#the misery his action is supposed to cause is meant for an entire city but dande dosen't care much aboit all that

[heybiji]

Dande says, “I really wanted to get things right today. I wanted you to see that I could get it right.”

Clover asks, “Me?” and he says, “Yeah… yeah. I really… fucked you over. So I just… I wanna prove to you that I can do this."

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Desire

Well, I was going to write something totally different, but then this happened instead. My latest addition to @drawlight‘s advent calendar takes full advantage of the fact that I can’t write flirtatious dialogue to save my life.

(Note, I’ve now skipped 4 days. Not sure how I’m going to make them back up, but I do intend to try.)

19 - Wish (1,569 words)

“Do you ever wish for anything?” Aziraphale asked abruptly, just as he started in on his third order of crepes.

“Ah, how do you mean?” The question caught Crowley off-guard. Many things this evening had caught him off-guard. Finding Aziraphale locked up in the Bastille; the looks the angel had shot him, over and over, during his rescue attempt; and even now, the way Aziraphale’s habitual facade of innocence kept slipping, dropping just enough to reveal something not innocent in the least.

“Come now, Crowley. This is your primary employment. Temptations. Wishes.” He raised a bite of crepe to his lips and raised his eyebrows. “Desires.”

It suddenly occurred to Crowley – in a panic-induced firing of neurons – that Aziraphale might be attempting to flirt with him.

This was frightening in several ways.

First, it wasn’t how they did things. Their entire unspoken agreement – even deeper than the Arrangement – was that everything was treated in a strictly business way. Business mixed with pleasure, of course: a shared bottle of wine, a dinner of the latest luxury food, a trip to the theater where they could talk in private. But still, professional, distant, amicable at best.

Second, any changes in their attitudes towards each other was dangerous. Bound to be noticed. Bound to cause trouble. Exactly the kind of trouble Aziraphale was always warning him about.

Third, and most important, Aziraphale appeared to be very bad at flirting.

“I suppose,” Crowley started slowly, “I wish you would learn to be a little more careful and stop taking foolish risks.” He hoped the angel would catch his meaning.

“That’s not what I had in mind.” Aziraphale lowered the fork, and his other hand rose from his lap and came to rest on the table, barely an inch from Crowley’s. It wasn’t a very big table, but there was no chance that was a coincidence. “I mean, is there something that you…that you have longed for?”

“Like crepes. Not really, I don’t eat much.” He was babbling at this point. His fingers twitched away, but there wasn’t anywhere to move his hand, not without being obvious.

And, despite how unbelievably bad this situation was…he didn’t want to be obvious. Didn’t want Aziraphale to feel rejected. Didn’t want to pull away from the warmth of that hand.

“Apart from food, then.” Aziraphale finally took the bite, and just for a moment seemed to forget all about his dining companion as a look of sheer bliss ran across his face. Crowley’s stomach dropped away. Three orders of crepes and he still wasn’t prepared for that expression, for the unrestrained joy, for the sudden desire to reach out, to see if he could put that smile on Aziraphale’s face himself –

Oh, that bastard angel. He was doing it on purpose!

Crowley cleared his throat. “I don’t know. I wish I wasn’t in the middle of this Revolution. I wish Head Office would stop giving me credit for the absolute worst of humanity. I wish I could be sure they wouldn’t show up and check in on me at any moment.” How much more blatant could he be?

“I suppose,” Aziraphale smiled. “I suppose I also wish I could be assured a little privacy. I wonder sometimes, what I might do if there were no chance anyone would find out.” His finger stretched out, brushing against Crowley’s. The gesture was far too deliberate, and Aziraphale was looking straight at him. “What things might I wish to do then?”

Crowley couldn’t take it anymore. This was beyond embarrassing. This was a disaster to surpass anything he’d ever seen.

Worse, it was actually working. His hand burned to grab Aziraphale’s drag him into a corner, and find out just how stupid the two of them could be. The chances of anyone checking in on them in this city, in this creperie, at this exact moment were almost infinitesimally small. Crowley ready for it, Aziraphale had apparently forgotten every concept of caution, they were both intelligent beings of the world. Why shouldn’t they risk it?

Why shouldn’t they risk eternal torment at the hands of their respective sides for a few minutes of pleasure?

That was better than a bucket of cold water on Crowley’s brain. Aziraphale might believe his side was forgiving, that he was risking little more than a strongly-worded letter, but Crowley knew from first-hand experience how the Archangels treated their enemies. And he doubted an angel who consorted with a demon would be treated any better.

“Aziraphale,” he said, drawing his hands back, folding them in front of him. “What are you doing?”

“I…” He flushed, suddenly looking very uncertain. Very hurt. “I just meant… That is, I didn’t mean… I was just making conversation.”

“Do you think I don’t know a Temptation when I see one?” Aziraphale flinched at that, jerking his own hand back as if he’d been struck. “Especially one so… flagrant? It’s humiliating.”

“Oh. I. Oh.” He deflated, shrinking into himself, melting away before Crowley’s eyes. “I thought… I thought you wanted…”

“No, Aziraphale. This…this,” he waved his hand vaguely to indicate everything the angel had done and suggested, “isn’t what I want. It’s not my secret desire, not my wish, not some hidden fantasy I’ve had locked in my brain.” He knew he was laying it on too thick, but if there was a chance, even a chance someone had seen this… “I don’t know what you were hoping to get from me, or why you thought it would work, but it needs to stop. Now.”

Crowley had thought he knew every expression Aziraphale was capable of – from the bliss of trying a new food to the wretched misery of confessing he’d given away his sword. But nothing, nothing could have prepared him for the look of heartbreak he saw now.

“Well. I…” Oh, Satan, he wasn’t even trying to cover it up with a fake smile. “I should…”

Before Crowley could move, Aziraphale was on his feet, all but running out of the restaurant.

--

If there was one thing Aziraphale was good at, it was stopping himself from crying. He had centuries, millennia, an eternity of practice at keeping the tears at bay, no matter what he felt, no matter what tragedy he was forced to witness. After all, if it was all part of the Great, Ineffable Plan, why should he mourn a moment’s pain?

But this…this wasn’t part of the Plan. This was just his heart, torn out, tossed aside. But he didn’t need it. He didn’t need any of it. He was an –

“Angel!”

He walked faster.

“Ang – Aziraphale, stop!”

He would have run if he could, but it didn’t matter – he was no match for those long legs, and in a moment he felt Crowley’s hand on his arm.

“Leave me be.” He tried to shrug it off. “You’ve made your point.”

“I really don’t think I have,” Crowley growled, low and dangerous. He pulled Aziraphale back towards him, grabbing his lapels, shoving him back against the nearest wall, standing so close their noses nearly brushed. “You want to know what I wish for? What I want?”

“Crowley, stop, I was just –”

“Oh, I’ll tell you.” He leaned in even closer, until his hot breath burned against the shell of Aziraphale’s ear, as he hissed: “I want you.”

He couldn’t even respond, couldn’t make a sound around the lump in his throat.

“But I don’t want some bloody snog in a Paris alleyway. I want to spend eternity with you. My deepest desire is to hear your voice and your laugh every day. My fantasy is to wake up next to you, spend every minute at your side, and fall asleep to the sound of your heartbeat. And when I wish, I wish for us to stay safe, to keep going, until we can find a way to make that happen.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried to whisper, but his breath was harsh. There were tears running down his face. “That’s…you know that’s impossible…”

“I don’t care. I am not going to give up, not ever. I will not trade that for a few minutes of pleasure. And I won’t risk you. Not for anything. So don’t be stupid.”

He couldn’t trust himself to speak. He reached out, put his hands on Crowley’s waist, pulled him closer, so that just for a second, he felt the full weight of his adversary, his rescuer, his friend pressed against him.

Then he shoved the demon away with all his strength. “Oh, I think we understand each other now,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound cold and authoritative, as an angel should. “I think I understand exactly what it is you want.”

Crowley smiled, and if it was supposed to look cruel or wicked, Aziraphale saw right through that to the sadness it masked. “So you see, your wiles were never going to work on me. Best stick to what you’re good at, Angel.”

“You’ll regret saying that, I think.” Aziraphale wiped the tears from his face. “I look forward to our next encounter.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

They held each other’s gaze for another moment, then walked away in opposite directions.

Aziaphale already regretted his actions today, the things his foolish desire had led him to do. But he pushed the memory aside, making room for a new, glorious vision that Crowley had planted in his heart.

[missn11]

The Motives and Goals of Ming Xiao

One of the things I’ve had a hard time with when writing Ming Xiao is understanding her motives and goals for taking over LA.  Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines doesn’t do a great job of explaining Ming Xiao’s motives, in fact we hardly get to know her very well at all compared to some of the other main faction leaders such as Sebastian LaCroix or Nines Rodriguez, which is a shame, as without Ming Xiao’s role in the game things in the story wouldn’t be the same.  LaCroix is motivated to get the Ankaran sarcophagus in order to diablerize the supposed Ancient Kindred inside and thus finally gain the power to make LA truly his. Nines’ motive is to rid LA of the Camarilla, Sabbat and Kuei-jin, so the city can truly go back to being the Anarch Free State it was meant to be. Whilst Ming Xiao is shown to be a ruthless, powerful and untrustworthy woman, we still don’t get to perceive her motives and goals, as Troika either ran out of time and had to cut some things out or, more depressingly, didn’t think too much about it.  But perhaps the answers can found in the World of Darkness source books?

So, let’s ask some questions.

What is Ming Xiao’s Dharma?

Why did Ming Xiao bring her followers all the way from presumably China to Los Angeles?

Why did Ming Xiao revive the Tong, if her role is to serve the people of Chinatown?

Why did Ming Xiao agree to an alliance with Prince Sebastian LaCroix, her enemy?

Why did Ming Xiao end up breaking off her alliance with Prince Sebastian LaCroix and reveal the truth of who murdered Grout and the framing of Nines Rodriguez?

And Why did Ming Xiao betray the player character in the Kuei-jin ending?

 What is Ming Xiao’s Dharma?

While Ming Xiao’s Dharma is never stated on the Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines wiki, Ming Xiao’s Dharma is suspected to be the Song of Shadow, nicknamed Bone Flowers and, for a time, I thought so too. But that was before I got The Kindred of the East source book. Having read that book, I now disagree with the assessment that Ming Xiao is a Bone Flower, instead, I would argue that she fits more aptly The Way of the Resplendant Crane.

Disciples of the Way of the Resplendant Crane, in the long and short of it, know they died drenched in sin and see the world which they know as the Middle Kingdom suffering because of imperfection. They believe that if the world had better and more enlightened leaders, then it would be a better place. It’s often seen as a path of redemption. Those Kuei-jin brought back through the Second Breath recognize they were shameful in life and now seek to redeem themselves by helping save the Middle Kingdom from itself and preventing the Sixth Age, the coming of which they do not consider to be set in stone. By preventing the Sixth Age, the cycle could be brought back to the Age of Heaven.  As with most things in the World of Darkness, not every one of the Resplendant Cranes are on the same page and there are different views on how to save the Middle Kingdom.  For example, the Shining Ice Guardians, to quote directly from the source material, Kindred of the East:

Shining Ice Guardians recognize that the entire world cannot be saved. Things have gone too far out of balance; dead wood will have to be cut away. Most sages set their hopes on the redemption of the Golden Fields — of the Eastern lands and their peoples. The misery in the Orient has been caused by foreign invaders, from the Mongols to the Americans. These invaders carry disease like plague-dogs, and their sickness must be purged. If that requires a blood-cleansing, so be it. Heaven will deal with the dogs in its own way; the Kuei-jin have been sent back to make the Golden Fields pure again.

And the reason, I believe Ming Xiao is a Resplendant Crane, possibly of the Shining Ice Guardians’ path, is the fact that her goal is to kill or drive out the Kindred presence in Los Angeles. When the Malkavian Player mentions the Yama Kings and the coming of the Demon Emperor, Ming Xiao defiantly states that the Sixth Age has not yet come and quickly changes the subject.  The Sixth Age to some older Kuei-jin is inevitable and cannot be stopped or changed no matter what.  But as I have stated before, the Resplendant Cranes, do not believe that the Age of Sorrow is unavoidable and therefore it can be prevented.

The other reason I believe Ming Xiao to be a Resplendant Crane is based on her actions with regard to the Ankaran sarcophagus. Instead of opening it or using it for her own ends, Ming Xiao, in the Kuei-jin ending, personally oversees the sarcophagus being thrown into the Ocean, to sink deep-down to the bottom of the sea. Too bad she doesn’t realise that the sarcophagus wasn’t the real reason the city is awash with dread but rather the fact that Cain is driving around LA as a cabby! XD She also manages to get the key to the Ankaran sarcophagus immediately, to prevent some fool, i.e LaCroix for example, from opening it, possibly wreaking havoc and bringing about the Age of Sorrow.  

Of course, I could be wrong, and I do welcome anyone discussing with me why they might disagree with my assessment of Ming Xiao’s Dharma or pointing to any info the writers of VTMB might have said on the subject.

 Why did Ming Xiao bring her followers all the way from presumably China to Los Angeles?

Well, the reason Kuei-jin are even moving to the West to conquer Kindred territory is in the source material White Wolf provided. Long story short, it is to avenge the many humiliations Asia suffered through western colonialism, and it’s possible that many Kuei-jin, especially those of The Way of the Resplendant Crane blame the western Kindred for the ills of the world. Some might even think that the elimination of the Kindred and other western supernatural creatures is a way to prevent the Sixth Age or, as it’s better known in Kuei-jin culture, the Age of Sorrow.  Kindred might equate the of Age of Sorrow to Gehenna, however there are more Ages after the Sixth Age on the Wheel of Ages.

The Great Leap Outward, which is what this event is called, started on January 1st, 1998. However, not every Kuei-jin was on board and the project has faced much criticism, many saying that it’s a waste of resources and time and that it’s not the duty of the Kuei-jin to kill foreign supernatural creatures. The Sixth Age at the time of VTMB’s release was drawing near.  If you want to read more of the history of the Great Leap Outward, it can be found on the White Wolf Wiki or in the original VTM and Kuei-jin source books.

Now with that brief little history lesson out of the way, let’s answer the question of why Ming Xiao is here in Los Angeles. As I have said in the previous discussion with regard to Ming Xiao’s Dharma, I personally believe that like many Kuei-jin coming to America, her motive is to save the Middle Kingdom and prevent the Sixth Age, and taking over Los Angeles is her doing her bit towards that end.

Another thing we have to consider is that when Ming Xiao first arrived in LA in 2001 to take over the domain from the previous Ancestor, Monkey Trip Wu who had vanished, I very much doubt she was impressed with what the Anarchs had done with the city. At the time the crime rate was high so she probably saw the Anarch Free States as nothing more than childish gangland games and considered they were wasting the opportunity their new unlives had given them.  

 Why did Ming Xiao revive the Tong, if her role is to serve the people of Chinatown?

Well, we have an idea of the possible motivation Ming Xiao has and in theory it is a noble one.  She wants to save the world from doom and if she has to spill the blood of the western supernatural creatures to accomplish it, then fair enough.  But why fund the Tong, since their presence is causing harm to the people of Chinatown, her charges?  We have to remember Ming Xiao is also a ruthless woman and may have the belief that the ends justify the means, no matter how much damage is done to the people of Chinatown.  After all, once the Kindred are out of the city, she can make it all up by dismantling the Tong.  Remember Ming Xiao became an important figure to the community of Chinatown by funding and restoring the Temple of Golden Virtue and probably no doubt funded other local business that weren’t doing well in these modern Americacentric times.

Funding the Tong enables the Kuei-jin to have more men to help fight the Anarchs, brings more money to fund this war and possibly a constant supply of Chi through living mortal’s blood or breath provided through human trafficking.  And as the Second Breath is usually given to those who die violently or with much sin, it also creates more foot soldiers to build an army to fight the Anarchs. This might be a bit of a stretch, but I think this could be the reason Ming Xiao has funded the Tong,  she’s fighting a war with the Anarchs and she’ll do anything to win.  Possibly the reason Ming Xiao ends up having Wong Ho and his daughter killed is that he’s becoming a thorn in the Tong’s side.

 Why did Ming Xiao agree to an alliance with Prince Sebastian LaCroix, her enemy?

At the beginning of VTMB it’s been six years since the Kuei-jin first came into LA and the war between the Anarchs and the Kuei-jin has come to a standstill.  Despite dealing the Anarchs many heavy blows to the point that both the Camarilla and Sabbat were able to slip into LA and claim some territory, the Kuei-jin have also taken some damage and cannot afford to be careless. And despite the supposed death of Jeremy McNeil, Nines Rodriguez’s predecessor, leader of the LA Anarchs, the Anarchs remained strong and grew their ranks everyday due to Nines Rodriguez’s leadership.  So it would be prudent for Ming Xiao to rid of herself of this threat, but also, she needs the other Kindred factions off her back.

Thankfully, Ming Xiao just so happens to know a disgruntled Camarilla Prince that also wants Nines Rodriguez, the Anarchs and the Sabbat out of the way. We don’t know which one approached the other first, but Sebastian LaCroix must have heard of one of the Kuei-jin’s powers to be able to turn into anyone they want, which is the highest level of the Flesh Shintai discipline.

In exchange for keeping the Camarilla off the Kuei-jin’s back and the chance to get rid of Nines, Ming Xiao agrees to LaCroix’s plan to frame the Anarch leader for the murder of Alister Grout. Ming Xiao likely found out about LaCroix’s reason for wanting Grout dead through the many recordings in Grout’s mansion, despite the Malkavian Primogen not naming names. At some point there were plans to also rid LA of the ‘lesser’ factions- the Anarchs and the Sabbat but that plan probably got pushed to the wayside by LaCroix’s growing obsession with the Ankaran sarcophagus.

 And why did Ming Xiao end up breaking off her alliance with Prince Sebastian LaCroix and reveal the truth of who murdered Grout and the framing of Nines Rodriguez?  

By the time Ming Xiao reveals the truth to the player, she has suffered a number of setbacks; you’ve cut down the Tong’s leader and wreaked havoc on the whole organization, including the Fu Syndicate and have killed the Chang Brothers, her best agents. Plus, despite the blood hunt called on him, Nines is still at large and LaCroix has become completely obsessed with the Ankaran sarcophagus. Perhaps she fears or believes LaCroix will decide to turn on her and reveal who really murdered Grout. Everything for her is unravelling and by this point the player has proven to be an incredible ally worth having.

Ming Xiao reveals the truth to the player to make you turn against LaCroix and possibly encourage you to go and tell the Anarchs, which will lead to a war between the Anarchs and the Camarilla. However, then Ming Xiao goes and mentions that she has the key. I find her motivation for doing so on shaky ground, since it feels more like a ‘Come at me bro’ moment, which doesn’t seem the smartest thing for her to do. Or perhaps she knows that LaCroix cannot resist the opportunity to kill Nines rather than team up with him to kill the Kuei-jin together and since you’ve survived this long, surely you can handle whatever threat LaCroix will throw your way and then come crawling to her.

I can’t help but think that, like LaCroix’s later actions of a desperate man scrambling for any semblance of power, Ming Xiao’s actions at this point are of a woman losing control of the situation, thanks to the unexpected power of the player. Perhaps it was intended by the writers of VTMB for this to be the case and, unlike LaCroix, who’s barely keeping himself together, Ming Xiao is better at hiding her true emotions. The anger and rage Ming Xiao truly feels only spill out when you fight her in the other endings.

 And Why did Ming Xiao betray the player character in the Kuei-jin ending?

In the Kuei-jin ending the player has successfully defeated all of LaCroix’s men and The Sheriff, showing their unusually fast rate of power gain. After all, you’ve only been a vampire for two weeks at most, who knows how powerful you’ll be in a year or two. And Ming Xiao’s plans do not include you living amongst Kuei-jin, though there have been Kindred such as Salvador Garcia, a former ally of Jeremy McNeil who joined the Kuei-jin and didn’t get screwed over, though that was back in the old WOD canon and things might be different now.

However, to Ming Xiao, you are nothing but a threat that needs to be taken care of since she thinks that Nines Rodriguez is dead, as is LaCroix.  Little does she know that Nines is luckier than most… So, Ming Xiao straps the player to the Ankaran sarcophagus and dumps you and it in the ocean, perhaps believing she’s made the first step in preventing the Sixth Age.

 So, in conclusion, I believe that I’ve outlined what sort of motives and goals Ming Xiao has. She’s trying to help stop the Age of Sorrow through any means necessary, no matter the cost. Again, a noble goal, but one that does not include the rest of Kindred kind.

Thank you for reading my essay on Ming Xiao’s motives and goals and I hope you found it enlightening or at the very least interesting.  Any thoughts or criticism are very welcome.

[soyforramen]

Breakfast at Tiffany’s - Jeronica

If asked he’d have to say this wasn’t a relationship.  There was no love lost here.  No, this was more like a mutual parasitism so they didn’t have to feel so alone.   He supposed it was a relationship in the barest sense of the word.  They were connected, sure.  But it wasn’t as if either of them sought the other out, nor did they actively like one another.

Perhaps that was better in the end.  If he’d learned anything about real relationships it was that they never ended on a good note, if they ever ended at all.  This wasn’t the Ninth Circle of Hell his own parents had created with their cold war, an on-going fight as to who could  pretend their spouse didn’t exist the longest.  Nor was it the war torn field Veronica’s parents reveled in that more often than not ended in murder, verbal sparring, turf wards, and an explosive reconciliation.

No.  This was some sort of purgatory.  A holding place of sorts, for both of them.  It wasn’t a relationship; it never would be.  If he had to categorize it as anything it was just business as usual, like all their other encounters.

They had nothing in common.  He read classic literature and pulp fictions; she read off of the NY Measures Book List and biographies.   She listened to the latest drivel on the Top 40 lists; he stuck to the oldies.  And then there were their views on everything else in the world.

The only thing that did tie them together was her father’s crime syndicate.  Jughead’s father had worked for hers just as his father and his father before him.  And when he’d come of age, Jughead worked for Veronica.  It was how things had always worked with the Jones and the Lodges.

Somehow they’d taken their working relationship this far though.

“Why are we doing this?” he asked one early Sunday morning when she had other obligations and he wasn’t supposed to be in her bed.

She hummed a questioning noise, not even bothering to look over at him from her seat at the vanity.

“Why shouldn’t we?”

He stared at the white tin ceiling he knew cost more than what most people made in a year, his eyes tracing well worn patterns.  Any answer he could give her - he worked for her, she hated his taste in just about everything, they didn’t even like each other most of the time - none of those reasons felt right.  

They were free to do as they pleased.  As long as they were discreet, they were two consenting adults with no ties to be broken on either side.

“We have nothing in common.”

Veronica titled her head and looked right through him as she plastered on a thick layer of makeup.  

“Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” she said after a few moments.  “The movie.  We both liked it.”

He sat up on his elbows to look at her.  She cut a striking figure outlined against the large bay window, her ever present pearls gleaming in the early morning light.  If it had been anyone else, her remembrance would have been tender.  Touching, even.  That she had remembered a movie they’d watched when they were young, a moment so small and insignificant.

But this was Veronica Lodge, the self-proclaimed queen of ice, and he knew it was nothing more than a memory.  Because it wasn’t for him.  Her actions, her presence, her memories were always for someone else.

Jughead lay back down and shut his eyes to grab another ten minutes of sleep before he be kicked out of the apartment and back into the real world.

Years later, he finds himself head first in a toilet, the remnants of everything he’d wanted out of life flushed to live with the alligators and rats.  The same place all his dreams ended up.  After all, he hadn’t done much with his life before.

He’d tried to go straight for her, and it all came crashing down.  Jughead had left it all behind for the green eyed, blonde beauty that had captured his heart at the bar.  He’d left behind his family, left behind the only people who gave a rat’s ass about him, and for what?

For a blonde that in a Hitchcockian twist had turned out to be an FBI plant.

All he wanted to do was spend his life with her, to be better for her, to lay his sins at her feet and beg for forgiveness and she’d repaid him with heartbreak.  

They’d moved in together.  He’d bought a ring with legitimate money.  And then her cover was blown.  The world knew who she was and, more dangerously, so did Hiram Lodge.

All she’d left behind was an empty apartment and a two word note.

Jughead had no choice but to come back to the Wyrm, his tail tucked between his legs.  He knew it was suicide to go back.  He didn’t think he cared.

The bar was silent when he’d walked in.  He’d offered no apologies and no one asked him for one.  Veronica stepped out of her office and with one gesture, Jughead would be dead.  She appraised him, a long searching look.  It wasn’t until she gave a nod of approval that he was accepted back into the fold.

The same people he’d turned his back on now welcomed him home with open arms and open bottles.  They had questions, but those were saved for another time.  Now they only wanted to celebrate the return of the prodigal son.

Jughead didn’t remember much of last night outside of snippets of conversations and flashes of people.  They meant nothing without context.  He didn’t want context.

He did remember this black and white bathroom and Veronica’s instructions to finish the entire mug of coffee that sat steaming on the counter.  While she didn’t usually dirty her hands - that was left for Sweet Pea and Fangs  - it occurred to Jughead that she might be planning on killing himself for the traitorous year and a half he’d stolen for himself.

Jughead reached for the mug and gagged down the strange taste that mixed with the bitter brew, poisoned or not.

Death would be a fitting end to a heartbreak like this.

It felt like hours later before Veronica came to check on him, still dressed in her nightgown.  Her face was clean of makeup, a strangely vulnerable sight.  

His head lolled to one side to get a better look at her.  The movement caused him to gag and he was clinging to the porcelain once more.  

“I’d ask what happened, but Adams already gave me a copy of your file,” Veronica said without any pity or concern.

Jughead groaned and flushed the toilet.  

Of course Veronica had already gotten the file that detailed every move, every action, every word of his ill-begotten relationship.  Betty was overly-meticulous and the Lodge information network ran deep.  Which meant Veronica and her father knew, beat for beat, every embarrassing moment of his life over the past year from the first caress to the last kiss.

Veronica let him stew in the misery of his own making a few moments longer.

“Breakfast at Tiffany’s is on.  I’ll have Smithers make you some toast.”

Her perfume lingered, an expensive, musky scent.  One more reminder that even when she wasn’t with him, Veronica Lodge held large parts of his life between her manicured fingers.

Jughead retched up the last of the coffee and dragged himself into the tub.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at home with dear hubby?” he greeted as his breath fogs up the air around him.  It dissipated just as quickly and he reached into his pocket for another stick of gum he knows won’t do anything to curb his need for a smoke.

Veronica leaned up against the wall next to him and pulled her furs tighter against the wet chill. The light of the Wyte Wyrm’s sign cast a strange halo around her, the neon glow an aposematic signal that should warn away any potential suitors.  Instead it only drew their attention towards her and Jughead scowled at anyone who tried to move closer.

“If I was I’d have to make a statement to the police tonight and you know how I hate doing paperwork during the holidays,” she said blithely.

He chuckled, half amused, half indifferent.  Leave it to the Lodge’s to ring in the New Year with one more corpse to add to the mountain they’ve staked their fortune on.  

“Pity.  His overbearing love of football and beer was starting to grow on me,” he deadpanned.  Fuck it, he thought as he pulled a clove cigarette out of his pocket and lit it in honor of Veronica’s latest husband.  Edgy, or Chevy.  Whoever he was Jughead didn’t care enough to learn his name.  “Is this one going to be a speed bump or a curb?”

Veronica let out a noise too delicate to be a snicker.  His shoulders relaxed despite the press of people around them.  She hasn’t laughed like that since that ring was put around her finger.

“I left that up to Malachi’s imagination.  A late Christmas present of sorts from the ghost of Christmas Future.”

“Hate to see your version of Marley’s ghost,” he muttered.

The late night crowd, rowdy and drunk, swarmed past them on the busy city streets.  This close to midnight people were making their way towards the square to see the ball drop and he crowded closer to Veronica.  It’s his job, after all, to keep anyone from getting this close.

“The Bijou’s playing Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” she said casually.  She reached for his cigarette and obligingly he handed it over.

“It wasn’t on the marquee this afternoon.”

The movie is a peace offering, he knew, but it didn't lessen the sting of knowing that she thought it was this easy to worm her way back into his life.   What’s worse is knowing she’s right.  This tenuous relationship they’d built over their years together was flimsy and insubstantial and odd.  And yet it was still theirs.

He stubbed out his cigarette on the brick behind him.

“If I recall, we both kind of liked it.”

It’s a small olive branch, but it’s enough.  

Veronica blended into the crowd with the ease of a native of the city, slipping through the people even as she moves up the current.  Jughead shoved his way in, following a few feet behind, her shadow always.

[amplesalty]

Halloween 2021 - Day 2 - 28 Weeks Later (2007)

More like 49 weeks later!

...get it? Because it’s been 49 weeks since I saw the first one? No? Fine...

Science fiction and horror films are frequently interpreted as allegories of specific realities, their fantastic and supernatural elements seen as symptoms of social and political malaise. The paranoia generated by loved ones taken over by a co-opting entity or ideo…wait a minute, this sounds familiar.

I wasn’t in any great rush to see the sequel after watching 28 Days Later last year but after seeing the Monster Madness video and all the hubbub surrounding it, it kinda put me in the mood. Released some five years after the original, Danny Boyle handed off directing duties to Juan Carlos Fresnadillo which seems like a relatively obscure choice, he doesn’t really have many credits to his name either before or since this movie. But apparently Boyle really liked his 2001 movie Intacto so he was brought on board.

As the name might suggest, the movie takes place 28 weeks after the initial outbreak of the rage virus. In that time the infected have all starved to death and an American lead NATO operation have swept in in order to try and restore some form of order. Is it weird that I kind of want to see that movie without any of the horror themes or dramatic twists attached? You’ve got this entire country that’s had it’s population wiped out barring the odd survivor who’ve managed to board themselves up for months on end, I just think that’d be kinda cool to see a movie or a series exploring the process of getting everything up and running again. You have to re-establish all the infrastructure, install a new government, bring back some kind of population. And how would you do that? Do you entice all the ex-pats to go back? Get some of your own people to move over? Would everyone chip in and send some small fraction of their own population for like 5-10 years in order to get things going again? It’s kinda like that initial part of Endgame that was just dealing with the aftermath of the snap, you’ve kinda abruptly shifted tone and genre to go into this look at how everyone coped with having 50% of the worlds population vanished in an instance. That kinda threw me at the time as I was expecting it to jump straight into the action again but I was into that insight into how the world moved on and how people coped, it was interesting to see Steve Rogers away from being the ass kicking machine and running some form of support group.

There is a prologue before we truly kick into the 28 weeks later portion of the film where we find Robert Carlyle and a bunch of other survivors shacked up in a nice old couple’s cottage until a little boy comes along looking for shelter. Unfortunately he brought a bunch of the infected with him who promptly burst through the windows and slaughter nearly everyone inside. Carlyle manages to make his escape but absolutely ditches his wife along the way when she gets cornered. Dude, that’s cold.

Only, you don’t actually see her get attacked so it’s fairly obvious that something’s up. They did something similar in Zombieland 2 where Columbus’ girlfriend is seemingly infected and Columbus is meant to put her out of her misery but you never see it happen so I figured she’d come back again.

So she ends up being this sort of shadow hanging over the film, you’re just waiting for her to show up again so it kinda feels like things aren’t truly going to get going until she re-emerges. It’s not as if it’s just left at her ‘death’ scene and she’s going to pop up out of the blue later, the movie makes sure you aren’t forgetting about her with Carlyle telling his kids who have been flown back from Spain about her demise. Plus she pops up in little flashbacks or nightmares.

Carlyle is a little sneaky here too as, the way he tells the story, he tried to save her but couldn’t do anything. Not how I remember it, mate. Maybe it’s his own coping mechanism, some form of denial in his own head or a way to soften the blow for his kids but the lie only further serves to detract from any sympathy we might feel for him. He’s not a bad guy or anything but it’s a neat little quirk to have this level of flaw in one of your protagonists.

Not that he lasts too long in that role however, when she eventually does re-emerge and the two re-unite, we learn that she has some level of immunity from the rage virus and seems to have something of a ‘half-zombie’. When the two kiss, the rage spreads to him and he promptly freaks the fuck out and batters her half to death before gouging her eyes out. Jesus Christ! Pretty brutal stuff.

I think brutal is the word of the day here between that scene and a later one in which a bunch of survivors are shuttled into and locked in an indoor car park by the military as part of lockdown procedures. Only, infected Carlyle breaks in and promptly starts laying waste to everyone. There’s a very creepy vibe with lots of slow mo, zoomed in shots of bloodied infected, set to a soundtrack of people screaming as they trample over one another in the panic.

It’s not much better when they get outside though since the military have snipers stationed on several of the nearby buildings and, after trying to pick off the infected, are soon told to open fire on everyone and just start indiscriminately killing everyone in an effort to stop the spread of the infection. Amongst their number is Doyle, played by Jeremy Renner. Clearly a good choice for a sniper, I guess he always was a hawkeye.

Only, his conscious gets the better of him and he promptly abandons his post and helps a ragtag group of survivors to try and get out of the city. Not exactly being led by men with sober minds and sympathetic hearts when they ask you to turn your crosshairs on the innocent. Who he is being led by is Idris Elba who seems to be putting some of the Stringer Bell type American accent training to good use. Or, at least he would be if he had anything of note to say in this film. At most he just seems to spend his time looking stern and giving out orders of escalating panic stations. Bit of a shame really as his name did stand out amongst the credits.  I suppose this is still relatively early in his career so he’s not quite at the level of landing those meaty roles just yet. Some might argue he’s not even peaked yet, not until next year at least when he is set to reach the pinnacle of his career in the Sonic sequel as Knuckles.

Doyle and his band of survivors include Carlyle’s kids who one of the American medical team suggest might share some form of immunity like their movie and could be the key to some sort of vaccine or cure. But, they all have to work quickly to try and escape because Doyle learns from one of his buddies that the army is due to firebomb the city in order to exterimate the virus again.

Bloody hell, do you think Boris has this as the nuclear option in his Winter plan for Covid this year?

It’s these type of scenes that really underline the direction this movie takes, shedding the more human story in favour of a more action packed affair. Which, for what it’s trying to do, I think it works.

Mainly because I do appreciate the mad lads doing a scene in which a helicopter is weaponized by tilting forward in order to use its rotor blades to mulch the hordes. That was clearly always the best way to try and kill someone in GTA Online. Nice to see someone embrace the use of rotor blade decapitation in cinema after John Landis nearly ruined it forever.

Ending is a little bit of a mixed bag though. Whilst on the surface we do get the kids making it to safety, we do have the added stinger of them seemingly causing the virus to spread to France and presumably leading to the total destruction of the nation. So, whilst it does render the preceding 90 minutes kind of pointless, we did manage to stick it to the French even after we’d already been wiped out ourselves and took them down with us so swings and roundabounts...

We’re some 14 years on from the release of this movie and there’s still no sign of the next sequel. Maybe they’re just really taking their time to make sure they’re only working with the best possible ideas. I mean, they’ve kind of written themselves into a corner with the naming scheme they have going on, there’s only so many of these you can realistically do. You’ve got 28 Months Later and then 28 Years Later. Are you going to do 28 Centures Later after that? The rage virus springs up on some Earthy colony on the planet Neptune?

[ainoitamii]

                                                  between you and me.

     I sent you one last text, my final goodbye. I watched from atop the building you lived as you pulled your phone from your pocket. Sliding your screen to life, only to meet my words. I would expect you to just shove it away into your bag, the way I assumed you did with the rest, but this is where I was fucked. You looked up, dead in the eyes.

  I couldn't comprehend your expression, your eyes that were in fear of my life, those honey eyes that were filled with the love that you left behind the moment you left me. Memories flooded my sight, moments I could never have again with you. My body numb, loaded with an assortment of pills that ensured my demise in case the drop that would seal my fate failed. But, despite this-- my heart pounded, all I could see was you. The way strands of onyx swayed in the breeze. Spring was your favorite season so I chose fall, how cliché, a man dropping to his death during such a season. Fuck it. My knees trembled, I was losing control of body function, just how I planned. Yet right now, this very moment as your crimson painted lips parted and cried out my name, all I could feel was regret. The woman I worshipped more than the earth needed the rays of the sun, the woman who destroyed my entire being and reality-- was about to witness the end of my life.

  In sync regardless of the time we spent apart, our eyes both welled with tears. I knew this because she wiped helplessly at her face, still crying my name. Mine, trailed down my wind abused cheeks. Yet again, another surprise of her actions, she ran towards to entrance of the building to which I stood, but it was too late. Time seemed to become endless as I began my desent, fear and exhilaration sent chemicals firing off in my head. I guess this is what seeing your life flash before your eyes was like. Maybe my next life won't be like this, maybe next time I can be everything she wanted me to be.

                                           Enough for her to stay.

  I didn't understand the moments after I made impact. I was sure I would land on the concrete but since I didn’t jump, my shell of misery managed to be impaled by the gate that surrounded the border of the structure. I forgot about this damned fence, the countless times I would scale it, barely escaping this exact scenario. My body hung at an angle, one of the thin poles entered where my appendix would be, exiting somewhere from my back I didn’t care to note in my drugged and pain induced stupor. All I cared was that I could still see her, those eyes. Tears streaming down bloody cheeks as she held my own. Sobbing would be the better term, forming my name the best she could. Telling me how much of a fool I was, that we were both fools. I didn’t get it. After all this time, things ended like this. Her arms embraced my neck the best she could, trying her hardest not to cause me any more pain. I fumbled for words, trying to calm her so that she could breathe. She was bad at keeping her inhaler on her and the last thing I would ever want is this life was to be the reason she took her last breath.

  "It was all a lie, this. This was supposed to save you and you just had to be a fool in love." She laughed through her tears, a symphony to my starved ears. "My family threatened your life, this was supposed to save you.." She held my face so she could look directly into my eyes, searching for what was left of me, hesitating before speaking again. "I'm following you, I'm ending this. Why are we both so stupid?" One hand left my blood stained cheek, reaching into her bag as she pressed her lips to my own., sparking my every nerve ending in an euphoria I haven't felt in a millennia. Slightly, she pulled away, looking at me again with guilt in her eyes as she exposed the small hand gun, that, who the fuck knows where she got it from.

   This, I understood. That guilt meant that gun was for her. And knowing her, she had every intention to do what she was implying. I should have known better, but as they say-- love makes you blind. The daughter of a well-known and established family in the social rankings of this cesspool of a city, and some punk kid who had a paid scholarship to the private school she attended.  The cocking of her gun was barely audible as she smiled one last time at me, my vision of her radiance finally fading. I couldn't tell if it was the drugs or from bleeding out but, "See you soon babe." and the pop of her gun were the last things I heard before finally meeting the darkness I had so long craved,

                                              without her.

[feynites]

Some Fen’Sulahn AU sibling bonding for @justanartsysideblog!

Mythal wants them each to have their own territories.

Their own followers.

Dirthamen is not surprised when Falon’Din detests the idea. They are not meant to be separated like that, he insists. They should rule together, should decide things with one another. He does not say as much, but he dislikes the idea that they will live in regions separate of one another. Rule them and be obliged to stay in them, and to spend their days with people who are not Falon’Din.

Of course, they already do this, to varying extents. War has been persistent in their empire, and the territories that they have claimed have not come easily. There are few generals whom Mythal trusts as well as her own children, and many of those equally or even better accomplished at the art of war have fallen to their enemies.

Or… to Mythal, it would seem.

Dirthamen attends the funeral of General Suladahl, along with his siblings. The former Keeper had been among the first to ally their clan with Mythal and Elgar’nan, and to denounce the systems of the clans itself. She had taken up a post as tactician and warleader, had been, so far as he could tell, irrefutably dedicated to their cause, and believed fully that uniting the People and guiding them into a new era of prosperity was not only valorous, but necessary.

She had been his mother’s friend.

Mythal had, so far as the rest of the empire knows, killed the assassins which crept into her dear friend’s bedchambers. She is red-eyed as she oversees the proceedings herself. Her grief seems genuine. Her words of esteem, heartfelt.

But his mother had come to him, afterwards. Her secret keeper. There are some secrets she does not even share with him, but this one, she had. In soft, low words, she had told him. I killed Suladahl. The assassins’ bodies were those of slaves that I took from the camps. She… she was expressing concern, over some of our plans. Foolish concerns, but she would not be dissuaded from them. She threatened your brother and sister.

Dirthamen cannot imagine General Suladahl threatening his siblings.

But, he has never been good with people. And she had possessed many secrets – nearly as many as his mother, and unlike her, she had not been inclined to share them with him.

Next to him, his sister is as red-eyed as their mother. She had liked Suladahl. They had served together on many battlefields, had saved one another’s lives on more than one occasion. Dirthamen does not know if they had been lovers, but they had certainly been friends. Falon’Din had never liked it. He never liked anyone of rank or sway becoming too close to them. He always thought that such people were attempting to come between the three of them.

Perhaps he is not wrong. Perhaps Suladahl had been. It would further explain his mother’s actions. But…

He does not feel well, all throughout the funeral.

Olwyn keeps her composure well enough through the ceremony, but when she is brought forward to plant the seeds that will mark her friend’s grave, her hands tremble, and her misery and grief become too abundant to disguise. Mother whispers to her, her face gentle, and excuses them all from the rituals that follow. They are not needed for them. Falon’Din puts his cloak over Olwyn, to help disguise her upset, and sighs at her.

“You are too sensitive,” he says.

Olwyn gives him a sharp look.

“I do not think you would be so blithe if one of your friends was being buried today,” she counters.

Falon’Din makes a face.

“If it were one of mine, I would not be weeping about it,” he insists. “Grief does not resurrect the dead. We should go and teach our enemies a lesson. Remind them, that for every one of us they take, we will cut down a hundred of them. If not more.”

“The assassins are already dead. Mother killed them,” Olwyn points out. “There is nothing left to do but grieve. So I will.”

Falon’Din sighs again, but he does not argue with her any further. Dirthamen is glad. It is unbecoming to criticize their sister’s feelings – grief must be expressed, so that it does not fester. Tears are not a problem. Unwise actions may be, however. In this, he is on Olwyn’s side, and he would not like for the three of them to fight, now. Falon’Din has been tense enough with the prospect of the division of territories, and arguments between the three of them are exhausting.

They withdraw to Dirthamen’s chambers. Olwyn is only just back from a campaign, and her own are cold and have not been redecorated in the months since she left. And Falon’Din has become increasingly insistent that he does not want his siblings entering his rooms, of late. So they go to Dirthamen’s, which are serviceable, and Olwyn settles onto his couch, and Falon’Din scoffs and huffs but also goes and retrieves some warm tea to help calm her nerves.

Dirthamen sits down beside her.

She lets out a breath, and then leans against his shoulder.

“How did assassins even make it so far into the city?” she wonders. “We have countless wards against such things. I helped make the protections on that room myself. I must have overlooked something…”

Her breaths tremble.

Dirthamen’s secret knowledge scrapes at him. If he tells her, then she will know it was not her fault. But if he tells her, then she will know her friend died by their mother’s hand. He could explain – he could offer Mother’s explanation – but sometimes, even when Dirthamen tries to explain things, his sister still gets angry. Still becomes hurt.

He is clumsy at such things. And their mother bade him to not tell anyone, and especially not tell Olwyn.

You will be tempted to, I know, because you will want her to know the truth. But it would hurt her far worse to think that her friend was conspiring against her, than to simply think that tragedy befell her. Let her mourn someone she loved without the knife of betrayal stinging in her back, as well.

Dirthamen does not want to hurt his sister.

And in the end, it is easier not to speak, than to try and find the words to explain.

“It was not your fault,” he says, instead. Because that is true, and she should know it, at least.

“But if it could happen again… what if they had been even quicker? What if they had killed Mother, too?”

Suladahl and Mythal were of similar prowess on the battlefield. Dirthamen supposes the concept seems reasonable, without all of the available information. The protections on the room were not at fault, however. Olwyn has come to an erroneous – if reasonable – conclusion, but Dirthamen does not know how to correct it.

Falon’Din hands her tea to her, and then folds his arms.

“The room was fine,” he says.

“Impossible,” Olwyn counters. “If it was fine, how did assassins get in?”

Their brother shrugs.

“Traitors,” he asserts. “We have plenty. Mother is too soft-hearted, and forgives too many transgressions. Someone from our side plotted this.”

“Who would ever?” Olwyn argues. “Our soldiers are loyal.”

“My soldiers are not even all loyal, and I have chosen them especially to be loyal,” Falon’Din counters. “But if you want to be stubborn about it, then let us go and check the room ourselves. No one has touched it since the assassins were carted off. That should tell you enough – Mother has probably figured out the same thing that I have. Otherwise, would she not investigate herself?”

Olwyn hesitates.

Dirthamen hesitates, too. Their mother bid him keep her secrets, but she did not say anything about preventing his siblings from seeking out the matter of their own accord.

“Mother was grief stricken, she may not have thought to…” Olwyn ventures, but she does not seem entirely convinced, now. Her brow furrows. She taps one finger against the side of her tea. But after a moment, rather than taking a drink, she sets it down on the small table next to Dirthamen’s couch.

“Alright,” she decides. “Let us go and have a look.”

The three of them venture back out of Dirthamen’s rooms again, and begin to make their way down the corridors of the palace, to where Suladahl’s chambers are. This palace was built along with many of the major structures of the city. Though lately, their parents have been talking of tearing it down, to put something better in its place. A grand conference hall has been suggested. If things go as their mother wishes, she intends for each of them to have their own manors within the city. For housing themselves and their most trusted followers, and of course, one another, when desired.

Dirthamen does not know what he would do with a manor in the city. He supposes his lieutenants can decide most of the matter of what it will be like, and be content with that. He cannot imagine coming to Arlathan for reasons other than to visit with his family; and if he is visiting, then he would he not stay with them?

Falon’Din likes the idea of a palace of his own. Olwyn has not said much about it, except to venture that she does not think rebuilding an already-functional city should be a priority. They have territories to see to as well, after all, and while Arlathan is the jewel of their empire, it cannot possibly house everyone within it. Uncommonly, she had seemed to sway their mother’s opinion on the matter.

At least, for now.

The corridors they trek through are quiet. Suladahl’s rooms were not the only ones in their wing, but the other three influential elves being housed there had requested to be temporarily relocated, in light of the situation. Dirthamen knows that they have been, and where they have gone, and that the area should be empty. The doors into the various quarters are arranged in a circle, with a small, decorative fountain and several benches arrayed around the round courtyard that lets in to them.

Standing next to the fountain is a notably beautiful elf. Dark of hair and elegant of features, dressed in a plain, white gown, with an obsidian necklace hanging in droplets from their throat. Their lips and eyelids are painted white. Discreet, but still in keeping with the trends of the city.

“Melarue,” Olwyn notes, in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Melarue looks somewhat surprised by their own presence, though Dirthamen is not certain it is sincere. It would be hard to say. The elf is graceful enough in their comportment that he has never seen them express themselves inappropriately. Nor, perhaps, without calculation. After a moment, they incline their head.

“I live here,” they assert, gesturing to one of the doorways. “I had thought to come back and collect some of my things. I do not know how long the investigation into poor Suladahl’s death will take.”

Falon’Din frowns, but Olwyn’s expression twists in sorrow.

“Suladahl always spoke highly of you,” she says.

Melarue inclines their head again, in gracious acknowledgement of the sentiment. Their hair falls freely, like a curtain across their face.

“She saw the best in people,” they say. “Would that the world had accommodated her idealism. She might be with us still.”

Olwyn swallows, heavily. She seems to run out of words, then, and so it is that Falon’Din takes command of the conversation.

“We are here on official business,” he states. “Investigating the area. Most everyone is still at the funeral. One can only imagine why you chose not to remain throughout the ceremony.”

Melarue bows outright, at that.

“I have never been one for funerals,” they reply. “Some find them cathartic. I prefer to mourn in solitude, myself.”

“And of course, you must mourn poor Suladahl so,” Falon’Din scoffs. “Delicate of you not to mention the fact that the two of you were always arguing. I doubt you have shed any tears; but I do not blame you. The woman was insufferable.”

Olwyn makes a sound of protests, and their brother leaves it there.

Melarue’s gaze snaps to his for a moment. Sharper than Dirthamen can recollect seeing it before, but then, they were Cunning, once. And they are obviously more than they seem, even if, like many others, they have never entrusted him with their secrets.

“We may have argued, but I always respected her,” they say.

“Ah. A worthy opponent,” Falon’Din surmises. “But an opponent, even so.”

“Forgive me,” Melarue says. “But if you have business, I would leave you to it. I have matters to see to as well, and I would prefer not to discuss this any longer. Trading barbs is unbecoming, on a day meant to mourn the loss of someone with rare integrity.”

“Of course, I am so sorry…” Olwyn ventures. Melarue only nods, and bows again, and then makes their way through the door they had indicated earlier.

The three of them watch as it clicks shut.

“Suspicious,” Falon’Din decides.

Olwyn rounds on him.

“That was uncalled for!” she snaps. “I know you did not like Suladahl, but I would have thought you better than to speak ill of the dead. You, who has been charged with overseeing so many of their rites!”

Falon’Din folds his arms, and straightens. Annoyed at her scolding.

“I was attempting to get them to implicate themselves more,” he snaps back. “We are looking for a traitor. Melarue lived near to Suladahl, and quarrelled with her, and you know Mother has never trusted them completely. That is why she does not let them leave the city. Melarue could have arranged for Suladahl’s death. Or even for Mother’s. Would you have me ignore the obvious? They probably came back to make certain that the assassins did not leave anything incriminating behind.”

Olwyn’s expression wavers, for just a moment. She glances at the door which Melarue left by. And is still standing behind, according to the whispers from the Dreaming. They are not loud whispers, but Dirthamen is more capable than most of hearing them, and dreams have a way of rustling around elves of a certain quality.

Like Melarue.

Who did not kill Suladahl. Which he well knows.

“That is a harsh allegation,” Olwyn warns their brother.

“Murder does not inspire soft ones,” Falon’Din counters.

“Melarue did not kill Suladahl. Nor arrange her death,” Dirthamen says.

The other two turn to look at him.

“How do you know?” Falon’Din asks, first. Olwyn is relieved enough that, for a moment, he can feel it through their bond and proximity.

Dirthamen cannot give the true answer.

“Mother does not trust them completely,” he says, instead. “They would not be able to manipulate the eluvians, nor the wards upon the palace, without raising alarms. They are innocent.”

Falon’Din snorts at that.

“Not hardly,” he asserts.

“Dirthamen is right,” Olwyn says, rounding on him and folding her own arms in turn. The two look very stubborn, when they do this. Dirthamen wishes that they would not engage in so many confrontations, but, they always have. “If your idea is correct, then it would take someone within Mother or Father’s own circles betraying us for this to come about.”

Falon’Din makes a face, but lets the issue of Melarue go.

“I hope it was General Elase,” he says, instead. “They are always making so much fuss about the work camps.”

“That is a terrible thing to wish for,” Olwyn snaps. “And they make good points, you just do not listen to them well enough. Just because Father-”

“Oh do not start on that again-”

“It is not Elase’s fault that he embarrassed you!”

“He did not embarrass me, he tried to embarrass me, and what’s more-“

Dirthamen settles onto one of the benches, and watches his siblings quarrel. It takes a little more than half an hour for them to get through this particular argument. He focuses on attempting to track the minute progression of shadows cast through the windows, and compare it to the echoes of the space in the Dreaming. He cannot see any trace of what happened to Suladahl, however. The spirits of the area have all been broken. Their fragments removed, and the chamber left quiet.

Mother did that, too, probably.

Eventually, the argument stops, and Falon’Din opens the door to Suladahl’s rooms. Olwyn comes over and takes Dirthamen by the hand, and pulls him into the chamber with her, but stops at the threshold.

Her gaze roves around the room.

“…Oh,” she says.

“What is it?” Dirthamen wonders.

“I did not realize,” she admits. “It is… it is her room. I had lunch with her here, several months ago now. It was the last time we spoke. Right there, at that little table. We had cold summer squash soup, and she told me she was thinking of learning a new instrument. She already played at least a dozen…”

Grief wells up. Though the Dreaming has been wiped clean, it would seem that the space itself still carries too many impressions. Memories. This is an older part of the palace. The courtyard outside had once housed a shrine, he recalls, before the expansion of the city had overtaken it, and converted the temple grounds in the palace ones.

He puts an arm around Olwyn.

“We can leave,” he suggests.

She shakes her head, however. Still looking towards the table. Falon’Din has already left, though. Moving to check the wards instead.

“No,” Olwyn says. “I need to know what happened to her.”

“It was not your fault,” Dirthamen says again, and attempts to instil as much certainty as he can into the words.

Olwyn pauses.

Falon’Din does as well. One of his hands is against the wall. The wards glow beneath it, showing themselves; but before he can finish his assessment, he lets go again, and turns to look at him. Olwyn’s eyes dart across his face, and Dirthamen resists the urge to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“You know what happened,” she says.

He swallows.

“It is a secret,” he says.

Olwyn pushes away from him, as her expression twists with misery. Falon’Din only raises an eyebrow.

“Tell us,” he demands.

“I cannot,” Dirthamen replies.

Falon’Din gestures sharply towards him, as if he has in fact give him all the information he needs.

“There! You see? There is only one person who could compel him to keep a secret from us, and that is Mother. It was an insider. She is probably routing them out even as we speak, and did not want any of us tipping them off. And he knows who it is, which is how he knows it was not Melarue, too.”

Dirthamen loses the battle with himself, and shifts uncomfortably, then. He has given too much away, but Falon’Din’s presumptions have saved most of their mother’s secret, for now. The most important part, at least.

Olwyn looks at him intently.

“You know who it is?” she guesses.

He cannot deny it, but to admit it might be too close to giving up the secret. His sister is good at reading him, however, and draws her own conclusion from his silence.

“You do,” she says, moving closer. One of her hands grips his arm. “Tell me who it was!”

“I cannot,” he replies.

Falon’Din rolls his eyes.

“Please,” Olwyn presses.

“It is no use,” their brother reminds her.

“That is easy for you to say! It is not your friend who is dead!” she snaps back at him, turning to face him. There are tears in her eyes. “If it was Athimel, you would probably already be trying to hit Dirthamen, to get him to tell you!”

Falon’Din grimaces.

“So what? You want to hit him?” he says. “Go on and hit him, then. Perhaps you will have more luck than I do at getting him to betray Mother. The novelty might make your fists sting more, hm? But then do not dare tell me off the next time I do it.”

Olwyn lets go of him so quickly that it is as if his sleeve has burned her.

“No!” she exclaims. The denial rushing out of her, hot and hurried and wet with her tears. A few slip down her cheeks. Dirthamen regrets them. He wishes he could have seen how to handle things, so that she would not be crying in anger and frustration as well as grief, now.

“…No,” Olwyn repeats, swallowing. Her shoulders slump.

Defeated.

“If… if Mother wants it kept secret, for now… then, there must be a reason for it.”

“There is,” Dirthamen confirms.

Falon’Din nods.

“Well. At least now you know it was not your fault,” he concludes. “That was the important part. And you will surely find out who was to blame, when Mother has them brought to the executioner’s block. I will cut their head of myself, if you like.”

Olwyn drops her face into her hands. Tentatively, Dirthamen reaches out to touch her shoulder.

“I am sorry,” he says.

It does not do much good.

 ~

 A month later, General Elase is executed for conspiring against the empire and orchestrating the assassination of General Suladahl.

Falon’Din does, indeed, cut their head off himself. He must argue with their Father for the right to the task, but he obtains it.  Olwyn watches grimly as the execution is carried out, and afterwards, their mother takes her away to offer better comfort than Dirthamen’s clumsy offerings would provide.

He cannot help but notice, now, that the only Generals of note who remain are himself, his siblings, and June.

But… if there is a secret behind that, it is not one his mother deigns to share.