#that and i may be partial to henry

[supes9]

Roy + Johnny + Henry 🤎

[carewyncromwell]

"I would heal what's broken -- Show this family something new! Who I am inside, so what can I do? I'm sick of waiting on a miracle, so here I go...!"

~"Waiting on a Miracle (cover) by Scott Shattuck

x~x~x~x

featuring Asa Butterfield as Tristan Cromwell and Dierdre Hall as Lane Cromwell (also Errol Flynn, Judy Garland, Colin Firth, Ioan Gruffudd and Jeremy Irons as Angus, Isabelle, Henry, Francis, and Charles Cromwell) // see the full Cromwell family tree here! // listen to Tristan's playlist!

x~x~x~x

The Cromwell Clan had lived in Scotland for many generations. It's unknown exactly when the very first magical Cromwells arrived in the Isles, though the first notable Cromwell on record was Pendragon Cromwell, back in the 14th century. Among his descendants, Pendragon was renowned for his talent in both Occlumency and Legilimency, as well as for being the first member to possess the distinctive "Cromwell blue eyes" that his family became associated with, despite many of them not inheriting them. To most everyone else, he was best known for wholeheartedly defending Nicholas Malfoy before the Wizard Council, after the man was accused of killing his Muggle tenants and blaming it on the Black Death. And this sort of dramatic split between public perception and familial perception of the Cromwell legacy is typical for many of its prominent members throughout history.

One of the most dramatic splits, of course, was the legacy of Charles Cromwell -- once leader of the magical terrorist organization R, which had terrorized the students of Hogwarts and certain family members in particular in the pursuit of the treasure inside the infamous Cursed Vaults. Charles Cromwell ended up dying in Azkaban only a few short years after entering it: a fate that his son and replacement, Blaise Cromwell, was quick to lament, but just about no one outside of the Clan did. In fact, for his estranged daughter Lane and her children Jacob and Carewyn Cromwell, it was a relief -- Jacob even expressed cold satisfaction upon learning that (in his words) "that old minger is three-feet under, getting eaten up by microbes and fungi, as is proper." After Charles's death, Blaise as Head of the Clan tried multiple times to heal the divide between the Clan and Lane's side of the family, to no avail, in large part because of his refusal to acknowledge the truth of Charles's cruelty.

One can therefore imagine that when Blaise's only son and heir, Tristan, reached out to his cousin Carewyn at work one day in the spring of 2008, it was a bit of a surprise. The request he made was even more of one.

"I need a historian -- a well-regarded one," said Tristan. "And from what I understand, Aunt Lane is one of those. I require her contact information, immediately."

He held out a hand expectantly. Cocking her eyebrows, Carewyn sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.

"Tristan," she said seriously, "Mum has made it very clear that she wants no contact with the Clan. If I give you her address, then I know full well that it could end up in Blaise's hands -- "

"I don't intend to give anything to Father!" said Tristan impatiently. "I wish to go there to speak with Aunt Lane, at once -- as soon as work is over, time permitting..."

"What?! No!" Carewyn's almond-shaped blue eyes narrowed. "You most certainly will not."

Tristan looked incredibly offended. "Excuse me? She's my aunt! She's my family too -- I'm more than within my rights to see her -- "

"My mother is not the sort to take visitors at home, in large part because of the suffering she underwent at the hands of our family, which Blaise still fails to acknowledge," Carewyn shot back. "If you or any member of the Clan wishes to make contact with my mother, then you will speak through me."

"Don't you dare tell me what to do!" Tristan barked. "I'm to be Head of the Clan, and I require an audience with your mother -- you cannot deny me -- "

"Watch me," Carewyn hissed dangerously.

She got to her feet, her hands both spread defensively across her desk. Her height was not at all intimidating in comparison to Tristan's -- he was such a bony, lanky sort that he towered over her, as well as the remainder of the Cromwell Clan, even at just 23 years old. Even so, Tristan seemed to recoil ever-so-slightly, knowing at once that he'd overstepped. His lips coming together, he bit the inside of his cheek and recollected himself. He sighed very loudly. Then at long last, he finally spoke again, much more quietly.

"...Father's not doing well."

Carewyn's brows furrowed.

"He tries to act like everything's fine -- can't let anyone see him as vulnerable, you know...but the Healers told him he has several polyps growing near his colon. They were caught early and the Healers plan to remove them this weekend..." Tristan swallowed. "...but I know there's a 'but' there that Father didn't tell me. I've studied the colon in about a dozen creatures, humans included -- colorectal polyps like that aren't just one and done. More than half of them can grow back in the span of three years...especially if you're the sort of person, like my father, to drink brandy at supper on the regular."

Carewyn considered this.

"...Then you think Blaise...?"

"Runs the risk of contracting colon cancer for the foreseeable future," Tristan said quietly. His blue eyes were downcast as he turned away.

Carewyn's expression lost some of its edge. However much she would never forgive Blaise for all the suffering he'd thrown at her and Jacob over the years and his consistent defense of Charles, she knew Tristan loved his father like no one else in the world.

"Tristan, I'm sorry," she murmured.

Tristan folded his arms behind his back, straightening his posture again as he looked at her out the side of his eye.

"I want Father to step down from his place as Head of our family early," he explained. "He needs to take care of his health, and he can't do that if he's still representing and looking after us in all matters. And I don't know how I'll succeed -- hell, if I could ever succeed in this -- if I have to take over completely on my own, after Father's dead, without him there to help me when things get tough."

Part of Carewyn wanted to reassure Tristan that he would be able to rise to the challenge if he had to. At the same time, though, she also had to admit, it was good that he was thinking ahead and planning for the future, not just waiting for things to happen. It was a rather mature and responsible thought process for someone who often came across as an insensitive, entitled brat.

"But if I'm going to convince Father I'm ready to take over," said Tristan, "I must have a vision for our family going forward. To do that, I need Aunt Lane's insight, as a historian and as one of our Clan's former members."

He reached into his high-necked Gothic Victorian dress robes and took out a healthy-sized red velvet coin purse.

"You may tell your mother that I will pay her upfront for her services, and that I shall treat her like any paying client. All I need is a consultation on our family history, with as much detail as possible. I've done all the research I can internally -- but I need a complete picture from the outside as well, if I'm going to conjure any sort of unifying vision for all of us going forward."

Carewyn considered Tristan carefully. She could see a memory of his long-fingered white hand trailing over an old tapestry of a family tree pass over the back of his eyes.

"You really want an outside perspective?" she asked skeptically. "I doubt Blaise or Pearl would much approve of that."

Especially if it involves anything outside of Charles's pureblood supremacist ideology.

Tristan scoffed. "Well, I kind of need to know what the stupid people say, if I have any chance of mending our family's reputation in the Wizarding World."

His own almond-shaped blue eyes then grew a bit sharper and more serious again.

"...Besides...if I'm going to do what Father hasn't been able to do and mend the rift between my side of the family and yours, I need to know what you lot think as well as what we think."

Carewyn slowly settled herself back into her chair, her lips pursed.

"What we think comes from lived experience and historical proof, not family dogma repeated ad nauseum."

Tristan scowled. After a moment, Carewyn gave a heavy sigh.

"I shall forward your request tonight," she said quietly.

Tristan's pale face lit up with both boyish glee and faint arrogance -- it was this that made Carewyn add sharply.

"I will not convince her in any way to agree, Tristan -- if Mum doesn't want to accept your money, you will have to go find another historian, and that's that."

Tristan didn't looked dampened by this at all. Instead he only seemed to smirk more happily than ever as he shrugged.

"Fine by me."

He turned with a movement that made his dress ropes sweep like a cape. He only paused briefly in the door frame so he could look back over his shoulder.

"Winnie -- "

"That's not my name," Carewyn reminded him curtly.

" -- thanks," Tristan finished without shame, smirking more broadly than ever. Then he cheekily jaunted out the door.

x~x~x~x

Lane took her time considering Tristan's offer when Carewyn contacted her via Floo about it. She took so long, in fact, that she ended up asking Carewyn to come over and sit with her over a cup of tea that evening so she could talk the matter out with her daughter. After an in-depth 2-hour discussion, Lane finally decided to accept Tristan's request.

And so the following day, Carewyn followed up with Tristan at his new corner cubicle at the Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau on Level 4 of the Ministry. She found him hunched over his desk, his black bottle-neck table lamp casting dark shadows over his scrunched, pale face as he laboriously drew muscles and bones in white and red pencil over what looked like a beautifully detailed anatomical sketch of a dragon and muttered irritably under his breath.

"That complete ninny Farid -- giving me all this extra work to do hypothesizing the damn thing's wing structure, just because he's too bloody gutless to do some proper dissections..."

"Perhaps your friend thought that ripping a Welsh Green open just to get an inside look at its wing would rightly be considered 'overkill.'"

Tristan looked up to see his red-haired cousin standing beside his cubicle, her arms crossed. His pale, pointed face twisted into a smug smirk as he slouched back in his chair.

"Sikander is not my friend," he said arrogantly. "And I never said kill the specimen -- I'm sure there are plenty of dragon carcasses lying around any stomping ground people aren't determined to mess with. Female dragons kill their mates all the time, after laying their eggs...plenty of dragons get their wings ripped off too, in fights..."

"Charming," said Carewyn drolly.

Rather than pursue this line of discussion further, she leaned her arm on his cubicle to speak to him a little more quietly.

"Mum has agreed to meet with you."

Tristan's smugness faded, to be replaced with complete shock and (despite himself) relief.

"Really?"

"Yes," said Carewyn. "Meet me in the Atrium at 5 o'clock, and I'll Side-Along-Apparate you there."

Tristan blinked. "You're coming along?"

"Only to drop you off inside Mum's house," Carewyn said as she turned to go. "She doesn't want you knowing her address."

"Because she thinks I'll tell Father?" Carewyn could practically hear the resentful, sulky posture in Tristan's voice. "Honestly -- I already told you, I'm not telling him anything! Or do you think I'm lying? You know you can sense my thoughts, right?"

"I do," said Carewyn, "and yes, I know you're not lying. But Mum has become a recluse for a reason: she doesn't want anyone knowing her address, except for Judy, Jacob, and me. You should be glad Mum's all right with you visiting her home in the first place."

She smiled a bit wryly over her shoulder before walking off.

"Piece of advice: shut up and let her talk, and you might actually learn something. It's something your father has never learned how to do."

x~x~x~x

After work, Tristan met Carewyn in the Atrium, whereupon she Side-Along-Apparated him to Lane Cromwell's new, secluded cottage in Tintagel, Cornwall.

Tintagel was a quaint locale near the far western shore of southern Britain, best known for its castle being identified by Geoffrey of Monmouth as the residence of the legendary King Arthur. Although the village itself was prone to the predictable amounts of tourism, Lane herself had chosen a small cottage in the outskirts of town, hidden from view both by the bounding hills and some strategically placed enchantments, for optimal privacy.

It was certainly the smallest home Tristan had ever visited. He felt like the whole place probably could've fit inside the grand dining hall at Cromwell Manor with no difficulty. He was also startled by the strange smells that greeted his nose when he and Carewyn arrived.

"Mum, we're here," called Carewyn.

Tristan heard the quietest shred of a voice answer from the kitchen, but couldn't make out what it said. Carewyn, however, seemed to have no trouble making it out, for she turned to Tristan with her hands on her hips.

"All right, then, I'm off -- Orion's expecting me at home," she said in a business-like voice. "Behave yourself, Tristan."

Tristan scowled. "Don't treat me like a child -- I'm to be Head of all the Cromwells, soon enough..."

"Not of me, nor of Mum," Carewyn reminded him. Nonetheless she gave him a muted pat to his back. "Remember what I said before -- listen to her."

As she turned to go, she called over her shoulder.

"I'm going now, Mum! Love you!"

Once again, there was the very slightest quiet call back that Tristan could only partially make out as including "love you too," before Carewyn disappeared with a crack.

Tristan looked around the small cottage, his blue eyes narrowed.

What an absolute hovel, he couldn't help but think.

It was clean, he supposed, and it wasn't cluttered, but everything just looked so...worn. Not even old and historical, like the kind of grand tables and armchairs back at the Cromwell Manor -- just tired, used, and lived-in. The furniture was very slightly outdated, the couches had minor stains and were frayed at the corners, and there were claw marks and fur on just about everything. Every window was wide open and framed with white plastic blinds and wooden shutters instead of curtains, and rather than portraits, there were countless personal photographs on the walls that -- rather bizarrely -- didn't move.

It was weird how a space could be so quiet while still so full of sounds: muted steps on tiles, birds singing outside the window, wind rustling a wind chime, a muffled radio broadcast...nothing so unpolished and quaint ever echoed through the grand, endless halls of the Cromwell Manor.

"Mrrow."

Tristan looked down to see a skinny ginger tabby cat walking around near his legs, blinking up at him with bright orange eyes. The Cromwell heir stared blankly down at him.

"What do you want?"

The cat rubbed up against his legs, leaving fur all over Tristan's black trousers. Tristan couldn't help but smirk.

"Spreading pheromones, then?" he asked. "Reckon I'm in your space, so you've got to make sure you're asserting your dominance."

The ginger cat purred.

Tristan hesitated, glancing around furtively. Then, bending down, he actually reached out and tentatively ran his hand over the cat's head.

As much as Tristan had always enjoyed studying animal anatomy, he wasn't used to having any animals around, especially furry ones. The closest thing to a pet that Tristan had growing up was a fake dog skeleton that he'd dressed in a collar and an ugly Christmas sweater and called "Funny Bone."

"His name is Tigger."

Tristan only just barely made out the soft voice of Lane Cromwell that time, and it turned out to be because she'd silently ended up right behind him. He jumped back up to his feet, straightening up at once, as his still-blond, way-too-Muggle-dressed 63-year-old aunt put down a tea tray on the side table by the window.

Tristan cleared his throat, putting on his most detached affect.

"...Don't you mean 'Tiger?'"

"No -- he's named after a stuffed tiger from a Muggle children's book," Lane said amusedly.

Tristan's nose wrinkled at the word "Muggle." Although he'd been forced to work with people from less magical backgrounds through the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, he'd still, true to all members of the Cromwell Clan, retained a distinct wariness of Muggles.

Tigger almost immediately wound around Lane's legs, and she stroked his back several times in return before she settled down in one of the armchairs (the one closest to the window) and indicated the other.

"Now then," she said, her voice as quiet as ever. "My Winnie told me that you had some questions about our family."

"Winnie" was Lane's nickname exclusively for Carewyn, same as "Blue Jay" or "Jay" was for Jacob. Lane's siblings Blaise, Pearl, and Claire, however, had co-opted her nickname for Carewyn without permission -- something that even now irked Carewyn to no end.

Tristan inclined his head respectfully before taking a seat. He eyed the chair confusedly when it compressed under him -- he was used to much stiffer chairs at home.

"...Yes. I aim to chart a direction for the Clan, as future Head. Unfortunately there are difficulties in our family that Father has had trouble addressing -- therefore I can't follow his example. And I can't go back a generation, or else I would be following Grandfather's example."

Lane's expression darkened visibly.

"Anyone foolish enough to follow Charles Cromwell's example in anything would deserve the unhappiness they'd receive for it," she said quietly.

Tristan frowned uncomfortably. "Yeah, I reckoned your side of the family would think so. And truthfully, however well Father speaks of Grandfather, I don't have any interest in ending up in Azkaban for the rest of my life. So I need to go back further, if I'm to find any example of leadership for me to take inspiration from."

He fetched something shiny and gold out of the inside of his robes and held it out for Lane to take.

"I wanted to ask about Grandfather's parents, to start with. These are them, aren't they?"

Lane looked at the pair of linked, enchanted photographs -- one of an older gentleman with a thin mustache trying and failing to make eye contact and smile at the other portrait, that of a much younger and more glamorous woman who kept looking out of frame.

"Yes," said Lane, as she considered the portraits. "That's Angus Cromwell, on the left -- and her wife, Isabelle Selwyn-Cromwell, on the right."

"And Angus was head of the family before Grandfather?" presumed Tristan as he looked down at Angus's portrait. "What was his leadership like? Did Grandfather take after him? He -- "

It was only when Tristan noticed Lane was holding up a hand that he realized she'd been trying to talk.

"No," she reiterated for the third time, even if it was the first time Tristan had heard her. "Your great-grandfather was never Head of the Cromwell Clan."

Tristan's brows furrowed. "What? But how can that be, all of the eldest Cromwell men have been -- !"

He halted mid-word. Carewyn's words from before returned to his mind.

"Shut up and let her talk, and you might actually learn something."

Tristan quickly closed his mouth. Then, inclining his head respectfully, he held out a hand to Lane as if giving her silent permission to explain. Lane's expression seemed to relax ever-so-slightly, and she set about pouring out a cup of tea by hand, rather than with her wand.

"Your grandfather Charles," she said stiffly, "was not the eldest Cromwell son, in his generation. He was the youngest. Yet despite all odds, he convinced his grandfather -- Angus's father, Sinclair Cromwell -- to choose him as his successor...bypassing not only Sinclair's own son, but his older two grandsons as well."

Tristan's brows knit together tightly over his eyes. "I didn't know Grandfather had any brothers..."

Lane smiled a bit cynically. "That's unsurprising. Both of them died before I was born, so your father certainly never met them. He and I never even met Angus -- he passed away the year Claire was born. And Isabelle...well, she was an immature sort. I suppose she saw us more like china dolls my father was collecting than grandchildren she could share stories with."

She poured out a second cup of tea for Tristan.

"It's funny -- Isabelle was just as 'style over substance' as your grandmother Marilyn...and yet the two always detested each other. Perhaps that's a statement unto itself, though. Milk or sugar?"

"Oh, ah...both!" said Tristan. Tea was always prepared without either sugar or milk back at the Cromwell Manor, so the thought of having both was actually a rare treat that made Tristan grin mischievously despite himself.

Lane mixed both milk and sugar into Tristan's tea before handing the cup to him.

"Sounds like Great-Grandfather wasn't anything that impressive, then," said Tristan scornfully, "if he got passed over in favor of his own son."

Lane frowned slightly. "Mm, well, Angus had gotten a bit complacent. He'd ended up with a beautiful young wife and three exceptional sons without much effort...so I daresay he did what many men from wealthy households do: they got too comfortable and started to take things for granted. The eldest Cromwell son had always inherited the role of Head of the Clan before, so Angus expected he would as well."

"Hn..." Tristan said with a frown. Considering he himself had assumed the same thing before, he supposed it made sense that Angus had too. Even so, the boy still scoffed. "Whatever. Great-Grandfather still sounds like an idiot."

"He wasn't an idiot -- just privileged," Lane said mildly. "And admittedly there were a few unpleasant rumors surrounding his young wife and her many male admirers that Angus might've been a little more focused on squashing than on actively catering to his father."

Tristan's blue eyes flashed angrily. "That's a dirty, rotten lie! Father told me that people were just jealous of Grandfather and his talents, and that's why they tried to call him a bastard."

"Oh, I wouldn't doubt if people were leery of your grandfather's talent, especially for Legilimency and Occlumency," said Lane lightly. "But the rumors wouldn't have taken off the way they did, had your grandfather not looked so dramatically different from both his parents and his brothers. He remains the only one of them to have inherited the 'Cromwell blue eyes' that all of us have...a genetic oddity, for every single descendant of one man to inherit such a rare recessive trait."

Tristan crossed his arms. He didn't like this line of discussion at all. Yes, obviously the Cromwell blue eyes would have to be a recessive trait, biologically speaking, but no matter how odd it was that every single member of the Cromwell family starting with Charles all seemed to have the same eyes, it was sickening to consider his grandfather could've been a bastard, given those eyes via enchantment in an attempt to obscure that truth. It made Tristan feel illegitimate himself, in a way -- as if he hadn't been born and raised to take on the responsibility that he knew had to fall to him. That he was determined to take on, for the sake of his father and family...

Lane paused before she spoke again.

"...Would you like to see your grandfather's brothers? I have pictures of them."

Tristan blinked, but nodded. Once Lane had eased herself out of her chair, she crossed the room, Tigger at her heels. She took several framed photographs off of the library shelf and brought them over for Tristan to see.

"This here," she said, handing him the second-largest, "is your great-uncle Henry. He was the eldest son. He would've likely been your great-grandfather Angus's choice to succeed him, had Angus become head of the Clan. He was a Gryffindor alumnus, like your great-grandmother Isabelle -- athletic, broad-shouldered, and stoic...enamored with his family's history, honor, and the ideal of noblesse oblige."

"Sounds like he had a real stick up his arse," Tristan muttered sardonically against the rim of his cup.

Surprisingly, though, this actually seemed to amuse Lane.

"Most accounts I've read of Henry remind me of your aunt Pearl, growing up," she said with a tiny wry smile.

Tristan couldn't help it -- he snorted with laughter into his tea.

"Oh, Merlin," he said smugly, wiping his face on his sleeve, "if he's like Aunt Pearl, then he must've been insufferable!"

Lane smiled a bit more fully. "He was considered to be rather difficult to befriend."

She served out another saucer with just milk and put it down on the carpet at her feet for Tigger to lap at. Tristan considered Henry's detached, uncomfortably stiff posture. He did indeed look nothing like Charles -- his face was square like Angus's and he had very tiny eyes.

"Guess I can see why Great-Grandfather didn't pick him," Tristan said coolly. "Who'd want someone that uptight calling the shots?"

Lane's face grew more serious.

"Oh, that wasn't the reason Sinclair didn't pick Henry," she said with a sigh. "No, he wasn't picked because he was disowned."

Tristan was taken aback.

"Henry fell in love with a Muggle woman and secretly married her after she became pregnant. He wanted to provide for her, but he knew that if his family learned the truth, it would both put her in danger and give him no means to financially provide for her and their son." Lane's lips came together as she sipped some of her own tea. "Not that he ended up keeping it secret very long...your grandfather made sure of that."

Tristan frowned uncomfortably.

"...Well, it wasn't right that he did it, you know," he said defensively, "Uncle Henry, I mean. He never should've disgraced himself, saddling himself with a filthy Mug -- "

"He chose to financially support the woman and son that he loved," Lane said in such a quiet, cold voice that it was akin to ice. "However 'uptight' he might've been, that is worth applauding."

Tristan scowled. "I suppose you'd have to think so, given that you also married below yourself."

Lane raised her eyebrows very coolly before withdrawing to the kitchen, Tigger following promptly behind her.

Knowing he'd offended his aunt but way too proud to out-right apologize for it, Tristan tried to change the subject.

"...So Grandfather told the rest of the Clan about Uncle Henry marrying a Muggle, and that's why he wasn't picked as heir?"

"That," said Lane, "and the fact that he was dead, soon after."

Tristan's brows furrowed. When Lane returned to the living room, Tigger once again at her heels, she was holding a plate of pikelets and jam, which she also put down on the side table.

"Henry was found in the local river a week after he was disowned by the Clan. His reputation had been destroyed with the whole of Wizarding society at that time, to the point that no one at the Ministry or otherwise would hire him. Without any means to support his family, Henry fell into such despair that he drowned himself. Or at least, that's what the common consensus was. The investigation was haphazard. It wasn't as bad as the one into Francis's accident, but still, it was far from detailed."

Tristan frowned. "Francis?"

Lane indicated the smallest picture.

"Francis Cromwell. He was your grandfather's second-eldest brother."

Tristan squinted. It was considerably blurrier than the others, since the subject kept moving, but his pale, smirking, dark-eyed face was framed by a mane of black hair.

"His hair's as almost as messed up as Jacob's," Tristan said cheekily.

Lane blinked in surprise and considered the picture. Then she actually laughed: it was a very hushed, stifled sound.

"Well, no, Jay's always most resembled his father -- but I suppose, yes, there is the slightest resemblance..."

Lane smiled down at the picture of Francis as she helped herself to a pikelet, spreading some jam onto it with a knife.

"Uncle Francis was my favorite to research," she admitted. Tigger jumped up beside her on the armchair, curling up against her leg. "He was a Hufflepuff alumnus, same as Angus, but he was the most interesting of the brothers. Certainly not academic by any means, but he was still widely considered to be resourceful, creative, talented -- a true jack of all trades. He was Vice President of the Gobstones Club and a capable cook. He captained the Hufflepuff Quidditch team for a term after their original captain fell ill of Dragon Pox, and he ended up winning his house the Quidditch Cup that year. He studied French, German...even Gobbledegook, so as to better haggle favorable loans with Gringotts' goblins. Not to mention he was a conductor for the Frog Choir his entire school career. He even briefly worked as a magical creature assistant for Newt Scamander while he worked at the Ministry of Magic."

Tristan's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Yes," said Lane eagerly. "Oh, and his artwork. Francis was absolutely exceptional with a pencil."

She paused, her eyes drifting back to the side table.

"...In fact...this was one of his."

Lane finished off the pikelet before reaching out for the last, largest framed picture, which had been face-down on the table. When Tristan took it from her, he was surprised to find not a photograph like the others, but a framed and very detailed pencil sketch of a handsome young man with chiseled features, a dark mustache and beard, and incredibly piercing, light-colored, almond-shaped eyes.

"Do you recognize him?" asked Lane. "That's your grandfather."

Tristan was bowled over. "That's him?!"

He looked down at the sketch again. Even though it wasn't enchanted, it was amazing just how sharp the young Charles's eyes were -- almost as if they were looking right through Tristan, at that very moment. It made the Cromwell heir twitch a bit in his seat despite himself.

"He looks so...young," he said awkwardly. "All the pictures I've seen of Grandfather are of him when he was older."

Lane seemed to empathize with Tristan's discomfort. As she took the portrait back, she regarded the pencil sketch with notable detachment.

"I know. Your uncle Francis sketched that in the summer of 1940, when your grandfather Charles was freshly 22."

As old as I am, Tristan noted. That knowledge felt really weird.

"It was an engagement present," Lane continued as she put the portrait back down on the side table, "to commemorate his engagement to the newly graduated Slytherin Head Girl, Marilyn Bulstrode. Francis told Charles he also intended to draw one of Marilyn to complete the set, once he could convince her to model for him."

Lane's eyes grew a little smaller as her hand absently scratched at the side of Tigger's neck.

"Not that he got the chance. While working at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Francis recruited Charles -- the best Legilimens he knew -- to help him deal with a wild Wampus cat he'd been asked to recapture from a Dark wizard who'd been collecting dangerous magical cats off the black market. With his younger brother's help, he succeeded -- but the Wampus cat, after seemingly being safely contained, went wild and not only got loose of its cage, but also let several other wild cats loose in the melee...including a Nundu."

Tristan's eyes widened in shock.

"A Nundu's breath is poisonous enough to take out a whole town!" he said. "How did Grandfather -- ?"

"Oh, your grandfather reacted fast enough to Apparate to safety," Lane said very curtly. "Francis, for some reason, did not. There's still a lot of question about why. But your great-uncle was smarter than people gave him credit for -- he materialized a Bubble-Head Charm around his head, which saved his life. What he didn't predict, though, was just how noxious the Nundu's breath is at close proximity, even when it can't be breathed in through the nose and mouth. And most unfortunately, Francis had sustained several deep cuts on his arms and legs while trying to contain the Wampus. This resulted in the toxins in the Nundu's breath making it into Francis's blood stream...poisoning his limbs from the inside-out."

The anatomist in Tristan was macabrely fascinated, but he'd just taken one of the pikelets from the plate and spread some jam on it so he could try it. To his surprise, it was really tasty, and he got so distracted with spreading some more jam on it and gobbling it up that he neglected to articulate any of the demented questions going through his head.

"Your great-uncle was taken to St. Mungo's, but it was too late," said Lane. "He ended up paralyzed from the neck down -- unable to move and in excruciating pain."

Tristan winced. "Ooh. So that's why Great-Grandfather passed over him?"

Lane nodded grimly. "Your great-uncle languished in St. Mungo's for the next five years, after that. Your great-grandparents did visit occasionally, from what I understand...but after his accident, and especially after Charles took over, Francis was largely brushed aside by the Clan. He was seen as an embarrassment, rather than an asset. Regardless of his talents -- regardless of how well-liked he'd been at school by his classmates and how much potential he'd had...in St. Mungo's, he was seen solely as an invalid, and therefore not worth anyone's time."

Lane looked down at the blurry photograph of the smirking young man again grimly.

"In fact, that photograph is the only one I've ever been able to find of Francis. A witch who'd looked after him in St. Mungo's before her retirement sent it to me, when I reached out to her by owl. She said she'd retrieved it from a box of belongings he'd kept on his bedside table, after he passed away."

Tristan finished his second pikelet, licking the jam from his fingers. Then, remembering his manners, he quickly cleaned off his hands with his handkerchief before he reached out to take Francis's picture again.

He looked determined, actually. His black hair was messy and his shirt was ripped, and yet his collar was fully buttoned, his posture was straight, and his pale, pointed face was fearless. Almost as if he was ready to take on any challenge thrown his way.

Lane tilted her head slightly, watching her nephew look over his great-uncle's picture.

"You know..." she said thoughtfully with a slight smile, "...I don't think Francis looks very much like my Blue Jay at all. I really think he looks more like you."

Tristan looked up at her in surprise. He then looked back down at the photograph of Francis, which smirked up at him, and he saw his own smirking reflection in the glass of the frame.

"...Hm. Reckon he looked a lot uglier after his accident."

Lane cringed visibly at the off-color humor, but Tristan pressed on, undeterred.

"You said Uncle Francis worked at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, right? D'you reckon there might be some additional information about him in their files?"

"Possibly," granted Lane. "Or, at least, there may be files he worked on -- the Ministry wasn't as good at filing work under individual people back then, since such efforts were often collaborative. And since Francis was never Head of the Department, a lot of those such files might be filed under the men he worked under."

Tristan smirked. "Well, then, I shall require as much information as you can give me about the chain of command at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in the 1930's, while Great-Uncle Francis worked there!"

Remembering himself, he then cleared his throat and added,

"...For pay, of course. Name your price."

Lane smiled wryly, her hand running over the purring Tigger at her side. "My standard rate is a Galleon an hour. To unearth a bit more about my favorite uncle, however...I may be willing to halve that -- provided I get first dibs on any photographs or sketches of Francis's that might be recovered?"

Tristan smirked broadly from ear to ear. "It's a deal!"

[platinumshawnn]

Bound by Blood and Fire | Benjicot Blackwood — pt viii

Synopsis: Serra and Benjicot's newly-wed bliss is interrupted by news from the Battle of Burning Mill, leaving Raventree in a state of grief amidst changes. Serra attempts to comfort Benjicot and better understand him in the early days of marriage.

Content warnings: MDNI 18+ — adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexual content (smut — I.e. female oral/cunnnilingus, implied p/v intercourse), mild depictions of family based violence, implied suicide ideation, mention of major character death.

masterlist | audio playlist | backwards — 7 | forwards — 9

A/N: hi this ain’t my best work but we’re here — sorry to disappear and have no updates for scheduling, I have returned to university as of this week and in that same time, had my wisdom teeth removed so am recovering/getting settled in so editing may be worse than usual

Word count: 8.4K

His ribs pressed against hers as the sun cast in through the window, his eyes closed and lashes fluttering against his cheeks as she lay naked beneath him; waist between her thighs. The bed sheets had been since replaced after the night’s endeavours, where the white ones had not been seen since the feast, grateful when they had returned to find the red silk ones that now hung low around her husband’s hips and bunched underneath him to provide her with some coverage as he slept — his mouth partially ajar and his cheeks pinkened with warmth; Serra didn’t have it within her to wake him from the peaceful slumber as his head rested against her bare chest, instead taking the opportunity to observe his youthful features, free of any of the daily stressors that often exasperated the frown lines between his brows and creased around his mouth. His hair had grown out in the past weeks, nearly in his eyes now as she brushed it back from her forehead with the tips of her fingers — she found he radiated a warmth that protected her from the cool nip of the morning as his body easily covered hers.

She had woken to the sun on her face hours prior, unable to sleep as the sound of horses whinnying kept her up most of the night after the tense events of the night’s feast; but Benjicot…he found sleep like it did not require even an ounce of thought, and kept it like a child did their childhood toys, unmoving and dreaming even after sleep had long-since abandoned her. She found peace and enjoyment in just watching him, however, unable to hold a grudge for the lack of sleep she had achieved — it seemed the only comforting thing in the night.

Once again, she had been haunted by dreams of her mother, longing for her to be present and guide her through what marriage had in store for her, and offering her wisdom on the quarrels of men that lingered; tense in the air even after the group had dispersed, Emrys skulking off with Henry in tow, pleading for him to come back -- she had seen the glare on Kermit’s face, rolling his eyes as he brushed past her and muttered a comment of, “Do you still defend him?”

The feast was tense and uncomfortable, catching pitiful stares as she wandered around the room, a hushed whisper following her with every step — even as the aftershocks of the confrontation had subsided, she was still followed by the reminder that they had yet to forgive the claims against her husband’s role in the death of Rodrik Bracken and his temper that never seemed to know peace; constantly simmering beneath the surface. A trait that was not comforting, to say the least, while his father was away on the frontlines of a battle, causing tension that was only further exasperated by the war for the Iron Throne. A boy who was also yet to be forgiven for the possibility that he — a nobleman who was to be lord of Raventree — fathered a bastard before he’d even had a chance to break free from the confines of their doubts. She’d heard a whisper the night prior, muttering about the disgrace their union brought, averting eyes of Lord Robbard as he watched her move past him and towards the doors where Benjicot never seemed to leave. She had heard the reply that Benjicot had been only a boy who followed the path of his grandfather before him, having an uncle who was a bastard too. She was miserable that her wedding had been dampened by the clouds that lingered over the room of men and women who seemed to sober up following the news of Samwell’s whereabouts.

Benjicot was silent after that, tense with his jaw clenched as he hung near the wall; she was unable to find it in herself to even fight to convince him otherwise, as she was drained and exhausted after the long day it had turned out to be — she always knew that her wedding would be a long, exhausting feat but she had never considered the amount of fighting that had entailed, her joints sore from holding all that tension inside of her for hours on end. Willem continued to circle the room, and every so often, she felt his eyes on them; fixedly watching Benjicot in particular who deliberately made it his night’s mission to avoid his uncle’s eyes as he visibly swallowed and kept that same blank, emotionless look for the remainder of the evening and stared off out the windows. He hardly argued when she insisted they retire for the night, only giving her a quiet grunt as she took his hand, met by her father’s announcement as he and their guests bid them a final congratulations as a series of blessings was offered -- Serra had never felt so many hands on her shoulders as they exited the hall and ascended the stairs back towards their shared room where they had only left some short time earlier.

She had practically collapsed into bed the minute they closed the doors, his heavy footsteps behind her and lingering by the door. It was only then did she witness that tension melt away, his expression softening as he touched her face, allowing her to help him strip down to his underclothes and ready himself for bed; his eyes watching her every move as he sat at the foot of their bed, whilst she rushed around the room, taking a cloth to his face and wiping the sweat from his brow. It then, too, had been by her lead as she brought his hands back on her body, eager to feel his skin on hers once more.

The only singular thought that had not been consumed by the memory of his distraught eyes at the news regarding his father and the dreams of her mother was the embarrassment she felt when she had woken; her body sore from the remembrance of him between her thighs, her body moulded to fit his perfectly as the soft sighs of pleasure echoed throughout the room and down the halls well into the night — the perfect distraction from the feast’s events and the growing remorse in her chest and resentment that gnawed that her. She envied her lord husband who was oblivious to knowing such shame, as he laid against her, an arm finding itself around her in his sleep and clinging to her.

Her thoughts were disturbed by the low groan that rumbled from his chest, the sound vibrating against her collarbone as her fingers carded through the roots of his hair, “How long have you been awake?” He grumbled.

“Not too long,” She lied, her thumb brushing his forehead.

His head lifted, turning to look up at her through squinted, tired eyes that were only half-open, “You’re a terrible liar, wife,” He softly teased, voice thick with exhaustion and gruff as he spoke, “Did you sleep at all?”

She knew there was no sense in trying to lie again — he had seen right through her and hadn’t even hesitated to call her bluff as he slowly moved to sit up on an elbow that was planted against the mattress by her waist, “I did— only a few hours,” Serra confessed.

He hummed, visibly discomforted by the fact as his hand stretched up to brush along her arm, “What kept you awake?”

The urge to lie once again arose, heavy in her chest with a relentless sense of anxiety as she contemplated her answer, “It’s just not been easy to find sleep lately,” she admitted, his chin propped against her chest as he looked up at her, “Do you think…your parents cared for each other?” She asked suddenly, her eyes narrowing as she slowly enunciated each word.

His mouth twitched, a frown etching itself into her brows — she had to fight back the urge to massage the lines from his forehead with her thumb and smooth it away, “In what way?”

She felt it seemed a straightforward question, “As husband and wife, did you ever think they cared for each other?”

Benjicot’s mouth opened, letting out a sigh after he hesitated for words, “I suppose in some ways they did, yes,” he answered, his hand lifting from her arm to brush back the hair from her face as a strand had fallen into her eyes, “why do you ask?”

“I have been thinking about my mother lately,” she admitted, pausing — his features softened at the words, “I realise we have never talked much about yours. I remember your father as a child and what he was like, but I’ve come to the conclusion I don’t remember your mother. I don’t remember what it was like to see them together.”

“They never spent much time together,” he quickly pointed out.

Her eyebrows furrowed, “didn’t they?”

“They hadn’t since I was young,” he said, “not since I was seven.”

“How do you know they cared for each other then?”

He moved to prop himself up on his elbow, the joint pressed above her hip as his head rested against his palm, “I’m not sure, a feeling I’ve had I suppose,” Benjicot explained, “She pulled away after my brother died in the cradle, my father tried hard to pull her out of her grief…but I think it was too much for her. I remember she felt…things much greater than anyone could ever understand, he used to get angry with me because he said I took after her as a boy in that way, and boys were not supposed to be so soft. He sat by her door for weeks though, despite that he couldn’t understand.”

Her hand rested on his shoulder, fingers brushing over the bare skin as he spoke, “When we lost her, he sat there for days. He wouldn’t let them touch her belongings or take anything away— still to this day, he hasn’t let them touch her room,” he rambled, “I think the only time I ever saw her relax or snap out of it was whenever he came by to visit. They didn’t do much talking, I think they were just content being near each other some days…I was angry with her for a long time, for pulling away and never quite being like your mother— yours loved you so openly, I remember she was willing to fight so fiercely for her children if she’d had to, all to protect you.”

“And now?”

He inhaled sharply, sighing, “I’ve forgiven her, I think. She did as best she could manage,” he said, his shoulder shrugging, “You remind me of her in some ways. From what I remember her for at least, which scares me at times.”

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“Your ability to feel things much greater than the rest. You are nurturing and kind,” He said, his head turning to allow his mouth to press a kiss to her shoulder, “your ability to be kind to a man like me.”

She reached out, her hand tracing the outline of his face, fingers brushing his hair from his brow for a moment and delicately exploring the shape of his high cheekbones; her thumb skimmed over the skin, a shy smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “It’s not always as hard as you think.”

Benjicot snorted, “Always?”

“Some days you’re insufferable,” She replied, her hand dropping to grab his shoulder and encouraging him up to her face. The sheets rustled with the move, his chest landing over hers and his face coming to hers with a grin. Her hand found the planes of his back, wrapping underneath his arm and coming around his shoulder as her thighs dropped to accommodate his waist, welcoming him with open arms.

Serra’s fingers continued to trace Benjicot’s jaw, her touch light yet purposeful. She watched him closely, sensing the weight of his memories and his carefully chosen words. There was a softness in his gaze, one that surprised her, as if he had unlocked a piece of himself that he rarely let surface — a glimmer of who he once was as a boy.

“Does it scare you?” Serra asked, her voice barely above a whisper, “That I remind you of her?”

Benjicot’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as though her question had struck a chord. “Sometimes,” he admitted, the honesty in his tone sending a shiver through her. “Because I watched her break. And I know… I wouldn’t know what to do if you ever felt that way.”

Serra’s brow furrowed as she absorbed his words, her heart aching for the boy he must have been—watching his mother disappear into grief. “I’m not your mother, Benjicot,” she said softly, brushing her lips against his temple. “I won’t leave you to bear the weight alone.”

His arms tightened around her as though he feared she might slip away at that very moment. “It’s not easy,” he confessed, his voice thick with emotion. “Sometimes I fear I don’t know how to… be the kind of husband you deserve.”

Serra let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, pressing her forehead against his. “You’re already more than enough,” she murmured, her thumb stroking along his cheek. “You listen. You care. That’s more than many could say about their husbands.”

Benjicot’s lips twitched into a faint smile, but the shadow of doubt still lingered in his eyes. “Do you think we’ll be different?” he asked, the question heavy with uncertainty. “From my parents?”

Serra tilted her head, considering his words carefully. “I think we already are,” she answered, her fingers running through his hair as she spoke. “We’re talking, aren’t we? We’re here, trying to understand one another, and that’s more than some ever do.”

He let out a soft chuckle, his forehead pressing against hers. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, though his tone held a quiet hope as if he wasn’t quite ready to believe it yet.

Serra’s hand found its way to his back, drawing gentle circles against his skin. “We don’t have to be perfect,” she said, her voice steady and reassuring. “We just have to try.”

Benjicot’s smile widened, his gaze softening as he looked down at her. “I’m lucky,” he said, his voice low and sincere, “to have you.”

Serra’s lips curved into a playful smile as she tugged him closer. “I suppose I’m lucky too.”

He laughed, the tension between them dissolving as he leaned in to capture her lips in a slow, tender kiss. The sheets rustled again as he shifted, his weight pressing her further into the bed, and for a moment, the world outside of them disappeared. Serra’s heart swelled as she felt the warmth of his skin against hers, her breath hitching as she then felt his right hand creep up along the length of her leg, his knuckles pressed to the inside of her knee and gliding up until he reached the apex of her thigh and stopping to rest there — the breath she took was shaky, her lips parting and finding the nape of his neck as he craned up and into her; his chest pressed against hers, “Ben…” She quietly muttered against his lips.

“I could stay here all day…” he replied, his free hand lifting to cradle her face against his palm, his other finally moving over her mound; his fingers dipping into her with an eagerness that shared a likeness to a bear drawn to honey that drew a soft gasp from her mouth, “just…like…this.”

Her head leaned back, pressing into the pillow behind her as his fingers sank into her, pressing up into her walls with slow meticulous in-and-out movements that orchestrated a slew of soft moans with such ease — Benjicot leaned forward, pulling the sheet down and away from her body until she was bare to him and him alone. His lips found the curve of her breast, pressing a soft kiss to the skin before lowering his head; ducking to bring his mouth over her nipple, his teeth dragging along the sensitive peak. Her chest instinctively pressed up into his kiss, mouth falling open with a low whine as she found hold by his hair, “Oh good Gods…” she cried out.

Her walls clenched around his fingers, warm and wet as her womb welcomed him, “We needn’t see anyone today,” he muttered, shifting down her body enough that his lips brushed her ribs. He once again yanked the sheet away from their bodies, further bunched low around his hips and leaving her exposed to the cool Spring air that trickled in through the windows that were left open. He spoke in between kisses to her belly, “could stay here in bed…performing our duty. Creating a babe to rule Raventree.”

“We…have other duties to attend to, m’lord,” She panted, a hand again finding the crown of his head and fisting the locks of hair between her fingers.

Benjicot’s mouth found her hip, using his shoulders to force her thighs apart for him as his hand continued its slow ministrations, “Oh, so formal,” he teased, “those duties will still be there later, the council can spare us a moment more.” His words were muffled by flesh, his voice a low timbre that sent a shiver up her spine as he looked up through thick, dark lashes.

“But breakfast…” she gasped, his fingers curling up into her, “the gift ceremony— you have meetings and…and— dear gods.”

“Sh, my love,” He said as his mouth turned up into a grin. He pressed a final kiss to her pelvis, his mouth then finally closing around her clit and lapping at her with such fervour she felt as though she was burning from within, pleasure surging through her veins; she felt her breath catch in her throat, letting out a high-pitched moan. She was quickly overwhelmed by her peak, her skin ablaze and clutching to the roots of his hair like life alone depended on it, her hips desperately grinding into his face as he coaxed her through it. Her body tensed above him, a tremor settling into every bone as her head pressed as far back as the mattress would allow clenching her thighs around his head.

“Ben,” she finally whined aloud.

—

Benjicot was never quite fond of the idea of marriage — he always imagined that when the day came that he did marry, he would be miserable and only do it solely for the sake of duty. He’d pictured it would be some round faced Perryn girl that he had never paid any mind to, avoiding her gaze during their wedding and throughout the feast, disgusted as he’d bedded her — he had long since settled that he probably would only bed her once or twice a month and hope for the best. Hope that she would be with child quickly as to not have to bear another moon of the tiring routine; hopeful that the old gods would spare him the mercy of a wife who was slow to come with child and put him through that experience time and time again — if the prospect of marriage and his wife-to-be was not going to be by his choice, he at least hoped they would spare him that at least. He’d experienced that once before when his older cousin had dragged him to a pleasure house in the Street of Silk as a boy of ten-and-six, citing that he’d come of age and as a man grown, there came a certain appetite for women — he’d been plunged into the room of a woman who feigned arousal and had done her best to put on a show for him, exaggerated moans and just too much touching him. He had been grateful for the entire experience to be done with, awkwardly dismissing her after he struggled to…be present and perform. There had been no missing Kermit’s snort when he compared her to having horse-like features, eager to return to Raventree and scrub himself raw. He swore he would never step foot in that place again after that.

He’d always pictured a version of marriage that was cold and distant, not something that was born out of love but rather obligation — and yet, surprisingly, he felt lighter that morning. He did not feel shame embracing the touch of his wife, and he didn’t feel the urge to avoid her eyes and feign love for her out of said obligation — it had taken every ounce of willpower to tear himself from their chambers that morning; wanting nothing more than to delay his other duties for another day. He felt at ease with her, and like maybe he could be absolved of any sins he wore like marred scars on his skin; she was a breath of fresh air that Benjicot had not known in a long time, especially in his home.

He had only left after another hour at her insistence, her handmaiden waiting outside the door to enter and draw her a bath, ready to start anew as the morrow stretched into midday. She had practically dragged him out of bed, her robe scarcely clinging her her shoulders as he protested, her face flushed and having to flick back the hair from her eyes as she bid him a final goodbye for the time being with a kiss to his cheek, insisting he go bathe as well, “I will see you tonight.”

It was a relief to hear, something to look forward to. He would see her tonight and she would only be on the other side of the hall, just at an arm's length where he could find her at any moment should he need to — he had sighed and agreed, cupping her face to give her one last kiss before he retreated towards his private rooms. He would die before he admitted that she was right in saying that a bath and some supper would do him wonders — he felt better prepared to face the council that afternoon, at ease as he took the head of the table, all eyes on him the minute he had stepped into the room.

If anything, Benjicot radiated a newfound confidence as he sat down, slowly addressing each member who took a seat after him.

After the pleasantries and greetings, some further congratulations on his marriage, the meeting had been tense and brief, “Have we heard anything from the Red Fork this morning?” Benjicot asked.

There was a pensive silence, Benjicot’s uncle Willem speaking up when the silence stretched too long, “No, we’ve yet to hear anything from your father or Alysanne. They arrived before midnight, according to a messenger.”

Benjicot nodded, though his thoughts momentarily drifted back to the morning he'd shared with his wife. Her warmth lingered with him, even now, as he returned to the pressing matters at hand. The mention of his father and sister, absent from Raventree, only sharpened his focus. His duties as lord could not be delayed any longer, even if the idea of returning to her chambers tempted him far more than facing another day of conflict.

“They’ll send word soon,” Willem continued, noticing Benjicot’s silence. “I trust your father will have it handled.”

Benjicot nodded, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. The tension near the Red Fork had been escalating, and while his father was a seasoned hand at dealing with disputes, there was a sense that this time things might go too far. The Brackens were a thorn in their side, and with every passing day, it seemed more likely that words alone would not suffice to settle the rising disputes.

“We need to be ready,” Benjicot said, his voice steady as he addressed the rest of the council. “If we hear nothing by dusk, I’ll ride out myself.”

His uncle frowned but did not object, biting his tongue with a tense nod that was short and curt. Benjicot’s newfound confidence, paired with his sense of responsibility, was undeniable. It was clear he was no longer the young boy who had once sought to avoid such burdens. Something had changed, and the men around him could see it.

The meeting had spiralled into further updates from the west, an empty him of sound that Benjicot had only half-listened to as he absentmindedly found himself twirling his dagger; his fingers tracing over the intricate digit and blade as he nodded, offering very little to the conversation — there did not feel as though there was much to say. He had grown weary of the dry talk that was often followed by long silences, pausing and exchanging looks with the few lords who surrounded the table, growing restless quickly and dismissing them until the morning after three gruelling hours of staring back at their uncertain expressions.

He sheathed his blade as he stood, ensuring it was secure there as the room emptied — amidst the tense silence that followed the men out of the room, he had found the back of Kermit’s head, slotted between Oscar and Elmo as they trickled out behind the crowd; as angry as he was still, he could not find it in himself to hold that resentment against the boy he’d long since considered a brother.

—

“Do you mind if I join?” He asked, watching as Kermit tensed, freezing mid-swing on the training dummy in front of him.

The sword dropped, and turning to look back at him — he could see his shoulder slump, his jaw clenching as he fully turned to face him from his place in the centre of the training circle, “If that is what you wish, my lord.” He stiffly replied.

Benjicot nodded, blinking rapidly and approaching him, his sword held underneath his arm as he made work of shrugging off his cloak and dropping it into the grass at the edge of the dirt circle. He unsheathed his sword, “I take it you knew of my father’s intentions?”

“I can’t say I didn’t,” He curtly replied.

He slowly approached him again, Kermit’s body still radiating his annoyance as he stepped back, lifting his weapon again, “And you did not think to warn me?”

“It was not my place to, My Lord,” he said through gritted teeth. Silence befell them again.

“You’re still angry with me,” Benjicot said, his gaze going towards Kermit’s feet as circled him, averting his eyes away towards the treeline. He heard as he sighed, his sword dragging across the dirt for a moment.

“You’re not particularly the face I’d wish to see right now,” He admitted.

“Would you rather it be Serra’s?”

Kermit snorted and rolled his eyes, stopping on his right and looking down at the weapon in his hand, “No, she wouldn’t even step within this circle anyways. You know that.”

They quieted, the air filled with the soft sound of birds as dusk slowly approached.

“You know, I never really thought about it— how hard it would be to look you in the eye afterwards,” Kermit started to complain, squinting as the sun struck his eyes. His friend panted, shifting his stance and shuffling back a few steps, an inquisitive look on his face as he adjusted his grip around the hilt of his sword, “knowing you’ve bedded my sister and all. Bit weird, innit?” He finally explained, visibly uncomfortable, trying to make conversation the longer they paced in circles.

Kermit’s sword suddenly lunged forward, swinging towards Benjicot; quickly deflecting it with a clash and releasing a breathless laugh, “Surely you had to have considered it, it’s part of the martial duty,” He huffed. Kermit swung again, their blades meeting halfway and straining as he attempted to overpower his, “marriages and the marital act, it brings children -- heirs. You’re familiar with the marital act, aren’t you, Kermit?” He taunted, shoving his sword and him back suddenly.

He stumbled back a step, sword by his side as he heavily breathed, eyeing him, “I’m familiar with it. I considered that there might be heirs, that was partly the intention,” He said, voice laced with disgust, “but the thought of you—” he said, lunging at him again, his sword being swatted away by skilful hands, “—and my sister makes me sick.”

Benjicot twirled the weapon, swinging it at his side, a wild grin on his face, “Would you rather I bed you instead?” He goaded, taking a few slow steps to his right. “Though I’m sure your father might have some reservations about the idea.”

Kermit scoffed in disgust, letting out a sudden yelp when his friend lunged forward; quickly reacting in time to deflect his blade, his hands coming up to his shoulders to shove him back a step, “You’re fucking vile, you know that?” Kermit said, a laugh slipping from him as he caught himself from tumbling backwards.

“Oh come now, I only jest,” Benjicot said, stepping back to bounce on his toes as his eyes followed the Tully heir’s movements, “but don’t worry, I plan to make you a proud uncle sooner than not.”

Kermit charged forward, blade swinging up and just missing his chin, twisting his arm and bringing it down quickly -- the movement stunned Benjicot, tripping backwards over his foot and scarcely catching himself with a flail of his arms. He took the opportunity presented in front of him, kicking his foot to slide back and bringing the sword tip to his throat, just touching as his partner stared at him with a wide-eyed stare; mouth opening. Benjicot stuttered for a moment before he grinned, tongue pressing to the corner of his mouth as he panted for air, his chest heaving, “Is this what you have come for? To brag to me about bedding my sister?” Kermit asked between breaths, “Because for once, I find myself rather disinterested in the details of the women you bed.”

He dropped the sword suddenly, stepping back a few steps and allowing him to compose himself again as Benjicot wiped his blade against the fabric of his tunic, his arm holding it against his side with the move, “You owe me.”

His head lifted, confused as Kermit stared at him expectantly, “What?”

“You owe me,” Kermit repeated. His words suddenly clicked in, his mouth opening but shutting and deciding on silence, “As boys, if one bested the other, the winner was owed a favour— I need a favour of you.”

Benjicot eyed him, already suspecting the direction the conversation was going as he sheathed his sword against his side and nodded, “Alright. I’ll bait,” He said, “What is your favour?”

“The truth,” Kermit replied.

The training yards were silent as the two men stared at one another, Benjicot’s heart racing as he blinked a couple of times before he nodded again in response to his request, “I noticed, you know…” Kermit began to state, tone hinting he had yet to get to his question and would drag things out to make a point first — Benjicot had become familiar with the routine when he was procrastinating getting to the point.

He sighed, “Noticed what?”

He glanced down at his feet as his sword was dragged through the dirt, disturbing the rocks as it was moved with a grinding sound as the dirt was overturned, “You left every time we went on hunts,” He admitted, “I never thought anything of it at the time, I just assumed you were being stubborn and went hunting on your own after the rest had retired for the night. I noticed how close you always insisted on hunting towards the Brackens.”

Benjicot clenched his jaw, swallowing, “What is your question, Kermit?”

He looked up at him, blue eyes fixed on him as though he was trying to see right through him and dig out every secret Benjicot held in his body, “I know maybe you will never admit it out loud, I know you will never claim the babe as your own,” He said, his voice low, “but did you ever think to come to me about it? Ask me for help with your…predicament?”

“What help might you have offered?” He quickly replied.

His weight shifted from one foot to the other, “I’m not sure, I suppose— I could have helped you over the boundaries, pushed Amos and my father to agree to a union between the two of you, let you live the life you chose…” he explained. “I wouldn’t have pushed for Serra to marry so soon and could have allowed for you both to choose for love, rather than obligation.”

A pang of guilt washed over Benjicot at the thought of what could have been had things been different, picturing the face of the Bracken girl at the weirwood with him instead of Serra — to have even the inkling of yearning for a girl that was not his wife, a woman who had done nothing to wrong him and had been nothing but kind and sweet even when he did not make it an easy task. He felt guilt for picturing another woman when he could still feel her — his good and sweet wife — on his skin, taste her on his lips, her soft voice still clear as day in his ears as he looked away for a moment and looked up over the walls that enclosed Raventree, “You to wed Myrna, and Serra to Aeron—Rodrik alive, and you and I still like brothers. Maybe I could have prevented this whole mess had things worked out differently.”

He breathed a laugh, “I don’t think that would have done anything for the war.”

“No, but maybe it could have saved our houses all the unnecessary grief,” Kermit reasoned. “Did you ever think about it?”

His head tilted, thumb stretching to twirl a gold band around his fourth finger on his left hand that symbolized his marital bond to the very woman whose brother stood before him, “What?”

“Running away to be with her instead.”

He hesitated, “Once, yeah.”

It was not a confession he was proud of, but there had been a moment that last night that he considered what would have happened if he had not returned to Raventree the next day — if he had taken what little belongings he had on him and disappeared in the night with her, never to return or be heard of again. He wondered how angry his father would have been upon hearing the news — wondered how much of a head start they would have gotten before his father sent men searching for him, how long it would take before he gave up and accepted that Benjicot would never return. Would he discover the true reasoning behind his disappearance? Or would he assume he died somewhere in the woods? Would he hold a funeral in his name, without a body? He had almost found the courage that night to ask her to leave with him, but he knew despite her frustration towards her house and her father’s antics, she was forever loyal to her house and would never agree if she was to still possess any ounce of sanity and therefore, the idea of even suggesting it seemed risky. He cowered away that night.

“Would you still have her if you were given the chance?” Kermit suddenly asked.

Benjicot spluttered a laugh in his disbelief, “You’re not seriously asking me this…” He said, finding his friend’s unwavering expression — his smile dropped, “now of all times. Why are you asking me this?”

Kermit hesitated, the stoic expression breaking with a sigh as he looked up towards the sky where the sun shone bright with midday, “Because I’d like to offer you a favour in return.”

“And what, pray tell, might that be?” He asked, stepping towards him.

Kermit’s eyes followed him, hands tight around the hilt of his sword — he could have killed him, right then and there and not given it a single thought, he could do it — he cleared his throat, “I will give you the chance to leave,” he finally responded, the air around them thick with tension, “to be with your true love and to raise your child away from the confines of politics as you see fit, I will help you out of the gates and to Essos with enough supplies to last you long enough to get settled…”

“Kermit, you can’t be serious.”

“—Just leave my sister out of it, I ask that you not speak a word of this to her. She can’t know,” he continued to speak.

“What are you talking about?” Benjicot asked.

“I can send you a small allowance for the first year, to help with the child but after that, you are on your own,” Kermit finally said, out of breath as though he’d yet to take a breath, his eyes searching his face, “should that be what you want, but that is all I can do for you. That seems like a generous offer.”

Benjicot barked a bitter laugh, beginning to move again as he had grown restless with nerves the longer the conversation had continued — the longer he stood in place, the closer he came to losing his mind and lunging at him, his hand reaching towards the hilt of his sword again and drawing it suddenly, “Don’t be fucking mad, Kermit,” he spat, the taste of bile rising the back of his throat and threatening to coat the ground beneath him as he used his sleeve to wipe his brow, “You would ask me to abandon your sister because of some petty vendetta against me? Do you hate me that much?” He asked, his voice laced with hurt by the suggestion.

All those years of friendship, all those years of being playmates as boys felt like another lifetime as Kermit’s blank expression faced him, “I only mean to protect my sister.” He quietly explained.

“And if your sister is with child?” He asked, voice low as he rushed forward to him until they were practically nose-to-nose and heavy breathing with anger. There was no restraining himself — just as it had some days prior and landed them in this exact position; his temper flared, in his face and clutching his sword as Kermit only blinked, “You would have me abandon my flesh and blood, my house?”

“It would not be the first time,” Kermit calmly replied, though he caught the edge in his tone, “you forget, there are remedies for…undesirable pregnancies—”

Benjicot suddenly brought the weapon up, pressing it to his throat until it just bit into his skin, threatening to ooze blood while he forced his friend back a step, his teeth bared into a snarl as Kermit flinched, “You would do best to mind your fucking tongue!” He growled.

“I only act in the best interest of Serra and her future,” He replied, holding his stare and swallowing thickly; a trickle of sweat rolling down his left temple.

“By implying you’d have her kill my child?” He spat, the blade pressing further into his skin, “I could kill you, you know that? I could kill you right now—

“Benjicot.”

Alysanne’s voice was sharp and stunned as his head whipped around to look over his shoulder where she stood at the entrance to the training grounds, equally surprised to find her watching him with eyes that screamed horror — a look that was so foreign to her, he felt the urge to shrink away and hide in shame, faltering in his hold of the blade as he stuttered for a moment. She was dirtied from head-to-toe, still in riding gear that was marred by blood and dirt, the fabric of her pants torn at her right knee as she held her gloves by her side — her expression a haunted one as she stared in silence, “What are you two doing?”

Benjicot dropped his hand, carefully lowering the weapon and stepping away from his companion who quickly fixed the collar of his tunic by smoothing it out, “I…”

“We were just training,” Kermit quickly answered for them both, “we just got a bit carried away.”

His gaze anxiously looked over his shoulder to where Kermit stood, wiping his neck with the sleeve of his doublet, catching his eye for a moment, “Benjicot should also know better than to get carried away,” Alysanne said, a hint of warning to her words as she eyed her nephew. “Especially now of all times.”

The two men seemed to share a thought, moving in unison to bow their heads to her, “I did not realize you had returned, Aunt Alysanne.”

She scoffed a laugh, stepping down from the steps to approach the circle as she slapped her gloves against her leg; a slew of dust flying up from their fabric, “No, I suppose you were distracted, weren’t you?” She scolded. Her eyes turned to Kermit, observing the wound at his throat that still oozed, “Go to Maester Edric and have that seen to.”

Kermit stammered, “Oh…it’s nothing, it will be fine.”

“It was not a suggestion, Kermit,” She stated, looking again at her nephew who lowered his eyes, “I must speak with my nephew.”

“I…” Kermit began to say, stopping abruptly when Alysanne’s eyes drifted to him again. He bowed his head and cleared his throat, “Of course, my lady.”

The two kin were silent as Kermit uttered a quiet bid goodbye, brushing past them and heading back inside, dark eyes following his every step until he was out of sight — Benjicot could still feel his anger that simmered below the surface, right in his chest as he clenched his jaw and finally let out a scoff once he was out of earshot and looking up and away from his aunt who looked at him. How was he to face Serra later, knowing her brother had even suggested such a thing?

“Benjicot,” Alysanne said, drawing his attention to her.

Benjicot continued to avoid her gaze, grinding his teeth and clenching his sword, focused on slowing his heart that hammered against his ribs — he looked towards the trees, “Benjicot, look at me.”

He finally gave in, turning to Alysanne. "I need you here with me. I know whatever's happening with Kermit is important, but I need you to listen and be fully present with me," she said, her tone urgent as she nervously wrung her gloves in her hands, “are you here?”

He frowned, “Yes.”

She nodded, stepping closer and lowering her voice, “It may not be my place, but I must ask, how did the night go? Was it successful?”

“In what way?” He asked, letting out an uncomfortable laugh as she then reached out to grab his wrist, finding his hand with an incline of her head, “Nobody is dead, so I suppose it was…as best it could be. Though, you’d have known that had you had the decency to stay and witness it. Or at least forewarn me of your intentions.” He grumbled.

“Benjicot, please,” she sighed, her tone exasperated — she lifted her free hand to pinch the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes for a moment. When they opened, he felt there was a shift to her stare, tense and anxiety-ridden as she squeezed his hand, “The marriage— has it been consummated?” She boldly questioned.

His nose crinkled in displeasure, “Yes.”

“Successfully?”

“Successfully?” He echoed.

“Is Serra with child? Is there to be a new heir?” She asked, words coming quickly as she grew increasingly agitated. He had to bite back the urge to splutter a laugh, freezing as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, becoming visibly unsettled by her words.

“It’s…too early to confirm, but I’m confident in the likelihood there will be a new babe by the end of the year,” he slowly replied, “Why? Alysanne, what’s happened?”

She visibly hesitated, glancing towards the house as she sought the words — Benjicot could feel the air around them shift into something tense and uneasy as she sucked in a breath and sighed, looking down as she took his other hand in hers, “I feel it necessary to tell you myself, now before anyone else has the chance to get to you, it has to come from me,” she quietly said.

“Alysanne, what is going on?” He asked, his panic rising.

“It’s your father,” She said suddenly.

He felt the colour drain from his face as he stilled, staring at her with a blank expression, awaiting her next words, “Your father has been killed at the Battle of Burning Mill.”

Benjicot's world seemed to tilt. The silence that followed was suffocating. His heart pounded in his ears, yet his body felt numb, and disconnected. "No," he whispered, his mind rejecting the reality she had just spoken.

Tears welled up in Alysanne’s eyes as she watched him, her heart aching for him, knowing there were no words to ease the blow. “I’m so sorry, Ben,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He shook his head, stepping back, pulling his hand from hers. His thoughts spiralled—his father was gone. He’d never see him again, never hear his voice. It was too much. The pain surged in his chest, overwhelming and raw, “How?” He asked.

“Benjicot—

“How?” He snapped, his voice shaking with anger.

“Amos Bracken,” She finally replied after a brief pause, “who was also slain in battle by my own hand.” She added.

Benjicot swallowed thickly, nodding — he was not sure where to go and what to say, settling on shoving past her to collect his cloak from the ground despite her call of his name. He wanted to shrivel up and hide, like a child scared of thunder, but he knew there would be no hiding — it was only a matter of time before everyone was aware. He wanted a chance to change, wipe his face and find his wife — god, his wife — the only source of light despite the chaos. He clenched his jaw as he stalked through the hallways and towards his room, his gaze straight ahead as he attempted to brush past the great hall before anyone noticed his arrival, his nose being wiped off on the sleeve of his doublet.

It was there his gaze settled on the familiar back of his wife who was in conversation with her father, a hand of hers in his much like Alysanne had done to him just moments prior — the image made him want to be sick as he halted abruptly. She turned to look over her shoulder as he approached, following where her father’s gaze had shifted to focus on him, a pitiful expression on his face as he released her hand — Serra’s expression softened as she found his eyes, her mouth opening but being interrupted.

“Lord Benjicot,” Lord Perryn suddenly announced.

Benjicot fought the urge to growl in annoyance, flinching at the greeting and freezing. He sucked in a deep breath, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment to collect his thoughts and ground himself before he uttered something stupid, “It is with great sympathies…to hear of your father’s passing,” Lord Perryn stated.

His eyes opened, watching as Serra approached him and found rest against his side, his arm wrapping around her shoulders and shakily exhaling through his nose, “Thank you, Lord Perryn.” He grumbled.

“I would like to be among the first to once again declare my loyalties to your house, and in support of your claim to Raventree,” he said, slowly bowing his head, “House Perryn recognizes you as the true heir, despite our quarrels in the past. We would like to remind you that should you need anything, we will be among those willing to aid you in whatever way we can.”

“Aye,” Robbard Mooton reluctantly said after a brief pause, “House Mooton as well.”

Benjicot barely registered Lord Perryn's words. The weight of the day—his father's death, the responsibility of Raventree, and now the unexpected pledges of support—crashed down on him. He nodded numbly, tightening his grip on Serra as if she were the only anchor keeping him grounded.

"Your loyalty is appreciated," Benjicot muttered, his voice hoarse, struggling to find the right words. "I will remember this."

Serra pressed her cheek against his shoulder, her hand slipping into his as if sensing his turmoil. The warmth of her touch steadied him, though the storm within raged on. He could feel eyes on him—Perryn, Mooton, all the gathered lords—waiting for him to speak, to take command of his father’s legacy. But all he wanted was to escape this suffocating air, to retreat from the weight of expectation that seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment.

Instead, he straightened, meeting Lord Perryn’s gaze with as much composure as he could muster. "You honour my father’s memory with your words. Raventree thanks you, and I will ensure your loyalty is not forgotten."

Lord Perryn bowed his head once more, satisfied, though Benjicot could feel the subtle pressure behind the man’s gaze—there would be expectations now, alliances to be honoured, promises to be kept. Robbard Mooton gave a stiff nod, his reluctance still evident, but even he couldn't ignore the power shift.

The murmur of voices behind them began to swell, the lords discussing the future of the Blackwoods, already talking strategy and alliances. It felt like a faraway hum in Benjicot’s ears.

Serra pulled back slightly, her eyes searching his, “Ben,” she whispered, "we don’t have to stay here." Her voice, tender and filled with concern, was a balm to the overwhelming weight pressing on him. "We can go… take a moment."

He looked down at her, the soft kindness in her eyes soothing the jagged edge of his grief. For the first time since he’d heard the news, Benjicot felt something other than rage or sorrow. It was a quiet longing for a reprieve, even if just for a moment.

With a short nod, he turned toward the gathered lords. "If you'll excuse us," he said, his voice carrying a finality that left no room for objection.

Without waiting for a response, he gently guided Serra away, her presence beside him the only comfort in the chaos that had swallowed his world. As they moved further from the crowd, the voices behind them faded into the background, and Benjicot let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

They reached the edge of the courtyard, the cool evening air brushing against his skin, and Benjicot finally stopped. Serra turned to face him fully, her hand slipping into his again.

“I’m here,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, but in that moment, it was all he needed.

He closed his eyes and let the grief finally settle. His father was gone, and the weight of his house now rested on his shoulders, but for now—for just a moment—he allowed himself to feel the solace of her presence, the promise of tomorrow yet to come.

TAGLIST:

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[oh-no-its-bird]

Madara as Regina Mills and the Infinite Tsukuyomi as his curse, season 1 of Once Upon a Time style

Tobirama as Emma, coming in to break the curse, and Hashirama kind of filling the roll of Snow White, the brothers unable to recognize or remember each other but feeling each other's loss all the same (which in itself is kind of the greatest punishment for Izuna's death that Madara could give, save for actually killing one of them)

Maybe Kagami as Henry? Him somehow breaking through the curse and finding Tobirama and trying to bring him back to the little town of Konoha, knowing he's one of the only people who can get through to Madara. But also Tobirama doesnt remember anything anyways, so to him he's just humoring this kid

Ok actually scratch, rewind, lets take this from the top;

Ok so. Madara casts the Infinite Tsukuyomi, but instead of it being a dream it casts Konoha into the modern world, where everyone is given some role to fill in the little town of Konoha, and only Madara remembers how they all got there.

Madara sets some stuff up, like gives certain people certain roles and memories, and also bc something something magic something something the perfect dream, within the bounds of the town, Izuna + some other dead people exist. Madara isn't especially focused on the other dead, just Izuna, so he actually is partially unaware of the details of who else may have gotten revived (Itama is totally there somewhere, lost in the crowds)

Now, Madara did not truly design this town, nor the lives of the people in it. He could have, but he didn't bc he was a bit focused on just his own wants. So a lot of families got separated, things got mixed up, that sort of thing. Including the Senju brothers. Hashirama and Itama have no idea that they're siblings, and Tobirama is another ballpark all on his own.

You see, in a bit of a petty act and also a bit of paranoia bc 'something something best sensor in history' something something 'dont wanna take any chances' and also definitely a bit of last minute impulsive 'hey fuck you, I get my brother back but you dont, bitch' Madara pressed the "you are just a normal man who has no family" illusion onto Tobirama then kicked him out of town

With that said and done, Izuna by his side, Hashirama also positioned suitably close (maybe as an aid since he's Madara is the mayor?) Madara goes ahead and pats himself on the back and enters the Infinite Tsukuyomi himself, forgetting it all and able to truly live that happy, blissfully unaware life he had worked so hard for.

(Just ignore the burning fires in the background where Madara didn't think to double check if anyone else's roles lined up well with their original selves. Or the fact that Itama and some other dead people are totally wandering around in the bg, both them, their families, and even Madara none the wiser)

So anyways, just like in Once Upon a Time, time itself is pretty much frozen. No one ages, every day runs about the same, and honestly who knows how long this town has been here now-- because its residents sure as hell dont!

But then.

One day, somehow little Kagami somehow awakens the Mangekyō Sharingan, possibly through a pure chance fluke of the illusion wavering for unrelated reasons (bc it also supresses any chakra use) and Kagami's mangekyō's ability, whatever tf it is, allows him to break himself out of the genjutsu.

Making him now the only person in the town who's aware of the fact that they're all in some sort of illusion-- though the details escape him bc hes like. 13 and didn't know everything happening behind the scenes.

Oh also note, the ages and time frame of this is just all over the place and we will not think ab it too hard.

So Kagami ofc begins to investigate, he has very little idea of whats going on at all but he does quickly pick up on the fact that he can find just about anyone in Konoha here-- but not his sensei. And Sensei always knows what to do, so now he has a mission

Queue Kagami somehow tracking Tobirama down in the outside world, just like Henry did with Emma. Don't know the specifics of how tho!

So now cut to Tobirama:

First off, him as a parallel to Emma Swan is actually so good its kind of funny. I say he gets to keep being somehow able to 'know when someone is lying' (it's the traces of his obnoxiously powerful sensing abilities leaking even through the best of genjutsu)

He's some kind of private detective maybe? Idk but whatever he is, he's freelance and travels a lot

(Which helps keep attention from the fact that he, even removed from the town, does not seem to age-- something even he himself has not noticed)

So Tobirama is just living his kind of shitty, honestly a little depressing life. He has no attachments; He always feels like he's missing something or someone; He can never seem to connect with anyone, and people even seem to forget he exists when he's out of sight for too long (almost as if they're made to forget, as if he really was never meant to be here or be seen)

And then one day this tiny kid is banging on his door calling him Sensei and begging him in tears to come back to the village because everyones gone crazy and someones cast a genjutsu over EVERYONE and Izuna is somehow alive again and--

Woah woah slow down. First, who the fuck are you actually.

*insert stressed Kagami brain car crash noises here*

So yeah !! Tobirama doesn't know who tf this kid is, but he will drive him back to town and give his parents a good talking to.

Hikaku, Kagami's polite and stressed looking uncle, is very relieved to see him back home

Kagami is literally begging Tobirama to stay it's actually painful to watch and no one can understand why he's so fucking pressed about it. And for some reason, Tobirama decides to stay. But only for a little bit, you hear?

(It will not be for a little bit.)

And just like that, the clock tower begins to move, and time begins to pass once more. And both Kagami and Tobirama slowly piece together what exactly happened to get them here, and how the town might be broken out of it's enchantment

OK SO WITH THAT SET UP / PREMISE ON THE GROUND LETS TALK FUN DETAILS

So like. Tobirama and Hashirama having no idea they're brothers. Double to that, Itama is somewhere around! And no one fucking knows it!

Madara does not know what he's done, he is living his best life fr fr, but in contrast to how Hashirama and Tobirama seem to instantly click, Madara just kind of fucking hates this guy on sight for some reason. There's a lot of tension there and everyone in the office is making bets on if they're gonna kiss (Izuna has money riding on it)

So like Madara, Izuna, Hikaku and Hashirama running the mayors office n stuff, with Madara as the mayor

Tobirama eventually ends up as Sherrif just like Emma which is also irony bc smthn smthn Uchiha police force agenda or whatever. And then him and Madara regularly get into very public fights over clashing ideals

Im tied between saying that the timeline for this is like, just wishy washy "hey dont worry ab it" and tossing in Kakashi's generation + others for fun and to fill in spaces

Or saying that just like how the Infinite Tsukuyomi seemed to bring some people back to life within the boundaries of the town, there are some legit time bending aspects of it, and just like how we have people who are supposed to be dead, we also have people who just shouldn't be born yet. Fun stuff!

But like Kakashi Obito and Rin are totally around. Somwhere. Also Sakumo but Kakashi still believes his father is dead and Sakumo can no longer remember Kakashi exists (rip)

Itama is the towns one weed dealer and also a plant scientist bc I fucking refuse to give up on the stoner Itama agenda, that is my default Itama in every AU now. Oh also he's like an adult, and we're also sticking with the him and Tobirama being twins agenda

He and Tobirama meeting for the first time with sheriff Tobirama arresting him for selling weed pass would be the funniest thing

Touka is the deputy sheriff and she and Tobirama get along like a house on fire, and then bc convoluted reasons they somehow rope Itama into working w them for parole/community service or smthn. Dream team!!

But yeah thats it thats the post thanks for listening Im gonna go stare at a wall now

[d4rkshad0w]

this is an appreciation post for very underrated tsc character that deserves more love than they receive and i honestly don’t remember the last time i saw a post about any of these characters and if you’re seeing this please take the time to make a post or two abt them

(they may or may not all be from TLH)

• first on the list is the fascinating and abrasive Alastair Carstairs who hid his fathers addiction from Cordelia to protect, who helped Thomas during his trial even thought they weren’t in the best of terms

•second on the list is our beloved Ariadne Bridgestock who survived a very vicious demonic attack (poison) and helped Grace in moving to London when we all know she didn’t deserve it

•third on the list is our precious and eccentric Christopher Lightwood who created a cure for a demonic poison, invented the fire messages and gave James his amazing gun that killed Belial

• fourth is the beautiful and troublesome Jessamine Lovelace who helped Will find where Tessa was and helped Kit lead Julian and Emma to Malcolm’s cottage

•fifth is our adored and talented Charlotte Fairchild who ran an entire institute at 23 and practically raised three kids who weren’t hers and wasn’t under any obligation to care for she also became the first ever female consul

•sixth is our absentminded and extraordinary Henry Branwell who invented theportal, introduced Magnus to glitter and fought against Leviathan even though he was partially paralyzed, he also wrote a memoir;)

these character all deserve so much more love if you do make a post abt them please tag #underrated character appreciation post 😂

[fleetingcalypso]

you are an enchantress, and my mind is running around your work. Can you write something where it's y/n's birthday? it's my birthday in two days. I'd love if it was summer-y and at the lake house with all of them. It could be Y/n x anybody, i'm partial to henry :)

≋ I hope your birthday will be celebrated with the sweetest of pastries and the most joyful of laughter. Happy early birthday, please accept this as my gift to you, may your day be one to remember forever.

≋ Henry Winter x GN!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 1461 words.

“I know you’re awake,” Henry’s husky voice comes from the right side of the bed, I can feel him watching me. Of course I’m awake, how could I not be with Bunny causing a ruckus barely a few feet away from the bedroom where me and my lover doze off during the nighttime. I’m not going to let the commotion steal me away from my sleep, not when I was living in the most magnificent dream of all which now, by no means I can remember. If I pretend to be asleep and lay as still as I can, perhaps the divine Hypnos will take pity on me and bless me with a couple more hours of rest. 

As well as my deception could work on the deity of sleep, it does not on the divine being lying by my side. “Ignoring me is unbecoming of you,” he whispers in my ear, his finger grazing over the side of my hip, sliding up towards my waist, gliding up to my shoulder before gripping the thin blanket I was holding over my head and expose my body to the warm sunlight glimpsing through the half-open window. 

“Five more minutes…” I groan into the pillow in which my face is buried. I’ve never understood how Henry could wake up as early as first light whenever we are welcomed in Francis’ aunt’s mansion. He’d tried to explain it to me once, in my current drowsiness his original statement becomes abandoned in the fabric of time. “It’s too early.” I croak again, my body rolling away from his in a pitiful attempt to have him abandon me to my slumber and the many dreams that await me on the other side of the oniric world.

At last he yields, my seemingly preposterous request for just a few more moments of relaxation is accepted and my dearest has shown himself for the kind soul that he is, pressing his lips to my head in a sweet blessing, “Five more minutes, then. Not one second more.” My only response to the limitation he poses to me is an unconcerned hum and somehow, as the pandemonium occurring downstairs grows louder, it serves as the perfect cradlesong to guide me right into Morpheus’s arms.

The house being oddly quiet is the first thing that worries me when my eyes blink open, Henry’s absence beside me being the second thing I detect, although less troubling. Educated as I am on his habits and his needs, he’s most likely working on yet a new translation. 

A gentle breeze fills the room, pecking my skin with its cool kisses, alleviating for what feels like a fleeting second the heat I feel, thanks to the sun electing me as one of its lovers for it too decides to lay its kind caresses on my body. The window is wide open, I only notice it after my head turns, the sudden brilliancy reaching my gaze causes me to squint, my hand instinctively rising to create some shadow. Peeking from my fingers, I can make out a bird perched on the windowsill, if only Henry were basking in this peaceful moment with me, he’d be able to identify precisely what kind of feathered creature that is, he’s the ornithologist out of the two of us.

With time my vision adjusts to the glistening light and as I observe my plumaged friend take flight I decide it is time to finally see if my not so plumaged peers kindly left any scraps of their breakfast for me. I take my time washing up and getting dressed. It is such a serene day, to taint it with hurriedness feels like a crime against nature.

Making my way towards the kitchen has me realizing that the house is not as soundless as I imagined: hushed whispers are audible, along with repetitive shushing and a melodious yet quiet feminine giggle. I’m not swimming in solitude, then. It only adds to my enjoyment of the morning.

Finally, when I step into the room, that's when I spot it: a cake sits in the middle of the breakfast table, Bunny trying his best to not be seen sneaking a taste of it with his finger. My dearest invites me to step further in with his sweet call, “At last, you live. I thought you’d never join us.” Henry sits with his elbows on the table and his chin resting confidently on top of his joined hand, naturally I glide across the floor to him, my hand finds its rightful spot on his shoulder rubbing my fingers in his muscles, “Good morning,” I say and there rises an echo of ‘Morning’ in return.

His hand finds mine, bringing it to his lips and pressing the softest of kisses to the back of it, “Take a seat. We were just waiting for you.” The chair next to him is already pulled, waiting only to feel my weight on it. Settling at the right side of my beloved I feel like the very world we’re in is but a violin’s string, ready to snap at any moment. Clearly, I’m missing a piece of the puzzle, watching my companions throw each other amused glances, not so patiently looking forward to something I do not understand, though by Bun’s hungry looks towards the baked delicacy sat in front of him, it’s plain to see just what he is impatient for.

Following a moment’s quiet, his anticipation takes the best of him, “Do you know what day it is or are you still half-asleep?” He asks, his fingers tapping nervously on the edge of wood. I do not know what day it is, in truth. The times we spend in this sanctuary compel me to misinterpret the countless hours that spread through the summer weeks into one single round of twenty-four. It all blends together in a haze.

“Is it an important occasion that’s slipping my mind?” 

“Oh for God’s sake!” He childishly laments, shaking his head in frustration. “It is, no doubt, a special occasion,” Comes Camilla’s voice with syrupy patience embedded in it, “A cake, us gathered around it, waiting for you…” 

Miraculously I get the picture before any kind of remarks against my intellect can be formulated. Eyes wide with glee, elated smile taking over my lips, I can’t hide the appreciation I feel for the souls joining me in celebrating the day I was born. When the traces of flour smudged on their clothes finally have a reason for existing I feel my heart overflowing, they’ve baked a cake just for me and even if I haven’t tasted it yet, I can already tell it will taste like ambrosia. This is one of those times where I wonder if one individual could pass away from feeling too much love.

Celebrating with them all has a golden spot in the throne residing inside of my memory, and not for the visible kindness they’ve shown me by gifting me many presents I’ll forever treasure, but for the affection they’ve showered me. I’m able to bathe in the tenderness of our friendship.

Francis gifted me a locket on a chain, a small sparkly token where I could hide away a picture of my lover for only my greedy eyes to see. Charles and Camilla offered me a brand new chess set with the promise that they’ll take turns playing against me soon, the immaculate black and white pieces sculpted in smooth marble almost look like precious jewels. Bunny, hyperbolizing how long it took him to find a gift he deemed worthy of me, presented me with a watch I’m sure he pestered Henry to buy in his stead. Richard, with an air of uncertainty to him, handed me a book, the very one I’d been rambling about purchasing for myself during one drunken night. How he’d caught that miniscule detail, I’ll never know.

“Happy birthday,” Henry whispers, his voice caresses my ear as he sets a small rectangular, intricate, case in my hands. The see-through glass top shows me the contents of it. A stunning montblanc fountain pen, with golden decorations on its body. 

The conviction sets in me with every breath I take, that finding people as caring as them is an unprecedented benediction. “Thank you.” Attempting to put my gratitude into more elegant words is unachievable. “Thank you for everything.” Henry’s arm around my body drags me further into his side in an unusual display of public affection while my friends, they don’t seem to notice, too busy arguing over who should get the last slice of the dessert they spent so much time preparing. If birthdays could always compose such a heavenly melody, then they’d be hymns I’d never grow tired of singing. 

[akanesheep]

How they fell for MC: Part 3

Leviathan:

Our favorite otaku does not fall fast or easily. He’s naturally suspicious and distrusting of outsiders, even more so since his arrival in the Devildom. This normie human shows up and wants to tease their way in? No way.

The whole TSL debacle? That was negative points. If he hadn’t been stopped Lotan surely would have killed you. (Which he remembers with much regret) He’s our boy, but our boy has a temper inside that meek exterior.

When you apologized, and began to interact, he kept you at a distance, definitely watching for any signs of deception.

‘They’re cute’ he’d think and blush. ‘NONONO! Absolutely not! No normie stuff, besides, they’d be better off with someone, anyone else’

Ahh his sin. Taking all his skill, ability, and self-confidence and assurance, and stuffing it deep inside himself. All that was left on the surface was jealousy and envy. Most of the time, he only felt able to do everything through the screen of his computer. No normie human could understand how he feels.

Wait, you actually do like anime and games? Hold up, put up or shut up. He demands you prove this. Quizzing you constantly about various animes and games. You play MMORPG’s? Even better. You’re gonna be his raid partner now. To stop the constant quizzing to prove how much you actually know, you show him pictures of bookcase after bookcase lining your room in the human realm. Anime, manga, figures and games lined each one.

His eyes widened, finally believing you. He may have a good friend here. Anime nights are a constant whenever he can sneak you away.

Slowly with each visit, each round of game and anime nights, he found himself thinking more and more about his Henry. Wait… when did that become a simple fact that they were that important to them? He feels his face flush and admonish himself for thinking like a normie. Then envy takes over. He berates himself for even thinking someone like you could like or even lo-love him back? He’s not worth it… and besides, you had to hate him deep down for trying to kill you.

But you happily came over all the time… you smiled at him. Even caught you blushing at him once. He does this over and over. His adoration for you growing by the day, partially content to love you from afar as he finds himself unworthy, and his jealousy demanding action, unable to hold it all in.

You meanwhile made it obvious to everyone that you loved this glorious Otaku, this demon of envy. Finally you helped him along by kissing his cheek one night after months of build up getting him comfortable with sitting close, then sitting side by side, eventually over time into very innocent cuddles. Both of you blushing, but he looked like a tomato each time… but when you kissed him? He jumped and threw himself sideways, stammering and gesturing, even apologizing… you calm him down, and tell him you love him. He looked at you stunned for a moment, his face somehow getting redder. You wondered if he was going to reach purple when his protests began anew. His envy causing ever self doubt to gush forward, ever argument for why that couldn’t be true. How any of his brothers were a way better choice.

You put a finger to his lips, told him that you love alll of his brothers… but you love him, you have to tell him why. Otherwise he would never believe you no matter how many times you said it. You have to fight his envy and overpower it with truth.

When you finish, you lean forward and kiss his lips softly, and whisper ‘I love you’ again to him.

He stammers, then leaning forward he kisses you back, his lips tight and trembling. He can’t say the words back yet… not those specific words. So he says ‘me too’

@haydensky01

[poisonappleeater]

Neverland Lover Pt. 1

Regina Mills x transmale!reader

takes place in s3 in neverland !! i dont remember some details of the plot of this arc so forgive me for any inaccuracies :( ALSO also reader is a bandit bc yeah (gender identity may or may not be significant to plot)

Regina’s been non-stop worried sick about Henry. Even when it was her turn to sleep, her eyes never closed. Yours rarely did either. Not when you were surrounded by the dangers of Neverland. And especially not when you were so busy watching her pace around a tree in the dead of night, when she would chew her apple-red lips, when she would hold her stomach with worry. But you were the only one who ever noticed. You didn’t know why no one else ever showed concern. Sure, maybe it was understandable to be weary of a woman with ambiguous morals, a murderous history, and a callous tone; but she was a woman with a heart. And it wasn’t blackened, not completely. It couldn’t be. Not with the way she protected her son. Maybe you were partial to Regina, and maybe your debilitating crush on her had something to do with it. (You’ve tried EVERYTHING to rid of your feelings for her. You couldn’t. And you knew she’d never go for you. A refined, ex-evil Queen of the Enchanted Forest/Mayor of Storybrooke had no business fraternizing with a bandit like you. You weren’t even sure if she saw you as a man.) You stared at her in the night, an infatuated hiccup in your heartbeat.

…

You, her, and the Charmings trekked through Neverland once more in the dim cerulean light before hearing snapping branches. The sound didn’t come from any one of you… Regina snapped her head around, onyx-hued hair following her motion.

“What was that?” she questioned. It was silent again. Everyone slowed their movements. You and Mary Margaret reached for your arrows.

“Maybe a bird?” David blurted. Mary Margaret looked at him and sighed. She loved him, but damn, he was dense. Before you could nock an arrow, the vindictive cries and yelps of Lost Boys pierced the air, swoops of swinging vines approaching you as the boys flew into view. You, Regina, and the Charmings gave each other wide-eyed glances in preparation for whatever was to come.

David muttered, “Okay, not a bird. Got it.”The Lost Boys surrounded you, some with hand-crafted knives in clutch. David and Emma held their swords at the ready, and you and Mary Margaret took aim. Regina conjured a fireball with a graceful flourish of the wrist (and maybe you blushed a little at the sight). She found your eyes with her own. Perhaps it was the light of the flame, but there was warmth in her gaze.

“Where did you hide the boy?” growled a ratty, blonde lad through gritted teeth. He must have been referring to Henry.

You spoke first. “We hid him nowhere. He’s not here.”

“And even if we did know where he was, we wouldn’t tell you,” asserted Emma.

The scrawny boy revealed plaque-riddled teeth with a snarl. “You’re so sure, eh? Maybe we can get you to tell us,” he mused. “Boys!” On command, the small army of scoundrels hurled themselves at you in attempt to chokehold you and the others. You stabbed one in the thigh with an arrow as he tried to pounce on your shoulders; David rendered a boy unconscious with the handle of his sword. Peering over your shoulder, you saw Regina flip one boy over with bare hands and toss one into the trees with a plume of purple smoke. Without her knowing, a third Lost Boy tried to attack her from behind.

“Regina!” you warned her. You made quick work of nocking another arrow, aiming at the boy’s shoulder. Regina turned to look at you, the boy mere milimeters away from her. In due time, your arrow hit the lateral deltoid of the scrawny cretin, effectively demounting him from his attack. Regina breathed heavily. With you unguarded, you were ambushed by two boys. Dammit. You struggled harshly but were able to hold their necks in your elbows. Just as you stabilized your hold, you felt the white-hot sting of metal in your side. The blade, albeit short, felt infinite in length as it continued to plunge into you. The pain was debilitating. You wailed with the air you had left in your lungs. Abruptly, the runts, previously cackling, were launched away from you. You heard two thuds, and the two boys fell silent. Regina must have taken them down with a spell.

“Dammit, Y/N,” Regina knelt beside you immediately. All the Lost Boys were unconscious, and the only sounds left were your agonied groans. She placed a hand tenderly beneath your head before observing your surroundings. That’s when you noticed the Charmings peering down at you with concern and care in their faces, but confusion as well at the affection Regina showed you.

“We need to get out of here,” Mary Margaret reasoned. Regina faced her, an incredulous expression on her perfect face.

“Does it look like he can walk right now? Give me a second. It won’t take long.” She slipped her royal blue blazer off. Regina’s soothing, velvety voice was enough to distract you from the pain for just a moment. The pain quickly returned when she reminded you of it.

“This is going to hurt.” Regina knitted her brows in concentration. Before you could provide any sort of response, she swiftly removed the knife from your abdomen, sure to maintain its angle to minimize further damage to your body. You yowled through gritted teeth, your heels scratching at the dirt floor as your legs moved.

“Sorry…” Regina crooned, efficiently putting pressure on your wound with her blazer before hovering her hand over your abdomen. You watched in fascination as your pain dissipated with a violet glow, your lesion seemingly undoing itself.

“Thank you, Regina.” A sparkle appeared in her eyes when you said that. Regina nodded ever so slightly in response, looking down subsequently to avoid your gaze.

David interrupted the tension, likely without noticing. “Let’s go.” Mary Margeret took your hand to help you up now that Regina was suddenly unavailable to you, lost in her own thoughts.

The pixie-haired brunette noticed Regina’s aloofness and smiled at you emphatically. “Yeah, let’s keep moving.”

…

You sat alone in the dead of night near the fire that you all put together. (Regina lit it with a fireball. You couldn’t get over how cool that was.) You rubbed your fingers over the spot on your lower right abdomen where Regina healed you. You played the scene over and over in your mind, missing the feeling of her hand beneath your tired head, the sensation of warmth as she treated your injury. Everyone was asleep, and it was silent aside from the crackle of the fire. That was until you heard footsteps approaching from behind. You turned and nocked an arrow in a fraction of a second.

“Just me.” Regina announced and sauntered ever so gracefully to a spot a few feet away from you. She knelt near the flame. You stared at her for a moment, letting yourself become familiar with the details of her face: the small scar above her lip, the curve of her nose, the shape of her profile. Your heart fluttered. You glanced at her wine-colored blouse, remembering her soiled jacket.

“You didn’t have to dirty your blazer just to fix me up.”

“You didn’t have to look out for me when we had our tussle with the lost boys.” It was silent again for a moment, although it felt long. “I could’ve handled myself,” she added. You shrugged.

“You already had two rascals on your hands.”

“How’s the stab wound? Any residual pain?” Regina changed the subject, eyes averted. She spoke softly, a rasp in her voice.

You replied, “None at all. And thank you, again. You’ve saved me a hell of a lot of trouble.” Your expression of gratitude perplexed the dark-haired woman, and silence remained stagnant in the air until Regina spoke again.

“You treat me kindly. Why is that? Ulterior motive?” she asked cynically. She raised an eyebrow. Heat rose to your cheeks, your eyes widened. You stuttered before mustering a proper response.

“You’re human. There’s no reason for me to treat you less than that.” The woman in the silk blouse broke out into a chuckle.

“But I have a heinous past. You know that, don’t you?” You didn’t know how to answer that without disclosing your feelings. You shrugged again and turned your head away from her in hopes that the warmth of the flame masked the warmth in your cheeks. Regina stopped laughing when she realized your sincerity.

“You really see me that way?”

“You’re not evil, Regina.” When you look turned to look at her once again, her eyes were already on you. The expression on Regina’s face unsettled you slightly, solely because it was akin to the way she looked at Henry. Wet eyes, subtly raised brows, slack jaw. You’d never seen her look at anyone else in Storybrooke that way. Your stomach flipped.

“Well, goodnight, Y/N,” Regina nodded, standing up, brushing herself off, and walking off before lying against a tree. You knew she was only faking sleep. You remained vigilant while your friends slept, leaving you to ponder a gorgeous, raven-haired woman.

feel free to reply with any opinions or criticism!! hopefully ill be faster w posting the next part

[clove-pinks]

Inspired by @radiojamming sharing their photographs of Franklin Expedition signatures from the ships' muster books, I went through the digitised Le Vesconte Family Archives, held in the Provincial Archives of Newfoundland and Labrador, and grabbed screen shots of Henry T.D. Le Vesconte's signatures from assorted letters.

While none of them quite match the amount of swirls and flourishes that Le Vesconte used for his Very Special Muster Book Signature, I think it’s fascinating to see how his signature can vary over the years! It's also an open question of what, exactly, he is signing before his surname. Le Vesconte descendent William Wills partially transcribed a few letters, and he believed that his great-granduncle signed his name "T.D. Le Vesconte."

Personally, I think he's squeezing in an "HTD," which is the monogram on his wax seal that can be seen on quite a few of these scanned letters. (The H is unlike how he would write that letter normally, but I think he's trying to interweave it with the TD.)

From a letter to his father dated February 1, 1843—a typical cross-writing disaster. Did he only wrote "D" before "Le Vesconte"? Dundy truthers rejoice!

Your affectionate Son

[squiggle initials] Le Vesconte

From a letter to his father dated Bombay/HM Brig Clio Tuesday July 18 1843. You can see how much he loves a dramatic flourish with the T in Le Vesconte, and a loop or swirl on the final E.

Letter to his father dated [HMS] Calliope Rio Janeiro [sic] January 20 1839. It's a huge cross-written missive that just goes on and on and on; I think he forgot how to sign his own name at the end of this ordeal.

Letter to his father dated Clio off Nankin Aug. 15 1843. Noteworthy as he appears to sign his name "HTDLeV" at the margin of the page, after an abbreviated "Your affec. Son."

Finally, a letter addressed to his mother in this collection, dated HMS Erebus Woolwich April 16 1845. Very long cross on the T, and a flourish from the terminal E. It's signatures like this one that make me think he's signing all three of his first initials.

From a letter to his father, dated HMS Erebus May 2 1845. There is an HTD in there, right?? Anybody with me on this one??

From a letter to his mother dated May 15 Greenhithe [1845], with a short message for his older sister Rose at the end. A RARE "Henry"!! When he doesn't have a Le Vesconte to embellish, the Y in Henry will suffice.

Baby (23-year-old) Henry Le Vesconte's signature in a letter to father dated HMS Excellent Portsmouth Harbour Dec. 24 1836. I have transcribed this one, it's a great letter all around.

Your affec. Son HTDLeV. [?]

From a letter to his father dated Portsmouth October 17th 1844.

At the post image limit, I will close with "brother Henry" from a late 1844/early 1845 letter to his older sister Rose. He's obviously closer to her than to his other siblings (who may not have had much time to get to know him, since he was only 15 years old when he left home for good as a first class volunteer). Here's a rough transcription of this letter!

[ober-affen-geil]

[ID

All gifs are of Dean and Henry from Big Eden. Henry is shorter than Dean by about half a foot and is wearing a brown sweater. Dean is wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt partially unzipped with a plain white t-shirt underneath.

Gif 1: Front shot of Dean facing the camera with Henry standing behind him. Henry has his hands on Dean's shoulders, resting his head on Dean's back. Dean has one hand up on his chest, his fingers barely brushing Henry's where they are peeking over his shoulder. Dean is pausing, caught in the quiet tension of the moment. He seems to make a decision, then starts to turn towards Henry.

Gif 2: Cut to shot of Henry and Dean as he finished turning around, his hand coming up to cup the back of Henry's head and meeting Henry for a gentle, easy kiss.

Gif 3: Dean, still kissing Henry, angles his head to deepen the kiss and pulls Henry closer with his other hand around his back while moving the hand cupping Henry's head to his neck.

Gif 4: Dean and Henry kissing, clutching at each other but not really moving otherwise. The hood on Dean's sweatshirt is bunched at the back where Henry's hand has moved it.

Gif 5: Dean is still kissing Henry, but something is wrong. His eyes, already closed, start to squeeze shut harder as Dean screws his face up with effort. Eventually he breaks, and his face drops into Henry's shoulder as he gives up, still clutching Henry in an embrace.

End ID]

So I finally watched Big Eden, and the whole thing is generally sweet and warm and I love that Henry and Pike find each other by the end and the whole town coming together to make sure it happens is so incredibly heartwarming. But I want to look for a second at the quiet tragedy of this moment with Dean, from his perspective.

Dean is introduced to us as Henry's high school crush, the one that got away. The straight boy he could never have. We are also told that he has now separated from his wife and he has what appears to be full custody of their two young sons. No details are given, but full custody of two children under 10 years old? Doesn't paint a positive picture of the relationship.

Immediately upon gracing the screen, we see Dean is a person who is friendly, loving, and easily physical with pretty much everyone, especially his sons. Which is where this scene starts to become heartbreaking.

It's clear that Dean had been in a committed relationship, and for one reason or another is no longer in it. It's also clear that he loves Henry as his friend, and misses him. He says as much himself. And it's achingly clear that Dean is both longing for a deep human connection and also wants to reconnect with his friend, break through the wall he can feel Henry has built around himself.

So when Henry leans on him, tired and anxious about his grandfather's condition in the hospital, Dean recognizes the domestic nature of the moment (Henry has made him coffee and he is making Henry eggs). And, wanting in some way to connect with Henry, Dean reaches for him in the only way he may know how. In the way he knows Henry wants.

It just. Doesn't work.

"I can't. I can't. I'm so sorry. I want to. I can't."

He tries. He really, really tries to give Henry everything he wants. He's gentle, and sweet, and he holds Henry like he's something precious because he is, he is precious. But Dean just...can't. He knows this isn't something he can give Henry no matter how much he wants to.

And while of course this is a sad confirmation for Henry, from Dean's perspective this is him reaching, desperate for a connection, and being unable to make one. This is the grasp of a drowning man at the only lifeline in front of him and it doesn't work.

It's no one's fault. He wants to. But he can't.

[bouncingbluebeast]

It was something to behold when an interdimensional transport device went wrong - or in this case, went just right. The din of space warping around the ears had faded into a low hum, the gateway looking more reminiscent of something from Stargate than a typical prototype. Perhaps this world's Dr. Henry McCoy would be able to enlighten as to what his inspirations were.

This Hank McCoy's laboratory is familiar, yet foreign in a few key ways. The ceiling barframes have been reinforced, with sections that include hanging seats that swing along a rail track - like a zip line or a jungle vine. A second refrigerator sits on the opposite side from the one used for storing samples, medical pouches, and other materials. A quick perusal of the second fridge reveals it stocked with various snacks and drinks; twinkies (always nice to know that seems a universal constant), fruit slices, berries, cheeses, crackers, pickles, sandwich meats and other low-effort finger foods. The computer terminal setup is largely unchanged, save for a much larger desk chair with wheels. There were...tokens amidst his counterpart's implements of scientific progress. A few empty mugs left out that read cheesy phrases like "World's Bluest Scientist" or "Big PhD Energy". There was a sense that, while clinical, this lab was lived in...and not just by Hank.

Echoing off the walls, a tell-tale voice hummed along to a portable radio to Britney Spears' "Oops! I Did It Again". Following the sound and the partially sung lyrics would lead to a large blue form underneath a table of wires, cable and plating. A round, soft belly rose and fell spread out over thick thighs clad in similar black-and-yellow shorts and a partially opened suit which gave him breathing room. Sparks occasionally came out from underneath the paneling in rhythm with Miss Spears' "Oh, baby baby". Hearing some footfalls approach, but not looking out to see whom, a clawed hand-paw reaches out from underneath and grabs at the open air expectantly. Whether he is provided the tool he needs is up to the charity of a visitor.

"Hello? Just a moment, I'm almost finished this adjustment and...ah! There we are."

The panel closes with a creak and a substantially larger and softer McCoy rolls out from under the panel with his mechanic's dolly. His eyes widen slightly at his counterpart's presence, saying the ever familiar "Oh my stars and garters...well, I suppose I'd neglected to check if the test process had finished."

A grunt as he sat up led to this Hank standing eye-to-eye, adjusting his spectacles and lifting up a welding shield lens he'd affixed. His eyes are bright yellow with dark irises, semi-dilated in fascination and acclimating to the light. He proceeds to examine more closely, asking questions as though to assess injury,

"Any feelings of molecular instability? Lightheadedness? Nausea? Dissociation or partial loss of sense of self? Terribly sorry if you were dragged through unawares, my friend! I'm Hank McC- oh, I suppose you'd know that already. Well, if you're in need of care or answering questions, I'm your man! May I offer you - me? us??- some tea?"

Hank had already moved for a thermos on a nearby table and began pouring out some steaming earl grey. A lot of things change, but some stay the same...

(@positivelybeastly)

[the-irken-pony]

THSC Meta Voice Potential Backstory + Additional headcanons

Because my first post about them was long enough and also because there's a lot more headcanon than actual lore meat this time around.

Edit:

[ID: The "So that was a fucking lie" meme. End ID.]

I do go a bit in-depth with explaining some of them at the end, but I'm starting with the headcanons themselves. I want to focus on the headcanons rather than having the long explanations dominate the entire post. It's a bit of a different format than I usually do, but it's one I want to try out. (That and not all of them have explanations beyond "vibes" so I'm giving myself some leeway there.)

Starting with the "shock twist" headcanon: I do genuinely believe them to have once been a stick figure who lived in the THSCverse like Henry, Charles, Dave, etc., rather than having always been a disembodied string of text.

They were most likely a superpowered stick figure like Henry, but they probably had weaker, downgraded versions of their current timeline-stopping abilities (the FAILs).

Their other abilities (eg conjuration) arose as a result of their integration into the fabric of their reality, rather than being part of their default abilities.

They used to be a gadgeteer, and still engage with gadgetry off to the side.

Said gadgetry profession may be directly related to their disappearance, or their merging with their reality. No solid headcanon on what caused whatever happened to them but I do have a potential idea.

They had a criminal history before Henry, and have a kleptomania problem of their own.

They don't age, at least not anymore. They stopped after they integrated into the game.

Their attachment to Henry is in part because Henry is the only one who can actually see them anymore.

Road rage

As for explanations behind them, I’m breaking it into sections since it’s. long.

Gadgetry

First off, I wanna discuss their affinity for gadgetry (smth that @/stickthinks brought up in their THSC live blog that I've been fixated on ever since).

While the meta voice knows more about the various people and locales seen throughout the game than any one person in the universe feasibly could, their knowledge isn't limitless. Many of their comments seem to be guesswork rather than actual knowledge. Furthermore, for how much they seem to know, their attitude toward people in general is rather... blasé, and doesn't seem to be too partial to who Henry aligns himself with.

What they DO show a vested interest in is the various gadgets that Henry uses. The first example is actually the first two instances of the Teleporter in the remastered Breaking the Bank and in Escaping the Prison. In Breaking the Bank, they state that the teleporter uses new technology and is optimistic about its potential, and assume the fail in EtP is Henry not knowing how to use it.

[ID: Fail screen for Breaking the Bank’s teleporter option which reads “it’s emergent technology. I’m sure it will get better!”]

Their first hint of actually knowing how stuff works comes from the Opacitator, in which they mention a Beta Testing phase; both words are specifically capitalized, implying that this is a formally named stage of development (I mean I would hope so).

[ID: fail screen for the opacitator fail which reads: “you’d think something like that would come up in the beta testing.” The words beta testing are capitalized. End id.]

Where it's really revealed to have in depth knowledge is in the Wormhole Rifle fail, where we get its iconic info dump moment, where it gives a detailed run-down of the mechanics and makeup of the gun.

ID: the fail screen for the wormhole rifle, which is a wall of text in a small font. It reads:

“I'm surprised you weren't able to get down there with that amazing portal technology. It's pretty strange how those portal guns work. I mean it combines the top scientific processes of our time. the portal gun contains a flux quantum generator which propels energy blasts with energy volumes of 4.23 GW with an average speed of 25 m/s. this speed is most effective because it allows the energy to be conserved while still maintaining a speed that is appropriate. The external plastic coating on the portal gun is constructed of a high polymer fireproof carbon fiber. this prevents the intense energy of the portal gun from burning the hands of the user. The intense energy causes intense heat. Oh by the way if you want a medal/achievement click here. I've heard that scientists still do not know what happens if two portals are placed on top of one another. The last time that was attempted... Well I'm sure you heard about it on the news.” End ID.]

What's interesting is that it mentions that there actually WAS an attempt to place two portals on top of each other, but doesn't go into detail about what. This could either imply that they simply consider it common knowledge not worth repeating, or it could imply that the subject is uncomfortable enough that they'd rather avoid it. The latter option could be an indication that they were actually present for the attempt.

Going further, they may have even directly worked on the Jetboots. The fail message is specifically a production note.

ID: fail screen for the jetboots option, which reads “jetboots production notes: find lighter material to construct boots out of.” End ID.]

Their Original Form, And Why They Changed

The reason I wanted to go over that one first is because it ties into some other stuff. For instance, it proves that they’re more tied to the THSCverse than to our world. Especially given that, in the wormhole rifle info dump, they specifically say “it combines the top scientific processes of our time,” when the concept of a portal gun is still completely fictional in our world.

Additionally, they question our apparent inability to distinguish visually near-identical stick figures (indirectly acknowledging the player as not a stick figure by proxy).

[ID: fail screen for the Toppy option which reads “they could tell you don’t look like Henry. What, you think all stick figures look the same??” End id.]

Thus, it’s reasonable to conclude that the meta is not only originally part of the THSCverse, but also that it is, itself, a stick figure (unless it became something else after their “ascension”.

As for other arguments proving their mortality, or pseudo mortality, they allude to three very notably organic behaviors:

1) they take a bathroom break during the calculator fail in std, suggesting a need, or at least the capacity, to eat food and drink fluids.

[id: fail screen for the calculator option, which reads “sorry, I was in the bathroom. What’d I mi— Where’d… Where is everyone?” End id.]

2) they mention having a nightmare similar to the g-inverter effects, proving that they used to sleep, if they don’t continue to do so.

[id: fail screen for the g-inverter option which reads “pretty sure I had a nightmare like this.” End id.]

3) they complain about their ears hurting from the Sonic pulse fail—direct proof that they can feel pain, even if they can’t die from injury.

[id: fail screen for the sonic pulse option, which reads “That hurt my ears! >:C” The “>:C” is a drawn, angry frown that is right side up. End id.]

As for what happened to turn them into what they are now, I don’t have any solid ideas, just a possible suggestion. It ends off its info dump by mentioning an experimental attempt at putting two portals on top of each other, but trails off and dismisses itself with an assumption that Henry “heard about it on the news.” This could be its usual nonchalance, or it could be the exact opposite: discomfort. It's possible that they were there for the attempt, and the incident was traumatic in some way (either through the process of changing into what we know them as now, or the change itself).

Adjusting to New Powers

Even with the notion that they weren't always in this form, it's worth noting that they seem fairly competent with actually triggering a fail. We don't get any fails triggered on accident (the fake fail in EtP is deliberate as they directly reference the fact that you won't be able to read it all at once), nor do we get particularly awkward cutoffs (the closest being the Shovel fail, which is only there to give you enough time to stop the car). However, the specific style of the fail screens changes with each game, implying some amount of experimentation. This is amplified in the Breaking the Bank remake, in which the fail screen sound effect changes for each fail, which could suggest unfamiliarity on their part.

Furthermore, their ability to interact with the world and the game itself is slim to nothing until Fleeing the Complex, in which they access a command line. They also learn to interact directly with the player via pop ups. They do get a little carried away, though.

[id: the fail screen for the slingshot option. The text has been replaced with a blue pop-up window reading “whoa! How did this happen?” The button is labeled “shrug”. The pop up window is split in half, with its left half on the right edge of the screen and its right half on the left edge of the screen, as though wrapping around to the other side. End ID.]

Their abilities get more advanced in Completing the Mission, in which they access a transform menu, have a voice clip, speak in text outside of a fail screen, and even summon objects into the world.

[ID: Henry Stickmin trapped within a holding cell on the Toppat clan orbital station, holding a Bobby pin. Henry stares at an out-of-place lock on the metal cell door. Narration text reads “> Fine!? You want a lock? >THERE! There’s your lock!” End ID.]

Criminal History + Kleptomania

The fail screen in Midnight Surprise alludes to some past that we don’t actually see. The closest we get are the Explosives fail in BtB and C4 fail in ItA.

[id: fail screen for the midnight surprise fail. First line reads “ah, just like old times.” Second line, in smaller text, reads “that was a poorly thought out plan…” end id.]

In general, they’re nonchalant about Henry’s crimes and sometimes try to give pointers to help out. Its comment on Henry’s failed bribery attempt even suggests they’ve committed briberies before, and multiple times.

[ID: the fail screen for the bribe option. Text reads “Strange… That usually works.” End ID.]

As for their kleptomania, the multiple collectible-based achievements in the series aren’t just collectibles found in isolation of one another, they’re usually things that belong to someone else (Assemble the Crew may be an exception depending on interpretation, but a crewmate is seen in the Toppats’ vault so it could count as stealing). Additionally, they don’t serve any benefit beyond ticking up the achievement progression.

It’s worth noting that this is all done through the player’s hand and is entirely optional, but given that various fails give achievements, including via interactions with the fail screen text itself, we can most likely assume that the meta voice is at least partially responsible for divvying out achievements. Weak evidence? Perhaps, but I thought it was worth mentioning.

There’s also the pickpocket fail in which they cheer on Henry’s decision to take all of Isaac Binderson’s “loot”—immediately after questioning whether he really needed to.

[ID: fail screen for the pickpocket option. First line reads “did you really need all that?” Second line, which is written with much smaller text, reads “No loot left behind!” End id.]

Road rage

Half joke

[ID: The fail screen for the Hijack option, which reads: “AND you forgot to signal. Sheesh!” End ID.]

But also not

[id: fail screen for the shoot option, which reads “eyes on the road man!” End ID.]

[evilwickedme]

Sorry, Batman was just the other big Jewish superhero with lots of adaptations I knew. Have you seen enough adaptations to do The Thing? Or honestly, do Superman anyway; he fits thematically if not literally

I would LOVE to do a ranking of Clark Kents based on how Jewish they are thank you so much

Worst of the worst is Henry Cavill's Superman. This is Jesus. Fuck this Superman stop portraying him as an otherworldly savior he is of the people he is Clark Kent not just a monstrous twisted version of Kal El !!!! (Sidenote this is also the only role I have ever disliked Amy Adams in.) Jesus himself might have been Jewish way back when, but Jesus metaphors are not, in any way shape or form, Jewish. -2022 years of Christian persecution of Jews/10

As much as this hurts me, next up is Smallville's Clark Kent. Tom Welling does an excellent job in the role and is my personal favorite, but I do have to admit it's at least partially nostalgia. The show opens by putting him on a cross. He redeems himself throughout the show, however, embodying more and more of the comic's spirit as the time goes on, and by the end it becomes very clear that Clark Kent and Kal El are one and the same, and that that is what gives Superman his strength. Accepting your Jewish name ahem Kryptonian identity alongside your goyiche passing name ahem human identity over the course of ten years is very Jewish. 6/10 but it gets some nostalgia points lbr

Next up is Christopher Reeve, may his memory be a blessing. I have only seen two of his Superman movies, but they are such a joy to watch. He truly understood the spirit of the character, the kindness and selflessness and need to help others that stands at the center of who Clark Kent is. His passing at such a young age was a tragic loss in so many ways, the ways he embodied Superman included. 8/10

Finally we have the original comic Superman (i.e. pre52 and post Rebirth, fuck all that n52 nonsense). This Superman is, quite simply, Moses. It was a clear metaphor written into his character by Jewish creators simply trying to express their identities as Jewish immigrants in the late thirties, and so much of that identity has survived the test of time. They gave him a Hebrew name, for God's sake! If I've said it once, I've said it a million times: Superman is the embodiment of Jewish principles of goodness. Making the world a better place is an action, and what better place to see that than in Action Comics? 10/10, we owe so much to Joe Shuster and Jerry Siegel.

[riise-my-anngel]

I can't remember if it's mentioned anywhere, but do we think Solomon assumed TSL was about him? That he was destined to be Henry? And that's partially why he was adamant about making a pact with Lucifer, likely going for the hardest target first? A lone human amongst seven lords that clearly represent the seven demons of the underworld who with their own power help bind them together love. For a long time maybe he thought it could only be him.

TSL was written long before Simeon was reunited with them since the exchange program seems to be the first time the devildom has been opened to any kind of angel. So I wonder how long Solomon may have thought that he was the one who fit the role? And it's only when you arrived and had 3 pacts (while he only has one pact with any of the brothers) did he start to wonder.

Maybe TSL isn't about him? I don't think he gave you part of his power for fun or pire curiosity. I think he was testing you. If he gives you some of his power, will that awaken something dormant in you. He wants to see what you'd do with it, because he starts to theorize maybe you're supposed to be Henry, but you need a push to get there.

Solomon plays a lot off as fun curiosity but by the end of season 2, he goes against Diavolo in two ways. Tries to tell you about the ring before Lucifer loses his memory, and then tells you he won't force you to kill Lucifer. If you tell him maybe you and him are destined to die in place of sacrificing Lucifers life, he actually agrees. Says that maybe, you and him are the sacrifices should no other solution occur. Beacuse at this point I think he gets it.

It's about you. Whatever happens to the realms, it's about your choice. And he knows he no longer is the driving force of the narrative. That you are, and so he supports you in the way you neeed. He says letting Lucifer die is what he should do, but realizes if you can't bring yourself to do it, then maybe it's not supposed to happen at all.

I just like the idea that Solomon is behind the scenes a lot, feeling like a protaginist only to come to the conclusion that he wasn't. But instesd of being bitter, he realizes his place is so support and guide you to becoming the figure he thought would be him.

Doesn't stop him from still trying to make a pact with Lucifer though. At this point hes just too stubborn to stop now.

He's still a goofball after all.

[goodqueenaly]

I wonder whether GRRM might use the marriage of Margaret of Anjou to Henry VI of England as partial inspiration for the betrothal and marriage of Myriah Martell to the future King Daeron II.

I certainly believe, after all, that GRRM has used, and will use, Henry VI as an inspiration for King Baelor (in addition, of course, to the author’s explicitly stated point of reference for the septon-king, Louis IX of France). Both kings had succeeded conquering warriors who had themselves looked to make good on ancestral dynastic claims to foreign kingdoms - and, to some limited and impermanent extent, succeeded in doing so. In turn, however, both Henry VI and Baelor, each later famed for their piety, expressed an interest not into stepping into their predecessors’ shoes but in bringing about peaceable ends to their respective wars. Not only did both peace endeavors include the surrender of important aristocratic hostages - the Duke of Orleans by King Henry, the children of Dorne’s blue blooded families by King Baelor - but these efforts also included royal marriages with high-ranking families in these recently enemy territories - Baelor arranging the marriage of his young cousin Daeron to the Dornish princess Myriah Martell, Henry VI agreeing to a marriage between himself and Margaret of Anjou.

Unfortunately for the idealistic Henry VI, the marriage between himself and Margaret of Anjou neither ended war with France nor provided additional gains for England. Margaret’s cash dowry was relatively small - 20,000 francs - and though her father promised to include Margaret’s maternal claims to Mallorca and Menorca, these territories had been claimed by the crown of Aragon for centuries, and were a practical impossibility for England to occupy. Worse, shortly after Margaret’s coronation, King Henry VI agreed to surrender the county of Maine and abandon English claims to the territory of Anjou, in the hopes of obtaining a truce with France. The king’s aspiration for such a peaceful settlement were, however, in vain: within five years of Margaret’s marriage to Henry, the French king (with Margaret’s father René at his side) had retaken Normandy, and three years later England lost Gascony - its last major holding, besides the tiny toehold of Calais, from the conquests of the Hundred Years’ War and the inheritance of his Plantagenet predecessors. 

In turn, I wonder whether GRRM will look to model Myriah Martell’s betrothal to Daeron. Just as Margaret was a French princess and niece (by marriage, at least) of the King of France - that is, a high-ranking female relative of the ruling family which had so recently opposed the last king’s conquest - so Myriah Martell was a princess of Dorne, daughter of the (unnamed) Prince of Dorne who had bent the knee to Daeron I. Margaret was not her father’s heir, as Myriah Martell certainly was (as the eldest child of the Prince of Dorne), but both princesses saw territorial returns to their paternal families in connection with their marriages to the royal successors of the fathers’ conquerors. Just as Henry VI agreed to surrender Maine (and his claim to Anjou) to Margaret’s father René in the hopes of sealing long-term peace between his realm and that of King Charles VII of France, so Baelor the Blessed agreed to a marriage between Prince Daeron and Princess Myriah as part of an agreement of peace between Dorne and the Iron Throne - with, presumably, a promise that the Iron Throne would not try to assert control over the late King Daeron’s conquered land. Consequently, I wonder whether the same deep unpopularity of the decision to surrender Maine - indeed, the Duke of Suffolk, blamed as the chief architect of this agreement, was impeached by the House of Commons on these grounds, among others, and shortly thereafter murdered - would have extended to this decision by Baelor, and by extension to Myriah herself - a princess whose betrothal, enemies of this decision may have asserted, came not with a rich dowry for a would-be future king but instead a return of lands conquered by the Iron Throne.

[aemiron-main]

stranger things the first shadow and jekyll and hyde and carl jung’s concept of the shadow and edward creel is vecna and i can prove it

So! This caught my eye today:

I know there’s a lot of talk regarding how the MF is also called the shadow monster, and I’m sure that plays into it somehow, but I also wanted to talk about Carl Jung’s theory of the shadow. Jung’s theory is basically as follows:

The Personal Shadow

“The personal shadow is comprised of those qualities, impulses, and emotions that we cannot bear for others to see and thus cast into the hidden domain of ourselves. It is made up of the parts of ourselves we deem unacceptable. For many people this means things like our sadness, rage, laziness, and cruelty.”

Keep this above definition in mind.

"The personal shadow personifies everything that the subject refuses to acknowledge about himself and represents ‘a tight passage, a narrow door, whose painful constriction no one is spared.’”

Staring directly at the fact that the art of Henry for The First Shadow parallels the poster of Will looking out a door, at the shadow monster and there’s so much door imagery in ST. Will’s even got his shadow behind him, just like Henry does.

TLDR: a personal shadow is basically everyone’s “bad” qualities but they’re not always inherently bad.

Jekyll and Hyde are considered an example of somebody vs their shadow self/personal shadow.

“If we hold certain values and recognise these consciously then the opposite values may form part of our shadow. The shadow is not just restricted to values but the example of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde illustrates the point well. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde clearly manifested different values and these were translated into differences in their behaviours. Taking this further we can also see that sharing values would lead to a ‘shared’ shadow – the opposite of these values. The group would collectively hold unconscious and opposite values with the potential for projection.” (source)

The Collective Shadow

And so, remember how I said that I think that the Shadow Monster/the MF would play into this? Well, part of the shadow theory is something called a collective shadow.

Long story short, the collective shadow is considered the dark side of humanity, the sum of all past and present atrocities and abuses.

And we know that Henry had a whole speech about the dark side of humanity.

“The collective shadow, like the personal shadow, is relative in that it will be partially culturally determined/dependent on culture. It consists of things which opposes a culture’s conscious, shared and collective values.”

I won’t be surprised if the Shadow Monster/Mindflayer is meant to be representative of a collective shadow, a representation of the shared hateful/biogted beliefs of the people of Hawkins, a representation of all of the atrocities and abuse that’s occurred, including to people like Henry (in the lab and in the Creel house, ESPECIALLY considering the stage play being in 1959/tied to the Creels moving to Hawkins and also tied to the idea of the shadow via the title). But the people of Hawkins aren’t all inherently awful, because the shadow represents the opposite of their values/beliefs, and some peoples’ values/beliefs contradict eachother’s.

The First Shadow

So- the first shadow? It’d possibly be either a.) the first Henry/the original Henry or b.) the first new, separate sort of Henry, possibly a separate consciousness or an entirely separate Henry (staring at the Henry Creel vs Edward Creel weirdness in the Creel murder newspapers, staring at Henry Jekyll and Edward Hyde being the full names of Jekyll and Hyde). And keeping in mind that Edward Hyde was Henry Jekyll’s shadow- so then, Edward Creel would be Henry Creel’s shadow. And look at that art for the stage play again:

In this image, who is literally Henry’s shadow?

Vecna.

In the Henry Jekyll vs Edward Hyde and Henry Creel vs Edward Creel section, who was Henry Jekyll’s shadow?

Edward Hyde.

Which makes Edward Creel the shadow of Henry Creel. But Vecna is also Henry’s literal shadow in that image- oh wait, that makes both Vecna and Edward Henry’s shadow. Don’t people just have one personal shadow, though?

Yes. Because Vecna and Edward Creel are the same person. Henry Creel is not Vecna, Edward Creel is. Vecna and Edward are interchangeable, and they’re both Henry’s shadow, just like how Edward Hyde is the shadow of Henry Jekyll.

Edward is Vecna, not Henry. Even simply in a metaphorical sense, Henry is not the same as Vecna, Vecna is Henry’s shadow.

Conclusion

We’ve got the personal shadow, the collective shadow, and the first shadow.

And the personal shadow is considered the bridge to the collective shadow, in the sense that the collective shadow is made up of humanity’s personal shadows.

So, Henry’s shadow was likely the first one, the first shadow in that collective shadow- and what does the collective shadow represent? What is it comprised of? The atrocities and abuses of humanity and the values deemed negative by a culture. So, Henry himself being an outcast and being deemed negative as a child, and abused by the town and by the lab, and becoming the first atrocity in the collective shadow over Hawkins, the first personal shadow in that collective shadow.

Everything with the shadow sounds so extremely Vecna, with how he’s showing his S4 victims their own shadows, the parts of themselves that they refuse to acknowledge, the parts of themselves that conflict with their egos and ideals.

To confront one’s shadow is considered to be confronting the truth- and Jamie himself said that Vecna is fixated on truth.

And again, the collective shadow is made up of personal shadows. So, if you want to resolve the collective shadow/kill the shadow monsters, you need to resolve everyone’s personal shadows first.

Which is what Vecna was doing. He was literally forcing his victims to confront their personal shadows. He is attempting to kill and change the collective shadow of Hawkins because of how that shadow/those cultural beliefs have outcast and hurt him. But because he’s doing it by committing atrocities, he’s simply creating a new collective shadow/shifting those values/being a hypocrite. He think he’s destroying those hateful/harmful values, but instead, he’s just making his own twisted/still harmful version of them. I’ve talked repeatedly and constantly about characters like Vecna and Eddie being hypocrites and how for all of things Henry lists in his “eat sleep wake up,” monologue, he himself has his own twisted version of things, and this ties in perfectly with the collective shadow theory and the idea that Vecna is trying to destroy the collective shadow/bigotry/hate/abuse of Hawkins but is enforcing his own bigotry/hate/abuse in the process.

And going back to Henry not being Vecna, remember how the personal shadow is defined?

“It is made up of the parts of ourselves we deem unacceptable. For many people this means things like our sadness, rage, laziness, and cruelty.”

And so, if Vecna is Henry’s shadow (which, that’s exactly what we see on the poster), then that means that Vecna is comprised of things/traits that Henry deems unacceptable. Meaning that Henry didn’t share the same values as Vecna/Edward. Meaning that Henry is a good guy. Which, that doesn’t mean Edward is evil, especially not with the idea of Vecna being the result of Brenner merging himself with Edward, and Vecna and *Edward’s* values being different.

It’s also worth noting that Henry himself is very paralleled to Mairon (Sauron’s form before he became evil), and Annatar (his fake good form), but Vecna is the one paralleled to Sauron. Sauron, who poured his cruelty and his malice into the one ring. Sauron, who is described frequently as a shadow.

TLDR: timeline weirdness and Henry Creel vs Edward Creel and Edward is Vecna, Henry is not Vecna, and Henry is not responsible for Vecna’s actions.

Henry Creel is innocent. Any complaints can be forwarded to Henry Creel’s personal defense lawyers (@laozuspo and I, James also has great thoughts about Jekyll and Hyde vs Henry and Edward.)