striving to constantly change and grow. It’s almost a coping mechanism, if you will. Because Kyoshi is more than Rangi, can function without Rangi, it’s just not necessarily pretty.

lao ge’s role and future

Which brings me to my “in my personal version of canon Lao Ge kinda maybe killed Kyoshi” point. Rangi is in no way Kyoshi’s morality, but she is very much the idealistic ‘better’ half. With this catalyst of hope and change gone, I think back to the creation of the Dai Li—it very much sounds to me like something Jianzhu would do. Kyoshi, who had previously been the breakdown of negotiations, created a secret op police force? 

I think the moment Kyoshi started being the establishment, the moment she was the band-aid instead of the solution (much like Yun was, hint hint) Lao Ge would’ve paid her a visit. Either this or the creation of the Dai Li created a catalyst for perhaps an existential crisis, perhaps just being tired, perhaps simply knowing what is best...Kyoshi is, and always will be, a sworn criminal who cannot uphold the law, only her own judgements. She is both the law and the breaking and bending of it, and when she loses this balance when Rangi falls from her side and she becomes her own rock I think it would swing her away from her center, and this is where she becomes immortal. Eventually, it would become enough of an issue for people to intervene and tell her that her time as an Avatar is coming to an end. 

advice to future avatars

This is my favorite point and I’ll tie it back to Yun in just a second. I have posted about thinking about the impact of Yun’s death on Kyoshi and how that would’ve impacted her legacy and the advice she gave Roku and Aang before. Honestly what strikes me is how proud Kyoshi would be of Aang. The way that each Avatar must learn to forge their own way and become their own person and what their era needs, balancing themselves, is something so lovely. I think Kyoshi would’ve absolutely loved how Aang took the advice of his predecessors and said “no, I know what would be better for me,” and I think post-tSoK Kyoshi, who has learned she has to forge her own way and style as a leader, would love and be so proud of him for that. 

However, that doesn’t mean that her advice doesn’t have weight. I think mainly her “immortal” phase would perhaps have an impact on the way Yun impacts her advice. I think “only justice will bring peace” also speaks to the finality of death. Just like immortality, death keeps growth from happening. “only justice will bring peace” is also a nod to the way you must learn to cope with your actions and the way you feel about them. It’s also about Aang’s inner peace, which is something I don’t think I’ve ever seen mentioned. Everyone always wants to talk about what he should’ve done and how Kyoshi was right because she told Aang about her choice to let Chin die, but I think she actually guided him to the idea that you should be ok with yourself. To be confident in what you do and take up responsibility for your actions. Kyoshi wasn’t telling him murder was good. She was telling him she owned up to her actions and chose to make those decisions as an Avatar. To me, this finality speaks of growth after Yun’s death and the end of tSoK. She has grown and then frozen, but that means she has changed.

And although I don’t have an answer for what advice she might’ve given Roku, I think it’s a good way to interpret this. The only thing keeping Kyoshi from being honest about Yun’s death is the fact that Zoryu has “Yun” locked up. I think this is likely one of her biggest regrets, that she cannot be honest and responsible for something that weighs so heavily on her soul. This, I think, guides her advice. Only justice will bring peace. Now that I’ve thought it out, perhaps it wasn’t Lao Ge, and perhaps it was the idea that Yun had never been done justice and perhaps that turmoil never changed, which made her long-lived but not quite immortal. She cannot quite know the peace of death nor of life.

I think she must’ve told Roku that no matter what, he must accept the consequences of what he does. He’s not willing to loose that friendship and I think Kyoshi would’ve understood that, and the questions Roku would’ve had to pose himself as an Avatar. That is Kyoshi’s advice. Only justice, true justice in the form of accountability and self-actualization as a leader, will allow you to make good decisions. The acceptance of this: that whatever he does, he must be willing to accept it’s legacy, learn from it, and teach the next Avatar just as she let Yun’s death affect her leadership and what she taught. And I think that’s probably incredibly poetic, even if I’m getting a bit ahead of myself. 

[claudiarya]

Hey guys, I’ve written a post RoW fanfiction. I warn you that it has a death trope in it, so beware.

You can also read it on Ao3 as well. 

Count words: 5990

Hope Suite

They didn’t know the moment when it all went wrong. Had it been when Kaz had accepted the job? Had it been when Inej had left Pekka Rollins alive, or when they had kept going despite all the adversities, they had encountered? The events of the last days were starting to become a blurring reel, that had done nothing but confuse them. What had started as a fairly easy job for the queen of Ravka, it then had turned out to be a major standoff with their enemies, which was putting not just one country, but the whole world as they knew it in peril. Maybe it had all gone downhill when Jarl Brum had managed to escape his prison cell at Hellgate, aided by one of his most trusted Drüskelle, his mind already too corrupted by the former General’s manipulations.

By the time he had been set free again, and had sought revenge against his detested neighbors, specifically against the witch queen and her monstrous husband, Inej, Kaz and his crew had already been too involved with their task to worry about it. How could they have known that once out, Brum was going to use everything in his power to bend Ravka? The Fjerdan man was aware that he couldn’t compete with its ruler, so he had worked out a different strategy entirely: if he couldn’t hope to win in a direct confrontation, he was going to annihilate her and her subjects from within, even if it would cost the destruction of his own country and more…

They didn’t know how Brum had gotten the information, but he had travelled to the mountains and had somehow liberated a certain shadow summoner from his sacrifice of eternal of pain, well before Zoya could do as she had planned. The shadow summoner in question had disappeared without a trace, only the Saints knew where he could have gone to hide away.

Needless to say, the darkness and its vampiric actions had started to spread again, at twice the speed. It looked like a ravenous beast had been set lose. It had extended in other countries as well, a silent and unannounced menace ravishing everything in its wake, that terrified even sailors at sea. If that wasn’t enough, Brum had also found out about Dirtyhand’s ‘involvement’ with the queen, and had made an ally with an ex Barrel boss, who had lost all his fortunes and power to a teenage crippled kid. Two powerful and dangerous men driven by their thirst for revenge had revealed themselves to be even more unstoppable than any of them had originally believed.

***

Inej remembered when Kaz had asked her to take a short leave from her sea voyages, to run one last time with him and the other crows in this task in which her skills at gathering information were going to be fundamental. Jesper had, of course, already accepted his friend’s proposition, and if at first Wylan had been skeptical, he had ended up joining the crew for the job. Perhaps for his natural instinct to follow wherever the gangly sharpshooter went, or maybe for the fact that he had made friends with the King consort, their shared love for science and ‘infernal gadgets’, as Kaz would call them, a fertile ground for common understanding.

“I won’t force you to do anything,” he had rasped to her while sitting on the roof ledge at the Slat to watch the tepid Ketterdam sun slowly blinking into existence in front of them; their intertwined fingers a testimony of how far they had already conquered together. The only thing that hadn’t won yet was their insomnia.

“Your particular set of skills is needed for this job, but I understand if you don’t want to be dragged into this,” Kaz had continued, and she had known he had slightly turned his head in her direction, as she had kept her eyes on the dawn.

After a while and still no answer from her he had sighed.

“Inej, what I’m trying to say is that we need you. I need you. I don’t think I can do this without you, so please tell me now, so I can send back a definite answer to Her Royal Pain.”

The Suli girl had marveled at his words: she didn’t think she had ever heard Kaz admit out loud that he couldn’t do something without the help of someone else.

“I’ll do it,” she had exclaimed, now turning her gaze on his stone-carved features. “But on one condition: I want Queen Zoya to help me fight against the slave trade in Ravka, and I want her to promise me that human traffickers are going to find the justice they deserve in her country.”

Kaz had squeezed her hand, the look in his eyes an oath to himself as well as to her.

***

Inej clutched her hand on her injured arm. She could feel the blood on her palm, as she watched Kaz keeping at cane point the last of the men who had tried to kill them. Their lead for the relic of Santk Feliks’s heart had taken them here, in an obscure abandoned, or so they thought, monastery on the Ravkan coast, right on the border with Fjerda. They had found out that centuries before, the order of religious men inhabiting the place had been the resting place of the only remaining part of the Saint. An easy reconnaissance job, an easy trail to follow. But ever since the spreading of the blight, of the Kilyklava, nothing had been easy.  It was as if for every movement they made, their enemies were ten steps ahead of them. Inej had never seen anyone outsmart Kaz like that. Usually, he was the one who had everything under control, who could predict every outturn, every maneuver his opponents were going to make. But instead, everywhere they had attempted to gather information, they had encountered a setup of sorts: mainly the place they had intended to scout, burnt to the ground. Had they a spying traitor in their mix? Inej had never seen him more on edge than she had in the last month, but now they had passed the pretense of this being another job. It had stopped being that when the world hab been threatened by an unstoppable force and Pekka Rollins had entered the picture. It was personal. And she suspected that he was also trying to keep true to the promise he had made her.

Inej had thought they had planned this out so carefully, she was sure they would not encounter any unpleasant surprise this time. After the too many (not) coincidences, they had started scheming their way for the hunt of the heart with only the four of them and Nikolai and Zoya, who had had to, although begrudgingly, leave out the Triumvirate and their closest friends from this particular matter of international importance. How was it possible then, that their traces had been tracked even here?  Kaz and Inej had offered for the job, a quick break in into the abandoned archives of the monastery, while Nikolai, Jesper and Wylan would wait for them on the Volkvolny to pick them up and leave after they had completed their task. Perhaps a smaller party was going to attract less attentions, their rouse of a devoted young group of people had served them well in the little town around the old holy building, and they had played their parts too well that Inej had forgotten for an instant that they had a bigger goal in mind. She was never going to forget the easy talk, the laughs they had shared around the table of the little tavern they had resided in, her hand clasped together with Kaz as a sort of lifeline for the both of them; her head resting delicately on his chest as they were lying down on the little bed they shared.

The four men that have been sent to kill them had caught them by surprise. Again.

Kaz had just uttered “We’ve got what we need, let’s go,” when the first thug that had tried to sneak up on him. Inej had made a quick work of the assassins, if her knives embedded in two of the men’s throats were of any indication. Despite that, one of the others had managed to graze her arm with a bullet, when she had momentarily lost her focus because the remaining one had kicked Kaz’s bad leg, eliciting a sound of pain from him. If only Jesper and Wylan had been there with them.

As she hobbled to where he was standing, Inej realized that Kaz was shaking from the effort of not to keel over in pain, his hand gripping the crow’s head of his cane so tightly, she feared he was going to snap it in half.

“Kaz...” she started

“You’re bleeding,” he rasped, diverting his gaze from the man to her, for the briefest of moments.

“It’s nothing,” she said. But she could see that he wasn’t really convinced, and with a soft grunt, he fished from his pocket a handkerchief and handed it to her, before asking to the person on the ground.

“How did you know we would be here?” his eyes two unforgiving coals.

The hired assassin didn’t answer at first but gave away in a little chuckle instead. Suddenly Kaz, still balancing his weight mostly on his good leg, brought down his cane on one of the man’s own legs. His scream of pain echoed around them in the old room.

“It doesn’t feel good, does it?” he said. This was Dirtyhands himself, any trace of the young man he had been with her at the tavern, vaporized.

“Now, tell me how you knew we were here, or I’m going to break every bone you have, and we both know how pleasant that is.”

The man chuckled again, but then he started talking.

“At times one shouldn’t look for spiders,” he said with a sickening grin. “At times, it’s the little insects nobody sees or cares to check because they’re believed to be harmless that tip the scales.”

Inej could see Kaz’s mind trying to figure out the man’s words, his gaze distant.

In that moment she realized that she was never going to tire to see that look on his face. Nor any other looks for that matter. Wobbly, the boy in question turned to her, he took the kerchief she had been pressing on her wound from her hand, and before she could realize what he was doing he tore it a bit and tied it around her bloody arm.

“Let’s get out of here,” he stated, wincing visibly as he made to move towards the door.

The man started laughing again as if Kaz had said something so funny he couldn’t control himself. Inej was on him before she could think. A knee on the thug’s sternum and her blade pressed to his throat.

“What’s so funny?” she inquired, looking down at him with disdain. She was tired, and she wanted to bring Kaz back to the Volkvolny, to get his leg looked properly after.

“In the end, you really are nothing but two delusional kids,” the man said, and Inej could feel his voice reverberate from under her knee.

“Stop speaking in riddles, or I swear to all the Saints known I’ll cut your throat right this second.”

He raised one hand in a gesture of mocking surrender. “Let’s just say that nobody is leaving this place alive,” he conceded.

“What do you mean?” asked Kaz from somewhere behind her, his tone menacing yet on guard. The tip of Inej’s knife scraped the man’s throat when he didn’t immediately answer back, two droplets of blood slid down the blade.

“This place and the whole town are about to be razed down by bombs and cannons. General Brum’s ships are approaching. They wanted to make sure our precious king consort and his flying machine didn’t leave this place unscathed. There’s no escaping your tragic fate now.” He snarled. His voice couldn’t conceal the hate he had for Nikolai, so he must have been one of those Ravkans from the West, unhappy with who was ruling over them now.

“No,” Inej said softly, and shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re lying!”

The man’s eyes lit with a manic light. “The world shall end in flames and darkness before being ruled by Gri –” He never finished his sentence, as Kaz brought down his cane once again, this time on his head.

The silence that followed could have lasted a minute or an eternity, Inej couldn’t be sure.

“Kaz,” she started again while standing.

“You need to leave. Now. I can’t walk, I think my leg is broken, but you need to leave me here and run from this place.” Kaz said, turning to look at her, the desperation palpable in his voice

“I’m not leaving,” she approached him. “We need to warn Nikolai. Tell them all to leave.”  

“Inej – ”

“Either pick up the comm and call them, or give it to me, Kaz. We’re only losing time like this.”  Her tone was unmovable.

Without any more protests on his part, he took out the little ingenious device Wylan and Nikolai had come up with. It permitted them to communicate even from quite long distances.

“Crow 1 and 2 to Too Clever Fox, do you copy?”

For the briefest of instants only there was only the sound of static, but then.

“Too Clever Fox here, I copy you. Kaz? What’s going on?” came the king’s voice.

“Nikolai, listen to me: you have to leave. Now. Get the Volkvolny and depart. This monastery, this town is about to be razed down by bombs. They knew we would be here; Brum’s ships are approaching. You – ”

“We’re coming to get you,” Nikolai interrupted him.

“No, there’s no time for that. You have to leave here now, or it will all be for nothing.” He looked at Inej then, his eyes searching hers in the dim light of the room with evident resignation.

“No! Kaz, Inej, no, we’re coming and we’re all surviving this.” Another protest from a different voice, Jesper’s.

“No! You have to listen and be quiet. I know where the thing we’ve looked for is. It’s hidden somewhere under the little place you train your soldiers. I also know how they’ve been able to predict our every move. Bugs. Check the war room for devices of the sort we’re using right now.”

“I will,” was Nikolai’s response.

There was another brief pause of static, Kaz spoke again, before he could be interrupted

“Jesper, Wylan,” he said. “The Crow Club and everything else is yours and Nina’s. You’ll find all the documents in my office back at the Slat. Do with them whatever you think it’s right.”

“Kaz, please we still have time, we can come and get you.” It was Wylan’s voice now that came from the other side.

Inej got closer and circled the hand in which Kaz was gripping the device with her own. “Wylan, you have to leave. Right now, ring the alarm bell of the town and go.” She started and then said:

“Guys… find my parents, tell them – tell them what happened, and that it was all for something better. We love you.”

Another anguished call for their names echoed around the room they were standing.

Inej took a breath a finished what she meant to say. “Nikolai the Wraith… take good care of her, and don’t forget our promise.  When you see Nina and Zoya tell them – ”

She couldn’t finish the sentence the threat of tears pricking her eyes. Luckily the privateer answered back.

“I’ll tell them, and I promise everything we did by far will not be in vain. Thank you, my friends. We will never forget what you did for Ravka and for all of us.”

Kaz and Inej could also hear the subtle sounds of distress of their friends, their family. She realized in that moment how much all of them meant to her. Funny how life had a tendency to remind you how deeply you loved someone when you’re about to lose everything.

Kaz brought the device back on his lips and in a clear voice said: “No mourners…” and before they could hear an answer coming from the other side, he had already thrown on the ground the device and smashed it with the tip of his cane.

The movement made so that he lost his balance. He would have crashed on the ground if Inej hadn’t been there to prevent the fall. She brought his arm over and shoulder and steadied him.

Kaz looked at her intently, his face turned in her direction, his eyes scanning her features and she knew what he was about to tell her even before he spoke the words.

“Inej, you can still make it, you’re fast, you have to run and save yourself.”

“I knew you were going to say this, but if you think that I could ever leave you behind you’re sorely mistaken.”

He did not relent, and as stubbornly as ever he removed his arm from around her shoulder, he gripped his cane with all his might so as not to fall again and faced her.

“Inej, please. Run now. Live. You have so much you still have to give to this wretched world.” Kaz Brekker never said please, never. Yet here he was, a broken boy standing in front of the girl he had grown to love.

“I can’t do that,” Inej simply replied while shaking her head in denial.

“It was all my fault, and you can’t pay my foolishness with your life, I won’t allow it. It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it.”

She took the short distance separating them and put her hand atop his on his cane.

“None of this was your fault, you have to get that straight. We’ve done something good, we helped our friends, our countries. And you’ll always be worth it to me.”

At her words she felt his breath hitch, but still his eyes held behind them a strange resolution.

“I can’t be the reason why you die here today, why can’t you understand that?” Kaz’s voice cracked, perhaps with the effort of holding back his desperation. Inej brought her free hand up and gently cupped his face with her palm. Her thumb grazed his cheek in a loving gesture.

“I’m not afraid to die, Kaz. But I’m terrified at the idea of a life without you in it. So, no. I’m not leaving, not now, not ever.”

***

As they stumbled outside the musty room of the monastery, Kaz with an arm draped around Inej’s shoulder for support, the Autumnal sun had started its descent. The soft orange and purple hues of the rays reflected on the sea surface, and the waves created a gentle melody. Inej couldn’t help but think that this was the Saints’ way to lead them onto their next job, their next adventure…

They dragged their feet until they were near the shore and lowered themselves down. For a moment that felt like an eternity, they gazed to the horizon, the sheer but peaceful resignation palpable in the air.

When Kaz clasped her hand and looked at her, she remembered a conversation she had overhead between the boy and Zoya.

They had adjourned their meeting after having gone over their plan again, everyone had stepped out of the room except for Kaz and Zoya, who had prevented him from exiting with a question. Curious as to why he hadn’t joined her outside, she had stayed behind the closed door, waiting in the long corridor. She had known that Kaz, and probably the queen too, were aware that she was there, but she hadn’t cared much.

“Just out of curiosity, why are you doing this Mr. Kerch rat?” she had asked, her voice reverberating even outside.

“I thought it was pretty obvious, Your Highness. It’s for the reward.” He had replied in that wry tone of his that she knew drove Zoya crazy.

“Oh, but I don’t think it’s just that.” Even without having been inside, Inej could picture the other woman taking one of the positions she had learned the queen preferred. Arms crossed and a frowned expression to better look down on him. In the crows’ time at the palace, the two Suli women had formed an easy and quiet friendship. The captain of the Wraith had helped her queen to reacquaint herself with her Suli heritage and Inej had even told Zoya that once the situation was over, she was going to bring her to her family caravans, to spend some time amongst their people. They had become sisters at heart and by blood.

“Enlighten me with your glorious knowledge then.”

Kaz had always liked playing with fire, but he was always walking a fine line with the sovereign of Ravka. Perhaps he wanted to see how much she could take before she decided to strike him out of existence on the spot.

“When you saw that this was getting dangerous, that it wasn’t going to be an easy job, you could have easily dropped everything and return to Ketterdam with you crew. Why didn’t you? Why stay when you knew the risks?”

Inej had heard genuine interest in Zoya’s voice that didn’t bore any resentment.

“I don’t know what you want me to answer.”

“Try with the truth, I know it’s hard for you, but indulge me. I know you’re not doing this just for yourself and your own benefit, as shockingly as it may seem. You’re still here for Inej, for the promise we had sworn to keep.” The queen had said as if she had found out the deepest secret of the man standing before her.

“Let me get this straight,” he had rasped. “I’ll always do what’s best for me, but I’m also a man of my word and I made a promise.”

There had been a few seconds of absolute silence, in which probably Zoya had studied him with those piercing blue eyes of hers.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but under certain aspects we’re not that different you and I. Your prickly behavior can only last so long, Kaz, but eventually you’ll have to let go. I’ve learned that even the thickest thorns have their purposes.”  The queen had said with a wisdom that at times made Inej wondered how many lives the queen had already lived.

“Ah, but here’s where your wrong, Your Excellency. In this scenario you’re comparing me to thorn wood, while actually I’m just barren land on which nothing grows.”

His lapidary answer would have been enough to render speechless anyone, but not Zoya the Grisha queen of Ravka. In her spectacular talent at having always the last word she told him: “You’ll realize that you can’t keep up this cold demeanor forever. I just hope it won’t be too late when you do.”

***

Inej squeezed Kaz’s hand tighter and looked him straight in his brown eyes, a shade lighter in the orange sun. From a distance they heard the sound of bells. Their friends had managed to give the alarm, she only hoped they were already on their way back to the palace. The tolls were shortly followed by another sound: propellers guiding the Fjerdan ships to face the town and the monastery. With a small smile grazing her feature she told him said.

“You were wrong. You were wrong that time when you spoke with Zoya.” If at the beginning of her sentence he had seemed confused, now she could see he understood what conversation she meant.

“You’re not just barren land, Kaz. You managed to build something from nothing, you survived all those terrible things in your life and in the process, you managed to grow, to thrive, to do something good for Ravka and your friends. I’m sure your brother would be proud of you. I know I am.”  He didn’t reply.

The rumbling of the aircrafts was almost cacophonic, in contrast to the peace they had basked in not a few minutes ago. Despite that, it was as if the two of them had been placed in a protective bubble of their own, in which not even those machines of war could destroy.

Perhaps it was the lightening, but Inej swore those were unshed tears glinting in Kaz’s eyes. In all the years she had known him, she had never even seen him get emotional or choked up about something, but here, now, on this shore with her, Dirtyhands was doing just that.

“I’ve never wanted for it to end like this – his shoulders shook as he held back a sob – for us, to end like this. Inej, believe me when I tell you that if I could go back, I would do so many things differently. If I could go back, I would start to show you how much I admire you, how much I love you so much earlier than I did.”

Inej’s hand found his face again. The tip of her fingers skimmed his lips in such a tender gesture that they parted under her touch.

“There’s no need for that, Kaz, I already know. And it doesn’t matter how early or late you started. You show me you love me every day.” Her limb continued on her exploration: she touched his brow, his eyes, his cheekbones. “I propose a deal: I’ll find you in the next life Kaz Rietveld, and even there I’ll be waiting for you perched on your windowsill feeding the crows.”

Still looking at her straight in the eye, he let go of her hand, removed his gloves discarding them on the sand and rubbed her disheveled braid between two trembling fingers.

“The deal is the deal. I’ll find you there then.”

The rumble of the ship cannons had reached a deafening peak as their beams struck mercilessly on the monastery in an unescapable trap of fire.

Before the very end, the two held themselves up on trembling knees and embraced the other. A small smile of resigned happiness on both of their faces.

“Stay with me,” Kaz whispered, and unlike another and far time her answer was clear.

“Always.” Inej swore.

Saints protect us both, was the last thing she thought.

And then there was nothing but searing light.

***

In Os Alta the feast on Sankt Nikolai was fast approaching, but even if she was the queen Zoya didn’t feel much festive. The white, still landscape of her country at this time of the year was an accurate representation of what she had been feeling ever since they had managed to find the heart of Sankt Feliks, save Ravka from the plague and its enemies with another peace treaty and bring the Darkling – or Aleksander as he insisted to be called – back to the little palace where they could control him. She knew they were taking a risk, but it was safer to have him closer than not knowing where he was. It had been a hard decision, but she wasn’t going to murder him in cold blood, she was not going to turn into a monster, as he had in his lust for power. In his loneliness.  

When everything had come back to a pseudo- normality, when she had had time to think and just be, it was then that everything she had been holding back for the sake of her country hit her with tenfold the force.

Zoya had understood that keeping emotions bottled inside you, was going to eat you alive in the longer run. It was something she was learning every day, and that she was willing to change, if only a bit. She had started letting go in the small gestures of affection she shared with Genya, in the loving words she had with Nikolai, in the playful banters she occasionally allowed herself to have with the rest of her friends. Her family.

And so, as the Grisha queen strode towards her garden, the winter sun barely a strip on the horizon of a new morning, she couldn’t help the tears that fell down in two cold streaks down her face. Zoya brought an arm up to dry them, the sensation of the thick wool of her winter kefta both prickly and a reassurance.

She opened the door of the little corner of her world. Nobody entered this sanctuary except for Nikolai, since she hadn’t allowed anybody else to see her soul from that close. The structure her king had built for her always managed to leave her speechless. The glass and iron were combined in perfect harmony, and when Zoya worked in it by day, the sun would cast and create a series of little mesmerizing rainbows. However, what would always speak to her were the walls, painted by Alina. The roaring dragon flying, the little fox, the ship resembling the Volkvolny mastering the sea, the colors and symbols of the Grisha orders were her most trusted companions during the solitary hours of her gardening.

It was there where Nikolai found her, tending to her plants and flowers. She heard him enter her safe haven, and she supposed he had come out to her when he had awoken and hadn’t seen her resting beside him.  He approached her and kneeled beside where she was on the ground, a rather small pot between her hands. Nikolai knew that when she was working here like this, he would have had to let go of his privateer side, and just be the man she had fallen in love with and married. In short, he needed to be her anchor.

“Those are nice flowers,” he said, pointing to the little thing with red petals. A genuine interest coloring his voice.

“They’re wild geraniums.” Was Zoya’s noncommittal answer. Her eyes hadn’t looked up at him.

“And what is that other sprout beside the flowers?” Nikolai prompted her again, indicating the smaller, yet visible plant growing alongside the geraniums. It looked like it was enveloping the geraniums in an embrace, its green leaves a stark, yet so right, contrast with the red of the petals.

This time she raised her gaze, and her blue orbs found a pair of comforting hazel ones staring back at him.

“It’s ivy.” Again, she didn’t let herself go into any sort of explanation.

“I remember you with a vase like this when you left for the Suli caravans.”

So, he had noticed, of course he had. Zoya was always taken aback by the fact that when it came to her, Nikolai was even a closer observant than he already was.  

As soon as everything had settled after the whole ordeal, she had decided that she was going to be the one to bring the news to the Ghafas. Her and only her with no escort and no Nikolai in tow. She had told him that she had to do this particular thing alone, and he had just hugged her and encouraged her to go. It had been a spiritual journey of sorts; one she had promised her other Suli sister they would take together…

“Yes,” she said in a whisper. “They were Inej’s favorite flowers. I brought a pot to her parents when I visited the camps. It was the least I could.” With her hand she showed him other three little vases with the same brightly colored flowers and green little sprout of ivy on the side. “Those are for Nina, Jesper and Wylan. It’s their present for Sankt Nikolai.”  

“Zoya,” he started. She knew they’ve been over this before, and yet she couldn’t seem to let her sense of guilt leave her.

“They knew what they were doing, it was their choice.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t make it any easier, Nikolai. When I met her parents – she shook her head – they treated me like their own. Like I was family. I’ve never felt so accepted, so… seen in my life, except for when I’m with you. And yet I’m part of the reason why their daughter has been taken away from them. They both have been taken away from them.” A small moment of silence, and once again she couldn’t stop the little tear escaping the corner of her eye.

“I just don’t understand how there can be such kindness after so much loss.” Zoya wondered out loud.

“It’s the nature of human beings, and also our strength.” Nikolai said. “Even after losing everything, we find it in ourselves to get back on our feet and fight for something new, something worth all the suffering.” He dragged himself closer to Zoya with his arms and then raised a hand to cup her cheek, gently steering her face in his direction. His thumb brushing away the stray tear marking her face.

“As long as there is life, there is happiness, Zoya. There is hope for a brighter future. And that’s exactly what Kaz and Inej had brought us: hope to build something better from the ashes.” He paused and behind his eyes she could see the same emotions that had been haunting her, testimony of the fact that he too had been grieving his friends.

“Don’t let your sorrow squander the hope they enabled with their sacrifice, because you wouldn’t be honoring their memories in that ways.”

“Oh, Nikolai,” she exhaled before throwing her arms around him with such a force he momentarily lost his balance. “Thank you!”

“Any time, my queen. I’ll always be here.” He promised.

“And besides, you know how much I love when I’m being all smart and wise. I couldn’t let this occasion to show it to you slip by.” He finished with a much brighter tone. Zoya softly chuckled, something she hadn’t thought being capable of mere months ago and told him with fake exasperation.

“Of course, you couldn’t. It’s your modesty I fell for after all.”

They remained in each other’s arms for an indefinite amount of time. The only indication of the time passing was the sun which har finally risen, and now was beating on the glass panels of the garden. Zoya continued tending to her plants, all a part of her in some capacity, as Nikolai watched her in a comforting silence, seated on the ground and with his back against a small tree.

“Why the ivy?” he asked her all of a sudden. His eyes returning once again on the pots near him.

“It can grow even in poor soils and although it requires more time for it to bloom than other plants, when it does its resilience it’s unmatched.” Zoya saw Nikolai nodding in understanding.

“I also found the meaning behind it fitting,” She added.

“What’s the meaning?”

“It symbolizes the constancy of love.”

There was a brief silence in which she saw him taking in the information.

“It is as fitting as it is beautiful,” he said, while he rose to his feet and brought her closer once again, placing a soft kiss on her dark mane.

As they left to go back to the palace, hand in hand, Zoya thought to herself that in life there were people whose souls were connected and strung in ways that couldn’t be explained by logic. She looked at Nikolai walking alongside her and smiled softly to herself, sure she had found the missing piece of her complicated puzzle in the golden boy beside her.

Her gait hadn’t felt this light in months.

In a glass garden, in a country ruled by a powerful Grisha queen with the heart of a dragon, a plant of geraniums and ivy grew stronger by the day, forever entwined in their embrace of constant love for the other.

[bigskydreaming]

I’m still thinking through names I like for Cass better than Orphan or Black Bat (which I don’t hate like I do Orphan, but I’ve always felt that the name Black Bat came more out of just ‘come up with something franchise themed’ than trying to find something for Cass specifically), for when she’s not Batgirl or Steph is instead. Not for any particular project or anything, I’ve just been stuck on that train of thought since falling onto it the other day.

I think I’ve given up on it being Red themed lol. My dreams for Batfam symmetry are doomed to come to naught. C’est la vie.

Currently though most of the ideas I have are all central to or revolving around communication or connection, because I honestly think those are thematically so PIVOTAL to who Cass is.....but the danger is something like that coming across as ironic due to Cass not being particularly talkative in a lot of peoples’ interpretations or views, and its absolutely not meant to be, not for the reasons I’m thinking.

Like because the thing about her childhood is....there’s so much to focus on that was fucked up about what David Cain put her through, its impossible to have a specific place to ‘start’. But I think something that definitely at least has to be way up there is the isolation he forced her to live most of her early life in. Deprived of even the POSSIBILITY of connection to others. Because connection is so fundamental to what makes us human. As well as to what makes Cass “Cass.” Cass THRIVES due to the connections she chooses for herself. Don’t get me wrong, she’s fully capable on her own, its not about suggesting she’s reliant on them.....for me, its more about the triumph of her having the freedom and CHOICE now to connect herself to as many people as she chooses, when originally her father had meant for her to basically exist APART from society. Emphasizing the importance of connection and communication to Cass is like, a definite fuck you to her dad and his plans for her, a symbol of her freedom and independence. 

But also its not JUST that, because its also just about the sheer joy of connecting for Cass, because its the fulfillment of dreams she never really expected to become reality. Because as much as her life with David defined a large portion of her childhood, she was also shaped in no small part by the years she spent on her own....where even though she was out from under Cain’s thumb, she was still influenced by the specter of him and everything he’d ever said to her. She kept herself apart from society for the most part, even though now technically she was free to mingle among it if she chose....because she felt guilt-ridden over the death she’d been party to though it had never truly been her fault and she was very much Cain’s victim there as well as the man who died, rather than him being her victim.

But the point is, a lot of the second half of her childhood was spent in silence as well, albeit self-imposed silence....except also no, fuck that, it wasn’t self-imposed because she was still suffering from the trauma of her worldview being so heavily shaped and influenced by her abusive fucknugget of a father, who’d essentially spent years convincing her that words weren’t for her, that communication, that connection, those were things for people other than her but would forever elude her because she just wasn’t BORN to partake in those things. She stayed outside of society, made no real effort to figure out if she COULD learn to communicate like others did, because her abuse in no small part had revolved around making her believe it was just her place to be silent, her role. That a weapon didn’t need words.

So in the family and fulfillment Cass found later in Barbara and Bruce and Steph and others, like.....it wasn’t just about her finding companionship or even a sense of purpose or direction......she found a voice. Even if she speaks more with sign than out loud or even if she has trouble translating her thoughts into words or sign language due to learning disability or the like, Cass very much COMMUNICATES, she connects, she has things to say, and she more than anyone understands the importance of a voice, whether spoken or written or signed, of the power inherent in just being able to use it and express oneself.

And its equally key that Bruce and Babs and others didn’t GIVE that to her, because how could they? It was something she had all along because the reality is no matter how hard he tried, it was something Cain couldn’t truly take from her. All he could do (and make no mistake, I use “all he could do” to emphasize the ultimate failure of his attempts to control her rather than to dilute the extent of trauma his abuse did inflict) - but even his attempts to cut her off from people and isolate her via an inability to communicate.....they relied wholly on denying her the tools and opportunities to learn how to make use of her voice, of the things she wanted and needed to say. 

So its not a gift that Babs and Bruce bestowed on her, because it wasn’t something anyone COULD give her anymore than it could fully be taken from her. But they did help her find that she had things to say and she had ways to say them. That she deserved to be heard and understood as much as anybody, and that she had so much in her that had just been waiting for someone to tell it to and ways for her to do that. They helped show her how to connect her voice to the right audiences for it, to communicate to people who would hear her and as Batgirl and Black Bat.....to people who NEEDED to hear her. For whom the things she could communicate via her actions and protection as much as anything else.....like that was a message they needed to hear themselves due to the abusers and villains in their own lives.

And I just see that as so.....triumphant for Cass is the word I honestly keep going back to the most.

I’ve called Dick’s approach to vigilantism his form of performance art. Carrying something that holds great importance to him even if others might overlook its significance, into what he does as a vigilante in ways that everyone he helps benefits from. Even if they don’t realize that his light-hearted performances even while sweeping them out of the path of danger is as much to help buffer them from the trauma of what is happening to them and how much they’ve already suffered.....those are as much a part of his aim to protect and make peoples’ lives better as his actual martial arts.

In the same sense, I consider Cass’ approach to vigilantism her form of connectivity. Its her message to people who need to hear, to see, to believe that there is help for them out there, that there is someone who wants to come for them, someone who wants to bring them out of whatever hole or isolation or danger they’ve fallen or been forced into....they need this as much as Cass needs it to be able to say look at me, look at my actions, I did that, I said that, that was ME.

For Cass, I feel vigilantism is about finding her voice, finding ways to put into message form others can understand even on a primal level the things she wants to communicate, that she wishes had been communicated earlier to her...that everyone deserves to be connected, to have connections, and to just....speak. In whatever form they can or choose to.

Its about the ability and freedom to use her voice, to impart her messages....and see those things have IMPACT. Be heard. Seen. Communicated.

And for those reasons I keep coming back to something like Songbird, but its ugh....its such a Catch 22. It would be so easy to misconstrue, but honestly I think it fits what I’m describing so well and like.....whatever, ultimately it doesn’t matter since this is just a headcanony thing anyway and not going to actually change anything, but like....I am The Undecided.

(Also I know Marvel already has a Songbird, but a) I dont care, like Marvel is stupid so umm why would that even matter yeah thats what I thought and b) I mean Songbird is an easy name to attach to any color one wants to make part of her name and ascribe particular significance to. Like she could be Red Songbird? Scarlet Songbird? Yes? No? Give up the dream Kalen, Big Red, Middle Red and Lil’ Red just ain’t it? Ugh, fine. Booo.)

But anyway, that’s what I’ve been musing on.

[daydreamed-snippets]

TW: Sorry, I’m in a mood. Talk of Suicide. Abuse of prescription medication. Underage drinking. Hints at abuse

It was quiet here in the bones of the old house. Cold. Drafty. Wildlife feasted on the general decomposition of trim. Faded tile and decaying drywall dangling at odd angles. Bricks lay uprooted by greenery. Furniture slowly losing its form was arranged haphazardly throughout the house. Winn could see her breath hang in the air, curl in a tight spiral before dispersing into the night. A single electric lantern kept watch beside a nest of her own making: a bedding of dried leaves, her favorite crochet blanket, and a little radio faintly playing an upbeat tune.

Oh, and a bottle of whiskey and every fucking antidepressant and mood stabilizer those bastards had ever prescribed for her. 

Playing eenie meenie miney mo, she uncapped a half-empty bottle of citalopram and popped all of it into her mouth. She took a swig, throwing her head back to ensure she swallowed. Looking around she supposed it was a fitting epitaph. Her end would be here, in this broken mausoleum, a showcase to humankind’s fundamental need to create something sublime but ultimately fail in its maintenance. To conceive something beautiful but become indifferent and bored with it, letting it fall into ruin. Wreckage that is only redeemable by nature itself. It would be nice, she thought, if something productive, beautiful even, grew out of her decaying life too. 

Then maybe everything would have been worth it.

Absently plucking at weeds poking through fractured flooring, she huddled over on herself waiting for the drugs to take effect. Her stomach turned as she tried not to think. Tried not to repeat the same question over and over in her head.

How many times did she have to lose everything to take the hint? How many times did she have to hit rock bottom before her knees buckled and her legs snapped trying to stick the landing as she broke herself to please everyone?

For her, the answer was four. Not that that matters now. Cause now it was too late. Now she finally gets it. Now she gets why her Mami was so unhappy. Why Miami's boyfriend, Leonard, wasn’t happy. Why her doctors weren’t happy. Her teachers, her friends. Everyone. Why the world was unhappy. Maybe her death would make them happy again.

A breeze picked up, whistling through the gaps. It sounded like someone was whistling and walking around the house, wooden planks creaking. That should have terrified her but her mind was starting to feel a pleasant, sleepy haziness. She took another half-empty bottle by her feet and downed the contents, choking on her own saliva and the aftertaste of the alcohol. 

Thoughts continued to rush in, unabated, like a broken dam. Each empty bottle held its own story, mostly of the times Leonard lugged her to another shrink, to “fix” her while her mother sat in the car, finding solace in a glass bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. Finishing it before Winn’s hour-long appointments were over. 

None of it ever seemed to satisfy Leonard. Not that he ever waited for her to finish her prescription before shoving the next pill down her throat, deeming the previous one ineffective when she would have another episode. Promising that the next drug would be it. That the next one would work. And she believed him. Each and every time, she believed. Whatever was wrong with her, these next pills would fix it.

But they never did. 

Soon it turned into, why can’t you be like x? Why can’t you just do x? Your attitude is why x is happening to you. Do you even want to get better from x?

She could put anything in for x. The equation stayed the same, with one common denominator: 

Her. 

Winn. 

She was the shared numerator whose value was always zero. And anything that is multiplied by zero forever equals zero.

Another half-filled bottle, another swig. Her heart started slowing down. So did her breathing, face becoming flush. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. 

Another floorboard whined under stress, and a voice followed it. “That is an especially painful way to die, dear one,” someone called out to her. “Overdoses can be messy affairs when attempted through the unpredictability of drugs.”

A surge of fright course through her. Who was that? A ghost? Leonard? She didn’t know. They remained out of sight. She looked up through the smog of her mind, unaware that anyone had breached the house grounds. She curled more into her nest. 

It couldn’t be Leonard. At least she didn’t think it was him. It was hard to tell right now. It didn’t sound like him. Her chest wouldn’t stop stinging, though, at war with medical sedation and her adrenaline. Trying to play it cool, she schooled her tone, wishing she had a taser on her. Cursing how stupid she was to come here without one. “You lost?” she called, scrubbing her face with the bottom of her palm, her coordination clumsy. “The main road‘s that way.” She pointed, not exactly knowing if that was the right direction anymore. “House gone to be destroyed in the morning. The bots won’t check to see if anyone’s in here before they start smashing.”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he asked, coming into view. It sounded more like a statement. “Because you don’t think anyone will find you before they start demolition.”

She squinted at the man in an impeccable blue suit, refusing to answer. Definitely not Leonard. But…

“Mmm, I know you,” she said scrunching her eyes, fighting to place the face, fighting to find a name. Yes, she has seen him somewhere, but her mind could only remember one location in which she encountered him. A place shrouded in metaphoric perception and youthful symbolism. A place that is both romanticized and villainized oftentimes in the same breath. A place she could only visit when she closed her eyes at night and slipped from this reality to another. 

“The man of my dreams. How—?” She swallowed, thoughts tripping over themselves. Her speech started to slur. He squatted in front of her, full weight on the balls of his expensive shoes, keeping his immaculate attire away from the dirt of the house. He moved gracefully, and though his smile looked concerned it was still every bit disarming.

“Uhh, I mean man from my dreams,” she stammered. “Uh, how is this?” It dawned on her. The part of her mind that was still intact. “Hallucinations. I’m dreaming. I-I’ve passed out.”

“You have not,” he said, making no move towards her. Simply staring her down with hooded eyes. “At least, not yet. And though I am, how did you put it, ‘the man of your dreams’, I’m not some figment of your imagination, Winnifred. I am quite real, and I’m here.”

Winn barked a laugh, “Oh my gods, for real? ‘I’m here’?” she mocked. “Everything’s good, I’m here.” She grabbed the bottle, his eyes following, and took a sip. “Fo sure, like that would really matter now. You can get your damn hair swirl outta my face with that.” 

She made a move for his hair, uncoordinated and choppy, catching herself when she leaned forward too much and fell onto her hands. It took a while. He remained still for her, attentive, but unmoved. She was able to ruffle his dark blond hair out of its slicked-back position, wrapping a finger around the bit of lock that fell over his brow without falling again. 

Their eyes met.

Realizing what she was doing she yanked her hand back as if burned. Confusion swept through her. He raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Convinced?”

“I can touch people in my dreams, it’s just...” It’s never felt so real. 

She reached for another prescription. Clearly, she was delusional. Clearly, this was a trick. She poured out the oval-shaped pill preparing to swallow it whole. It was quite possible that she was out cold, body slumped over like the furniture of this house. Quite possible she was unconscious and this was her mind’s last chance at providing her with a final comfort. A childhood sentential to keep watch as she fades away.

She tilted her head back, arm poised to sling the pills into her mouth. 

The man moves. 

He shifts to catch her wrist in a light but firm hold. The bottle slips out of her fingers, clatters to the floor, along with the pills, dropping between boards and out of reach. Winn curses. 

“Don’t touch me,” she said pulling away easily. “You don’t know me like that.”

“Listen to me, Winnifred,” his voice held a command. “I have not moved heaven and earth—I have not rescheduled my life just to watch your throw away yours. I do know you. I’ve known you since you were four years old. I’ve visited your dreams since your first nightmare. I’ve watched over you the best I could from afar.

“When I said, I’m here now, it wasn’t meant to be crass or derisive. So many people have let you down in your life, I being the chief among them. But I am here now. Things will get better. Let me prove it.”

“That wasn’t real. And dreams isn’t knowing someone.”

He tilted his head. “I know that your father left you when you were six. I know that your mother has been bounding from boyfriend to boyfriend, looking for validation but never really finding it. Each suitor worse than the last. The current beau is a monster called Leonard.”

She gulped, running a hand over her face. Tucking a curl behind her ear. He watched, gaze overly familiar. Possessive without even touching her. Eyes extracting what he wanted. She imagined he didn't take no for an answer. She imagined he changed outcomes to fit his ambitions. 

She felt unable to hide. 

“I know what he’s been doing to you,” he said, voice changing.

“H-how?”

He let out a breath of air. “I know this because I’ve seen your dreams. I know you’ve been having a recurring one of Leonard assaulting you, and then ending your life. It may happen in different facets and different places, but the theme is resoundingly the same. You also have recurring dreams of your mother’s lifeless body lying on the side of the road while traffic rushes by. Sometimes hitting her, most of the time not.” He adjusted his cufflinks, before completely abandoning his position to sit on the grassy floor. “You’ve been having these particular dreams for a while. It is because you venture into Leonard’s dreams each night, before going to your mother’s. It’s not unusual for someone with your abilities since they are the closest people to you. You’re able to see what Leonard will do to you, whether he’s willing to admit to his own perverse desires or not. And you’re able to view your mother’s darkest fears. Of being abandoned by everyone.”

“You’ve always had a talent for dream wandering and precognitive dreams. You were once able to control your dreams, steer away from the nightmares with my help.” 

“I can’t anymore. It’s too—” her voice cracked, and she was reminded of his face. His words. How Leonard taught her to hold her breath, to clamp down on her tongue. He taught her to hide truths, and keep secrets. To bear the scars without screaming, and conceal them. He showed her to shut up while her dignity—her pride—would rage beneath the surface while he was near.

“Those dreams are just dreams. That’s what Leonard said.” She needed to adhere to that. If anything could appease Leonard it was that. And she needed to appease him. Her mother was too weak, too afraid for her own life to safeguard Winn’s, and yet too desperate for a man to head out on her own. Besides if they ran, Leonard would eventually find them. He always found them.

“Trust me, like you once did,” his voice was soft, yet it cut through her racing thoughts like a well-crafted blade. He held his hand out to her, the gesture speaking of promise and nostalgia. Reminding her of how of a strong presence he was in her dreams. The one bit of sanity in an array of insane characters and worlds. He slew monsters, clothed her when she was naked, stopped her before she'd slip into a free fall. Laughed with her. Held her when she cried. He was kind to her. Above all, he showed her tenderness when no one else did.

“Remember me,” he went on, “as I was. I can be that for you again, in this waking land. You can still choose to come with me and leave all of this sorrow behind. Or,” he withdrew his hand when she turned her head, refusing to take it. “You can choose not to, and I will sit with you until you lose consciousness. Then I will carry you to the nearest medical facility where they will pump your stomach, and a physiologist will evaluate you. One not worth the paper their license was printed on. They will, in all likelihood, lock you away in a psychiatric ward, to be forever treated as a pariah. It’s your choice.” 

Her eyes jerked back towards him. He said it like a threat. Winn supposed she was running out of time. She wanted to trust him, but… she hadn’t seen him in her dreams for two years. He said that he’s there for her, but he hadn’t been. And she’d learned that being alone felt safer. 

She pulled back, making a move to stand. Maybe he’ll let her go. Maybe he wasn’t even here. His fingers didn’t act like a vice when he grabbed her earlier. She easily slipped him then. Maybe she can do it again. Maybe—

Her legs buckled under her, nerve endings on fire. She vomited, hopefully not on him. Gods, not on him. Her vision blurred, darkness edging the rim. She felt hands on her but wasn’t for sure. She was dazed. She needed to resist. Or maybe she needed to give in. She couldn’t open her eyes though was mildly aware of the feeling of being lifted, of a certain weightlessness. 

Winn was heaved against a strong chest. Instinctively, her hands went up, fingers curling and uncurling around dream man’s lapel in a display of rebellion or surrender, she wasn’t sure. She wanted defiance but it was so easy to just give in. Darkness claimed her.

Like it mattered because he wasn’t really there. Right? 

[kingreywrites]

your opinion on moongene?

Your opinion on _____?

Sorry I got really rambly but I have like. A lot of contradicting thoughts about this ghdjkdjd

My favourite character getting to have fun magical powers with a side of angst is obviously a concept that really drew me in at first gshjddj Truly, i was really interested in Eugene's link to the moonstone as in, this is the thing that is more or less responsible for a lot of what he went through in life? His abandonment directly stems from his family's obsession with protecting the stone, his mom probably died because of it too, and the idea of him getting stuck with it was genuinely a concept i couldn't get out of my mind for a while. I was also fascinated by the relationship the Dark Kingdom had with the moonstone, and the paradox between how they wanted it gone and how they couldn't actually destroy it so they started protecting it, and the idea of Eugene being in the middle of all that + knowing Rapunzel thought it was her destiny + knowing the black rocks had been destroying corona (his new home) and could still do that if he kept it + A WHOLE LOT OF OTHER ISSUES ON HIS SHOULDERS was just..... very fun to think about lmao I literally could not start s3 right away despite it being available because I just kept thinking about Destinies Collide and how I wanted it to influence Eugene's arc and its possibilities etc and I didn't want to go too fast because I wanted to form actual theories before seeing if anything would be confirmed (and well uh I shouldn't have worried about that gdhjdjd but basically a lot of my moongene thinking was done pre knowing what mooncass was gonna do exactly)

And that leads me to my problem with moongene as it exists in the fandom because... I Do Not Like moongene as in "Eugene does what Cass did in s3 with some tweaks", and I quickly discovered that a lot of the content and discussions about this AU were... that. There's a lot of fics i just had to close because they were not really about Eugene, in a way 😭 Starting with the reason why he would take it because I have yet to find a fic that could convince me Eugene could / would ever 1. betray Rapunzel, 2. make it a long-term betrayal and 3. refuse when she asks for the moonstone back directly. And since most of the moongene content starts with these three points, I fundamentally disagree with Eugene's characterisation most of the time gshjdkd

(I also have trouble with the idea of a selfless betrayal very quickly because the rhetoric "I have to hurt those I love to save them" gets annoying for me if it goes on too long gdhkdkd for all that Cassandra's motivations can be nebulous in s3, at least it's not stupid as in "I'm protecting Rapunzel by taking the moonstone away and there's absolutely no easier way to do that than to run off in the woods with a demon while she's miserable")

Basically what I'm trying to say is that I think a lot of the moongene content doesn't feel like it's about Eugene as much as it is about putting him in a dramatized mooncass arc and it's a shame imo. There's a lot of eugene specific questions I feel we're missing out on by simply trying to recreate Cass' arc with him!! And like, a very stupid one I rarely see raised but I feel would be interesting is how much Eugene would hate having blue hair asgjdjdg the fact that his ego and love for his own appearance is practically never questionned in a scenario where that same appearance is drastically changed is a big missed opportunity! I also do love emotional vulnerability and all but, you know, Eugene is the guy who made a room tour of the place he died, humor and practical thinking are big part of his character, and a lot of the moongene melodrama misses this part of him

And this is... only concerning my issues with how he's himself treated in a moongene au, but then there's. how the other characters are written around that too. And again it gets tricky for me because like, new dream as soulmates linked by Destiny™ is something that instantly loses my interest if it's given too much weight which is not questionned at all, Rapunzel being an eplored maiden waiting for him to come back can quickly feel wrong in the sense that i don't enjoy any fic where Eugene needlessly hurts her and she ~doesn't mind it~ because she loves him and he's sad, and as you put it in this post (which was really interesting btw!) Cassandra gets the very shortest end of the stick most of the time and Zhan Tiri is just uhh floating around being mean. Also if we're lucky Lance gets mentioned (when like, I think Lance being his best friend since childhood should be a good reason to make him and his reaction important in any moongene story)

I'm not particularly picky and I have read stuff I did not necessarily agree with but in general there are no developed moongene fic out there which ever became a favourite of mine which is crazy considering how much i loved this concept. I really think that as long as this AU mostly stays stuck in the "I want what Cass had" stage, I'll have trouble finding something that speaks to me because I personally don't ghdhfgd And though I get that fan content is not obligated to touch on every issue in the show, I think that erasing Cass, her issues, the fact that she wanted the stone too and still has Zhan Tiri in her corner takes away a lot of possible conflict that would be interesting to explore in a long fic. Idk, it just feels like a lot of the content is "restricted" by the canon moonstone arc, even when people say they write about this AU to break away from what went down in the show :/

[dragonrajafanfiction]

The Cassell Cynics Chapter 3

@hectabdr

@hectab

Hana Sato walked back into the administrators building alone and shrugged when the Guderian, Manstein and Schneider all sighed at once.

“Hey, I tried.” She said.

“You were gone for such a long time. I got my hopes up.” Guderian lamented. He looked at the CCTV footage. Nathan Phillips was still where he had been all afternoon, but now he seemed to be sleeping. More likely he was just too stoned to sit up straight.

“Did you find out anything?” Schneider asked.

“Well...” She shrugged. “I found out that he’s C-ranked, he doesn’t believe he can actually slay any dragons, and he’s planning on dropping out and having his memory wiped.”

Guderian visibly paled. “Dropping out?! No one ever drops out!”

“I was going to ask you that.” Hana winced. “Do you know of anyone who’s ever actually dropped out?”

“Dropping out is easier said than done. It takes an extremely strong will to do it. Hybrids are fundamentally different from other humans.” Schneider’s voice was very soft. He spun a pen in his hand and his eyes turned distant. “A young person will feel an intense loneliness, the desire to reach out and find people like them without hearing anyone speak to them in a way they will understand. It doesn’t matter if it's a school like Cassell, or a private club, or a religion. Hybrids will wander and search until they gather together out of loneliness and the need to be with those of their own kind. For someone to experience the company of other Hybrids and then to turn away....” He paused, not finishing the sentence.

Guderian sighed, mournfully. “It seems so impossible. But it's true, he hasn’t joined any clubs, and shows no interest in any classes. Shows no interest in any girls.”

“The feeling is mutual. He’s has a reputation of uselessness on a level higher than Fingel Von Frings.” Manstein said. “Few on the faculty want to deal with him. Much less the students.”

“Perhaps that’s intentional. If no one sees him as useful, it's easier for him to disappear.” Schneider said.

Manstein spoke up. “Toyama has said that it is very rare for someone to be able to resist the ‘Cry of the Blood’ but it can happen. If the dragon blood purity is low enough then he might not feel the Blood Cry so strongly. Perhaps he is actually of C-rank and you two are having wishful thoughts.” Manstein huffed.

“Wait, you’re not sure what rank he is?” Hana’s eyes darted back and forth from face to face.

Schneider cleared his throat loudly. “His willfully negligent behavior is unusual for a C-rank and is intriguing enough to investigate. You see, low ranking hybrids are not usually this stubborn. We thought perhaps we could retest him.”

“He seemed pretty normal to me…” Hana responded. The three professors all stared at her. “I… I mean, some of the things he said were things I could understand. He doesn’t like the fact that people are here just to score what he called ‘social points’. He feels he’s here just to please his parents, but because he’s no use to the Cassell Mission it’s pointless for him to work hard. It’s not that he’s rejecting anyone. He seems to know that when the big missions come along, he won’t be called up. So there’s no point in being at the top of his game.”

“There are no useless hybrids at Cassell.” Schneider said. “In order to stay here you have to be above average, answering six out of the ten questions on the 3E exam. If he were just an ordinary Hybrid or possessed only garbage dragon genes, then he would not have been acceptable at all and we would have rejected him. He should know this.”

“I don’t mean to be argumentative, but he’s kind of right.” Hana said. “A-ranked students are called up in dire emergencies only. The last emergency we had, it was only A through S rankers. Since when was a C-ranked student sent on an A ranked mission? Wouldn’t that be the same as sending them on a death trap? No one is going to send a C-rank to kill a dragon king. It just doesn’t happen. What’s more, everyone knows that a B ranking should be the lowest grade on the Campus, for someone to get a C or an F like Fingel, it’s a joke to the whole college and no one would want to be caught dead hanging out with him. The only reason I could sit and talk to him was because I’m already a reject. I can’t get any lower, right?”

The three professors looked at each other in turn. 

Guderian rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you can talk to him again! He seems to like you! He doesn’t usually hold a conversation with anyone for very long!”

“Uh…” Hana smiled. “Honestly, I think I’m better off handling this escort mission alone. He’s made it very clear that he’s not interested in doing the assignment.”

Guderian gasped. “Oh right! The assignment! Yes… about that. Don't worry about that.”

Hana’s jaw dropped in confusion. “What do you mean don’t worry about it?”

“Um… the shipment was delayed. Yes… delayed. So you don’t have to worry about the assignment. More importantly, I think Mr. Phillips can use another interview from you. And we’ll make that your assignment!”

Hana sighed in disbelief. She crossed her arms. “When will this assignment end and how do I know I got a good grade?”

Manstein and Schneider both glared at Guderian and the man flinched. “I uh… heh… The assignment will be complete after this last interrog-... I mean, interview. And you’ll receive a full completed mark for my class.”

“I’ll take it!” Hana beamed. “Now if there’s no more, I have to get ready for my assignment!”

------

“So you were right. There probably wasn’t any cargo assignment at all.  They’re just really interested in the idea of you dropping out.” Hana reached over to dip her pita bread in the tzatziki sauce. “I think I got assigned to you because I was the only one with no social clout you might talk to. So now, talking to you is my assignment.”

“I don’t get it. Why do they care?”

“It’s not because of their ego. It’s because you’re unusual! It’s weird for hybrids not to want to be with Hybrids. The fact that you would willingly want to drop out and fantasize about it? It got their attention. I think they feel they might be wrong about your ranking. You’re C-ranked but you don’t act like it. Plus, it’s not possible for a C-rank to get into Cassell. The lowest rank they’ll accept is B. Officially. Fingel was A ranked when he joined but was demoted after. You were accepted as C… that’s strange. Did they say why?”

The spring air was still chilly but Nathan kept the window open in his dorm. The smell of garlic was strong from both the Greek and the Italian food. Hana and Nathan sat around a table full of half eaten styrofoam clamshells. Nathan sat back, his arms resting on the back of the used sofa, against the open window, shamelessly without a shirt, in the same pants he’d worn all day. His brown hair was roughed by the wind but he seemed to like it that way. “No.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what happened.”

“You had to resonate at least somewhat… right? C isn’t nothing.”

Nathan let out a breath and stood up to go to the dark kitchen and he returned with a beer. “You’re just going to go back and report everything I say. So why should I tell you anything?”

“Worst case scenario, you actually don’t belong there, this is all a mistake and they wipe your mind early. Best case scenario you find out you’ve been under-ranked all along and you can actually go on the dragonslaying missions and you can shove it in the face of all the people who looked down on you.”

He sat back down on the couch. “Both of those scenarios kinda suck.”

“You’re all about reality and truth, right?” She said, “If you really don’t belong here, you shouldn’t be here. If you do belong here, you should be here. If you’re as low ranking as you believe you are? Brain washing should be no problem. But if you’re strong? Having your memory wiped could cause intense anxiety and depression. Because you won’t be able to silence the blood-cry, no matter how hard you try. Hybrids always find each other. Only you will be miserable because you’ll be locked out of the world you belong to. Once you leave Cassell… you can’t come back. People may look down on you because you’re ranked C… but Fingel is ranked F and he’s not leaving. They haven’t kicked him out. Probably because he wouldn’t survive on his own out there. What do you think your chances are?”

Nathan took a drink from his beer. “I know that.”

“I’m on your side here. Just tell me what happened. I won’t tell the professors. I promise. They just said I had to complete the interview. Guderian didn’t say I had to tell them anything.”

He put the bottle down at the table. “You go first then. What did you see on your exam?”

“I was running down an unusually long corridor. And I just kept running and running until I got to the end and I saw myself. Only… My clothes were covered in blood and I was crying tears of blood. I was crying like...the kind of crying where you’re exhausted and you want to stop but you can’t. I felt like I knew what I was crying about, but I couldn’t… say it. Something terrible that shouldn’t be spoken. An incredible guilt. And I deserved what was coming to me.”

Nathan lowered his bottle from his lips. “Sorry…”

Hana just shrugged her shoulders. “Okay. It’s your turn.”

“Okay… don’t tell them, okay? Promise me.” Nathan’s eyes seemed to darken and Hana realized that perhaps she’d managed to convince him to talk. 

“I won’t. I promise.” Already her mind was fielding several different ways she could talk and somehow get away with it. Mentally, she crossed her fingers.

“I’ll hold you to it.” He tilted the bottle at her. “Anyway, I just… saw one dragon. It wasn’t that I saw a real dragon, I just got a sense of what they were. And I thought about how I’d been running behind my brother trying to keep up with him and my status obsessed parents. But when I saw what real power was? I was like… screw it. Everyone is just… rats on a wheel. So… I just stopped. I stopped writing.”

“What do you mean you stopped? You… stopped taking the test in the middle of it?” Hana's jaw dropped in disbelief for the second time that day. “How could you stop?! The visions are uncontrollable.”

“It was hopeless! I felt the deepest hopelessness you can ever feel. Like you were digging a hole thinking you almost reached the bottom and all you see when you look down is more and more dirt and you understand that you’ll die before you reach the bottom! So you just stop!” He slammed the beer on the table. “It wasn’t something I could control or think ‘okay next question’. It was like the universe reached out and said. ‘No.’ There was no choice. Once you understand what we’re up against? You’ll get it. But… I hope you never do.”

Hana couldn’t pull her gaze away from the haunted look in his eyes. They were the eyes of a crazy person. Maybe it was the fact that they were ringed with dark circles and red rims or the moonlight that made his skin look paler than usual. He certainly looked like someone who had a bad trip.

“I can look at you, Hana… and I can tell you flat out. If you meet a real dragon? You’re dead. You don’t understand what these things are. They look real, with eyes and skin and heart and lungs… but that’s just the … physical outward… manifestation of … some sort of Eldritch Abomination!” He fought to find the words to express what he remembered from the 3E. He was so defiant and stubborn before but now that was all gone. “You THINK you can kill these things because you don’t… understand…”

He leaned forward, his eyes were the most intense she’d ever seen. Hana leaned away from him.

“Cassell college is a joke. On a fundamental level. So yes. I’m getting my memory wiped. Because C ranked… A ranked… forget it. We’re toast.”

“You’re not C ranked.” She said, her voice shaking. “You’re not… And you know it. But you’d rather run away… You’re just like Fingel...”

“I think you’re right about that. But Fingel either doesn’t have the guts to cut and run or they won’t let him. The same way they won’t let me. They send you here to stop me from going. But you’re on my side right? Then you tell them the truth and tell them that ‘Yep! Nathan Phillips is just a C-ranked idiot. Just let him hang out here and cut him loose.’ You’re on my side. Right?”

“You really mean that Cassell can’t win?”

Nathan shook his head slowly.  “Not a chance. Not a snowflake's chance in hell. You’re on my side right? Please Hana. Just… tell them I’m a useless C.”

----

Hana stepped out of the dorm. The wind blew and ruffled the skirt of her uniform. She looked at the stately buildings and prime real estate. She had three assignments due the next day, and a presentation due after that. But a long shadow was suddenly cast over her future at Cassell. 

The shadow by the question. “What if he was right? What if it was really all hopeless? Cassell’s mission was to slay dragons but if it was impossible...”

She turned her face up to the single lit window. Nathan’s window was still open and even though she was outside and he was on the second floor, she could smell the weed from here. 

If I ever meet a dragon, I’ll bow down and say, “I welcome my scaly overlords!”

“You were serious...” She whispered. She turned and walked away, her lone figure receding into the night.

[engineering-myself]

I have been trying to let this whole thing go since yesterday but I think I have to write it down to expel it from my brain so I’ll add a read more to spare everyone the space on their dash lol:

We met with my mom’s fiance and my mom last night to go over our ceremony. He’s our officiant and he did a wonderful job writing the ceremony. Nic and I are both really excited about it, glad that we asked him to perform it, and kept talking about how it is everything we hoped it would be and then some. So that is the good news and I don’t want to sound ungrateful about that because I am ecstatic that we’re going to have such a special ceremony.

But that being said -

I cannot get over how wildly inappropriate my mom was being last night. Her fiance, L, was trying to practice the ceremony with Nic and I. This is by no means his first ceremony. He performs several every year, and so I was excited to be working with him because I know that he’s good at his job and knows what he’s doing. While he’s trying to walk us through things, my mom (who is not an officiant), is literally shouting over him all her opinions about various aspects of the ceremony, to the point where he has to keep stopping because she’s being so demanding of our collective attention. I was getting annoyed, Nic was getting annoyed, and L finally asserted - in a SUPERBLY patient way that I never could have managed due to her level of disrespect - that she needed to stop interrupting him because he was trying to get in a flow and he kept losing his place.

She proceeds to have an extremely childish meltdown. She starts throwing around all this passive aggressive bullshit that is just classically my mom, saying shit like “WELL I GUESS I JUST WON’T TALK THEN” and when he tried to calmly (and frankly, inaccurately) explain that it wasn’t her, he just needed to focus, she was shushing his explanation and throwing her hands in the air and being like “forget it, nevermind, just do your ceremony and I’ll shut up”.

So we go to continue and she’s quiet for maybe five minutes and then she does it again. This time, we were all kind of collectively ignoring her because L was in the middle of an explanation, and when she noticed no one was paying attention, she bizarrely exclaims that “nobody will let her finish and she keeps being interrupted”, to which I laughed out loud, turned to her very impatiently and said “I’m confused, why do you think that YOU’RE the one being interrupted?” And she huffed and stood up and moved further away from us and pouted.

We finally get through the whole thing, the three of us are feeling good about it, and my mom shrieks at us that we need to do the whole thing again from the top. I can tell at this point that Nic, who is not confrontational in the slightest, is running out of patience because he turns to her and says “I don’t think we need to. I don’t want to hear it a bunch of times or it won’t feel special on our wedding day” and somewhere in the middle of his sentence she interrupts him and yells “from the top, do it again” and Nic gives me a look and we give L a look and he kind of sighs and resigns himself and says we’ll do it again.

When we were all done and eating food and talking and joking with L, she continued this bizarre social behavior where she would interrupt her fiance or one of us, and when everyone didn’t immediately stop carrying on with the conversation we were all enjoying, she repeated the whole “nobody ever lets me talk, I’ll just stay quiet, I won’t talk, blah blah blah pity me, for I am always the victim”. It was everything I could do not to lose my shit. Her poor fiance would just wither under her bull shit, and Nic whispered to me later that he had overheard L profusely apologizing to her and for what??? For talking? For writing our ceremony? For performing it beautifully? For telling her she was being rude, even though she definitely was?

It’s not the first time I’ve seen her do this to him. Their relationship is really toxic and I’ve told Nic before that I think she’s fundamentally changed L’s behavior since I met him. She’s constantly scolding him and doing this performative fighting in front of everybody in our family and it’s really worn him down over the years. He used to be so fun when we got together but now he barely talks and I completely understand that it’s because he’s trying to avoid her irrational criticism. It’s painful to watch because I actually like the guy and she’s clearly broken his spirit.

It’s always so troubling to me because I want to assume that she can withstand a rational conversation in which I explain to her that her behavior is out of line and that she could maybe hear me when I say it, but I know from experience that she won’t. She’ll lash out and scream and cry and say that I’m always criticizing her. I’ve grown up a lot since the last time I got in a big fight with her a few years ago, and following that fight, I realized she’s never going to change so why would I waste my time and energy. 

Still, it’s hard to be around her. She’s always been like this but it’s gotten worse over the last few years. Nic can’t stand her, and I don’t blame him. I often wonder how long my relationship with her can reasonably last because she’s so emotionally taxing to be around, and not just for me now but for Nic too. 

I worry that she’ll make our wedding day all about her, although she’s usually better behaved when people besides just family are present (they tend to keep her socially in-check, which also indicates to me that she knows on some level that her behavior is wrong because she reserves it just for family). When Nic sees her shitty behavior either towards me or someone else, as he did last night, he’ll often say to me “remember when she ruined our engagement night?” and it makes me sad that I’ve involved him in all this by just being with him.

(The story there: I texted our whole family simultaneously that we had been engaged mere moments after it happened, and she turned around and called me to yell at me that she “thought our relationship meant more than a text”. I explained that I was telling everyone at the same time so nobody would feel left out and when she continued to yell at me, I started crying and asked her why she was making our engagement night all about her, which she vehemently denied as she continued to yell at me. This continued until Nic convinced me to hang up the phone.)

I’ve said this here before, but I have made my peace with the fact that we’ll never be close because of her behavior towards me and everyone else. Be that as it may, sometimes I fantasize about cutting all ties with her. I usually dread visiting her, and I’m often irked by her behavior for several days after a visit. One time, I wondered out loud to my best friend if I would ever stop talking to my mom someday, and she responded that she “hasn’t done anything bad enough to justify that”, which I both do and don’t understand. She’s not an evil person who means harm, but she’s been hugely affected by several of her own bad relationships (her mother, especially), and it has clearly impacted her ability to have a healthy relationship with anyone else. She’s been known to quote “I’m not nearly as bad as my mom was to me”. I don’t know why I should have to put up with such a messy relationship just because she isn’t worse.

Sometimes I feel like I need a therapist just to navigate our relationship. Other times, I think I see our relationship pretty clearly, and that there really isn’t much else to be done unless I want to stop seeing her altogether. I was recently consoled by an article I found here on tumblr actually that said that if the child of an emotionally stunted parent was looking for permission to stop trying, look no further than the article, because that parent would likely never change. 

This was very long but really all of it was to say this - my mom pushes so many of my buttons, raises so many personal red flags, and I’m hoping that the social aspect of our wedding day will allow us all to get through it mostly unscathed. After that day passes, who knows. Maybe I’ll say something to her about her inappropriate fighting and passive aggressiveness. Maybe I won’t. I’m trying to focus on getting through the next few weeks and then honestly, I might need to reevaluate our relationship. How often we’ll see each other going forward is a bit up in the air beyond that day. I know what visits with her are like. I know that my soon-to-be-husband and I both dread spending time with her. Maybe we’ll just drastically reduce visits in the years ahead. Maybe I’ll suck it up and find a way to deal with it.

Who knows.

[vfenrirsv]

When I die, let the wolves enjoy my bones; When I die, let me go…

I couldn’t even begin to tell you when I last felt like I was myself; when I last felt proud of who I am, or where I came from, or of all the obstacles that I’ve had to overcome in order to get to where I am today.

I was born “Vanessa.” A Gemini, an Air sign, a Horse under Chinese astrology. Coyote is my Totem. Wolf is my Sacred Guide. In Greek the meaning of my name is “Butterfly,” also from Phanessa, the mystic goddess of an ancient Greek brotherhood bent on finding Truth. Various accounts offer the ideas that someone named “Vanessa” bears the qualities of beautiful and strong, and most importantly ‘always tough on the inside.’ To the latter, at least, I can attest.

My Mother, in my infancy, called me “‘Nessa” in affection and “Vanessa-Anne” in ire. If my Father ever called me by any name other than “Baby-girl;” I can’t remember. I don’t remember much about my Father before my early tweens, when I was forced by the courts to spend time with him in an attempt to foster some type of relationship with the man that my Mother had divorced.

In elementary school I was simply “Vanessa.” Straight-A student in all but mathematics, budding lover of arts and crafts, and defender of both my own and my Mother’s honor on the playground when kids teased me about acting like a tomboy, or not having a father.

Throughout secondary school I was largely invisible – called a number of racial slurs, though I never considered any of them my name, even when someone took the time to recognize me; to bully me. Being white in a community predominated by African American and Hispanic families didn’t grant me the illusionary honor of being called anything other than “Cracker” or, “Piglet” since my parents worked in law enforcement.

By then, I didn’t want to be “Vanessa.” I didn’t want to have a name at all. Silence and being invisible was better than being called out for all of the things that I had no control of. It wasn’t my fault that I was born white, or born into a broken home, or the product of two law enforcement officers who sought happiness outside of their careers. In a quickly emerging socio-economic climate where all three of those variables were prescribed as being abhorrent or fundamentally wrong, I was cast adrift to navigate those faults as if I had brought them upon myself by my own hand. “Dealt a bad hand,” as they say; but it didn’t matter. “She’s a tough little thing.”

When I die, you can push me out to sea; When I die, set me free…

I was in fifth grade when I thought about suicide for the first time. Those dark thoughts were the result of climbing onto an overly-full bus to go to school; only to find that the only available seat was being used to hold the book-bags for a trio of African American girls who took one look at me and sneered. I sat on the edge of the seat, careful not to disturb their property; but when the bus turned a corner, and one of their bags fell the floor; they immediately grabbed my hair, punched me in the stomach, and began to degrade me with every slur they could think of. I hated myself and my name for no other reason that it wasn’t socially acceptable to be who I was.

When my mother later confronted the counselor of the school, a robust African American woman herself; she was told something to the effect of “to take her whining child and leave.” The "counselor" never said my name, because to them, I was a nobody. I was invisible.

In high-school I was both “Van” and “’Ness,” depending on how close I was with the person calling my name. I fell into Art and Science, and always kept my nose in a book. I avoided most people like the plague. When I joined the marching band I wore long jackets even in the summer and did my best to ignore the jokes about me being shy, but for the first time in a long time I wasn’t invisible and I wasn’t nameless.

I wasn’t “Vanessa” anymore, I wasn’t the bullied and disgusting child of a single-parent officer. I clung to being “Van.” “Van” was the introverted Artist who hand-made t-shirts for several of her fellow marching band members, and who thrived in studying Marine Biology and Criminal Sciences. I cut my hair and dyed it bright colors. I played soccer in short shorts. I free dived the local haunts in brightly colored bathing suits, and learned to connect to my peers. I got piercings up both of my ears and a tattoo on my back. I stopped wearing clothing to hide within. I grew to trust and love a very small group of people that, to this day – even though I’ve hardly spoken to any of them in years – I still consider my family. “Van” was the antithesis to “Vanessa.” Where “Vanessa” was reclusive, anti-social, and forced to grow up fast, “Van” was vivacious, carefree, and youthful.

Just before my 19th Birthday I met M. Tall, dark, handsome, though 10 years my senior; everything a budding idiot of a young woman would look for in a man – minus the obvious red-flags of him being not-so-separated from his soon-to-be-ex-significant-other and going thru a messy divorce. I saw a man, deliciously off limits, and he saw a young woman unclaimed by any other. When we eventually came together he panted into the naked dip between my shoulders, and between his ragged breaths on the precipice of a climax, the name “Vanessa” – for the first time in years – didn’t make me flinch or shy away.

When I joined the military midway through my first year in college, I was only identified by my last name, as it was barked at me for eight weeks in Boot, and then used as the only true thing that I owned without cost, once I was sent to my duty stations. It was tacked onto my MOS and Rank each time I was reassigned or given a new task. It was efficient, neutral, and impersonal. I grew to be the same. My shipmates called me by rank in the office, and “Van” on shore leave.

Years after; after M’s successful divorce, a couple more of my birthdays, and a few new duty stations, I began to better understand who I was as “Van.” I cultivated myself and thought for sure that this is who I was meant to be, and that I was with the person that I was supposed to be with. I soon learned otherwise. M was man with the world at his feet, divorced, with a young virile military girlfriend, he could do anything his heart desired. He ended up desiring all options that were the opposite of my own. So, true to my name, I tempered the steel within me; handed him back the $10,000 engagement ring he had placed on my finger; and told him “I love you, but now I know that love – sometimes – isn’t enough;” and we separated.

When I die, let the sharks come 'round to feed; When I die, set me free…

When I was honorably discharged from the military I was left adrift to deal with my PTSD and clinical depression. No one called me by my last name anymore. I was a civilian now. I did my best to stay “Van” in all the ways that mattered. I clung to my confidence, my intelligence, my MOS skillset; but I was also now blunt, with a dark sense of humor, and didn’t associate well with people my own age. I was standoffish and curt, expecting the same manner of respect and accountability from my new civilian peers as I had grown accustomed to while in the service. I started asking people to simply call me “V.”

“It’s just easier,” I’d tell people with a smile, but the truth was that I didn’t know who I was anymore.

When I met S, I was still “V.” I was mysterious and adventurous. I was a vixen, a one night stand, a pirate queen who left a trail of broken hearts behind her, a woman out to see the world and maybe watch it burn. I was fun and brutal in equal measures. The military made me sharp, and S was more than rough around the edges. We fell for each other faster that might have been wise, took to one another like melodramatic lovers always do. There was carnal passion and dangerous motorcycle rides down highways at 3AM. There were nights when we wouldn’t speak at all, and it didn’t matter that I didn’t want to have a name, or that his name was all that I would whisper or scream for hours. There were risks of getting caught, of getting pregnant, of getting too attached. There were days when all we would do was talk, and yet for all of our words we would talk about nothing at all. There were days when I knew that I had fallen in love, and nights when I had convinced myself that I didn’t deserve a single bit of it.

When you don’t have a name and don’t care who you’re becoming; it doesn’t matter what happens next. So one day, I left. I made the excuse that I had been offered a job somewhere across the country, that I was going on a vacation, that I was interning with a university out in the desert. It didn’t matter what I said. I was already gone. Lying to myself about why I was cutting the strings became easier the further away I got. Years later, S and I ran into one another; and he fervently admitted that he had been in love with me and had been too stupid to say it. I admitted that I had felt much the same, but had been too broken to allow myself to believe it.

When I die, let the flames devour me; When I die, set me free…

I rounded out many of the sharp edges that the military had left me with by moving back home. I had found employment in the civilian sector that matched closely with my MOS in the military, and I had begun to try and make friends on my off days. Mostly, I spent my free-time outside. I’d kayak or free dive the freshwater rivers in my home region, hike the beach trails or brush-land. I’d camp on the beach some nights or lay in a hammock in the dark of the pinewood on others. My time in the isolation of wilderness taught me how to sit still with my own darkness, and I believed that I would be mentally equipped to handle it.

Then, I stopped looking for myself in nature and started dating. I felt that I was ready. Tough girls move forward, right? That’s how I met J: completely by accident. A friend of my brother’s from the same high school – we had crossed paths more than a few times; with him a football star and me Second Chair in marching band. He called me “Van” and it didn’t strike me as odd, knowing that he knew me from before; when being “Van” meant more than being “V.” We connected, and did well for a time. He got a job as a Deputy and I as a Dispatcher. Things seemed like they were beginning to align. I thought my future was in sight. He said my name with pride and affection when he introduced me to his parents. He breathed life back into the part of me that was both “Van” and “’Ness” and “Vanessa” in equal measures, fixing me with slivers of adoration, challenge, pride, hope, adventure, and affection. We had many of the same interests, he never once stopped showering me in affection, and J could make me feel like the most treasured woman in the room with nothing more than a wink.

Moving in together with his brother and brother’s girlfriend is what killed all of the fragile progress that had been made. I came home from a twelve hour shift one afternoon to his brother’s girlfriend screaming obscenities. I didn’t clean enough. I didn’t follow her rules enough. I wasn’t present enough, or friendly enough. I was too young at the time to understand that she was unhappy with more than just herself, that there were things going on in her life that had nothing to do with me; but all I heard was: “Vanessa” wasn’t good enough to be part of “this family” anymore. They didn’t want anything to do with “Van.” I fell apart, and I was too broken to accurately convey to J what her statements had done to me mentally, what his brother’s silence in the face of those blatantly vindictive statement had done to me. I wasn’t able to convey all of the damage that I believed was irrevocably done.

I closed in on myself and became “V” again. If they didn’t want “Van,” or “’Ness,” or “Vanessa” in their picture-perfect ideations of the familial future, then I’d do them all a favor and leave. So I ended it. Moved into my own place. Started over. “V” didn’t care if she left another broken heart to the surf; didn’t care if starting over caused more harm than good. “Van” began to have the same connotations as “Vanessa.” I was running out of nicknames and letters to remove from my name; as if parceling out portions of my appellation would allow me the illusion that I was – somehow – keeping it all together. I gathered what I had left of myself and pushed forward. If nothing else, I was ‘always tough on the inside,’ right?

When I die, throw my ashes to the breeze; When I die, scatter me…

Later, I met my ex-husband D, an Air Force veteran, and each step in our post-military journey together unknowingly brought us closer to our unavoidable divorce. We both had scars that weren’t truly healing over, and we both had been losing ourselves to our own different demons for years before we met. We both wanted a distraction, someone to fall into on the weekends. He didn’t mind that I wasn’t looking for more than a dalliance, and I was secure in the knowledge that I could use him to chase away the solitude while maintaining my independence. By the time we realized that we were mired in one another it was almost a surprise for both of us to find that our demons played well together. Everything seemed fine, until it wasn’t.

We were always on the move. Influenced by work or family or our own personal goals; we would set out to each new place with hope in our hearts and dreams of bright futures in our minds. We’d drag each other along with us; happy to be in the orbit of the other even if it meant more change. Florida, Georgia, Tennessee. Kentucky, Michigan, Colorado…Each move was a fresh start, right? Each move was a learning opportunity, an adventure, a chance to explore instead of putting down deep roots…

I cannot speak on his behalf, but in my reality, each move brought a new job that I needed to train for, understand, and master; with new titles that I needed to be worthy of, and new responsibilities that I needed to fulfill. Each new apartment complex would be a new contract and a new name that someone would call me by; “206B,” “Mrs. Vanessa,” “Miss Van,” or some hybrid combination of both my and his last name.

By Colorado we no longer wanted the same thing. I hated being “Mrs. Vanessa,” or some last name sphinx-crossbreed. “Mrs. Vanessa” had suddenly become a weekend step-mother to two young boys who neither wanted me or needed me in their lives; and was now the wife of a man who didn’t know what he wanted out of a career or a marriage. “Mrs. Vanessa” found herself far from any semblance of a home, in a relationship that was coming undone at the very seams.

D moved back to his childhood home in Michigan, and I stayed in Colorado. Alone. We were separated for several weeks; trying to figure out how to salvage what we had attempted to build together. Demons play well together until, unsurprisingly, they don’t. The time that we spent separated outnumbered the time that we had been factually married. The distance allowed us to say all of the things that we otherwise wouldn’t have said to each other’s faces. Full disclosure and transparency came at the cost of long distance calls and aggravated re-dials. We yelled. We cried. We drew the venom out of the wounds we’d inflicted upon each other and finally relented. We didn’t attempt marriage counseling.

When the years have torn me apart; Just Let me be…

In an attempt to patch the internal damage, I made friends outside of my job. We started game nights, hosted pot-lucks, explored Colorado, and I was able to truly find kinship in one of my new friends. A fellow Gemini, Air sign, military veteran, person who had lost their path but had managed to find their way. I connected with them, trusted them, and turned to them when I knew that the floundering of my marriage was inevitability going to result in failure. I was branching out, I told myself. It was healthy to make friends and not let myself wallow in the fact that I had failed at being a wife. I buckled down and filed for divorce. “Tough on the inside,” I reminded myself. Always. Tough. On. The. Inside.

Failure makes us vulnerable, and vulnerability leads to poor decisions. On New Year’s Eve in Colorado, leaning on the trust of friendship and the influence of alcohol, I was sexually assaulted by the very friend that I had turned to for support during my divorce. He called me “Vanessa.”

God, I hate that name.

I adopted a cat to quell the gathering dejection, violation, betrayal; the over-abundance of feeling everything and nothing at all, and requested an inter-agency job transfer out of state. I landed in Kansas. The divorce was finalized less than four months from the day I married my ex-husband. I was a newly-wed in August and a Divorcee in December. I forced myself forward and turned over a new page in January of that following year. ToughOnTheInsideGodDammit.

All the world is dark, and I've looked as far as I can see…

This time, I did not seek out friends outside of my job. I kept my relationships professional. I was more willing to hang out with someone from the office in a neutral setting, but would stay home elsewise. I stopped responding to the name “Vanessa” entirely.

Loneliness also makes us vulnerable, but in a different way; and that same vulnerability leads us to do one of two things: Cloister ourselves away and never interact with people again, or Muster up enough courage to try new things. I chose Option #2: I joined some dating websites. I met men and women alike, and I began to grow more confident in my skin. I was “Van” again and I liked who I was becoming. I was independent and I wasn’t allowing myself to crumble beneath the weight of everything that I had been through. As my namesake, I was determined to be tough on the inside.

Being strong and independent and courageous led me to J. He didn’t mind that I was imperfect, didn’t balk at my scars or my demons, and didn’t shy away from my past. J had a past of his own, had made mistakes of his own, had a life of lessons learned and adventures had of his own; so it didn’t seem so scary to open myself up again. To be someone more than “V.” He promised the world; a future with deep seated roots, the dream of a home, a family. I believed him. Like an idiot, I believed him. We married. We vowed to cleave to one another alone, to put each other before ourselves, to love each other unconditionally; to battle the world together. We swore to cherish and adore one another, to build a life together and never take each other for granted.

I try. I try so fucking hard. When I feel ignored, I buckle down and swallow it. When I feel stressed I keep it in to prevent stressing him out more than he claims he already is.

He calls me “Beautiful” and “The Best Thing to Ever Happen to Him,” but follows these hollow words with casual indifference and gentle disregard. He doesn’t abuse me, but he doesn’t cherish me either. He speaks of me with pride when he talks to his family; but does not stand up for or defend me when his Step-Mother disparages me and belittles my actions. “Babe,” he calls me “This is just how she is with everyone. You’re Amazing.” I am supposed to be content with that. I am supposed to be content with sitting in silence, hailed as “amazing,” or “beautiful,” or “the best.” Hollow words echo in silence. Distort. Sound false. Do not bear weight in their worthlessness.

I realize that I don’t even know the last time he has called me by name and meant it…Maybe it was the day we got married. Maybe it was the day he proposed. Maybe it was our second date...

I try harder. When I feel neglected I go out of my way to do things for him that would please him; I cook his favorite meals, I wear alluring lingerie, I clean the entire house and make sure that he doesn’t have to lift a finger after work. When all else fails I reach out to his best friend to ask for advice on what I can do to make things easier, better, for my husband. I set aside my own embarrassment at having to ask for insight from someone else, instead of getting the answers from my own husband’s mouth, as to why he doesn’t seem to want me anymore. “It’s not you, Babe,” he says. It’s difficult to stay tough on the inside when “It’s not you,” echoes hollow and sounds more like “I don’t have a reason.”

When we disagree, he calls me by my full name, tacking on his last name at the end, as if in joking-jest; as if calling me anything other than some form of dead endearment will lend seriousness to his statements. “I promise,” he says. “I love you,” he says. I am not angry that his words hold no meaning or value anymore. I am just angry that I can no longer trust anything he says. I am angry that more often than not there are no words at all, just furious silence.

When I die, just let me be…

I am angry that I have allowed myself to become this nameless, hopeless, loveless thing. I am not even “V,” at this point. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

The wife I have become is a meaningless thing. What communication can be had between a wife who tries best to express her feelings and desires to a husband who reacts with anger and frustration when faced with the truth? What future can be had when a husband will not be intimate with his wife? What value do a husband’s words have when each promise is broken, when there is no follow-through on simple tasks of keeping a home, fostering a relationship, or growing a friendship?

“Nessa” and “Vanessa-Anne” in equal measures, had been emotionally bruised by the divorce of her parents; learning early in life that sometimes letting go is the best option. “Vanessa” was poisoned by the realization that your name means nothing to those who take one look at you and refuse to learn who you truly are on the inside. Both “Van” and “’Ness” learned the fragile existence of friendship, and the aching stab of loneliness that comes after you open your heart to a select few only to grow apart from them for no other reason than life gets in the way. “Van” was sullied by the painful growth out of adolescence and the realization that love just isn’t enough. “V” was grown in cynicism, the desperate child of PTSD and depression, and knew the devastation and loss that comes with refusing to make bonds with other human beings.

When I die, let the wolves enjoy my bones; When I die, just let me go…

So who am I now? I’m not even sure the wolves would know.

Daylight is waiting for you…

_________________________

“Who Am I?” by Vann Fenrirs Volchitsa, Author

“Wolves” by Down Like Silver, Lyrics

[truetgirl]

A bard girl... Angelic... I made the model while screwing around and then went to make a backstory. Figured it’d be a little nothing. I’m putting it under the cut because some unknown thing in me hijacked my fingers and this came out.

It is an exceedingly odd way to grow up, being the child of courtiers to a regional noble. You aren't really noble yourself, but you certainly don't feel you have much in common with regular commoners, so your social circle, especially as a child, is very limited indeed. It would be odd enough if you'd turned out to be a normal human, let alone if you had a priest declare after your birth that you were a gift from the gods themselves. Let alone if your parents then used that auspicious omen to climb at court. My parents, advisors as they then became to our gracious patron, never had much time to spend with me. I spent many, many hours huddled in my room or in a private corner of the library, reading and fantasizing about a life of excitement and what friendship must be like.

Eventually, I took to writing. It was a natural step once I started to run out of books in the library. I wrote simply for fun at first, poetry mostly. But, as I practiced and refined my craft, I started to wonder if maybe, one day, I could tell stories like the ones that had kept me company for so many years. I began to seek an audience, to see what others would think of my work. It took some months, not being very well practiced at the time in talking to other people and having gained something a reputation around court as the strange, cloistered girl that was apparently some divine gift, but eventually I found a few other young ladies of the court to hear my first tale. It wasn't a groundbreaking story by any means, a tale of knightly valor and the slaying of beasts, but it was, to my delight, a crowd-pleaser.

Over the next few years, as I grew into a "proper" young lady at court and honed my skills of storytelling for an ever expanding audience, I attracted all kinds of attention. My parents finally seemed to have some time for me, I made friends among the various ladies in waiting to the higher nobility, I took up work in an official capacity as a chronicler by day and entertainer in the evenings, and it seemed I had even attracted the attention of the young heir to the house, a boy about my age by the name of Lanno.

I was uneasy with  Lanno's advances at first. I'd never received attention of that variety, and wasn't sure what to think or feel. When my mother found out about the boy's interest, she began to "encourage" me to at least act as though I reciprocated. My mother, ever the political climber, clearly saw the opportunity for our family to marry into nobility. Most of my friends were no help either, seeming utterly confused that I would be unsure about the advances of a promising and handsome young scion such as Lanno. Only my best friend, Trisha, seemed sympathetic to my uncertainty.

Trisha had been a companion even in my early, cloistered days in the library. Her father, being the court wizard, had encouraged her from an early age to pursue learning in any way she could. As such, we often ended up in the library together. We almost never spoke to one another until we were in our early teens. When we did start talking, it was because we'd both eaten through our usual sections of the library and wanted advice on good starting points in the others. Through her I gained an appreciation for history, and through me she learned the appeal of tales of chivalry and romance.

We'd grown closer since I began making strides at court and she'd begun officially apprenticing under her father in the arcane arts. We found solace in one another, an understanding we didn't seem to get elsewhere. And, much as when we were children, we shared our love of learning; but this time as teachers rather than readers. I taught her about the crafting of stories and the structure of poetry, and in return she taught me the fundamentals of magic her father had taught to her. Soon I found that by concentrating as she had showed I could make objects blaze with supernatural light. Trisha was shocked, as the small spell she had shown me could do many things, but it couldn't do that. After several theories, Trisha remembered that supposed omen of divine favor when I was born, and hearing her say it I believed for the first time that it may be true.

I asked Trisha what she thought I ought to do about Lanno's advances. She was unusually evasive when I asked directly, trying to avoid the conversation and talk of other things, refusing to meet my gaze, and seeming very nervous. When I insisted that I needed advice she answered, in the coldest tone she had ever used with me, that it would certainly be a fine way to advance me standing. She avoided me for about a week after that, and I couldn't understand why.

In any event, with seemingly nobody telling me I shouldn't reciprocate Lanno's advances and so many pushing me to do exactly that, I began to spend time with him. We ate meals together, he attended my performances, we would take walks of the grounds together, and all manner of other things.

This went on for a few months, and during that time Trisha did not speak to me at all. I wondered what I had done wrong, but I never had long to myself to think on it at that point, now that I was getting properly involved in court politics through Lanno. Soon enough, his parents and mine made official arrangements for us to be married. We never really fell in love the way I'd seen so many times in stories when i was young, but I just assumed that was because the real world wasn't so pleasant as those stories.

After nearly a year of my marriage with Lanno, things went wrong. At a state dinner it was mentioned to the visiting dignitaries that I had been declared a blessed child the day I was born. One of these visitors took the statement very seriously, and demanded proof. Panicked, I produced light like I'd learned when Trisha taught me about magic, but that was not enough. The visitor, some kind of holy knight apparently, insisted that any two-bit mage could do that. With no other way to prove anything and not even fully convinced I had anything real to prove, I fled the room in shame and fear of the man's anger.

Lanno came to find me in our room after dinner. He asked why I was so distraught, and I explained how I had never really believed I could be some heaven-sent gift. He was dismayed, so I tried to make him understand, and after several minutes of increasingly heated discussion he blurted out that I had better be what the priests said or this whole marriage was a waste. I pressed him on that, and painstakingly extracted an explanation from him about how he had only courted me because he and his parents believed divine blood would strengthen their family line. He also told me that most of the other courtiers only humored me and my performances because they had assumed earlier I was likely to be the next lady of the house and now knew for sure. Feeling a pain in my chest I'd never known before, tears pouring down my face, I ran. I ran from my own room with no idea where I was going until I arrived at Trisha's chambers.

Trisha looked at first glance as though she intended to turn me away as she had for the last year, but her face softened instantly when she saw the state of me. She quickly ushered me in and sat me down. She brought me some tea and, once I had control of my voice again and could hold back the tears, I explained what had happened. Once I had finished we sat in silence for a long moment, and then she leaned across the low table and kissed me. She was gentle, calming, and the contact with her made my heart leap for joy. All at once I finally understood that love like it was in the stories did exist, I had just been in the wrong place for it.

When we, much to my disappointment, pulled apart, she leaned her forehead against mine and confessed that she had been in love with me since she was old enough to really understand what love was. That she loved my stories and my poems and my fierce love of learning and my laugh and my eyes... That she hadn't been able to stand seeing me with Lanno, no matter how good for my future it would surely be. I could hardly think, but I felt myself say that I loved her too, and then leaned in for another kiss, drawing her into an embrace.

For a few perfect moments we sat there in each other's arms, but the moment was shattered as Lanno opened the door and found us there. Believing that I had been putting on a show to break things off in favor of Trisha, he called for guards to seize us both. We were accused of carrying on an affair, and while Trisha's father managed to use his considerable position as the court wizard to save Trisha, my position and that of my parents was greatly diminished, and they could not save me from being banished from court.

My marriage dissolved, life in tatters, and my best friend... Possibly the love of my life? Now out of reach, I set off. I've wandered ever since, performing stories for coin anywhere that would take me and discovering new ways to leverage the tiny bits of magic Trisha showed me via my creative flow. I have no idea where I'm going with this life now, and I cannot imagine it will ever be fulfilling without her...

PERSONALITY TRAITS

I always want to know how things work and what makes people tick.

I’m full of witty aphorisms and have a proverb for every occasion.

I believe that anything worth doing is worth doing right. I can’t help it—I’m a perfectionist.

IDEALS

Generosity. My talents were given to me so that I could use them to benefit the world.

Aspiration. I work hard to be the best there is at my craft.

BONDS

The world is full to bursting with history and stories. If I can contribute to that great canon, then my life was worth something.

One day, somehow, I have to see her again.

FLAWS

I suffer from great anxiety both about my work and because I believe nobody could possibly respect me.

I'm good at appearing sociable but don't really understand the finer details of how it works.

[the-trashy-phoenix]

Supernatural season 4 review (part 2)

Link to part 1:

Irene and I have finished season 4, finally, and I was surprised I still liked it like the first time I've watched it. I couldn't wait to get there (who knows why?) and I was actually afraid I wouldn't get as excited as I thought I would; but fortunately it still gives me the idea that it is one of the best Supernatural seasons.

It all starts with Dean coming back from hell and being clueless about how he did it. He soon finds out the Angel Of The Lord Castiel held him tight and raised him from perdition and that he has a fundamental role in the intent to stop Lilith's plans to free Lucifer from his cage and unleash the Apocalypse.

Will this review (and probably the next 11 ones) most likely be a little bit biased for Destiel? Definitely. Will I try to stay as objective as I can? Yes, but this doesn't mean I'll be very objective, after all I'm writing this review knowing what is going to happen in the next seasons (and, more precisely, in the scene, you know which one I'm talking about).

I honestly don't even know where to start, so I'm going to comment on what I think is important as the season goes on.

I believe 04x01 is one of the best episodes of this season (and maybe even one of my favourite episodes ever) for several reasons. We have Dean coming back from hell and meeting again with Bobby and Sam (and both of these moments are very touching, especially Sam's one). Although the reunion might be heartwarming, Sam is already keeping secrets from Dean: he is collaborating with Ruby to defeat Lilith (and in the meantime he's using his powers, which are stronger than ever, cause he's drinking demon blood to increase them). He lies to Dean, telling him he stopped trying to use his abilities against the enemy, and that causes the biggest drama between the two brothers this season (that will continue on the next one). Dean (and the others) wants to find out who's trying to contact him and who brought him back from hell: I love the way Castiel is slowly introduced during this episode. At first with the ultrasounds and the handprint (which is definitely a fantastic touch, that kinda shows a little possessive side if you think about it, and it is inevitably funny if you know everything that happens later on), then through Pamela, showing already all his power, and at the end of the episode there's a "dramatic" moment where Dean (and Bobby) finally meets Castiel (in his vessel) for the first time, and this might be one of the most epic and iconic scenes in Supernatural. The dynamic between these two is fantastic from the beginning (am I saying this because I'm totally biased?) and the line "What's the matter? You don't think you deserve to be saved?" shows how Castiel has already understood Dean Winchester from just a look (and he's an angel who's not supposed to feel or understand feelings! Wow, the power of Destiel).

Moving on from this episode, in the second one we find out from Castiel that Lilith wants to break the 66 seals, foretelling the Apocalypse, in order to free Lucifer. On a side note, I like how bitchy Castiel is towards Dean at the beginning of their relationship ("Read the Bible. Angels are warriors of God. I'm a soldier", "You should show me some respect, I dragged you out of hell, I can throw you back in").

I love episode 04x03 because I usually adore time travel (it often leads to some funny and very unusual situations) and I find this one extremely sad and touching, mostly because Dean has the opportunity to meet his parents when they are still young (and Mary and John's sides he didn't know about) and finds out how their family became cursed (and the worst thing is he can't change its destiny).

In episode 04x04 Dean finds out Sam has been working with Ruby this whole time and gets mad about it, which is pretty reasonable. As much as a part of me hates when Sam and Dean fight, another part of me loves it, especially in this season, and it's probably because I think both of them are right and wrong at the same time. Ruby seems reliable (for now much more than the angels) and Sam truly did some good with her, so it is logical for Sam to trust her, since she apparently hasn't done anything against him and she has also saved him (which Sam confesses to Dean on episode 04x09). On the other hand I understand why Dean wouldn't want his brother to continue his process of strengthening his powers: he's afraid Sam won't be the same. Plus his brother lied to him, so it becomes hard for Dean to trust him, and this episode marks a pretty sad change in their relationship that will only get worse later in the season.

I should also mention 04x07 in which two witches want to bring Samhain, a celtic god, back from the dead. By doing that another of the 66 seals would be broken so Dean and Sam, who were working on the case, are told by Castiel and Uriel (another angel) that Uriel has to destroy the city, since the two brothers can't stop the witches from bringing Samhain back. Dean wants to prevent Uriel from doing a massacre and convince Castiel to wait for a few hours and let them take care of the witches. They can't stop them and Sam confronts Samhain using his powers, although he promised Dean he wouldn't use them anymore. At the end of the episode Castiel confesses to Dean that his orders were to follow Dean's instructions and admits he has doubts towards God. I consider this conversation very important, since this is the first time Castiel lets Dean have a look at his inner thoughts, even if Castiel himself is afraid of them, which gets me thinking that he already trusts Dean.

I also wanted to point out that Dean starts calling Castiel "Cas" pretty soon, even if he doesn’t want to trust him yet (although I believe he already does unconsciously). And what's even funnier is that, by calling him "Cas", he removes from his name the part that means "of God", which kinda gives you already an idea of what it's going to happen to him.

In episode 04x09 we meet Anna, a fallen angel, who doesn't even remember she has ever been one, since now she's human and has lived a human life for years. Dean and Sam meet her because she seems to be capable of getting in contact with the angels and is suddenly wanted from both angels (who want her death because she rebelled from heaven) and demons (one of them is Alastair, who knows Dean from hell). Anna and Dean form a sort of bond and she tells him she fell from heaven because she fell in love with humanity (they also have sex in the Impala, but that's way less relevant, although I want to point out that she covers Castiel's mark on Dean's shoulder with her hand, which is a bit disturbing). They can't stop the angels from coming for her so when they arrive we see a beautiful totally not programmed and still hilarious scene of Dean and Anna kissing and Castiel looking at first intensively at them and then shamefully at the ground. I mean, what was that? I understand that Anna and Castiel are sort of parallels, because they are both two angels falling from humanity (they also talk about feelings and Castiel confesses he has already started having emotions), but isn't it the whole point of Destiel? An angel that falls in love with humanity because of one man (Dean, if that wasn't already obvious)? And we get this concept involuntarily since season four? That's… funny. Apart from all of that, Anna manages to get her grace back and hides from Castiel and Uriel.

Another important element in this episode, and in the whole season, is Dean's experience in hell, in which time works differently (four months equivalent to forty years). He finally tells Sam what it has been like and totally breaks down as he says he has spent thirty years being tortured and, since he couldn't resist anymore, the ten left torturing other souls. He also adds in the next episode, with shame, that in torturing souls he felt pleasure, because all the pain felt as a victim disappeared: this is what devastated him the most. I feel like Dean's time in hell inevitably shaped his personality a lot in this season, but it's a thing that changes him forever. He is more mature and somehow self-aware (and I love this aspect), but he's also way more desperate and hopeless (a trade I think characterises Dean way more than Sam in every season, but that's definitely more persistent in this one than it's ever been). I might be a bit sadistic, but I don't mind the bad parts Dean has kept from hell either: they show us a vulnerable side that Dean has always tried to hide. There's also the evident contraposition between Sam's physical power and apparent strong state of mind and Dean's unstable, weak and soft one (also relative to what Dean's big role is in this season and what Sam is actually capable of doing to prevent the apocalypse).

I'd talk about episode 04x14 just to mention the fact that the siren (who's supposed to turn into the person who should most sexually attract his victim) decides to show himself to Dean as a man. I get he was supposed to replace Sam's role as a brother, but the whole setting, the fact that sirens' attractiveness is usually sexual and the fact that even the actor who played the siren admitted the whole scene was a bit sensual should tell us something (it also seems funny that they had to precise multiple times he was trying to be his brother because otherwise that would have seemed too gay, it still seems gay, but whatever).

In episode 04x16 someone is killing the angels and Castiel asks Dean for help to find out who the killer is. The angels have the demon Alastair captured and Castiel tells Dean he's the only one who can torture him. The angel seems to be really upset about it, because he knows how this could hurt Dean, since this is what he has been doing for the past ten years in hell. Dean decides to do it anyway and he finds out from Alastair, during the torture, that he is the one who has broken the first seal (by deciding to torture souls) and made the first step to bring Lucifer back. This obviously breaks Dean even more, since he already hates what he has done in hell, and makes him believe he's not capable of doing what the angels want from him (and he admits it to Castiel, and in the next episode his superior Zacharia tries to convince Dean he's the right man by showing him that even in other realities he would end up killing monsters). We later find out that the one who killed the angels was Uriel that, hating humans, was on Lucifer's side. He asks Castiel to join him but he refuses and Anna, saving Castiel from a fight with Uriel, kills him. I don't have much thoughts on Uriel, I didn't like him even when he was supposedly on the good side. The only thing I like about him is that he had already acknowledged the fact that Castiel likes Dean (who would've thought?).

I have to mention episode 04x18 as I think is one of my favourites of the season and that starts a series of other fantastic episodes (and basically another reality). Sam and Dean find out their life has been written (and published) by Chuck, who's apparently a prophet of God (and turns out to be quite useful later on). This is one of my favourite things Supernatural likes to do: metanarrative. In my opinion it really brings out something new and extremely funny (especially since I know this won't be the last time the two brothers will have to deal with Supernatural).

Another important episode is 04x19, where Sam and Dean find out they have a stepbrother, Adam, who doesn't know about their dad's secret life of hunting. It's obvious the most hurt by the situation is Dean, who would have never thought John could lie about something like that and who's somehow jealous of Adam, since he had the opportunity to live a normal life that could have been possible for him and Sam as well. The one thing that surprised me was that he didn't want him to learn how to hunt (unlike Sam, who thought it could be a good idea for Adam to know how to protect himself). I think Dean shows how he has changed throughout the years and now believes that, since the kid had the opportunity to live a normal life, he doesn't want him to experience what they have. He's more mature and he has become way better than his father and it's funny how now Sam is the one who thinks more like John (although I think there is still a relevant difference between the two of them, fortunately). We eventually find out that it wasn't Adam, but the monster they were fighting, and that Adam is already dead: at first I was a little bit surprised because I remembered that Adam would be in the next season, but it's Supernatural, so I should be used to it by now.

The next episode is important especially for showing us sides of Castiel's life that were not entirely clear before: in this case we find out how the angel reached out his vessel, Jimmy Novak. As much as I can see why Castiel had to occupy Jimmy's body, it's totally understandable that the man wants to go back to his life and that he doesn't want anything more to do with Castiel and everything about him. I also understand that he doesn't want to be with the Winchesters, although objectively they are right to want to keep him away from his family. In general the situation is definitely complicated and, from Jimmy's point of view, quite tragic. We can also tell Castiel, as much as he is already more empathic than the other angels, is not human and can't quite think like one, even if he has Dean who shows him his perspective. Knowing everything that happens to him later on makes me understand how much he has changed throughout the seasons (and knowing who has made that change possible warms my heart). It was quite strange to see Castiel acting like this since at this point I'm used to the Castiel in the latest seasons, but overall I like him a lot in the earlier ones as well.

At this point of the season, drinking demon blood for Sam has become like a drug and Dean can't continue to let his brother ruin himself like that, so with Bobby he decides to lock him in Bobby's panic room. I understand Dean is scared of what Sam could become and is becoming, but at this point Sam is at a level so high that he can't make it without demon blood, and staying for a long time without it could really hurt him further. It also seems that Sam is the only solution to kill Lilith and end the arrival of the Apocalypse. Of course Dean continues to argue that it's best to exclude Sam from this matter given his status, but Sam runs away and tracks down Ruby, with whom he's been working all season trying to be as discreet as possible so as not to worry Dean.

Sam's series of lies, the concern that he might become a monster, and the close collaboration with Ruby increase Dean's anger and disappointment with his brother throughout the season. He no longer trusts him and this deeply saddens both Sam and Dean himself, because he realizes that something has broken between them by now. As much as Sam may have his good reasons for wanting to work with Ruby (and he has), I think he's handled this situation in the worst possible way and that Dean is right about not trusting him anymore (or maybe I'm just a little conditioned by my love for Dean).

I think another reason that has increased the anger towards Sam is the fact that he has repeatedly admitted that he has been decidedly stronger than Dean since he was in hell. It's probably something they both agree on, but Dean is used to considering himself weak and not strong enough to sustain a certain situation. The thing that saddens Dean the most is the fact that his brother thinks so too.

However, this conflict ends with a fight between the two after Dean is able to find his brother. As much as I'm on Dean's side, I hated it when he called Sam a monster, because he knows that's the biggest fear that haunts his brother and calling it like that must have really destroyed him. After the fight everyone goes for his path: Sam with Ruby and Dean, finally convinced by Castiel, with the angels.

Shortly after, however, he discovers that his real role is not to stop the Apocalypse but to stop Lucifer, because he will be Micheal's vessel, and that when Lilith is killed the last seal will be broken, giving way to the Apocalypse. Dean disagrees with the angels and tries to convince Castiel to side with him and abandon the angels to try to stop the Apocalypse.

The twist itself is well constructed, although in my opinion, to make it even better, they could have shown angels as decidedly more reliable creatures, and then break all our trust (and with it also Dean's hopes). During the end of the season, apart from Castiel, the most reliable one seems to be Ruby. And that's why I think this is a much better twist: Sam completely relied on the demon, who always proved to be there for him, and to kill Lilith seems like the most logical move to make to prevent Lucifer from resurrecting. Even when I knew Ruby was cheating Sam the dynamic seemed so unexpected to me that I didn't even remember how she would do it. On top of that Sam's willingness to kill Lilith (mostly for revenge) and to stop the rise of Lucifer is actually what permits Lucifer to rise. So I can only imagine how guilty Sam felt after he realized what he had done (and the worst but best thing at the same time is that it's not even his fault, not entirely at least). Eventually the two brothers open and close the circle of the Apocalypse's arrival, which adds a touch of perfection to the whole situation.

Dean, after convincing Castiel to side with him, goes to Chuck to find where Lilith, Ruby and Sam are. Castiel transports Dean to Sam and tries to stop the angels who want the Apocalypse to begin, losing his life. This is another great step Castiel takes for Dean against his own brothers, proving that he now considers himself at Dean's side more than any other person's side. Dean arrives too late to stop Sam, who has already killed Lilith, and the fourth season ends with a confused and desperate Sam, an angry and desperate Dean, and Lucifer returning.

In the end I believe that this is the best season of Supernatural so far for several reasons: the arrival of Castiel who adds new aspects both to the Supernatural universe (talking about angels) and to the character of Dean (and later also to that of Sam), the continuous struggle between the two brothers, Ruby's character (which I think has been made quite effectively and which has also improved this season, as well as her relationship with Sam), the plot twist and the change that hell caused in Dean.

Usually this is considered one of the best seasons of Supernatural, and I completely agree, but having seen the series with long time gaps I feel I'll be able to judge only at the end of the fifteenth if this (and the fifth) are actually the best seasons of Supernatural, at least for me.

- Carly 💚

[gondorosi]

The gradual separation of show!Jon from book!Jon - Part I

I loved the character of Jon Snow the moment he claimed Ghost as his own.

"This one will die even faster than the others." Jon Snow gave his father's ward a long, chilling look. "I think not, Greyjoy," he said. "This one belongs to me."

The chilling look. The brazen claim. All of this despite him bringing up his lower status not a moment ago, just so that Bran would get his direwolf pup.

This dichotomy between the sacrificial big brother and the confident claimant was what made me a fan. The fact that show culled this whole scene to keep the 'I am not a Stark' part but have Theon TELL Jon that Ghost the runt belonged to him, defeated the entire gravitas of this scene.

The show version of Jon (who I still love dearly, despite) has always been subtly different from the book version but the deviations became more stark (heh) S6 onwards.

Ambition and Leadership

There's this assumption among show-watchers alone that Jon has never wanted a position of responsibility. Which is just - wrong.

To me, the above quote shapes Jon's character, motivations and growth in the NW. Jon WANTS to be in a position of power. He wanted to be LC - just that he received the position earlier than he expected. Doesn't make him unwilling. He's had dreams of being Lord of Winterfell. The fact that he would never act on those dreams is a separate matter.

But entirely removing Jon's ambition and desire for glory removes an essential part of Jon's character. His nobility and quality lies in the fact that he is able to overcome his natural ego in a short enough time period to realise he's got much to learn. His mentors are all leaders - Jeor, Mance and even Stannis. Most Kings/Lords have never learnt how to follow since they were born into those positions. That's the fundamental difference between Robb and Jon (and the subject of another post). Humility is a personal quality which makes leaders popular, but it has to be kept in check once you're in a leadership position. There will always be a degree of separation between the leader and the others, which book!Jon LC was well aware of. Case in point: The controversial Gilly and Mance baby decision. That was Sam's lament was it not? That Jon took the decision without considering his friend's feelings. But it was the Lord Commander who took the best (and only) decision he saw fit to save both children. Not Sam's friend Jon.

Val, the Mountain Clans, Melisandre - and the attack on the Boltons

I don't like Sansa. I skipped her chapters in the books and I actively hate her on the show. Which is why it's infuriating that she becomes the fulcrum for Jon mustering forces to take back Winterfell. It suggests that Jon himself has no motivation to take back the North from the Boltons, even in the absence of the Jeyne!Arya storyline.

The show massively downplays the importance of the Free Folk following and fighting alongside Jon. Mance took years and years and it needed force and the common fear of the Others as well as hatred against the NW. And for Jon to gain their respect and acceptance despite being a Crow and infiltrator is huge. The only Freefolk represented in Jon's story in the show is Tormund - and while he's undoubtedly the main cheerleader, the absence of Val and others like Borroq from the narrative relegate the Freefolk to 'bunch of savages who fight for Jon'.

Val is important to Jon's story both as a man and as a leader. She's the closest thing to a Wildling 'princess' and she trusts him.

"You have my thanks, Lord Snow. For the half-blind horse, the salt cod, the free air. For hope."

We don't know where the books will take Jon and Val's relationship. But for the Freefolk to follow Jon into a war which doesn't affect them requires more than simply Tormund's support or Mance's regard. Acceptance of one of the 'enemy' as your Commander is a complicated process and Val should have been a part of it.

Similarly, we have no mention of the mountain clans. Show!Jon struggles to find support among the Northern houses for the attack on Winterfell. Book!Jon steers Stannis away from attacking the Dreadfort to gain support of the mountain clans whi are fiercely loyal to the memory of Ned. The absence of the mountain clans impacts show!Jon's knowledge and awareness of the North, painting him as a lone fighter with no knowledge of political strategy. (All to give it completely unearned to Sansa which is a rant for another time).

As for Melisandre, I wanted much more of their interaction beyond her trying to seduce him. There HAS to be a reason she's fixated on him, since in the book she's still convinced Stannis is Azor Ahai, despite her visions telling her something else.

I pray for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and R'hllor shows me only Snow.

There's more than enough material for them to have built up an unwilling Mage/King relationship. Her bringing him back to life should have created an unwilling bond of gratitude - and made it clear to Jon he needs to keep her around, despite Davos' feelings. Show!Jon put Davos over the need to have her power around - not sure Book!Jon would have done the same.

Recklessness

Jon and Dany's military experiences are fundamentally different yet thematically similar. One of these is their roles in the battles they've fought. Dany's always been the aggressor, the conqueror (I'm only talking about roles here, not the intent). Jon's always been the defender, the protector (with the exception of BoB). Additionally, Jon's always been on the ill-equipped side. Smaller army, no supernatural weapons to fight a supernatural threat. Jon is reckless both in the show and in the books but again the nature of the recklessness veers sharply from S6. Book!Jon takes crazy risks only when his back is against the wall, stemming from desperation. Show!Jon post S6 seems to take crazy suicidal risks out of emotion. I'm in the camp that believes that coming back from the dead will do a spectacular number on your mental stability but I would have expected Book!Jon to be more 'bare knuckle pounding Ramsay's face into pulp' than 'Let me face down a rampaging cavalry on my own, on the ground'.

Of course, it's not that book!Jon hasn't done stupid things out of emotion, his thwarted desertion being primary among them. But that was at the beginning of his journey, even before he had fully emotionally committed to the Watch, and out of an understandably burning desire to be at Robb's side in the war. Every decision he's taken after that, be it for himself or for the Watch, has been carefully considered and decided.

[questionablygourmet]

Hello, I've just read your meta -different clarity of Will/Hannibal relationship if they’re women characters. Agreed, in our world geared for the benefits of male sexuality W/H emotional awareness is kept rather obscure. I finished the show last week, and I'm struggling to grasp why Will never gives up on killing Hannibal after S2, after Uffizi meeting that felt strongly as proclamation of love/acceptance. What fuels them both to do so? Fear of doing wrong thing that feels good and right to do?

Hi there, and welcome to the Fannibal party!

The thing to remember about Will’s actions and words (and feelings and motivations) at any given time is that he is incredibly conflicted, and self-contradictory, and frankly, often hypocritical.  So it’s not really that he “never gives up” on killing Hannibal - that implies a constancy of intent that, from mid-season 2 onward, Will is fundamentally unable to maintain where Hannibal’s concerned!  

What he decides to do at any given crux point is decided in that moment and based on any number of details affecting Will’s emotions.  In Yakimono, he goes fresh out of the BSHCI to Hannibal’s house with a gun, and almost uses it.  But Hannibal figuratively shows his belly, and I think that’s when Will realizes how reckless Hannibal is where he’s concerned, and that a honey trap scheme might work.  (I also think he’s intrigued by Hannibal’s challenge to him against his will, but the idea of trapping Hannibal lets him justify it.)  Then in Tome-Wan, when Mason is about to follow Will’s suggestion to feed Hannibal to his pigs, Will decides at the last second that no, he’d rather not.  (I could go on and on and on speculating about the factors at play in that decision, but this post is about Dolce so I won’t here.)  In Mizumono, he decides (as he tells Jack later in s3) literally when Hannibal picks up the phone that he wants to warn him.

By Dolce, he has accepted that, on some level, he loves Hannibal - he flat-out admits to Jack that a part of him will always want to run away with him.  (And then Jack admonishes him with, “You have to cut that part out.”  I’ll come back to this in a bit.)  But I think the scene in the Uffizi, while as you say, is blatantly loving, also does a few things to indicate Will being in a state of mind where he might try to kill Hannibal again.  

“Every crime of yours feels like one I’m guilty of.”  It’s not an accusation, but it is an acknowledgment of how he’s feeling subsumed by Hannibal.

“I’m curious to see if either of us can survive separation.”  

And then Hannibal responds to that with, “Now’s the hardest test: not letting rage and frustration, nor forgiveness, keep you from thinking.”  (Which, by the way Hannibal, ya both failed the crap out of that one.  xP)  This is, to me, a pretty blatant acknowledgment that they both still have big decisions to make about what they’re going to do with their relationship.  (After all, while Will’s been moping his way across Europe, Bedelia’s been doing her best to convince Hannibal that he has to kill Will.)

So anyway, what are the factors that push Will to pull out his knife as they’re leaving the Uffizi?  (Which - I also think it’s important to note, he never actually gets to the point of trying to use it, because Chiyoh sees it and preemptively shoots him and that’s that.  Considering his track record of the times he’s had a weapon drawn on Hannibal - a 100% failure-to-use rate! - I think there was still a solid chance that left to his own devices, he wouldn’t have used it this time.)

It could be argued that, as you suggested, he’s still afraid of losing his conception of himself as a good person, but I personally don’t think that’s actually so much a thing, at this stage.  He’s half-feral right now; he’s been wallowing in Hannibal for months, being an ass to Chiyoh and making murder art of the guy he set her up to be forced to kill.  (I think the Good Person self-concept very much is at issue in the latter half of s3, when it’s been three years and he’s married and has a kid and has been cosplaying Molly’s Sweet Man for a while.)

No, instead, I think it actually comes down to something much closer to Hannibal’s own motivation for killing Will - I have all these stupid feelings and if I kill you maybe I’ll finally be in control again.  In Will’s case, it’s more about the tension of maintaining his distinct identity, his sense of self, and, as he also references in the Uffizi, free will, whereas Hannibal’s not concerned about becoming Will, but Will’s ability to affect him at all is still very uncomfortable.  

I also think having just been talking with Jack, and the knowledge that Jack’s still in the city, plays a role.  Jack forces him to confront and talk about his internal conflict regarding Hannibal (and of course asserts a strong opinion about what Will should do!), and just by virtue of being present brings Will back into a frame of mind more grounded in their past when they wanted to catch Hannibal, as opposed to the bloody, dark fairytale he’s been living in since he left for Europe.  

I also also think having encountered Bedelia (with her being all alive and smug about it!  what a bitch!) might have mattered, at least a bit.  We certainly see Will’s capacity to be bitchy and jealous in full force later in the season!

But anyway, the most fundamental takeaway here is that Will is profoundly capable of holding contradictory desires and emotions and beliefs all at once, and his intentions in any given moment fluctuate as external factors temporarily allow the dominance of one side or another.  It’s why he’s unpredictable to Hannibal, and it’s why he’s unpredictable to us.  It’s why he can acknowledge that he loves Hannibal and wants to be near him and still pull out of a knife to (maybe) kill him.  

This got super long, whoops.  I hope it makes sense/helps!