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cinaja · 3 years

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Before the Wall part 60

Masterlist

----

Queen Andromache of Angolere is no stranger to anger. Like most humans, she has never been short of reasons to be angry, and the last seven years of war, for all that they have improved the general situation, have done little to ease that. The general unfairness of life, arrogant allies, hypocritical assholes, people who hate her for being mortal – she’s had to deal with it all.

In all those years, she has never been this angry, though. Never felt this close to combusting. It’s like she swallowed a lump of magma and it’s not lying in her stomach, burning her up from the inside. Even two days after the fact, her anger shows no sign of lessening. Instead, it only seems to grow worse, perhaps because she has not yet found an opportunity to let it out.

When the news arrived two days ago, she didn’t believe it. Outright refused to even consider it. More than five hundred thousand people dead in the blink of an eye – the numbers were too big to consider possible. The idea that Miryam, Drakon, and Mor, Mor especially, were all dead from one day to the next was too horrifying to consider. The notion of something as terrible as this happening after the war had already ended downright impossible. And there were no bodies, no way to be sure.

Andromache spent that entire day curled up in her rooms, first trying to convince herself that this had been some terrible mistake, then struggling to come to terms with the fact that it wasn’t. This was real.

The second set of news arrived that evening, chasing her out of her hiding place. The messages from four separate sources – three spies and the person in charge of Telique’s wards – arriving at roughly the same time, all brought the same news: What happened had been no terrible accident, no tragedy with no one to blame. It had been planned and brought about by their own allies. Shey. The Autumn Court. Others as well, many of them unnamed.

Again, Andromache refused to believe it. In general, it is her firm belief that one can never have too low an opinion of the Fae, but this… this still went too far. She could not wrap her mind around it, could not understand how anyone could do this.

Like most people in the Alliance, Andromache was well aware that Shey saw Miryam as a threat. But what she could not imagine no matter how hard she tried was what might have caused the level of hatred that would have been necessary to do something like this. Miryam had, as far as Andromache knew, never done anything that might have given her allies cause to hate her. Dislike, perhaps, but not hate. She certainly gave Shey and cause to hate so fiercely that her death wasn’t enough to satisfy him, that he had to have her killed in the cruellest way possible, killing most of the people she cared about, thousands of innocents, in the process and destroying what she spent most of her life working for.

“I don’t think it was hatred,” Nakia said when Andromache voiced her thoughts to her. “I think he just didn’t care. He wanted Miryam dead – everyone else was just collateral damage. Expendable.”

That was when the anger started.

Now, thirty-one hours later, Andromache feels ready to combust with the force of it. Still, her hands are surprisingly steady as she closes the straps of her armour. There will be an Alliance meeting in half an hour, the first one since Miryam and Drakon (and Mor, although no one but Andromache seems to care much about that crucial detail) died, and Andromache intends to use the opportunity to make the Fae regret it.

Her and the other humans met yesterday to agree on a plan. What they came up with isn’t ideal in Andromache’s mind – it doesn’t involve Shey dying painfully, which is truly a shame. It’s the best they could do in their situation, though, and Andromache sincerely hopes their demands will make the Fae regret their actions.

With one last look into the mirror, Andromache straightens and stalks out of the room. Her steps are firm as she walks through the palace’s halls towards the meeting chamber. A lucky side effect of the anger, she supposes. It doesn’t leave space for any other emotions. Otherwise, she would probably be dissolved in tears, unable to move or function. But even so, she can barely bear to think of Miryam and Drakon, and cannot think of Mor at all without feeling like someone punched her in the chest.

By the time she reaches the meeting chamber, it is already filled halfway. Usually, councilmembers would be chatting with each other before the meeting, the room buzzing with activity, but today, silence reins in the chamber. The tense atmosphere can almost be felt physically, like the air is thick as water and pressing anyone inside the room down with its weight.

Quietly, Andromache takes her seat. The silence is only broken by the ticking of the clock that has been places on the opposite wall. She watches the hand creep forward as more and more people arrive. The time when the meeting was set to begin is reached and passed without anyone stirring. Andromache realizes that everyone at the table is waiting for someone to open the meeting, but Miryam isn’t there and Andromache isn’t inclined to step in for her as she usually does.

Eventually, it is Shey who opens the meeting. When he starts spouting nonsense about what a “terrible tragedy” Miryam’s and Drakon’s death was (he doesn’t mention any of the other people who died) or how “devastated” he was by the news, Andromache immediately regrets not opening the meeting herself. When he starts talking about how much Miryam did for the Alliance and the war effort in general, Andromache briefly contemplates getting up and punching him in the face. It might help take the edge off her anger, but their plan is a different one and Andromache is forced to stick to it.

Finally, Shey seems to be done with his monologue of faked mourning and changes the subject. “Sad as we all are,” he says, “I think Miryam and Drakon, more than anyone else, would want us to focus on the future instead of dwelling on the past.”

Never mind. Andromache is actually going to punch him. “I think they mostly wouldn’t want to be dead along with thousands of their people, you fucking asshole,” she mutters, balling her hands into fists.

Shey’s eyes jump to her, narrowing slightly, but he seems to decide that she isn’t worthy of a reply. “I believe the treaty detailing what should happen now that the war is over is all but ready. All that’s left to do is to sign it.”

“If you think any of us are going to sign that contract after what happened, you’ve lost your mind,” Andromache snaps, louder this time. “Why would we want to work with any of you after this?”

Shey is far too well-trained to show any reaction, but Andromache hopes the bastard is shocked. He probably didn’t expect the stupid little mortals to figure out what he did.

“I don’t – “ he begins, but Andromache is already on her feet. The other human councilmembers rise with her.

“This Alliance is over,” she says, voice biting. “As far as I’m concerned, you can all go drown in an ocean.”

With that, she turns towards the door. As one, the human members of the Alliance walk out of the room. No one makes a move to stop them, no one even says a word. The Fae just remain sitting where they are, looking around the table like they are waiting for someone to find the words to fix the crack that is running through their alliance.

Had Miryam been here, she would have been the one to speak out now. She would have found the right words, maybe even managed to convince them all to keep working together. For the sake of the treaty she wanted so badly, she would probably have been willing to excuse even her own murder.

It’s really too bad for the Fae that they had Miryam killed. Because without her, there is no one there to stop the Alliance from shattering into a million pieces.

Without looking back, Andromache stalks out of the meeting chamber. When she returns to her rooms, she finds Mor sitting on her bed.

----

Mor never planned to simply vanish without a word to anyone, certainly not for an entire week. When first left the Black Land and winnowed straight to the Night Court, she only wanted to stay for a few hours, maybe spend the night in the cabin in the mountains to calm herself before returning to Telique.

But then, almost against her own will, she had found herself staying longer and longer. The cabin was so peaceful, and with each day she stayed, the thought of going back became more daunting. Going back would mean facing what Miryam had done, facing their argument. Probably facing Miryam herself. For all that she knew hiding would only make things worse in the long run, she simply hadn’t found it in herself to return.

So instead, she stayed. She visited Rhys a few times. Sat on the couch by the fire and read. Emptied bottle after bottle of wine and did her best not to think about water turning to blood, ice raining from the sky and the look on Miryam’s face before she left her standing alone in the sand. She didn’t want to return at all, but after a week, there was no way to put it off any further, not if she didn’t want to risk worrying her friends in Telique.

It might already have been too long, Mor thinks as she watches Andromache freeze in the doorway, staring at her like she is a ghost. Maybe she should have sent a letter. But surely Miryam told Andromache about what happened, and knowing that, it should have been clear to anyone that she was safe.

She opens her mouth to say something, but before she gets the chance, Andromache snaps out of her paralysis. Letting out a sound that sounds a bit like that of a wounded animal, she rushes towards Mor and sweeps her up in a hug. Her body is shaking, and Mor can feel her damp cheek against her neck. Awkwardly, she begins patting Andromache’s back.

“I’m alright,” she whispers, not entirely understanding why Andromache is this distraught. She wasn’t in any danger, Andromache must have known that. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Andromache lets go of her and holds her at arm’s length so that she can study her. She is still clinging on to Mor’s arms, though, like she is scared to let go.

“How did you get out?” She asks.

Mor frowns. She doesn’t entirely understand the question. “I winnowed,” she says, then quickly adds, “I’m sorry for not writing. I just… I just needed space.”

Now, it is Andromache who seems confused. “What do you mean?” She asks.

Mor can’t help the sinking feeling that they are not entirely on the same page. Could it be that Miryam didn’t tell her about the argument? She wouldn’t have had any reason to keep that information back, though.

“We argued,” she says hesitantly. “I just…” She shrugs. “With what Miryam did… I couldn’t stand it, and she wouldn’t stop. We got into a fight over it. And then I left.”

Andromache stands and stares at her, completely unblinking. Then, slowly, she lets her arms drop to her sides. “What Miryam did?” She repeats, voice dangerously soft. “What Miryam did?”

“Yes, what Miryam did!” Mor replies forcefully. She can’t believe that Andromache seems to be taking Miryam’s side on this. “She burned down an entire country, Andromache! Thousands of people died. She – “

“You’re acting like she did it for fun!” Andromache cuts her off. “There were reasons.”

“What reasons are good enough to murder thousands?” Mor asks, throwing her hands up into the air in desperation. “You weren’t there, Andromache. You don’t know what it was like. This was the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen, and Miryam happily allowed it to happen.”

“Well, then you’ll be relieved to know that Miryam is dead,” Andromache snaps.

The words hit Mor like a punch to the stomach. She actually stumbles back a step, gasping. “What?” She whispers.

“Yes,” Andromache says, her voice cutting as a blade. “Her, Drakon and everyone else.”

No. No. It isn’t possible. None of them were in danger when she left. Miryam was just in the process of single-handedly taking down the entire country, with an army of thousands with her to protect her. She was days away from winning – and actually did win, from the last news Mor heard from an enraged Rhys who complained endlessly about the war ending before he had a chance to kill Amarantha.

They couldn��t have died. They couldn’t have.

Oh Cauldron. Her last conversation with Miryam and Drakon was an argument that ended with Mor storming off. She doesn’t remember what she said to them, only that she was furious and desperate, and that they were both yelling at each other and then Mor left. She left them alone and then they died and she…

Mor presses a hand to her stomach, trying to reign in a sob. “I…” She whispers, but doesn’t manage to finish the sentence. She promised to protect Miryam. And then she left. And Miryam died.

“Get out,” Andromache says, voice still deadly soft.

Mor starts shaking her head. “No, I…”

“What Miryam did?” Andromache throws her words back at her with enough anger that Mor actually flinches. “You’re no better than the others.” With that, she pulls open the door. “And now get out.”

Words are escaping Mor. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Tears are burning in her eyes, blurring her vision. Andromache is still staring at her, gaze hard, and so Mor ducks her head and rushes out of the room.

----

Andromache is shaking with fury. Pain and sorrow will come later, she knows, once she has calmed down enough for the reality of what just happened to sink through, but for the moment, she is just angry. Angry with the entire fucking world, but mostly with Mor, because from her, Andromache expected better.

How could she be so stupidly narrow-minded? What Miryam did. She sounded just like all these other Fae who called Miryam’s actions horrifying and then turned around and had her and five hundred thousand innocents murdered. What Miryam did. What about what the Fae did, now and for centuries prior?

She needs some way to let the anger out, or she might actually explode. With swift steps, she stalks through the room and to the cupboard that holds cups and plates. She is still aware enough of herself to avoid the expensive, gilded ones meant for formal occasions and sticks to the simpler pottery for private dinners.

One by one, she pulls them out of the cupboard and hurls them against a nearby wall, watching them shatter into a million pieces with grim satisfaction, hating the fact that this pointless act of rage is all she can do.

How she wishes she had Miryam’s abilities. If only she was able to turn blood into water, make the sky rein ice and fire and command the sun to stay away as she sees fit. Oh, how she would make them all pay for what they did. She’d show them horrifying.

A knock sounds at the door, interrupting Andromache’s fantasies of setting Shey’s palace on fire. She spins around, dropping the plate she had just pulled out of the shelf, and stalks over to the door. This better not be Mor…

It isn’t. When Andromache pulls open the door so hard it bangs against the wall, she instead comes face to face with Nakia.

“Oh,” she says, awkwardly running a hand through her hair. “Nakia.”

“Were you expecting someone else?” Nakia asks drily. She glances over her shoulder into the room and raises her eyes at the mess. “Someone to help you clean up, perhaps?”

Andromache can feel her cheeks heating. “I will clean that myself,” she says. She won’t make any of the maids clean up a mess she created on purpose.

“Do that. It will have to wait, though. For the moment, you are needed for a meeting. The Fae asked for a meeting; their representative is already there.”

Andromache groans.

Andromache would have liked nothing better than to refuse the meeting outright and tell the Fae exactly where they can shove their offers, but unfortunately, that is not an option. There are matters to be discussed, and there is no getting around that necessity.

It was agreed well in advance that Andromache would represent the humans for the meeting, as Angolere is the country whose leader is usually in charge of foreign politics. Andromache only finds out who the Fae sent when she steps into the meeting chamber, though: It is Zeku.

Some part of Andromache realizes that this is likely meant as a peace offering. Ever since the founding of the Alliance, Zeku was one of the Fae who worked together with the humans most closely. He was Miryam’s most prominent Fae ally, her, him and Andromache spent more hours than she can count sitting together over proposals and strategies. The Fae likely assumed his presence would appease Andromache, and under different circumstances, it might have. As it is, though, his presence is just another slap to the face.

“Your Majesty,” Zeku greets her, bowing deeply.

“Zeku.”

Greeting him by name instead of title is a capital insult, but Andromache stopped caring about the Faes’ rules for politeness the moment these rules didn’t stop them from murdering more than five hundred thousand people. All these rules ever did was bar anyone who didn’t have a Fae noble’s education from being taken seriously in their political meetings. Andromache played by their rules for far too long.

Zeku ignores the insult and takes the seat opposite her. He opens his mouth to speak, but Andromache cuts in before he gets the chance. Every moment she has to spend in the presence of someone like him is one too much.

“To make this clear right at the beginning,” she says, “I’m not here to play games. There are some issues that need to be settled, and I have no interest in spending more time than absolutely necessary in your presence, so I’d appreciate if we could deal with this as quickly as possible.”

Zeku sighs. “Alright, then,” he says, “But before we begin, just allow me to say how terribly sorry I am about what happened.”

Yeah, sure. She believes that right away. Once that conversation is over, though, he might actually be sorry.

“Well, I believe it ought to be clear to anyone that the continuation of the Alliance is no longer possible. The treaty we worked on is a thing of the past, as are any agreements we came to. We can no longer trust you, and so working together is no longer an option.”

Zeku, at the very least, does her the favour of not pretending he doesn’t know what she is talking about. “I know what happened was unforgivable,” he says, “but Miryam wouldn’t want – “

“Don’t,” Andromache cuts him off, voice sharp as a whip. “Don’t you dare talk to me about what Miryam would have wanted.”

Zeku lifts his hands as if warding off a physical attack. “Alright,” he says. “Forgive me. But the point remains that we need to work together. The situation is far from ideal, but together, you and I could still turn it around.”

Andromache lets out a sharp laugh. “You and I? Together?” She shakes her head, laughing again. “No, thank you. With what happened to the last human who worked together with you, I have little interest. Maybe if you wanted this alliance, you should have made sure she stayed alive.”

“I had no involvement – “ Zeku begins, but Andromache cuts him off.

“Oh, spare me,” she snaps. “Miryam might been willing to listen to your explanation. She might have played along with your game, pretended she believed and trusted you and maybe even agreed to work together with you again in spite of everything. For peace. She really wanted that, you know? A world where humans and Fae could live together in peace and equality. For that, she might even have been willing to look past what your friends did. But I am not Miryam.”

“I am aware,” Zeku says quietly.

“Maybe, but you don’t seem to understand what it means.” None of the Fae ever understood, and they never bothered to try, either. “You and your Fae friends always thought that Miryam was the only one of us worthy of being taken seriously, didn’t you? That the rest of us were meek and harmless and unimportant, and that without Miryam, we would be lost. Because she was the only one who could play by these stupid rules for politics you had designed to keep anyone who isn’t Fae nobility from being taken seriously in politics. She could smile and talk and behave just right, and she had magic, and so you took her seriously and dismissed the rest of us.”

“I never dismissed you,” Zeku says. “And you were always quite willing to take a backseat while Miryam dealt with everything, so you have little grounds to complain about any conclusions people draw from that.”

Andromache presses her lips together. How dare he bring this up, act like what happened was somehow their fault for making Miryam get involved? As if the human leadership at the beginning of the war willingly decided that an eighteen-year-old was the perfect fit for emissary. The entire reason they had to give Miryam that position was that there had been no one else. Learning Fae politics was a matter of years, and the humans lacked diplomats skilled in the rules the Fae so valued. That they found someone who was able to fill the position at all was a minor miracle in itself.

She doesn’t say that they only let Miryam take the lead because she was the only one able to navigate the Fae political landscape that had been so skilfully designed to keep anyone but them out, though, because that would only be one part of the truth. The unimportant part, for this specific conversation.

“None of us ever wanted to work with the Fae, did you know that?” She gives him a sharp smile. “We didn’t trust you. It was Miryam who convinced us to give it a try. She said we needed allies, and that there would be Fae territories that would be willing to help us.”

“And she was right,” Shey says. “We helped you win this war.”

“Yes,” Andromache says softly. “Miryam was right – she managed to secure us the alliance she had promised, she managed to make things work, and so we went along with her plans. We ignored the countless offences your side committed against us because Miryam had her strategy and it was working. And then, when she insisted that the only way to get peace to work after the war was to find a way to work together, to build bridges between our people, we went along with that as well. Because we trusted her, because you seemed to respect her.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “Do you understand now?” She asks. “We weren’t scared and meek without Miryam. She was the one who convinced us to work with you in the first place. But then, you killed her and you made it entirely clear that our lives are worthless to you, that no matter how much we try to work with you, you will never see us as equal.”

Zeku nods slowly. His face is grave. Now, he finally seems to understand. “So what now?” He asks.

Andromache leans back in her chair. “Miryam wanted to build bridges,” she says. “We were willing to go along with that, willing to give it a try, but then you killed her. So now what you are getting is a wall.”

----

Shey is waiting in one of the private meeting chambers. He is lounging on one of the chairs, idly flipping through the pages of a book that he snaps shut when Zeku enters.

“Your Highness,” he says with a slight smile, sitting up straighter. “How did the meeting with Their Majesties go?”

In answer, Zeku takes a slip of paper out of the pocket of his coat and throws it onto the table in front of Shey. “A list of discrete assassins and ways to contact them, since you don’t seem to know about the possibility of discrete assassinations yet,” he says. “You might want to look into it to save us any further scandals.”

Shey very deliberately places his book on the table. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” he says.

“Kindly do me the favour and explain that to Andromache and the other human queens. That might be amusing.” He shakes his head. “They know. And they are none too pleased, if you will allow the understatement.”

Shey, at the very least, does him the favour of not denying his actions a second time. After the meeting he just had, he doesn’t think he would be able to stand Shey’s games. He just shrugs. “Forgive me if I’m not shaking with fear at the prospect.”

The longer this conversation lasts, the more does Zeku understand Andromache’s feelings towards Fae nobility and their politics. To think that there was a time when he enjoyed these games… Now, all he can feel is disgust.

“You went too far,” he says, shaking his head. “This time, you really went too far, Shey.”

Shey waves him off. “It was a neat solution,” he says. “Everyone who had any cause for interest in Miryam died with her.”

“There are literally millions of humans who have a cause for interest in Miryam.”

Shey snorts. “Oh, not these mortals and their exaggerated sense of solidarity or whatever they call it, acting like any harm done to one of them is somehow a direct attack on all of them. If you ask me, they are just using it as an excuse to make themselves into the victims and give themselves the moral high ground in any given situation. Or do you see any Fae complaining about Drakon and his soldiers getting killed?”

That he thinks this is a negative reflection on the humans, not the Fae, probably says everything that needs to be said about what kind of person he is. Zeku doesn’t want to imagine what it will do to the Alliance – the entire Continent – if he gets put in charge. Had Miryam only been a little bit smarter, a bit more willing to play to win… She had everything necessary to leave her in charge of the Continent after the war ended. But she didn’t have the nerve to go through with it, and how did it end? Her dead, everything she was working for in shambles and the Continent in Shey’s hands.

Zeku could scream at how stupidly unnecessary all of it is.

Instead, he merely offers the barest shrug at Shey’s comment. “Regardless of their motives, our human allies seem out for your head over this.”

“So what if they do?” Shey asks. “Miryam is dead. Without her, there is little they can do.”

“They seem to disagree,” Zeku says. In spite of the seriousness of the situation, he can’t help but feel a little smug. “Andromache says they have proof. And that she will happily make it public should you not meet their demands.” He smiles slightly. “Not only will you and your friends be revealed as honourless in front of the entire Continent for betraying your own allies, I also imagine that some people will be rather cross with you for murdering hundreds of thousands of innocent humans after we justified that entire war with wanting to save the humans.”

Shey doesn’t reply. Maybe he just considers for the first time that justifying a war with wanting the protect the humans and then turning around to casually murder five hundred thousand of them was not a particularly smart move. Not to mention that over the past years, Miryam became the face of the entire war effort, which not only brought her a whole lot of popularity, but also made her into a symbol. And turning against the symbol for the war they just won is political suicide.

For a brief moment, Shey’s calm demeanour cracks as he seems to realize that he just made a catastrophic mistake. Then, he catches himself, summoning a calm expression again.

“What is their price?” He asks, voice entirely business-like.

Zeku wonders what he is hoping for. What price would, in his mind, be able to make up for a betrayal like this, the loss of thousands of lives? Knowing Shey, he probably doesn’t imagine it will be too much. A bit of money, maybe, or land. Trading rights and favourable treaties. A small price, as is appropriate for lives that were entirely worthless to him.

“Half of our world,” Zeku counters calmly. And yes, he does enjoy the look on Shey’s face at the reply. “They are withdrawing their consent to the treaty I worked out with Andromache, Miryam and Drakon.” Well, mostly Drakon. “They no longer trust us to live side by side with them, so they have come up with their own solution: They want to divide the Continent in two. One half to the them, the other to us, and a wall in the middle. They’ll take the south.”

For a few heartbeats, Shey says nothing at all. Then, he asks very slowly, “Have these mortal fools completely lost their minds?”

Zeku shrugs again. “They don’t trust us anymore, not after what happened, and I honestly cannot blame them.”

“And they truly think they will get away with that?” Shey lets out a laugh and jumps to his feet. “I’ll have them assassinated before I meet these ridiculous demands.”

“I am sure they have plans for that scenario,” Zeku says. “And should this be made public, I imagine they would have quite a few supporters. Miryam was very popular, as you know, and you might find many Fae care more than you anticipated. Especially since there were also so many Fae amongst those you had killed.”

Shey wrinkles his nose in disdain. “Lesser faeries,” he says.

And what am I? Zeku thinks, fighting the sudden surge of anger. Anger at Shey. At himself. After all, he always knew what kind of person Shey was, and still, he chose the way he did. Withdrew support for Miryam and hoped… yes, what did he hope for? That Shey’s disregard for human and faerie lives wouldn’t carry on into his style of ruling? That he would follow through with the promises Miryam had made after replacing her?

Maybe he should have risked sticking up for Miryam. Should have made it clearer to her what was at stake, helped her work out a way to come out of this on top. Instead, he took the safe route and withdrew support, marked his wager in working with her down as failed and cut his losses.

A mistake. All of it was a mistake.

You’re a coward, Miryam’s voice says in his head. He can still see her so clearly, standing in that hallway with tears in her eyes and fury on her face. I hope this haunts you.

A bitter smile twists Zeku’s mouth. It will, he thinks. Don’t you worry, Miryam. It will.

“You would do better to do as they say,” Zeku says. “Because if you don’t – or if you get the brilliant idea to make them disappear the way you did with Miryam – I can assure you that you will have a problem. Should it come to war, I will be the first one to side with them against you, but I will not be the last.”

Shey stares at him in disbelief. He opens his mouth as if to reply, then closes it again. Of course. He isn’t used to getting push-back.

“You went too far,” Zeku repeats. “And it will always be my greatest shame that I didn’t stop you sooner. But if you think I will let you take this any further, you are dead-wrong.”

If him and Andromache were still allies, he might have begged her to allow him and his people to join them on their side of the wall that is soon to be built. But he lost that alliance the moment he decided to cut ties with Miryam and he knows perfectly well that there is no getting it back.

He played. And he lost. And now, he will have to pay.

----

Without corpses, there is no real need to hold a funeral. Unless, of course, you are Fae and want to make a grand gesture about how terribly sorry you are about the death of the people you had killed, and so the Fae seem to have made it their mission to hold the most dramatic funeral possible for Miryam, Drakon and the others, perhaps in a vain attempt to cover up their guilt.

Had the idea come from anyone else, Andromache might even have been willing to admit that she thinks holding some kind of ceremony is the right thing to do. As things are, though, it only feels like a cheap publicity stunt. Hundreds of thousands of pyres erected, one for every single person who died during that battle, all of them lit at the same time – this isn’t a show of respect, it’s a political spectacle and Andromache hates everything about it.

The worst part is that she wasn’t even able to argue against the idea, not without making it seem like she doesn’t want to honour Miryam and the other dead. So instead, she has decided to use the entire situation to her advantage. Shey wants to use this funeral to improve his image? Fine, then Andromache will ruin that plan as thoroughly as she can.

The good thing about ceremonies like that is that everything, down to the choice of clothes, sends a message. Shey has apparently decided to show to the entire world how much he mourns Miryam’s death and respected her. He is wearing black with blue details, showing his mourning and pretending to the entire world that he respected Miryam, looked up to her.

Andromache and the other human councilmembers appear entirely in red.

Their choice of clothes draws stares as they arrive at the ceremony together. Miryam wore red details on her dress for Jurian’s funeral, but that was a different matter – then, at least everyone knew who she wanted to get revenge at. Now, with the war over and Ravenia, who is officially responsible for every death that occurred, dead, no one understands why the entire human fraction of the Alliance is publicly declaring that they want revenge.

Shey steps in Andromache’s way before she reaches her place at the front of the assembled crowd. His face is almost as red as Andromache’s dress. “What do you think you are doing?” He snaps.

“Whatever are you talking about?” Andromache asks, then glances down at her dress like she is only now realizing what his problem might be. “Oh, that. Well, I thought the choice of colour in a dress should reflect our feelings regarding the death.” She frowns at Shey. “Although you don’t seem to have taken that all too seriously yourself. What colour says ‘I had the deceased assassinated’ again?”

“Will you be quiet?” Shey hisses, looking around frantically to see if anyone heard. “I agreed to your demands, and in return, you were meant to keep your silence. If you aren’t able to do that, our agreement is over.”

“You are the one who made this funeral into a farce!” Andromache snaps back. “This isn’t an opportunity for you to improve your image and if you had any sense of decency whatsoever, you would never have tried.”

With that, she shoulders past him and goes to take her place with the other humans.

“Remarkable show of restraint,” Nakia says by way of greeting. “I thought you’d break his nose.”

Andromache shrugs. “Might still, depending on his bad his speech is.”

The first speech isn’t Shey’s, though. It is hers.

Andromache struggled against the suggestion that she should hold the opening speech. To her, it felt like she would be assuming a position she never held. She was a close friend with both Miryam and Drakon, yes, but she was never closest to either of them, and she didn’t know most of the others who died at all. It was only when she realized that anyone who was closer to them than her had died in that battle that she agreed to hold the speech.

Slowly, she steps forward, red dress shifting around her feet. She will not have to light any of the pyres as would be human tradition; they will be magically lit at the end of her speech with her only needing to give a signal. It feels wrong, somehow. Pyres are meant to be lit by hand, the person who was closest to them doing them that final service and bidding them goodbye in doing so. Magic takes away all of the intimacy of the moment.

Everything about this funeral-that-isn’t-one feels wrong. It is unworthy. Miryam and Drakon and all these countless others would have deserved better.

They would also have deserved a better speech than the one Andromache ends up giving. She did her best to find the proper words, she truly did. What point is there in talking about all the things that were wonderful about them, as if putting into words all that she lost will somehow make it better. Why would she tell the world about all the things Miryam and Drakon and the others would have wanted and deserved from the future, as if the one thing they would have wanted and deserved wasn’t to be alive. How can she call this a tragedy when she knows that in truth, it was a crime?

The only words Andromache wants to say are ones made from anger, condemning the ones responsible for these deaths, but those, she cannot speak, and there are no other words that might mean anything in the face of such a terrible, senseless crime. She still tries, and she fails, and she knows she does even as she holds her speech.

She is relieved when she is finally done and gets to return to her place. The pyres are lit by magic and Andromache tries to comfort herself with the fact that there are no bodies, anyways, that Miryam and Drakon and all the others are dead and will never know about the farce that is their funeral. It is no comfort at all, though.

The rest of the ceremony passes far too slowly. Andromache stands in her place, stares at the flickering flames and ignores the speeches the others hold. She only notices it is finally over when people start moving around her. She leaves her place as well, wandering around aimlessly for a bit. She doesn’t want to talk. She doesn’t want to eat, or drink. She cannot stand this.

Andromache turns away from the ceremony and stalks off into the darkness. Away from the crowds and the noise and the fire. Away from the empty pyres and the Fae pretending they care about the deaths that occurred.

For the first few steps, her posture remains stiff, her steps fast and firm with anger. But as she walks through the night, her anger seems to dissolve like smoke in the wind. It leaves her feeling cold and alone. Empty. Soon, her vision is blurry with tears and she is stumbling more than walking.

How could everything have gone wrong so quickly? Mere days ago, she was giddy with happiness, drinking to victory and a bright future with the others, but now… Now, Miryam and Drakon and so many others are dead, and she cannot imagine ever speaking to Mor again, much less spending the future together as they planned. Everything she had wanted for her future, blown apart in one terrible day.

She lets herself drop to the ground, not caring if the damp grass stains her dress, rests her head on her knees and cries.

There is a soft rustling in front of her. Andromache is on her feet within moments, hand going for the dagger she has hidden under her dress. She is suddenly acutely aware that she is all alone out here, no guards in sight, and almost unarmed.

“Who’s there?” She calls, slowly drawing her dagger.

No one answers, but there is another rustle. This time, Andromache can place where the noise is coming from. She looks down and finds a falcon sitting on a small rock a few feet away from her, staring at her from amber eyes. Andromache stares back.

Birds usually avoid people. They do not land mere feet away from them, or remain sitting this still. Andromache points her dagger at the bird, trying to shoo it away, but it merely cocks its head to the side and hops a step closer to her. There is something fastened around its neck.

Rationally, Andromache knows that there are several people who could be responsible for this. Miryam wasn’t the only witch in the world, and even discounting people who are able to control animals, there’s always the chance of some Fae or another being able to shapeshift into one to use its form to trick her. Rationally, Andromache knows perfectly well that it is a terrible idea to approach a weird animal with some item fastened around its neck. Unfortunately, that knowledge is overridden completely by the fact that the only person she ever met who had a particular affinity for animals was Miryam, and Miryam favoured falcons. And they didn’t find a body.

Slowly, Andromache steps towards the falcon. It doesn’t make a move to flee, merely looks up at her. Andromache crouches down and reaches for it. If I get ambushed now, that will be entirely on me, she things as she carefully unties the thin bit of rope fastened around its neck.

A small amulet falls into her waiting palm. It appears to be bronze, with a blue stone in the middle. Andromache frowns down at it, then at the falcon who is still watching her.

“And what am I supposed to do now?” She asks.

The bird clicks its beak and hops from one foot to the other. If there is any message hidden in that reaction, Andromache fails to understand it. She turns her attention back on the amulet, turns it around in her fingers. Nothing happens, but she notices that the stone seems slightly loose.

“What are the odds of me getting cursed from this?” She asks softly.

The bird offers no reply, and so Andromache reaches for the stone and turns it around once. There is a flash of light. When it recedes, Andromache is no longer standing on the soft forest floor, but on hard earth. She stumbles forward and might have fallen had there not been a hand ready to steady her.

Slowly, she looks up. Miryam and Drakon are standing in front of her, both very much alive.

----

An hour after the official part of the ceremony has ended, Mor is already drunk. She has foregone the food entirely and instead gone to the drinks directly after the last speech ended, and then proceeded to methodically empty one wine bottle after another.

By now, she is three-quarters through the third bottle and a merciful numbness in beginning to set in. Everything still sucks, but it no longer feels like someone is twisting a knife in her chest. She even manages to look over at Andromache, who looks particularly beautiful and just as furious in her red dress and ignores Mor entirely, without feeling like she is dying. Maybe with a few more bottles, it will stop hurting altogether.

She drains the rest of her bottle and makes for the table with the wine again, slightly unsteady on her feet. Once, she stumbles over her own feet and crashes into one of the other guests. With a mumbled “sorry” she continues on, finally reaching the safe haven of the table. She clings on to it with one hand as she carefully places the empty bottle on the table and reaches for a new one. Bounty in hand, she retreats back into the crowd.

The fires are still burning, and the light stings her eyes. So many fires… So many dead people… Miryam’s face flashes in her mind, the coldness in her eyes as they last spoke. Drakon telling her she went too far. Andromache, who isn’t dead but seems to wish Mor was, telling her she is no better than the rest.

She opens the bottle and goes back to drinking. Halfway through that bottle, the pain dulls to a soft throb and she begins to feel better about herself. Yes, everything is all horrible, but she sort of feels like she is floating, and the fires are very pretty. Like little glittering jewels.

Maybe she should talk to Andromache now. The prospect no longer feels as daunting as it did an hour ago. She will talk to her and tell her… well, she will think of something to tell her.

Mor drains the last of her bottle, letting it drop to the ground, and tries to stand up on her toes to scan the crowd for Andromache. Her sense of balance isn’t entirely up to the task anymore, though, because she begins to sway dangerously and stumbles. She would have fallen had there not been a pair of hands taking her by the shoulders and pushing her upright again.

“Oops,” Mor mutters.

The hands let go of her shoulders but remain nearby, as if waiting to catch her should she fall again. Mor looks around for the owner of the hands, finding a dark-skinned Fae standing in front of her. It takes her a few moments to work through the haze in her mind and place his face, then she smiles slowly.

“Helion. Want some wine?” She wants to offer him her bottle, but then realizes it’s not in her hands anymore. She looks around for it until she remembers that she dropped it earlier. “I’ll get us a new one.” Cauldron, forming words is difficult. Her tongue isn’t cooperating the way it should and the ground seems to have started swaying under her feet. She stumbles and Helion grips her by the shoulder again.

“No, thank you,” he says. “And you should probably switch to water for the rest of the evening, too.”

Mor shakes her head. “Spoilsport,” she mutters but doesn’t resist as Helion starts leading her towards the food.

“’m looking for An…” She stumbles over the name. Frowning with concentration, she tries again. “Andromache.” It comes out almost correctly. “She was very mean to me,” she adds. “Not nice at all. Not fair. Wasn’ my fault.”

Helion raises one eyebrow. “I think she left already,” he says, handing her a plate.

Mor looks down at the steaming food – and bursts out crying. It’s all so terribly sad. The entire world is sad and bad and hopeless, and Andromache hates her, and Miryam and Drakon are dead and it’s all because of her.

“’s my fault,” she mutters, words coming out even more unclearly now. “I was supposed to… to keep them safe and…”

Helion wraps an arm around her shoulders. His arm is very warm and very nice, and it makes more cry even harder.

“It isn’t your fault,” he says. “You couldn’t have known what would happen when you left – no one could have anticipated this.”

Mor buries her face in his jacked, sniffing. “But I said…” she begins. She would have continued the sentence, would have told him about all the horrible things she said as well as she remembers, but her mouth stops cooperating.

“Alright,” Helion says, and Mor feels herself lifted off her feet and picked up. “I’m bringing you to your rooms now, and tomorrow…” Helion hesitates. “Well, I’m sure things will look better tomorrow.”

There is a hint of bitterness in his voice, like he doesn’t believe what he is saying himself, but in her state, Mor doesn’t notice. She only vaguely registers that she is being carried up some stares and gently tucked into bed before she slips off into merciful oblivion.

----

For a few heartbeats, Andromache merely stands frozen in place and stares. A part of her wants to scream at them, shout her fury because how dare they scare her like that? Another part just wants to hug them, somehow convince herself that they are real.

“Andromache,” Miryam whispers and takes a step forward.

That breaks the spell. Andromache darts forward as well and wraps her arm around her neck. Hot tears sting on her cheeks.

“It’s alright,” Miryam whispers. “We’re alright.”

Andromache lets go of her and turns to hug Drakon. The first minutes after that are so hectic that Andromache only barely manages to keep track, the initial happiness giving way to fresh worry quickly. All three of them seem to be talking at once, questions and answers and more questions buzzing through the air. It would have gone far more quickly had they talked it through calmly, but they are all far from calm. Andromache can barely believe what she is hearing – the ocean parted, a battle on the ocean floor. It is a miracle that they all survived.

“Maybe we should go away from the camp for a bit,” Drakon suggests, nodding to the onlookers that have gathered.

“Good idea,” Andromache says, and Miryam, who has been unusually quiet after the initial excitement died down, nods as well.

They find a quiet place a bit away from the camp where the forest meets the ocean, only just within the bounds of the wards. Miryam leans against a tree, staring out at the ocean. Drakon sits down on the trunk of an upturned tree. Andromache remains standing.

“If you want, we can declare war that very day,” she says.

It’s an idea that has been passed back and forth between Nakia and Andromache ever since the news about what Shey did arrived. So far, they’ve always had to decide against it. They lack the military force to be able to successfully fight the Fae, and with so many of theirs newly freed from slavery, they cannot spare the resources. But with Miryam, who has shown herself capable of taking down entire countries by herself and who might be able to gather them support amongst the Fae… They would actually stand a chance.

Miryam doesn’t react at all, though. From the way she keeps staring at the ocean, unmoving, unblinking, Andromache almost thinks she didn’t hear her at all.

Drakon reacts, though. He spins around to her like she slapped him. “What?” He asks, managing to put all the disbelief in the world into the word.

“Declare war,” Andromache repeats. “That is the common reaction to a betrayal like this, isn’t it? Any Fae country on the Continent would do the same thing, so why shouldn’t we?”

“Because the only thing it would accomplish is get thousands of people killed and potentially undo years of work!” Drakon answers with more force than is usual for him. “What could you hope to accomplish?”

“What else could I do?” Andromache shoots back. “We need to react in some way, we can’t just allow them to walk all over us like that. They were willing to kill thousands of us. I wouldn’t expect you to understand – “

“Stop,” Miryam cuts her off, turning in a quick, precise motion away from the ocean. “They were willing to kill Drakon and his soldiers right alongside us – most of the people who actually did die were faeries.”

Andromache deflates slightly. She sighs and turns to Drakon. “Sorry,” she says. “I just…” She shrugs.

“You’re currently in the mood to strangle any Fae you come across?” Drakon suggests. “Understandable. No offence taken.”

Still, Miryam has a point. Maybe Andromache was wrong to draw the lines in this conflict simply as humans against Fae. In reality, the High Fae don’t have much more respect for faeries than for humans. There’s a total of two faerie rulers on the entire Continent, and for all that Shey just proved he didn’t care about killing thousands of humans to get what he wanted, he did the same to the faeries who were involved. Drakon’s status and the protection it should have offered stopped him as little as Miryam’s.

It’s an interesting thought. Isolated, it might be difficult for the humans to fight back, but if they were to work together with the faeries, if they realized that the differences between humans and faeries are far smaller than the ones between faeries and High Fae… An interesting thought indeed.

Unfortunately, Drakon’s thoughts don’t seem to go into that direction.

“War won’t make anything better, though,” he says. “This isn’t like this war where we had a clear, manageable goal: Ending slavery. That was simple. But how do you plan to win a war against the fact that they don’t see humans as equal?” He shakes his head. “Short of killing every one of them, what way is there to resolve this issue through war?”

He looks at Andromache like he expects her to say something. She remains silent. She hadn’t thought this far yet. Of course she doesn’t want to kill all Fae, not in the slightest. She doesn’t even hate them all, she just… How can Shey and the others get away with what they did?

“All a war would accomplish is kill millions of innocents,” Drakon says. “And we’ve already…” He shakes his head and starts over. “This war has already taken things so far. What lines are left that haven’t been crossed yet? And if we take this any further, if we now start a war with our former allies… it will tear this entire continent apart. And it will hardly even matter who wins, because either way, millions of innocent people will die and reconciliation or peace will be made impossible for generations to come.”

Andromache wrinkles her nose, but she is still unable to argue. That was also one of the reasons why Nakia especially argued against the idea of a military solution: To start a war now would mean to risk everything they have won.

“Drakon is right,” Miryam says. “War is not the solution. Too many innocents have already been dragged into this – I won’t allow for any more people to be made into collateral damage by jumping onto Shey’s game of trying to murder each other in the most catastrophic way possible.”

Andromache refrains from saying that this goes far beyond a political powerplay. She doesn’t want to argue with Miryam over something like that.

“The treaty is the best chance for peace we have,” Miryam says. “I won’t let Shey’s actions ruin that. I know circumstances are far from ideal, but we can still make it work.”

Andromache stares at her, not quite believing what she is hearing. After all that happened, how can Miryam still talk of her treaty? How does she not realize that this treaty died the second Shey betrayed them. Andromache wants to take her by the shoulders and shake her until she starts seeing sense. She has to forcefully remind herself that Miryam is likely still in shock from what happened and is desperately clinging to a solution that is no longer possible as a way to cope.

“That’s not happening,” she says as calmly as she can manage. “That treaty relied on mutual trust, and after what happened, I cannot see that coming about anytime soon.”

Miryam and Drakon both look like she slapped them. It actually makes Andromache feel bad for them. Her own stakes in that treaty were always low, she really mostly went along with it because Miryam and Drakon were so very convinced that it was the only way, but for them… She doesn’t want to imagine what it must feel like to watch a thing you believed in and spent years working for fall apart before your eyes.

“And what will you do instead?” Drakon asks.

“We have decided to split up the world. One half to the Fae, the other to the humans and a wall in the middle to keep us safe.”

Drakon frowns. “What kind of wall would that be?” He asks, but Miryam is staring at Andromache, wide-eyed.

“No,” she whispers. “No, Andromache. You cannot do that. Please. It isn’t necessary, there is still another way.”

The desperation on her face stings. Andromache wants nothing more than to give in, if only to wipe that look off her face, but she cannot. Not on this.

“I’m sorry,” she says, more softly this time. “But this is the way it is going to happen. You don’t want war, so I will not start one in your name. But after what happened, there cannot be peace either.”

Miryam shakes her head. Straightens. “Just give me one more chance,” she says. It’s the same tone she always has when she tries to convince people that she can handle a situation she cannot handle. “Let me talk to the Fae. I can still fix this.”

Andromache slowly shakes her head. “Are you out of your mind?” She asks. It is a struggle to keep her voice controlled. “They tried to kill you, Miryam. All of you. What do you think will happen if you go back?”

“This treaty needs to go through!” Miryam retorts. “This is important. It’s more important than… If we are to ever have peace, we need to find a way to live together. You – “

“Miryam stop,” Andromache snaps. Now, she actually does take her by the shoulders and shakes her slightly. “Do you truly want to die over this? Because this is what’s going to happen if you go back. They are going to kill you.”

“They already did,” Miryam mutters.

That throws Andromache off, but only for a moment. Chances are Miryam is just being dramatic, and if she wasn’t… well, then she will have to deal with that later.

“If you go back, you will die, and your death will be completely pointlessly,” she says, “You will not reach your goals, only get yourself killed. Is that truly what you want your life to be? Sixteen years as a slave, two years on the run and seven years of war. Killed at twenty-five in some pointless political struggle.”

Miryam starts to cry. Drakon makes to rise, but Andromache is faster, wrapping her arms around her.

“It doesn’t need to end like this,” she whispers. “You can still live, Miryam. You have won. Don’t just throw your life away like that.”

Miryam steps away from Andromache, already wiping her tears away again. She still looks completely miserable, though, as she lets herself drop onto the trunk next to Drakon.

“But what options do we have?” Drakon asks. He looks no less miserable than Miryam. “If we cannot go back, if we will never be safe after what happened, then what about the people in our camp? They are witnesses as much as we are. Some of these people have homes. Families. We have a home. We can’t just leave that, even if we had a way to vanish hundreds of thousands of people.”

Andromache bites her lip. She didn’t think of that yet. For the humans, she supposes she might be able to hide them amongst the other newly-freed slaves, since Fae never pay much attention to humans, but even then, there would be the problem of word of what Shey did getting around. And there is no hiding the Seraphim at all, not amongst the humans and not anywhere else. Miryam and Drakon alone might hope to hide somewhere, but what would the point be if their people were still left in danger?

She briefly contemplates saying that if they were to go to war, none of that would be a problem. But that would be a very cruel way to push Miryam and Drakon to take her side. Give up your home or agree to a war you know to be wrong is not a particularly fair choice, and certainly not one she should ask of her friends.

“We can’t just vanish,” Drakon continues. “And Andromache, you can’t just split the Continent in two and build a wall in the middle. How would that even work? Do you expect millions of people to get up and leave their countries to march to the other end of the Continent and settle down there? That’s a terrible idea, not to mention that the kind of wall you seem to be thinking of won’t be easy to get.”

Miryam seems distinctly uncomfortable in her skin. Apparently, she never told Drakon about the wall spell. Understandable, Andromache supposes. Until now, none of them ever thought that spell would become relevant.

“Let’s just assume that the wall is happening,” Andromache says. Let Miryam talk that one through with Drakon on her own. “The issue is what we do with you two.”

“No, that’s not the issue!” Miryam replies. “The issue is that this wall is a downright terrible idea and – “

“And not your choice to be made,” Andromache finishes. “The decision was unanimous, Miryam. I’m sorry, but even you cannot change that.”

Neither Miryam nor Drakon argue any further after this. Miryam merely reaches for Drakon’s hand, and then, they are sitting side by side in complete silence.

Andromache feels terrible about herself. The last thing she ever wanted was to hurt them with the solution she came up with, but there seems to be no way around it. She firmly believes that the wall is the only was to guarantee the humans’ safety in the long run, and for that to work out, Miryam, Drakon and their people need to disappear. It means that they will not get the future they wanted, and that Drakon and his people will have to give up their homes, and it is far from fair but Andromache doesn’t see a way around it so she simply stands around and stares down at her feet in shame.

Finally, it is Miryam who breaks the silence. “I think I know somewhere we could go,” she says softly. “Somewhere they would never find us. Where we would be safe.”

----

Tags: @femtopulsed @croissantcitysucks @aileywrites

#second-to-last chapter!!!#the fae are getting exactly what they deserve #i hope you'll like how i'm wrapping everything up #i feel kind of bad abt the way i have things end between mor and andromache (although this chapter isn't the end yet)#but well. canon dictates that their relationship ends and i like it better to have them break up than for them to be tragically seperated -#by the wall #before the wall #miryam #jurian #drakon

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imagine-loki · 3 years

Text

The Tragedy of Thor of Asgard

TITLE: The Tragedy of Thor of Asgard CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: One shot AUTHOR: colifower ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki attending a play about his little adventure in Svartalfheim. It is too poorly written that he decides to take the matter into his own hands… The tragedy of Loki is born. RATING: G NOTES/WARNINGS: It’s an option on my Choose your own adventure fic, which was too confusing to be posted in IL. Link to the full story here!

“I’m in desperate need to take a day off. I’ll do it today; not much is happening anyways” shouted Loki-as-Odin. He had been suplanting his not-father for a while now and was only starting to learn the extents of Odin’s routine, which mainly consisted in doing nothing and claiming his counselor’s ideas as his own, so in order to fix it Loki had to take a few extra hours. He summoned their not-father’s horse as soon as he could and pet it’s side. He desperately wanted to ride with his own horse, Apricot, but still had to deal with the appearences.

They trotted out of the stables and into the sunshine. It was truly a good day to go for a horse walk. “Yes, that’s what I’m going to do! We’re going to the blue fountain! It’ll be very nice today, maybe even have a bath…”

Loki stopped his train of thought when he saw a yellow banner ad. “The tragedy of Thor of Asgard. Find out the details of The Midgardian’s murder of Queen Frigga, the betrayal of Prince Loki The Jötun and much more…” they read out loud. “Well, you got me interested. Let’s see the depths of asgardian propaganda.”

“This is going to be so painfully inaccurate” he muttered to himself while getting sited. He had parked Sleipnir a bit far away from the place not to bring much attention to himself. The piece was performed at a corral de comedias *, quite a musty place for a king. Loki foolishly hoped nobody paid much attention to the attending Allfather, but as soon as the space started to get filled, he noted the looks of the gossipy aesir piercing through his skin. He couldn’t do much about it now, so he remained seated and quiet, trying to remain unnoticeable.

The crowd got quiet as the actors came to the stage.

ACT 1 Scene I

Enter CHOIR.

CHOIR

Oh Norns be gentle with us. Our fates are sealed and our lives have no meaning. But what do we hear from the palace above? It must be Prince Thor and his latest human conquest. Look at her rags and horrid features: must be an evil witch, no human could have captured the Prince’s attentions otherwise.

“Wrong in so many levels” Loki murmured. Several of the attendees shushed at him. He got quite surprise with their support for the play, but said no more. It was going to be a long two hours.

Enter THE HAG, FRIGGA, THOR wiggling Mjolnir quite violently

THOR

I do not understand, mother. Why couldn’t we just kill Loki? One jötun less, one problem less.

FRIGGA

Can’t you see, my son? Even if we take his life, we will get nothing in return. He is an evil man and we already lost him along the way. We cannot do a single thing to save those poor midgardian’s lives. It’s best to leave things be. That’s what your father wants us to do.

THOR

But we must avenge the fallen. He murdered those 72 innocent guards. He’s just like Malekith The Dark, who burned Svartalfheim’s whole population alive.

FRIGGA

The sorrow will kill me. My own son betraying us like this.

Leaves crying

ACT I scene II

THOR

I still think we should do something about it. What do you think, my beloved?

THE HAG

Oh my muscular, muscular man. You are so right, we cannot stand here and do nothing while the monster is still alive. It is a risk for our people.

THOR

Our people? Does that mean you will marry me?

THE HAG

If you desire so.

THOR

Well, I…

A cloud of green smoke appears and surrounds THOR while THE HAG shakes her arms around. She is enchanting him to do as she pleases.

I do! I will marry you!

THE HAG

I am the happiest woman alive.

They embrace.

ACT 2 Scene I

Enter FRIGGA with a flower vase. THOR and THE HAG are still embracing each other.

FRIGGA

Oh sweet Valhalla!

She drops the flower vase.

Thor, my son. What are you doing?

THOR

Embracing my beloved, mother. We are to get wed this afternoon.

THE HAG [Aside]

Yes! My evil plan is coming to fruition. Soon after the wedding I’d just have to kill old king Odin to become the most powerful being in the universe.

FRIGGA

What did you say, my dear?

THE HAG

Oh, nothing. I am very excited by the event.

CHOIR

Oh, your majesty, our beloved royals, look outside the window. The forces of evil are slaughtering us! We need the help of our hero prince Thor to save our lives from the poisonous knives of the dark elves.

THE HAG

Is that true?

FRIGGA

Oh dear!

THOR

I’ll butcher the monsters that hunt our people. Wait for me, mother, wait for me, my beloved. I’ll be back in a heartbeat.

Exits

ACT 2 scene II

THE HAG

Well… now that we are alone…

Stabs FRIGGA

FRIGGA

Oh cruel Norns. To die at the hands of an evil creature like you. Ladies like me aren’t suitable to hold a knife, I didn’t stand a chance.

THE HAG

Ha! Only midgardian woman are enough deprived to learn the ways of war.

FRIGGA

Curse you sudden but inevitable betrayal!

Dies

THE HAG

One step closer to victory.

ACT 3 scene I

CHOIR

The dark elves’ threat is gone! Hooray the soon-to-be king! But inside the palace there are still some scoundrels left to slaughter. Prince Thor will surely get here in a minute

Enter DARK ELVES SOLDIERS and LOKI. His green cape is twice as long as his own height.

THE HAG

Who are you?

DARK ELF SOLDIER 1

Your new king! Bow to him.

THE HAG

I think not!

She moves her arms around and a green cloud of smoke surrounds the stage.

By the power of Girlb-oss you shall be defeated.

DARK ELF SOLDIER 1

Oh no!

DARK ELF SOLDIER 2

We are dead.

The soldiers die. LOKI starts circling THE HAG, ready to attack.

THE HAG

Damn! My seidr never fails me.

LOKI

The girlb-oss invocation doesn’t work on me, since I am both a seidr user and a weak man.

THE HAG

How is that even possible?

LOKI

I am evil.

THE HAG

Yeah, that makes sense.

LOKI

Anyways, time for you to die.

Stabs her

THE HAG

Curse you! You disgusting and treacherous creature. You will perish soon and painfully.

LOKI

If you say so.

She dies

ACT 3 scene II

Enter THOR

THOR

What is this? Mother is dead? My beloved too? Who has done this?

LOKI

Not me.

THOR

You ungrateful bastard. No jötun should be trusted

THOR and LOKI fight dramatically. THOR is the superior fighter. LOKI lays on the ground without much movement.

LOKI

I am defeated. I die now.

LOKI dies for no reason whatsoever. THOR doesn’t even threaten him with a weapon.

THOR

No! My brother no!

Enter ODIN

ODIN

We shall mourn the dead. My son Loki the treacherous should be buried like the rest, with honour. Even if he was born a monster, he was still my son. I’ll carry my queen to the boats, where they all shall reach Valhalla.

THE END

“What a bunch of nonsense” Loki-as-Odin muttered to himself yet again. “My muscular, muscular man. What does that even mean? And the xenophobia was off the charts (although it’s nothing new anyways), Dr Foster didn’t even have a name! Argh! So frustrating. Somebody needs to sort that mess before it has the chance to become a problem.”

An idea crossed his mind.

“Maybe I should tell the real Tragedy of Loki of Asgard.”

#Loki #God of Mischief #Imagine #Submitted one shot #colifower #the tragedy of Thor of Asgard

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generallypo · 4 years

Photo

[ Constellation ’Director of the False Last Act’ is looking at you. ]

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dark academia!hsy, yeeee! the white coat is fantastic, but unlike kdj and yjh, she doesn’t really switch up the color scheme. no, her bum-aesthetic purple hoodie does not count. i think she’s super hot. i yell about how much i love her under the cut.

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yo han sooyoung is actually amazing, incredible, powerful, witty, drop-dead sexy... what makes her so irresistible? let me explain

1) yeah, kdj takes the kdj company to end of the scenarios, but please. how many times does he have to kill himself to get there? not to mention his intentional (and unintentional) kill count?

sure, he does the job, but damn is he kind of inefficient about it. say what you like about hsy’s methods or personality, but the 1863rd round far surpasses the 1864th in terms of the lives preserved while still managing to take the team to the end.

without the benefit of cheat-like knowledge, skills, and resurrections, hsy almost single-handedly orchestrates the events of the 1863rd round to a satisfying finale. kmw, problematic as he is, survives and becomes an admittedly better person, yjh finds a timeline where he can rest in peace, and the rest of the cast have their eyes set on the hopeful end of all scenarios. all this, while only being HALF of a person (hsy originally split off into two after misusing her avatar ability). do her actions lead to the happiest ending? no. but it’s the one that sacrifices the least and saves the most. for the greater good, in other words.

hsy may be an intrinsically selfish person, but unlike kdj, she has the ability to grasp the entire picture and avoid tunnel-visioning into a crappier, more convoluted and self-sacrificial solution. ironically, it ends up saving more lives. perks of being a talented writer, i guess.

and the 1864th hsy emerges as a leader in her own right as well. the epilogue arc shows her assuming roughly the same role as her 1863rd self in kdj’s absence: yjh breaks off from the main group (AND BECOMES A TERRORIST AKFDJDSLKSL HAHAHA) to assume a similarly antagonistic role to the remaining members of kdj company. as a result, she’s the most powerful lawful incarnation remaining, and once more the incarnations circle around her for direction.

2) independent, confident, competent (hot and kinda shameless about it). this woman has the most delightfully unrepentant attitude towards life -- how to defeat the man with the strongest defensive ability without dealing a single blow? summon a horde of your naked dancing clones to terrify his innocent sensibilities, and then cackle at his helplessness. the fact that her sponsor is literally the chuuni-est cringefest in the entire galaxy and she gives no fucks about him is just additional comedic gold. her undisguised disgust for what should otherwise be a highly respected/feared entity is a clear indicator of her supremely dominant position over everyone else, and i admire her consistent irreverence of everyone and everything.

hsy is the only character who can consistently bully kdj, brush off his deflections, and bully him again. 1863rd round hsy gives kdj about 50 migraines in the span of 5 minutes of conversation before confirming her superior wit. jhw comes close, but unfortunately, she actually respects the rat bastard. i wish i could mention yjh, but let’s be real: he -- and just about every existing version of him -- has been whipped for the guy for at least 250+ chapters now.

hsy, on the other hand, has no regard for anything except herself... man, i respect that so much. what a queen.

and i won’t lie! i didn’t like her in the first fifty or so chapters. plagiarism? homicide? kind-of-in-general-just-being-an-obstacle-to-kdj’s-plans? yeah, i almost fell into the trap of disliking her purely because she didn’t cave immediately in the grand scheme of kdj’s plotting -- thereby denying me the power rush that came with seeing kdj bulldoze his way through the puny attempts of small fry characters. she’s neither a friend nor a despicable foe, but rather someone who acts independently and in her own self-interest, WITH the ability to thwart major players if need be. aka, the one who frustrated kdj’s plans -- and me -- the most.

going by my previous isekai/power-fantasy trope experience, i figured she’d get pegged into the sexy-but-sassy harem candidate, or get killed off if that didn’t work out. in hindsight, i’m just pretty fucking dumb, but honestly, i can accept that with gratitude --

-- because in fact. the whole ‘she-gets-in-my-way-so-she-either-goes-into-the-harem-or-dies’ trope in light novels/webnovels and the like, is, frankly, misogynistic and boring as hell. i had some admittedly low expectations for ORV, which consequently blasted my ass to the moon and left me there sobbing for 42 years as i mourned my stupidity and paid my respects to its incredible ending and character development. hsy is a particular delight, especially in her meta awareness of these tropes -- blatantly stating she isn’t obligated to kdj for saving her life and declaring the damsel-in-distress cliche as ridiculous, for example.

and it really is, because suspension bridge effect aside, you’re not gonna want to bang a total shady stranger in the middle of the apocalypse. it’s the little statements of self-awareness, self-worth, and frankness that build up hsy’s charm. as ORV progresses, these little windows of her personality bloom as her presence takes stage center -- and then BAM! you really get to know how strong she is, how hugely capable of love she is, how subtly but wonderfully she expresses it, how she leads and protects those close to her, and how damn good she is at it. hsy is amazing. we stan an iconic queen -- no, black flameS EMPRESS. *kneeling*.

3) writes an entire EPIC, just to keep one lonely, broken fifteen-year-old alive. like. at that point in ORV, i knew. i knew. hsy is the fucking GOAT. seeing her spend the rest of her life on WOS, making sure it reaches completion because it’s the only thing that will sustain kdj until the advent of the scenarios... that hits too hard. inadvertently, it also damns the rest of the world to the terror and tragedy that the star stream brings.. but that’s the call she makes in order to save kdj’s life.

obviously, there’s no precise beginning to the timelines -- ORV is so neatly crafted in its cycle of writer, protagonist, and reader -- but i’d have to argue that hsy holds the greatest power in the trinity. creating the existence known as ‘yoo joonghyuk’ and granting life-changing hope to an otherwise forgotten boy.. is pretty powerful. yjh, for the most part, is a slave to the scenarios (until he breaks free in the 1863rd and 1864th rounds, in particular), while kdj (unwittingly) admits it himself: he’s truly the most powerless god in existence. i forget exactly where he mentions it, but it’s in response to lgy’s reverent commentary that, with all his knowledge and presumed confidence, kdj seems like the protagonist of story or a god to him. kdj’s inner monologue, of course, is appropriately self-deprecating and scarily accurate.

in a lot of ways, WOS -- and ORV itself, really -- is a love letter to readers. it’s a two-way connection, writer and reader, between someone who creates with all their passions and someone who consumes and responds with equally sincere feelings. Ways Of Survival -- the story of a man who defied death and grief and great powers far beyond his being -- is a fictional guide to surviving in a ruined world. but to a battered, bullied, and ostracized boy, it’s not just escapism, or wish fulfilment anymore. WOS is the map to navigating the hell of his reality. there’s a certain power in the right words being spoken -- or in this case, written -- at the right time, even if it’s only for the temporary burst of endorphins upon reading an especially delightful chapter. even if it’s forgotten the next day, you’ve managed to connect. you’ve touched another person’s heart. you made them think about questions they’ve never considered before; maybe, you made them smile.

what can i say but the honest truth? ORV, without a shadow of doubt, has most certainly reached me. i’m a goner for this story and its excellent characters -- long, long gone. something has changed, something that wasn’t there the previous day.

the mark has been made on the reader -- small as it is, it’s irrevocable. behold, in all of its little magnificence: the power of a writer, and their story.

#omniscient reader's viewpoint #omniscient reader #orv #han sooyoung #dark acadamia aesthetic #fanart #long ass emotional screeching #wow these are the nights i wish i had someone to yell about orv with #otherwise i stay up at ass-o-clock uncontrollably writing and groaning and writing #anyways hsy is best girl and sexy as fuck

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saradathesalad · 4 years

Text

read me your life

ao3

For Star Wars Soulmate Month

Anakin has never been a fan of the whole soulmate-book thing. Some people found it romantic to be able to read all about their soulmate’s life before they’d met, but for Anakin it just showcased the worst years of his life; the years he spent as a slave.

As a child he’d wanted to burn his book, so his soulmate would never have to know that he’d once been a slave (he’d known down to his bones that he’d be free by the time he met his soulmate), but his mother had talked him out of it, telling him he’d never be able to find his soulmate without his book.

Anakin still thought about it.

He never read his book, not because he believed that only his soulmate should ever lay eyes on it like some did, but because every time he tried he felt the hot flush of shame and anger. Even the joy a soulmate was meant to bring was tainted by slavery, the one thing that he thought might be able to help him get through until he was free.

He hated Watto, and Tatooine, and the whole stupid universe that let him and his mother be slaves.

And then came Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, who freed him and promised him training as a Jedi. Even at nine, Anakin had had some reservations, but the thought of being free, being able to travel the stars instead of being stuck on Tattooine won him over in seconds.

So he wins the Boonta Eve Classic and he gets freed, something he hadn’t known about until it was happening, Qui-Gon’s promise of him becoming a powerful Jedi seems in his grasp.

But he has to leave his mother behind. It’s the hardest thing he ever does, even later after he’s gone on several missions, even after he fights in a war, even after he has to kill the old man he’d thought was his friend but wasn’t, leaving his mother and not looking back remains the most difficult.

He almost left his book behind then, with his mother. Almost. Even if she couldn’t see the writing on the pages, it was still something to remember him by. But she’d refused, and Anakin had been strangely relieved.

He’s glad he didn’t when later, after the Jedi told him they wouldn’t allow him to be trained, after he blew up a spaceship, after Qui-Gon’s funeral, after being assigned as Obi-Wan Kenobi’s padawn, he checks his book, to read about the past few days, to remind himself that they were real and that he’s really free.

And he finds blank pages from the moment he climbed aboard the Naboo cruiser that first time. He’d met his soulmate. He’d met his soulmate and he hadn’t noticed. All those stories about sparks flying and knowing instantly were wrong. Anakin should’ve known. Nothing good is that easy.

His first thought is that it’s Padme, the beautiful angel, the Queen of the Naboo, Anakin’s first friend off Tatooine. But the timeline doesn’t add up. He’d met Padme days before his book stopped writing, but maybe that’s how it works? The only person he’d ever been able to talk about it with was his mother, who’d never met her soulmate and would never know unless they showed her their book.

Hers had been burnt when she’d fallen pregnant with Anakin.

Over the years he convinces himself that it’s Padme. He slowly chips away at all his doubts, refusing to back down. It’s Padme, it has to be. Who else had been kind and gracious to him, who else had made him feel like the most important person in the room whenever they spoke to him? No one. It had to be Padme. If it wasn’t Padme then who could it be? He didn’t want it to be anyone else.

He trains, he gets better, he fights with Obi-Wan and gets scolded by the council more often than not. But Obi-Wan is always there after, to apologize, to be apologized to, to hug and to take him to Dex’s. To reassure him that he’s wanted.

Anakin is sure he got lucky with his master. His fellow padawans always complain about theirs, and while Anakin and Obi-Wan clash over many things, they work well together and get along very well when neither of them are being stubborn. He’s glad, most days, that he landed with Obi-Wan instead of Qui-Gon. He gets the feeling that the other man had far too many expectations for him he’d never be abe to live up to.

Anakin never speaks about his soulmate to Obi-Wan, for all that he trusts his Master, he’s far too embarrassed to say anything to him about it. He doesn’t want to feel stupid anymore, and after his peers reactions to his inability to read, Anakin is hesitant to admit any gaps in knowledge to anyone at the Jedi temple.

So he keeps quiet about his questions and silent suspicions. He doesn’t want to be made a fool again. He waits in excitement for the day that he’ll be able to see Padme again and find out whether his decade-long suspicions are true.

And then he meets her again. He and Obi-Wan are there to guard her from assassins, and as he’s terrified as that time he’d accidentally kicked Master Yoda across the hall and into Master Windu’s face.

He’d had a rough time during his growth spurts and hadn’t been able to control any of his limbs, okay? He’s sure half the reason Master Windu hates him is because of that day. Anakin maintains that he should’ve dodged. What is the Force for, if not for sensing when a young teen with no control over their newly elongated limbs punts your weird-speaking toad boss at your head?

No, Anakin is not victim blaming.

In any case, he feels like throwing up, passing out and running away all at the same time. He’s about to meet his soulmate for the first time in ten years.

He sees Padme, and those feelings fall away. So does the feelings of passion and love he’s been associating with her for the past decade. Instead he just feels nostalgia for those fleeting days of almost-perfection when he’d first met Padme.

Something inside him tells him that Padme isn’t his soulmate.

He’s right, he finds out later. When they’re hiding on Naboo Padme confides that she’d thought he was her soulmate for the longest time, but had found out it was actually one of her newer handmaidens she’d met around the same time as she’d met Anakin.

Anakin tells her that he’d also thought she was his soulmate, up until they’d met again, but he doesn’t think so anymore.

They try to read each others books, but they can’t. They laugh at their childish foolishness and spend a few days fooling around and revelling in their lack of responsibilities. Anakin gets to meet Lorde, Padme’s soulmate and he revells in the way they fit together. Even if Padme wasn’t his soulmate he’s still glad she gets this.

And then Anakin dreams of his mother again and they leave for Tatooine. Anakin meets his step-father and mother’s soulmate and he rescues his mother. He barely stops himself from slaughtering the whole village, but his mother needs him more. And Obi-Wan would be disappointed in him.

His mother almost dies twice in one night, but Padme’s Naboo cruiser has very good medical supplies. Anakin gets to speak with his mother again, gets to hear all about how her life has gone and how happy she is with Cliegg. When Obi-Wan’s message comes through she encourages him to go help him.

So Anakin leaves his mother with a promise to visit when he can and he and Padme set off for Geonosis. They get captured, they escape, they get rescued, they chase down Count Dooku and Padme falls out of a ship and Anakin loses his arm.

The Clone Wars begin.

Padme gets married to her soulmate and Anakin is there at the small ceremony, hosted at the same place where they’d spent their last war-free days. Padme tells him she wants to keep it quiet, because Padme has a target on her back and has no interest in endangering Lorde

When he gets back to Coruscant Obi-Wan gives him a strangely sad look, but Anakin chalks it up to the loss of his hand.

The war rages on and Anakin gets knighted, far too soon in his opinion. Despite his chafing against Obi-Wan’s occasionally tight leash, he’s well aware that he still has a lot more to learn. Nonetheless, its still near the beginning of the war and they still get their seven days together after the ceremony, a luxury not afforded to newly-knighted jedi later on.

The war rages on and Anakin sees Obi-Wan a surprisingly large amount. They become the Team, the face of the war. They’re sent on large scale public missions together more often than not, and Anakin is glad for it.

The war rages on and Anakin gets a padawan of his own, Ahsoka Tano, though she’s as much Obi-Wan’s padawan as she is his. She’s far to young to be in war, but tragedy doesn’t care about age. It only seeks to inflict itself on whoever is most vulnerable. Anakin teaches her to be a Jedi, but he also teaches her how to deal with her emotions healthily. He wants her to be better than him, he wants her to suffer as little as possible. Obi-Wan shares this desire and helps in whatever way he can.

The war rages on and Satine dies, Obi-Wan’s soulmate dies and Anakin figures that if there’s any time to break their mutual silence on soulmates it would be now.

“I’m sorry. Losing your soulmate must be hard,” Anakin says, doing his best at trying to comfort his ex-master. He’d never had to comfort Obi-Wan before, if he’d ever got upset he’d always go and meditate. But not this time.

His comfort doesn’t seem to be very good because it brings a grimace of pain to Obi-Wan’s face and Anakin wishes he could travel back in time a minute to prevent that expression from crossing Obi-Wan’s face.

“She wasn’t,” Obi-Wan starts, “My soulmate. I was hers but. She was never mine.”

Anakin doesn’t think that makes losing her any easier for Obi-Wan. He wants to comfort him, but instead his stupid curiousity that he’s been suppressing for years comes to the surface.

“Do you know who is?” he asks and immediately wishes he could just erase this entire conversation.

Obi-Wan has a lot of issues that he’s repressed over the years. His feelings of inadequacy and fear of abandonment are well hidden to everyone except Anakin. Anakin knows how to recognise that in someone else, he knows those feelings well enough.

Which is why he notices Obi-Wan withdrawing into those feelings at Anakin’s question.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan whispers, “I’ve met them.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t say anything else immediately, but Anakin can tell he’s got more to say, so he waits in shocked silence.

“It’s,” Obi-Wan says, faltering. “It’s you, Anakin.”

Anakin blinks once, everything quickly falling into place, and feels like a complete idiot. Of course it’s Obi-Wan. He met Obi-Wan right when his book stops.

How had it never occurred to him?

And based on Obi-Wan’s sad but hopeful expression, his years of being an oblivious idiot have hurt his master.

“Oh,” Anakin manages to get out.

Obi-Wan deflates at that singles syllable, clearly misreading Anakin’s reaction. Before Anakin has time to fix his mistake, Obi-Wan opens his mouth to say, “I know your soulmate is Padme, but, well. If there’s any time to tell you it’s now. I finally understand how Satine feels. Felt.”

And if Anakin doesn’t feel like absolute garbage. Obi-Wan is already having a horrible day and Anakin has gone and forced him to bare his soul and

“It’s not Padme, it’s you,” Anakin says. Obi-Wan’s eyes widen. “I thought it was Padme for a long, long time. But. It’s not. Hers is one of her handmaidens. And mine is you.”

Obi-Wan still hasn’t moved, and Anakin decides to continue. “I didn’t realize until now, but I’ve been an idiot. My book finished writing right before I first met you. It never occurred to me until now-”

Obi-Wan hugs him. It’s been years since Obi-Wan has hugged him, but Anakin’s instincts cause him to bring his arms around him almost immediately. Obi-Wan squeezes him tightly to his chest and Anakin knows immediately that they’ll be fine. They’ll figure this out together.

They’ve always been the perfect team.

#star wars #obikin #my writing

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agent-jones · 4 years

Text

Jacklynn rambles about the Office of Never Was and Ianto’s characterisation

Hi! Okay so, a post made not long ago reminded me that I wanted to talk about the audio The Office of Never Was and the implications of Ianto’s actions within this story. So, this is going to be very spoilery, considering I will be specially talking about the ending of it mostly, please don’t read if you don’t want to be spoiled on this audio [ also there will be some spoilers for the TW1 box set Before the Fall ]

Right. I know this audio gets a mixed reaction, honestly I haven’t met a lot of people who really like it. And to be fair! I didn’t like it at first either. I thought it fucked with canon too much and the timelines didn’t make sense and Ianto’s characterisation at the end just makes you go ‘wait is he really doing this? This doesn’t feel like Ianto Jones to me.’ But, the more I analysed it for character study, the more it makes sense for him.

First, let’s talk timeline.

It is really hard to place this one, because no concrete evidence is given one way or another. We know that Ianto says ‘everyone had gone home, even you’ when making the recording for Jack, which implies it’s more than the three of them so that places it during s1 or s2. But, for me it’s three things that has me placing it during series one: 1. The way he talks about Lisa. His go to is still ‘she’s my girlfriend who was murdered’ and while yes, she will always be his girlfriend who was murdered, by series two, he and jack were in an actual relationship of some sort and he is much more one with the team, so I don’t think his first instinct would be Lisa anymore. When Claire asked him about having a girlfriend, series two Ianto probably would have mentioned Jack. 2. The fact that Torchwood decided to retcon all of the dead employees away from their loved ones is not in character for Torchwood Three and feels more like something Torchwood One would do. 3. I’m pretty sure someone asked James Goss on Twitter once and he said it was set in series one.

This would mean that the reason Ianto is being tormented here is something that he did while he was at Torchwood One, considering the man mentioned it had been about a year since it happened. But, Jacklynn, you say, Torchwood One is in London and this company was in Cardiff. Yes, however we have seen Yvonne travel to Cardiff before [ One Rule ] in order to simply take care of something, herself, and I would not put it past her to do it again. And why not send Ianto? He’s the perfect cover, Welsh. We never find out if Jack knew anything about what happened, and I feel like if Torchwood One caused that much of a problem, he would absolutely wipe his hands of it and tell Yvonne that it’s officially her problem [ and probably warn her to stay out of Cardiff ] and therefore never dealt with Ianto.

One thing about Ianto in Torchwood One, is that he follows Yvonne whether he believes her actions are completely right or not. This could be because of the trigger she put in his head to trust her anytime her name is said, or it could be his unfailing loyalty and people pleasing to a fault. Whatever it is, we learn in the Torchwood One box sets that he will definitely voice his displeasure, but in the end he will always follow Yvonne’s orders. So no, he didn’t make the decision to retcon everyone, but he did go through with helping do it and yeah, that sucks. But, it’s in character for him, and what was he going to do? Quit Torchwood and have the last three years of his life retconned away from him and go back to the life he had before that he wasn’t sure he wanted to survive? No. Does that excuse him? Of course not. But, Torchwood One was all about following orders. For Queen and Country, for a aense of duty.

Retconning himself to clear his conscious the first time, after retconning the dead employees’ families also seems out of character when you take into account that he refused to let Rachel retcon him after the mission where Pippa died. But, that’s because he didn’t trust Rachel. If Yvonne told him to retcon himself? I absolutely believe he would because he trusted her to have his best interest at heart; so often Yvonne showed that she truly cared for the people who worked at Torchwood [ even though she used people for hers and Torchwood’s gain ] and Ianto believed her. So yes, once again it’s him following orders and in a way justifying it to himself because why should anyone remember that kind of carnage and tragedy if they don’t have to?

Now, what he does at the end, retconning himself to leave the man for dead in the building, it’s dark. It’s brutal. It’s murder. Yeah. But, Ianto is not above this. I know that Ianto is made out, most of the time, to be this beacon of goodness. He’s empathetic and in the TW1 audios is considered Yvonne’s conscience. He wants to save the world. But, he’s also ruthless. He canonically killed about 12 people in cold blood because they were putting Jack’s and Gwen’s lives in danger [ Torchwood Consequences: Virus ]. He walked up to a man and put a taser between his eyes and said ‘pray they survive,’ because has anyone on the team died, Ianto was promising to come back and kill him [ Meat ]. He promised Mandy, a woman who saved him from hurting himself, he would kill her on sight if she ever returned to Cardiff because of what she did [ Broken ].

Ianto Jones will do what it takes to protect the innocent and he is not above exacting revenge.

Had Claire [ I know we don’t think that’s her real name but she liked it so I’m keeping it ] survived, had the man [ and I truly don’t remember his name whoops OH IT’S OLIVER ISNT IT? Not going back and changing it now, too late ] not simply labelled her as ‘collateral damage’ and shrugged the death he caused off, he probably would have survived. But, Ianto cared for that girl, he wanted to help her even though he knew she had something to do with his torment that night. It wasn’t her fault and he knew that and then Oliver killed her.

Ianto spent all night being psychologically tortured by this guy and then watched him shrug off an innocent girl’s death, then Oliver decided it was time for Ianto to die. I don’t care what he says, had Ianto not gotten the upper hand, Oliver absolutely would have left him for dead. He was lying to try to get Ianto to show mercy.

But, he was wrong about Ianto Jones. He underestimated him and that cost him his life.

Now, once again I have to say that I do not condone Ianto’s actions [ as I’ve said in my defence of Gwen post ] but, I understand why he did it. I absolutely do think it’s in character because Ianto absolutely has a certain darkness inside of him that allows him to kill when he deems necessary, we’ve seen it several times.

Do I believe that this means people shouldn’t like his character as much? Absolutely not. Isn’t the point of Torchwood that all of them are unlikable in some ways because they’re human and make mistakes? Yeah, killing is VERY BAD and shouldn’t be excused. But, it’s okay to still like a fictional character even though they’ve done things like this. There’s a difference between enjoying a character for who they are, even the bad, and condoning what they do.

But yes, this has been my ted talk on The Office of Never Was and why I believe it is in character and yes, I very much love this audio because I love seeing the glimpses of his ruthlessness.

#ianto jones #torchwood #; sorry this is so long #; but I hope people find it interesting!!#; I’ve spent too much time analysing this audio and his choices

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gal-with-pastels · 3 years

Text

The plot of mirrortale

Brief summary of mirrortale, please there may be some grammar errors please keep in mind that i made this awhile ago. and some of the wording may not make sense.

The monsters won the human monster war despite them being proclaimed weak, they won by having large numbers , the leadership and optimism of the king as well as his second in command undyne, the fire monster was able to pull through , despite the numerous causalities. monsters would become stronger with their attacks and defense.

humans were forced underground while monsters lived on the surface, the humans living in villages and slums in the underground , creating their own devices while on the surface monsters did the same, The monsters combine magic making the terrain of where they reside change drastically, the area after journeying through the barrier and war battlefield was called the hotlands , after that snowdin finally the waterfalls. the king and queen of the monsters had a son named asirel , who would be looked after by Muffet, the royal maid.

During this time the royal scientist , W.D gaster stumbled upon 2 skeletons , one being at least 5 with major fractures to his right eye, and the other being 1 with a small fracture to the top of his skull, the brothers were taken in by gaster , and named papyrus and sans. papyrus would go on to adore the royal knight undyne. during this time gaster had to do some simple tests on the brothers to see how their magic was, while papyrus had strong magic, his younger brother sans magic that was through the rough, stronger then any monster he ever seen, surpassing the kings, and being extremely unstable, to keep his magic in check the royal scientist gave the young skeleton a magic inhibitor in the shape of a heart to make sure his magic never spiraled out of control.

When the young prince turn 5 human girl named chara would sneak to the surface and meet him. he would later bring her back home and she would be adopted by the king and queen. but after 2 weeks a tragedy occurred, after sneaking out while Muffet was busy. the two managed to go to a cliff with the flowers forget me nots the kings favorite flowers. however the girl did not notice the cliff breaking underneath her , and began to fall, only for the young prince to grasp her hand , and began calling for help, both the king , queen and maid heard this yet they were too late , the prince lost his footing and fell off the cliff along with a human, leaving only a red human soul of determination and a single forget me not, both were taken by the king, the soul being given to gaster while the flower would be placed in at the ruins of the battlefield. for those that had lost their lives during the war, as well as the king and queens son.

A barrier would be placed in front of the entrance to the underground to prevent any humans from going through. little did the king know their was a gap in the barrier that humans could pass through, humans that would go through the barrier would never return their souls being contained and sent to gaster. humans would begin to fear going to the surface.

3 years after this , the queen toriel would begin going on explorations to places within the kingdom almost never coming back to the castle , while gaster would mentor a young determined monster named alphys who was very chilled and a smart talker along with his son sans. papyrus would go on to be a rookie of the royal guard and soon become a member of the royal guard. while that forget me not place in the ruins of the battle field , would come to life, with a case of amnesia on who he was.

Asgore on the other hand would lose his bright personality, and instead would fall into a mourning and depressed state,having anger stemmed from humans, as he believed that chara dragged asirel to his death rather than him trying to save her. never leaving his castle, the only time he does is to visit the place where his son died. having a garden filled with forget me nots.

years later a child named frisk with the soul of kindness would sneak through the gap in the barrier and be greeted a blue flower named flowey, who was very helpful of informing the child about what occurred after the war, and also tell them his wishes to explore around the surface rather than be stuck in one place. listening to his plea would find a helmet and place him into it bringing him along . as soon as they did they ran into the queen now explorer toriel, who cared for humans and monsters alike, having that same kind of motherly attitude she had once before looking out for others and helping others. She believed that incident that happened with her son was a mere accident yet her husband disagrees, would guide said human through the battlefield, encountering a boisterous dj ghost named naspstablook who became their friend after frisk listened to his banter. toriel would soon guide the child to the entrance of hotlands outskirts where flowey would have glimpses of his past as asriel.

In the hotland outskirts they would meet a skeleton named sans, who clumsily dropped some of his tools. at first he was extremely nervous and intimidated by frisk but soon became self confident of himself afters he sheepishly asked frisk to be his friend, which they accepted as well as flowey much to sans shock upon seeing the talking flower. leading them to his and his brothers home in the hotlands, but first went to grillby's after frisk boosted his confidence. grillby was a water monster that was able to bare the heat in the hotlands. and served various foods, sans ordering fries with mayo, when he asked frisk if it was weird they responded with not at all , while frisk order a cup of water to drink and water flowey. they would later spend the night over at sans shared home with his brother papyrus. where sans was able to make a pot for flowey to be placed in. and when they all had fallen asleep flowey would have more and more dreams about his past.

it wouldn't be long in the morning till his older brother got back from his royal guard duties would they're be a heated argument, between the two brothers, about letting frisk live . his older brother papyrus was similar to the famed undyne in personality, it was hard to read his emotions, he was an intimidating force, and disliked humans , and kept his cool in situations, and spoke in a monotone voice, an opposite to his brother sans who was very shy around lots of monsters and liked working in his garage on machines and new inventions, yet under that shyness is a monster who loves to talk and is extremely friendly, Protecting his friends.

Papyrus agreed to sans that he could take him to the start of the next town, snowdin ... as papyrus informed the the raging flame as known as the royal knight undyne that a human was on their way to snowdin and while sans frisk and flowey made their way through hotlands , sans thanked frisk for helping him build confidence in himself, and that he could make some new friends if he just be himself. After a sad goodbye, the Frisk would be forced into a battle with papyrus, who know was wielding a set of ray guns designed by gaster as the soul breakers. bantering on and on about how humans Changed the king from who he used to be. and lets just say, he breaks after frisk would not harm him and that they became his brothers friend, His brothers only friend. and would let them pass into snowdin where flowey would have another flashback where he learned his real name which was asriel.

the duo would soon be chased down through snowdin by the raging flame undyne, covered in molten armor, a monster that despite taking part in the human monster war was still young. while she used to be a raging flame,she is now a monster who likes having a fair fight against others and is much more mature than what she used to be. guarding the entrance to the water falls and demanding a fight, which frisk agrees but instead flees past undyne and into the the water falls, and when it seems as if undyne's fire would go out, frisk gives her an umbrella to protect her from the water pouring down . as she recovers her energy she salutes frisk for outwitting her and despite following the king , she swears to follow frisk as well, As she asks for the flowers name, she is shocked and filled with disbelief. telling frisk that they needs to bring their friend to the king. she would guide frisk but shes still recovering. as frisk and flowey carry on to the water falls where asirel has almost recovered all his memories.

They run into the smart talking, carefree and a bit cocky, horror movie loving mechanic/ scientist alphys and the fashion savvy robot named mettaton. When meeting and interacting with alphy's frisk notices that she is crushing on the raging flame undyne, which results in her personality altering into one that is extremely embarrassed, yet frisk and flowey decide to help alphy's out on asking out undyne which goes extremely well, and alphys's considered them a friend. Frisk also helps the green and white fashion designer mettaton out by wearing his hand made clothing and the residents of the waterfall adore his work and he thanks frisk by giving them a hug and calling them his greatest friend.

After heading to the castle, Asriel has his final flashback of him trying to help chara who was dangling off a cliff, due to him not being strong enoug, he and chara fell to their death's. With his memory is restored, he pleads with frisk to help him remove the barrier, which they agree.

They run into the castle maid muffet who recognizes asirel's voice, falling into tears apologizing that she didn't stop him and chara. Muffet was friendly and motherly maid that usually babysat asirel and chara. always baking them treats and goodies. attire consisting of a gown with the dreamurr emblem. informing them that the only person who could let them into the throne room was gaster. after going to his lab you could see various documents that informed frisk that a monster with unstable magic would dissolve or oddly become a species known as a gaster blaster. and their being 7 containers containing 6 human souls, the soul of determination belonging to chara while the empty container is if any human dares to go to the surface. after encountering the scientist who shows a very polite and kind demeanor, takes some tests to determine whether or not this human is telling the truth .. which turns out correct, he is fascinated by how asirel survived yet lets them into the throne room....

* the true ending would involve asgore being pushed aside by toriel and all of frisks and floweys friends they met along their journey, flowey telling asgore the truth about what happened long ago, and that he is asirel, After getting confirmation of this asgore is about to embrace the flower int a hug until.. the souls of the deceased children break out of their containers and forcefully merge with Asriel, who is consumed by the power, not being himself but instead a Psychotic deity who steals the memories of frisk's friends and is determined to consume frisk's soul of kindness to be complete, after Returning her friends memories, Frisks soul is literally plucked from her body and absorbed by asirel, yet she is alive in a dark void with the only things visible are the 6 human souls , she talks to each human soul, telling them they can finally rest easy now . The only one remaining being chara , the soul of determination, who manifests into her alive form , Crying on how its her fault that they died, That all this happened because she wasn't being careful and some long needed comfort, Chara accepts her fate to move on , and the souls including chara and frisks eject themselves from asirel body and begin spiraling around his form, with the power of their souls combined, They were able to return asirel back to his original form . and after a sad goodbye from chara, the barrier is broken, the king becomes his old self again, the queen returns to the castle and frisk is adopted as the king and queens child along with asriel.

*the neutral ending would have frisk facing off against the king , killing him would result in frisk breaking the barrier from their LVL. leaving flowey to mourn why they did this. Sans can also become the final boss of this route if frisk kills papyrus, which would result in sans removing his magic inhibitor and be in the middle stage of a transformation into a gaster blaster. To note that sans is aware of the resets but cant remember anything past his transformation.

* In the genocide ending sans will become a boss 2 times, once in his mid transformation stage at the Start of snowdin and encountered one last time in the throne room as a large beast nicknamed the alpha gaster blaster, a large gaster blaster with a skeletal body who has gone feral due to his emotions.

#Mirrortale #Mirrortale plot #undertale au #my au #Undetale

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helenaofdevon · 3 years

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HELENA GREY : COUNTESS OF DEVON

BULLETPOINTS:

NAME: Helena Courtenay nee Grey

AGE / D.O.B.: 25 || August 22nd, 1534

STATUS / RANK: Countess of Devon

COUNTRY OF ORIGIN: England

PLACE OF BIRTH: Bradgate House, Bradgate Park, Leicestershire - England

BIRTH ORDER: Second

MOTHER & FATHER: Frances Brandon & Henry Grey

SIBLINGS: Two, an elder and younger sister

SEXUALITY: bisexual biromantic

HOROSCOPE: Leo. ( leo virgo cusp )

VIRTUES: dynamic, perspicacious, authentic

VICES: strong-willed, opinionated calculative

MARITAL STATUS: married to nicholas courtenay, earl of devon

ISSUE: n/a

RELIGION: roman catholic / protestant. raised in a religiously divided house. is well versed in both

ALLIES: to be announced...

ADVERSARIES: to be announced...

TIMELINE:

approx. 1492 – mary tudor, is born ten months after her brother, henry viii

early 1533 – wedding of frances brandon and henry grey, the marquess of dorset with permission from their parents as both are young and in love.

22 August 1534 – helena grey is born, she is the second child of couple

approx. 1540 – frances brandon with the approval of her husband begins to educate her daughters at Bradgate House. several clergy knowledgeable in all subjects and both protestant and catholic are commission in the private education of the girls. the youngest is still to small to start lessons.

approx 1551 / 52 – Helena's elder sister is likely married off. Helena is officially presented at court ( despite having grown up within it to an extent )

early 1554 – Helena Grey is precontracted to Nicholas Courtenay but Henry Grey dies of natural causes ( sickness ). Formal marriage arrangements thusly drag on for sometime for various reasons

late 1556 – Helena Grey formally marries Nicholas Courtenay

November 1558 – Helena's fahter in law and husband are arrested & tried ( the courtenay conspiracy ); cousin william pardons Col but exectued Hugh Courtenay thus making Col the new earl or devon; Helena is made countess of Devon

IN CHARACTER INFORMATION.

NAME & TITLE/ROLE: helena grey, countess of devon

MONIKER: the empyreal

AGE: 25

FACECLAIM: alicia vikander

THREE POSITIVE TRAITS: dynamic, perspicacious, authentic

THREE NEGATIVE TRAITS: strong-willed, opinionated calculative

BIOGRAPHY:

A single decision changes the world from what it might have been. With a twist of fate or a turn of time in a direction that alters its ineffable course and what we know is no longer the truth hidden within the pages of a new history. So a family line is both royal adjacent and equally as royal as the one that rules. The grandson of the stepson of Edward IV would marry the Wotton girl and Henry Grey, Marquess of Dorset would be brought forth into the world. Frances Brandon would also be born of Mary Tudor, the youngest surviving child of Henry VII and sister to Henry VIII. The two would marry and they would have three daughters and no sons and that would be an absolute facet of time - a fixed point that would remain unchanged in this or any other reality. Rather one should state that events before the birth of these two individuals had changed setting an entirely new course when ten months after the birth of a future king his sister Mary Tudor was then born. Altered forever was the flow of time and so became a possibility for a different set of Grey sisters to be born. It would not change though the fact their blood would mark them as dangerous and would call into question those would they attach themselves to as royal lines no matter how distant were quite troublesome.

Helena Grey would be born the second daughter and middle child of her parents and born perhaps as one of the most miraculous women. Each Grey sister was something to behold and wonder just the same but a girl would stand out. Helena had many passions and a zest for life and yet was capable of being a rather rooted person who was loyal, kind, and quite perspicacious. She was not her elder sister who was by default their example nor the younger sister who was beloved as the youngest and final child. A girl however in any situation even from the smallest age took charge and was the leader of the small band of girls. In the days of early youth, there were a gaggle of giggles and many games to be played in the various halls causing little ones to be a source of mild trouble and much entertainment which she was generally at the heart of. She would have an interesting youth and her mother would see that each of her girls was incredibly well educated in a religiously divided household. Helena excelled in her studies as tutors ( many of them various clergy from both the catholic and protestant faith ) taught her various languages and to read and write many of them and more. She danced and swirled through everyone’s lives and one could rightfully argue even as a young girl you were forever changed by her presence and the life and light she brought to any situation.

All was not so wondrous but time and age cover massive events that would come into play years later. Helena was more than well aware of family history and the lines that twisted and crossed and broke out into branches that had started civil wars and uprisings. Lady Helena knew many people's real faces behind the masks they wore at court, having been a favorite as her mother once was of the king. After all one learns to play the game or to become the one being played. There were so many rules, so many unwritten codes and all the world swirled with intrigue and Helena navigated the water thusly earning to her name several handfuls of friends but suffered no fools as her companions - especially as many a person with loftier ambitions would seek out noble blood with royal ties with no sort of good intention. Helena, not that she wasn't already strong-willed and having a smart tongue, learned she had a sharp one and an eye for false intention despite her Christian ways being told a woman was to be meek and forgiving of her fellow man.

There were suitors indeed interested in the girl even before she became available to marry, even before her elder sister was wed. Who could deny she had a draw and one enjoyed being around her never short on a conversation or any pleasantly stimulating amount of time spent but in truth, Helena would've rather not married at all. She was of an independent mind, not keen on being tied to a man whom she barely knew and her parents chose. Truly even court despite her deep love for people and being a point of focus would've rather spent her time in the country reading books. living fully and caring for horses and dogs and the idea of a small gaggle of children she could return to either sister not enjoying the idea of settling. Life was to be lived and well and perhaps Helena had ideas of what she wanted. It certainly wasn't the men that presented themselves especially after the elder sister wed with Helena being even more pushed to the forefront than she had naturally been with her personality. When Helena set eyes on Nicholas Courtenay a young woman knew what she wanted or rather who she would desire to marry if one must marry. She saw in him an equal partner, one who would respect and cherish her, one she would be willing to call husband and he did indeed make her laugh. It never fully occurred to her either that her interest and yes eventual marriage to the man would have quietly been considered a potentially problematic union. Two descendants of separate plantagenet lines could've been construed as a suspicious and powerful marriage politically. Was it what both of their parents had intended when a match was brokered? Could there have been a moment while walking past her father's study and the door was slightly ajar that two men may have quietly conspired something more in marrying the two? What could've been considered suspicious about two men with some ambition whispering amongst themselves? Helena would never know what was truly discussed in that room as her father died in 1554, narrowly avoiding the fate his friend would suffer later dying of a sickness that would take him off his head suffering the effects of fevers and other health issues. That was not the actual tragedy a young woman would suffer for it would come later once she was married to Col.

Helena, like all the world, mourned her great uncle's passing. The death of a king was nothing easy to stomach especially after the death of her father though years apart. She did not expect however when her father-in-law mourned the death of a friend and distant cousin that it would break open a well building up inside him for years. Hugh Courtenay had become a father to Helena since joining their house, he was indeed a dear companion of hers and she cared for her father and mother in law but saw nothing of what was to come. A series of letters poured out from her father in law's hands with many damning words and the attention it thus shined on Col and herself. Ugly words and pointed accusations were made during an investigation into the letters that her marriage in connection with the things Hugh Courtenay was writing was the beginning of some great conspiracy to seat someone else on the throne and other such aspirations tied with Catholic strings. Helena watched the trial drag on and saw a Queen push for the death of both the young lady's father in law and her husband as well. For a brief moment, Helena could nearly feel the axe on her own neck had both a husband and father-in-law been executed - she imagined and expected the worst. Thankfully, truly as Helena would see it, cousin William would intervene but only on behalf of Nicholas. Her husband's charges were dismissed but Helena watched like many others did the execution of her father-in-law to again serve as a warning not to attempt anything similar or remotely considered treasonous.

As war knocks at the doorsteps of England now and spreads across europe Helena finds herself in a precarious position. She is a well connected woman among the court and is popular among the people and abroad through her correspondence with many individuals who have strong opinions with the ears of leaders and influential beings. Helena is of royal blood as is her husband and both were well educated and dynamic.. One would be foolish not to be suspicious of the two especially after her husband's father, the late Earl of Devon's beheading. If so motivated and aligned they could pose a serious threat - a credible one. The woman is well within her rights to be angry, to seek revenge as her husband may desire but Helena is loyal and more concerned about the whole of England rather than vengeance. She worries over her husband though not fully knowing where his mind is at with the state of his depleted family and if she should be suspicious of his thoughts. If they were to err on the side of the whispers and suspicions of those who would see them as adversaries Helena would be divided between love and loyalty to country. It is a strange world, another time entirely in which to be alive but if anyone can play the game and come out on the other side it may be this woman..

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

at the moment none that I can think of but I would adore any and all plotting to create something truly wonderful.

OUT OF CHARACTER INFORMATION.

NAME / ALIAS: eden

AGE: 26

TIMEZONE: est

DISCORD USERNAME: edenzini

#biography : helena #abouthel

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jihyuncompass · 4 years

Text

Inspired by this Royalty AU I wrote last month. Will I ever expand on this? Maybe who knows.

Jihyun Week 2020 Day One ( @mysme-events )

Fairy Tale

Jihyun Kim x MC

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Mentions of violence

Summary: You receive a mysterious letter summoning you to the castle. The only problem is, the person who sent it has been dead for over a year.

The letter arrived on a warm summer’s day. It arrived in a beautiful envelope closed with the brightly colored wax seal of the King. You turned the letter over in your hands multiple times. As if trying to determine its authenticity. After a moment you gently tore open the letter to read the contents of the letter.

At the Royal Request of Queen Rika you have been officially summoned to the Palace to meet with her royal highnesses.

Reading the letter over and over you couldn’t believe what you were reading. You wondered if this letter could possibly be real, but looking at the seal, at the stationary, at the signature. There was almost no doubt in your mind that this had to have come from the palace. There was only one problem with the letter.

Queen Rika had been dead for over a year.

Holding the letter in your hand you slowly approached the palace. You’d travelled for hours to finally arrive at the palace only days after receiving the original letter. The palace in front of you was large and intimidating. You swallowed the lump in your throat and took a bold step forward.

A guard stopped you where you promptly presented the letter. Making particular care to show off the official wax seal on the envelope. The guards let them through into the palace guiding them to where they could meet with one of the King’s advisor’s first. Waiting patiently they clutched the letter in their hands. Their knees bounced under the table.

Head royal advisor Jumin Han and secondary royal advisor Jaehee Kang entered the room. Both dressed elegantly and professionally. They sat across from them, Jumin’s eyes analyzing every detail, and based on the way he looked at them he wasn’t very impressed.

“We were informed by one of the guards that you received a letter summoning you to the palace?” Jaehee Kang asked. You slid the letter across the table, Jumin delicately picked it up. His fingers ran over the wax seal, and then read over the contents of the letter. Jumin’s brow furrowed.

“Strange.” Jumin muttered.

“That’s, that is the royal seal, and the official stationary.” Jaehee whispered. They were silent before Jumin finished the thought.

“However, it’s impossible that this was sent by the Queen. She departed from this world over a year ago now.” Jumin explained.

You sat up straighter. “Then who sent me this?”

“That’s a good question.” Jumin said. “This must have been sent from the palace if they used the official seal.” Jumin stood up from his seat, still holding the letter in his hand. “I must speak urgently with the King about this. Until then, then you will need to stay here.” You nodded, quickly watching the two advisors leave the room. Jaehee giving you a quick look before the door shut behind her.

Within the next two hours you were moved into a different room, a much larger, much grander room. Where you were met with the two royal advisors again, a young knight, and a strange young man with bright red hair. They all sat around the table, looking at you with looks of confusion and guarded hesitation.

The room was silent until the final person entered the room. His entrance caused the whole room to stand and bow in respect. You were struck silent as you locked eyes with the King.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected from him. You had expected him to have this intimidating presence, one that oozed power and control. The king standing in front of you however was not like this. He glanced at you with kind, warm eyes. He almost didn’t look like a King, he seemed like anyone else in the world.

“My name is V.” The King said. “May I ask your name?”

“MC, your highness.” You bowed a little more. V gave you a gentle smile and motioned for you to sit. Taking his order you sat back down in your chair. Rubbing your hands together anxiously out of sight under the table.

Jumin set the letter in front of the King. “They received this letter, supposedly from the palace.” V picked up the letter, reading it over multiple times. His face was hard to read, but based on his silence you could assume he also was confused by the letter.

“Rika.” V whispered. “She sent this?”

“How is that possible?” Jumin asked first. “Considering her death-”

“Her disappearance.” A young blonde knight interrupted. Jumin looked over at the boy, giving him a stern but sympathetic look.

“Yes. Considering Queen Rika’s disappearance was over a year ago now it doesn’t seem possible that she could have sent this letter.” Jumin finished. The young blonde Knight was looking down at his feet.

“Maybe she’s still alive?” The same blonde Knight asked. Jaehee shook her head, glancing at the letter still in the King’s hands.

“It’s far more likely Yoosung, that someone within the palace sent this. Even if her highness was still alive, how would she have access to the royal seal?” The knight, Yoosung looked back down. Just by looking at him you could see something was going through his head. Though you didn’t know what it could be.

You cleared your throat to gain the courage to speak. “But, regardless of who sent it. Why me?” The question left the room silent.

“That’s a good question.” The redhead said. He hadn’t spoken much in the meeting but now he was watching you intently. “You don’t have any connections with anyone in the royal court? In this Kingdom or another?” You shook your head.

“I’m just an ordinary person.”

“Whatever the reason.” V said, finally tearing his eyes away from the letter. “I want to take this as some kind of sign.” You attempted to not let your confusion show on your face, but before you could try, Jumin had already taken the words out of your mouth.

“What kind of sign?” The King looked up and into your eyes.

“Perhaps you were chosen for something we don’t understand quite yet.” The room seemed unsure of the King’s answer. “I think, until we are sure of the reason why you were brought here, and who it was who sent the letter, you should stay here in the palace.”

A plan was concocted from that point, you were asked to go under a different identity, masking yourself as a member of the nobility from another kingdom. The backstory given to you was that you had been sent here for a possible political marriage for the King, to bring good relations between two kingdoms. Arriving with you was your most trusted Knight, Seven. Who in reality, was the redheaded boy you learned was a spy by the name of Luciel. And until the purpose and sender of the letter was discovered, you were to stay in the palace, acting in this role.

Sitting in your newly appointed chambers you thought back to your meeting with the King. He hadn’t spoken much, but he also was the one who suggested that you stay here in the palace. However, the thing that kept getting to you was the comment Yoosung had made. Supposedly the Queen had died of some kind of tragedy over a year ago, however based on the comment made it sounds like the Queen just disappeared and is believed to be dead.

You thought for a while when a knock broke you out of your thoughts. Brushing yourself off you walked towards the door. Most likely it was Luciel again, to check up on you and make sure everything is clear and you know what you’re doing.

What you did not expect was for the King to be on the other side.

“Your highness.” You bowed to him, he looked a bit sheepish but accepted the bow. “How may I help you?” He looked around the corridor before turning back to you.

“If it’s alright, may I come inside?” You tried not to stutter but you made room for V to enter the room. It was strange watching him, you knew that he was the King, he should have this intimidating atmosphere. Yet being near him you didn’t feel intimidating, he almost didn’t feel like a King. He sat down at the small table in the corner of the room and motioned for you to sit across from him.

You kept your hands folded in your lap. “Is there something you wanted to discuss with your majesty?” You asked him.

“Please,” He started. “In private please call me V.” You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded.

“Alright. V.” You said slowly. The words felt strange coming from you, but he seemed to visibly relax when you called him his name.

He cleared his throat. “I wanted to speak with you privately, I understand this whole situation must be very stressful for you.” You shrugged. “However, I hope you understand how strange this situation is. All we want is to know who sent you here, and for what reason.” You nodded, the King, no V seemed gentle, but the longer you looked at his face the sadness that seemed to be etched there seemed more pronounced.

“Thank you for your concern, and I really don’t mind. This situation is rather… concerning.” You said. Looking at him again, you tried to take in the little details in his face. The things you hadn’t noticed before. “And, I’m sorry about the Queen. It’s truly a tragedy what happened.” The king looked down at his feet, looking at him from this angle you thought you could see something. Like a small scar just above his eyelids. Matching ones on each eye.

You didn’t get a good look before he sat up straight again. “Thank you, it’s. It’s still difficult but I appreciate your words.” He smiled, a small pained smile. “And I hope you know that I want you to be as comfortable as possible here. So if there’s anything that can be done to help you feel comfortable. Please let me or my advisors know alright?”

“Yes. I will thank you.” You smiled back. The two of you locked eyes, staring at each other in silence for quite a while. Until V finally broke the silence between the two of you.

“I have no doubt that this double life you will have to lead will be difficult. But I promise I will be there to support you and help in any way possible.” Even though you didn’t know him well you could tell he was being honest with you. You gave him a genuine smile. Feeling just the littlest bit assured.

The next few weeks went by quickly, days were spent walking around the palace grounds. Anytime you left your chambers Luciel would follow you around, pretending to be your knight. In that time you had time to get to know him well. He told you about how the King and Queen had saved his life by giving him his job, and how he owes his life to them.

You also grew closer with the rest of the royal court. You learned more about the two royal advisors, how Jumin and V had grown up together and had an unbreakable trust between them. With time you learned that Queen Rika was the young knight Yoosung’s cousin. Who he was supposedly very close with. Then, how much her disappearance had affected him. You had also met the King’s favorite bard, a handsome young man named Zen, who always spoke to you kindly and sang the most beautiful songs.

During this time you grew close with the King as well. The two of you were often expected to stay close to one another, you shared meals together and spent many of your evenings in conversation with him.

However, despite this you still found him distant towards you. Not that he was cruel, far from it. He treated you with the utmost care and attention, but he rarely talked about himself. Most of the conversations were spent with him asking you questions and avoiding answering when you asked him the same ones. At a point, you tried to be careful, wanting to respect his privacy, worried that you’d offended him. Even if he would never say if you ever did.

By this point a couple of months had passed since the original arrival of the letter. You’d grown fairly accustomed to your life in the palace. However questions still gnawed at you. No matter how much you tried to push it aside, that thing Yoosung had said on your first day still stuck with you.

This evening you sat alone with V in his chambers. Sharing cups of tea, and discussing whatever came to mind. You had waited until he seemed comfortable to ask your question.

“V. can I ask you something?” He looked up at you, he seemed confused, but also curious.

“Yes, of course. What’s on your mind?” You looked down at your hands, shooting a glance upwards your eyes found themselves back on the two matching scars on his eyelids. So subtle you usually hardly noticed them unless you were looking.

“What happened to your eyes?” You asked. V stopped, he was silent for a moment, before collecting himself to speak.

“My eyes are fine, why do you ask?” Hearing his words you couldn’t believe him. You had spent too much time with him, paid enough attention to know that there had to be something going on with his vision.

Gathering your courage you pressed further. “V, I know there’s something wrong with them. You’re always squinting and have a hard time reading things. I saw how you had Jumin read out that document at the banquet the other night.” He looked at you, his expression was guarded, almost fearful. “And. I can see the marks on your eyelids, they look like scars.” V inhaled sharply. He stayed quiet though, seemingly trying to piece his thoughts together into an answer.

“I got in a bit of an accident a while back, my eyes are okay.”

“Can you see very well?”

“My vision has been impacted somewhat-” He sighed. “I’ll be fine. I appreciate your concern but I promise you. My eyes are okay now.” You nodded, despite his assurances there still lived some doubt, but you didn’t want to push him too much. Even if you had grown closer in the weeks since you arrived at the palace you didn’t feel comfortable yet pushing him like that. However, a small comment couldn’t hurt.

“V. I know you haven’t known me as long as Jumin, or the others but you don’t have to hide things from me. I trust you, and I’m not going to betray your trust.” V glanced up at you. Looking at you with his hazy eyes you saw his hand take your’s which was resting on the table.

Thank you, I still don’t feel that I am deserving of your kindness but, your words are very thoughtful.” You stared at each other until V looked back down, the tips of his ears turning red. He held onto your hand for a while longer, seeming to savor the contact. “I should let you go now, it’s starting to get late. Be safe tonight.” He let go of your hand, though you could see the resistance in his face.

“You too. Have a good night.” You slowly left the room. Walking back to your chambers, covertly cradling the hand V had been holding. Unable to forget the feeling of him holding onto your hand, the smallest of smiles on your face accompanied by the rapid beating of your heart.

On the 6th week of your time in the royal court you found a letter on your bed. This one, using the same stationary, and the same wax seal as the first one. Your heart raced in your chest as you gingerly lifted the envelope.

Opening the wax seal you pulled out a card.

The King is a Liar.

Your eyes read over the card over and over again. By the look of the handwriting, it looked to be the same handwriting as the first letter you’d originally received. You read the card over multiple times, your heart felt like it was in your throat.

Multiple things went through your mind. First, in order for the letter to be here that must mean that whoever originally sent the letter must know who you are, and know where in the castle you’re staying. In the six weeks you’d been staying in the castle, your identity and your role had been left very private as a way to keep yourself safe. This stranger however, seemed to know. The other thought and the one that seemed to sink the deepest into your soul. What exactly did the message mean? What was V lying about?

You kept the letter in your pocket during dinner that night. You sat next between V on your right and Jaehee on your right. You listened to Zen as he performed tonight’s ballads. In your time you had really grown to enjoy the sound of his performances.

Glancing over to V he seemed to be entertained by the music. Once V had told you about how he met Zen when he was a younger man, how Queen Rika had heard him performing on the streets and asked him to perform for the palace. That story was one of the many where the longing in V’s expression became more prominent.

The letter felt like it was burning a hole in your pocket, you wanted to ask V about it, try and get some kind of information out of him, but you would need to pull him aside in order to talk to him.

You weren’t angry with him, not by any means, but you also were more than aware you needed some answers. There still seemed to be so many things about this situation you didn’t know. And you weren’t about to make yourself a pawn in someone else’s game.

You waited until the end of the meal to ask to speak to him. He seemed a bit confused, but agreed with your request. You walked down to his chambers where the two of you would have the chance to talk.

“Is everything alright? You seem a bit off today.” V asked. Looking at him there was genuine concern in his eyes. Looking at him you hesitated, but the weight of the letter in your pocket reminded you of what you needed to do.

“V.” You took a breath. “I need you to tell me the truth.”

His head cocked to the side. “The truth about what?”

“What really happened to Queen Rika?” He seemed confused still. You pulled the letter from your pocket and handed it to him. He took the letter from your hand, reading the card. Holding the card you saw how his hands were shaking.

“I never lied to you.” V said, looking up. “I swear, I-” He looked down at the letter.

You pressed your lips together but pushed. “What happened to her the night she disappeared?” He set the letter down on the table, swallowing thickly.

“Rika, was such a beautiful person.” He started. “And I loved her, so much but-” He cleared his throat. Even speaking on this he seemed to be struggling to continue, however he carried on. “We had gotten into an argument, we fought for hours and hours and then she.” He shook his head, tears were in his eyes now, threatening to fall down his cheeks. He reached up and touched the scars on his eyelids “She left. And I haven’t seen her since.” You watched his hands over his eyes. A realization starting to dawn on you.

“Did. Did Rika hurt your eyes?” You stepped forward towards him, he’d said it was an accident, but the longer he stood there. Hands covering his scars, you felt that couldn’t possibly be the case.

“It was my fault,” He said. “If I had listened to her more, if I had cared for her more, if I-”

“Did Rika do that to you?” You asked again. V moved his hands away from his face, his increasingly unfocused blue eyes directed at you.

“Yes.”

Without another thought you raced forward and embraced him. Pressing your face into his chest. He quietly gasped, looking down at you. He didn’t know what to say, or even how to react. Just a moment ago he thought you were furious with him, ready to leave this castle, ready to blame him for not telling you everything. Yet here you stood, embracing him.

“It isn’t your fault.” You said, muffled. “I don’t know what exactly happened, and I don’t know the Queen but. You didn’t deserve to be hurt like that.” V still stood still, processing everything you were saying. “I’m sure you loved her the best way you could, if you treated her like you treat me, or anyone else. I’m sure she was extremely loved.” You heard a sniffle from above you and pulling back you saw V, with tears falling and his whole body shaking.

“I-I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “You’re so kind, and I-”

“V, you don’t have to say you’re sorry. I shouldn’t have upset you. I apologize. Maybe, maybe I should go back to my chambers.” You stepped back but V stepped forward.

“Please stay.” He begged. “I don’t want you to go.” Slowly you took his hand, leading him to sit down. Sitting next to him he didn’t let go of your hand, almost needing it to keep himself grounded.

You spent several moments in silence, letting him calm himself down. It admittedly felt strange, seeing the King look so tired, so emotional but you held tight to his hand and comforted him nonetheless. More than being the King, he was someone you cared for.

After a while he took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair.

“You know, I don’t think anyone has truly comforted me before.” You looked at him. “You, you’re something so special. I don’t know why you were brought here, but I can’t deny how grateful I am for you.” You smiled at him.

“I’m glad I’ve gotten to meet you.” You said, the two of you locked eyes, and despite the damage done, he was still looking right into your eyes. Anxiously V lifted a hand to touch your cheek, leaning in to press his lips gently against yours. Shutting your eyes you pressed against him, still holding tight to his other hand. A warm, happy fluttery feeling in your chest, and a desire for this moment to never end.

On the last day of your eleventh week in the castle you had spent most of the evening with V, by this point this had become a common occurrence. The fake interest you had originally had to show to each other publicly became genuine and earnest. You laid with him on the plush lounge chair in his chambers. You laid with your head resting on his chest, V reading out loud to you.

“You look tired.” V said, his arm around your shoulder raising up to play with your hair. “Perhaps it’s time for us to say goodnight.”

“We’re almost finished with the book.” You said, V laughed and kissed your forehead.

“The book will be here tomorrow, and you need your rest.” Knowing he was right you slowly lifted yourself up to sit. V following suit. You leaned back to kiss him, holding him close for only a brief second.

“Goodnight, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He smiled and whispered to you.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, my love.”

The walk back to your chambers was quiet, by this point your “knight” was probably asleep but after receiving the letter you had been moved to a different room to be closer to V where it would be easier to keep you safe.

Shutting your door behind you there was a sound of shuffling. And turning around you froze in your place at the sight of a stranger.

Bright green eyes, unnatural hair, and an official royal wax sealed letter between his fingers.

#mystic messenger #mysme #jihyunweek2020 #v mysme #jihyun kim #kim jihyun #v #fanfiction #v x mc #jihyun x mc

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not-from-the-absence-of-violence · 4 years

Text

A whisper weighed upon the tattered down where you and I were lying

You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back. ~Richard Siken

Sometimes Travis dreams and sometimes the happy ones hurt more than any nightmare could.

“Should we buy honey, William?” Margaret says, holding up a pot up to him questiongly.

He blinks, taking in his surroundings. He’s at some sort of market in the central square of a village. His village. The sun is shining high in the sky.

“Sorry?” he says to his wife.

She rolls her eyes, placing the jar in her bag and handing the merchant some money. She smiles though, and still they walk with their arms intertwined.

“You are distracted today,” she says, lightheartedly.

He holds her hand tighter, but smiles. “It’s nothing,” he says, “I’m just thinking.”

She snorts. “Thinking? About what, dear?” she says teasingly.

He sighs overdramatically. “You always make fun of me, Margaret,” he says, voice full of put upon dramatics, “And here I thought you were supposed to love me unconditionally, or whatever.”

They both burst out laughing, and he feels the background worry and knowledge fade away. They buy the rest of their things and start heading home by the time the darkness starts creeping over the horizon.

As they approach their home, everything is so idyllic it feels wrong. It’s a small house at the edge of a town, surrounded by lush forests, painted some artful colour. There are plants growing gracefully down one side of it.

Travis’ resolve to maintain his faith that this is real wavers as he sees their ridiculous home. It breaks even more as he finds himself opening the door and there’s a kid standing in the hallway. She isn’t a spitting image of her mother, but she has her curly brown hair, neatly put into two puffy ponytails.

She unmistakably has his eyes.

She smiles and runs towards him, throwing herself into his arms. "Dad!" she says. She can’t be older than five. "You’re home!"

Her weight is so real in his arms, for a moment Travis lets himself believe and hugs her back. She makes a little noise of delight. Margaret is smiling in the doorway, she stands to kiss her daughter’s head before making her way towards the kitchen.

He wants so very badly to believe this is real. That’s the problem with lucid dreaming, you are always so painfully aware of the unreality around you. But Travis Matagot has spent decades mastering pretending and repressing, and so he smiles and carries his daughter into the kitchen.

"So what are we eating tonight?" he asks.

It doesn’t actually matter what they are eating, it’s something warm and nice and completely devoid of meaning anyway. He hears the meaningless chatter around the table, and he probably joins in. He’s happy to just let this wash over him. He doesn’t eat, but at the end of the meal he finds his plate empty and his belly full anyway.

It's fully dark now, and he knows it’s time to tuck Hope into bed. She wants to be read to and Travis obliges, almost on autopilot. The story is some garbled nonsense and she falls asleep in no time.

Once she’s asleep, he stands there and looks at her, so small, so fragile, so utterly dependent on him. She has that sort of childish devotion too, she loves him, trusts him with everything. It’s terrifying, more than any horrible nightmare he could have. It's almost ironic really, that one of his biggest fears is his own child sleeping safely under his watchful eye.

Margaret leads him out of the room, with some mumbling about sleep. Suddenly Travis feels tired and yawns without meaning to. They get undressed and she climbs into bed in silence. He stares at her for a while, in bed with her hair let down and an expression of satisfied peace on her face. It aches.

He stares for long until she pats the bed next to her. He slips into the covers and her warmth feels so real. How come he can remember her smell so well? Something like a river bank and spring flowers.

Travis lays his head just under her neck, she plays with his hair and he tries to just not think so much. She's humming a song she wouldn't know because it was composed about thirty years after her death. He hasn't changed, of course. Maybe the Queen doesn't even exist in this corner of his mind.

"You will have to leave," Margaret says abruptly, although not unkindly.

Travis groans. "Maybe I don't," he says and firmly closes his eyes, trying not to see her face.

She lifts his chin up to meet her gaze anyway, and it hurts, fuck, it hurts to see her look at him like this.

"Travis," she says, he flinches, she never would have called him that. "We both know you always wake up eventually."

"We usually don't have a kid." His voice cracks on the end of the sentence.

"It's because you’ve been thinking about it, probably."

He knows this isn't Margaret. She is a thing stitched of memories, of things he saw in her, of the Margaret he has now.

Partially she's just him, bouncing him thoughts he would like to not examine when he is awake. Today’s Margaret's treatment had helped, of course, but it had opened doors with things behind them Travis had almost managed to forget about.

"Why don't I at least believe it's true," he laments, "Why don't I get to live my perfect world or whatever, at least for like a night?"

"I don’t think that’s what this is," she tells him.

He knows that, but he asks anyway. "What do you think it is, then?"

"You don't actually want to know."

He lays his head back on her chest, listening to the phantom beating of her heart. "I know you’ll tell me anyway."

She hums. Her hands are back in his hair. "I think," she starts, "Partially this is a place you believe you could have ended up, if your mother hadn't died, if your father had been kinder, if the world hadn't ended, if you hadn't walked into that wretched forest."

He vaguely hums in acknowledgement, and for once he doesn't interrupt.

"Maybe then, you would have settled down in a small town, with your wife. You would have wanted and would've gotten a kid. Been a great father."

She trails off, he doesn't look at her.

"I guess," he says. "You said partially?"

"This is what you wish you wanted, too."

He tenses up. "I do want this."

She shakes her head, and even without looking at her he can picture her face clearly, the exasperated fondness mixed with that horrid melancholy.

"We both know that's not true," she says.

There’s a pause. Travis doesn’t know if he's angry or guilty or relieved.

"Come on, Travis," she says, being so very kind, so patient.

They hadn’t been like this, him and Margaret. They’d been so young, in the grand scheme of things. They’d liked going to bars and beating everybody at Illimat and running small schemes and violating curfew and running from law enforcers. Margaret had been kind to him, but she could bite back just as viciously as he could. It had worked so well. At the time they were both just mildly dysfunctional people, and they’d truly brought out the best in each other. They were reckless and they had gotten married with blood oaths, which people had advised against. They’d been told such things just invite tragedy.

And they had both been so very afraid when Margaret had noticed she was pregnant.

"I remember," Travis said, he could hear the waver in his voice "That you said we should find a Black Lily, or a doctor, or maybe we…" he trailed off, not wanting the tears to spill from his eyes.

"We never got to weigh our options,” Margaret says.

William hadn't wanted children. He was afraid of what he knew you could do to a child, he was afraid of outliving his own kid, he didn't want to give his long dead father the satisfaction. And every single bit of relief he had ever felt about it not being a problem anymore had been met with guilt in a tenfold.

"We didn't want this," she said, "I didn't want this." Margaret would not have settled for a weirdly perfect life passively weaving and cooking dinners. William would not have coped well either. The two of them had been master con artists and reckless young lovers.

"I wouldn't have left you," he says.

She kisses his hair and murmurs "I know, my love, I know."

Travis Matagot would have left, of course, right at dawn, unable to face any of this. But he knows that William would have tried. William would have stayed and he would have been broken and afraid but he would have stayed and he would have faced it all.

If it had come to that, then he knows they would have been unfit, stumbling parents. It would have been messy and just a bit broken, and they would have found a way, because together they usually had. It wouldn't end in a perfect village with normal jobs and no heartbreak, not even back then.

And then William had died alongside her in the depths of the river.

She smiles like she knows what he's thinking, which she probably does, as she’s nothing more than a shade of his own subconscious.

"We would have made the best of it," she says, "But none of that would have led us here because then you wouldn't be you, and I loved you. Even the parts you believe unlovable, even the ones that led you to be the broken man you are now, and especially the ones that made you yearn for more than this."

They sit in the silence of that, but Travis still doesn't wake up. "There’s more to this, isn't there," he says, sighing. There’s always more to it.

"You don't actually want to go back anymore, and that scares you."

He flinches and sits up angrily. “I don’t know what you mean.”

When she speaks, there’s a bit of the real bite she would have had in her voice. “Yes, you do.”

"I didn't want you to die!" he says. His hands are shaking in his lap. He's crying, trying to focus on a point on the wall, trying to wake up.

"Gable isn't here," she says, "And neither is Jonnit, and you wish you wanted this back, but you have the two of them now."

"I would trade it all to have you back," he says, and his voice comes out so small.

"Oh, Travis," she says, gently placing her hand on his back, "It's alright, you know-"

"Shut up!" he says. He looks at her, her endless patience, the mangled ghost of his wife that isn’t really like her at all.

She slumps against him, hugging him from behind. He turns around and kisses her softly, and he remembers kissing her so vividly this feels almost real.

He wakes up in the middle of the night and he knows he's very obviously been crying. He climbs out of what he generously calls his bunk. He needs to get some fresh air, or something.

As he’s walking up to the deck, he bumps into Gable, because of course he does.

"Have you been smoking rope?" they ask, peering at him.

Travis could not be in a worse mood to deal with this. "Yes!" he spits out angrily, the lie coming easily.

"I just asked a question! What did I do this time?" Gable says, exasperated.

"Nothing," he says and then, "Everything, I don’t fucking know, Gable! Just leave it."

He sees them flinch and he sees the hurt look on their face, and he almost convinces himself he doesn't care.

"What has gotten- Travis? Travis, where are you going?"

He begins stomping off to find a closet where he can curl into a ball in peace. "I said leave it!" he shouts over his shoulder.

They stomp off in the other direction.

He does find a corner eventually, and he just sits there. He can't actually bring himself to cry, or even to think. He's stuck on old worn memories and the intense mix of helplessness and guilt. He hates himself and everything for it.

It’s Margaret who finds him.

"Leave," he says, not turning to face her.

"Travis," she says, ignoring him. "We are still tethered together, remember, and you woke me up rather abruptly."

"Well I am so sorry," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Happy now?"

She sighs. "Bad dream?"

"Well, you know," he says, too tired and strung out to stop himself, "About her. And our kid. And you, I guess. A perfect day. Bad dream.”

That makes her pause. "I understand why that would make my presence upsetting, and if you truly want me to leave I will," she says. "But I don't want to leave you here alone, and you won't talk about this to Gable, and you shouldn't dump these sort of things on Jonnit."

She's right. She usually is. He sighs and sits up a little straighter.

"You don't need to look at me, if that helps."

That does make it easier, and he hates that she knows it. "Alright," he says.

"So this dream about something you lost is what upset you?"

"I feel like I just had this conversation, you know."

"You talked to her?" She sounds a little surprised.

He considers the question. “It wasn't like with Dref, she was just like… a memory."

Margaret nods. "I can feel you don't want to take me through the whole dream,” she says, sounding both gentle and firm, “But can you maybe tell me what you think is most upsetting to you right now."

"She said some things that I didn’t want to think about."

"Very vague, dear, but it's a start," she says.

So Travis starts explaining. It's halting and abstract and broken up by bitten back sobs but he tries. Tries to explain Margaret, and the life he never got to lead, and the one he never even wanted. About a kid he never had that he still feels guilty towards. About the mangled stitched together thing his dream Margaret was, and how that is all that’s left of her now.

Margaret weaves a spell between them quietly. The moment their connection strengthens, tears begin to fill her eyes, almost involuntarily.

He turns to look at her. Seeing her face is hard and comforting all at once, because nothing in his life is ever allowed to be simple.

“You’re holding onto so much, Travis,” she says, her voice somehow still steady, despite her tears.

Travis can feel she's shouldering his burden of grief and guilt with him. It's nice somehow, to know that she truly understands. In a sick, twisted way, it's nice to know she's struggling under it too.

"I just don't want to lose her,” he whispers.

She pauses to think, and then very carefully says "You’re holding onto all this grief and guilt because you believe it keeps her close, but Travis dear, it only makes it harder for you to think about her, talk about her.”

She moves forward to hold his hands and his gaze. “You want to be guilty because that makes the pain fair. You want to be in pain because her loss deserves to be felt. You are afraid of being content without it; now and in the future. Which is not letting you be happy with the people you have now, and not letting you think about what you could have."

They’re looking at each other now, and her hands move up to cradle his face ever so sweetly. Travis has nothing to say. He just nods vaguely and feels her tears on her hands.

"I wish I could get rid of it all for you, but it will take work, and you have been bottling it up for so long.” She slowly pulls him closer to her and kisses the top of his forehead. She murmurs, like a small prayer onto his skin, like it's holy, “You need to understand it's okay to let go of her Travis. You love her, so deeply and fully, I can feel that. That will keep her close, that is worth remembering."

He's crying now, and he leans into her and falls into her embrace so easily as the tears finally flow, as he lets himself feel the grief finally, letting it all out. Letting it go. She holds him, sharing the mourning with him. She rubs his back tenderly as he sobs into her chest. She’s got him this time.

A few nights later, he dreams of a river and he's holding Margaret’s hand. He's been through this a million times: sometimes he hopes he will be able to pull them both out, sometimes he hopes to die with her. Neither ever works out, of course.

This time he stops struggling, and looks at her face. Looks at the millions of hands pulling her down, and the current threatening to tear him apart.

It burns in his chest, but he takes a deep breath.

“Goodbye,” he says.

And he lets go of her hand.

#skyjacks #campaign podcast #campaign skyjacks #travis matagot #margaret skyjacks #my writing #fic

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tinydooms · 3 years

Text

Original Short Story: written in early 2016 while I was minding the doors at Handel and Hendrix in London (in my glamorous past life). Content Warnings: demons, assault, demonic sexual assault, murder.

The Death of Andromeda Ashton

Now darling, you know that there is a big empty house on this property, away up past the formal gardens; you can just see it from your window when the leaves are down from the trees. Ashton Manor is its name, so called because my ancestor, Joseph Ashton, built it centuries ago, when Queen Anne ruled this isle. A solid English manor house, with wings stuck on it during the reign of the Georges, built of grey stone and with hundreds of windows peering down at us like so many curious eyes. It is the country seat of the Ashton family and has been for almost three hundred years. But we do not live there. Not anymore.

I can see impatience in your face. I know all this, is what you’re thinking. Patience, dear one, for I am going to tell you why.

They were great collectors, the old Ashtons were, and as the years went on they filled the Hall with all manner of treasures, ancient books and paintings and sculptures from far off lands where strange gods were worshipped and men look nothing like you’d believe. Every generation of Ashtons contributed to the Collection, until one day, one of them brought home something monstrous.

The house is empty now, its windows stare unseeing; its treasures are locked up and guarded by an aging caretaker. All know that it is abandoned, most of its treasures still inside, though some were safely moved to London around the time Queen Victoria died. But never, in eighty years, has anyone broken in to steal anything. There are too many stories about the place. You’ve heard some of them, of course. The crying that can be heard in the east wing. The singing heard on stormy nights. The dark figure that prowls the corridors and the woods by the park, thinning the packs of rabbits that live there. The woman sinking into the lake. Yes, I can see by your eyes that you know of what I am speaking.

Her name is Andromeda Ashton. She lived here many years ago, when the house was an open and happy place. She was the darling petted baby daughter of older parents, born when her elder siblings were almost grown and had thought their parents were passed the age of engendering children. Her eldest sibling, Henry, was already well into his first year at Cambridge, her sisters away at school. The closest brother in age was Edward, seven years older than she, a quiet and thoughtful boy.

Now, because she was the baby, and in no small part because she was a beautiful, intelligent little thing, Andromeda was given license to behave in ways that were most unusual for a girl of her class in that time. She had a governess and a tutor, learned Greek and Latin from childhood, and could always be found prowling the family Collection or reading books by great explorers and renowned antiquarians. By the time she was eighteen, Andromeda was widely considered to be one of the brightest Ashtons for a generation. What a shame, people said, that she was not a boy and could then use that pretty head of hers. What a shame such remarkable intelligence was all for naught.

They need not have feared, for Andromeda had plans for making her mark upon the world, in the form of her family’s Collection. She may not be allowed to attend Cambridge like her brothers or study theology like Edward, but she was allowed and encouraged to contribute something to the Collection. And it would be more than just her portrait, which showed a slim, wind-pale girl with dark hair and eyes, gazing at the painter with a fiery intensity. No, Andromeda had not spent her life reading the tales of antiquarians for nothing.

Now dearie, you know that there are many stories of ghosts and legends in these parts. The hills are as dotted with stories as they are with sheep. On the eve of her nineteenth year, Andromeda began to collect them. With her father’s blessing and the help of her former governess, a project was begun: to compile the county’s folktales. It was no small task. For months, Andromeda could be seen riding from farm to farm, speaking to laborers and landowners alike, and writing down their stories. The Crone of Tetley. The Wailing Well of St. Edmund’s. The Fenbury Witch. She recorded them all, never realizing that she herself would one day become such a whispered story.

“I don’t know how you sleep at night, after hearing these tales,” her mother said once.

Andromeda smiled. “They are not true, Mother! They’re silly superstitions that came about because people in the past had no learning. People tell stories to ascribe meaning to what they do not understand, that’s all. There’s no truth to them.”

This, my dear, was Andromeda’s firm belief: that superstition had given way to science, and that all the ghostly tales of the past, while amusing and interesting, had a rational explanation. It was to be her undoing.

Now, as is sometimes the case with amateur antiquarians, Andromeda began to be curious as to the truth behind these stories. There was one in particular that caught her fancy, and that was of the Chalice of Tilbury St. Bartholomew. What’s that? The what? I knew you would ask; it’s certainly not talked about anymore. Not since-no, I’m getting ahead of myself.

The story goes like this: centuries before, at the time the plague first appeared in England, there was an alchemist who thought he could escape the illness by coming to the countryside. And where did he come? Why here, of course. Tilbury St. Bartholomew, though in those days the name was rather different. It was whispered that this gentleman-I use that term lightly, for he was no such thing-continued his strange experiments in his cottage, and that he not only practiced alchemy, but the dark arts as well. You’re skeptical, I see. So was Andromeda. What were considered the dark arts then is known as science now, of course. But for all that, the villagers were afraid of him. It was said that he conjured devils, and that one such devil was contained in a silver cup he kept with him in his bedroom, ready to do his master’s bidding. Village maidens dreamed of a dark shape coming into their beds at night, bending over them and stroking their hair. The alchemist leered at them in church on Sundays, leading to speculation that his demon was kept for the hunting of women. Unease and unrest grew in the village, yet the alchemist continued his work unmolested.

But when the plague finally came to Tilbury St. Bartholomew-for no part of the country was left untouched-the villagers said it was the judgments of God upon them for allowing an evil sorcerer to live unhampered in their midst. The alchemist was dragged from his home and burned at the stake. The village maidens breathed sighs of relief, for though the plague raged about them, the dark creature came to their chambers no more. The alchemist’s cottage was burned, too, and the silver chalice was lost. No one knew what became of it.

Andromeda, though, had her suspicions. She was a learned young lady, and figured that there had to be some record somewhere of a necromancer and his effects. I don’t know what sort of research she did, but one summer evening, when her brother Edward was visiting from his Cambridge seminary, she asked him to ride out with her. No one knows where they went, but when they came back, Andromeda looked quite pleased, and shortly thereafter presented an ancient silver goblet to the family.

Why did she want it, you ask? Why, if such demonic stories were attached to the thing, would a young lady wish to bring such an object into her home? Come, child, haven’t you been listening? Andromeda was not a believer in such things as demons. She was an active and intelligent young lady, and it rankled that she could not use her brains to their fullest capacity. A book was all very well and good, you see, but a treasure such as this cup was a real asset to the Collection, and it gave her a measure of fame, besides. She wrote the card for it herself. Silver chalice, English, circa 1330. What a find! Everyone in the family and many people outside of it admired the discovery.

All of this is common knowledge. You can find Andromeda’s book in any bookshop in the county, and the local historians will tell you about the silver goblet. They will also tell you that the goblet has been lost under strange circumstances, and when pressed for an answer, they will sigh and tell you it was a great tragedy. For you see, darling, very few people know exactly what happened to the Ashton family in the months following Andromeda’s discovery.

Most of what I know comes from Edward’s personal diaries, and they are to be treated with much caution. He lost his mind that year, you know. But I think he was saner than anyone knew.

Nothing went right for the Ashtons after Andromeda’s discovery. First Mrs. Ashton, who had never been strong after the birth of her daughter, succumbed to illness, soon followed by Mr. Ashton, so that Henry, the eldest son, living in London, found himself head of the family. That was in September. Then there began to be problems with the livestock. Horses went mad, sheep began to die for seemingly no reason, and the gamekeepers reported outrageous amounts of dead rabbits and birds in the woods. The servants began to complain that tricks were being played upon them, for it seemed as though they were being pinched and grabbed at by unseen hands. Edward recorded in the days that followed his mother’s funeral, was the sense of being watched when you knew you were alone, of a cold breath at the back of your neck, the creak of a chair that only creaked when sat in. There was a presence in the house, he said, and everyone knew it. But no one spoke of it.

Andromeda was not spared. Alone in her room at night, as she lay in bed, she felt the gentle caress of fingers across her cheek, in her hair, running over her body, cold as a breath of winter air. She told herself that she only imagined the icy kisses on the back of her neck, on her shoulders and breastbone. They were the products of a fevered mind, surely, imaginations brought about by grief at the death of her parents. She ignored the caresses. What’s that, darling? She must have been very brave? Yes, or very foolish.

By late November, the events had become too real to ignore. When serving tea to visitors, Andromeda would feel whispery fingers on her thighs, and moments later her stockings would loosen as her garters untied themselves. Something tugged her hair as she brushed it, or grasped her hand as she reached for a pen. At night, the sensation of someone cuddling close to her became unbearable, until she jumped for a light, gasping. And then she would hear it: a soft, cold laugh.

At last, after one such night, Andromeda swallowed her pride and told Edward what was happening. He was a priest, or nearly so; of course he would help her.

“It has only been since we brought home my goblet that this has happened,” she told him as they walked through the portrait gallery. “But artefacts cannot truly contain demons. Can they?”

Edward rubbed his hand through his hair, eyes straying to Andromeda’s portrait, swinging in its frame against the far wall. “We cannot know what devilry a sorcerer can conjure when he goes against God. I fear we made a mistake in unearthing that cup, Meda.”

“What must we do?”

“We must put it back where it was. As soon as possible.”

They agreed that Edward would write to one of his teachers, Reverent Dr. Padgett, to come assist them in exorcising the demon. The letter was duly dispatched. The reply came by telegram the next morning: Dr. Padgett would arrive that evening on the six-thirty train. They would commence their business immediately.

That afternoon, Andromeda asked the servants to leave the house for the night. She found them eager to do so. None of them liked to say how relieved they were to be away from the house and its unseen occupant. At half past six, the head footman was dispatched to the station to collect Dr. Padgett. In the back of the carriage was his own trunk, for he had no intention of remaining alone with the family in the house once he had safely delivered the doctor. It was a cold, windy evening, and later he said that his master and mistress could not have picked a worse night to be alone in that house.

All of this is fact; you can find the records in the village police archives, if you’ve a mind to. But what I’m about to tell you know, darling, are the words of a madman. You see, the only two people who know what happened in that house are Andromeda and Edward, and the latter was in no fit state to speak coherently of what happened for some months afterwards. Besides, his tale was dismissed by doctors and magistrates alike as being too unbelievable to come from a sound mind.

What Edward said was this: believing that Padgett would soon arrive, he and Andromeda set about making preparations for the exorcism. The house was empty, but the air around them seemed heavy, oppressive. As there were no servants to light the lamps, they sat in near-darkness. Their black mourning clothes must have made the scene even darker. Once or twice, Edward felt as though something touched the back of his neck, but there was no one there but Andromeda, sitting on the sofa by the window, peering out into the windy dusk.

“Perhaps we should bring the cup here,” she said, at last. “Perhaps Dr. Padgett will be willing to go out with us immediately.”

“Certainly,” said Edward. “Shall I go for it?”

“No.” Andromeda stood, smoothing her black skirts. Edward says that her hands were shaking. “I feel certain it has to be me.”

Though neither of them said it, the fact hung in the air that Andromeda was the one to have meddled in what she should not. Still, Edward, being a kind soul, rose from his seat and put her arm through his.

“We will go together. Come now, little sister, chin up. Everything will be all right.”

The silver cup was in one of the many rooms that housed the Collection, deep in the bowels of the cold house. I’ll show it to you one day, if you like, through the window. Night was falling fast as they walked through the halls, the strong wind driving dark clouds before it as it screamed around the manor. The lamp in Edward’s hand flickered in the draught, and his diary says that it was with some relief that they gained the Collection rooms. Leaving Andromeda by the door, Edward moved across the room to light the lamps, thinking to bring some cheer to the evening, if cheer were at all possible.

It was as he was lighting the lamps that Edward heard the screams. He ran to the door to see Andromeda lying in the corridor, beating at something unseen with both hands. He ran to assist her and all at once found himself picked up and flung back into the room he had come from. Undaunted, he picked himself up and made to run to his sister, only to again be thrown down by the unseen creature. It must have been terrible, fighting such a force while Andromeda’s shrieks echoed through the halls. Edward says that she twisted this way and that as though grappling with something. He made for her a third time--and this time, Andromeda was thrown down on the floor, gasping, and the thing, the monster, the demon, grabbed Edward by the neck and dragged him back into the Collection room. He was sure it would kill him. But it did not. A moment of white hot pain, and Edward found himself pinned to the floor with an arrow through the leg. Where the dart came from, he did not know. He could not move. Apparently satisfied that the young priest would prove no further nuisance, the thing returned to Andromeda. Helpless, crying with pain and horror, Edward heard his sister’s screams renew, growing more and more awful until they were drowned by a low, terrible laugh. Then there came the sound of a body dragging, and Andromeda’s shrieks faded as she was carried away.

Dr. Padgett, arriving an hour later, found Edward, alive but in a terrible state. Having asked his driver to wait at the door, Padgett was able to send for a medical doctor, and a search was made for Andromeda. It did not take them long to find her, for though the wind continued to buffet the county, there was no rain. You know where they found her, of course, my dear, for you can see her there still, some nights. She was in the lake, just under the water, her dark hair a loose cloud around her, her heavy black frock covered in hundreds of tiny gashes, her shoes and stockings gone. Her eyes were closed, her skin bleached of color in the green water. She was quite dead.

For months afterwards Edward screamed in the night, howling that the monster had come for him. Certainly in the mornings he was covered in scratches that had not been there the day before. A team of doctors agreed that his mind had been shattered by his sister’s murder, for they did not believe that anything but a mortal man could have done such a vicious thing to the Ashton children. The best thing for him, they told Henry, was to retire to the coast in the care of a nurse. And so Edward never returned to Ashton Hall.

And the cup that had started the horror? Dr. Padgett conducted a search for it, but it was nowhere to be seen, though Edward swore it was in the room when they were attacked. No one knows what became of it. Perhaps it had gone, and the demon with it. I see the doubt in your eyes, dearest, and I have to agree with you.

Ever after, the servants whispered that there was something still haunting the rooms and corridors of the hall, and the gardeners swore they saw Andromeda slipping out of the lake on icy winter nights. Henry’s family certainly never felt comfortable in the Hall, and so it was shut up. And so it has remained for these eighty years, and who knows if we will ever return to live in it? But one thing I know for certain: on nights when the wind blows and the moon is dark, shapes can be seen moving in the windows of the Hall. And out in the lake, a dark-haired Victorian lady floats just underneath the water. Watching. Waiting.

#original fiction #my writing

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ourplaceinthecosmosphff · 4 years

Text

Chapter 1. The Case Against Fairytales

'his eyes across a room tangled up in her imagination they had spent a lifetime together by the time he said hello' atticus

My brother died the same way he came into the world: silent, eyes closed, changing my life as I knew it.

We spent our whole lives trying to convince anyone we could that we were as regular as they were, but here's the first fundamentally different thing when you are royal: the meaning of the word ‘everyone’.

In our case, we usually mean anyone in the country, most of the international media, and at least a sizeable majority of the world's population. It's not that everyone knew us... it's just that enough people did. Enough for it to be easier to call them 'everyone'.

When my brother Louis was born, mom had been rushed to the hospital in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. The press was notified, they promptly set up camp at the hospital entrance, and the people started prayer campaigns to the safe arrival of their new prince and heir. Everyone rejoiced at his arrival. I remember, I was there.

At three years-old, it felt like everyone was every single person in the planet. It was mostly just the people in our country; to everyone else, his birth was a quick, short line of announcement, maybe some notice to the fact that the newborn baby boy was taking his older sister's place as heir, and not much else.

When he died, everyone was every single person in the planet. The second thing fundamentally different when you are a royal: from a very early age you must learn that tragedy sells more than joy. And in any constitutional monarchy country, a royal family is merely another commodity.

A few people talked about my early graduation from University. A lot more people talked about my boyfriend breaking up with me. There were a few articles about my little sister's victory at the ice-skating junior final. When she fell on her face in front of the cameras while attempting a risky move, she went viral. When my brother came into our lives, a few people took notice.

When he left us, everyone did.

---- ---- ---- ----

I, too, am a victim of culture appropriation. Since the dawn of time, from the moment humankind developed communication skills, there has been storytelling. And for the past few thousands of years most stories that parents tell their young as they tuck them into their blankets every night, have been about my culture. As far as that goes, it is not the most damaging kind of culture appropriation. But I have a duty today, and I will not shy away from it. I am sorry to say I must, and will, shatter the beautiful image of fairytales that kids have been fed for so many years now.

I know what you are thinking – oh, boo-hoo, the poor little princess girl; is life too difficult in your beautiful palace with all the money a person could ever need? And yes, I know. I am not a victim. The same colonialism that placed my ancestors, and therefore, me, in the position of privilege and power I am in today has created many more actual victims around the world. But that is also why I must tell this story the way it was always meant to be told: truthfully. With all the weird, awkward, awful, bits and pieces that fairytales tend to skip.

Fairytales would, for instance, skip straight to the grand, majestic welcome ceremony between the Queen of the United Kingdom and the King of Savoy in a sun floored courtyard with guards on tall, furry black hats strutting around, standing in a red-carpeted dais, with a handsome prince making eyes at me. But in my story, we will start with the train.

That’s right, in modern fairytales you don’t take a lovely carriage ride to a neighboring kingdom. You take a train there – a commercial train, if you can, because modern times beg for demonstrating to the masses that the Monarch isn’t throwing money around. We were trying to highlight the easy routes of access to our neighbors to the northeast, and so we took the ferry across the Celtic Sea to Hugh Town Island and from there, Eurostar number 2 train that made a quick stop in Penzance, UK, and then went straight to London.

The train ride isn’t comfortable – even if you have a first class private car. It’s bumpy and crowded and a terrible place to spend three straight hours. On that particular morning, I was in our car with my father, his household secretary Auguste, my private aide, Cadie, and a few other staff members.

In fairytale world, when a princess does not look the part, there is usually the appearance of a fairy godmother who sings a nice song and magically transforms her into a Proper Princess™. There is no fairy godmothers when you are a real princess- real ones, sure, but they are not magical-, but you do learn from an early age what a Proper Princess™ should look like, act like, and sound like, and god forbid you don't.

In the train that day, I heard all that was keeping me from being Proper™ from Auguste, who was in many ways the exact opposite of a fairy godmother. He had all the menacing authority of one, with none of the charm. He also didn’t have wings or a sparkly wand; he had greying short hair, and thin, small, reading glasses that he always pushed down to the tip of his nose to look above, which made me wonder what was the point of the glasses at all.

Before our arrival, I had to change my lipstick, which was too dark, my dress, which was too short at the daring height of above my knees, my shoes, which were open toed and therefore wrong, and finally, make sure to brush my hair once more.

My parents never subscribed to the idea that we were forbidden to do anything. They were raised on stern rules and heavily traditional costumes and wanted their kids to live more freely. So, growing up, they revolutionarily told us that we were free to be whoever we wanted to be – in private. In public, we had an obligation to be Proper™. After all, as I heard repeatedly growing up: royals don’t make mistakes, we make history; and history remembers.

So, yes. I, a grown, 25 years-old, law-school graduate, bar-approved acquisitions lawyer, changed out of my dress into a more proper one because my dad asked. Because as a princess, you’re never just yourself; you’re the country. And if your country comes from a Roman Catholic tradition, your hemlines must reflect that, no matter what century it is.

The country in question was just to the south of the United Kingdom, west of France, a large island named Savoie. The English call it Savoy, which is how it was pronounced anyway. It was originally populated by the Irish, but over the years it was conquered by the English, the Spanish, and the Portuguese until finally, in the 13th Century, it was conquered by France. It was bigger than Ireland, but smaller than England, and one of the biggest GDPs in the world, with a population of 49 million. Under the reign of Louis XV, however, France lost most of its possessions after its defeat in the Seven Years' War, and to secure Savoy, the king sent part of the court to live there and to reign in his stead as his emissaries. Louis XV's reign grew weak, including his ill-advised financial, political and military decisions, which discredited the monarchy and arguably led to the French Revolution 15 years after his death. France dealt with its dissatisfaction by revolting, Savoy however, secluded away at sea, decided to declare independence before the Revolution had even taken steam. The political leaders of the Island reached an agreement with the king's emissary, Prince Louis, the highest ranking monarch on the island; in exchange for support for the severance of all connection to France, he was then made King Louis I of Savoy. The Royal House of Savoy grew steady and strong by protecting its people and assuring them a freer, better life than the one they'd known under French reign.

A few years later, I sat on that train in front of the current King of Savoy. My father.

“You look beautiful, Maggie.”

“Thank you.”

“The other dress was beautiful as well. Just not for today.”

“Mm-hm.”

A moment of silence went by. I picked up my phone and checked my emails. There was one from Sophie with the subject ‘urgent!’ so I clicked in it feeling my heart race.

It read,

‘Marie, I’m sorry to bother you on your days off, but the depositions got moved up to Monday and we can’t find the notes on the manager deposition, you were the one who did them. Is there any chance you have a copy and if so can you send them to me? Enjoy England! XO Soph’

Sighing, I put down my phone and quickly found my laptop on my suitcase. I turned it on as I replied to Sophie’s email to tell her to expect my deposition notes shortly.

“You know if we could I’d let you wear whatever you wanted.” Dad added as I logged into my computer.

“I do.”

I moved quickly through my folders realizing the most recent update on my notes hadn’t been uploaded to the cloud. Sighing, I logged on to the train WiFi and checked the storage service online. It didn’t connect.

“Honestly, darling, you look even prettier with this dress.”

I looked up, mentally wondering if the previous versions of the notes would be useful.

“This isn’t about the dress.”

I realized, then, that it wouldn’t matter anyway because I wouldn’t be able to send them to Sophie without internet. I looked out the window, realizing perhaps too late that we were in the tunnel, underwater. Of course there wasn’t internet.

“Well, what is it about?” Dad asked, putting his book marker back inside the page he was on and laying down the book to give me his full attention.

“Work, papa. I have a job.”

“Yes, and it’s your day off. Maybe you should try and turn off from work for the next few days?”

I smiled down to my computer, “maybe this is a conversation for another time.”

Dad adjusted his posture, looking a little taller, and looked around the room to Cadie and Auguste sitting in a booth nearby with our private hair and make-up artist, and dad’s footman, and personal aide.

“Excuse me, everyone, would you be so kind as to give us the room? Or, uh, the car? There is a little lounge outside, isn’t there?”

“Of course, sir.” Auguste said, jumping up immediately with the aide, and Cadie and Cass, the make-up artist, followed.

After they had left and closed the door behind them, I looked at my father. He lurched back in his seat and smiled at me.

“Go on,” he said. “If you don’t scream I don’t think they’ll hear us.”

“Why would I scream?”

“I don’t know, Maggie. But I don’t know why you would be so passive aggressive, either. Can you tell me?”

“What do you want, dad?”

In truth, I added the ‘dad’ at the end of the sentence to make it sound less aggressive, but as he stared at me, I felt uncomfortable not explaining myself.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”, I asked, tiredly. “I’m here, wearing a proper, long, not-slutty dress-“

“No one here used that word-“

“My toes will be perfectly hidden away when we arrive, I have hidden my ugly, evil legs under some stockings-“

“Really, Maggie, no one said your legs were-“

“My make-up is light and my hair is simple and non-threatening. I know not to smile too much or too little and to let the adults lead the conversation”, I said, the word ‘adults’ dangling bitterly from me lips. “And not to walk ahead of you, but always behind, taking your lead.”

“You make it sound so stiff and calculated.”

“And I have taken time off of work to be here.” I said. “All other Junior Associates are working overtime and through weekends to cash in as many billable hours as possible to be promoted to Full-time Associates, and instead I took off four days to travel with my dad.”

“Work, for work!”

“So, again, what do you want? How else am I not meeting your expectations?”

I spoke calmly, gently, and as low a volume as I could just to confront his joke not a minute before about how if I didn’t scream the others wouldn’t hear us. I made sure to be as poised and contained as I could. He heaved a sigh.

“I’m sorry you had to take time off work.”

I waited, as he stared in his usual lovingly, patient way. I smiled, more as a peace offering than genuinely.

“You know very well they won’t fire you.”

Still, I was quiet, smiling as sincerely as I could.

“And I know that isn’t fair, but there’s nothing I can do about it. So tell me something I can do and I will.”

“Okay.” I said, nodding. “I want your honesty. Don’t treat me like a child you need to protect, don’t patronize me. All I want is an honest answer.”

He adjusted himself in his seat and cleared his throat. “Alright. Go on.”

“Why am I here, papa?”

He blinked, seemingly confused. I could tell he expected a harder question.

“Your- Because your mother sprained her ankle?” he answered, still unsure. “What- do you mean philosophically? Why are any of us here, really? I don’t understand.”

I tried not to smile. “I mean I have a life. I am not your heir. Louis is your heir, it is his job to help you when mom has emergencies.”

He sighed deeply, finally arriving at the same page where I was.

“Your brother is in school.” He said. “And you are our oldest child. So, I’m sorry if it disrupts your life, Maggie. But you are needed.”

“And after school?” I asked “His graduation is in 6 months. Are you telling me that after he graduates university and moves back home, when he is starting his career, maybe moving to the capital, when you and mom have an emergency, you will call him up instead of me?”

He gave the table a sad smile. “If that is your wish, yes.”

“So that’s all, then?” I confirmed, suspiciously. “He moves back after graduation and you will give me the space I need?”

He smiled. “Is that what you want, then?” it wasn’t a confirmation. It was a tone of accomplishment. Of finally realizing what was it that I wanted, as if this entire conversation that’s what he had been trying to find out.

“I went to school for years. I interned for a year. I studied hard for the bar exams in America and Savoy. Yes, dad, I want to use the degree I worked hard for.”

“Okay, then. We will give you space.” He said. “Space from us, to be who you want to be. To be normal.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling, slightly amused at his dramatics. “That is not what I meant.”

“But it is accurate.”

“Papa...” I sighed.

“I’m just saying, sweetheart, I understand.” He insisted. “It’s why you went to America for University, it’s why you are based on the capital now. As long as you’re too close to us, you can’t live a normal life.”

“I can never live a normal life. We are not normal.”

“But you wish to try.”

I chuckled. “How?! You said it yourself, they will never fire me. My firm, I mean. Wherever I am, I am never just me and my degree and my career. People look at me and see you, as if I am you. I am their King. I am the Royal Family of Savoy. They’ll never take me seriously or afford me the same opportunities as everyone, because I am not everyone.”

He nodded, slowly, then sighed. “Yikes. You’re right. That sounds tough.”

“And I’m the passive aggressive one?”

“Job security and the attention of your bosses. That sounds awful.”

“Papa...”

“You want the space to dedicate yourself to your career without us pulling you away for royal work. Is that it? Okay. You got it. As soon as your brother is back from University, I will make sure you’re only needed for official events, and only if you’re not working.”

He sounded serious now. Sincere as when he delivered the End of Year address every Christmas, which was meaningful. Getting dad to afford me the same seriousness he afforded his subjects was as much seriousness as I could get from him. Still, there was no mistaking the sadness in his eyes.

“Even before his affirmation ceremony?” I asked, trying to sniff around for a trick.

The affirmation ceremony was meant to make clear to the country that an heir to throne had the seal of approval of the Monarch, and it usually happened when the heir was 21 years of age, to signify the Monarch believed in the event of a tragedy, the heir was ready to rule. In modern times, it meant an heir was ready to start working as a full-time royal. Though my brother was 22, the family had decided to wait until he had graduated university to do his ceremony.

Dad took longer than I wished, but finally, he nodded. “Yes. I promise.”

If you’re paying attention, then you might have noticed the math doesn’t add up. How come my 22 years-old brother is the heir when I said I am 25, the oldest child? Well, as with most fairytales, as well as with most of life, the problem is the patriarchy. For the thing is, though I was older than Louis by three years, because I was born a girl, he became the heir when he was born. So, at three, I went from future-Queen to lower ranking older sister.

It wasn’t unusual, my father himself had two older sisters who were lower than him and his brothers in the line of succession. As a result we had older cousins who we outranked. I cared about all this at 25 the same as when I was 3: not at all.

Absolute primogeniture law was passed in Savoy when I was 5, propelled by my birth and the new times. It was, however, not retroactive. This meant the law was changed for future births, not past ones, so all girls born after the law came into effect would be heirs in their own right, no matter how many brothers they got after, and all girls born before would go into history as having missed it by ‘just a bit’.

Louis and I, though, didn’t sit around having long discussions about who would be a better ruler. There has never been an instance in which we were arguing and I yelled something like, “first you stole my throne and now you stole my cookies! I hate you!”. For us this was just a little footnote in the family tree. A little fun fact to tell our future kids one day. And although I couldn’t remember what it felt like, I always knew it was much better not having to be the Crown Princess of Savoy.

---- ---- ---- ----

When we finally reached Penzance, the small town in the tip of the isle of England where sat the second Eurostar station, I was able to finally connect to the internet. My father left our train car to walk about with his security because he wanted to witness the new English policy of installing a check-point at the entry due to the immigrant crisis – a huge part of why we were there. While he did that, I sent Sophie my notes on the deposition, and answered some messages.

There was one from Louis, my aforementioned brother:

‘are you close?’

And one from our baby sister, Lourdes:

‘what do you think??!!!!!!!!’, with an attachment of two videos.

And, lastly, one from my mother, Her Majesty Queen Amelie-Elyse, back home with a sprained ankle.

‘Hope all is well! Let me know when you’re with your brother. Don’t forget to let your hair down before leaving the train!’

She didn’t mean it in a philosophical, have fun kind of way. She literally meant let my hair down, apparently it softened my features.

I replied to her with a selfie, with my hair properly brushed and down, in preparation for the arrival in London, which was close now. Let Louis know we were almost there. And sent a quick, uncommitted ‘woah!’ to my sister, without opening her attachments. They were always the same: videos of her practicing. There was only so much ice skating I could watch in a lifetime.

My mom answered my text with, “why did you change your dress?!”

I sighed, getting ready to justify this decision as well, already anticipating she would argue that the fascinator wouldn’t go with this one dress, so I told her I already had another fascinator standing by.

Growing up with fairytales they don’t tell you about the little annoying details. Characters who are annoying usually are the villains, the ones the Princess escapes from, usually saved by the prince. They don’t tell you sometimes, actually a lot of the times, the people you love can be equally as annoying.

---- ---- ---- ----

When we arrived at the station in London, I was already wearing my disc fascinator in a light shade of blue matching both my lace dress, this time reaching all the way to my ankles, and eyes. We were quickly greeted by the Savoyen Ambassador to England in front of the press, and escorted into government cars towards Whitehall.

The large parade ground was a traditional courtyard in central London that usually housed ceremonies related to the military and the royal family. When we arrived, the day finally was washed in a feeling of ceremony.

The place was lined neatly with military guards, security barricades and the Scotland Yard Police kept watchers and paparazzi at bay, the press lined up inside to have the best view of all involved. As we arrived, the traditional 41 gun salute was already sounding on. A military band was playing. People waved and yelled hello as we drove inside. I suddenly knew what to do, as if my body had the gene for it. This was one thing that was definitely genetic.

I stepped out of the car delicately, smoothly, knees together like a proper lady, polite smile on my lips in thanks to the guard who saluted as I left. My father greeted a handler who escorted us to the front of all the lined guards, where three structures had been set up: one large one in the middle, with a red-carpeted stage and a large roof, the British Royal Coat of Arms in the center with the British flag to its right and the Savoy flag to its left. Decorative flowers and elegant plants here and there. Two smaller, simpler structures to both of its sides. Inside all of them, men and women in formal suits and ties and knee-length, appropriate dresses and hats.

We walked the grovel path to the larger structure as the band played and the press, lined up in front of this platform, took their photographs. My father climbed the steps first, quickly being received by the small, elder, lady in a lavender overcoat and matching hat, impressive set of pearls dangling from her neck. She smiled as he lowered himself down to kiss both her cheeks warmly.

The queen then looked at me and I approached, just as our handler told Her Majesty:

“And may I present, Her Royal Highness, Princess Marie-Margueritte of Savoy.”

I lowered myself in a curtsy, and as she extended her hands to hold mine, I also kissed her cheeks, trying to avoid knocking her hat with mine.

“Welcome.” She smiled. “I hope the ride was forgiving.”

“Very comfortable.” My father told her. “Always surprising how fast it is.”

“Yes. You’ll remember, I’m sure, the Prince of Wales.” She said, walking us to the center of the platform where another two men awaited.

My father and the Prince of Wales greeted each other warmly, they were more used to running in the same circles – royal weddings here and there, international summits and meetings, or whatever it is they do.

“We’re so glad to have you.” He told my father.

“I don’t know if you’ve met my daughter, Princess Marie-Margueritte.”

Smiling, I curtsied to the Prince of Wales as he held my hand, before kissing my cheeks.

“You brighten this day, Your Royal Highness.” He told me, before stepping closer to add, in a whisper. “Sorry you have been dragged to this.”

I giggled, “I’m happy to be here, sir.”

Straightening up, he noticed my father was already greeting the man behind him. “Hopefully we won’t bore you too much. I have tried to bring someone else closer to your age. Have you met my son?”

The handler didn’t know it, but there were no introductions necessary. And yet, all I could do was smile politely as we were introduced to:

“His Royal Highness, Prince Harry of Wales.”

I wondered, for a moment, if he would acknowledge that we already knew each other.

“It’s a pleasure, Your Royal Highness.” Holding my hand in his, he brought my knuckles to his lips.

The answer was, obviously, no. So I lowered myself again in a curtsy as an excuse to avert my eyes from his.

I couldn’t understand why, but I had been unprepared for him. With all of Auguste’s preparation, all the briefings, with all the preachings about my appearance, no one had prepared me for him. I don’t know if it was that, like me, he was one of the youngest there, or how absurdly, almost ridiculously tall he was, or maybe how the blue in his eyes contrasted with the red of his hair, but he just… stunned me. When he kissed my hand, his eyes traveled down my legs all the way back to pierce mine, igniting a wave of electricity down my spine I was unable to control.

He leaned back, and there we stood, hand in hand, wordlessly.

“You can follow the King, ma’am.” Auguste whispered behind me, his voice making me jump slightly, as I quickly pulled my hand from Harry’s, not before realizing he had something scribbled on his palm.

My father and the Queen were deep in conversation, with Charles besides them, as they reached the center of the platform to watch the guards. The Queen in the middle, my father to her right, and the Prince of Wales to her left, I walked forward to stand beside my father, while Prince Harry walked to his.

We waited just a moment, and then the band started playing the Savoy National Anthem, and the British Anthem after it. A few words said, more ceremony here and there, and the Prince Wales formally invited my father to inspect the Guards, so they left together, accompanied by one of the military leaders to walk among the rolls of guards, as the three of us stood behind to watch.

“I was sorry to hear about your mother, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” I said, looking regretful, walking towards her, closing the gap left behind by the others. “She was sorry she couldn’t be here.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious.” Prince Harry interjected.

“A sprained ankle.” I explained, looking ahead.

“Harry is also here after a small hiccup with the Duchess of Cornwall, my daughter-in-law.” His grandmother told me. “An illness in her family, nothing serious.”

“Hopefully I’ll have time to meet her before we leave.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” She nodded. “How did you mother hurt herself?”

“Horse fall. She was never very fond of Polo, I’m afraid this will drive her further away from it.”

“Oh, that is regretful.” The Queen said.

Harry looked at me. “Do you play?”

“I do, sir.”

“Harry is very good,” his grandmother told me, “he will be the one playing with you in the charity match in the coming days.”

“I look forward to-“, I started, but Harry had started the exact same sentence. We locked eyes, and chuckled.

“You first.” I said.

“Please, I insist.” He responded, cheeks reddening.

His grandmother looked between us, and then back to the uniformed men in front. She then said, in a low tone, something I would spend a large part of the upcoming months thinking obsessively about:

“Be careful with him... He will charm you, but he is a heartbreaker.”

The words astonished me so much I looked at her, unsure she had actually said them. But she had, clearly, because Harry was also looking at her, quite shocked.

“Granny!” he complained, in such a whiny tone I broke into laughter.

“Do I lie?” She asked him, grinning. It only made him look more shocked.

“Don’t ruin my reputation in front of foreign royals!” he said, in a low tone, before looking at me. “Specially such pretty ones.”

My giggle froze in my throat under his intense glare, and I could feel my cheeks reddening.

The Queen looked at me. “Oh, you’re blushing. It’s too late, I see.”

It was.

---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Margueritte’s outfit

The ask box is open! Let me know your thoughts? And if at all possible, like this page so I know you liked it? Thank you so much!

[A/N: Attention: by continuing to read you are accepting that some sad stuff is coming. You been warned. Thanks for checking this out! Let me know your thoughts?? thanks!!!!]

[A/N2: Hey! Nat here. I wanted to talk a little more about the story we are about to go on together.

In the upcoming chapters you will be introduced to the Royal Family of Savoy, a fictitious European country right below the UK, to left of France. When I first posted a fanfiction, FIUYMI, I made the main character latina, since that’s what I am, and I had previously felt that I couldn’t relate to other characters I had read. In this one, however, I decided I wanted to write about a fictitious monarchy, and I knew I wanted to make it as realistic as possible.

As much as I wanted at many points in the story to make the character look more like me, the idea felt like cheating: Margueritte is a blood royal, born to a life of specific privileges and hardships, and pretending she could look like the type of people who don’t have white privilege would be trying to ignore a very real issue: all monarchies - past and present - existed, lasted and gathered riches on the back of people of color. Most of their descendants still carry white and wealth privilege because these royal families, however many years ago, supported and perpetuated colonialism and white supremacy that left countless countries and their populations still recovering today.

That is a legacy Margueritte didn’t chose, and which she also doesn’t have to face, but in this story she will chose too. As you’ll see, she finds herself in a much more influential position she thought she would have, and as such she realizes she has two options: she can stick to the message her family - and other royal families - have perpetuated for generations and keep her head high, mouth and ears shut, so their legacy can survive; or she can chose to be a modern Queen who will make the institution relevant again. I want to write about this because this issue is important for the times we live in, particularly after the way the Duchess of Sussex was treated in the United Kingdom.

What that will look like will depend on who Margueritte is as a person and whose advice she takes, and that is a journey I hope you’ll take with us =) ]

#prince harry fanfic #prince harry fanfiction #princeharryff #royalfanficcollection #princeharryfanfiction #princeharryfanfic #brf #fanfic #fanfiction #modern royalty fanfic #chapters #modern royalty au #im so excited about this story #but also like #really nervous #i missed this

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seduceme-lovestruck-thearcana · 4 years

Text

The Girl in The Blue Dress

Chapter 13: The Castle

@megatraven time for Apollo and Rose againnn >:). Hopefully you like it. Not too much proofreading whoops so sorry if there’s something wrong-

Apollo was the way he always is when Rose dies.

Heartbroken.

He was sad and lonely and afraid. Every time she died he feared she would not come back, and one part of him hated himself for fearing that. He should want her to move on. But there’s a part inside of him that doesn’t want her to, that wants her to keep coming to be with him, to keep being selfish, and to maybe find a way to stop this and make her immortal. It all sounds impossible to himself, yet he still hopes that one day they can be together in peace.

Because of that, he continued on like he always did. Go back to Earth and be among the humans and hopefully run into her. He always wonders how they run into each other. Maybe it’s a part of the curse? Maybe the Fates are on his side? Is it all just leading up to tragedy? He doesn’t know, but it gives him hope. And he’ll keep on hoping like Rose would.

When Rose died in the war, she was given a hero burial and her burial site is surrounded by flowers and gifts from the kids. It warms his heart when he visits it, but it also brings him sadness. However, he doesn’t let the sadness stop him. He stayed with Melody and comforted her until she passed, and he moved to another kingdom. It seemed peaceful and people were kind to each other. It was a kingdom Rose would love. He stayed here and found a job to help people. He was working with a seller who sold many kinds of items. Some things related to healing, clothing, minerals, trinkets, and other things. He was surprised that a man could have this much stuff in one shop. However, he enjoyed the job and would stay until he found her or stay until he felt the need to leave. Whichever came first.

However, one day the man came up to him and held a ticket in his hand. It looked like an invitation and, when he read it, it was. It was an invite to the castle for a celebration of allying with another kingdom. He never had been to the castle and was interested in it, and was going to ask the man if he could go, but the man was one step ahead of him. He laughed at Apollo and told him to go.

“I’m too old! You go and have fun!”

Apollo smiled a little sad like at the man. He was only 50 and Apollo’s not sure how long humans usually live. Especially with sickness and the murder that’s happening everywhere. The man even gave him a nice suit to wear and Apollo tried to decline since it seemed precious to the man, but he insisted. Apollo changed into it and he did look pretty nice. And when the night finally came, he went up to the castle and ended up on a path surrounded by a bunch of people. Many wore dresses of such high quality, some wore simple clothes, yet everyone looked so fancy. It was all beautiful to him, but something else caught his eye. This path was on the way into the castle and he saw a person sitting on the edge of one of the balconies. It was crowded by flowers, so he almost missed them, but he saw them and noticed that they’re wearing a black hood but he couldn’t see what else they were wearing. The person waved at him and he waved back. He didn’t know what to make of the person, so he ignored it and focused on the people around him.

Many had masks on and they were all creepy. “Maybe there is a reason I haven’t gone here,” Apollo whispered to himself. However, he didn’t whisper it low enough because a woman tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and saw her mask first. He saw a white mask that only covered the upper face area and it had orange designs on it. Foxes, orange and brown leaves, and other orange things related to nature were on the mask and it was really pretty. “They do wear weird masks, don’t they?” He could hear a laughing tone. “Yeah, it is pretty weird. But that’s to be expected since it’s my first time.” The woman let out a hum. “It’s your first time? That’s a surprise. Almost everyone has at least visited the castle once. It’s a little dangerous your first time.”

Apollo looked at her confused and she let out a quiet laugh. “Dear boy, this celebration may be a celebration to some, but to others? It’s a game.” The woman seemed angry when she finished her sentence and it only added to Apollos confusion. “A game? Like they meet together?” The woman let out another laugh, but this time it was sad like. “No, my dear. This game is deadly and dangerous. It’s always a risk coming to the castle when anything is held. It’d be a miracle if everyone made it out alive.” Apollo nodded and felt anxiety rise in his chest. Was that person dangerous? But he couldn’t think long because they ended up in the castle and were in an area where men were taking their coats. The woman had one and he was about to leave without her, but she tugged on his arm for him to stay. “Boy if you know what’s good for you you’ll stay with me.” Now his anxiety was real high. Was she going to hurt him? Hurt others? He didn’t know but did as she said and let her pull him to a set of stairs. They went up and were in front of two doors, but she only stood there with him.

“Let me explain something, boy. Like I said before, this game is dangerous and deadly. You’re lucky if you make it out unscathed or even not knowing anything took place, so I’m going to teach you how to win,” the woman said with a sad yet angry tone. “Why help me?” Apollo asked with his anxiety resting in his stomach. “I lost someone to this game before, and I’m not going to let someone innocent die. At least not if I can help it,” the woman said with her voice choking up. Apollo felt the need to hug her or comfort her, but she put up her hand motioning for him to be silent. “No need for comfort. I’ve gotten past it. But the rules are simple. Don’t tell people your real name, don’t take off your mask for long, don’t get too friendly with many people here, and always watch your back.” The woman pulled out a mask that was black and offered it to him. He took the mask and put it on carefully. It only covered the upper half of his face, but his eyes were visible through the eye holes and it matched with his gold eyes.

“Okay. Thanks for the information,” he said with a smile. The woman smiled back and held out her hand. “My name is Jane,” she said with a sudden high and polite tone. Her normal voice wasn’t deep per say, but it wasn’t a high girly voice like it is now, but he smiled and shook her hand. “My name is Andy.” The woman nods at him and walks past him but when she’s at his side she leans in and whispers, “Good luck.” She then patted his shoulder and left to go join the party. He lets out a sigh when she’s gone and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Boy this is gonna be rough.” After getting himself together and ready to face everything, he headed to the ballroom and stood at the top of the stairs leading to the dance floor. Most people were already drunk, some in the corner making out way too much, some about to start a fight, and some dancing peacefully. “This is certainly a weird crowd.” Another woman came up beside him suddenly and said, “Why yes it is. I’m assuming you’re new?” He looked over to the woman and this time she was wearing a purple mask and her blonde hair, and short, gold dress making her basically shine. Apollo stuttered for an answer, remembering not to reveal much about himself. “No, not really. It just always surprises me how insane some people are when the drinks come out.” The woman laughed at him and looked at the couples dancing. “Yes, some people become beasts when they lose their senses, it’s wild, but also fun,” she said with a wicked smile.

Apollo felt a little anxious around her suddenly but nodded in response. The woman was about to say something else but was interrupted when a waiter came by with drinks on a tray. “Would you like a beverage?” The woman smiled and grabbed two and gave one to Apollo. He watched her grab them and didn’t see her slip anything in them, so it has to be fine. They clink their glasses together and both take a sip. It goes down his throat like alcohol always does, but it tastes a little more fruity. “Well, I’ll see you around,” the woman said as she scurried off. Apollo sighed and now he’s worried he got poisoned. He’ll just have to find out and see.

After a few minutes of people walking up to him and speaking to him, a bell was rung and it was the signal of king and queen coming to the celebration. He heard one toll and watched as people went to a corner and were completely silent and some people run in the room. He stayed where he was and was almost alone and staring at the people and watching how they seemed anxious now that the rulers were coming, yet some seemed excited. He didn’t know how to feel, so he kept his face neutral.

However, he didn’t realize another woman was standing next to him and staring at the crowd as well. He only noticed her when she tapped him on the shoulder and smiled at him. “Hello, sir.” The woman was wearing a golden mask, had brown hair that went to her mid back and was curly, and she had a blue slit dress on that went to her ankles, it had a V shape on the front that went to her chest and showed off some cleavage, and everything seemed to shine in the lights. Out of his peripheral vision he saw many people looking at her, some with fear and some with interest. “H-Hello, ma’am,” he said in response. She must’ve been important if she got several peoples attention, so he tried to keep his cool.

“Why look so nervous? It’s just a celebration!” The woman was happy and smiled a smile that looked genuine, but was it real? “Yes it is just a celebration. The castle just gives me a little anxiety. Too many people,” he finished his words with a little laugh and she let out a giggle as well. “I understand that feeling. But it is my job to be here. It’s why I have this gold mask.” She tapped her mask that was just like his (only a different color). “What is your job?” Apollo’s curiosity got the best of him and he was excited to learn as much as he could about these people. This might be his last time coming here. The woman smiled and winked at him. “You’ll find out soon enough.” She stared at him and he had time to look at her eyes. They were a bright blue and look like the ocean and he found himself drowning in them. However, the woman sighed and ran her hands down her hair to make it look more presentable, even if it already was perfect.

“Well, I got to go, don’t want to keep the people waiting!” The woman walked away, her hips swaying and grabbing the attention of many men and women. She walked to a set of stairs and disappeared out of his vision, and several others followed her. The only thing that was strange was that they all had golden masks, and it was only them that did. His eyes scanned the room and noticed that everyone had every other color except gold or any yellow color. He stored that information in the back of his mind and just watched the crowd continue with their wild life as the bells continued to ring. When the third bell rung, the doors started to close and a man in a nice suit came out and stood in front of the king and queen thrones with a paper in his hand. He announced the king and queen and they walked out hand in hand.

“Aw,” Apollo said. The king and queen seemed in their sixties and they were smiling at each other. He then remembered that it could be fake, but he liked to imagine they genuinely love each other, it made his heart happy. However, Apollo saw other people come out. There were thrones next to their thrones and he saw three men and three women come out. The men and women looked normal, but he caught sight of the woman he was talking to. She looked even more beautiful under the lights and seemed to shine next to the golden thrones. The men and women bowed to the king before they sat at their thrones, and they all appeared happy, and it seemed false. The only people that seemed truly happy were the woman he was talking to and a man that sat next to her. However, they immediately turned their attention back to the crowd of people suddenly all standing very closely to every side of the banisters above the dance floor.

The King and Queen introduced themselves and everyone bowed in respect and everyone bowed when the people next to them were introduced, but Apollo went stiff when he heard a name being called out. The man was talking about one woman and he heard, “And the lovely and talented Miss Rose is present today. She will be the opening act tonight.” Opening act? What dance was this? Was this actually Rose? He didn’t have enough time with her to actually tell, so he decided to try and find her at the end of the night. Everyone clapped as Rose stood up and walked down the stairs to end up in front of the dance floor. She cleared her throat and looked at everyone and smiled. The smile was bright and she seemed excited to be here.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen! How are you all doing tonight?” Everyone laughed or cheered at her and she put a finger on her lips. “Alright, alright, settle down my people. It is exciting isn’t it?” The people once again cheered and clapped loud and she shook her head with a smile, accepting that it was impossible to make them be truly quiet. “Well, I hope you’re all ready to have a lovely dance with your partners tonight.” Rose then cleared her throat as many people rushed down to the dance floor, holding hands with their partners. Everyone had smiles on their face and so did Rose. He wanted to join in but didn’t have a partner to dance with, and he really did not want to dance with a stranger, so he decided to just stand and watch as many people danced their heart out. However, it wasn’t silent because he soon heard Rose’s voice echo out into the ballroom. She was singing some classical song he didn’t know the name of, but it was mesmerizing. She hit the right high notes, made her voice low when it needed to be, held each word the right amount of time, and made everyone fall in love with her voice. He stared at her and couldn’t look away, and her eyes roamed the room and eventually met his. She smiled as she sang and winked at him, causing him to blush. He thanks the other Gods that no one else is around to see him.

Rose sang 5 songs and many people began to grow tired, especially her. When she finished that last song, she looked up at the King and he nodded at her. He assumes it means that she’s done and that the celebration needs to come to a close. She cleared her throat loud enough for everyone to hear, even scaring a few people who weren’t paying attention. “Well, my people, it seems our night needs to come to a close! I hope you all had a good night and get home safe.” Rose bowed at everyone and went back up the stairs and left along with everyone else on the thrones. Apollo then decided to somehow find Rose and do something. He didn’t really think of a full plan, and he’ll figure out what to do once he meets her. That’s the Apollo way. He looks around the areas where everyone is and doesn’t see her anywhere, but he continues to look. He eventually ends up to where he met Jane and comes to those two doors. He wants to open them but when he tries to move, he finds himself suddenly falling to his knees. He feels like its hard to breathe, he suddenly begins to cough hard, and his vision is slowly going black.

“Fuck, that woman poisoned me. But how?” His God voice starts slipping out due to his panic, and his mind is confused. He watched the woman grab the drinks, she didn’t slip anything in them, so how could she have poisoned him? He breaks out of his thoughts when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He looks over and sees the woman he was looking for: Rose.

“Are you okay, sir?!” He knows many people had shown fake concern and kindness, but she showed it with no hesitation. “I don’t know,” he managed to choke out. She nodded at him with determination and managed to pick him up with one arm slung over her shoulder and she holding him up. “Stay with me, sir, I’ll get you help!” He listened to her voice and tried to stay awake, but his eyes felt heavy and her voice was...so nice...and pretty to listen to... Despite his best effort to stay awake, his eyes closed and he slipped off in to the darkness. The next time he awoke, he felt hardwood beneath him and when he opened his eyes he saw the bright, blue sky. It was beautiful to him and he felt the cool wind blow against his face. Then he looked to his side and his heart jumped out of his chest. He saw a hooded figure, probably the same figure he saw at the castle the night before.

“Hello, sir!”

Hehe that’s all for now :)). I was going to make it longer but I think this is a nice cliffhanger >:). And sorry for literally all the terrible descriptions of everything. Describing things are so hard and HNNG!! Words are tough and I hope you like this chapter. I’m excited to write this timeline because oof there is developmennnttt.

#my writing #The Girl in The Blue Dress #NOT GONNA LIE I FORGOT WHAT APOLLOS EYE COLOR WAS DJWNDB. SO ITS GOLD BC I THINK IT WAS?? ITS EITHER THAT OR GREY-#I SERIOUSLY COULDN'T REMEMBER FGORWJED.#BUT YEAH LOVE YOUU♥ and am loving this lifetime. I also had different ideas for this but I think I'm set on the idea #Hopefully I am lol. But yeah I love this so far and I hope you do too. And I hope you're having a lovely day♥♥.#And Yes Apollo is smart but ALSO such a himbo and doesn't think of full plans because Apollo why.#Think before you act. You do it most of the time but not now. But that's Apollo and I love my Apollo and Ik you do too lol-

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