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mostlikelythedevil · 1 year

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Haunted. | [Chapter One]

Pairing(s): Kevin Owens x Fem!Zayn!Reader, Solo Sikoa x Fem!Zayn!Reader

Warning(s): Explicit Language

Word Count: 1,453

Links: AO3, Masterlist

Story Summary: Every individual born to the Earth, in some shape or form, is haunted by something in their lives; whether it be the past, the ghost of a lover, decisions happening in the very moment, or even the emotions we wish we never had.

The younger sister of Sami Zayn is no exception to the rule of haunting; in fact, she will come to know the feeling of being haunted quite well when her life is altered without any warning. Love and agony, she will find, are often mutually exclusive.

The thought of continuing to reply to your brother is something nauseating; for the better half of an hour, he has continued to pester you about your refusal to join him alongside The Bloodline — something about boosting your career in unimaginable fashion. Truthfully, your career does need a boost of some kind, but you have the opportunity to do that on your own by facing Liv Morgan in a contendership match later tonight.

As your phone continues to buzz with unwanted messages, you move from the leather couch of your locker room to the vanity mirror on the other side. With only an hour until the beginning of Smackdown, you need to finish getting physically ready — after all, you need to look your best for the biggest win of your career to date. The look, the attire you had specially made for the night, is made of beautiful, elegant blues, silvers, and black; it is an ode to the show, in a way.

In matching with your attire, you pick the best of your blues, silvers, and blacks from your personal collection of make-up. While it would have been simpler to have one of the cosmetologists finish the look for the night, you feel that there is significance in doing it yourself given the circumstances; like your ode to Smackdown in itself, you could also have an ode to the times before you were considered well-off enough to afford the luxuries of the cosmetology team.

There is another buzz from your phone on the couch that vibrates the leather with such anger that it almost causes you to smear a line of black across your upper eye. You huff, throwing an agitated stare back at the phone in the mirror. When will Sami give up? The Bloodline is so fundamentally different from you, not to mention the fact that you simply weren’t interested in being helped along by a family that would certainly see you indebted to them.

On cue, the phone begins to ring.

Another agitated huff leaves your lips. How could your brother be so dense as to not understand that you didn’t want to continue the conversation? And yet, there is a wave of guilt that slowly washes over you for ignoring him. He only wants the best for you, even if he tends to be stubborn and obnoxious about it, and you know that.

You finish the blue that you are working on before standing, crossing the room, and answering the phone. “What do you want, Sami? I’m busy getting ready, and you’re annoying me,” you speak into the phone, annoyance lacing your tone.

“Thank you for answering me,” Sami responds with an exasperated tone. You roll your eyes, crossing the room back to your vanity to sit. “I know you’re tired of talking about it,” you put the phone on speaker so that you can continue with finishing your make-up, “but I need you to understand how important it is to me that you consider joining The Bloodline.”

“And I need you to understand that I already know I’m not interested,” you reply with the same tone of voice as before, “and I’m not sure why you think talking on the phone will change that.”

Sami sighs. “We want you here — with us, with The Bloodline.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that Roman Reigns, the Undisputed Champion, the Tribal Chief of The Bloodline, gives a damn about whether or not some rookie joins his stable of family?” You practically snort in response.

“You’re not a rookie. Don’t be dramatic,” you can hear Sami rolling his eyes. “And yes, believe it or not, The Tribal Chief is the one who requested I extend an invite to you; you’re blood — my blood. That means a lot to us.”

“Yes, Sami, you’re exactly right; I’m your blood, not theirs,” you deadpan.

“Don’t be—”

“If Roman truly wanted me in The Bloodline, don’t you think he would have extended the invite when you first showed interest? Why is he suddenly interested in me now?”

“You’re starting to sound like Kevin.”

You raise your brows.

“If you’re going to be an ass, I’m going to hang up,” the tone of your voice is one of poison.

There is shuffling on the other end, likely Sami running a hand over his face. “It’s the truth.”

“Is that what this is really about, then? You still can’t come to terms with the fact that Kevin and I are friends all while you’re my brother,” you scoff, “is that why Roman wants my allegiance to him so desperately that it’s all you talk about anymore? Does he want me to turn my back on Kevin?”

Sami huffs. “No, it’s not all about Kevin — but if you want my honest, he’s holding you back.”

“Oh, here we go.”

“You’re my sister; whether you want to admit it or not, you and I are fundamentally alike. Being friends with Kevin has made you weak, just like it made me weak,” there are voices in the background as Sami speaks, “and we believe that you can reach your real potential with The Bloodline, just like I did.”

“You and I have never been alike. Not once have I ever turned my back on my friends or my fans,” you suck on your teeth, anger beginning to bubble into your tone.

“Would you disagree with me if I said you have feelings for Kevin?”

Your heart drops. “What?”

“Look, it’s kinda obvious that you have feelings for him — and I don’t want to talk about it, but you need to know that he’s only been using you to get to me. I mean, you two have only gotten close since we fell out,” Sami pauses, waiting for a reaction.

You do not reply, too shocked at the idea your brother noticed.

“I know it’s difficult to hear, but Kevin will never reciprocate your feelings. You’re seeing your friendship, his value to you, through these rose-colored glasses, and I don’t want you to fail in your career because of him.”

“You are unbelievable, Sami,” your voice is little more than a whisper.

“I know it hurts, but—”

“Let’s get something straight: I do not have feelings for Kevin; the truth is that you’re seething with jealousy because I can have relationships with both of you despite the stupid cycle of abuse you two are putting one another through,” your voice is much louder. “And do you want to know another truth, Sami? I think you and your Bloodline buddies are a group of vicious, self-righteous, self-centered assholes.”

On the other end of the line, Sami does not respond — but, in the background, there are voices.

“Got this—”

“Fucking… Kevin—”

“Listen, can you please just consider what I’ve said?” Sami’s distraught voice comes back through the line. “If nothing, can you consider it for me? I miss you, sis.”

You decide to not comment on the voices in the background, mildly concerned about the very real possibility that The Bloodline — or at least a few members — heard your outburst; if someone had heard the outburst, it would probably be in your best interest to make a point of not repeating or mentioning it anymore.

You sigh. “Sami, I can’t keep doing this.”

“Please. For me.”

There is a pause. “I’ll put some more thought into it, but don’t expect my mind to change.”

On the other end of the line, there is a sigh of relief that you’re not sure you’re meant to hear.

“You’re not going to regret it. I promise.”

“Listen, Sami,” you look at the clock, “I assume you’re going to be here soon. Do you think that you can come to my locker room so we can talk face-to-face — clear the air?”

“Absolutely! Absolutely,” you can hear Sami’s smile, “I would love that.”

A small smile crosses your lips. “See you soon.”

“I love you, sis.”

“I love you, too.”

With those parting words, you peer down at your phone and end the call before Sami can think of anything more to pester you with. His obsession with Kevin is growing tiresome — and his apparent knowledge of your long-time interest in Kevin is extremely troubling with the two having constant arguments and fights.

The echo of pyrotechnics sounds throughout the entire arena, signaling the beginning of Smackdown. You look over your make-up in the mirror, satisfied with the final look despite the distraction that your brother presented; while it is not what you envisioned in the beginning, it is beautiful, and it fits with your attire. Tonight is your night to shine among the stars.

#WWE #WWE Fic #WWE Imagine #Roman Reigns #The Bloodline #Sami Zayn #Kevin Owens x Reader #Kevin Owens Imagine #Kevin Owens Fic #Kevin Owens #Solo Sikoa #Solo Sikoa x Reader #Solo Sikoa Imagine #Solo Sikoa Fic #The Usos #Also On AO3 #Haunted: Chapter 1 #Haunted: Chapter One

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dhaaruni · 4 months

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So do you think Gaza will end up being Biden's biggest headache in November?

No, Biden’s age is his biggest headache now and also will be in November.

Like, Nate Silver is absolutely right:

This part in particular really hits home.

Personally, I crossed the rubicon in November, concluding that Biden should stand down if he wasn’t going to be able to run a normal reelection campaign — meaning, things like conduct a Super Bowl interview. Yes, it's a huge risk and, yes, Biden can still win. But he's losing now and there's no plan to fix the problems other than hoping that the polls are wrong or that voters look at the race differently when they have more time to focus on it. Neither is so implausible and it is likely to be a close race. But even the most optimistic Democrats, if you read between the lines, are really arguing that Democrats could win despite Biden and not because of him. Biden is probably a below-replacement-level candidate at this point because Americans have a lot of extremely rational concerns about the prospect of a Commander-in-Chief who would be 86 years old by the end of his second term. It is entirely reasonable to see this as disqualifying. The fact that Trump also has a number of disqualifying features is not a good reason to nominate Biden. It is a reason for Democrats to be the adults in the room and acknowledge that someone who can't sit through a Super Bowl interview isn't someone the public can trust to have the physical and mental stamina to handle an international crisis, terrorist attack or some other unforseen threat when he'll be in his mid-80s.

#answered #anonymous #politics #links

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magxit · 8 months

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idk about her being at the game this week, because the chiefs have a game this sunday afternoon, and then turnaround and have another game thursday night.

so even if the chiefs do win by a lot, they'll likely still need monday & tuesday to prepare for the thursday game.

i guess the silver lining is that then he maybe gets off on the 13th and 14th?

I could see Taylor going to the Thursday game since it is KC.

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aardvark-123 · 1 year

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~The Silver-Heart Chronicles Part 3: It Helps to Have Friends~

One fine morning in Kynesgrove, Yngvar was finishing a good night's sleep when he heard an angry clamour outside the inn. He slid the pillow over his head and lay there until Iddra ran over in a panic, shouting that the guards were demanding to see him.

Fearing the worst, Yngvar leapt out of bed, brushed his teeth, had a long soapy bath, ate a sweetroll and some grilled leeks, downed a bottle of mead, and did his morning stretches.

The innkeeper bit her lip, listening to the guards threatening to break down the door and the cheerful melody of Radio Taiso on Yngvar's portable FM set. Finally she grabbed him by the ear and shoved him out to face justice.

Half of the Kynesgrove town guard were waiting for him. "We all knew you were a strange one, Yngvar, but none of us had you pegged as a traitor!" one of them explained. "You're wanted in Windhelm for desertion. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

"De... sertion?" Yngvar tilted his head in confusion, trying to look innocent even though he was sweating profusely. "Oh, is this about the army?! I didn't desert, I'm having an extended holiday! Don't tell me my letter never made it to the brass!"

"Do you have no shame?!" another guard spat. "You were one of the best warriors in the Stormcloaks! Er, unless it's a different Yngvar I'm thinking of. Never mind! You should be out there, fighting for Skyrim's freedom, not skulking around here delivering packages to goblins!"

"I- First things first, I was FETCHING a package from an ORCISH stronghold," Yngvar corrected her. "Second of all, there were creative differences involved-"

"Don't you remember the oath you took?!" the guard insisted. "You swore your blood and honour to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim! Er, unless it's a different oath I'm thinking of. N-never mind! The bottom line is, you swore your fealty-"

"To death! I swore fealty to murder and devastation, nothing that could actually make our world better. But most of all I swore fealty to a bitter, raving lunatic!"

For a few seconds, Kynesgrove was silent but for the chirping of crickets and Dotira sharpening her pickaxe.

"I want to see Skyrim win her independence," Yngvar said firmly. "I want us to cast off the Empire's yoke, and the Empire to cast off the Dominion's yoke. I want an end to all yokes! But Jarl Ulfric isn't going to be the one who brings us that future. Just look at the futures he brought to the Reach and half his own people."

The gathered guards shared some uncomfortable looks, but the man with the axe would not be dissuaded. "Only one without honour would try to bring politics into an honest civil war. Get ready to die, traitor!"

Yngvar was not ready to die, but the guards were too many, and Drayvnea's pet guar seemed to have joined in as well. Yngvar fled through the foggy hills, dodging arrows and crossbow bolts, until at last he ducked behind a some bushes and lost them.

"If any guards come... Running by this way... You never saw me!" Yngvar panted to a passing giant. "Kyne's leg hair... Now what do I do?!"

As he thought about his predicament, Yngvar realised there was somewhere he could go. While he hadn't appreciated it at the time, fetching the Forgemaster's Fingers had earned him the name of blood-kin, meaning the stronghold-dwelling Orcs around Skyrim would see him as family.

And so, a beaten and dishevelled Yngvar made his way up to Narzulbur, where he found the chief waiting in his ceremonial garden chair.

"Chief Mauhulakh, I find myself in need of a place to stay for a few days," Yngvar declared. "I can work for my keep. Does Narzulbur need an extra pair of hands anywhere?"

"Well, let me see..." Mauhulakh stood up and took off his helmet. "First of all, let's see if you can take a good pounding. Marquess of Queensberry Rules, one round, stake of one hundred septims apiece. En garde!"

Although he was deeply confused, Yngvar set to work and beat the stuffing out of Mauhulakh.

"You certainly have... A good arm..." Mauhulakh panted. "Not many Nords can say they've bested an Orcish chief!"

"You certainly gave me a good match." Yngvar wasn't sure what to say. "You, er, wouldn't be the first man I've left sweating- I mean, it wouldn't be the first time- Er, anyway."

"Anyway," said Mauhulakh warmly, "I believe it's settled! With those strong arms of yours, you'll make an excellent miner! It's up on the hill, just past my son's workshop."

Yngvar's smile vanished. "Did you say miner?"

Yngvar was now a miner. It was better than fighting for his life against the armies of Eastmarch, but only by a small margin.

Um, don't look now, Yngvar, but I think there's a...

"What in Shor's name is that?!" Yngvar screamed, diving away from the roaring, spinning cloud of metal chunks. It had burst from a vein of ebony while his back was turned and was now tearing through the mine.

"Oh, that?" one of the orcish miners said, noticing Yngvar's distress. "That's an ore guardian from Skyrim Immersive Creatures Special Edition. Don't worry, their barks are worse than their bites."

Not believing him for a second, Yngvar shot the creature from a safe distance.

It was a busy afternoon for the ore guardians, with two more of them showing up to bother Yngvar before the day was done. The other miners, though, were all too happy to help smash them to pieces, seeing it as a fun little diversion from their work.

"I suppose you're well used to dealing with these things," said Yngvar, helping himself to some of the ore guardian's remains. Some of their floating chunks contained the purest ebony ore he'd ever seen.

"Of course we are! Didn't you ever wonder why all the veins of ore in Skyrim are renewable?" Bor laughed. "They're alive. The world is alive! That makes us kind of like tapeworm."

"That's nice," smiled Yngvar, lugging his haul of ebony out of the mine.

Dushnamub remembered Yngvar from a couple of days ago. When he saw him trudging down the hill with a sack full of ebony ore, he smiled and waved him over.

"I had a feeling I'd be seeing more of you," Dushnamub chuckled, taking the sack of ebony. "That's some good ore, Yngvar. Here, this is your pay."

"Thank yyyy..." Yngvar's jaw dropped at the enormous bag of coins being pressed into his hands. "Th-that's... That's a sum of money if ever I saw one!"

"Ebony does fetch a good price," said Dushnamub. "All of us in Narzulbur are actually very rich, but we don't like to be ostentatious about it. So..."

"Well, now that I'm rich, can I commission you for some equipment?" Yngvar proposed.

"I could do with a helmet, perhaps one with horns, and a hood for not letting people recognise me. Perhaps a new greatsword, too. This one's almost run out of magic..."

"Of course," smiled Dushnamub, taking back his bag of coins and hanging Yngvar one septim. "In the mean time, keep that ore coming!"

Yngvar smiled and nodded. He had to get out of Narzulbur.

A couple of days later, with a sharp new blade strapped to his back and a comfortable hood over his head, Yngvar left the stronghold. The guard had given him her porridge recipe and a spare wheel of echatere's cheese, which was strange, because Yngvar hadn't seen a single echatere in the stronghold.

Where was he going? Well, Yngvar had one or two ideas in mind. He needed to get to a neutral hold, or at least one outside Windhelm's jurisdiction, and then try to build a new life. Dawnstar could be a decent place to start. For the time being, though, he needed to hide until the heat was off.

And for that, where better than a place no soldier with a brain would be expecting him? Where better than Windhelm?

#the Elder Scrolls #Skyrim #Silver-Heart Chronicles #fun with pixels #my writing

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takeoffphilippines · 2 years

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AirAsia Voted World’s Best Low-Cost Airline for 13th straight year

*13 Million seats on sale across AirAsia to celebrate the remarkable feat

AirAsia has been crowned the World’s Best Low Cost Airline at the Skytrax World Airline Awards 2022 for the 13th consecutive year.

Considered the global benchmark of airline excellence, the Skytrax World Airline Awards 2022 were decided by a survey of 14.3 million customers of over 100 nationalities who have reviewed over 300 airlines from September 2021 to August 2022.

CEO of Capital A, Tony Fernandes who received the award at the Langham Hotel in London on Friday said: “We did it again! This year feels more special than previous years, as voters supported us despite the most difficult past few years triggered by Covid. The fact we are back in the sky is incredible in itself with no government handouts or big business benefactors and virtually no flying for close to two years.

“My sincere gratitude goes to the Skytrax organisers, to the more than 700 million guests who have flown with us and to those who have chosen to vote for us in these passenger’s choice awards time and time again. Last but not least, I’d like to dedicate this award to my fantastic team of Allstars, whose unwavering can-do spirit and attitude has led us this far.

“If there is one silver lining of the past few years, we have used the downtime in flying so we can return stronger than ever. Just a few days ago, we had record day sales, and using our data and our tremendous brand, we are now able to provide our guests with a complete travel ecosystem where they can enjoy travel, e-commerce, logistics and fintech from our travel and lifestyle platform.

“Finally I see blue skies ahead once again. We have survived, we have rebuilt and we are recovering to deliver greater value and choice than ever before.”

AirAsia Philippines CEO Ricky Isla said, “This recognition is both an honour and a reminder to us all in AirAsia to never rest on our laurels. Our guests can be assured of our commitment to do better each day in all of our areas of operations. We look forward to expanding our market in the Philippines in the years to come so that Filipinos will have the best flight options, best value deals, and ultimately world’s best service as evidenced by our stellar track record of 13 years with Skytrax.”

Edward Plaisted, CEO of Skytrax said: “AirAsia redefined low-cost air travel in Asia and despite the recent post-pandemic challenges, continues to be a firm favourite with customers. Winning the award for the World’s Best Low Cost Airline and an extraordinary 13th time is a fantastic achievement, and we congratulate all the members of the AirAsia family on this momentous occasion.”

To celebrate winning the World’s Best Low Cost airline for the 13th time in a row, AirAsia has today launched PHP13 one way base fare to mark each year being awarded the global low cost leader.

The 13 million seats sale from PHP13 which launches today, runs until 2 October 2022 and includes many leisure favourite markets including Bohol, Boracay, Cebu, Puerto Princesa, and international destinations Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Kota Kinabalu, HongKong, Seoul, Bali and Bangkok from PHP413 to PHP1,913.

Karen Chan, Group Chief Commercial Officer of AirAsia said: “It’s been an incredible month with many wins including our biggest ever sale day post Covid last week, but this really tops the list, to be awarded the World’s Best Low Cost Airline 13 times in a row.

“AirAsia is the people’s airline so it’s even more gratifying to win the ‘people’s choice’ Best Low Cost Airline award.

“As a huge thank you to the millions of people who choose to fly with us each year and to those who voted for us, we are throwing this special sale with fares starting from just PHP13 - or PHP1 for each year we’ve won!

–

📧 If you wish to send an invite and feature your province/company brand/event; Just ask the author of this vlog, email us at [email protected]

Follow our Social Media Accounts: Facebook Fan Page: https://www.facebook.com/TakeOffPHBlog

Instagram/Twitter: @takeoff_ph

Website: https://takeoffphilippines.com

Subscribe to our YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/c/TakeOffPhilippines

#onthescene #travel news #travel event #takeoffph #philippines #airasia philippines

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extreme-investor-network · 2 years

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Peloton reports big loss, decline in revenue as the company grinds through its turnaround plan

Peloton on Thursday reported widening losses and slumping sales in its fiscal fourth quarter as the connected fitness equipment maker attempts to win back investors with cost cuts and strategic shifts. Shares declined more than 14% in premarket trading, a day after the stock surged more than 20% on news of its partnership with Amazon. It marks Peloton’s sixth consecutive quarter of reported losses. The company said it aims to reach breakeven cash flow on a quarterly basis in the second half of its fiscal year 2023. Still, Peloton CEO Barry McCarthy said he expects the market for connected fitness will remain challenging for the foreseeable future, as consumer demand for at-home workout machines wanes from pandemic highs. Since McCarthy took over as chief executive from Peloton founder John Foley in February, the company has pursued sweeping changes that have yet to fully pay off. Peloton raised membership fees, hiked prices on some equipment, laid off thousands of workers, tested a rental option, exited last-mile delivery and transferred all production over to third parties. On Wednesday, Peloton also started selling a portion of its products on Amazon in the United States, its first such deal with another retailer. “The naysayers will look at our financial performance and see a melting pot of declining revenue, negative gross margin, and deeper operating losses,” McCarthy wrote in a letter to Peloton shareholders. “But what I see is significant progress driving our comeback and Peloton’s long-term resilience,” he said. “We still have work to do.” Peloton did not offer an outlook for its upcoming fiscal year 2023. For the first quarter that ends on Sept. 30 it said it sees subscribers staying flat, and revenue ranging between $625 million and $650 million. Peloton said this takes into account near-term demand weakness and seasonal fluctuations to the business. There was a silver lining for the company: This marked Peloton’s first reported quarter where higher-margin subscription revenue accounted for the majority of total sales. Losses mount Peloton’s net loss widened in the three-month period ended June 30 to $1.24 billion, or $3.68 per share, from a loss of $313.2 million, or $1.05 a share, a year earlier. McCarthy said the losses stemmed from Peloton’s efforts to avoid an inventory glut, cut fixed costs, and address other supply chain issues. The company earlier this year embarked on an $800 million restructuring plan. Peloton ended the fourth quarter with inventory of $1.1 billion, compared with $937.1 million a year earlier. Revenue fell 28% to $678.7 million from $936.9 million a year earlier. That came in short of the $718.2 million that analysts had been looking for, according to Refinitiv estimates. Within that figure, connected fitness revenue that includes the contribution from Peloton’s Precor business dropped 55% to $295.6 million. Peloton’s connected fitness gross margin was another bleak point, at negative 98.1% compared with positive 11.7% a year earlier. Peloton said it experienced higher logistics expenses per delivery, increased port and storage costs, plus charges related to the recall of its Tread+ treadmill machine. Peloton booked $383.1 million of subscription revenue, up 36% from the prior year and representing 56.4% of total company sales. Subscription gross margin ticked up to 67.9% from 63.3%. McCarthy, who previously worked at Netflix and Spotify, has made it clear he is more interested in pursuing growth on the subscription side of Peloton’s business, rather than putting such an emphasis on hardware. He believes Peloton’s digital app will be core to the company’s future success. Peloton burned through $412 million in cash in the fourth quarter, after it averaged negative cash flow of $650 million in each of the prior two quarters. It ended June with $1.25 billion in cash reserves and a $500 million revolving credit facility. BMO Capital Markets analyst Simeon Siegel applauded McCarthy for making some “very constructive decisions” to stem a cash bleed in recent months. But, he said, Peloton may be facing a bigger issue of brand saturation. Member count drops Peloton ended its latest quarter with 2.97 million connected fitness subscriptions, about flat with prior-quarter levels and up 27% from a year ago. Connected fitness subscribers are people who own a Peloton product, such as its original Bike, and also pay a monthly fee for access to live and on-demand workout classes. Its total member count, though, declined by about 143,000 people from the prior quarter to 6.9 million. McCarthy, following Foley’s initial vision, has said the company hopes to one day amass 100 million members. Peloton’s average net monthly churn levels for connected fitness users ticked up to 1.41% from 0.73% a year ago. The company said this was ahead of its internal expectations in part due to a consumer protection ruling in Canada that forced all customers in the country to approve the subscription price hikes that took effect in June, and about 85% of them have done so to date. Peloton said it had expected that some people would drop their memberships after prices rose. But investors might be wary of the leap. A lower churn rate would be better news for Peloton, as it means people are sticking around and continuing to pay for their memberships. McCarthy said in the letter to shareholders that the fourth quarter should prove to be the “high water mark” for write-offs and restructuring charges related to inventory and supply chain challenges. It should also mark the beginning of Peloton’s comeback story, he said. Peloton shares have dropped around 60% year to date, as of Wednesday’s market close. Original Article Here: Read the full article

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thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 3 years

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If L went to Hogwarts do you think he’d end up in Slytherin or Ravenclaw? Would he get along with Tom Riddle or would they just avoid each other?

What House Would L Go To?

I'd actually say Gryffindor.

L is a very intelligent character but Ravenclaw isn't defined by intelligence, it's a thirst for knowledge and curiosity about the world. L's driving motivation throughout Death Note is not a curiosity about the world or even human nature, it's his own boredom and the thrill of the chase. L finds solving particularly tricky murders interesting, it's why the Kira case was such a thrill for him, at the end of the day he cares little about the law, people, or even the mechanics of the murder.

He had little interest in Shinigami or the notebook itself, in how it worked or how it came to be here, his main and only real focus was on how he could use this information to prove that Light is Kira and thereby win the game.

Now, why not Slytherin?

L's certainly underhanded and willing to employ any means necessary to fulfil his goals. He's also extremely manipulative and has quite the silver tongue, able to convince very dedicated policemen that breaking the law several times over and torturing several people (one the chief's own son) for several months is absolutely necessary. L's very good at wrapping people around his finger to get what he wants and is certainly cunning.

However, he has very few ambitions.

L wants to not be bored. That's it.

Granted, in Death Note, we see him at the top of his game. He's not just the world's greatest detective but the top three greatest detectives (having eliminated several rivals). He's richer than Jesus and has everything he could possibly need and there's not much else for him to do. Relieving his own boredom is all he really has. Can't beat the best if you're already the best.

Regardless though, he never struck me as all that ambitious. Single minded and goal driven, yes, but not in the manner that say Tom Riddle is.

So, why Gryffindor? Because L likes the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline of putting his own life and people on the line, and facing worthy opponents. What L enjoys most is having someone of Light's caliber as an opponent, far more than he does at the idea of being 'the best'.

That desire for competition, the recklessness of it, to me that's far more Gryffindor.

L and Tom

I imagine they mostly ignore each other. Per the above, they're in different houses. More... they have very different ways of viewing the world.

L goes out of his way to make people around him uncomfortable for his own amusement. He's purposefully off-putting, alarming, and drives people off.

Tom is the exact opposite.

I imagine both of them see this and they both find it dull and idiotic.

Tom thinks L is a fool for not grabbing every opportunity he has with both hands. L is an orphan just as much as Tom is, probably as poor, and L thinks he can make it out there in the wide world with just his intelligence.

L thinks Tom is a kiss-ass and a suck up and one of those dweeby boring nerds who will cross every t and dot every i just so he can get ahead in life.

They look at each other in the hallway and think "What a dumbass".

When the chamber happens, I imagine L keeps it to himself as he also hates the school administrators (who constantly put him in detention) but he thinks Tom's pathetically obvious (I imagine L figures it out thanks to Tom's erratic schedule in fifth year and disappearing at convenient hours of the night).

They graduate from Hogwarts and go their separate ways.

L isn't even surprised when 'Voldemort' pops up, he just rolls his eyes and resumes drinking his teaspoon of coffee with a cup of sugar.

#harry potter #harry potter meta #harry potter headcanon #death note #death note meta #death note headcanon #l lawliet #l #tom riddle #meta #headcanon #opinion

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good-things-do-happen-dean · 4 years

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all that matters is the light in you and i | denny | 2.3K | based on that ty olsson cameo because i will never stop thinking about it...

***

Since it happened, Dean’s been having trouble sleeping. It doesn’t make much sense, really, since everything is over now. There’s no Chuck anymore, just a bunch of humans trying to figure out what the hell happens next. Maybe nothing, maybe everything, but probably anything, which could be why he can’t sleep.

Dean takes to wandering around the Bunker at night when the walls of his room start closing in. He and Sam explored when they moved in here, a little, enough to find the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen. Then there were the storerooms and the dungeon and the server room. But the place is friggin’ huge and they just never got around to it, or they never had the chance to get around to it.

One of those nights, Dean’s coming back through the library. He just discovered the attic, which you can only get to by climbing up about a million stairs, with the added bonus of having to go back down them too. But all the stairs wore him out, so that’s okay. Maybe he’ll actually catch a few hours of bone-tired shut-eye, then Sam can have a field day sorting through all the shit up there tomorrow.

He almost doesn’t notice the message light blinking on one of the old phones they’ve got charging all the time in, what Jack calls, the Bridge. (The kid just discovered that there’s about a million versions and episodes of Star Trek). It’s really just a table and chair with an extension cord and all their old phones (and some of Bobby’s) in the back corner of the library. No one’s been back here in a while, or at least Dean hasn’t. They haven’t had any reason to. Things have calmed down, way down, since it happened.

The phone that’s blinking isn’t labeled, and he doesn’t recognize the number that pops up in the missed calls log from a few weeks ago. Still, might as well listen to the voicemail while he’s here.

“Hello, Dean,” Benny says, and the phone slips out of Dean’s hand and cracks against the floor.

“Fuck!” Dean grabs for it, praying to nothing, to everything, that it isn’t broken. His hands are shaking so badly he nearly drops the phone again. The screen is shattered in one corner, cracks spider webbing out from there, and he feels it nick his cheek just next to his ear. But Benny’s voice is still playing from the speaker, rich and low, lower than Dean remembers.

“- picked a fight with God -”

Dean starts the message over with trembling fingers. This is a trick. It has to be. A shapeshifter that’s still running around, or a crocotta maybe, hell, even a siren. Or it’s just Dean hallucinating from lack of sleep. It isn’t real because it can’t be. Because this is just the brand of fucked up figment that comes from Dean’s fucked up imagination.

“Hello, Dean. Been a while. The rumors of my early demise have been greatly exaggerated.”

He thinks of Purgatory and that Leviathan. His heart dropping like a stone and the ticking clock that left him with no time to breathe, let alone grieve, for days, for weeks, until it was over and that was the only thing left to do.

“I ain’t never seen a dogfight you couldn’t win. Go give ‘em hell, brother. I miss you buddy.”

The message ends, but all Dean can hear is “I’m topside again” on a loop, the low rumble of Benny’s chuckle.

“I’m sleepwalking,” Dean says to nobody, to the empty library in the middle of the night. “I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming.” His voice shakes as badly as his hands as he presses redial. He scrubs a hand down his face as it rings, and realizes he’s crying. “It’s gonna ring out,” he whispers, not knowing if he wants it to or not, not knowing which would hurt less.

“Hey, chief.”

***

Dean is nearly to Wichita by the time he realizes he’s not wearing any shoes. He’s never driven barefoot before in his life (it would be an insult to Baby, to all other cars, and to every human with sense), but hell if he didn’t tear out of the bunker like someone lit a fire under his ass.

Benny, what might be Benny, what’s probably Benny, is driving up from New Orleans to meet him outside of Fort Worth. Eight hours on the road, three of them gone already and he’s just now realizing he’s in his socks. The sun is peeking out over the horizon, painting the sky in pinks and oranges and golds as he flies along the highway that’s nearly empty this early in the morning. Dean Winchester will drive without shoes on when Hell freezes over, he thinks wildly and laughs out of his open window.

Sam calls an hour or so later, after Dean has gone through a drive-thru for coffee that he hasn’t touched. He’s running on no sleep, but he’s wired and shaky as it is. The coffee that’s turning tepid perched between his knees would probably make things worse.

“Where are you?” Sam says by way of a greeting.

“Just crossed into Oklahoma.”

“What - Oklahoma? Dean, what the hell?”

Dean zips by an eighteen-wheeler. There are more cars out on the road now, but it’s still mostly just open road. Four hours of open road between him and Benny. Less if traffic stays like this.

“We woke up and you were gone, Dean. Why are you going to Oklahoma?”

“Not going to Oklahoma, Sammy.” Dean puts the call on speaker and tosses his phone onto the bench seat so he can drum his fingers against the steering wheel. He’s buzzing with energy or nerves or both. “Do you know, are there any shoes in the trunk?”

“Shoes?” He can just hear Sam pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Dean. Where are you going?”

“Fort Worth.”

“What’s in Fort Worth? You catch a case or something?”

Dean is quiet for a moment, passing another eighteen-wheeler. If he tells Sam he’s hauling six hundred miles worth of ass because something that probably isn’t but might be Benny left him a voicemail three weeks ago, they’ll fight. “You won’t like it.”

“Dean, you better tell me what the hell is going on. Right now. You think I don’t know something’s up with you?”

“It’s -” Dean sighs, lifts his eyes to the sky that’s brightening into clear blue, sunny and cloudless as far as he can see. “Look, Sam -”

“Don’t ‘look, Sam’ me - “

“Fine, okay,” Dean says. Lukewarm coffee sloshes over the lid of the coffee cup perched between his knees. “It’s Benny.”

On the other end of the line, Sam is quiet. “Dean,” he says quietly, and there’s pity there. “You know Benny’s - I mean, it’s been years.”

“I know.” Dean steps on the gas, like it will speed this conversation up. “Man, I know, okay? He - I got a call, a voicemail, a few weeks ago, but I didn’t see it until last night with...you know. Everything. I’m not stupid, Sam. I’ll be careful, but I can’t - I have to -” He bites at his lip, thinking of a brightly-painted alley, of a forest in Maine at night, of an unmarked grave. He thinks of scrubbing blood out of the trunk, and of biting into his lip so hard new blood mingles with what he’s trying to scrub out. Of cranking up the radio loud enough that it echoed through the garage and he could choke out a sob without Sam hearing. “I just need to see if it’s him.”

“Okay,” Sam says finally. “Okay, but Dean, let me meet you there. Or Cas. You shouldn’t be alone, you know, in case…”

In case it isn’t Benny. In case it’s some monster, or some other monster, or the monster is actually Dean’s lack of sleep or his grief, or it’s just him and he’s finally cracked. “No,” Dean says. “I mean it, Sam, no. I need to see if it’s him, and I need to do it on my own.”

“Dean -”

“I’ll call you, if - I’ll call you.” Dean reaches over and hangs up before Sam can protest anymore.

***

They don’t end up meeting in Fort Worth. Having too many people around makes Dean itchy under his skin, in his bones, and Fort Worth is crawling with them. They end up meeting in Crowley, of all places, just outside of it anyway.

Dean gets there first, probably because he took the last hundred miles at least twenty over. There aren’t any shoes in the trunk after all, so he just stands there in his socks on the side of a dusty road, fiddling with the silver knife and the flask of holy water, leaning against the hood, then the trunk, then the driver’s side door, then sliding back behind the wheel. He realizes too late that he’s tracking dirt onto the floor and gets back out. He pours the rest of his untouched coffee out into the grass.

A crappy old truck pulls up after twenty minutes or so, not as crappy as the one Benny used to drive, but crappy and old all the same.

And there’s Benny, who smiles slow and bright as he approaches. He’s got his cap pulled down low over his eyes, but they’re alight with life. “Hey, brother,” Benny says, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

“You know I’ve gotta -” Dean’s voice shakes and he swallows, gesturing with the flask.

“I know.”

Except then Dean actually has to do it, has to walk over to Benny and hold his arm steady while he -

“Dean,” Benny says, reaching towards him. He almost takes Dean’s hand to steady it but stops just short, which is probably for the best. If maybe-not-Benny were to touch him now, Dean might shatter.

"Okay." Dean watches as if from outside his own body as the silver knife slices a thin gash in Benny's forearm and a splash of holy water washes away the blood that wells up there. "Benny?" he says, heart cracking open with something like grief or relief or longing.

Benny steps forward again, but Dean puts a hand up. "My turn," he says. The cut on his arm stings in the dry air, a bead of blood dripping onto his sock.

And then it doesn't matter because Benny is taking him into his arms and it's just like Dean remembers. Benny smells like something long-forgotten, something newly remembered. Dean can feel Benny's breath on the side of his neck, the too-slow beat of Benny’s heart against his chest, where his own pulse is racing. He pulls away first, keeping a grip on Benny's shoulder to anchor himself. "How -" he starts, shaking his head.

"Where are your shoes, chief?" Benny says with a laugh and thumbs a tear from Dean’s cheek, lets his hand linger there, solid and warm in the sunlight. “And what happened here?” He runs a finger over the cut Dean had completely forgotten about in his mad rush out of the Bunker last night. Early this morning. Whatever.

Dean just shakes his head against Benny’s hand, unable to get the words out. I dropped everything and ran. I can’t believe you’re real. I missed you. I need you. I -

“How are you here?” he says instead, lifting a shaking hand to grip Benny’s wrist before he loses his nerve.

Benny shrugs and strokes over the shell of Dean’s ear with the pad of his thumb, which makes Dean go a little weak at the knees. “Figure it’s because of the big fight. I ain’t complaining, though.” He looks Dean square in the face, eyes crinkling up at the corners. “I missed you, brother.”

“Yeah?” Dean lets his breath out in a rush.

“Yeah.”

Dean rocks forward, just a little. Just enough to tip his forehead against Benny’s, nudging that stupid beautiful newsboy cap off to the side. He’s still holding onto Benny’s wrist, but he slides his other hand to curl into the short hair at the nape of Benny’s neck. He lets his eyes close. This is safe. Here, he’s safe and grounded, missed and forgiven and loved. Benny breathes slow and even, and Dean finally does too. In, out. In, out. Dean opens his eyes to see Benny gazing at him, full of wonder.

“I wasn’t sure if - it’s been a long time,” Benny says, choosing his words carefully, staying firmly in Dean’s space. Or maybe it’s Dean, crowding up against him, unwilling to let go for fear of waking up or floating away entirely.

“Too long,” Dean says. “Too damn long.” His gaze flicks to Benny’s mouth like it has a hundred times before, a thousand, too many times to count, really. Except it feels new. It feels tenuous and fragile with all the time lost between them.

Benny moves in slowly, brushing Dean’s nose with his own, stopping when they’re only a breath apart for one agonizing moment. He runs his thumb up and over the cut on Dean’s cheek, his ear, and Dean shakes from the tenderness of it. “Je t’aime, cher,” Benny whispers into the space between them.

They meet in the middle and it’s gentle and sweet and everything Dean remembered, except better because God is dead and they can have this for the rest of their lives, if they want. They can have this, and this, and this, and Dean breaks away with a laugh even as Benny wipes another tear from his cheek. “I love you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world because here, now, standing in his stupid socks in a patch of gravel on the side of a road outside Crowley, Texas with their future, his and Benny’s, as wide open as the bright blue sky stretching out above them, it is.

let me know if you want to be added/removed/only tagged for specific things! 💖

#title from wide open sky by the well pennies #i just......love them..........#let them be in LOVE #mine.fic #denny

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foxghost · 3 years

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Joyful Reunion, Chapter 57

Translator: foxghost @foxghost tumblr/ko-fi1 Beta: meet-me-in-oblivion @meet-me-in-oblivion tumblr Original by 非天夜翔 Fei Tian Ye Xiang Masterpost | Characters, Maps & Other Reference Index

Book 2, Chapter 14 (Part 2)

They return to the courtyard house.

“Did you think we’re going on a leisure trip?” Wu Du says to him, frowning.

“I want to stay with you.” Duan Ling says without missing a beat, “If it’s not at your side, I’m not going anywhere.”

One sentence and Duan Ling has left Wu Du speechless. Next thing he’s covering his forehead with a hand and waving the other as he heads inside without a word.

Duan Ling stares at Wu Du’s back with a curious look on his face. Wu Du doesn’t even know what to say to him anymore.

“Don’t you want to get ahead?” Wu Du sounds dumbfounded. “You have such a good opportunity being a study partner for the young master, and instead of treasuring that, you‘re choosing to run off to Tongguan at a time like this. Whatever are you trying to do?”

“I … This is one way a person can get ahead, you know.”

Wu Du keeps getting the feeling that Duan Ling is keeping something from him, and now sitting in the room he considers Duan Ling with a puzzled look as though there’s something unusual surging just beneath the surface, the shape of it barely discernible, as if there’s a layer of chiffon in the way.

“What on earth are you hiding from me?” Wu Du asks.

All this time, he’s had this feeling that something isn’t right, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. This is the closest he’s ever been to the truth.

In that precise moment, Duan Ling has a sudden impulse to say it, and very nearly blurts it out.

“I want to go find my dad.” In the end that’s the excuse Duan Ling uses.

Wu Du gets it then. The tight furrow between his brows relaxing a smidgen as he gives Duan Ling a nod.

“The last time I saw him was outside Tongguan. Even though I don’t think I can find him anymore … I still want to at least try looking.”

“Then when we’re out you have to listen to me. You cannot act on your own.”

Duan Ling nods, agreeing, and that seems to calm Wu Du. He tells Duan Ling, “Go pack for our trip.”

Duan Ling starts packing their rudimentary luggage while thinking to himself that he’s dodged another arrow again. As soon as he gets away from here, then it’s the literal meaning of the common saying: the sky is high and the emperor lives far away;2 no matter how much Lang Junxia may want to kill him he won’t be able to find him. As for what happens when he gets back, well, that’s something to worry about for later.

But Wu Du is staring at Duan Ling as he packs, not taking his eyes off of him. Suddenly, he says, “But no matter what you end up finding, you mustn’t try to kill yourself again, got it?”

Duan Ling turns around, smiling at Wu Du. “I won’t do that again. With you around, I’ll definitely stay alive.”

Under Duan Ling’s care, amidst the courtyard house’s garden, many splendid flowers are blooming brilliantly, a backdrop as colourful as a painting; the picture of a young man turning with a smile on his face has startled Wu Du out of the blue without rhyme or reason at all.

In the afternoon, more gifts arrive. This time it’s clothes for the trip made with first-rate fabric, as well as money they’ll need for spending on the road; there’s even a dagger for Duan Ling for self-defence.

When it’s night time, Wu Du and Duan Ling plan out their itinerary. This is the first time Duan Ling has ever formally embarked on a long journey, so he’s actually rather excited.

“Make sure you don’t talk too much while we’re out. If nothing goes wrong I’ll disguise myself as your servant. A young master doesn’t need to do everything himself.”

Duan Ling just nods, and in the end he asks, “What’s the Zhenshanhe?”

This is clearly a question he knows the answer to; as soon as he heard that the sword of the realm had gone missing, he knew that the sword had been gone since the day Shangjing fell. If they can recover the Zhenshanhe, does that mean they can direct the four assassins?

“A weapon that stabilises the empire. The crown prince is looking for it as well.”

“Is it in Bian Lingbai’s keeping?” Duan Ling asks.

“Not necessarily. But he was among the last of the reinforcements to arrive in Shangjing.”

Duan Ling suspects that it is more likely to have fallen into Mongol or Khitan hands, but since its whereabouts are unknown, they may as well see if they can find it while they’re there.

They discuss for a time in the evening, and as they’re about to go to bed, Mu Kuangda summons them to a meeting. When they get to the study it is a private meeting as before, and Mu Kuangda hands the two their mission.

“Chang Pin is in Jiangzhou, so it’s too late to ask him for a plan. I improvised something with what little time I have, and I’m not sure if it’s entirely advisable; he’s usually the one who’d come up with ideas for something like this. We’ll talk about it together, and if anything feels amiss, either of you can tell me.”

Then Mu Kuangda explains to Duan Ling and Wu Du that the general plan is nothing more than to first win Bian Lingbai’s trust by passing Duan Ling off as Zhao Kui’s nephew. He’ll express his wish to convene Zhao Kui’s former subordinates, to claim some territory and set himself up as a local lord so he can take revenge for his uncle. This way, Wu Du won’t have to put on a disguise, making it less likely to give the game away.

As for Duan Ling, his mission is to gain Bian Lingbai’s trust first, then probe for information, try to find some way to steal some correspondence between Bian Lingbai and Xiliang. On the one hand the letters can act as evidence that they can present to the emperor after they kill Bian Lingbai, and on the other hand, Mu Kuangda needs to know what Bian Lingbai is planning.

After all, there are many beneficial relationships between the Tangut tribe and the empire of Chen. Xiliang used to be an independent state, then it was annexed by Liao, and its allegiance has always wavered between Liao and Chen. If all goes as planned, Mu Kuangda intends to find some way to gain Xiliang’s support.

There are factions within Xiliang as well; ever since Helian Bo and his mother returned to their homeland, their government has been split into two factions, one advocating the Helian family leaving Liao control and gaining independence, while another believes it is best for them to bide their time.

All of this is giving Duan Ling a bit of a headache. He had recommended himself3 in order to survive, but now that he thinks about it, he’s going to have to install himself with a general he’s never met, and it’s one at the commander-in-chief level too — it won’t be easy to fool him. While he hasn’t been found out at the Mu estate, he’s never had to explain his origins in front of Mu Kuangda, and the identity he made up has been quite limited. In front of Bian Lingbai he’ll have to fabricate an entire set of lies. What he has done so far cannot hold a candle to what he must do on this trip.

“I just worry that I won’t be able to gain his trust and things will easily go wrong,” Duan Ling says.

“That doesn’t matter.” Mu Kuangda smiles, looking fully like a cunning old fox. “We have something in exchange that will give him no other option but to meet with you.”

Speaking, he hands over a tiny wooden box. Duan Ling opens it to find a rolled up silk tapestry, yellowed with age and drawn with mountains, rivers, and general terrain.

Duan Ling stares at it in amazement.

Mu Kuangda says, “This is a treasure map taken from Zhao Kui’s storage when his property was confiscated by the government.”

Duan Ling is staring with his mouth agape at the treasure map. It’s thin as a cicada’s wing, every last line distinct.

“Bian Lingbai has been hankering after it for a long time, but he’s been unable to find it through all his searching after Zhao Kui’s properties were confiscated; even His Majesty himself knows not of its whereabouts. I had foreseen the need for this plan a long time ago, and thus I have been hiding it. And I also have a letter forged in Zhao Kui’s handwriting ostensibly written prior to his death that you can take with you.”

Duan Ling looks over the treasure map carefully. “What’s buried here?”

“Gold, silver, treasure — enough money to rival the imperial treasury.” Mu Kuangda drinks his tea without any sign of nervousness. “Presumably Zhao Kui made contingency plans while he was planning his coup, and if the coup failed he would have unearthed the treasure and ran away, find some small place in Xiyu where he could keep a private army of a hundred thousand or so, and became the ruler of a small state. It would have made an acceptable living.”

Duan Ling has no more misgivings, and he puts the treasure map away. Mu Kuangda then warns him once more, “Of course, Bian Lingbai isn’t going to trust you. And with just yourself you’re not going to be able to get to the core of his secrets; he’s tremendously ambitious. However, with these terms on your side, it won’t be hard for you to infiltrate his army along with Wu Du.”

In an instant, Duan Ling comprehends his intentions; neither his identity nor the treasure map are significant at all. All he has to do is to buy time for Wu Du.

“I understand. I definitely won’t fail.”

Satisfied, Mu Kuangda nods. “Then, Wu Du, you’ll have to act as our gentleman thief.”

“I got it,” Wu Du replies.

“First, steal the classified information. If it’s possible, steal both his ledgers and letters. As for the value of each piece of information, you two must figure it out amongst yourselves what to take and what mustn’t be touched. Get rid of him before you leave. Only once we have evidence can we arrange negotiations with Xiliang. Bian Lingbai has always wanted to turn against the central government, and after Zhao Ku died no one could keep him in check. The longer we allow him to live the more things can go awry. We must resolve this as soon as possible.”

Wu Du gives him a nod, knowing that once he finishes this job Mu Kuangda definitely won’t treat him lightly, which precisely fulfils the way to “get ahead” that Duan Ling mentioned. But getting ahead isn’t going to be easy; this is the first assassination he has been tasked with since he came under Mu Kuangda’s patronage, and it is also a blood pledge — but he has already run out of other options.4

“What if he’s innocent?” Duan Ling asks suddenly .

A look of alarm flashes across Wu Du’s face.

Mu Kuangda though, has started smiling, staring right at Duan Ling.

Duan Ling knows full well that this is the one question he should never ask, but he asked it anyway.

“Very good.” Mu Kuangda nods slowly. “If he’s innocent, will you or will you not kill him?”

To his surprise, Mu Kuangda has kicked the ball right back into Duan Ling’s court, with a shrewd, calculating look in his eyes.

Duan Ling takes a deep breath, about to answer, but then Mu Kuangda is telling him, full of poise, “If he’s innocent, then you may do as you see fit.”

“Certainly,” Duan Ling feels a great weight coming off his chest.

Mu Kuangda does not move his eyes from Duan Ling, as though he wants to see right through into his heart.

“Come back as soon as possible,” Mu Kuangda adds, “The exams will happen right after the capital is relocated. You mustn’t neglect your studies.”

Duan Ling rises with Wu Du, and they take their leave.

On the way back, the more Duan Ling thinks about the meeting the more he appreciates Mu Kuangda’s meticulous planning, how he has taken every possibility into account. At the end of it he even emphasised several times that they must create the illusion that Bian Lingbai passed away from natural causes. For that is the only way the imperial court can assign a general to take over the army stationed beneath Tongguan, stopping the chance of further turmoil.

“Even if he is innocent we’ll still have to kill him,” Wu Du says quietly.

“I know. But you won’t, will you? I won’t either. There aren’t that many generals who’re capable of safeguarding the border. As long as he doesn’t turn against the empire, then he should not be killed indiscriminately.”

At the end of which he closes the gates of the courtyard house behind him, and once they’re back inside the house, he says to Wu Du in a barely audible whisper, “I only said that to give him pause. And if we don’t find anything, then you don’t have to make this blood pledge anymore. Killing good and loyal men is going to end up costing no one but you in the end.”

With a deep furrow between his brows, Wu Du turns his gaze onto Duan Ling, and it just so happens that Duan Ling was also watching him. There is a shared understanding in their gaze that cannot be put into words.

“Get some sleep.” Wu Du says, “We’ll have to be on our way in the morning. Don’t think about this anymore.”

Duan Ling goes to his floor bedding, but that’s when Wu Du says to him, “Come sleep on my bed. It’s been raining for days. The floor’s too damp.”

Duan Ling doesn’t bother being polite either, and just climbs up to the bed to sleep, while Wu Du sits in front of the desk, looking at the treasure map by the dim light of a lantern.

Half way through the night Duan Ling wakes up once and says to Wu Du, “Not going to sleep yet?”

Wu Du hums something in reply. He has the treasure map pinched between two fingers, and turning the silk tapestry backwards and forwards, he looks at it through the lamplight. It’s quite a while before he gets on the bed with all his clothes on, lying down next to Duan Ling, and gets under the same covers.

Duan Ling is all muddled in his sleep. Turning over, he throws a leg over Wu Du’s waist and clasps his arms around him, and subconsciously lean against him, putting his head on Wu Du’s arm, wrapping nearly his entire body around Wu Du.

Wu Du is at quite a loss; he can’t exactly push him away, and it’s even weirder if he holds onto him. Being embraced by a young man this way gives him a peculiar feeling, and he’s all at once frozen in place.

I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎

The sky is high and the emperor is far away is a common saying, as in “far away from the central government, the local magistrates can embezzle as they like” basically. ↩︎

The idiom for recommending oneself for a job is “Mao Sui recommends himself”. It has a wikipedia entry if you’re interested in history. ↩︎

The words for a blood pledge is more like a “contract”, but it means an act that ensures your loyalty. It originates in Water Margin, where Lin Chong was asked to kill someone and bring back their head in order to join the gang on Mount Liang. I translate this generally to blood pledge, since it is a pledge in which you get blood on your hands. ↩︎

#相見歡 #fei tian ye xiang #joyful reunion #xiang jian huan #fox translates things

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this-haunting-hunger · 3 years

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fic: don’t take this haunting home - IV

Wei Ying lives with many ghosts. It’s usually not a problem. He used to be one himself, after all. However, ghosts have one glaring fault, and it is this: they are, by definition, people who refuse to stay completely dead.

And as far as Wei Ying is concerned, some dead people should stay that way.

Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four

Content: angst, violence, ghosts

Pairing: Wangxian

Length: 7.2k

read on ao3

Waking up is no harder than being resurrected. Which is to say, it is very hard and kinda nauseating and absolutely disorienting and could he maybe go back to being unconscious? There’s a song drifting at the edge of his awareness, all strings and silver, a soft, cradling presence that makes it seem like staying awake might just be bearable. For several minutes, as the music wraps around him, he lets himself sink into it, into the warm embrace of something familiar but enigmatic. A story he used to know but whose ending he’s forgotten. Let me stay, he finds himself thinking, and doesn’t understand why. Please, let me stay.

Consciousness is relentless. No matter how hard he tries to push it away, it just comes back, nudges him with ever firmer insistence. Like a mangy dog, burying its cold nose against his skin. A groan peels through his too-dry lips – the music stops – and it feels like his soul is separating from his body with the pitiful sound. Like if he breathes too hard, he’s going to end up losing whatever churned up mess is inside. And gods, that will not be pretty for anyone involved.

Anyone involved… Who is involved? With another low moan, he reaches up, prods tenderly at his forehead. It seems to be distinctly Wei Ying shaped, which is a weird enough discovery to pry his eyes open. He’s greeted by a very welcome face, and a much less welcome surge of pain and dizziness as the light stabs at him.

Since the face has been seared on the insides of his eyelids for years now and he doesn’t fear losing it in the next few minutes, Wei Ying shuts his eyes again. The blackness is a pleasant balm to the pain, though the dizziness seems to have lodged itself into his brain.

“Lan Zhan,” he rasps, only slightly more pathetically than he feels. “Ah, Lan Zhan, I swear I didn’t steal the Emperor’s Smile this time.”

There’s no verbal response, but a hand catches his wrist, fingers skimming gently along his skin until they find what they’re looking for and press more firmly against his meridian line. It would be soothing, that touch, if it didn’t almost feel like it was pushing against someone else’s flesh. The transfer of energy is more familiar, though, ticklish and light and refreshing, and Wei Ying’s eyes flutter before he forces them open again.

It would be altogether too selfish to let himself enjoy the elegant lines of Lan Zhan’s face for a few moments… but oh, it is tempting. Even when those lines are just a trifle too sharp, a little too slanted, his lips pressed a bit too hard together. Even angry, Lan Zhan’s beauty is a visceral thing, summoning a bloom of warmth in the pit of Wei Ying’s stomach, and honestly, he should have more near-death experiences just for the pleasure of waking up to that leaning over him.

Of course, near death or not, Lan Zhan is very often nearby when he wakes up. It’s just that the looming thing is kind of sexy.

But because he is not selfish – and because the anger has something guilty and anxious swarming up his throat – Wei Ying swallows hard and tries to sit up. Lan Zhan immediately puts his free hand on his chest and keeps him pinned, though the man isn’t meeting his gaze, eyes fixed elsewhere. Wei Ying thinks he has nice wrists, but probably not nice enough to warrant them being stared at for thirty or so seconds.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, trying to delicately pry the hand from his chest. It doesn’t move. Even when his other hand joins in the attempt, with Lan Zhan’s fingers still curled around his wrist, he can’t get the other man to shift. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whines, mainly because the Chief Cultivator still isn’t really looking at him.

“Rest,” is his companion’s flat insistence. It’s not the good kind of flat, either, the kind that is steady and stable and extends forever. It’s the kind that makes Wei Ying feel like he’s going to fall, with absolutely nothing to stop the downward slide.

He wilts, dizziness still swimming across his vision. Head falling back onto the bed, Wei Ying keeps his hands clasped around Lan Zhan’s forearm as he murmurs, “I’m glad to see you.”

There’s a pause, a silence that’s too deep, too thick, too easy to suffocate in, and he almost has time to be really, truly afraid. Almost. But not quite. Because then Lan Zhan is replying, in a voice that nearly breaks, “As am I. Wei Ying, you…” Extra pressure from the hand still pressed against his chest, a tightness in the fingers wound around his wrist. They’re the only physical signs of the aggravation Wei Ying knows the other is feeling. It all comes to nothing. “How are you feeling?” his lover asks, as though that were really what he had been about to say.

It’s – almost frustrating. He almost wishes Lan Zhan would let loose the anger, set out accusations in neat little rows, if only so Wei Ying could knock them all asunder. How is he supposed to be chaotically endearing if there’s nothing to whirlwind his way through?

“I’m feeling well rested,” is his response, a trifle more than a trifle obnoxious, and also a lie. A line actually appears between Lan Zhan’s fine eyebrows, which means Wei Ying is really making some progress on the maddening front. Partly because he knows it will annoy the other man, but mainly because he’s genuinely puzzled, he changes the topic. “How did you get here? And where is here, anyways?”

The room they’re in is a generic one, at least from what Wei Ying can tell when he cranes his neck, still unable to sit up because of a certain stubborn someone. One window is letting in a good deal of light, and the place is clean but largely unadorned. A simple bed, a nondescript table with plain sitting cushions, unadorned sectioning screens, little in the way of decoration. It’s also ghost-free, which may or may not be a good thing, but it’s a thing his head is throbbing too much to think about. At least for the next few minutes.

He hasn’t received an answer, but nonetheless he knows. “An inn, right? Which one?”

“Tiantan.”

The village at the foot of Suntouched Sanctuary. The one he’d passed through this morning. Or – actually, he has no idea how long it’s been since his feet took him up towards the temple. That’s a realization that has disorientation tumbling down his spine, counting out each vertebra like there might be a few too many jammed in there. He wiggles uncomfortably at the thought, and decides he’s probably let Lan Zhan steep in his protective anger for long enough.

Relinquishing his grip on the other man’s arm, he reaches up, trails his fingers over the exposed hollow of Lan Zhan’s throat, brushing back little strands of silky black hair to bare the skin better. His lover doesn’t pull away, and the quizzical half-tilt of his head, the swallow that Wei Ying can feel through the pads of his fingers, they have a helpless little sound stirring behind Wei Ying’s lips. Gods, how can anyone so beautiful be so charming, too? He resists his impulse to wax eloquent about Lan Zhan’s many virtues and says instead, “You know, if you’re so determined to keep me in bed, I can think of a few ways you might convince me to stay.”

It’s light enough in the room to see Lan Zhan’s pupils flare, dark and intent in the splash of sun spilling across his austere face. His throat convulses, another hard swallow, and for half a second, he leans in closer, unbound hair tickling Wei Ying’s face. It looks like he’s actually thinking about what he could do to keep Wei Ying obediently in place. Wei Ying’s body tenses, an automatic response to the smoldering expression, and it occurs to him that he really could think of a few things they could do on this bed. They’re so close right now, the least they could do was kiss…

Lan Zhan’s frustrated exhale puffs against his lips, and then the other man is straightening and backing away. Wei Ying doesn’t bother hiding his disappointed pout, which, given that his masterplan had been to get Lan Zhan to let him up, is a bit ridiculous. Whatever. No one has ever called the Yiling Patriarch a fount of Maturity and Constancy; he sees no reason to get them started now.

“You nearly died. You think I’d want to do… anything… after that?” Lan Zhan’s voice is so strangled with indignation that it’s somewhat funny, and Wei Ying has to stifle his rash impulse to point out that Lan Zhan certainly did want to do something, if only for a moment.

Quickly discarding his disappointment in favour of a smug grin, he sits up before Lan Zhan can change his mind. He only regrets it by about ninety percent when his stomach immediately lurches, nausea and dizzy pain warring for supremacy. The dizziness wins – thankfully – and, swallowing the urge to retch, he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He even (almost) manages to persuade himself that there hadn’t been a moment, half a second or less, when he’d thought his legs might not respond, given that they still don’t feel entirely like his legs. Nothing about this body feels entirely his, right now. A familiar sensation, but one aggravated by his use of Empathy.

“Wei Ying…”

Ignoring that, he straightens, rolls his shoulders, mainly to convince himself that he has the ability to do so. Giving the room a more careful scan, he notes Lan Zhan’s guqin settled on the low table. The sight of the beautiful instrument has his throat closing, and it takes him a moment to realize why. The music that had been playing – the cursive, melodic trail he had followed out of the wrenching blackness of Wen Zhuliu’s despair – belonged to those strings. And those strings belong to Lan Zhan. Of course he feels like crying.

Of course he doesn’t cry. “Have you seen a spirit recently?” he asks instead, because really, that should take priority over his ripped up insides. “About this tall,” Lan Zhan’s eyes follow his vague hand gesture, “and really grim? You might recognize him, though it’s been a few –”

“Wen Zhuliu,” the other man says. “Yes. He was near when I found you. After you came back from Empathy...” There’s a pause, stagnant with more words that his beloved won’t say, and Wei Ying shifts restlessly, trying not to picture what pitiful state Lan Zhan had probably found him in. Trying not to remember the gut wrenching desperation in the voice that had called him back. “He disappeared when the connection broke. I’ve had the disciples preparing wards to ensure he cannot attack here.”

That distracts him. “The disciples? The – you brought some of the Lans? Who?”

An impassive expression. “Lan Jingyi, Lan Sizhui, Lan Feiyan, Lan Keung. Clan Leader Jin, who was visiting on Sect business, also demanded to come.”

“The kids? You brought the kids!?”

“Wei Ying.” For the first time since Wei Ying has woken up, Lan Zhan’s stone faced glower softens into something awfully close to amusement. “They are not children, despite your insistence on calling them as such.”

His hands flap dismissively. Semantics! “They’re younger than me,” he says by way of explanation, conveniently ignoring the fact that in some ways, he’s not truly much older than they are. “They’re also innocents! Defenseless idiots! How could you bring them into something like this?” If he had been on the sharp side of panic at the thought of Lan Zhan confronting Wen Zhuliu, that’s nothing compared to the gristly fear currently grinding up his insides at the prospect of the juniors being thrown into the mix.

“It will be a learning experience,” Lan Zhan replies placidly. “Besides, I am here. Does Wei Ying think the Chief Cultivator is incapable of confronting this spirit? Of defending those he’s sworn to protect?” By the end of that, his voice has sharpened, and the very fact that he’s referring to himself by his title shows how upset he is.

“Of course not,” Wei Ying replies instantly. “If I had to choose anyone to be at my side, anyone at all, it would be you. It’s always you.” He leans forward as he says it, the truth of what he’s insisting stark in his eyes, and his lover doesn’t look away.

“Yet you chose to face this alone. You used Empathy alone, despite knowing how dangerous it is.”

Resisting the urge to wince, thankful that Lan Zhan is willing to speak about what’s hurting him and not bottle it up, Wei Ying smiles ruefully. “And that decision worked out so well. I’m… I might have made a mistake. A small one.”

“That almost got you killed.”

“But lucky for me, I have a handsome cultivator ready to swoop in to save me from demons and ghouls and such.” There’s no budge in his companion’s flat expression – not yet – and Wei Ying curbs his levity. “Ah, Lan Zhan, it’s not that I didn’t want you by me. It’s not that I didn’t think you could protect me from Wen Zhuliu. It’s just…” Lan Zhan is still watching him quietly, and he can’t help but reach out a hand, hopeful and yet a little breathless with apprehension, even after all this time.

The other man doesn’t hesitate to entwine their fingers, and a second later he joins Wei Ying on the bed. Lan Zhan pulls their clasped hands into his lap, a seemingly unconscious gesture, as unconscious as the way he traces gentle lines across Wei Ying’s knuckles. “It’s just…” he prompts patiently, and gods, what did Wei Ying do to deserve such a man by his side? Perhaps he’d been a Saviour of the People in a previous life.

Not in this one, though. Shame creeps along his shoulders, making them hunch, and the raw vulnerability he feels, drawn out by Lan Zhan’s touch, is no less humiliating. Share his fear? Share his pain? Put yet another burden on the Chief Cultivator, as though Wei Ying deserves to be relieved of this weight? The urge to joke – to lie – wavers uneasily on his tongue.

But this, at least, is a habit Wei Ying has learned to restrain. For Lan Zhan, at least. “It’s just…” His free hand gropes along his sternum, like it could sink through his skin and cradle the pit of energy within. “I saw Jiang Cheng without his core, and I saw what it did to him. And when I gave my core to him...” He laughs, but the sound is hollow, and the smile he affixes to his lips is a reflex more than anything. “Lan Zhan, I know people called me a mad dog back then, but truly, sometimes, when I felt the emptiness inside me, well, they were not as wrong as they usually tended to be. I suppose even fools must be right once in a decade, hmm?” He laughs again and the sound rattles through the room before dying.

Lan Zhan is very, very still. He is not moving at all, except for his thumb, still stroking Wei Ying’s fingers. It is a stress response in reaction to grief and guilt for a tragedy long passed. It’s not a judgement. Wei Ying knows this, yet he still feels restless, restive, waiting for his lover to chide him for his thoughts and weakness. Deliberately careless retorts stack on his tongue, ready to topple off and dismiss what he just said, to reassure with a chuckle that the gouges in his soul are nothing.

Yet the man next to him does not offer a reproach. After a long moment, he just shifts, leans his shoulder lightly into Wei Ying. “You were afraid,” he observes quietly, and Wei Ying stiffens at the implication. Before he can argue, though, Lan Zhan shakes his head, a miniscule movement. “For me,” is his clarification.

Wei Ying is quick to agree to that as he relaxes. In his own way. This is swiftly becoming cloying, and he’s eager to move on. Not because he doesn’t want Lan Zhan to know he cares – that’s a battle he’s glad he lost more than a decade ago – but because there is pain in the tightness of his partner’s lips, and Wei Ying is so tired of this phantom ache that neither of them have healed. So… jokes.

"What would we do if Wen Zhuliu took your core, and you couldn't cast the Silence Spell? I don’t know if our bond could survive the stress."

Lan Zhan does not laugh, or even smile. His intense stare might have been unsettling for someone else, and it had been unnerving for Wei Ying in a different time and place. Now, however, he basks in the attention, in the fierce devotion that inspires such a focus. "Wei Ying," Lan Zhan says, "I understand."

As ever, he cuts straight to the heart of the matter, accepts without the need or desire to dwell on it. Before Wei Ying can be appropriately grateful for that forgiveness, the other man adds, "Next time, tell me. Whatever it is."

"Ah, Lan Zhan, I don't think we'll have the misfortune to meet two Wen Zhuliu ghosts in this lifetime."

A light furrow appears on his lover's forehead, and his posture, already immaculate, somehow becomes even straighter. "Wei Ying, promise me. Whatever it is next time, you'll tell me."

So the stare, as it turns out, can still be a bit unsettling for Wei Ying. He looks away, squirms in his seat and then makes to get up. Lan Zhan still has his hand, however, and the man's grasp is an anchor, forcing him to stay in place. "Wei Ying," he repeats, as close to an anxious entreaty as Lan Zhan ever gets.

Despite being a bit of an escape artist extraordinaire, the Yiling Patriarch is helpless to evade the sincerity of that plea. Huffing, he slouches back on to the bed and pouts. "Aish, fine. Next time I'll drag you with me to hell or wherever I end up."

It is a little bit ridiculous, how pleased the Chief Cultivator looks to be told such a thing. Wei Ying senses a shift in the room, a subtle loosening that means, once again, he’s been believed. Lan Zhan is not a simpleton, nor even particularly naïve, but he does have a tendency to think promises are not, in fact, made to be broken, and a habit of believing everyone else must think the same.

Lan Zhan hums, whether in pleasure or conciliation, it's hard to say. Either way, the sharp lines of his face have softened, and the tension in his fingers has faded away. With a light snort, Wei Ying returns the pressure with his shoulder, the contact grounding him, letting the fear and guilt die down to a low flicker.

He still feels horrible, but at least it's only his body this time around.

"Speaking of our bond... I don't think it's quite strong enough to let you track me down. How'd you end up finding me?"

The smile is finally there, and Wei Ying had long ago learned to love the subtleties of that barely perceptible quirk, the slight tempering that so many people are likely to overlook.

Although he appreciates it slightly less when it’s at his expense.

“Lan Jingyi was to receive punishment for his actions during the Summer Recital of Values,” Lan Zhan explains calmly, as if that cleared up everything. Wei Ying truly doesn’t know how the young man had gathered so many butterflies, not to mention kept them concealed and unharmed until the moment he’d set them loose throughout the Chamber of Orchids, but he suspects there were accomplices. He also doesn’t know what the lecture-halting prank has to do with the Chief Cultivator finding him.

Seeing his befuddled pout, Lan Zhan’s smile grows by at least a millimeter. It’s dangerously close to being a smirk, now. Bastard. “Wei Ying encourages flexible punishments. I gave Lan Jingyi the choice between writing out the Values four hundred times, or keeping me appraised of your whereabouts and actions. He chose very quickly.”

Clutching dramatically at his chest, Wei Ying gasps, “You got him to spy on me? Isn’t that against the Lan Clan rules? What was the one… ‘Do not take part in dishonest practices.’”

“Be loyal,” Lan Zhan replies without hesitation. “Perform acts of chivalry. Believe sincerely.”

Wei Ying shakes his head. “Ah, Lan Zhan, I have been a bad influence. Lan Qiren would beat us both to hear you degrading the Values by actually thinking about their contradictions.”

The other man’s face loses some of its amusement, eyebrows furrowing in solemn contemplation, and Wei Ying has a moment to regret what was supposed to be a joke. However, Lan Zhan doesn’t seem upset. More softly than before, but more firmly too, the Chief Cultivator quotes, “Do not fail to carry out your promise.”

Their eyes meet, then, and Wei Ying thinks about a sky filled with floating lanterns, about hands clasped under his chin in fervent, naïve prayer. Of Lan Zhan, by his side even then. No regrets. "One of the Jades of Lan could not possibly fail at anything, let alone their promises," he jokes, but means it all the same. Lan Zhan might think differently, but the man has never failed him. Not on a mountain, or anywhere else.

That is not a path he wants to go down, however, so he draws himself up with officious huffiness. “Never mind. That brat has been tailing me? How could I not have noticed?”

“Lan Jingyi is very wily when motivated. Besides, I believe he has mostly followed your tracks, not your presence.”

Head cocking, finger going up to rub at his nose, Wei Ying stares narrowly at the Chief Cultivator. Lan Zhan gives nothing away, ghost of a smile still playing across his lips as he waits for Wei Ying to figure out what he means. Very smug. Very bastardly. And all in such an upright way, it’s impossible to challenge him on it.

Besides, Wei Ying’s attention is caught by the quandary. It takes a long moment, sorting through his mind what he’s done in the last month or so that could possibly count as tracks, but eventually it dawns on him. “The library. He asked Lan Kuan what scrolls I requested!”

A shallow nod is all the confirmation he needs, and he throws up his hands in disgust, ignoring the way it makes his head pulse with pain. He had spent weeks in the library, trying to determine where Wen Zhuliu’s former home was located, and, after he thought he'd figured it out, the best route to get there. He'd also familiarized himself with cases of non-aggressive hauntings, and situations where a cultivator's power continued even after death. It hadn’t occurred to him while researching that the old man who helped him wade through Cloud Recesses’ mountains of scrolls might tip off where he was going. “Aish! Lan Kuan, that doddering meddler!”

“Elder Lan Kuan is your senior, and a respected member of Gusu Lan Clan,” Lan Zhan says disapprovingly. He’s about to say more, no doubt a thrilling if stilted lecture about propriety and appropriate deference to the elderly, when they both hear something. A soft rustle at the screen doors, followed by a sharp inhale, more discrete rustling, and then silence.

Pointing at the door, Wei Ying grins. Anyone else would miss the way his lover inclines his head by just a little, but it’s all the benediction Wei Ying needs. Still smiling, maybe a trifle too evilly, he declares abruptly, “At any rate, Jingyi will pay! I’ll have spirits moan outside his bedroom for a month, at least!”

There’s a pause as Lan Zhan decides whether he actually wants to participate, and then the Chief Cultivator blandly comments, “That would be disruptive to the other disciples.”

“Then I’ll make him eat congee for weeks! Let’s see him spy on me when there’s a hole through his tongue!”

It’s impossible to say if his learning-to-be-lenient lover would have continued the prank, because there’s a yelp from behind the door, followed by someone else’s wordless protest.

“You lunatic! Don’t you dare!” The exclamation comes as the screen is violently slid open, and three people are revealed, two latched on to the other’s white robes and trying to drag him away. Jingyi won’t be held back, however, and he points accusingly at Wei Ying. "Eating your cooking is a worse punishment than copying the Values ten thousand times!"

While Wei Ying gasps in affront like such a comment could actually wound him, Jingyi spins around. "Hanguang Jun," he says in desperate appeal, "I was just doing what you asked. Don't let this lunatic get me!"

Meanwhile, the two people who had tried to stop him from entering the room have relinquished their grip on his robe and now stand in sheepish silence. Lan Sizhui looks properly remorseful for the spying and interruption – and probably feels that way, too – while Jin Ling is just embarrassed and, to judge from his expression, getting sullen about it.

The Hanguang Jun in question hardly looks at the trio, just rises from the bed and puts his arm behind his back with elegant grace. He says nothing and, with the light from the window shining on his perfect form, accentuating the pale blue designs on his white inner robe, he looks like a god removed from them all. Stern, implacable, and hugely unimpressed with the shenanigans of mortals.

Of course, from where he's standing, Wei Ying can just make out a quirk of oh-so-pretty lips, and he rather suspects the reason Hanguang Jun isn't looking at the kids is to avoid any of them noticing his amusement.

"Hanguang Jun, we are sorry. We were coming to report that we've finished our preparations, and we heard you talking and didn't want to interrupt, so..." Sizhui's voice isn't meek or cringing; it's the steady cadence of a man admitting to his wrong.

Or Wei Ying is just a bit biased when it comes to the disciple.

Jin Ling lifts his chin. "Does Gusu Lan Sect own this inn, huh? Why shouldn't we go where we choose?"

"Be polite," Sizhui mutters, which just goes to show that Jin Ling's elevation to Clan Leader didn't destroy the bonds between them; the ever-polite Lan disciple wouldn't have chided a leader otherwise.

With a scowl, Jin Ling is about to reply with something no doubt unflattering, but Wei Ying cuts in. "You mean you choose to lurk in hallways, Jin Ling? Very strange."

The younger man flushes, but it's Lan Zhan's turn to interrupt. "Sizhui. Everything is prepared?"

"Ah, yes, Hanguang Jun. We've assembled the wards and created a watch schedule. The others are downstairs, making final preparations." So, in Wei Ying’s experience, they’re taking the opportunity to goof off away from Lan Zhan’s somber eyes. As much as Lan Clan disciples ever goof off.

"I still don't see why we're bothering to ward against some random spirit," Jingyi mumbles, probably not purposefully loudly enough for them all to hear. Jin Ling bobs his head in agreement.

Lan Zhan is unmoved, and starting to get serious. "Wei Ying was harmed by it. That is reason enough." Still, his lover's eyes flicker over to Wei Ying, and for Lan Zhan that might as well be a scream of curiosity. Of course, the Chief Cultivator had been too disciplined – and kind – to jump all over him with questions when Wei Ying first woke up, but it's obvious the questions haven't been far from the front of his mind.

Given that his plan to keep them all safe and in the dark has failed so spectacularly, he has no reason to withhold this information now. “That ‘random spirit’ is Wen Zhuliu,” Wei Ying begins. He expects to have to explain further, about who Wen Zhuliu is and why it matters, and is rather taken aback when all three young disciples jump at his name, exchanging looks of trepidation.

“The Wen Zhuliu?” Jin Ling demands, while Jingyi yelps, “Core Melting Hand?”

Is he ever going to stop being surprised that the things so long gone – the things he lived through – are all but revered as legends now? Including the villains?

Especially the villains, he tells himself playfully. You know better than most how much people like a devil.

Waving a hand, dismissing their concerns, Wei Ying replies, “The very same. I assume Lan Zhan told you I was attempting Empathy before my… uh, nap?” Their blank expressions reassure him that the Chief Cultivator had told them no such thing. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, knowing well enough that the more anxious Lan Zhan was, the more he tended to close up, to communicate only what was directly and immediately relevant. It had probably genuinely not occurred to him to let the disciples know what was going on beyond direct orders.

“Well, I was. Wen Zhuliu was skulking around Cloud Recesses for several weeks, and I couldn’t get him to talk to me. So…” His haphazard gesture is meant to indicate everything that’s happened since then.

Apparently it’s not quite enough for any of them. “For weeks!?” Jingyi looks like he’s picturing rounding a corner in Cloud Recesses and running straight into the imposing spirit. “Why was he there!?”

“And why are you here now?” Jin Ling asks.

More tactful but still confused, Sizhui adds, “And forgive me, Master Wei, but why didn’t you say anything?”

Under the onslaught of questions, he can feel his headache surging, but Wei Ying pushes it back and grins. He struggles with some things, but performing under pressure is not one of them. “So demanding! Well, let’s see…” He’s about to start twirling Chenqing when he realizes the flute isn’t tucked into his belt. Now discomfort does writhe in his chest, and he fumbles at his robes like the instrument might be hidden there. Had it been left at Suntouched Sanctuary? Before he can become more alarmed, Lan Zhan moves forward. Chenqing is in his hand.

Wordlessly, the other man hands it over. With a grateful smile, Wei Ying takes it, the wood comforting under his agitated fingers. He doesn’t know why, but this item – this flute, out of everything he’s ever owned – connects him most to… who he is. Reminds him, when it feels like he’s forgetting.

And he forgets so often.

Whirling Chenqing, perhaps too wildly, Wei Ying resets himself. “As I was saying. He was there to find me. He couldn’t contact me, because…” That still wasn’t entirely clear. Slowly, tasting the words to see how they sound, his gaze drifting over to Lan Zhan to include the cultivator in the speculation, he continues. “There are powerful wards up in Cloud Recesses to dampen ghostly presences. Maybe they stopped him.” Which wouldn’t explain why he hadn’t reached out when Wei Ying had left the wards at the beginning of his trip.

“Resentment, too,” Lan Zhan offers, understanding the gap in the explanation.

Wei Ying considers that, then nods. It made sense.

“What do you mean?” Jingyi asks, bold despite the Chief Cultivator’s presence, and the other disciples crowd closer, too, eager to hear the response.

“What are ghosts made of?” Wei Ying replies, grinning at the mingled exasperation and resignation on the faces of his pupils. They well know his preferred teaching style, and how unlikely he is to give them a straight answer.

Sizhui is the first to respond. “Energy.”

“What kind?”

“Resentful!” That from Jin Ling. The Clan Leader announces it like he’s challenging Wei Ying to call him wrong, and it’s almost painfully reminiscent of Jiang Cheng’s belligerent forcefulness. Still, even now, Wei Ying has to wonder if Jin Ling realizes just how much he takes after his uncle – and how much of a blessing that really is.

Mostly a blessing.

“Often resentful, yes. Good!” Beginning to pace around the room, Wei Ying notes his nephew’s quickly stifled pride with inward amusement. “Not always, but often. Particularly when a person is murdered. And what does the culmination of resentful energy cause?”

Jin Ling is blank, which is understandable. Neither the Jiang nor Jin Sects specialize in suppressing ghosts. Sizhui, on the other hand, is quick to reply. “Distorted personalities, mindless rage, and increased aggression.”

“Precisely! So, Wen Zhuliu did not immediately reach out to me after I left Cloud Recesses because…”

This time there is a pause, but it feels more awkward than uncertain. Jinyi is the one to break the silence. “Because Wen Zhuliu hates you for your part in his murder, and that conflicted with whatever he desired to contact you about. So he didn’t attack you, but he couldn’t connect, either. The resentful energy was too strong.”

Wei Ying positively beams, ignoring the awkwardness. Technically speaking, Wen Zhuliu was murdered, so he doesn’t find it an inept description, despite the children being reluctant to describe it as such. “Ah, Lan Zhan, aren’t these students too bright? Who could have taught them so well?”

When he looks meaningfully at the Chief Cultivator, Lan Zhan lets the silence grow before he answers. “I don’t know.” For him, almost a joke. At Wei Ying’s expense.

With an affronted gasp, Wei Ying points Chenqing at his partner. “You lie! Who but a cultivator of renown, of talent, of brilliance, could have taught them so much? A handsome cultivator with a keen mind, a sense of righteousness, a bottomless fount of knowledge, a desirable face and–”

“Wei Ying.”

Though Lan Zhan says it as an interruption, Wei Ying chooses to interpret it differently. “Ah! Lan Zhan, you flatter me. Such kindness from the Chief Cultivator! But of course, I wasn’t referring to myself.” He winks outrageously, and the barest hint of a flush creeps up Lan Zhan’s cheeks, though he doesn’t reply.

Flipping Chenqing with a flamboyant flourish, satisfied as ever to catch his lover a little off guard, Wei Ying snags the flute out of the air and turns his attention back to the disciples.

Who are currently struggling to contain their amusement at seeing the Chief Cultivator teased. For all that Lan Zhan has, in his own way, relaxed as the years have gone on, that has assuredly not included encouraging others to badger him. Wei Ying tells himself it’s good for the stately cultivator, and it’s definitely good for Wei Ying himself, so…

“So, you well trained trio, why did I go to Suntouched Sanctuary?” A slightly unfair question, if Lan Zhan hasn’t given them all the information, but he isn’t destined to be disappointed today.

“You were researching Wen descendants and the subsidiary Clans at the library!” Jingyi pipes up, only to snap his mouth shut as Wei Ying side-eyes him at the reminder of just who had been spying on him.

Probably to save his friend, Sizhui rushes to fill the gap. “So you found Wen Zhuliu belonged to the Clan who called Suntouched Sanctuary home?”

Relenting his glare, Wei Ying nods. “Mhm. The Zhao Yu Clan lived in Suntouched Sanctuary before the Sunshot Campaign. Empathy with Wen Zhuliu confirmed it; I saw him with… some others from the Clan.” When he says it, his voice changes. Becomes quieter, and Wei Ying is powerless to stop the sorrow that seeps into the words.

He doesn’t want it. Wants to reject the emotion with a vehemence that’s just short of acidic. He’s been avoiding thinking of what Empathy showed ever since he woke up; filled the space in his head with Lan Zhan and the disciples and questions so much easier to answer than the state of his own soul. What does he owe those dead people he never met, strolling through their garden on that sunny day? What does he owe Wen Zhuliu’s Jiaying, with her firm shoulders and growing belly, with her supportive words and eyes so afraid of losing love?

What can he owe her, when she is dead and gone like so many others?

Lan Zhan heard the change and he’s now at Wei Ying’s side, eyes drifting to the floor but senses acutely trained on his partner. Wei Ying knows, can feel, how intently Lan Zhan is focused on him, ready to offer assistance at the slightest word or gesture. Falling into that quiet support, letting it take the weight of his decades-long fatigue, if only for a moment, is a relief he can’t begin to put words to. Not in a way that would do it justice, anyways.

“Is there any alcohol?” he asks, and of course there is, because Lan Zhan foresaw that particular need.

Though he could order the disciples to do it, the Chief Cultivator strides over to the side table, swipes up two of the jars resting there. Then he is back at Wei Ying’s side, offering the liquid like he’s offering something else. Because, of course, he is.

Wei Ying accepts the drink gratefully, swallows deep and long. Not as good as the Emperor’s Smile, but it does the trick nonetheless, the mild burn tracing down his throat and soothing the pain of far more caustic emotions. By the time he pulls the empty jar from his lips, it’s taken the sting of haunted defensiveness from his thoughts. Not the alcohol itself – after all, Wei Ying is a first class drinker, and one glass is not anywhere near enough to get him drunk – but the familiarity of the motion, of the taste. It brings him memories, and he grounds himself in the sensation of the tart liquor slipping over his tongue.

The disciples are waiting patiently and without surprise. They know his drinking habits well enough – and more than his drinking habits, he is ashamed to admit. Unstopping the second jar but holding off from drinking more just yet, Wei Ying gathers himself. Another reset. He’s no longer in the mood for the question and answer game, as much joy as it usually gives him.

“At a place with strong emotional resonance such as Suntouched Sanctuary, Wen Zhuliu was able to break through the resentment, to reach out to me.” He doesn’t feel like mentioning the way he’d made his target’s resentment surge first. Doesn’t want to talk about the spirit Wen Zhuliu had ripped apart, doesn’t feel like speculating about who they were, who they had been to Core Melting Hand to shatter his fury like they had. Doesn’t want to admit to yet another murder, for all that he hadn’t held the cutting – melting – weapon.

He’ll tell Lan Zhan. Some night, when the candles are out and their bodies speak truths their throats find hard to say, he’ll tell him. But not today.

Tight-lipped, Wei Ying forces a smile. “However, the barriers were not completely gone,” specifically, his barriers, “so I decided to use Empathy to try to understand him more.”

“By yourself,” Sizhui says, and it’s such an echo of Lan Zhan’s disapproval that he has to laugh.

“By myself. It turned out fine.”

Jin Ling snorts. “You tell us all the time that it’s horribly dangerous to do Empathy alone, and then go ahead and do it by yourself anyways.”

With a light shrug, Wei Ying takes a swig out of the jar. “Do as I say, not as I do.” Smacking his lips to drown out Jinyi and Jin Ling’s protests, he waves off their affront. “At any rate, I learned much.” Much more than he’d wanted to, in fact. “Namely, how to get Wen Zhuliu to stop skulking around. He’s looking for someone.”

“To kill them?” Jinyi asks. He and Ouyang Zizhen both have a penchant for the melodramatic.

“No. They were… taken from him. He wants to find them.”

“Who are they?” Trust Lan Zhan to speak and ask the only question that matters. Well, one of two questions that matter.

There’s a tightness in his shoulders that no amount of drink will ease. Why can’t he get the warm feeling out of his chest, the one that Wen Zhuliu had clutched at so desperately when he was searching for her? It’s not his feeling, he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want anything to do with it.

He forces his mouth not to caress the name. “Mingxia. His daughter.”

The juniors react to that with the expected level of shock. Amid the yelps and rush of speculation, though, Wei Ying doesn’t look at the youngsters. His gaze searches out Lan Zhan’s eyes, and when he finds those dark expanses, he can tell the Chief Cultivator is disturbed. There’s a furrow across his brow, and he’s leaning forward just slightly. Is he thinking about that night, when he’d allowed Jiang Cheng’s Zidian to take one life, and had permitted the brothers to take another life after a great deal of pain and screaming? Or is he remembering the many Wens and Wen supporters he’s killed, cultivators all and none defenseless, but belonging to a family nonetheless?

Or is that just Wei Ying, inserting his own guilt into the honorable man?

Jiaying is probably dead. How else could Mingxia have ended up alone, and in such desperate straits? But how had she died? What had happened from the time Wen Zhuliu left the garden, certain he would see his wife again, to this very day?

What had happened, besides Wen Zhuliu being murdered, along with the man he’d sworn to protect?

Wei Ying thinks, if it had just been the two of them, Lan Zhan would have reached out by now. He would have gladly accepted his lover’s touch, gratefully pressed his face against his strong shoulder and hidden from the world. If only for a moment.

Alas. They’ve an audience.

Interrupting the excited flurry of words between the disciples, Wei Ying says, “If we recover her, Wen Zhuli will probably stop bothering me.” Or at least his ghost will. The memories… well, some things are better at haunting than even ghosts.

“But who took her? Did you see through Empathy?” That from Sizhui, and is it any surprise he asked the second important question?

Wei Ying spreads his hands in a hapless gesture (after finishing chugging the second jar). “I didn’t see enough to be sure. But I think I know who’ll have an idea where to start.”

Jin Ling frowns, exchanging confused glances with his friends, but Lan Zhan’s mouth has thinned. He suspects he knows who Wei Ying is talking about, and he’s not sure if he’s pleased about it. Wei Ying sympathizes.

He smiles anyways. At least the man is interesting. “What do you say?” he asks the Chief Cultivator playfully. “How do you feel about visiting our old friend Huaisang?”

#the untamed fanfic #wangxian #wangxian fanfic #mdzs #cql #wei wuxian #wei ying #wei ying x lan zhan

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avatraang · 3 years

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20 Stories, 20 First Lines

Thanks for the tag @foxy-knowledgeseeker and @thinkingisadangerouspastime <3

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 authors!

20 fics and first lines is absolutely massive, so i’m gonna post them under the cut for the convenience of everyone. if you dare to read, thank you!

1. define divinity.

Suki’s time in Caldera City has been pretty eventful so far. Training new agents, fending off assassination attempts. Trying new foods, adjusting to the new climate, the culture. She’s been here almost a year and still feels like there’s so much she hasn’t learned, so much to become accustomed to. Zuko says she’s doing great, but he’s also… Zuko, so Suki doesn’t really know what to think of that.

2. infinite and always.

Aang comes and goes, and that is the hardest part.

3. lazy sunday.

Sokka is half-asleep when she kisses him. It’s a Sunday morning, the type of Sunday morning that makes you realize why the day is called “lazy.” They’re laying on her bed, in and out of easy slumber. It’s not an abnormal occurrence – they have sleepovers all the time, in the same bed, on the same couch. They cuddle, hold each other, keep each other company, keep the loneliness at bay. It’s familiar, like home. They are each other’s closest confidants, after all. It helps that they are in love with each other and are avoiding it, but still. Of course this isn’t strange.

4. when the sun goes down.

It’s a rainy day when Aang feels her presence. To say they are tied together is an understatement – Aang is connected to all worlds, but to her more than most. The way his scar almost stands on end, a phantom of electricity ghosting across it. He often feels such thunder in his veins when she’s nearby, the universe’s way of reminding him that he is tied to her in more ways than the norm.

5. we’ll keep on growing like ivy.

The first time Mai meets him, she thinks perhaps she’s dreaming. It’s late, around one in the morning, and she’s walking back from the library on campus with one hand on her umbrella and the other on the knife tucked into her sleeve. Ba Sing Se University isn’t particular dangerous, but Mai is a foreigner in these parts, and it’s better safe than sorry. She sees him on the roof of the cafeteria, feet dangling, one hand raised above him as he bends the rain away. She watches the way it bounces off his hand, the other one busy holding an ice cream cone. It's a strange sight -almost like something out of a fever dream. There’s a yellow beanie on his head, which, if he was trying to conceal himself, is a pretty awful attempt at it.

6. she loves him still.

This is how it goes:

The world is thrown into turmoil the morning he dies. The elements tremble. People as far away as Harbor Town claim to have felt the earth quake, and those at sea as distant as the coast of Akahime swear to the Spirits that a tsunami threatened to devastate their lands. Any flames within a twenty-mile radius reportedly shot up, burning holes into ceilings and ruining breakfasts. Lamps are said to have burst and shattered. Air acolytes claim a breeze swept through the compounds, so strong it cut down a tree that had stood on the island for over a hundred years.

7. the sweetest rewards.

Toph is sitting opposite of Aang, silent as stone. She’s inspecting him; Aang can tell by the way her feet shift almost imperceptibly, scanning his body. Finally, Toph breaks the silence. “When do you think they’ll be done?” She nods towards the kitchens.

8. lunam et familia.

17.

Sokka is sitting at the edge of the temple side when Toph finds him. They are resting at the Western Air Temple, taking a break from diplomacy trips that Aang had roped them into. His feet are swinging over the edge, palms planted flat on the ground, head tilted up towards what she supposes “seeing” folk perceive to be moonlight. Everyone else is fast asleep, deep within the temple walls, except for him. Toph moves to step towards him, to ask Sokka why he’s still awake, but then she hears him speak.

9. seen.

“What is that?” Zuko asks Sokka one day, leaning over his desk to peek at the swell of color Sokka is adding detail to.

10. purple lilacs and pilfered letters.

“NO!”

"Sokka, I swear on Oma and Shu-”

"NOOOOO!”

"Sokka!”

11. as simple as breathing.

con·sti·tu·tion

/ˌkänstəˈt(y)o͞oSH(ə)n/

noun

noun: constitution; plural noun: constitutions

a body of fundamental principles or established precedents according to which a state or other organization is acknowledged to be governed.

Toph is 23 when Sokka tells her he’s addicted to smoking.

12. jealous of the love.

It’s raining outside when he notices it for the first time. Well, not it. Her. He’s new in Republic City, so she took a day off to show him around. Katara had expressed her mild surprise that Toph, the Chief of Police, had taken a day off to show Sokka, of all people, around… Toph didn’t even take days off when Zuko came into town, and that was rarer than Sokka’s appearances. Plus, it’s not like he’s leaving any time soon. If all goes well, he’ll win his position on the council and move to Republic City, permanently.

13. fortune telling, reincarnation, love, and other (somewhat dubious) forms of science.

Toph doesn’t really bat an eye when she gets a letter from a small Earth village in the middle of bumbafuck. Her secretary reads it to her and she shrugs it off; it gets thrown on her dining room table most unceremoniously. She spends the rest of the week doing what she usually does: focusing on her school and being a little too bored. To be grounded is in her nature, but Toph also has a strange tendency to get restless. Her body starts to twitch and her spirit grows bored. Nothing good has ever come from a bored Toph.

14. why do we put each other through hell? (why can’t we just get over ourselves?)

“How have you never seen a Superman movie?” Penelope’s voice is loud -per the usual- and unbelieving -per not the usual. She’s staring at him like he’s got eight eyes instead of six, like he’s spoken Russian instead of English.

15. firelady.

Suki is born a commoner.

16. between me and you.

"Ms Bei Fong," the voice cuts through the air with practiced precision, a note of affection ringing in it even through the poised professionalism. "I didn't expect to see you here."

17. a ring made of silver.

#01 – Ring.

It starts out simply enough, a breath of a laugh here, a memory of a whisper there; trinkets left behind to find, conversations forgotten, a ring made of light silver that he takes off when they're muttering and forgets to take back: she goes to give it back the next morning, before even the owls have fallen asleep, but he engages her in a debate on how long it took Dumbledore to grow out his beard, instead, and next thing she knows she's in Arithmancy and the ring is on her thumb, forgotten.

18. a girl who will never be a nun (and a man who will make sure of it).

To: Mother (10/9/2016, 01:02) i didn't *mean* to do it

19. to tell you properly.

She's at his doorstep, and they stare at each other for a moment too long, her backpack slung over her shoulder and Fraxure standing next to her. "Well," he finally says, and there's pain in his eyes, written clear across the stars that are reflected inside them. Not for the first time, she feels a pang in her heart. "I guess this is goodbye. For a bit, at least."

20. (just say) you won’t let go.

Hermione finds her way to Fred's flat easily enough, apparating in just as he'd instructed her. She shakes the snow from her jacket and slips her boots off, feet sore and heavy from the day. His flat is dark, darker than usual, but it's only when Hermione takes in the worrisome silence that she pulls her wand out and holds it before her, gathering her wits and taking a step forward. Silently, she scans the apartment with a spell, relaxing only slightly when she registers only one other person in the apartment; out on the balcony. She walks briskly over to it and finds red hair framed by night, drooped shoulders defeated by exhaustion.

i definitely love to open up a story by describing either a setting or an action. very few times do i open up with dialogue... interesting! wonder what that says about me O.O

i think my favorite opening line would have to be the one from “infinite & always.” it’s such a short but impactful line! aang DOES come and go, and that IS the hardest part!

thanks again the tag, e-money and a-dawg B) i’m tagging @cats-and-metersticks, @praetorqueenreyna, and @justoceanmyth :)

#my writing #my fanfiction #tag meme #tokka #aanglove #fremione #alvareider #wishfulshipping #maiaang #azulaang #zukaang #yueki #almost missed my queue #rey rambles

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rgedgwe · 3 years

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penaltybox14 · 3 years

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DecoFiremen: No happy choice

@zeitheist @darknight-brightstar @squad51goals @its-skadi Silky is sick in the city, and Josiah has to make some choices, and have some conversations. Emotions are hard, yo.

It's never good, to see that look on Eddy's face. His fighter's jaw is set, but his eyes are soft like ships on a dark harbor. This is the face that bodes bad news, something Eddy can't fix with his hands, a hot cup of coffee or a knock about the ears. When Josiah sees that look, after breakfast one late winter's day, the first thing he thinks is the state has come to call on Davey again. He'd taken them in his teeth that day at the gate, and thought if not rid of them altogether, he'd bought them enough time to think of how to put them off for good. It did wake him, though, to watch the high moon paint his quarters and fear the state might come back, with papers, with authority, with some force he could not bluff.

(If they were to take Cleary now, he thinks, the boy would be lost forever. He would be some shadow growing thinner and paler on the back ward of the state hospital, he would settle sure as smoke in that long dark hall of his or drown in the lake below the lawn. For sure, he would.)

"No," Eddy says, his raw knuckles flexing, catching the rattle of Josiah's thoughts, "no, it ain't the young fella."

"So what is it, then? You hear from town there's none left of those hot peppers the grocer pickles, that you eat whole from the stem?"

Josiah's humor falls as flat and pale as vellum in the typewriter, gnawed down by keystrokes.

"Got a telegram from the city, Birchy." Eddy grips the butcher-block of the back kitchen's table, leans, uprights, and leans again. "Silky's gone down sick."

"Sick." Josiah has to steady himself. His bad leg throbs like a bad dream that upends the day. "Gone down sick? Who sent it?"

"Hastings at 27. He's at casualty down at Bellevue, thinking it's pneumonia."

He cannot go. He cannot go: he is responsible here, the Captain of this house, their grounds. He cannot go: to leave his post, to leave the lads, to leave the boy. Worst of all, that: to leave the boy. What kind of captain would he be then, to leave the newest and the rawest of recruits, who still trembles under the blunt wind of the sear and some days even falls to it? Some damn bastard, he would be, but his heart and his bent leg howl as the breath of horses, carrying him surely to the city. He was a coward once who left a hundred thousand words unanswered, the great sulk of an overgrown child. It was not Silky's fault, was it, after all, that the roof had caved, that his body had broken under the greedy teeth of the timbers?

But he had never told Silks that, had he. And he could, now. He could have the chance to say it again.

"It's an awful long way, to the city."

"I haven't seen him since the promotion."

"You'd be leaving the boy."

"I know it."

"Do you?"

"I do know it, Eddy."

"Took you how long to answer a simple letter? How long would you plan on staying? Til he was well? Til the dark took him?"

What a bitter kick in the chest, the fury rising up inside him so hard it makes his eyes water. "Silks isn't going to die. He didn't die in that damn fire and he won't now."

"If'n you go, Birch, I'll drive you to the station. But you'll tell Lufty and Monroe and the lads, and most of all, young Cleary, where you're off to."

Lufty, he knows, will understand. Lufty and Monroe both, are men who have swallowed smoke and coughed out grief in spatters on the sidewalk, ribs heaving under the weight of it. Josiah was not the first fireman to be ground hard in the blaze's splintering teeth, he will not be the last.

Though some days he feels as if he is the only fool to lose a brother by his own carelessness and greedy fury. Fool, to lie shattered, dry and cracked and thirsty for the safe embrace of brick walls and floorboards that creak with midnight steps and men who roll over in starched sheets and roll over again. Fool that Silks had sat for, holding the hand without the needle, speaking to him from far away through the ether and the lazy dream-fields of poppies and long sunshine.

But the boy, god, the boy.

Whatever he does, he can't spare the boy. Would that he could. For his sear to have broke before his voice, the boy ought to be allowed to live a life of perfect grace, running the field with the lads and catching perch down in the pond, every line charged, every ladder strong, every jake out clear.

Silks or Davey, he thinks, what'll it be, what choice do I have?

The sun sprawling across the yard has taken on the keener brass of springtime - the snow is still deep, the ice still thick enough to drive a double hitch onto, but the turn of the earth is winning out as she always does. The lads sweat at their work - Lufty and Monroe have let ladders and ropes ice overnight, and each exercise begins with a clamor of ideas on how to handle the frozen gear. Bertram and Jules are keen to lead, while Kitson, Jacob, and Lee, the newest lot, scamper about and skitter like fawns. How funny, to see from the broad steps, that Davey knows nearly as much as a half-year, though he has not the strength yet. He will, though. There is an awkward, coltish grace about him. Something he has not grown into. Josiah woke one night when the sky was half-silver with stars and Davey was standing in his quarters like a ghost-child, the sear singing in their bones. A long way to grow, that one. A long, fine way.

Lufty catches him after lunch. Lufty is harder at the edges, often, than Eddy has ever been. Even when Josiah was still stiff about the collar in his new kit, Eddy was all bluff, and quick to mild. Eddy would brawl for any jake among them. Lufty was tougher to read, even after he was on the boards. Lufty Parker was burned once, and badly, in a fire at the piers in Chelsea. His scars creep up the side of his neck, and cup the back of his head like a brief and tender lover. They invite no dormitory tales, only an edgy kind of sorrow. Josiah had heard, in his rook year, that three men had plunged into the East River, but just one had come up. The oakbellies, he had been told, had tried to make Lufty a captain, and he'd refused to show up for the ceremony. They'd tried to make him a battalion chief, and he'd hopped the first train to Troy.

So he had been told.

But Lufty knows the white rooms and white coats at Bellevue and the casualty ward.

"There's not no happy choice to make, Birchy," Lufty says to him in his office.

"It's just not gonna be so. That said, it's not about if you goes, I think, it's about if you're coming back."

"You think I won't?"

"I know you will. But it's not me what needs convincing."

Josiah sighs. His leg is tight, aching, and he ought to stretch it out. But he's afraid if he ventures out now, he'll run into Davey, breathless with some discovery. "What am I supposed to say to him, Luft?"

"To Silks or the boy?"

"Either one."

"I couldn't say. When I went into the river, I thought we'd all come out. We had a fire at our heels and the river below us, and the last thing I remember before spitting up black water on the cobbles was Matty taking my elbow and Tom saying it'd be alright."

He's never heard this story, not from Lufty's taut lips and clenched teeth, so he stills like a boy in church and lets the old memory - the smell of creosote, and the greasy river, the snapping pilings and the blinding smoke - shiver on the air and fall as motes of golden dust. The worst was not the plunge, was it, but the waking.

Alone.

It's going to hurt them both, but crueler for the boy.

After Lufty leaves him to his battered thoughts, he sits at his desk until the dusk unravels into night. The dinner mess bell clangs. The lads thunder about downstairs like wild horses, shouting, stampeding.

He ought to get up now, go to the kitchens, get a bite. Eddy is always after him to put something more than gristle and spite on his bones. He plants his hands on his desk, ready to make the effort to stand, when of a sudden Davey's there, in the door.

Josiah has a good look at him, now, under the humming electrics. Still too thin, for his widening shoulders. Hair in need of a trim or at least a comb. (He tries to do it like Bertram Cochrane, slicking the sides down, but the loose black curls are springing free by midday). A tear in the shoulder of his shirt fixed by clunky, deliberate stitches. A boy exuberantly ragged at the end of a long day.

"Capper. You weren't at mess."

Josiah pins a smile to the corner of his mouth like he means it. "Eddy send you up?"

"No sir."

"I'll be down soon."

The boy hesitates. "Capper? Are you angry?"

"No. Why would you say?"

"You been up here all day, Capper, that's all. Eddy said - well I think he said, maybe I just thought of something he did say, you know, the sear said he - well you know. Eddy's sear is so bright sometimes. I forget. Eddy said you used to get your hackles up and hide out in your quarters all day."

Josiah chuckles softly. "He's right. I did. I'm not angry, m'son."

"What's wrong, then?"

"Come sit." There is not gonna be no happy choice, said Lufty. And there won't be, but he'd be crueler not to tell the boy.

Davey comes round to his desk and pulls up a chair, as he does when they read and talk, about things Josiah knows - like radio manuals and floorplans and exit strategies - and things that Davey knows, like checkers and poems and music. "I told you 'bout my pal, Silky. You remember, his letters."

"Yes sir."

"He saved my life. Before I was a captain."

"I dream that sometimes. Like you know about the lake. And Liddy."

Josiah picks up a pen and twirls it over the blotter. His chest is tight, like breathing through a wet kerchief. "Davey, Silky's very sick. We got a telegram from his captain." He takes a deep breath, pushing through it, like crawling under thick smoke, palming every door. "He's in the hospital in the city."

Davey watches him through a child's lashes with eyes that pierce him like a brother. Josiah longs for a horse between them, the calming stroke of the soft brush on the soot-dappled back. He longs for the darkness between bunks, staring at the ceiling. In the low, fragile light, Josiah sees the dampness welling up in Davey's eyes. It is too hard to hide.

Davey knows already. He is biting his lip, as if he is already a young man. While he lay in a Bellevue bed, a needle in one arm, Silky had bent over the other, murmuring. Josiah, from his awkward seat with his bad leg locked in its brace, leans forward in one great surge and takes the boy in his arms and holds him tight. As close as his nightmares, as tight as his memories. "I will come back. I will, Davey, I promise you. I'll come back."

The child's stumbling sear is a raw mess of questions, frantic as birds beating their wings against a low-slung slate-clouded sky. He is crying. Good, Josiah thinks. Good that grief be open.

"You promise," Davey whispers at last, hoarse with a sob and muffled deep into his chest. "You got to promise, Capper."

"Promise. I promise, I promise. As sure as I can't run, m'son, I promise I will come home."

#decofire #decofiremen #found family

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