#then like in the tribunal him asking himself 'who's right?' like boy same

[hmmwellok]

one of my favorite parts of disco elysium is when the Skills talk over each other and question each other in yet another harry-crisis

[valleydean]

Chapter 1 [Read Here]

CHAMPION Part III of Heavyweight a deancas boxing au by valleydean (emmbrancsxx0) playlist | tip

SUMMARY: Brooklyn, 1933. Dean Winchester, the number one contender, trains to become the next Heavyweight Champion of the World, and this time he won't let anything get in his way. Title holder Castiel Novak has second thoughts about retiring, especially when someone from his past arrives in New York and asks for his help. Meanwhile, a new contender rises to fame and threatens to complicate both of Dean and Cas' ambitions - and their relationship.

PREVIEW:

An-gel Nov-ak! An-gel Nov-ak!

The crowd cheered for him from the bleachers of the world’s largest arena. Chicago Stadium had 26,000 seats, and every single one had been filled. There were men and women who paid more than they could afford for the rare chance of seeing the Heavyweight Champion of the World from the nosebleeds; and, sitting ringside, there were those who remained wealthy despite the turbulent times: celebrities and politicians, mobsters and socialites. All of their shouts sounded the same as they whooped and roared when Castiel knocked his opponent out in the seventh round.

Over an hour had passed since then. Now, the quiet hung like a curtain as Castiel stood in the center of the ring, and he assumed this would be the last time he’d ever perform in Chicago.

“What’s it like being back in your hometown?” the reporter from the Chicago Tribune had asked him in the post-fight press conference. Castiel had informed the man that Chicago wasn’t, in fact, his hometown. He’d never lived in the city. He’d only ever visited, and rarely. Besides, he hadn’t thought of Illinois as home for a very long time.

“After you retire at the end of the year, do you think Pretty Boy Winchester can win the title?” another reporter had asked. The question had made the raw, tender skin over Castiel’s knuckles stretch and burn when he tightened his fists under the table.

Yes, of course, I believe Dean will take my title next year. He’s more than deserving.

That had been his answer, the words coming out mindlessly from all the times he’d repeated himself before. They were truthful. He meant them. Castiel could tamp down the scalding pride in his chest at the thought of anyone but him wearing the belt. Because it wouldn’t be anyone. It would be the same man he’d look in the eyes every morning when he woke up.

Dean wanted the title, and he should have it. It was his turn and Castiel would support him every step of the way.

He’s more than deserving.

He just wished Dean had spoken to him before announcing to the world, right after Castiel’s first victory of the year when his wounds were still bleeding, that he would participate in a title fight after Castiel was gone. Maybe, if he’d given Castiel some kind of indication beforehand, it wouldn’t have felt like he was walking over Castiel’s grave.

Castiel scanned the arena outside of the ring. The house lights were on, making the place seem foreign and liminal. The spilled popcorn kernels, cigarette ash, and crumpled trash that lined the sticky floors served as the only signs that life had once been vibrant there. Castiel could still feel the hot overhead lights on his skin, just as surely as he felt the blood seeping onto his bandages and the bruises that would line his face tomorrow. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

Soon, bruises and blood would be a thing of the past. All the pain that came with victory wouldn’t plague him anymore. He could unclench his fists, relax his muscles, let his calloused knuckles soften and his bones heal from all the times they’d been broken.

He wondered if, like an ache on a rainy day, those fractured bones would remember the glory. If they’d whisper, or if they’d echo with yells.

An-gel Nov-ak!

The loud whining of a metal door struck the silence like a jab.

“Cas!”

The door clattered closed, and Castiel’s eyes fluttered open. His neck was starting to pinch. He leveled his chin and watched Dean stride down the aisle between the ringside seats, polished shoes crunching over debris as he went. He was still wearing his suit, his wool coat draped over his arm.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Dean complained. “The hell are you doing out here?”

“Thinking,” Castiel said simply, even though it felt like a lie. His mind had just been circling around the same thing it had been for nearly three months now: his retirement, and everything that went along with it. He’d asked Dean time and time again if he was doing the right thing. And, time and time again, Dean had assured him that he was.

He believed Dean, because Dean wanted what was best for him. They wanted what was best for each other. And yet, the question remained like a contusion on Castiel’s ribs.

Castiel resolved not to bother Dean with it anymore. The answer wouldn’t change, and neither would the circumstances. It was like Dean kept saying: it was okay to feel mixed emotions, and to be nostalgic. What Castiel felt was nothing more than that. Castiel would learn how to open his hands and put down the fight.

He still had eight months, two weeks, and a day to learn how.

Dean walked up the steps and ducked into the ring. “Okay. Thinking about what?” he asked, carefully hanging his coat on the ropes so it wouldn’t crease.

Castiel pressed his lips together and looked to the side, hoping to find an excuse. He remembered what the reporter from the Tribune had asked him. “My father used to take me to Chicago sometimes—before we had a car. He would make me load the pigs into the Studebaker wagon to trade them at the markets. The trip took almost nine hours. It smelled. But it was better than killing them.”

He brought his eyes back to Dean, who was furrowing his brow as if Castiel was insane.

“What?”

“You’re thinking about pigs?” Dean asked.

Castiel sighed wearily.

Dean shrugged. “Well, we could go see ‘em. If you want.”

Now, Castiel’s brow lined. “The pigs? I’m fairly certain they were slaughtered.”

“No, not the—” Dean groaned. “Your folks.”

Castiel would rather not.

“Might be nice,” Dean pressed on. “I wouldn’t mind meeting them.”

Castiel shook his head. “They don’t want to see me.”

“You mean, you don’t wanna see them?” Dean corrected, as if reading Castiel’s mind.

“I want to go to sleep,” Castiel answered, changing the subject. His face was beginning to pound, and he didn’t know if that was because of his wounds or the current topic. He walked from the center of the ring toward Dean, who was pouting.

“I thought we were gonna go out,” Dean reminded him. “Only got one more night here. I got some club recommendations before the fight.” He grinned handsomely, which he knew usually got him his way, and sauntered closer to Castiel. He wrapped his arms loosely around Castiel’s waist, making their chests brush. “Get some drinks in you and your face’ll hurt less.”

Castiel was exhausted, and it wasn’t as though Dean had never seen Chicago before, but he had promised Dean a night on the town.

“And you defended your title tonight,” Dean said. “That calls for a toast!”

“Is that what you want to do?” Castiel asked, his eyes drinking in Dean’s ruggedly enticing face. He cupped his sore hands around Dean’s elbows.

Dean smiled again. “Hell, yes!”

As much as Castiel wished he could rest, lying in bed right now wouldn’t be the same without Dean. He still hadn’t found a way to say no to Dean, anyway. “Fine. Then, let’s go.”

With a smug smile, Dean leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth. It stung a little, but Castiel gladly took the pain that came along with the warm feeling the kiss left.

Dean pulled away and headed for his coat, saying over his shoulder, “C’mon, go put your tie and jacket back on. I’ll go get us a cab.” He left the ring and hustled down the stairs, headed for an exit door.

Castiel lingered for another second, looking over his shoulder at the center of the ring. Beyond, the stadium was still vacant. When it had been filled and the crowd had been cheering his name, he’d felt as if he’d been flying. He wondered if this was what it would feel like after he retired: like he was being pulled to the ground.

Shaking the thought away, he exited the ring and went to the dressing room to collect his things.

[trickstarbrave]

hi i wrote this half awake again but

a lil bit of an exposition dump. steren also wakes up. kinda sad still (actually. rly sad) but dw it'll cheer up. just give it some time

vivienne from @mulberrycafe (so you all know they are in vivi's world. not steren's home world)

--

“Ah, my champion,” Azura was in better spirits than when Nerevar last spoke to her like this, at least. “I was hoping you would find that child. I’m glad the two of you were able to meet soon.”

“The Dunmer with a star on his face?” Nerevar asked. If so, that would mean it was Azura’s doing, which only raised more questions.

“Yes.” She replied, smiling. “Steren.” She then tilted her head. “I thought you would be spending time with him and asking him questions.”

“He’s unconscious because he has hypothermia.” Nerevar frowned. “He’s lucky we found him when we did or he’d be dead.”

Azura seemed upset at that, though more worried than angry.

“… I hadn’t intended to drop him here so suddenly.” She admitted. “I had to make a hasty decision.”

“Who is he?” Nerevar declined to inquire about why she brought the boy to Solstheim for the time being. Who Steren even was was a much more pressing question.

“Steren is from another world.” Azura finally admitted after a moment of pause. “One much like this one.”

A more intellectual person like Lucien might take the chance to ask all sorts of questions about different worlds and what that meant, but Nerevar wasn’t the type. He’d hardly understand it and didn’t particularly care if there were more worlds like his own given there wasn’t much he could do to interact with them until now. Not to mention it’s not the first time a daedric prince had offhandedly mentioned it in either lives.

“Why does he have the Moon and Star ring?” Nerevar wanted answers to determine if he was a threat or not.

“He is the one who fulfilled the Nerevarine prophecy.” Came Azura’s firm reply.

“The prophecy…?” Nerevar’s brows furrowed. He’d quite like to chew her out sending a kid who looked like he’d barely reached maturity out to kill gods, but she was already in a foul mood from her spat with Mephala and Boethiah. “Then he’s me?”

Azura shook her head, a sort of sadness in her eyes. “He is not your reincarnation, no.” She then closed her eyes, giving a soft sigh.

“In that world you had a son.” Nerevar froze stiff, and Voryn did the same beside him. “He is your son’s reincarnation, following that family line.”

“I had a son?!” Nerevar looked even more alarmed. How much different had that world been then? If there was a crown prince to carry on his legacy, had the tribunal killed him too? Was he used as a political pawn? Raised to take his place in the prophecy? Nerevar wouldn’t have allowed that. He wouldn’t have made his son do such a difficult task— 

And what about Ayem?! If he did everything Nerevar did, did he have to kill his own mother? Nerevar couldn’t imagine a more cruel life. But why had Almalexia even agree to a child in that world?! If things were so different there, surely their relationship would have been better. Had she still gone along with his death?

“You did.” Nerevar’s mind was still running a mile a minute with the information, barely even hearing Azura. “With Voryn Dagoth.”

“What?!” Nerevar stared at the goddess like she had grown two heads. “How in Oblivion—“

“In that world you had a different set of anatomy.” She replied very bluntly, and Nerevar smacked himself on the forehead. Right, that would explain it. 

“Then what happened to my son?” Nerevar asked, still worried. “Was I still king—queen?” 

“You were king, yes.” Azura moved to a slightly less formal position, looking a bit deflated. “It had been an accident. A moment of passion with you and your beloved, much like in your first lifetime here.” Nerevar could see that honestly. He found it hard to imagine a version of himself that wouldn’t fall for Voryn. “And you had given him to Voryn to be raised under House Dagoth, for his protection.”

“He was a secret then.” Voryn sounded… Unsteady and a bit breathless, baffled by the circumstances. “He wouldn’t have been safe with Neht, especially if the rest of the great houses found out he had Steren with me.”

“Precisely.” Azura closed her eyes once more. The goddess didn’t often show anxiety like mortals did, but Nerevar could tell the crease in her brows was unusual. “And when he was still young, the Battle of Red Mountain occurred.”

It was unspoken what she meant with everything else, as an uncomfortable silence fell over them. Nerevar felt cold, and Voryn tightened his grip on Nerevar’s hand, trembling slightly. 

Steren had been orphaned then. Both of his parents were killed, and he was likely too young to really understand what happened.

“The false gods sent him to House Indoril. They attempted to raise him. Guide him. To ease their guilt no doubt.” Yes, Nerevar could see that. Back then, Vivec, Sotha Sil, and Almalexia had deluded themselves into thinking killing him and Voryn was the right thing to do. For both selfish reasons, and for the good of the people. But he didn’t think they had it in them to kill Nerevar’s only child just to tie up loose ends.

“Steren grew, and eventually learned he was of House Dagoth. He sought answers they refused to give him, and so he left to seek it out himself.” Azura sighed. “He married and had a child, before soon meeting his own end.” Nerevar hated the way she said it so simply; his child being lost and alone in the world looking for answers was not something she could just casually brush off like that. “And you,” Azura looked at Nerevar again, “You refused my call to Moonshadow. Even the Tribunal could faintly sense your soul and tried to seal you in a bone walker, and yet through force of will you resisted even that.” That was pretty impressive all things considered, Nerevar would admit. “You refused to leave your child alone in the world, so you haunted him. And then his child. Then his child’s child…”

“I stayed there the whole time,” Nerevar asked, a sadness in his chest that still left him feeling cold, “Right?”

“Yes. Until Steren was reborn.” Azura sighed. “You refused to rest, let alone incarnate, so I had to use his soul. You had already modified the enchantment, and the prophecy had to be fulfilled.”

Nerevar paused, about to ask another question, before Voryn snapped.

“You sent him to kill Dagoth Ur?!” Voryn looked furious. 

“Someone had to.”

“You sent him to kill his own father!” Voryn was trembling in rage now. “Even if I was lost and mad, he was still my son—I could have killed him!”

“And you tried.” Azura said simply, only adding to Voryn’s rage. “Dagoth Ur thought he could remake Steren as an Ash Vampire if need be, before forcing Nerevar’s soul to be his.” She still met Voryn’s angry gaze without flinching. “And if he had not defeated you, his world would have been doomed.”

Voryn punched the wall of the temple with a supernatural strength, leaving cracks in his wake.

“Voryn,” Nerevar went to calm him.

“No!” Voryn snapped at him. “She sent my son to kill me or die trying! She—“

“She did what she had to because I refused.” Nerevar held Voryn’s arms tightly. “Don’t blame her but blame me.”

“You wanted to be with our son, how could I possibly blame you?”

“Because that selfishness doomed him to having to correct my mistakes—our mistakes.” Nerevar’s face was firm but level. “And… He’s alright now. He succeeded.”

“Indeed.” Azura spoke up again. “But in the end, the grief of your beloved’s death was enough to nearly shatter your already fragile soul. You had to return to moonshadow, or perish in a way not even I could save you.” Nerevar hated that. He knew she was right; Voryn’s death had nearly broken him this lifetime. If his soul had been active for thousands of years without rest, it was a miracle he didn’t cease existing in that world. “You had guided him since he got the ring, allowing him to communicate with your soul. I let you two give your goodbyes, and he ushered you to Moonshadow and safety.”

So Steren was left alone again. Having to say goodbye to both of his fathers in such a short time.

“Why is he here then?” Nerevar asked, once again taking Voryn’s hand.

“… As a reward for fulfilling the prophecy when you could not, I offered him anything.” Azura looked sad once more in a way that Nerevar did not like. “He asked me to let him be with his parents again.”

Another chill ran up Nerevar’s spine.

He didn’t fully know Steren, but he knew Steren was his son.

His son, after a long and arduous journey, had asked the Lady of Twilight to kill him. To end his life so he could roam Moonshadow looking for Nerevar and Voryn.

Nerevar knew that feeling well; he too wanted to end it all after he was done. But he moved forward as he knew that’s what Voryn would have wanted, and what his people needed. But it was something else entirely to hear his own child had been through the same grief and loneliness.

“I didn’t have it in me to end his life.” Azura admitted. “He is young, and it is not in his fate to die young again.” Nerevar was at least thankful she didn’t just go along with such a request; he would have been furious enough to try and rip her to pieces himself, dead or not. “But I didn’t want to delay it either. If I refused, he might take matters into his own hands,” That was also a possibility, “So I used my magic to keep him from death for a few hours, and made the hasty decision to send him here to meet you.”

She was still upholding her end of the bargain in a way. He did get to be with Nerevar and Voryn, just in a different world.

“Your spirits from that world also wish to join you.” Nerevar raised a brow. Two of him and Voryn? If they could just join the living, wouldn’t she just bring them back in his world? “If they are residing inside your souls, as fragile as they are, they can rest without vanishing and give you their memories so you may know Steren as they do.”

“… So that was that feeling.” Voryn muttered.

“You knew?” Nerevar asked?

“Only faintly.” Voryn sighed. “The souls felt like you and I only… Fainter. And it seemed impossible there were two of us so I thought it must have been my imagination.”

“Would you welcome them?” Azura asked. “The memories may be slow to come, especially for Nerevar given he had so many,” Azura looked like she was almost pleading with them, though as proud and vain as she was she would never admit it. 

“Yes.” Voryn answered without a second thought. Nerevar was surprised even by how quick he answered, before sighing himself.

“Sure,” Nerevar huffed, but he couldn’t help the soft smile on his lips. “I’d hate for him to be alone again.”

A warmth then bubbled up inside him, almost like a warm ember was glowing. It felt ticklish almost in his chest; a weight there that wasn’t unpleasant in the slightest. 

And then the two were standing in an empty temple, holding hands. Azura was gone, but there was the knowledge the two were different. Time could only tell the changes that might happen, or how long it would take for the memories of their other selves to surface, but…

Now Steren wasn’t alone. That much brought a feeling of comfort to the pair.

“… Let’s get back to the manor,” Nerevar tightened his grip on Voryn’s hand, “The healers should have brought him over there.”

“Yes,” Voryn leaned down to give a soft kiss to Nerevar’s forehead. “I should also hurry to tell my assassins to watch over him as closely as they do our poet.” Nerevar smiled in turn, a sort of loving, mirthful smile he sometimes rarely got to make in his stress of being king and the mess they were dealing with now.

“Right,” Nerevar leaned up to kiss his husband softly on the lips. “We have a son now, after all. They need to watch over him just as carefully as they do Vivienne.”

—

It was days later Steren awoke, groggy, in pain, and miserable.

“… Dad…?” He asked, groggily. He knew he’d seen Nerevar again; he’d gotten to hug Nerevar properly. He remembered the warmth; the solid feeling of his father in his arms. “Ata…?” He’d also seen Voryn there with him. Had they brought him to a place to rest? And why did his body hurt so much when he was already dead? 

He tried to climb out of bed, but his legs were too unsteady. They buckled under him, sending him crashing to the floor, almost causing him to hit his head on the nightstand. “Fuck—“ Steren swore under his breath. Gods it was cold out of the blankets too—why was Moonshadow so damn cold?! From how Azura is always dressed you’d imagine her realm would be warm, not freezing. Not helping was the fact he was in loose pants, bandages on his chest, and a thin robe overtop that was left untied. He was shivering already as he tried to steady himself, but luckily he wasn’t left struggling for long as quickly the door opened, someone rushing to his side.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Nerevar was there, gingerly helping him up. He was completely solid too, not simply a golden spirit you could faintly make out the features of. He was in all his chimer glory, white hair and blue eyes as he scooped up Steren and placed him back in bed. “You’re still injured so you should rest—“

Nerevar didn’t have time to finish tucking him in, as Steren began clinging to him and openly sobbing into his shoulder.

“Dad—!” Steren was holding him light a frightened child, nails digging in through Nerevar’s robes until they nearly hurt, as though he feared the moment he let go Nerevar would slip away from him again. “I-I’m so sorry—I’m sorry, I just—” 

Steren was then sobbing and babbling incoherently, refusing to let go. A bit awkwardly, Nerevar patted his head and rubbed his back, letting him cry it all out. He didn’t dislike Steren at all; Steren was his child as Azura told him, but he was still a bit unsure at the best way to comfort him, especially when he was this upset.

But eventually the tears began dying down as Steren hiccuped, before he began wiping his own tears.

“Normally you’d already be—be lecturing me about how stupid I was to do something like this,” Steren tried to smile through the tears. “I know you’re furious with me but I just—just needed to see you and Ata again…” 

“Shhh,” Nerevar hushed him again, cautiously wiping his tears away, “You did the best you could… More than what you should have.” Nerevar tried to smile back. “I’m just glad you’re safe now.”

“Well I know I am now,” Steren was still smiling so happily. “Now we can be safe and happy together in Moonshadow.” There was no threat of dying anymore, after all. No one who could rip apart his family. They could catch up on everything—Voryn could tell him about his early childhood, Nerevar could explain how he grew up, and they could make new and happy memories together.

“… Steren,” Nerevar sighed; he didn’t want to drop this on him so early, but it felt unfair to lie to him as well. It would only upset him in the long run. “We’re not in Moonshadow.”

“The land of our ancestors then?” Steren asked. He honestly didn’t care where they were, so long as they were together. But still, Nerevar shook his head.

“We’re in Solstheim.” Nerevar explained. “Azura brought you here.”

“S…” Steren began, his mouth fumbling. “Solstheim…?” That frozen island of Skyrim? Why would she take him there? Actually, more importantly, why were his parents here?!

“… She brought you across time and worlds into ours after you defeated Dagoth Ur.” Nerevar explained, his eyes cautiously watching Steren’s expression. “She said you wished to be with your parents and that you are mine and Voryn’s son, and in your world you fulfilled the prophecy when I couldn’t.”

It was hard to explain the emotions Steren was going through hearing that, taking in the look on Nerevar’s face as well as his behavior. Nerevar was looking at him like he was a… Stranger. Someone unceremoniously dropped into his lap. There was no tender affection in his eyes, nor anger at Steren wanting to die and join him. He wasn’t hostile at all, just reserved. Cautious. Unsure.

Then there was anger. He had asked Azura to be with his parents. His. Not some other version of Nerevar and Voryn who didn’t know him. We’re his parents even together in this world? Possibly not, but certainly Steren hadn’t been born from how clumsily Nerevar spoke, as though in disbelief over the fact he and Voryn had a child. 

Pure rage coursed through him, before he quickly directed it from Azura towards himself; of course, what else did he expect?! A daedra wouldn’t uphold their end of the bargain that easily. Even if Azura was one of the few daedra you could worship semi-openly as she wasn’t regarded as evil or openly cruel, that didn’t change the fact she was a daedric prince. And Clavicus Vile didn't have a monopoly on twisting someone’s words, so it was no surprise Azura would instead dump him somewhere else to be of use to him.

He should have just asked for some gold and then killed himself properly. Then there would at least be the guarantee he'd see his fathers again. Now if he died there was no promise of even that. If he was in another world like Nerevar said, he was far beyond his afterlife and Moonshadow, and he didn’t trust Azura to return him to his parents in that world anymore.

But there would be time to weep over that later. He could find someplace private to cry himself to sleep, like he'd done so many times before. At least this time he knew the ghost of his father wasn't watching, helpless to comfort him like Nerevar desperately wanted to. Instead, he relaxed his clenched fists, trying to make his defeated sigh as quiet as possible, and moved his legs so he could partially kneel on the bed, putting his hands in front of him, and bowing low.

"I'm sorry for imposing on you. My deepest apologies." He'd normally never talk so formally to Nerevar, but this was not the Nerevar whom he affectionately called dad and who guided him around Vvardenfell. This was Nerevar reborn, king of Morrowind. And Steren had learned plenty what happened when you disrespected those of a higher station. It was better to kneel and apologize, licking boots before scurrying off like a coward, at least whenever you could.

“H-hey,“ Nerevar tried to usher him up, “There’s no need to bow like that—“

“I’ve shown you great disrespect. Please allow me to apologize for that.” He could at least thank House Hlaalu for his better speaking abilities. “I had no idea I would be brought here and I know I must have put you into a difficult situation caring for me.” At least the fact he was alive still explained the pain and cold. Azura dropped him into the fucking ocean just to spite him and had him wandering around near death as punishment no doubt instead of trying to be useful for her. It’s no wonder he still had all his fingers. 

“Please lay down properly.” Nerevar ushered him back to the bed, “You’re still injured,” His hand was firm on Steren’s chest, not painful but warning him to stay there. “Rest up for now and we can talk about this later, alright?” 

Steren didn’t really want to talk about it further, if he was honest. What point was there playing pretend? Acting like he had a place here? This wasn’t his world, and this wasn’t his father. They were strangers, Nerevar just being told he had an obligation to look after Steren from Azura. 

But he could sort it out later. When his injuries from his fight with Dagoth Ur healed and his head cleared from hypothermia and exhaustion, he could figure something out. He’d thank the hortator for his hospitality, pass on the ring and sword that in truth belonged to him, and leave… Somewhere else. Somewhere warmer, at least. Maybe he’d go west to the deserts of Elsweyr or the Illiac Bay—well, maybe not the bay. His birth mother in this life was on the run there. The warm sands of the desert would be a safer bet, or even just Cyrodiil again where he could find a job like unloading cargo again or work under a merchant. It’s not like he wanted power and fame after all; he’d swear to Lady Azura he didn’t covet Nerevar’s throne, do whatever quest she sent him here to do, and be on his way. It could be a weird little anecdote for Nerevar and Voryn in this world; something funny to joke about years later while they wondered where he ended up wandering off to. 

But for now he’d rest. Steren closed his eyes, refusing to let anymore tears fall; he’d cry for his actual parents, but not in front of some stranger. He refused.

Nerevar waited at the door, unsure, watching him lay there and breathe with anxiety bubbling in his chest, before he sighed and closed the door. 

They’d explain it all when Steren recovered. Right now he didn’t look mentally ready to understand anything they said, and Nerevar was afraid of making the situation worse. He’d keep a close eye on him and wait it out for now, earning his trust if he had to. But they’d make it through it. Nerevar would be sure of it.

[tearyeye-private-i]

Jerry Lee Lewis, c. July 1959. From JLL.org

Elvis Presley, Knickerbocker Hotel, Hollywood, August 18, 1956. From ElvisPresleyMusic.com.

[ 12 Days of Christmas 💕 5/12 ]

At the start of my research, I found all sorts of stories, I wasn’t sure were even true. Like, Elvis and Jerry Lee riding around on motorcycles, with no clothes on the streets of Memphis, in the middle of the night? No way – but as time passed, the story got brought up to him three times (from what I know). He had a consistent reaction, that has led me to believe it happened.

Though, the stories are subjective, so you can draw your own conclusion!

The first reference of the story:

“In a crowded basement meeting room at the posh Omni-Memphis Hotel, 20-some journalists are attempting, with difficulty, to grill the subject of the forthcoming film “Great Balls of Fire”

The discussion, which never quite seems to interconnect, has degenerated to a foreign-sounding report’s question about whether the film’s subject, Jerry Lee Lewis – rock music’s archetypal bad boy – ever motorbiked naked with Elvis Presley, his fellow Memphian an ultra-rival.

“Motorbike?” Lewis says, archly, dismissively.

“Nekkid? Me and Elvis Presley?” His eyes suddenly narrow, “how’d you know that?”

“It’s in Joe Smith’s book,” says a reporter.

“You can’t believe nothin’…” Lewis mutters, his voice trailing off. “Well, that was 3 o’clock in the morning,” he suddenly adds, prompting explosive laughter from the journalists. “It really was,” he goes on with a grain.

“There was nobody out then—except this one policeman on a horse, and he was doing his dead-level best to catch us. Now, that was a sight. If anybody woulda saw that, we never woulda sold no more records. That woulda been the end of that.” Pause, his eyes narrowing again. “How’d you know that?”

“It’s in Joe Smith’s book,” the reporter repeats.

“Who’s Joe Smith?”

“The head of Capitol Records. Used to be head of Elektra Records.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. That’s not right. Do you believe that?”

“You just told us it happened at 3 o’clock in the morning,” the reported notes.

“I can’t believe people will believe anything you say.”

“Well, is it true?” Another reporter asks.

“Yes. It’s true.”

Welcome, folks to talking with the Killer, a 54-year-old rock king dethroned before his time – in fact, before his prime – by the 1958 disclosure of a mad marriage to his 13-year-old second cousin.

The scandal caused Lewis, a Bible college dropout, to fall from rock ‘n’ roll grace into comparative oblivion – made all the more bruising by the fact that he was arguably the most intense performer, and most brilliant self-taught pianist, to ever rattle music stages around the world.”

From “THE KILLER BLOWS SMOKE FOR ‘FIRE’” by Jack Hurst and Country music. Chicago Tribune, June 24, 1989.

The second reference is from the book the reporter mentioned, actually, it’s called “Buddy Holly: Biography” by Ellis Amburn. In it, Ellis wrote that record executive Joe Smith and Jerry Lee spoke on the plane, during Buddy Holly, along with Paul Anka’s tour to Australia. They’d been drinking when Jerry Lee “confessed,” which is the word Ellis used. That yes, indeed, he and Elvis went on a naked motorcycle ride at 2:30 AM in Memphis, in a young Jerry Lee’s own words; “only for thirty-five or forty seconds, ‘round the corner and back.”

The third reference was from “Jerry Lee Lewis: His Own Story” by Rick Bragg. When asked the same question, instead of brushing it off or saying it wasn’t true. Jerry Lee laughed and said he can’t say anything about that because “Elvis isn’t here to defend himself.”

So, while Jerry Lee was right that you can’t believe everything anyone says, that doesn’t mean there aren’t patterns. Maybe, he thought it was funny to lie. Maybe, it happened and so what? It’s just two bros cruising down the street at night, naked on motorbikes, 5 feet apart – ‘cause they’re not gay. 😋

Other important lessons are if you do happen to go motorbiking naked with your supposed arch nemesis, don’t get caught, and don’t tell anyone about it!

[tsuehiro]

" Mind over matter "

I'm in tatters thinking about her

Pairings :: Tsukishima Kei x F!reader

Synopsis ; Tsukishima Kei, who likes the reader from afar and can't get her out of his mind. He even asks his friend for advice-

Word Count = [ 1.458 ]

Song name :: Mind Over Matter

NOTEs!!

It was more different in my mind but it got out like that so it's confusing for me lol

It's the third one of the lyric series, yay!! ꉂ(ˊᗜˋ*)♡

Should I make a masterlist btw?? Idk at all-

And one more, i think i'll be taking reader as fem more so I'm sorry at the very very start (◞‸◟ㆀ)

The reader is shy in this i must say,,

I love him sm omg btw haha anyways,,

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ Enjoy while reading! ♡

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚૮꒰˵•ᵜ•˵꒱ა‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷

Tsukishima Kei ; a first year student in Karasuno, a middle blocker, smart, quiet, salty and sometimes a mean person. Everyone accepted him the way he is, mean and salty.

Also, he was always concentrate about everything. His matches, classes and in everything he do.

But lately there was something going through his head nonstop. It was you. He couldn't believe he has a soft spot for you at all.

He knew everything, he was smart, really smart but he couldn't get himself together when he saw you in the library or practice matches. He didn't know why he wanted you to be around him.

He always took glances at your small figure.

He'd look at you in practices too.

While drinking water,

While cleaning his sweat with his towel,

After blocking Hinata or Tanaka's attacks and so on..

He wondered if you ever cheered for him.

You did actually but he never saw you nor your cheerings. He'd only have thoughts about it.

He was glad that you were shy. When you guys locked eyes even for seconds, you'd look like a tomato and turn your head quickly. He'd smirk at your actions while finding it cute, to be honest.

He thanked to god that you guys were in the same class or else he wouldn't get himself to get your name or learn other things about you.

It was weird how you guys get close to each other.

He was wide awake, in their floor bed. He couldn't get himself together at the thought of you cheering for him team because of the final match. He knew, he'd be the only one to beat Ushijima even if it's you watching or not but oh boy, he'd think about you cheering for him on the tribunes, clapping your hands and smiling brightly...

He talked to Yamaguchi, even if his body didn't want to his brain did it like always, that night.

" Hey, Yamaguchi? "

" Ah hey Tsukki! Is something the matter, why are you still awake? "

" You're awake too Yamaguchi, don't ask anything. Anyways, do you know if y/n is coming to our final match? " he put his hand on the back of his head.

" Like I said, don't ask anything, just answer. "

" I don't know actually Tsukki! But the whole school will be there you know that, right? " he smiled to his tall friend.

" So uh why would you ask about y/n-san? "

" I just said don't ask anything, Yamaguchi. "

" Sorry Tsukki! Uh.. Goodnight then? " he smiled again and put his head on the pillow slowly.

" Wait Yamaguchi, "

He looked at the floor, not looking Yamaguchi in the eyes.

" How can i uh,, how can i ask a girl out? "

" What- TSUKKI?! " he got up quickly smiling brightly.

" ARE YOU GONNA ASK Y/N OUT?!! " of course Yamaguchi knew everything about Tsukishima's crush, he is the only friend Tsukishima can rely on after all.

" Keep your voice down Yamaguchi! I don't really want other's to wake up and know all about this! "

" Sorry Tsukki! But will you really ask her out? "

He looked at Yamaguchi now " Mhm I guess, I will. So, how do i ask a girl out? "

" Tsukki, are out of your mind? Did something happen to you? "

He rolled his eyes at Yamaguchi's words.

" Tch, of course I'm not out of my mind you idiot. Why would you even ask something like that? "

" Sorry Tsukki! It's just everyone knows you as a ' mind over matter ' guy, I couldn't think you'd want my idea to ask someone out. " he sent his friend a apologetic smile.

Tsukishima rolled his eyes again.

" Sorry again, Tsukki! "

" It's fine I guess. Well, forget what I've asked anyways, let's just sleep then. "

He said a small goodnight to his friend and lay down on his side, taking off his glasses and putting them somewhere near him.

' Isn't it same for the other's though, mind over matter for sure.. Pfft, how idiotic of them '

[ 03:56 A.M ]

He looked over his phone. ' I can't sleep, what are you doing in my mind y/n.. ' he thought to himself. He looked one last time to his phone, finding your class pic. ' She is so cute. ' he thought while looking at the photo. You were standing next to him and his head was down to your head level. You had a cute smile on your face while he had a small smile on his face, because of you.

He smiled a little at the photo and locked his phone, trying to sleep.

[ 5 minutes ago before the final match. ]

' Where is she? I thought she'd be there, pft how low of me ' he thought to himself, eyeing the tribune. ' why I'm in tatters thinking about her? It's so childish to think anyways ' he thought again while turning his head to their coach, Ukai. Yamaguchi must notice his tired and down figure, and most likely to read his mind, he stands next to his friend putting his hand on one of his shoulders.

" Don't worry Tsukki! She'll be here soon! Yachi-chan said she'll be coming a bit late "

" Shut up Yamaguchi. "

" Sorry Tsukki! Heh~ "

[ Back to you~ ]

You liked him from afar too, actually. You couldn't get yourself to speak with him in person out of school. You liked watching him playing volleyball. Even if you said you were there for Yachi, you'd always look at him. He was attractive. Anywayss.

You were late and rushing to gym.

When you got there finally, panting, only to see Yachi and Saeko-san along with the whole school. You waved at Yachi and she smiled. The set count was already 3. You asked Yachi how was the first 2 sets.

Tsukishima noticed you at that time, while Yachi was telling you how the match was going, you were looking over the team. He saw, how you quickly turned your head to Yachi smiling brightly that they got one of the sets. You clapped your hands a little. He blushed a little, seeing you happy made him happy even if he didn't know why. ' It's probably because of the first 2 sets ' he thought to himself.

You hold your breath when they were at match point. When a whistle was heard, you were in tears and screaming loud at the team's victory.

He looked at your figure ; clapping your hands and smiling brightly while tears rolled down from your cheeks.

He smiled a little at your figure too even if his teammates were hugging him on the floor.

After the match, at the hallways, you saw his figure and thought about talking with him. You wanted nothing more than to talk with him.

You watched and cheered for him and only him after all.

He had saw you too, though. Walking to your figure, you noticed him too. Blushing slowly you heard his tired voice.

" Hey y/n. "

" H-hello, Tsukishima-kun! " you smiled softly.

" Is your finger okay by the way? It must be hurting so much.. " you said while looking at his eyes.

" Nah, I even rested when they were wrapping it anyways. " he said while smirked. You smiled again.

" You were so good while blocking them! I- uh i really liked how concentrated you were.. "

" Thank you y/n-san "

There was a comfortable silence between the two of you. He was one to interrupt it though.

" It'll be weird and sudden but.. " you looked at him, looking confused.

" I was thinking about you for a while now, don't get me wrong though,, " He shakes his head and hand.

" I really like you, that's why. I couldn't think any other ways to tell you this so " he said while looking anywhere but you.

" I.. I really like you too, Tsukishima "

You guys looked at each others eyes and smiled, not knowing the team's eyes on you two. He pulled you closer and wrapped an arm around you, still smiling a little.

" I was.. Thinking about you for a while too " you said to him while hiding your red face in his chest.

You guys laughed together while the team looking at Tsukishima's smiling figure in some kind of a shock.

" He got a cute one, Nishinoya!! " said Tanaka, jokingly pretending to be down.

How can he not pretend though, he wants the best for his kohai's after all ヾ(´︶`♡)ﾉ

[morganweir]

if home were a boy, he’d have hands like yours

find it on ao3 here

"Oh, this is fucking bad," Benny says, which is always reassuring. They're fighting vampire off shoots from Anastasia's supposedly civilized vampire board of directors, or whatever they're calling themselves this century- Ethan found some old journals from his however many greats grandfather, the one that Jesse had mentioned, and had found out from Grandma that the Tribunal he was referring to were very much the same vampires that Ethan has to deal with today. So completely not the point.

"You alright, Ben?" Ethan asks, his voice gruff, but he's shoving a vampire off of him by way of swinging a UV light like a bat, so he can be given a little grace for not exactly sounding as normal. The last of the vamps goes down with Benny throwing out one of his vampire hex bags, new and improved from their early days on the hunt. They're better now. They're supposed to be, anyway.

"E, I think I swallowed some," Benny says, his fear so heavy in the air it's almost like a vision, almost like it's gonna take him under. Ethan stays above the waves. It's Benny's turn to be scared. Ethan'll get his turn later.

"Some of what, Ben? Tell me what's going on and I can help," he coaxes, the lifelong job of managing his best friend's fear clicking in like a familiar programming routine, and he crosses to Benny with no thought of the bodies he steps over. A body is just a body. We all do what we have to do.

"The blood, E. I don't think you're going to be able to help," Benny says, his fingers coming to his mouth dirty with the bloody spoils of the battle (they haven't even graduated high school yet, they're not even grown), pressing against his lips. Ethan pulls his hand away from there, his fingers wrapped loosely around Benny's wrist.

"Why would the blood matter, dude? The blood doesn't matter unless you've been bitten," he reminds Benny, sure that Benny is just being Benny, sure that the worry is misplaced. The incident of Benny's zombification is absolutely hitting him over the head right now. Ethan's eyes dart over Benny rapidly, checking him for wounds, checking him for anything, and-

Benny shrugs his shoulder upwards. His shoulder has the imprint of perfect canines pressing through his stupid striped shirt. A full set of teeth, really- it's still bleeding, though sluggishly.

"Whoops?" Benny says, his voice going a little pitchy with his panic. Ethan holds in a sob, and pulls himself together.

"It's. Okay. It's okay. You're gonna be okay, Ben. We'll take you home and-"

"You can't take me home, E. Not to Grandma. Dude, what if I hurt her?" Benny asks, panic mixing with overt disdain. Ethan cuts a grin sharp enough to scar glass.

"What if you hurt me?" he asks, knowing well enough it'll just make Benny laugh. The other boy delivers, raised eyebrow included as he presses his hand over his wound.

"You don't think you can handle me?" Benny asks, his eyebrows all shameless flirtation but his stance still riddled with fear and pain. Ethan rolls his eyes, playing up his exasperation a little for the bit.

"Alright, pack it up, vampire boy. Let's take you down to the shop then, yeah?" he suggests, already holding onto Benny's wrist and dragging him toward the exit. Hell of a lot to explain to whoever finds this den; he would usually bury the bodies himself, or Benny would disintegrate them in a potion with ingredients Ethan doesn't even wanna think about. Neither of those are an option right now- thank the Gods Horace Black owes him about a million favors. He sends the vampire a text with his free hand, quick and probably short enough that Jesse is gonna call him to bitch about it later, but that's a later him problem.

Ethan works out of one of the kitschiest little shops in town, sitting down for palm readings and tarot cards at a rate of way too much an hour with a regular clientele of suckers who believe him just enough to keep coming back. They think the "trick" where he rolls his eyes back white is real neat, like how he always knows where they're going after their appointments with him. It's independent contractor work at seventeen. It's selling the only real thing about him. At least he has his own key.

He pushes Benny into the car, indelicate with his best friend's overlong limbs and distracted by the math running circles in his head. How long does it take someone to turn? How long does he have until Benny is losing it in his passenger seat? Will he even make it to the shop?

"Hey, no, I'm the one panicking right now, you get out of your head, mister," Benny says once Ethan is settled in the driver's seat, hands frozen on the wheel. Ethan shakes his head, rapid and doglike, and rakes his fingers through his hair.

"It's cool, I'm cool. The shop. How are you feeling? Keep talking, Ben," he instructs, equal parts order and request, equal parts command and desperation. Benny starts chattering about something completely unrelated to the open wound in his shoulder, but Ethan allows it. The distraction is nice. The route to the shop is familiar. If it wasn't 1:32 in the morning according to the clock embedded in the dashboard of his shitty car (which actually means it's 1:35 in the morning, but he digresses), it might even feel normal. But he knows better. Nothing ever really feels normal anymore.

He doesn't say much to reply to Benny's rambling on the way, but he holds out his hand over the gearshift. Benny laces their fingers.

The shop is familiar in a way only somewhere you are paid to be can be. It's really not a bad job, but he's been turned a little cynical by  a few years of this, maybe, a few years of vampires and magic and seeing the future, because working for money is just so petty. He's built a little nest in his alcove room in the shop, something about the ambience, how it makes him seem more mysterious, more occult. Like he doesn't notice how many questions everyone actually wants to ask him, like he doesn't notice how reticent he's actually become, the glances people send his way. He's becoming the freak of this town he never wanted to be. He's just starting to realize that it doesn't really matter. They climb out of the car and Ethan grabs Benny's hand again even while he's unlocking the door. It's like he can hardly help it. The fear is beating a pulse behind his sternum. Benny's quiet now, his face pressed between Ethan's shoulder blades for a moment.

Ethan pushes the door open and pushes Benny directly into his working nest. It's got enough pillows to keep him comfortable even on the linoleum. Knowing the sensitivity that Sarah dealt with when she came into her fledgling abilities, he doesn't bother with flipping on the main lights, only grabbing the switch on the lamp in his own alcove, and grabbing the first aid kit from under his table. You never know in this industry. He climbs into the nest with Benny to clean him up, uncaring of their closeness. No matter how close they get, it'll always feel like they've been closer. Once someone has tethered their magic in you, he imagines it'll always feel that way.

Benny's quiet while Ethan is cleaning him up. He doesn't pry the other boy to talk again, doesn't want to press him when he's gonna have to rationalize this in whatever way Benny gets through these situations. They talk about almost everything, they always have, but the idea of one of them getting turned was always a burden too hard to bear. Even then, if one of them got turned, Ethan always thought it was going to be him. He's the weakest of the bunch. The runt of the litter. He didn't expect Benny to have to do this.

"E, I don't wanna be a vampire," Benny says, voice so small it's hard to hear even in the big, black and dark emptiness lit only by the lamp, the silence they've carved out together. Ethan folds at the waist, his forehead resting against Benny's good shoulder.

"We don't always get what we want, I think," he says, voice breaking just a bit. He doesn't mean for it to. Benny's chuckle sounds strangled out of him.

"You're really bad at this reassuring thing, you know," the spellcaster says, and is he even going to be that anymore? They've never known anyone who was something else before they were bitten. Magic means so much to Benny. Ethan pushes down the instinct, heavy as it is, to cry. He gestures to the building they're in.

"That's not really what they pay me for," he says, the facsimile of his smile a little brighter when Benny actually laughs this time.

"They don't pay you to break in, either, dude."

"Oh, I do that for free," Ethan returns, flashing a shadow of his usual smile. Benny bumps him a little, jostling him as if they aren't already halfway in each other's laps.

"It's gonna be okay, you know. Most of our friends are vampires. It's not what I want, but I'll be able to handle it. You'll help, right?" Benny asks, as if there was another option in the world, as if there was a universe where Ethan wouldn't be right by his side. I'm his best friend, Benny had said when they were fifteen and dumber than hell, when Ethan still thought he was halfway in love with Sarah and all the way straight, when Ethan couldn't see what was right in front of him despite it being there his whole life. Ethan grabs Benny's hand again, lacing their fingers, squeezing Benny's hand just a little bit too hard. His face is still pressed into Benny's good shoulder. He wants to bite Benny himself, like the blunt of his human teeth will make any difference in the gambit of what's already happening to them, what's already coming to pass.

"I'll always be here, Ben. I'll always be yours," he says, so tired he can barely stand it, not tired to sleep but tired to never move again, tired to be done. Benny's fingers unlace from Ethan's own, knots untied, knots tied now in Ethan's stomach, and those fingers come to tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at Benny's eyes in the dim of the lamplight. He's always had pretty eyes.

"My best friend? Or Mine?" Benny asks, a difference that Ethan was hoping he wouldn't ask for, but one that Ethan cannot deny. He gives Benny a smile.

"Whatever I can, B. Whichever you want." It's a cop out and he knows it, relishes in the ambiguity, really, because the ambiguity is where people like him have always stayed safe. Historically best friends. Lifelong roommates. They exchanged letters. Benny looks down at Ethan's mouth.

"What- uh- what do you mean by mine?" There's no ambiguous way to answer that. Ethan looks down at Benny's mouth, the smears of blood cleared from it now. He wonders how it will look with fangs.

"Yours, Ben," he says, and he falls into Benny like he has nowhere else to go, because if a boy could be a home, he would look like Benny Weir. If a home could have a mouth, it would kiss him like this, the press desperate but careful, Benny's fingers near bruising as he grabs Ethan by the hips, if a home could have hands they would hold him like Benny. If home was a knobby kneed teenager, those knees open to allow him to lean against Benny's chest, one of his hands moving to Ethan's hair, and if home was a touch felt, it would be Benny's smile as he pulls away, the barely there touch of his laughter.

"Your type vampires, E?" Benny asks.

"You're not a vampire yet," he reminds Benny, not really wanting to get into compulsory heterosexuality with his newly vampirized best friend who he might be able to kiss whenever he wants now. Benny grins.

"I noticed that wasn't an answer," the other boy teases, his smile almost enough to distract from how pale his skin is beginning to look. They'll have to get him some blood, or some blood substitute, depending on what route he wants to take. They'll take it together. Ethan laces their fingers.

"My type is you, idiot. My type is you."

[justagost]

Face him head on - A Narumitsu Fic

So I got into the AA fandom recently and... I love Bratworth??? And I like seeing Bratworth/Feenie content? So I wrote this:

Basically, Post SoJ Edgeworth and Wright get teleported (with some Magatama incident) in the years where they were young, aka Bratworth’s and Feenie’s (Pre-Dahlia) years, but, Wright appears in the courthouse with young Miles, and Edgeworth in Ivy University with young Phoenix. So, the old counterparts, to get back together, make their young selves meet again.

I know this sounds complicated af, but I swear it’s a LOT easier to understand if you just read it

Spoilers for: Most of AA: Trials and Tribulation and Turnabout goodbyes 

Warning: Mention of blood, fluff, and a bit of horny Bratworth for Older Phoenix and his fancy suit. Nothing explicit  

Words count: 3.700

Enjoy~

Edgeworth paced the tribunal’s hall, his shoes clicked on the smooth pavement, Von Karma was to arrive soon for a trial and he was sure the man was going to want to meet him for a regular check-up on victories and progress. Miles wasn’t really ecstatic about it, but he had no choice, so he used this time to prep-talk himself, that was until a voice from a man he had just surpassed stopped him, “Excuse me, um… what year are we in?”

How could you not know the current year? “What a foolish question, you should be out of this world to not know.” He turned around with his eyes close, “We are well in two-thousand and–” but as he opened his eyes, his words were cut off by the sight of a well-dressed man in multiple shades of blue.

The stranger’s eyes widened, “M-Miles?” he stuttered, and Edgeworth flinched at the use of his name, making him forget all about the suit, “H-How dare you call me by my first name?! It is highly inappropriate and unprofessional, especially from a stranger” the annoyance from his own situation with his mentor arose and he turned around to leave with a “Hmph!” as he was stopped again: “What do you mean ‘stranger’ Mi- Edgeworth? It’s me, Phoenix!”

He scanned his memory for that name, but only one person came to mind- and it definitely wasn’t them. They were part of his past and also the same age as Miles, so it was impossible.

The man shifted behind him, “Really Edgeworth? Does the name ‘Phoenix Wright’ not ring any bells?”

Wright?

His breath hitched.

With an expression full of surprise, he turned back to the man and stared: the spiky hair, the ocean-deep eyes… an attorney badge?!

No, it wasn’t the Wright, it couldn’t be.

He shook his head, “There is no logical way you are the Wright I’m thinking about-” a soft smile welcomed his confused gaze, “But I am- “ He fished for something in his pocket, “Here” and opened his hand to present it to him, Edgeworth accidentally gasped out loud: Signal blue, worn out and slightly faded.

“H-how?” he let out a shaky breath, clutching his arm with the one that wasn’t carrying his bag, “You are my same age- yet you look much more mature-” and hotter, “And what are you doing in a courthouse? Why do you have a defence pin- no” he stopped himself, “You are trying to fool me. You are not who you say you are”

A deep sigh came from the supposed Wright, “I know it’s hard to wrap your head around it- but it’s me, from the future”

His confusion disappeared in an instant, replaced with anger, “What nonsense are you spouting?!” He almost took his leave for the third time, “You want proof, Edgeworth?” his words stopped him once again, as Phoenix shoved his hands in his pocket again, “Then there is proof!” he fished out a device he had never seen before, he deduced it was a cellphone, but much more technological: it didn’t have a keypad and it lit up to show an image with various people in it, just for it to change. The man pressed the screen and there was a calendar which showed the same date but another year– so far away from the current one.

“See? This is almost twenty years ago for me, of course I look older, but it’s me” He placed a hand on his chest for emphasis, “Here- I’ll even show there is an older version of you!” he clicked the screen again and a cellphone contact with the name ‘Miles Edgeworth’ was there: the number was his.

He still couldn’t believe it, but the longer he stared at the man, the longer he could see Phoenix Wright, the kid with the biggest brightest smile he had ever seen, something in his chest was bubbling at the memories of his childhood friend.

“Edgeworth I know this is confusing and very sudden but– you need to help me find my Edgeworth” those words deepened that feeling, my Edgeworth…

“If I’m here with you, that probably means he’s with twenty years old me– you have your car already, yeah?” He stuttered out a reply, “Then please Edgeworth, help me find him” Phoenix grabbed both of his shoulders and stared at him with his glittery eyes.

His instinct was to say yes, but the fury of Von Karma about making him wait would be inevitable… but those eyes… his touch…he was so close…

“Yes…” he panted out, his breath missing from the closeness of his childhood crush, and the next second, he was being dragged down the hall: Phoenix was holding his hand.

His face lit up and the fire within him started to crackle louder: the man was well-toned, the blue suit was perfect for him- made for him, and that light blue vest… made him wild, it made his sculpted chest and thin waist even more obvious, the gold chain to his pocket and his shiny attorney badge complimented the look: Miles had to look away in shame for thinking such thoughts.

Without realizing it, Phoenix had dragged him all the way to the parking lot, like he was more than familiar with the courthouse layout… which he guess backed up his pin. “You already have the red sports car?” he looked at Edgeworth with a serious expression, which made him quiver a little, “Y-yes!”

He was dragged again until they arrived at the car, he managed to fish out his keys and unlock it, Wright stole them from his hand, his skin warm against his left a tingling sensation, “I need to drive, you don’t know where we’re heading. I know you don’t like that other people drive your car, sorry, but it’s an emergency” He flushed again as he entered the passenger seat, the question of how he knew such a thing was answered by the fact that Phoenix knew him in his… timeline? World? Either way, any type of complaint died in his tongue, too overwhelmed as the man started the car and Phoenix’s cologne filled the air: it was fresh and pleasant, it complimented his looks just as the suit did.

While they were speeding somewhere, the car was silent: mostly because Edgeworth was overwhelmed with... Phoenix, everything about him was too much to process.

How the little boy in his memory became this handsome man, why he was a defence attorney, how he came from the future… how the butterflies in his stomach hadn’t stopped since his name was brought up.

Yes, Miles had a bit of a childhood crush on Phoenix, but he had to stuff away his feelings since Von Karma had subtly introduced him to daughters of powerful friends of his multiple times, and had expressed how ‘He could choose between marrying a proper woman or dedicate his life to his job’.

But seeing a mature, sexy version of Phoenix had reawakened that old fire he thought he had extinguished.

The man driving fumbled with that device again and then placed it on his lap, the beeping made him realize he was calling someone.

“Phoenix? Are you alright?” a voice that sounded awfully like his own replied, Wright picked up the device, “Miles! I’m on my way!” So this was the older him! And they used their first names! This meant they were friends!

A wave of happiness washed over him knowing they reunited after all this time.

“On your way?! Phoenix how do you know where I am?!”, Wright turned left using only one hand to steer, which was… hot…

Edgeworth looked away and realized how much the sight had affected him… he could feel his pants become a little tighter... “I awoke at the courthouse, not too far away from twenty years old you, I presume you must be at Ivy university with twenty years old me”

“Yes…” They accelerated a little as the confirm came in, “I’m glad I caught him as he was leaving class… I swear I saw… Her… in the distance” Wright’s grip on the wheel tightened, his face winced like he was in pain: Who was… her?

“I should be there in five minutes or so, bring young me with you at the entrance: visitors aren’t allowed inside” an okay arrived from the device, “I’m… not wearing the sweater… am I?” The question was so weird Edgeworth snapped his head towards Wright in confusion, why what he was wearing matter?

A sight came from the other line, “No, fortunately you aren’t… I think you haven’t started da-” he stopped his older version of him on the phone, “Don’t Miles…” the man driving the car looked at him for a brief2 second, “You’re on speaker”.

A mortified “Oh” came from the other line, “I’ll see it for myself, bye” he placed the device on his lap again, not before a concerned, “Drive safe Phoenix” came as a goodbye.

Silence fell again, and it stayed that way for a while, Edgeworth was becoming restless, Phoenix could tell by how hards he was grabbing his arm, so he talked, “Say… you had your first trial already, yeah?” He winced at the memory of that man falling backwards, with blood spilling from his mouth… that girl smirking…

He shivered and nodded, a hand softly settled on his shoulder, “I’m sorry to bring back the bad memory, but I need to find out at what time both you and young me are living in right now” he nodded and dared a peek at Wright.

His brows were furrowed in concentration: he was thinking: “How do I ask this…” he mumbled, “Um.. Did you make it on the news?” The question threw him off, “Uh… Y-yes… an article about me was released not too long ago” Phoenix nodded, “Alright, so young me is aware of you”

A confused “Huh?” slipped past his lips. Phoenix shook his head, “Young me saw that article, that’s how…” he paused.

Wright had seen the article? A chill went down his spine… they didn’t talk too well about him on there… it mentioned all sorts of bad rumours. Did Phoenix hate him now?

“No, I can’t say more than this, you’ll see for yourself once we arrive”

It struck him that he was about to see Wright, well, the Wright he spent that blissful year of school with… his Wright.

“Hey… don’t overthink this, I can assure you everything will be fine” A comforting smile came from the man, Edgeworth nodded.

Now that he had seen older him, he couldn’t think how twenty-year-old Phoenix would look.

_______________

Phoenix parked and scrambled out of young Edgeworth’s car, the man was walking so fast he had no time to register where they were, thank god for the massive sign saying “Ivy university”. So this is where Phoenix ended up huh.

They approached the entrance by the big stairs, and once on top of them, there they were: The older version of himself reminded him too much of his father, the glasses were– as best as he could remember – the same model. He was wearing a long jacket a shade slightly different than his, the cravat was at its usual place and the black vest, he realized, matched with Phoenix’s, different colour, but it looked like the same model.

A smaller boy was standing almost behind him, gripping the sketchbook to his chest, a red scarf hid his reddened face: he was looking directly towards him. His stomach dropped: that was Wright.

“Phoenix!” His counterpart ran into adult Wright’s arm, embracing him for a few seconds before pulling away and cupping his cheeks, “Are you ok? Is everything all right?” the man with the spiky hair smiled, “Yes Miles I’m ok”.

After a sigh of relief, his old self looked right at him and scooted away from Phoenix, a little blush lit his cheeks. An awkward silence fell in the middle of the chaos of students leaving school.

“So… how do we go back?” Wright asked, adult him looked down in thoughts, “I’m not sure… but Maya shoved the magatama on me as soon as it started to lit up” He grabbed the side of his jacket and pulled a shaped rock out of it, “I presume we’ll have to use this… although you’re much handier with it than I am” He gave it to adult Wright and then looked back at him, he looked away: he looked so much like his father it hurt.

“M-miles…?” A broken voice called his first name, both Edgeworths looked at the young boy with the spiky hair. He was about to say how childish it was to call him by his first name, but his heart dropped as he realized: Phoenix was crying, subtly sobbing in the scarf, “Why didn’t you reply to my letters?” Edgeworth gripped his arm, “Why did you suddenly disappear?” he cringed, “Why are you a prosecutor?” he choked out the final question, Miles internally cursed von Karma and that damned earthquake.

“I..-” he attempted to reply, but Phoenix threw himself at him, making his briefcase drop: “I MISSED YOU SO MUCH!”  

The boy gripped him desperately, his first instinct was to shove him away, yell at him to stay back and disappear. Wright was part of his painful cursed past.

But the warmth of another body surrounding him… the closeness of his friend made him realized that he was the cause of his sadness: he had hurt Phoenix.

His brain screamed at him to free himself, but every inch of his body, touch-starved for years… and his instinct to protect him… they held his negative thoughts back from becoming true.

Adult Wright was holding that greenstone, absorbed in thoughts, but older him stared at his soul, smiling. Phoenix was a sobbing and shuttering mess, his suit was going to be ruined after this, but as if older Edgeworth read his mind, like this was a situation he’d been before, he whispered softly enough for only him to hear: “Don’t run, face it head-on”

After a few seconds of confusion, he almost physically recoiled as he realized what older him was saying: his suit getting stained, his pride being hurt, what von Karma taught him… they were all excuses to run away from an uncomfortable situation: this situation.

Face it head on… Phoenix’s feelings, all of the memories he reminded him of, the mistakes he had made, his hurtful past… He had to face them head-on.

But his feelings for Phoenix! The butterflies he got when a nine-year-old Phoenix smiled at him or grabbed his hand… the insecurity of preferring boys over girls that had started with the man in his arms-

Older him sighed and held out a hand in Wright’s direction, “Hm? Yes Mile- Hmf!” and grabbed older Phoenix’s tie, pulling him to… kiss him.

Miles’s eyes widened as he observed how Wright’s surprised expression melted into the kiss, his eyes closed and a hand crept up onto older Edgeworth for support: Edgeworth had told Wright his feelings, and he reciprocated them.

Every ounce of logic flew right out of the window and Miles hugged the still sobbing Phoenix tight, pushing him against his chest. He stiffened as a small gasp came out of the boy in his arms, he was just waiting for Phoenix to shove him away, to say that he hated him, to see his angry face… but Phoenix never moved away, actually, he whispered: “I missed you so so much…”

The gentle voice hit him straight in his heart, so he replied, “... I…  missed you too…” and closed his eye as tears threatened to spill out.

___________________

They broke the kiss before it became too heated, panting, Phoenix, after recovering, asked, “What was that fo-” but he was cut off again as Miles took his chin and turned it to their younger versions directions, hugged as both of them cried. His husband smiled at the sight.

Edgeworth remembered how Wright told him, (when pretty drunk once after Edgeworth’s trial, and again, after Phoenix had almost died due to the bridge) how when he saw the ‘Demon prosecutor’ article, all he wanted was to hug Miles and ask him what happened.

Of course, Edgeworth knew that even if they had met back at that time, his phobia of the past and his repressed feelings toward men and Phoenix (because yes, they were two separate things), wouldn’t have allowed it, ever. Especially with all of von Karma’s hate for romantic relationships with ‘normal people’ in general, planted in his head.

He never told Phoenix what he wished would have been impossible, it wouldn’t have been nice. But as soon as he saw twenty years old Phoenix threw himself at twenty years old him, he knew exactly what thoughts were going on in his head. Denying young Phoenix of the hug would have hurt both older and younger Wright… and of course, his younger self too.

So, he thought to himself, that a little encouragement and reassurance wasn’t going to hurt. In fact, it was all worth it when his husband flashed that big soft smile of his at the sight.

After he stopped staring at the two young adults, he turned towards Miles, “I’m pretty sure I know how to go back: all we need to do is hold the magatama in our hands and think to walk back to Kurain village” he whispered, Miles nodded, “Thank god I caught it when Maya threw it at me” he replied, earning another smile from Phoenix.

They waited another minute before their younger selves untangled out of the embrace: Miles guessed their habit of long hugs was something that had always been there from the start.

After wiping their tears aways, Phoenix spoke first, “Alright, we are ready to return in our year-” Miles placed a hand on his husband’s shoulder, “Before we go, I’d like to speak to my young self… privately” Young Edgeworth looked away while older Wright nodded, “Ok… just, don’t say anything… risky” Miles flashed a smirk, “I have no intention to”. With that said, he walked towards twenty years old Edgeworth, “May I have a word with you?”, young him stuttered out a yes, and followed him a bit away from the Wrights.

__________________

“von Karma is going to be furious when you show up late, so say confidently that you were stuck in traffic. Don’t say that there was an incident unless you run into one on your way back, he will probably check” Young him recoiled by how detailed the plan was, “O-ok…” he gripped his jacket, older him smiled, “Keep Phoenix close, no matter what the consequences” he placed both hands on young Miles shoulders, “You like him, don’t you?” After a pause and a cringy expression, he slowly nodded, “Don’t be ashamed of it, he won’t judge you. Phoenix will be there for you if you ever need anything” The wide-eyes stare he received made him smile, “You simply have to allow him in, and trust me: you’ll never regret it”

Edgeworth realized that his wedding ring was in full display, and maybe the news wouldn’t ease his younger self’s nerves, so he shoved his left hand in his pocket, and spoke right after to cover up the perhaps too rushed action, “At first, it may hurt to explain your situation to Phoenix, but it will only be at the start. Again: if you allow him in, he’ll only be of help and support. You just have to face him head-on”

Young Edgeworth was still a little confused, but as he took a quick glance behind his older self (probably to look at Wright) he nodded, “I… I’m scared…”

Of course he was, hell, he himself was scared when Phoenix came crashing into his life, shuttering everything he had built up until then.

“I know, your first instinct is to run, but unless you want to hurt him, it’s better that you explain your situation first thing first”

After letting young Miles elaborate a little more, they went back to the Wrights, and each Edgeworth took their rightful place next to them.

“Well, I guess it’s time we head back” Older Wright broke once again the silence, “I hope you too keep in touch from now on” they looked at their younger version look at each other and gaze away as a flush crept onto their cheeks, “T-thank you for bringing him to me… me” Young Phoenix bowed, as young Edgeworth’s blush deepened.

“Let’s go or we’ll worry Maya and Pearl” Miles waved at the two and grabbed Phoenix’s hand, leading him away. After they climbed down the stairs, they disappeared.

Wright and Edgeworth were left standing next to the other, “So… that really really just happened, huh…” the boy with the spiky hair huffed, turning to face his silver-haired friend: “So uhh… sorry for–” “I’m sorry Phoenix but I have to go, now” he cut him off, startling the boy, Miles dug into his briefcase and pulled out his business card, the one von Karma had him make before he even became officially a prosecutor, “We have a lot to catch up on but– there is a very inpatient person waiting for me and I’m already–” a soft hand crept on his shoulder, pulling him out of the small panic he had gotten into when he intterrupted the other boy, “I understand” Phoenix took the card and brought it to his chest, “I’ll text you and we can see each other with less rush” he smiled, and that made Miles relax, “Just- promise me something… “ a small hint of pain in his eyes made him look like a lost puppy, cute, “Please answer me this time”.

Edgeworth realized that not answering his letters might have hurt Phoenix more than he thought, but he nodded, “I will, I promise” and after a quiet goodbye, he rushed to his car, speeding carefully along the road.

von Karma, as his older self anticipated, bought the excuse, not after a little scolding, of course.

He was thankful that they were walking while talking, and he didn’t have to pay actual attention to the conversation, because Miles’s mind drifted off to how sexy Wright looked with that blue suit, and how cute Phoenix was with the red scarf.

Yes, the childhood friend was going to be a constant thought from now on, distracting him from his work, but as older him said: he wasn’t going to run away, he wanted Phoenix back into his life, and no von Karma or murder case was going to deny him that wish.

[hwangsies]

SILVER SOLUTION

(part 2 of galvanising green, read part 1 first!)

pairing: slytherin!hyunjin x slytherin!reader

summary: you dont know where you stand with hyunjin after the greenhouse incident, getting grouped together in potions class might give the both of you some clarity.

warnings: swearing, smut as in: heavy petting, some bathtub fun, praise kink i guess, pretty tame and very fluffy

3.6 k words,

enjoy <3

---

“class, listen up” your potions professor claps his hands together “today we’re making amortentia upon a special request from ms weasley” he smiles at victoire, who’s standing next to you behind labtable.

Potions is your only class you have together this year so you’re always exited for it, especially cause she excels in almost every class.

“mom told me she only realised that she liked dad through making this in class” she whispers to you as the professor keeps telling the class about the ingredients.

“mhh” you nod, pretending to be interested, but you simply cant be. Not when hyunjin is staring holes into the back of your head.

You turn around slightly just to see him at the table diagonally behind you, propped up with elbows on the table and locking eyes with you.

He clears his throat and straightens up to look over at his partner, james , when you catch him.

You sigh as the professor tells the class to begin, victoire already starting to chop up some rose thorns.

“hey, can you grab the pearldust and measure it?” she rips you out of your thoughts about if you were to harsh to the blonde boy that’s been on your mind for the past week.

“uhh- yea” you mumble, grabbing the little sliver bag that’s labelled as ‘pearl dust’.

“how much of this?” you ask before victoire points at the measurements in the book that’s laying infront of her on the table.

After about 20 minutes of mixing the ingredients you suddenly hear a loud clinging of someone dropping a glass, followed by yelling.

You turn around to see hyunjin and james at each others throats, fellow classmates quickly jumping in to get them off of each other.

“hey!” your professor comes running “this kind of behaviour is not acceptable in my classroom! I forbid it!” he says sternly.

Hyunjin and james breathing heavily as they nod apologetically.

The professor looks around before his eyes land on victoire “ms weasly would you be so kind to switch places with mr hwang?” he asks but you know its more of an order than a request.

“uh-“ your best friend looks over at you before a small grin tugs at her lips “yea of course” she chirps.

Your eyes widen as she leaves you alone, turning back around to your concoction to mix the fluid before hyunjin appears in your peripheral.

“hey” he says in a small voice, you just nod, eyes trained on the liquid that’s slowly gaining a pearly sheen.

“you’re still not gonna talk to me?” he asks, watching the silver liquid in the big pot as well.

“I said everything I had to say” you answer blankly.

“well I didn’t” he rebuttals, at which your eyes jump up diagonally to meet his.

“what did you and james fight about?” you ask, ignoring his statement before.

“that’s private” he says almost immediately after you stop speaking, at which you huff.

“that’s great, hwang. i love talking to you when you get defensive” you say sarcastically, continuously stirring the potion.

He exhales irritatedly “then why do you always bring up stuff that you know I don’t want to talk about?”

“because, shocker hyunjin the world doesn’t revolve around you” you turn to him, gesturing with the hand that isn’t stirring the liquid “also jesus christ how much aftershave did you put on?” you scrunch up your nose.

He furrows his brows at you before scoffing “you’re the one to talk, your perfume is stinking up this place” he shakes his head as he looks away from you.

“excuse me?” you turn to him.

“yea- as soon as I got here all I could freaking sme-“ he stops himself and his expression softens as he looks from the liquid in pot back to your face.

“what?” you ask, still infuriated as you look over to see the silver spiralling steam coming out of the pot, signalling that the amortentia is working.

“wow!” your professor comes over and applauds “that’s looking really good kids!”

You feel the blood rush to your head when you lock eyes with hyunjin again.

“I don’t feel too good professor I need to go to the bathroom” you quickly excuse yourself before storming out of the classroom, not waiting for an answer.

Hyunjin is quick to tell him that he’ll go check on you before running after you.

“y/n” he yells down the hall “can you stop running away from me? its getting old” he pants as he catches up with you.

“I never told you to follow me” you snap back, not stopping “leave me alone”

“no” he grabs your wrist to stop you, looking into your eyes when he succeeds “I like you, a lot”

“and I know that you like me back” his eyes are soft when he looks into yours.

“so for as long as you smell my aftershave and I smell your perfume in the amortentia I will run after you” you swallow when he closes in on your personal space.

“it doesn’t matter what I smell because I don’t know if i can trust you” you say quietly.

“I understand, but what can I do to change that?” he asks seriously, you shrug your shoulders.

Hyunjin gnaws at his lower lip, sliding his hand down your wrist to enclose your smaller hand in his.

“how about I can be your boyfriend for like 2 weeks, as a test run” you chuckle and shake your head.

“no-no listen” he pleads.

“yea- okay” you signal him to keep going.

“and if you don’t want me after that we’ll just stop, no pressure no anything, we don’t even have to tell people” he proposes.

“you don’t want to tell people because you don’t want other girls to know?” you ask teasingly.

“I- no-“ he sighs when he sees your grin.

At the same moment the door to the classroom open and the whole class comes out for their lunch break.

Hyunjin looks at you before looking back at them.

“what?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer you.

“hey!” he shouts at the fellow students including james and victoire “I like her!” he points at you.

“oh my god” you whisper, burying your face in your hand embarrassedly.

“a lot!!” he continues before looking down at you “she’s smart and funny and not to mention incredibly beautiful”

“get a room” someone yells before the students laugh and move past the two of you.

“I don’t care about other girls” he turns to you again “please?”

You inhale deeply before nodding “okay”

His pretty lips form into a big smile as his hands find your waist over your cloak.

“so does that mean I’m your boyfriend now?” he pulls you closer to his body, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes turning into crescents.

“14 days test trial boyfriend, sure” you grin back as he slowly leans down.

“but” you say, making him stop his actions “you’ll need to earn the first kiss as my boyfriend” you softly tap your index finger against his lips.

He groans playfully and buries his face into your neck “okay” he mumbles “whatever you want” he presses a kiss to your cheek as you grin victoriously.

-

"are you ever going to tell me why you and james fought in class two days ago?"

"It's not that serious" hyunjin shakes his head, not looking up from the notes on his lap.

"okay" you hum, pushing you hair back when a breeze of wind rushes through hagrids pumpkin field.

You observe the tall blond boy sitting on one of the huge pumpkins next to the one you're sitting on.

"did it possibly have to do with the big griffyndor vs slytherin quidditch match coming up?" you absently tap your feather against the tough skin of the pumpkin.

He sighs, looking up at you "yea"

"Scouts are coming and seekers aren't needed as much as other players, you know, since there's only one in each team" he runs a hand through his hair.

"so we know only one of us could possibly get scouted" you lock eyes.

"you dont know that" you try cheering him up "what if they think the both of you are amazing?"

Hyunjin chuckles "that's sweet of you but even if they did, they'd probably pick james because of his name"

You frown.

"Not that he isnt talented or anything but, you know" he shrugs.

"no, baby dont think like that. I've seen you play, you're amazing, anyone with eyes sees that" hyunjins eyes crinkle up as his pretty lips stretch into a smile.

He pushes himself off of his pumpkin to lean against yours.

"you just called me baby for the first time" he tilts up his chin, locking eyes with you.

"thats the only thing you took from my emotional speech just now?" you snicker, leaning down to boop his nose with yours.

"wanna kiss you so bad right now" hyunjin mumbles, biting his lower lip.

"hmm" you hum "not yet"

"Hey kids, listen i'm all for young love but please not on my pumpkins" hagrid shouts from his window.

"shit" hyunjin laughs.

"sorry hagrid"

-

"you came" hyunjin beams at you, gracefully landing on his feet next to you on one of the high tribunes.

"you asked me to" you tilt your head, as he steps closer.

"yea but it's only a practice game so-"

"i'm still gonna support my boyfriend" you grin, getting on your toes a little to kiss his cheek.

He blushes a little, his cheeks matching the faint redness of his nose, which you attribute to the cold weather; you swear it's the cutest thing he's ever done.

"are you blushing" tease him, cradling his cheeks in your hands.

"am not" he huffs sarcastically at which you giggle and press another kiss to his cheek.

"ay hwang! we dont have all day" a male voice calls for your boyfriend.

He looks back briefly to nod at his teammate .

"come with me after practice? i wanna show you something" he requests.

"yea, okay" you smile.

"okay, have fun watchig, babe" he drops a kiss to your cheek before turning his back to you.

"wait" you hold his arm "you forgot something"

"what?" hyunjin frowns.

"this" you place your hands on his cheeks once more and pull him flush to yourself, slotting your lips against his.

You hear his broom hitting the ground, a second later his hands encase your waist, pulling you closer.

The faint sound of hyunjins teammates hollering is the last thing you hear before his tongue prods at the seam of your lips.

The blood rushing to your ears keeps you from hearing anything but your tongues chasing each other.

You only seperate from each other when a high pitched whistle fills the air.

"fuck" he breathes, grinning before dropping a last kiss to your lips.

"continue this later?" youbite your lip as he picks up his broom.

"definetely" he winks before pushing himself off the ground to meet his teammates hovering in the middle of the field.

"that was so hot" you jump at victoires voice.

"what the fuck" you hold your chest as you turn around to see your bestfriend take a seat on the tribunes.

"how much did you see?" you adjust your green-white scarf as you sit down next to her.

"enough babe, that was a sexy girl move" she fiddles at you scarf as well.

You laugh "yea?"

"hell yea, look" she points up at hyunjin, where him and his teammates are still talking, one of them pushing hyunjins shoulder playfully.

"they are totally jealous of him" she squeals "and i'm totally jealous of you" she squints her green eyes teasingly.

-

“i can’t believe they let you use the prefects bathroom” you awe as you look around the spacious room with high walls and windows, where he had taken you after practice.

"one of the perks when you're the star of the slytherin quidditch team" hyunjin grins, dropping his slytherin coat to the ground.

He walks over to the gigantic bathtub and turns on the water, glancing over at you.

"luke warm or hot?" his hand rests on the tab.

"huh?" your head snaps over at him.

He chuckles "the bathwater"

"oh, uh hot" you nod.

"fitting" hyunjin grins, mumbling.

"Hm?" you lock eyes as you take off your coat and mimick hyunjin in dropping it to the ground.

"nothing" he giggles, walking over to you and wrapping his arms around your waist.

"take it off" he whispers against your lips, his fingers tugging at your shirt.

You comply and get rid of your clothes.

"Ooh" you sound as you step inside the big tub thats filled to the brim with bubbles.

"good?" hyunjin asks as he takes your hand to help you inside, he himself already sat down.

"great" you close your eyes as his arms envelope you from behind, leaning back against his chest.

“so what’d you think of seeing me play?” he whispers after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

“fishing for compliments are we?” you joke.

“ha ha” he murmurs against your neck, making goosebumps spread over your legs which doesn’t go unnoticed by him when his hand runs up your thigh.

“feels nice?” hyunjin runs his nose against the shell of your ear.

“hmh” you nod, closing your eyes when you feel his lips on his neck, tongue darting out to taste your skin.

“this?” he whispers, one of his large hands palming your breast, pinching your nipple as the other hand softly travels over your mound.

You open your eyes “hyunjin”

“hm?” he continues to kiss at your neck.

“wait a second, please” you say, moving from your spot from between his legs.

“whats going on?” hyunjin asks concernedly, reaching for your arm, urging you to stradde him.

“I just feel like I have to tell you this” you say, playing with his hair at the back of his head.

“what are you so nervous about baby” he huffs, smiling when you shake your head.

“I- I don’t know” you sigh, his hands soothing up your back.

“I” you exhale shakily “I’m a virgin”

“huh?” he blinks, his eyes threatening to pop out of his skull.

“I mean I- I didn’t know” he runs his hands down your arms to take your hands in his “but I really don’t care if that’s what you were scared of”

“well, kind of” you grow a little smaller out of embarrassment.

“hey” he chuckles, pulling you a little higher on his lap “you didn’t actually think I’d laugh at you or something, did you?” he gets more serious.

“I don’t know, you always called me ‘miss goody shoes’” you mumble, pushing some hair behind his ear.

“baby I was joking” he cups your face “you know just like little boys who pull the little girls pigtails because that’s the only way they know how to get their attention”

You scoff “you never actually pulled on my hair though”

“yea, cause I don’t know if you’re into that yet” he quips, your jaw going slack.

“you little sh-“ you slap his shoulder, the water sloshing and some bubbles flying into the air as hyunjins laughter fills the room.

“I’m kidding” he laughs, catching your hand in his.

“I’m kidding” he whispers again when leaning in to press his lips to yours.

“you are my good girl though” he whispers against your lips, your heart stuttering at his words and your core clenching.

He bites his lip as if he knows what effect he has on you, you part your lips to say something but instead of words coming out, a little whimper tumbles from your lips.

“cute” he giggles before slotting his lips against yours, a groan tearing from his throat when you suck at his lower lip.

His arms circling your waist to pull your chest flush against his warm one, a groan tears from his throat when you suck on his lower lip.

You loop your arms around his neck and angle your head to deepen the kiss, gasping a little when you feel his erection poke against you pubic bone.

“sorry” he smiles coyly, reaching down to adjust himself.

“don’t worry I don’t want to wait forever, you know i-“ you explain.

“hey, you don’t have to explain yourself to me, we’ll do whatever you want, I lo-“ he cuts himself off.

“you?” you repeat after him questioningly.

“I” he laughs “shit, uhm” his fingers draw circles on the skin of your hips.

"I've had a crush on you for like half a year now" he chuckles.

"huh?" you lock eyes.

"yea" he grins "remember when that one ravenclaw asshole called you a muggleblood and you let him have it six ways from sunday?" you giggle as you remember the incident.

"I got detention for that" you smile at him.

"yea but only because you turned his nose into a rhinos horn" he laughs with you.

“anyways, that’s when I was like… damn she’s cool as hell” he recalls, tucking a wet strand of your hair behind your hear.

“why did you never talk to me?” you ask, running your finger over his toned chest.

“I wanted to but you always seemed to avoid me and I didn’t want to annoy you” hyunjin closes his eyes, feigning regret.

“I had a crush on you so I was scared to be around you” you confess “but to be fair every girl in this grade has a crush on you” you roll your eyes playfully.

“well you’re the one in this bathtub with me right now” he grins, leaning forward to place a kiss on your collarbone.

You hum “yea I am”, when hyunjin licks at the base of your throat before gently sucking at the soft skin.

“wanna turn around again?” he cocks up one of his eyebrows.

“why?” you grin “so you can feel me up better?”

“exactly” he kisses your lips before you comply to his wish.

You lie your head back against his shoulder as he presses kisses to your temple, lifting one of your hands to caress the side of his face.

“how are these bubbles not dissolving?” you think out loud.

“magic” hyunjin whispers, kissing the skin under your ear.

You giggle when his hands move down your sides.

“can I touch you?” he asks quietly, kissing the slope of your neck.

“please” you mewl.

“you’re so perfect baby” hyunjin says, palming both of your breasts before moving one hand in between your legs, which you instinctively spread for him.

You can feel an amused puff of air against your neck “see? you are my good little girl”

Your stomach tightens in arousal when he brushes two fingers through your folds.

“aren’t you?” he mumbles against your skin after sucking a bruise onto your neck.

“yes” you moan when he draws circles over your clit.

“hyunjin” you whimper, the warmth in your core spreading into your limbs.

“I’ll make you feel good, baby” he rasps, his fingers picking up the pace.

You grab onto his bicep as you throw your head back, pleasure booming behind your lid as hyunjin suckles on your earlobe.

“fuck” you cry out.

“that’s it baby” he urges you on, rubbing at your sanity as you try not to fall into him completely.

“I’m close” you mutter, bucking your hips up to meet the friction of his fingers.

“come for me, babygirl” he whispers “I got you baby”

The knot in your stomach snaps and spikes of pleasure flood through your system as high pitched moans tear from your throat.

Hyunjin slows down his fingers when your legs start trembling and you gasp for air.

“good fucking girl” he chuckles, gently rubbing your folds before you hold his hand still, the overstimulation setting in.

“fuck” you groan before he tilts your head up to catch your lips with his.

Humming into the kiss before you break it, hyunjin bites his lip as he grins down at you.

You can feel the blood rushing through your face and quickly bury it in the crook of his neck; his throat vibrating with laughter.

“don’t go shy on me now, pretty girl” he mumbles, fingers dancing over your stomach.

“sorry” you giggle before looking up to kiss him again.

“don’t be sorry, you’re perfect” he kisses you back.

After getting out of the tub first and wrapping a towel around his hips, hyunjin helps you get out and wraps a towel around you and rubbing you dry vigorously.

“baby ow” you laugh and take the towel from him.

“sorry” he giggles, cradling your cheeks in his hands and pressing a wet smooch to your lips.

“eww” you laugh but he holds your face still in his hands “don’t ew your boyfriend”

You smile “apropos boyfriend”

“yea?” he releases your face, pushing some hair out of his face.

“I think I want to upgrade you from test trial boyfriend to real boyfriend” you say sheepishly, looking down.

“only if you’re up for it though, I don’t want you to leave me hanging-“

“yes” he interrupts you “I am up for it, like… super up for it” he steps even closer.

“really?” you ask as you wrap the large towel around your torso.

“yes!” he chuckles, kissing your cheek before moving to the other one before attacking your nose.

“okay! okay” you squeal.

“does that mean you’ll come to the game as my girlfriend and cheer me on and stuff?” he grins, wiggling his brows cutely.

“yes, yes I will” you promise before locking lips again.

-

a/n: hi there! thank u for being so patient with me! i was rly crammed up with life lol. anyways i feel like this was kinda lack luster, but i intend on writing a thrid part as the finale of a trilogy i guess lol.

so thank you sm for reading if you’ve made it this far, lots of love to you <3

(also unedited so pls dont come for me im tireddd lol)

[alarriefantasy]

Hi! I hope you are having a good day so far! Do you have some fics you can recommend where one of them is a photographer? It’s a bonus if there’s smut but it’s not a must :D thank you so much! <3

Here you go, darling! I hope you’re having a good day too by the way! 

                                          Photography Fics

Omega Shoe Repair by musketrois (B_kate)

Words: 6k

“Can I help you with anything?” The worker asked.

Heat spread across Harry’s cheeks as he realized he had been silently staring.

“Yes!” Harry scrambled to find the words he needed when all he wanted to do was continue admiring his surroundings, the man included.

The man’s smile didn’t falter as Harry gathered himself, continuing, “I had some questions.”

Harry walked closer and placed his warm hands on the edge of the counter. “My favorite pair of boots need resoled but I wanted to check if you’d be willing to do that for me.”

or Harry needs to get his favorite pair of boots fixed.

I Long For You by PinkSeelie

Words: 6k

(Harry gets hit in the head by various objects and falls for a boy with blue eyes.)

Don't Unplug Me Or Shut Me Down by slashter

Words: 7k

Basically, Louis is a self-proclaimed nerd who fixes things and Harry seems too perfect to keep breaking as many things as he does.

Roses Are Red by underthesunlight 

Words: 8k

or the one where Harry dreams about writing and Louis is just out there, wearing flower-crowns and being awfully inspiring.

say that you can see me (i'll speak up i swear) by coffeelouis (streamtpwk)

Words: 20k

[or, the liberal arts COLLEGE AU where Harry knows Louis as the best friend of the boy he has been hopelessly in love with for years now and Louis knows Harry as the boy he wished would look away from Zayn long enough to notice him.]

We keep this love in a photograph. by saccharinesea

Words: 22k

When 23-year-old Louis finally finds a job as a photographer for the new Burberry charity fashion campaign after the roughest year of his life, he feels like his life has a meaning again.

When America's sweetheart Harry Styles understands that he needs to clear his image after scandalous pictures involving drugs, male strippers and radio host Nick Grimshaw, he will do anything to start from scratch.

Whipped Cream by writingstylinson

Words: 24k

[Harry is a deaf photographer in charge of taking Lottie's wedding pictures. Louis is determined for Harry to be his plus one.]

hit me with your sweet love, steal me with a kiss by icedwaters

Words: 27k

(or louis is a 22 year old photographer in his third year of uni, and harry is his 19 year old cat-loving neighbor.)

blind from this sweet, sweet craving by missandrogyny

Words: 31k

There are definitely worse ways to spend the weekend than pretending to be engaged to his best friend.

You're the Light by allwaswell16 

Words: 31k

Before beginning a new graduate school in the fall, Louis Tomlinson decides to spend the summer working in Chicago as an editor’s assistant for the Chicago Tribune newspaper and staying with his old college roommate. What he finds on his first day of work is a tall, gorgeous editor named Harry who has the most beautiful green eyes he’s ever seen—and who also happens to be his new boss.

feels like home to me by tippytoetomlinstyles

Words: 34k

or the one where Harry is the quarterback who wants to be a photographer, Louis is the piano prodigy who like being a wallflower, and it's a roller coaster of a life but they're along for the ride.

Just Breathe by LittleLostPieces

Words: 35k

As a photographer, 18-year-old Harry loves a good snapshot, a well-preserved moment in time. He also likes kids an awful lot, has always wanted to raise a family with a loving and supportive partner of his own. Meeting Louis, a 25-year-old father of two, after a night out seems like the perfect realization of all of Harry's dreams really.

Louis, however, knows that one photograph can't begin to tell an accurate story of parenthood, of the joys and challenges of constantly living with wonderful, yet sometimes incredibly odd and frustrating, little humans. He's already had a partner who couldn't handle the pressures, one who left Louis with a mountain of doubt that anyone else will ever want to join his cracked family.

Falling in love is as easy as releasing the shutter. Developing the entire picture may take a little more time and effort than either of them expected.

I Would Take a Whisper (If That's All You Had To Give) by FallingLikeThis 

Words: 40k

Louis is a photographer. Harry is a boy who wears flower crowns. Sounds like a match made in heaven, right? Louis thinks so, too. Unfortunately, Harry has a boyfriend. Can Louis steal his heart despite the fact that it's already supposed to be taken?

Hidden Gardens by pinky_heaven19

Words: 41k

OR the one where Louis owns a pub and Harry is a photographer who needs his help for a project. Louis is grumpy, Harry is not. Louis has a secret. There is some pining and a lot of fluff.

We'll Be Seamless by dinosaursmate

Words: 52k

Louis spends all his spare time scrolling arty nude blogs on Tumblr but amongst them all, Green is his favourite.

baby we could be enough (i'll make this feel like home) by orphan_account

Words: 52k

[harry is a photographer who's trying to find his place. louis is a single father with a smile that feels like home.]

Every Story Has Its Scars, Ours Is a Brand New Start by Rearviewdreamer 

Words: 62k

Life as a devoted husband and an amazing father turned out to be a little different than Louis had expected. Everyone tells him it doesn't have to be that way; that he's worth more and that he's so much stronger than any one person trying to keep him down. It's all just words though until he meets the one person who makes him truly believe it.

Picking Up The Pieces by Halos_Boat

Words: 72k

Harry just signed his second set of divorce papers. He felt like his life was over, like he had nothing left.

Then he meets Louis.

to lure a hummingbird (you had me moonstruck) by brokenbeaks

Words: 81k

Or: An enemies-to-lovers fic where Harry and Louis are neighbours who are forced to get along due to the inconvenience (or convenience) of a broken lift.

Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow by 1Diamondinthesun

Words: 84k

Harry spends most of his time in an empty house or a lonely darkroom, dreaming of leaving his small town for art school. He's invisible to most people. And then Louis Tomlinson sees him. Life will never be the same.

Or, the American high school AU loosely inspired by She's All That.

Where You Lay by HamPalpert

Words: 86k

When Louis's upcoming heat threatens his success at his new dream job, he asks the best (and only) person he can think of to help him through it: his best mates' best mate, Harry Styles. Harry reluctantly accepts, and together the two navigate a strange friends with benefits relationship that quickly turns complicated.

Through Eerie Chaos by MediaWhore

Words: 102k

The Ghost Hunter AU where Niall lives to prove ghosts are real, Zayn is a skeptical librarian and Harry gets caught up in a century-old mystery and catches feeling in the process.

We The Fireworks by happilylarreh (AfterJenny)

Words: 103k

The AU where Louis needs saving and Harry wants to save him but doesn’t want to admit that maybe he needs saving a little bit too.

Now In A Minute by thealmightyavocado

Words: 150k

Or the 13 going on 30 au that should have been done years ago.

He kissed my lips, I taste your mouth by MrsStylinson

Words: 290k

When Louis moves into the flat next to Harry's, neither of them thinks it will change their lives. Louis is stuck in a relationship with his controlling and overly possessive boyfriend who he loves too much to break up with. Harry is content, seeking refuge from the snobby world he grew up in and forging a new path for himself. He does happen to have a habit of wanting to fix people though and when he meets Louis, the gorgeous man with a prat of a boyfriend, he finds himself trying to do just that. While Harry tries to avoid getting tangled in a messy situation, Louis tries to deny that there's a niggling voice in the back of his head that prefers Harry to his own boyfriend. While both determinedly refuse to let change come, they fail to notice that exact force wrapping around them and pulling them tighter together until there just might be no escape from the feelings brewing within.

♡ credit to the owner of the manip

♡ past themed recs here

[lo-55]

Tilt The Hourglass Ch. 13

Siolo Ur Manka had lived in the Jentares system for nearly seventy years by the time their ship, still on loan from a Mandalorian named Silas, touched down on the planets soft soil. It was overrun with thick jungle, and it sang with the Force. With life, and light, in the bird songs and the ambling hum of great beasts that marched through the foliage with thick soled feet and swinging necks. 

And in it’s shadow death and darkness, beneath the undergrowth and in the fanged mouths of predators. 

Maul’s vornskr trotted behind him, their tails raised like tiny black flags. 

“Ahsoka, Ezra, Ben, keep up,” Maul warned over his shoulder. Ben, a biggest and also the most troublesome, turned his face away from a fluttering insect to chirp at Maul. Ahsoka batted his should and knocked him back in line. 

Kenobi, on Maul’s side, had his little lizard hanging from his hair. He’d named her something silly. Boba? Boga. She was tasting the air curiously while Kenobi looked around them in no small degree of wonder. If he’d never left the Temple before Bandomeer then there was no way he’d ever been to a planet with this much foliage on it. 

The air was thick and humid and Jango looked miserable where he tramped through the brush after them. 

Not that it was easy to see with his helmet in place, but Maul was getting better and better at reading his body language.

  Jango still confused him. 

For a lot of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that even though Maul had accidentally shoved nightmare fuel memories into his skull he still wanted to adopt him into his family. He was lucky that Jango thought they were only visions of the future, and not memories of Maul’s past. 

Even if Jango knew that, would it matter? 

The people Maul had killed before still lived, for one thing, so for all intents and purposes for everyone that wasn’t him they might as well have been visions. Everything he knew was true and detailed, but insubstantial and subject to change. He’d changed Kilindi and Daleen after all. 

Maul was probably lucky that he’d been found by a Mandalorian. Anyone else would have had to many questions up front, or would have tried to force him into the life of a child. Maul would have had to kill them, and cover that up too. It would have been annoying. 

Maul kept an ear out for anything dangerous as they neared the clearing where Siolo made his home. 

Maul had been here years ago, five years in the future, and killed the old twi’lek master. He was a powerful Jedi, and deeply entrenched in the Force. Maul had only beaten him through trickery, and he could teach Kenobi that if it became necessary. 

Maul shook his head. Since when was he seriously considering teaching Kenobi anything? He’d offered, once, to help him harness his anger and turn it into a tool. But Kenobi was too Jedi already to accept it. 

A shame. He could have made a powerful Sith. 

Perhaps- 

No. 

Maul shook the thought off. He was already too attached to too many people. He’d even begun gravitating towards Jango against his will. 

He didn’t need a father, and he had years more experience than the Mandalorian did. 

All the same, there was a part of him that still was ten years old, one that Maul ignored most of the time, that wanted what he could offer. It was faint, beaten down by the Maul that inhabited a body he’d long outgrown, but the longing was there. 

They came into a clearing. 

Siolo Ur Manka was just as Maul remembered him. And elderly twi’lek with mossy green skin, his lekku were draped around his shoulders. He wore the brown robes of a jedi, and he was sitting peacefully, entrenched in his deep meditation. 

The three sentients came to a halt half the field away from him. Ezra, entranced by the thick swirls of the Force around the master, left the safety of their group and trotted over to him. Maul hissed at him, but he was ignored. Ezra’s eyes were caught by the minute twitching of one of Siolo’s lekku. 

“We should probably warn him,” Jango mused as Ezra crept closer, his chest to the ground. Maul watched him. His posture was poor, but that would come with time. His butt wiggled as he stretched himself closer and closer to the Jedi Master. 

“No need,” Maul waved his hand flippantly. 

When Ezra made to pounce he was caught in the air, gently, by the Force. Siolo opened his eyes to looked at the vornskr, who bared his tiny teeth at him and tried to growl. His tail lashed uselessly. He was much too young to properly poinson the Jedi Master. 

“I believe,” Siolo said in his Rylothian accent, “That this is yours?” 

Maul used the Force to pluck the small predator out of his grasp and bring him back to his side. 

“That was poor technique,” he chided gently. Ezra chirped at him and crawled into his shirt instead of answering. Maul didn’t fight him. Ahsoka jumped up onto his shoulder with ease and bumped her cheek against his, as if apologizing for her littermates mistake. She was undeniably Maul’s favorite. She was already scarred, and already a fighter, and she’d destroyed three mouse droids on the way to the planet. She was going to be vicious and unstoppable once she was bigger than a bread box. 

Siolo looked over his assembled audience. He gripped his cane and stood, slowly. Maul was not fooled. He may be retired, but he was still a dangerous adversary. He was one of the few beings that Maul had ever run from in his life time, even if it was for only a few days while he built his lightsaber. 

It felt strange to stand before him without it, and in fact without any conflict between them. He was not here to kill Siolo. 

It was a weird feeling, to seek someone out without the intention of taking their head off their shoulders. Maul was still getting used to it. He was no less deadly than he once had been, but he saw more use in letting people live than killing them outright. 

“Do not see every enemy as an enemy. See them instead as an ally, whether they know it or not."

Mauls cheek twitched but he didn’t otherwise acknowledge the woman’s voice. This was getting old. He was certain it had something to do with the shattered holocrons. He needed to get back to Malachor and find them again, if for no other reason than to make the random voices of unwanted advice shut up. Every time he heard someone speak to him his palm itched where the small scars were pressed into his skin. 

Siolo looked over each of them in turn. Maul could feel him mentally brushing against Maul’d shields, and when Obi Wa- Kenobi stiffened Maul was certain he felt the same thing. If Jango wasn’t wearing his helmet it might well have happened to him too. 

“I don’t get many visitors out here. Certainly none as… unique, as you are.” 

“We look for a Master for Obi Wan,” Jango touched Kenobi’s shoulder lightly and urged him forwards. Kenobi took a deep breath and squared his shoulders when he approached. Once he was close enough he bowed deeply to the older Jedi. 

“Venerated Master,” he said politely. “I am Obi Wan Kenobi, of the Coruscant temple, and the AgriCorps. “ 

“Yes, the Force tells me as much,” Siolo inclined his head. “It also tells me you have great potential. Show me your abilities, young one.” 

Kenobi perked up, bouncing up on his toes. “Yes, Master! Um, do you have a lightsaber?” 

“I have not carried one in many years,” Siolo shook his head and brushed his robes out before he rose to his full height and lifted his walking stick. “Shall I repeat myself? Show me, young one.” 

Kenobi looked dubious, but he drew his lightsaber all the same. Maul sat on a fallen tree, and Jango took up residence at his shoulder. He stayed standing, his visor fixed on the two Jedi. Kenobi hesitated before he swung at Siolo. 

The old jedi parried the blow with his walking stick, reinforced with the Force. 

It was a trick that Maul had never quite gotten right. 

“How did you know this Jettii was here?” Jango asked while Kenobi went in for another blow. 

Maul hummed. 

“I was once sent to kill him. “ 

“Yet, here he stands. And he doesn’t seem to know you.” 

Maul shot him a grin with far too many teeth. “I don’t take orders well.” 

Jango huffed a laughed just as Obi Wan was knocked to the ground. Siolo was much gentler with him than he had been with Maul, though looking at him now Maul realized that the old master had been gentle with him as well. He could have killed him, if he really wanted to. 

Even if Maul had tried to flee, Siolo could have cut him down with a single parry when he was a boy of but seventeen. It rankled his pride, but in the end that mercy had been his downfall. 

Jedi weakness. 

(Maul ignored the phantom feeling of warm arms and cooling sand and blue eyes that did not hate

He ignored the refusal to kill and two blue blades, and sharp, predator teeth held back. How much harder it was not to kill the clones on the Tribunal (Or why he listened to Tano in the first place) 

Mercy stung at him and it was so much more difficult than cruelty)  

Kenobi got up, bowed to the Master, and started again. Siolo trounced him soundly each time, and while Maul could feel Kenobi’s frustrations building, he never yelled or threw his weapon down or demanded to know why he kept losing. Maul didn’t know if that was a good sign or not. 

“Aren’t you going to go fight?” Jango asked, nodding towards Siolo. Kenobi had at least given him enough challenge that one of his lekku fell out of place. 

Maul shook his head. He knew how he compared to the Jedi Master. “We’re looking for a Master for Kenobi. As you said, I will have no other Master.” 

Jango placed his hand on Maul’s small shoulder and squeezed it. Maul looked at it, but didn’t knock it away like he might normally have. 

“No,” Jango agreed. “Never again.” 

They sat together until Kenobi had worked himself up, sweating and panting, and Siolo called for a halt to their spar. He barely looked rumpled. 

“That’s enough, young one. You fought well. Was that Cin Drallig’s style I saw?” 

Kenobi nodded quickly. “Yes, Master. He teaches all the younglings their lightsaber forms.” 

“It shows. You’ll have to practice being more adaptable than he is, but I can see your potential. Both with a lightsaber, and the Force. Here.” 

Siolo handed him a water skin, one that Kenobi drank eagerly from. Jango leaned forwards on his knees when the two Jedi started making their way over. Maul made himself stay seated, and kept his hand off of his modified blaster. Siolo’s eyes stayed on him, and Maul was reminded that the old twi’lek had once told him that others had come before he had. Siolo eyed him, but if he could sense the depths of his darkness he didn’t give it away. 

“You keep strange company, Initiate Kenobi,” Siolo mused. “A pair of Mandalorians are unusual companions for a young Jedi.” 

“I promised I’d help him find a Jedi Master,” Jango said evenly while Kenobi flushed in embarrassment. “Maul heard you lived here.” 

“You’re right,” Siolo inclined his head. “And he shows great promise as a Jedi. I have felt few so strong in the Light in recent years.” 

Kenobi sucked in a startled breath. “But, Master! I was angry in our fight,” he argued, his shoulders hunched in shame. “I was upset when you kept beating me so easily.” 

Siolo looked faintly amused. He touched Kenobi’s shoulder. “I would expect so. You’re young, and you will grow out of that if you try. I didn’t sense any true attempt to hurt me, even when you were angry.” 

“But anger leads to hate, and hate leads to the darkside!” 

“So it does,” Siolo inclined his head. “But we are Jedi, not droids. We still feel. Even the greatest of Masters is not immune to anger. The important thing is that we do not act on it, or give it control over us. Do you understand?” 

Kenobi’s brows furrowed. “I… I think so.” 

“Your Master will be able to explain it further to you.” 

Kenobi startled, confusion on his face. “But, I have no Master. That is why we came here, to you!” 

“I know,” Siolo said kindly. He squeezed Kenobi’s shoulder. “But I am too old to raise a Padawan properly. I am retired from fieldwork, and your education would be skewed if I were to try. You deserve better than an old twi’lek for your master, child.” 

“But- I’m almost thirteen,” Kenobi’s blue eyes glittered. 

“Yes?” Siolo looked confused. “I was almost fifteen when my Master took me on.” 

Kenobi gaped at him. “But thirteen is too old to be a Padawan? For human’s and species with comparable life times.” 

“Is that what they’ve decided these days?” Siolo shook his head. “I heard talk about making a cap of youngling’s ages a few decades ago, but I hadn’t known they’d made it a solid rule.”

“Why would they do something like that?” Jango asked, frowning at Siolo. 

Siolo shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you. Something about the other branches needing more members, but it seems silly to force younglings into them if they don’t want to be.” 

Jango inclined his head. “You’re sure you won’t take the boy as your student?” 

Kenobi was trying desperately to look brave and self assured, but it wasn’t working well. He looked crushed. Like each time he got his hopes up they were dashed upon the ground. 

“As I said, it wouldn't be fair to Young Kenobi for me to take him on. But there are plenty of other Masters in the order. Come, have supper with me, and I’ll see if I can’t think of a few names.” 

Siolo motioned for them to follow him to a hut that was almost completely hidden by trees. Kenobi followed first, then Maul, with Jango behind them. He was saying something into his comlink, but he was too far behind for Maul to hear exactly what it was. 

Maul stepped into a hut that felt far too warm and smelled like stew, and the galaxy turned on. 

Far off in the stars, dozens of comlink lit up with a new order. 

The Mand’alor required a Jedi, and they were to find him one. Gently. 

‘Gentle’, for Mandalorians, was a rather subjective term. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Mace was intensely grateful that Depa was sitting at his side. 

Her Padawan braid hung long down her shoulder, it’s beads glinting faintly in the dim light. It was almost time for the braid to be cut off. Depa was more than ready to be a Knight, and her trials were slated for the next week. She was busily writing on her datapad, apparently absorbed in the last of her coursework. 

Mace wasn’t fooled. 

He could tell from the faint furrowing of her brows that she was listening carefully to what was happening in the council chambers. 

They all were. 

As Mace’s padawan she had a privilege to sit in on council meetings, unless they were more high security. This meeting was troubling, to be sure, but it wasn’t an emergency meeting. 

Not yet, at least. 

“Certain of this, you are?” Master Yoda asked, his normally light voice deep with concern for their newest loss. Mace carefully let his irritation flow into the Force. It was something he had a lot of practice doing, unfortunately. Depa glanced at him curiously before she bent her head over her data pad again. It was balanced on her lap, while a few others were stacked next to the small chair that she was afforded beside his own. 

“Yes, Master,” Qui Gon Jinn’s face was smooth now, but Mace could see the faint remnants of lines etched in with grief and frustration. Mace could only imagine. He’d lost his former Padawan, fallen or otherwise, and his prospective future Padawan all in the span of a single night. “The boy had training, but not from any Jedi, and he was powerful in the Darkside. He was not half grown and he cut down Xanatos with almost no effort at all. Before the night was over he and the Mandalorian had taken Initiate Kenobi and left the planet.” 

It was sparse at best, and there were so many gaps in the story that Mace could have ridden a Bantha between them, but so too were all of Jinn’s reports. Those that didn’t involve a simple end to the story and the rest was filled with ‘I followed the Will of the Force’. 

Mace was not his biggest fan.  

“I fear that the dark child plans on corrupting Kenobi. The boy is already prone to anger and aggression.” 

That was true, but the same could have been said about Mace when he was Kenobi’s age. 

“And the Mandalorian?” Tiin asked, a deep frown on his face. 

“I could not say why he would aid in taking Initiate Kenobi,” Jinn admitted, bowing his head. 

“Perhaps it was for revenge,” Sifo Dyas offered up, his mouth turned in a grim line. “Many Mandalorians were injured during the battle on Galidraan. Perhaps the battle was not enough.” 

A grim thought. 

Mace’s stomach turned. Depa’s grip on her stylus tightened. Through their training bond Mace could feel her intense concern for the youngling. 

“Either way, I will pursue them and uncover the truth,” Jinn announced. 

The room fell quiet. Mace exchanged a look with Yaddle and Giiett. Tyvokka didn’t look any more happy about it than anyone else felt. 

“That may not be the best idea,” Poof said gently. “You are grieving, Master Jinn. Perhaps it would be best if you stayed at the temple for a time.” 

“I do not need time,” Jinn said swiftly. “Initiate Kenobi needs someone to find him, immediately, and I am the only one who knows the Mandalorian and the Darksider.” 

Eeth Koth looked to Tyvokka, who in turn shook his head. 

“You were not the boys guardian, Qui Gon. And he is not your Padawan. You are too emotionally invested in this matter,” Tyvokka said gravely. “We should send another.” 

None of them mentioned it, but everyone had heard about how devastated Kenobi had been when Jinn had refused to take him as his padawan after the show he put on at the Initiate competition a month or so earlier. Now Kenobi had fought off pirates and draigons at Jinn’s side, and he still referred to the boy as ‘Initiate’. Anyone else would have taken the boy for their padawan in a heartbeat. 

Many would have already, except… 

“Unacceptable. I will find Initiate Kenobi,” Jinn insisted. “And I will bring him back.” 

Finally, Yoda spoke again. 

“Feel that you have failed the boy, you do. Choose to pursue him, for Obi Wan’s best interest or your own redemption. Which do you seek?” 

“I cannot allow a random knight to go after them,” Jinn argued. “The Mandalorian and the dark child are more dangerous than you can imagine!” 

“According to you, the Mandalorian also fought by your side against the draigon’s.” And according to some of the miners they had contacted before Jinn gave his report, he had also helped him disable bombs set to destroy the planet. Curious that Jinn didn’t see pertinent to mention that. 

“That was to save his own life. We have no idea what a Mandalorian would do to a Force Sensative child, let alone a Jedi Initiate. We need to rescue him.” 

“You’re right,” Mace said evenly, catching Jinn’s eye. “We need to. Poof is correct. We all know that Xanatos was important to you, whatever may have happened in recent years. Stay home for the time being. Rest in your chambers, visit your friends, sit in the creche. Trust in the council to retrieve Kenobi.” 

“Have faith in your fellow Jedi, you must,” Yaddle added. Jinn drew himself up to argue before it all seemed to deflate. For just a moment his shields slipped, and the grief and guilt came rippling out to wash over the Council members. Depa gasped quietly at his side. 

“Yes, master’s.” 

Mace could count on one hand the number of times Qui Gon Jinn had actually listened to them. He could only watch the maverick Jedi bow to them and leave, his shields drawing back up around him. 

The door closed soundly behind him. 

“He really should speak to a Mind Healer,” Poof said sadly. Mace had to agree. They’d tried to get him to do as much after Xanatos first left the Order, but Yoda had advised them not to push him on the matter. 

They’d listened. 

Now, Mace wondered if that was the best idea. 

Speaking of Yoda… 

“Why was Initiate Kenobi sent to Bandomeer without an escort?” Mace asked suddenly, drawing all attention to himself. He was the youngest in the room by far, not counting Depa. “When Initiates are assigned to one of the corps they’re typically escorted by a Knight, or a Master who already belongs to them, aren’t they? So where was Initiate Kenobi’s?” 

“Going to Bandomeer as well, Qui Gon was. Look after the boy, he did,” Yoda said helpfully. 

“Yes, and that worked so well,” Koth frowned at the Grand Master. 

“Circumstances we could not have foreseen, there were,” Yoda pointed out. 

“True, this is. Yet still, more caution we should have used,” Yaddle argued. “Did this one purpose, didn’t you? To push the two together, yes?” 

Yoda’s ears drooped minutely. “A good pair, they would make. Show me, the Force did.” 

“This is why you asked that other Master’s interested in the boy not act?” Tyvokka asked with no small degree of unhappiness. The master was well known for his care of Younglings, something that his own apprentice had inherited. Somedays Mace wondered how neither of them were full time creche masters. 

Depa looked to Mace, startled. He frowned at her, but nodded once. It was true. Yoda had staked an unofficial claim on the boy. He wanted him for his own current lineage, and while Dooku was unable to take a Padawan while he had Komari Vosa, and Feemor had been undercover as a shadow until only a week ago, Qui Gon was the only one who could have done it. 

Mace let his irritation flow into the Force. 

The old Jedi’s meddling was getting out of hand. Had the Council of Reassignment even authorized Kenobi’s transfer to Bandomeer, or had Yoda gone over their heads in this scheme of his? 

“A great Jedi, Kenobi will be,” Yoda said again, tapping his walking stick on the council room floor. 

“If he returns,” Sifo Dyas said grimly. 

“We need to send someone after him quickly. In that Qui Gon was no wrong,” Koth admitted. 

“It will have to be someone who is good at laying low, and good at tracking to get close enough to the Mandalorian and the ‘dark child’ he spoke of,” T’un mused. 

“Perhaps Tholme and his new Padawan?” Omo B’ouri suggested. “Vos is one of the Kenobi’s old creche-mates.” 

“Much darkness I sense in Vos,” Yoda argued, shaking his head. 

“...Feemor,” Mace said suddenly. “He has Shadow training, he’s recovered from his last mission, and we don’t have another lined up for him yet.” 

On top of that, suggesting Feemor would get him closer to getting Yoda to agree, since Feemor was Yoda’s Grandpadawan. 

Or should be, if Qui Gon hadn’t publicly disowned him. It was one of the biggest reasons Feemor had asked to train as a Shadow, instead of continuing on his Councilor path. 

Whether Feemor was still Yoda’s Grandpadawan by rights or by sentiment, Mace’s suggestion did the trick. 

Yoda nodded, slowly. 

Good. Trying to go against Yoda as council meetings was light trying to fight the tide. The Grand Master had much sway over the rest of them. 900 years of being with the Jedi would do that. 

“Very well. Send Knight Feemor after Initiate Kenobi, we will. Retrieve our lost Initiate, we must. Learn more about this ‘dark child’ too, we shall.”

No one disagreed. Mace took a data pad from Depa and started writing up new mission orders for Feemor, as well as arranging for his funding for the mission. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a long one, but the Force was tilting around them. New shatterpoints appeared and disappeared everyday. 

Only time would tell where the future would lead. 

Mace commed Feemor to come receive his new mission.  

[lake-arrius-caverns]

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 12: Two’s Company

summary As the party grows from two to three, Fahjoth tries his best to smooth over tensions. 

content warnings strong warning for nausea/emetophobia about halfway down

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

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The shock reverberated up Fahjoth’s shins as his feet found solid ground with a jolt. Gasping, he staggered back, desperately trying to regain his balance. Once his brain caught up with the messages his eyes were receiving, he realised that the three of them were back in Ald’ruhn; a nearby guard stared at them from behind his impassive helm, but otherwise he didn’t seem to care too much for three Dunmer suddenly materialising out of thin air. 

While Fahjoth remained on his feet, Ribyna was not so lucky, and she groaned from her landing position face-down on the dusty ground. “Ugh… what the fuck was that?!” she spat, rubbing smudges of dirt from her face as she dragged herself upright again. 

“Almsivi Intervention,” Julan answered, discomfort clear on his face. “It teleports you to the nearest Tribunal temple.” There was a pause before he continued, “I’m sorry, I— I don’t know what happened back there… You must think I’m such a coward. I swear I’m not. I swear I am a warrior, and I’ve never run from a fight, nor do I fear death.”

“Look, don’t be daft,” Fahjoth replied, raising his voice to speak over Ribyna’s loud scoffing as he tried to reassure Julan. “We don’t think you’re a coward—”

“Speak for yourself...” Ribyna muttered, but Fahjoth ignored her to reassure Julan. 

“I wasn’t exactly having a good time up there either,” he continued, trying to inject a bit of humour into the situation. Judging by Julan’s expression, it hadn’t worked.

“I’m not afraid of Red Mountain, or any of its monsters,” Julan said. “It’s... something else. It’s to do with these… weird dreams I’ve been having.” 

Fahjoth’s curiosity was piqued as he thought back to his own night terrors. He hadn’t experienced them for a while, and for that he was thankful, but recollections of fiery landscapes and dark figures with blazing red eyes still lingered in the back of his mind. “Oh yeah?”

Julan took a deep breath. “I dream that I’m climbing Red Mountain. It’s just like what we saw — it’s dark, the air is filled with ash that gets into my eyes and mouth, but the further I go up, the harder it is to keep going. And then there’s all these voices, whispering things to me.”

“What sort of things?”

“That’s the thing, I don’t even know. I can’t understand what they’re saying, it’s too hard to make out. But it sounds, uh… well, not good, y’know?” Julan looked between Fahjoth and Ribyna apprehensively. “You’ve heard of Dagoth Ur, right? I mean, I’m guessing you have, but...”

Their silence said more than enough; Ribyna’s face looked as blank as Fahjoth’s brain felt, and Julan was visibly stunned. 

“Oh come on, even outlanders must know about him! Dagoth Ur? The devil who lives beneath Red Mountain?”

“Sorry, mate.” Fahjoth shrugged. “I don’t—” Then he stopped, as a thought occurred to him. “Wait, does he have anything to do with the Sixth House Cult?” 

“Yeah…” Julan frowned, and Fahjoth began to feel as if he’d done something wrong. “What do you know about the Sixth House Cult?”

“Honestly, not much.” At least that was truthful. There was no point bringing up Cosades and his work, as Fahjoth knew very little about it himself. “I just heard there’s been attacks from sleeper agents. I saw one of them myself.” He couldn’t suppress a shudder at the memory, remembering the vacant expression on the Dunmer’s face and his iron grip as hot as ashes on his wrist. “He said something like… Dagoth Ur is risen, something something Sixth House glory… I don’t know.” 

Even Ribyna looked surprised by Fahjoth’s anecdote, while Julan’s tone became one of understanding instead. “Ah, I see. Yeah. Dagoth Ur is a powerful figure in our history and legends. Supposedly, he causes people to go insane by sending them dreams.”

Ribyna raised a brow at that. “What, so you reckon you’re going insane?”

“What— no!” Julan replied defensively. “I am not insane and I’m not planning to be, either! Lots of people dream about him. It’s nothing.”

For a moment, Fahjoth wondered if it was worth bringing up his own dreams. But if what Julan said was right, then perhaps it was more common than he had thought. He didn’t feel like he was going insane, and as long as it stayed that way, then he surely ought to be alright. 

On realising that he had tuned out of the conversation, Fahjoth jolted and made an effort to concentrate again. 

“Then why are you so bothered by them that you can’t even climb a mountain?” Ribyna was saying. 

“I’m not! I mean—” Julan blew out, his frustration evident. “Look, I know it doesn’t make any sense, okay? I just need time. Anyway…” He looked between the twins, vying for a change of subject. “Never mind that. How about getting on with some training? I could do with taking my mind off things.”

“Yeah, alright. Good idea,” Fahjoth agreed. He gestured between himself and Ribyna. “Me and Beebs are both used to working with short blades and light armour.” Then he gave a dry laugh. “I don’t think either of us will be able to help with your magic, though. We can’t cast spells for shit.”

“Hah! That’s alright.” Julan grinned. “I don’t need any help with archery, either, I’ve been practising since I was small. I prefer fighting with blades anyway, so I’m up for that.” 

“Right!” 

Fahjoth turned to face Ribyna, alarmed by the sight of her drawing her dagger. 

“Sparring match, then? Let’s see how we do,” she suggested. Fahjoth was nervous; Ribyna’s attitude so far hadn’t sat well with him at all, and neither was the look on her face as she eyed Julan. Such a sudden turnaround, going from being openly hostile to Julan to wanting to spar with him, didn’t exactly bode well. 

Whether Julan himself shared Fahjoth’s apprehension wasn’t apparent. On the contrary, he drew his own shortsword and nodded. 

“Alright. Let’s go.” 

“Are you sure?” Fahjoth asked. “With real weapons? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?”

“It’ll be fine, Fahji,” Ribyna said dismissively. 

“Don’t worry, we won’t go too hard,” Julan added. Fahjoth wasn’t at all optimistic about that, but he held his tongue and decided to lean against a nearby wall to observe. 

Ribyna brandished her dagger and stalked a circle around Julan, who stood ready with his chitin sword. Without warning she lunged, hard and fast. Julan brought his sword up to deflect the blow, the blades screeching on impact. A retaliation from Julan, deliberately slow and cautious, forced Ribyna back and kept her at arm’s length for the time being. Overall, it seemed to be going well, and Fahjoth began to relax. 

That was until one particularly close call from the tip of Julan’s blade threw Ribyna off her rhythm. Although the strike hit the tough leather of her armour, the force and angle still caused the dagger to get flung from her grip. With a grin, Julan pointed his sword up to her chest, puffing from the brief yet intense exercise. 

“Got you! Maybe don’t drop your weapon next time.”

Ribyna only scowled in response. Then with a flash of steel, she pivoted herself against Julan’s chest, a second dagger poised against his throat. 

“Maybe make sure your opponent is actually unarmed next time.” 

There was a moment of stiff silence; Ribyna glared at Julan, her face less than an inch from his own, while Julan stared back defiantly. Then the tension broke, and she backed up and resumed pacing, looking for the next opportunity to strike. 

The remainder of the sparring session continued much in the same manner, with Ribyna and Julan flitting around each other in a vicious dance, both trying to get the upper hand over the other. A short while and a few close calls later and they agreed to call it a day, having been reasonably evenly matched. It seemed that training together would be as beneficial for Fahjoth and Ribyna as it would be for Julan himself. 

“How about a drink?” Fahjoth suggested to his somewhat bruised companions. “I think we could all do with chilling out for a bit.” 

“Fine by me,” Ribyna said, while Julan looked awkward.

“Oh, I… don’t think I have enough to—” Julan started, but he stopped as Fahjoth waved a hand genially. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he chirped, offering Julan a friendly smile. “I’ll get them. I owe Ribyna a round, anyway.”

Julan’s unease melted away and was replaced with a grin, which Fahjoth found quite contagious. He purposefully ignored Ribyna’s dull glare in his periphery, focusing instead on Julan. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a mazte, if you’re offering.”

“Sorted!” Fahjoth declared, ambling further into Ald’ruhn while Ribyna and Julan limped along with him. He was subjected to the uncomfortable feeling of someone staring at him, and he didn’t need to look around to know that it was coming from Ribyna. 

Once they reached the cool shade of the Ald Skar Inn, Fahjoth suggested that Julan find them a table while he went to retrieve the drinks, to which he happily obliged. However, Fahjoth was not all surprised when Ribyna offered to help him carry them over, despite knowing full well that he could handle them himself, and prepared himself for the ear bashing he knew was imminent.

“He’s taking the piss,” Ribyna hissed, once they were at the bar and out of earshot of Julan. “You know what’s gonna happen, don’t you?”

Fahjoth heaved a sigh as he leaned against the bar, deciding to just let her rant. “Go on then, enlighten me.” 

“He’s gonna mooch off you every chance he gets! He’s always gonna be all, ‘oh no, I don’t have any money’, and then you’ll have to pay for every-bloody-thing.” 

“I don’t mind. It’s not like I don’t have the gold for a few drinks here and there. I’d do the same for any friend!”

Ribyna’s mouth fell open. “Friend?” she spat, outraged. “You barely even know the bastard! Honestly Fahjoth, you see a pretty boy and I swear your whole fucking brain just shuts down!”

Trying to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks, Fahjoth was quick to see a lifeline and he clung to it like a drowning man. “Oh, so you think he’s pretty, do you?”

This time, it was Ribyna whose cheeks flushed a dull red. “I— no, I never— don’t put words in my mouth!” she retorted, fuming. “You know exactly what I’m saying, and you know I’m right!”

“Well, just do me a favour and keep it to yourself if you can,” Fahjoth requested flatly. “I don’t want Julan to feel uncomfortable. More than he already is...” 

Ribyna looked as though she was going to continue to argue, but a moment of respite came when the drinks arrived. Fahjoth hastily took them over to the table before Ribyna could say another word, leaving her to traipse after him clutching her own. Once he placed the drinks down on the table, Julan gratefully took his, shuffling his stool along to make plenty of room for the twins to join him. 

“So, whereabouts do you two live?” he asked. “It’s not here in Ald’ruhn, is it?” 

“Nah, we’re staying in Balmora.”

“Probably a good thing. It’s like the dusty armpit of Vvardenfell here. And so Redoran, it’s illegal to even joke about it!” Julan swigged his mazte, looking to Fahjoth curiously. “What’s Balmora like?”

“Bit bigger than Ald’ruhn. And less dusty. You’ll see it for yourself soon!” Fahjoth paused. “Well, that’s if you still want to come with us. I’ve got to go check in with my boss soon.” 

“Course I do. As long as we can still continue to train, then I don’t mind where we go.” 

Fahjoth grinned. “Don’t worry about that. If I’m not around, you’ll be able to spar with Ribyna again!” 

“Oh yeah, ‘cause it’s not like I’ve got a life outside you or anything,” Ribyna grumbled, staring at Julan with heavy mistrust — and even dislike. Julan seemed to notice as well, for his smile slipped somewhat and an awkward silence fell over the table. 

“Anyway…” Julan attempted a wary change of subject. “What is it that you do for a living? Apart from rescuing people from clannfears, of course.” 

“To be honest, mate…” Fahjoth shrugged. “I don’t really know. I know that sounds daft, but mostly I just run errands. Gather information. Sometimes nearly get myself killed in Dwemer ruins or haunted tombs. That sort of thing.”

“Sounds… interesting.” 

Both he and Julan both then turned to Ribyna, but she remained silent, glowering back at them while she sipped her drink. Fahjoth’s stomach sank. With Ribyna’s stubborn refusal to socialise, the relatively upbeat mood had been well and truly quashed. 

A heavy weight began to settle in Fahjoth's chest. Though he was looking forward to working with Julan, the excitement was spoiled by Ribyna's behaviour and incessant hostility towards him. He knew Ribyna was prickly at the best of times, but he hadn't anticipated this much resistance to gaining a new companion. If Julan was going to stay with them for the foreseeable, Fahjoth dreaded the idea of trying to persuade her to play nice. How much more grief were they going to get from her?

But more importantly, how far did Julan's tolerance extend? How long would he put up with her animosity and foul mood before deciding that he'd had enough?

                    ——————————————

“I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s up with your hair?”

Blinking, Fahjoth slowly turned to face Julan, trying to concentrate over the rough jerking of the silt strider’s teetering steps and the shrill grinding of its chitinous joints ringing in his ears. He wasn’t normally prone to motion sickness, but being so high above ground level coupled with the vigorous swaying of his seat was not a good combination, and Fahjoth had spent much of the journey from Ald’ruhn to Balmora trying to hold down the urge to vomit. After spending another day in and around Ald’ruhn for training and shopping, Fahjoth could no longer put off returning to Balmora and the silt strider was the fastest way to get there. Even if it did make him want to throw up. 

His first time riding one, and he dearly wished for it to be his last. 

Julan perhaps mistook his silence for offence, for he held up a hand apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Eh? No, it’s fine. Sorry for being quiet, I’m just not feeling great,” Fahjoth explained, squinting as the low sun on the horizon shone into his eyes. At least the weather had been good for their trip. “Well, it used to be totally black. But a few years ago, it started to go white in the front here.” He held up a strand by means of demonstration. “I dunno why.”

“That really is weird.”

“I still reckon it was stress,” Ribyna added, looking over her shoulder with a smirk. With her arm hanging loosely over the silt strider’s side, she seemed to be having no issues with the bumpy ride. “Obviously not everyone is cut out for life in prison.” 

Julan did a double-take, looking from Ribyna to Fahjoth with shock. “You’ve been arrested?” 

Fahjoth turned to Ribyna, scowling. Ribyna simply smiled back at him with false pleasantry and turned away to gaze at their surroundings as the silt strider tottered along. With a sigh, he turned back to Julan, feeling somehow even more queasy at the thought of telling the truth and wondering how Julan would take it. 

Damn Ribyna and her big mouth!

“Yeah. Me and Ribyna both came here on a prison ship,” Fahjoth admitted. Instantly, Julan looked leery. 

“You’re both convicts? You’re not on the run, are you?”

“No! No, nothing like that. We were released.”

“Released? On Vvardenfell?” Julan scoffed. “That’s just typical of the Empire. As if they haven’t done us enough damage, now they’re offloading their unwanted criminals onto us!”

Admittedly, that comment stung. But before Fahjoth could answer, Ribyna had whipped around in her seat again, looking none too pleased with Julan’s remark herself. 

“Yeah, that’s no good, is it? It’s not like those unwanted criminals saved your sorry arse from getting eaten alive by clannfears or anything!”

Julan blanched, biting his lip as he realised what he had said. “Oh— gods, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it personally. Look, I didn’t mean— well…” As he took a deep breath, Fahjoth noted his hesitation to continue. “You do seem like a good person… people. Good people. Um... were you... y’know... guilty? Of... whatever it was you did to get arrested.”

Fahjoth, for a moment, was silent. He risked a glance over at Ribyna, feeling his stomach clench when he saw that she had turned her back to them again. She said nothing, but Fahjoth could see the tension in her shoulders, and he knew his twin well enough to know that if he spoke the truth, it would hurt her. So he looked back to Julan, thinking about his words carefully. 

“It’s... a bit of a long story, mate,” he said. “It was...” — he paused, waving his hands vaguely — “an accident.”

Julan stared at him with a mild frown, and Fahjoth felt himself break into a nervous sweat, not knowing what he was thinking. After a silence that was far too long for his liking, Julan spoke up at last. 

“I believe you,” he said simply. “I’m not sure why, but I do. Like I said, you seem like a good person, and either way, I’m willing to judge you on your actions here and now, rather than in the past. Whatever they were.” 

A wave of relief crashed over Fahjoth, but before he could respond, a particularly vigorous judder in the silt strider’s pace hit him like a punch to the gut. His stomach, already churning from nausea and anxiety, convulsed violently and a thick, wet sourness hit the back of his throat. Spinning around, he bolted up from his seat, leaning over the side and letting his head hang as he fought to swallow the sickness down again. 

Through watering eyes Fahjoth watched as the ground went rushing by with the strider’s uneven pace, stopping and starting with every bumpy step, the leaves on the trees and bushes below blurring into one as his eyes struggled to focus. How far up was he, anyway? Twenty-five feet? Thirty?

His knuckles whitened as he clenched his trembling hands, his skin becoming hot and clammy and damp with sweat while his heart fluttered an uncomfortable half-rhythm in his chest. After seconds which lasted a lifetime, during which the contents of his stomach barely managed to settle, Fahjoth hauled himself back into the relative safety of his seat. It was still as choppy as ever, but at least he didn’t have to look at the ground this way. When he was able to focus again, he found Julan’s perturbed face fixed rapt upon his own. 

“Fahjoth, are you alright?” 

“Yeah Fahji, you look pale as fuck,” Ribyna added, finally turning her gaze back around, brows furrowed with concern. “Here you are, have some of this.” 

She rummaged in her backpack and fished out a bottle of mazte, reaching back to offer it to Fahjoth. Fahjoth, however, shook his head with his mouth clamped tightly shut. If he opened it, there would likely be more than just words coming out. 

Julan reached over and patted Fahjoth’s shoulder, albeit seeming reluctant to get too close. “It’s okay, I think we’re nearly there. Just... hold onto your lunch a bit longer, alright?”

The silt strider finally drawing to a halt could not have been a bigger relief. Except now that they had reached Balmora, Fahjoth faced the prospect of having to disembark from the silt strider and onto that precarious platform awaiting them. It had been bad enough ascending the narrow ramp to board the strider, how on Nirn was he going to get back down again? 

Fortunately, Ribyna was on hand to lend him hers. Once she had clambered up out of the strider's hollowed-out carapace, she offered her hand to Fahjoth as he hesitantly followed suit. The simple boon of having something firm to grip onto while he stumbled out of the silt strider made all the difference, and without a word, Ribyna let Fahjoth continue holding her hand as they made their way down the slope, Fahjoth's pace hindered significantly by his shaking legs.

It took all his effort not to collapse to his knees the moment he stepped on solid ground at last. He doubled over, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths as he tried to encourage his stomach to settle, paying no heed to anything else going on around him. Once his nausea had subsided enough, he straightened back up again, preparing to face the mocking and jeering he predicted from his travelling companions. 

However, there was nothing of the sort. Both Ribyna and Julan were watching him, their faces showing nothing but concern and sympathy. 

“Not good with heights?” Julan asked, his tone one of pity. 

“I— I dunno,” Fahjoth admitted. “I never realised... but I suppose, yeah. Obviously…”

“Either that or the turbulence,” Julan suggested. He fell silent, turning his gaze away to survey Balmora instead. "So, this is Balmora? It’s so grand." There was clear hesitation in his voice as he continued, “Um... tell me honestly, do I look like a complete savage?”

Fahjoth blinked. “What?”

Julan chewed his lip, his eyes darting from left to right apprehensively, as if searching for anyone who would look at him with disdain. “I know how people view Ashlanders. They think we’re violent, uncivilised barbarians who live in filth and poverty. They don’t even try to understand us, or our culture, or why we choose to live as we do. But we’re proud of our culture. We don’t need these tacky displays of wealth to be happy — we have more valuable things of our own.”

Before Fahjoth could even open his mouth, Ribyna cut across him. “Oh, don’t worry. Me and Fahjoth grew up stinking savages ourselves.”

Unsurprisingly Julan bristled, glaring at Ribyna and quietly seething. Sensing an altercation brewing, Fahjoth hastily spoke up, cringing over Ribyna’s lack of sensitivity. “What she means is that... well, we grew up on the streets,” he explained. “People saw us as nothing more than dirty, uncivilised thieves, as well.”

Thankfully, Julan seemed to calm down. “Well. Then maybe you’ll understand. My people are viewed with suspicion here in the cities. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of my heritage, but I feel like I might be too conspicuous. I don’t want to go drawing any attention. What d’you think?”

Fahjoth shrugged. “I mean... you look fine to me, Julan. But if you like, we can look into getting you some new clothes.” 

“At least get him something that smells less of guar,” Ribyna interjected, and once again, Fahjoth wanted to throttle her. Fortunately, Julan didn’t take offence. 

“Maybe that would be a good idea, actually. But!” He jabbed Fahjoth in the chest with a finger. “If you make me look ridiculous, I swear I’ll never forgive you!”

Fahjoth held his hands up innocently, a grin curling at the corners of his lips. “I would never! I’ve got a good eye for fashion, me. Can’t you tell? Anyway…” He looked between Julan and Ribyna with an apologetic gaze. “Do you two wanna go get us a table in the South Wall Cornerclub? I need to go speak to Cosades, but I’ll join you straight after. He gets grumpy if I call on him too late in the day.”

Both Ribyna and Julan looked as apprehensive as Fahjoth felt to be sending off by themselves, but for the moment, it was unavoidable. 

“Alright, well... don’t be long!” Ribyna said with a frown. 

“I won’t!” Fahjoth called back as he began heading off, jogging away between the long shadows cast by the setting sun. 

                    ——————————————

Given the lateness of the hour, Fahjoth had assumed that Cosades would be home, perhaps settling down for the night with a few bottles of booze as he was wont to do. To his surprise, that was not the case. He lingered around for five minutes, just on the off-chance that Cosades would turn up, but he was reluctant to leave Julan and Ribyna alone for much longer. So he hurried on to the South Wall Cornerclub, hoping that the two had not bitten chunks out of each other in his absence.

However, he needn't have worried. When Fahjoth arrived and descended the steps into the bar, he spotted Ribyna and Julan sitting in complete stony silence at their usual corner table. Quite frankly, he had seen funerals looking more lively. 

His arrival seemed to come as a relief, as Julan glanced up and waved Fahjoth over. Fahjoth obliged, joining them at the table with haste as he accepted the bottle that Ribyna pushed towards him. He was both unsurprised and disappointed to see that Julan had nothing. 

“Sorry about this,” he murmured, casually pushing his own mazte over to Julan instead. 

“It's fine,” Julan replied. “Not like either of you are obligated to buy me a drink.” 

“Yeah, but it's polite, isn't it?” he said, directing this particular comment over to Ribyna, who curled her lip but said nothing on the matter. 

“So did you see Cosades?” she asked instead. “What's he got lined up for you this time?”

“He wasn't in,” Fahjoth answered. “I'll see him tomorrow, I'm sure.” He paused, before sliding a handful of coins over the table towards Ribyna. “Could you go get me a mazte? I still feel a bit dodgy.”

“I already got you a mazte.”

“Ribyna, come on,” Fahjoth groaned, desperate for one night of peace. “Please.”

A moment of irate silence later and Ribyna got to her feet, striding off towards the bar with a distinctly sour demeanour.

Fahjoth sighed, burying his face behind his hands with dismay. “I'm so sorry about her,” he apologised, lowering his hands and resting his chin on his fist. 

Julan shrugged. Fahjoth had to admire his fortitude. “Don't worry about it. It's hardly your fault. And I've dealt with much worse, believe me.” He peered over his shoulder, jerking his head in Ribyna's direction before turning back to Fahjoth. “I don't suppose you know what her problem is?”

“I wouldn't take it personally, mate,” Fahjoth said. “She's just... like that. To everyone, pretty much.” He ran his fingers through his hair, his mouth continuing to move as his frustrations began to seep out. “Has been for years, now. I knew she was... difficult, but I swear she's gotten so much worse since we got here. Like, I know you need gold to survive, that's obvious, but there's gotta be better ways of going about that than joining the Thieves Guild or the Morag bloody Tong—”

“Hold on,” Julan interrupted, cutting Fahjoth off mid-rant. “She's in the Morag Tong?!”

Fahjoth froze, realising his slip-up. 

“Uh…” he began, but he was spared the need to respond by Ribyna's return. 

“There's your bloody mazte,” she said grumpily, putting the drink down in front of Fahjoth with enough force that, for a moment, he thought the bottle might shatter. Before he could say anything, Julan was on the attack. 

“So you're in the Morag Tong.” He glared at Ribyna, his grip on his own bottle hard. “The Morag Tong! You'd better have a damn good reason for this!”

Ribyna paused, slowly turning her gaze to Fahjoth as she sat down again. Fahjoth could merely offer her an apologetic grimace, and with a loud huff, she rolled her eyes and turned back to Julan. 

“Come on then, I want to hear this!” Julan went on. “How can you possibly justify joining a murder cult?!”

“It's a job,” Ribyna said bluntly. “I get paid to do it. That's all. And keep your bloody voice down, will you?”

After glancing around to ensure that they hadn't drawn any undue attention already, Julan continued in a low hiss. “So that's all this is to you? Money? There's lots of ways to make gold that don't involve killing people you don't even know!”

“Listen, save the lectures. If someone's got to die, they're gonna get killed either way. At least this way, I can get paid for it!”

Julan sighed, eyeing Ribyna with distrust. “Yeah, well, that doesn't mean I have to like it. You're still walking up to a stranger and putting a dagger in their back. I don't know if I could live like that. And if you can, well…”

“Yeah? Well if you don't like it, you know where the door is,” Ribyna spat. “In fact, why don't you do us both a favour and piss off back to the Ashlands alread—”

“Alright, that's enough!” Fahjoth snapped, holding his hands up towards the bickering pair. “Both of you, pack it in! You're doing my head in. Let's all just calm down, okay? Thank you…”

Fahjoth hung his head after his outburst, going back to nursing his mazte in silence and deliberately avoiding both Ribyna and Julan's eyes. Already he felt guilty about losing his temper, but he was still feeling rough from the silt strider ride and the vicious squabble wasn’t helping. He was beginning to wonder if they would ever get along; the prospect of having to put up with their constant quarrelling was a grim one. Was this going to be his existence for the foreseeable future? Playing referee between his twin and his new friend? 

He despaired at the thought. But he could always live in hope, no matter how exhausting it was.

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tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

[hieromonkcharbel]

Vibia Perpetua, was executed in the arena in Carthage on 7 March 203. The account of her martyrdom - technically a Passion -is apparently historical and has special interest as much of it was written [section 3-10], in Latin by Perpetua herself before her death. This makes it one of the earliest pieces of writing by a Christian woman.

PROLOGUE

1. If ancient examples of faith kept, both testifying the grace of God and working the edification of man, have to this end been set in writing, that by their reading as though by the showing of the deeds again, God may be glorified and man strengthened; why should not new witnesses also be so set forth which likewise serve either end? Yea, for these things also shall at some time be ancient and necessary to our sons, though in their own present time (through some reverence of antiquity presumed) they are made of but slight account. But let those take heed who judge the one power of the Holy Spirit according to the succession of times; whereas those things which are later ought for their very lateness to be thought the more eminent, according to the abundance of grace appointed for the last periods of time. For In the last days, says the Lord, I will pour my spirit upon all flesh, and their sons and daughters shall prophesy; and upon my servants and upon my handmaids I will pour forth of my spirit; and the young men shall see visions, and the old men shall dream dreams. [Acts 2:17, cf. Joel 2:28]

We also therefore, by whom both the prophecies and the new visions promised are received and honored, and by whom those other wonders of the Holy Spirit are assigned unto the service of the Church, to which also was sent the same Spirit administering all gifts among all men, according as the Lord hath distributed unto each [I.Cor 7:17]- do of necessity both write them and by reading celebrate them to the glory of God; that no weakness or failing of faith may presume that among those of old time only was the grace of divinity present, whether in martyrs or in revelations vouchsafed; since God ever works that which He has promised, for a witness to them that believe not and a benefit to them that believe. Wherefore we too, brethren and dear sons, declare to you likewise that which we have heard and handled [I Cor 15:1?]; that both you who were present may call to mind the glory of the Lord, and you who now know by hearing may have communion with those holy martyrs, and through them with the Lord Jesus Christ, to whom is glory and honor for ever and ever. Amen.

2. There were apprehended the young catechumens, Revocatus and Felicity his fellow servant, Saturninus and Secundulus. With them also was Vibia Perpetua, nobly born reared in a liberal manner, wedded honorably; having a father and mother and two brothers, one of them a catechumen likewise, and a son, a child at the breast; and she herself was about twenty-two years of age. What follows here shall she tell herself; the whole order of her martyrdom as she left it written with her own hand and in her own words.

PERPETUA'S ACCOUNT

3. When, she said, we were still under legal surveillance and my father was liked to vex me with his words and continually strove to hurt my faith because of his love: Father, said I, Do you see (for examples) this vessel lying, a pitcher or whatsoever it may be? And he said, I see it. And I said to him, Can it be called by any other name than that which it is? And he answered, No. So can I call myself nought other than that which I am, a Christian.

Then my father angry with this word came upon me to tear out my eyes; but he only vexed me, and he departed vanquished, he and the arguments of the devil. Then because I was without my father for a few days I gave thanks unto the Lord; and I was comforted because of his absence. In this same space of a few days we were baptised, and the Spirit declared to me, I must pray for nothing else after that water save only endurance of the flesh. After a few days we were taken into prison, and I was much afraid because I had never known such darkness. O bitter day! There was a great heat because of the press, there was cruel handling of the soldiers. Lastly I was tormented there by care for the child.

Then Tertius and Pomponius, the blessed deacons who ministered to us, obtained with money that for a few hours we should be taken forth to a better part of the prison and be refreshed. Then all of them going out from the dungeon took their pleasure; I suckled my child that was now faint with hunger. And being careful for him, I spoke to my mother and strengthened my brother and commended my son unto them. I pined because I saw they pined for my sake. Such cares I suffered for many days; and I obtained that the child should abide with me in prison; and straightway I became well and was lightened of my labour and care for the child; and suddenly the prison was made a palace for me, so that I would sooner be there than anywhere else.

4. Then said my brother to me: Lady my sister, you are now in high honor, even such that you might ask for a vision; and it should be shown you whether this be a passion or else a deliverance. And I, as knowing that I conversed with the Lord, for Whose sake I had suffered such things, did promise him nothing doubting; and I said: Tomorrow I will tell you. And I asked, and this was shown me.

I beheld a ladder of bronze, marvelously great, reaching up to heaven; and it was narrow, so that not more than one might go up at one time. And in the sides of the ladder were planted all manner of things of iron. There were swords there, spears, hooks, and knives; so that if any that went up took not good heed or looked not upward, he would be torn and his flesh cling to the iron. And there was right at the ladder's foot a serpent lying, marvelously great, which lay in wait for those that would go up, and frightened them that they might not go up. Now Saturus went up first (who afterwards had of his own free will given up himself for our -sakes, because it was he who had edified us; and when we were taken he had not been there). And he came to the ladder's head; and he turned and said: Perpetua, I await you; but see that serpent bite you not. And I said: it shall not hurt me, in the name of Jesus Christ. And from beneath the ladder, as though it feared me, it softly put forth its head; and as though I trod on the first step I trod on its head. And I went up, and I saw a very great space of garden, and in the midst a man sitting, white-headed, in shepherd's clothing, tall milking his sheep; and standing around in white were many thousands. And he raised his head and beheld me and said to me: Welcome, child. And he cried to me, and from the curd he had from the milk he gave me as it were a morsel; and I took it with joined hands and ate it up; and all that stood around said, Amen. And at the sound of that word I awoke, yet eating I know not what of sweet.

And at once I told my brother, and we knew it should be a passion; and we began to have no hope any longer in this world.

5. A few days after, the report went abroad that we were to be tried. Also my father returned from the city spent with weariness; and he came up to me to cast down my faith saying: Have pity, daughter, on my grey hairs; have pity on your father, if I am worthy to be, called father by you; if with these hands I have brought you unto this flower of youth- and I-have preferred you before all your brothers; give me not over to the reproach of men. Look upon your brothers; look upon your mother and mother's sister; look upon your son, who will not endure to live after you. Give up your resolution; do not destroy us all together; for none of us will speak openly against men again if you suffer aught.

This he said fatherly in his love, kissing my hands and grovelling at my feet; and with tears he named me, not daughter, but lady. And I was grieved for my father's case because he would not rejoice at my passion out of all my kin; and I comforted him, saying: That shall be done at this tribunal, whatsoever God shall please; for know that we are not established in our own power, but in God's. And he went from me very sorrowful.

6. Another day as we were at meal we were suddenly snatched away to be tried; and we came to the forum. Therewith a report spread abroad through the parts near to the forum, and a very great multitude gathered together. We went up to the tribunal. The others being asked, confessed. So they came to me. And my father appeared there also, with my son, and would draw me from the step, saying: Perform the Sacrifice; have mercy on the child. And Hilarian the procurator - he that after the death of Minucius Timinian the proconsul had received in his room the right and power of the sword - said: Spare your father's grey hairs; spare the infancy of the boy. Make sacrifice for the Emperors' prosperity. And I answered: I am a Christian. And when my father stood by me yet to cast down my faith, he was bidden by Hilarian to be cast down and was smitten with a rod. And I sorrowed for my father's harm as though I had been smitten myself; so sorrowed I for his unhappy old age. Then Hilarian passed sentence upon us all and condemned us to the beasts; and cheerfully we went down to the dungeon. Then because my child had been used to being breastfed and to staying with me in the prison, straightway I sent Pomponius the deacon to my father, asking for the child. But my father would not give him. And as God willed, no longer did he need to be suckled, nor did I take fever; that I might not be tormented by care for the child and by the pain of my breasts.

7. A few days after, while we were all praying, suddenly in the midst of the prayer I uttered a word and named Dinocrates; and I was amazed because he had never come into my mind save then; and I sorrowed, remembering his fate. And straightway I knew that I was worthy, and that I ought to ask for him. And I began to pray for him long, and to groan unto the Lord. Immediately the same night, this was shown me.

I beheld Dinocrates coming forth from a dark place, where were many others also; being both hot and thirsty, his raiment foul, his color pale; and the wound on his face which he had when he died. This Dinocrates had been my brother in the flesh, seven years old, who being diseased with ulcers of the face had come to a horrible death, so that his death was abominated of all men. For him therefore I had made my prayer; and between him and me was a great gulf, so that either might not go to the other. There was moreover, in the same place where Dinocrates was, a font full of water, having its edge higher than was the boy's stature; and Dinocrates stretched up as though to drink. I was sorry that the font had water in it, and yet for the height of the edge he might not drink.

And I awoke, and I knew that my brother was in travail. Yet I was confident I should ease his travail; and I prayed for him every day till we passed over into the camp prison. (For it was in the camp games that we were to fight; and the time was the feast of the Emperor Geta's birthday.) And I prayed for him day and night with groans and tears, that he might be given me.

8. On the day when we abode in the stocks, this was shown me.

I saw that place which I had before seen, and Dinocrates clean of body, finely clothed, m comfort; and the font I had seen before, the edge of it being drawn to the boy's navel; and he drew water thence which flowed without ceasing. And on the edge was a golden cup full of water; and Dinocrates came up and began to drink therefrom; which cup failed not. And being satisfied he departed away from the water and began to play as children will, joyfully.

And I awoke. Then I understood that he was translated from his pains.

9. Then a few days after, Pudens the adjutant, in whose charge the prison was, who also began to magnify us because he understood that there was much grace in us, let in many to us that both we and they in turn might be comforted. Now when the day of the games drew near, there came in my father to me , spent with weariness, and began to pluck out his beard and throw it on e ground and to fall on his face cursing his years and saying such words as might move all creation. I was grieved for his unhappy old age.

10. The day before we fought, I saw in a vision that Pomponius the deacon had come hither to the door of the prison, and knocked hard upon it. And I went out to him and opened to him; he was clothed in a white robe ungirdled, having shoes curiously wrought. And he said to me: Perpetua, we await you; come. And he took my hand, and we began to go through rugged and winding places. At last with much breathing hard we came to the amphitheatre, and he led me into the midst of the arena. And he said to me: Be not afraid; I am here with you and labour together with you. And he went away. And I saw much people watching closely. And because I knew that I was condemned to the beasts I marvelled that beasts were not sent out against me. And there came out against me a certain ill-favored Egyptian with his helpers, to fight with me. Also there came to me comely young men, my helpers and aiders. And I was stripped naked, and I became a man. And my helpers began to rub me with oil as their custom is for a contest; and over against me saw that Egyptian wallowing in the dust. And there came forth a man of very great stature, so that he overpassed the very top of the amphitheatre, wearing a robe ungirdled, and beneath it between the two stripes over the breast a robe of purple; having also shoes curiously wrought in gold and silver; bearing a rod like a master of gladiators, and a green branch whereon were golden apples. And he besought silence and said: The Egyptian, if shall conquer this woman, shall slay her with the sword; and if she shall conquer him, she shall receive this branch. And he went away. And we came nigh to each other, and began to buffet one another. He tried to trip up my feet, but I with my heels smote upon his face. And I rose up into the air and began so to smite him as though I trod not the earth. But when I saw that there was yet delay, I joined my hands, setting finger against finger of them. And I caught his head, and he fell upon his face; and I trod upon his head. And the people began to shout, and my helpers began to sing. And I went up to the master of gladiators and received the branch. And he kissed me and said to me: Daughter, peace be with you. And I began to go with glory to the gate called the Gate of Life.

And I awoke; and I understood that I should fight, not with beasts but against the devil; but I knew that mine was the victory.

Thus far I have written this, till the day before the games; but the deed of the games tehmsleves let him write who will.

SATURUS' ACCOUNT

11. And blessed Saturus too delivered this vision which he himself wrote down.

We had suffered, he said, and we passed out of the flesh, and we began to be carried towards the east by four angels whose hand touched us not. And we went not as though turned upwards upon our backs, but as though we went up an easy hill. And passing over the world's edge we saw a very great light; and I said to Perpetua (for she was at my side): This which the Lord promised us; we have received His promise. And while we were being carried by these same four angels, a great space opened before us, as it had been a having rose-trees and all kinds of flowers. The height of the trees was after the manner of the cypress, and their leaves sang without ceasing. And there in the garden were four other angels, more glorious than the rest; who when they saw us gave us honor and said to the other angels: Lo, here are they, here are they: and marvelled. And the four angels who bore us set us down trembling; and we passed on foot by a broad way over a plain. There we found Jocundus and Saturninus and Artaxius who in the same persecution had been burned alive; and Quintus, a martyr also, who in prison had departed this life; and we asked of them where were the rest. The other angels said to us: Come first, go in, and salute the Lord.

12. And we came near to a place, of which place the walls were such, they seemed built of light; and before the door of that place stood four angels who clothed us when we went in with white raiment. And we went in, and we heard as it were one voice crying Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, without any end. And we saw sitting in that same place as it were a man, white-headed, having hair like snow; youthful of countenance; whose feet we saw not. And on his right hand and on his left, four elders; and behind them stood many other elders. And we went in with wonder and stood before the throne; and the four angels raised us up and we kissed him, and with his hand he passed over our faces. And the other elders said to us: Stand you. And we stood, and gave the kiss of peace. And the elders said to us: Go you and play. And I said to Perpetua: You have that which you desire. And she said to me: Yes, God be thanked; so that I that was glad in the flesh am now more glad.

13. And we went out, and we saw before the doors, on the right Optatus the bishop, and on the left Aspasius the priest and teacher, being apart and sorrowful. And they cast themselves at our feet and said: Make peace between us, because you went forth and left us thus. And we said to them: Are not you our Father, and you our priest, that you should throw yourselves at our feet? And we were moved, and embraced them. And Perpetua began to talk with them in Greek; and we set them apart in the pleasure garden beneath a rose tree. And while we yet spoke with them, the angels said to them: Let these go and be refreshed; and whatsoever dissensions you have between you, Put them away from you each for each. And they made them to be confounded. And they said to Optatus: Correct your people; for they come to you as those that return from the games and wrangle concerning the parties there. And it seemed to us as though they would shut the gates. And we began to know many brothers there, martyrs also. And we were all sustained there with a savour inexpressible which satisfied us. Then in joy I awoke.

NARRATIVE OF MARTYRDOM

14. These were the glorious visions of those martyrs themselves, the most blessed Saturus and Perpetua, which they themselves wrote down. But Secundulus by an earlier end God called from this world while he was yet in prison; not without grace, that he should escape the beasts. Yet if not his soul, his flesh at least knew the sword.

15. As for Felicity, she too received this grace of the Lord. For because she was now gone eight months (being indeed with child when she was taken) she was very sorrowful as the day of the games drew near, fearing lest for this cause she should be kept back (for it is not lawful for women that are with child to be brought forth for torment) and lest she should shed her holy and innocent blood after the rest, among strangers and malefactors. Also her fellow martyrs were much afflicted lest they should leave behind them so good a friend and as it were their fellow-traveller on the road of the same hope. Wherefore with joint and united groaning they poured out their prayer to the Lord, three days before the games. Incontinently after their prayer her pains came upon her. And when by reason of the natural difficulty of the eighth month she was oppressed with her travail and made complaint, there said to her one of the servants of the keepers of the door: You that thus make complaint now, what wilt you do when you are thrown to the beasts, which you didst contemn when you would not sacrifice? And she answered, I myself now suffer that which I suffer, but there another shall be in me who shall suffer for me, because I am to suffer for him. So she was delivered of a daughter, whom a sister reared up to be her own daughter.

16. Since therefore the Holy Spirit has suffered, and suffering has willed, that the order of the games also should be written; though we are unworthy to finish the recounting of so great glory, yet we accomplish the will of the most holy Perpetua, nay rather her sacred trust, adding one testimony more of her own steadfastness and height of spirit. When they were being more cruelly handled by the tribune. because through advice of certain most despicable men he feared lest by magic charms they might be withdrawn secretly from the prison house, Perpetua answered him to his face: Why do you not allow us to take some comfort, seeing we are victims most noble, namely Caesar's, and on his feast day we are to fight? Or is it not your glory that we should be taken out thither fatter of flesh? The tribune trembled and blushed, and gave order that they should be more gently handled, granting that her brothers and the rest should come in and rest with them. Also the adjutant of the prison now believed.

17. Likewise on the day before the games, when at the last feast which they call Free they made (as far as they might) not a Free Feast but a Love Feast*, with like hardihood they cast these words at the people; threatening the judgment of the Lord, witnessing to the felicity of their passion, setting at nought the curiosity of those that ran together. And Saturus said: Is not tomorrow sufficient for you? Why do you favorably behold that which you hate? You are friends today, foes tomorrow. Yet mark our faces diligently, that you may know us again on that day. So they began all to go away thence astonished; of whom many believed.

[note: Apparently Roman, as with modern, custom the condemned were allowed a choice of food. The martyrs used the opportunity to celebrate an Agape, or Christian Love-Feast.]

18. Now dawned the day of their victory, and they went forth from the prison into the amphitheatre as it were into heaven, cheerful and bright of countenance; if they trembled at all, it was for joy, not for fear. Perpetua followed behind, glorious of presence, as a true spouse of Christ and darling of God; at whose piercing look all cast down their eyes. Felicity likewise, rejoicing that she had borne a child in safety, that she might fight with the beasts, came now from blood to blood, from the midwife to the gladiator, to wash after her travail in a second baptism. And when they had been brought to the gate and were being compelled to put on, the men the dress of the priests of Saturn, the women the dress of the priestesses of Ceres, the noble Perpetua remained of like firmness to the end, and would not. For she said: For this cause came we willingly unto this, that our liberty might not be obscured. For this cause have we devoted our lives, that we might do no such thing as this; this we agreed with you. Injustice acknowledged justice; the tribune suffered that they should be brought forth as they were, without more ado. Perpetua began to sing, as already treading on the Egyptian's head. Revocatus and Saturninus and Saturus threatened the people as they gazed. Then when they came into Hilarian's sight, they began to say to Hilarian, stretching forth their hands and nodding their heads: You judge us, they said, and God you. At this the people being enraged besought that they should be vexed with scourges before the line of gladiators (those namely who fought with beasts). Then truly they gave thanks because they had received somewhat of the sufferings of the Lord.

19. But He who had said Ask and you shall receive [John 16:24] gave to them asking that end which each had desired. For whenever they spoke together of their desire in their martyrdom, Saturninus for his part would declare that he wished to be thrown to every kind of beast, that so indeed he might wear the more glorious crown. At the beginning of the spectacle therefore himself with Revocatus first had ado with a leopard and was afterwards torn by a bear on a raised bridge. Now Saturus detested nothing more than a bear, but was confident already he should die by one bite of a leopard. Therefore when he was being given to a boar, the gladiator instead who had bound him to the boar was torn asunder by the same beast and died after the days of the games; nor was Saturus more than dragged. Moreover when he had been tied on the bridge to be assaulted by a bear, the bear would not come forth from his den. So Saturus was called back unharmed a second time.

20. But for the women the devil had made ready a most savage cow, prepared for this purpose against all custom; for even in this beast he would mock their sex. They were stripped therefore and made to put on nets; and so they were brought forth. The people shuddered, seeing one a tender girl, the other her breasts yet dropping from her late childbearing. So they were called back and clothed in loose robes. Perpetua was first thrown, and fell upon her loins. And when she had sat upright, her robe being rent at the side, she drew it over to cover her thigh, mindful rather of modesty than of pain. Next, looking for a pin, she likewise pinned up her dishevelled hair; for it was not meet that a martyr should suffer with hair dishevelled, lest she should seem to grieve in her glory. So she stood up; and when she saw Felicity smitten down, she went up and gave her her hand and raised her up.. And both of them stood up together and the (hardness of the people being now subdued) were called back to the Gate of Life. There Perpetua being received by one named Rusticus, then a catechumen, who stood close at her side, and as now awakening from sleep (so much was she in the Spirit and in ecstasy) began first to look about her; and then (which amazed all there), When, forsooth, she asked, are we to be thrown to the cow? And when she heard that this had been done already, she would not believe till she perceived some marks of mauling on her body and on her dress. Thereupon she called her brother to her, and that catechumen, and spoke to them, saying: Stand fast in the faith, and love you all one another; and be not offended because of our passion.

21. Saturus also at another gate exhorted Pudens the soldier, saying: So then indeed, as I trusted and foretold, I have felt no assault of beasts until now. And now believe with all your heart. Behold, I go out thither and shall perish by one bite of the leopard. And immediately at the end of the spectacle, the leopard being released, with one bite of his he was covered with so much blood that the people (in witness to his second baptism) cried out to him returning: Well washed, well washed. Truly it was well with him who had washed in this wise. Then said he to Pudens the soldier: Farewell; remember the faith and me; and let not these things trouble you, but strengthen you. And therewith he took from Pudens' finger a little ring, and dipping it in his wound gave it back again for an heirloom, leaving him a pledge and memorial of his blood. Then as the breath left him he was cast down with the rest in the accustomed place for his throat to be cut. And when the people besought that they should be brought forward, that when the sword pierced through their bodies their eyes might be joined thereto as witnesses to the slaughter, they rose of themselves and moved, whither the people willed them, first kissing one another, that they might accomplish their martyrdom with the rites of peace. The rest not moving and in silence received the sword; Saturus much earlier gave up the ghost; for he had gone up earlier also, and now he waited for Perpetua likewise. But Perpetua, that she might have some taste of pain, was pierced between the bones and shrieked out; and when the swordsman's hand wandered still (for he was a novice), herself set it upon her own neck. Perchance so great a woman could not else have been slain (being feared of the unclean spirit) had she not herself so willed it.

O most valiant and blessed martyrs! O truly called and elected unto the glory of Our Lord Jesus Christ! Which glory he that magnifies, honors and adores, ought to read these witnesses likewise, as being no less than the old, unto the Church's edification; that these new wonders also may testify that one and the same Holy Spirit works ever until now, and with Him God the Father Almighty, and His Son Jesus Christ Our Lord, to Whom is glory and power unending for ever and ever. Amen.

[randbwrite]

La Comtesse Chronicles Chapter 1 Part 2

Words: 1907

TW: Blood, graphic violence, death

CW: War, attempted assassination, vampires

B: Near silent footsteps didn’t announce Derrick’s presence so much as the scampering of a happy stoat pattering across the stone ahead of him did. The man was massive, how on earth he could move so quietly was a mystery Rapscallion wanted to solve one day. Whenever he got around to it. 

“They’re waiting for you upstairs.” With his bland tone of voice, Derrick could’ve been discussing the weather.

For all that Rap could be seen to care, they might as well have been. “I know.”

“It’s inadvisable to make them wait.”

“So?” Indifferent shrug.

“There’s a difference between cute and stupid. You crossed a line earlier, and you’re going to drag your feet now?”

“Yep.”

“They want me to drag you if necessary.” Both of them knew how that would end. 

“Aww, I knew you cared!” 

“Never tried to hide it, unlike some people.” 

“Oh stop it, you’ll make me blush.” Rap’s devil may care smirk nearly brought one to Derrick’s expression, but he had to be serious!

“Palavering isn’t going to change the situation...”

“Yeah, but!! If they’re annoyed enough, they’ll give the orders without the imperious preamble and pomp. Here’s your orders and off you go! Works like a charm.”

“Right.” Massive arms were crossed over an equally broad chest, the quirk in his eyebrows reminding Rap his friend really will carry him off if need be. 

A huff lifted a pesky lock off his forehead momentarily, exposing the brilliant emerald orbs beneath. “I’m going, I’m going! I’ll catch ya later. Or not.”

Derrick shook his head, one scarred hand messing up the extraordinarily unkempt rusty mop Rap called hair. He knew what was meant. They couldn’t promise anything, nor really ask, but the unspoken request every time was to take care. Try and survive, eh? Wouldn’t be quite so exciting without the other around. They should probably wonder about how much nonverbal communication went on between them, but such was life. Full of the oddities that made it...so alive.

.....

The board of impassive faces that met Rap would be unreadable to most. Decades of training had refined their poker faces, but everyone has their tells. Tiny twitches, the way certain coifs had been fixed endlessly before he arrived, notebooks, bracelets, rings all adjusted to the nth degree...they should really watch their perfection of accoutrements more carefully. It all but telegraphed their mood. Course they’d never asked him. 

Uhhh...okay, wait. They all had that same creepy dead look in their eyes except one. Dude off to the left, madness gleaming usually signaling blood lust. Did he do anything to tick that one off recently? ...No, not that he could remember...few times over the years, sure. The last prank hadn’t been his, but he took the blame for it. The crazy stunt had gotten a larger contingent of the assassins caught up in it and made them all want to kill him for a few weeks. That wasn’t too much of a deviation from the norm however. With a bit of time they’d all drop it, move on to the next frustration or take it out on their targets. They’re not allowed to kill one of their own anyway. 

Missions were usually handed out by one person. Not a tribunal. Must be another meeting taking place, killing two birds with one stone. This wasn’t set up as a retribution either or he’d sense more of his fellow assassins in the shadows. That’s a delayed relief and he knew it, but hey! He’ll take what he can get.

“So! Whatcha got for me? Who’s incurred the wrath of the great and powerful Assassin’s League? Besides me of course.” 

A minuscule draw to the head assassins’ brows was his reward, but the gleam in the other’s traveled from his eyes to a wide, manic smile. It was also he from whom the instructions came, a mission that per the norm wouldn’t allow for denial in accepting.

“Your target is la Comtesse Arcanum. She will be taking part in a battle between the French army and the German forces. Shoo now. Off with you.”

A noble. Right! That should be easy enough. So why was that gleam now being shared among most of his peers? He almost preferred when they all were content to be blasé about everything to...this. Esh.

Rap was on his way quick enough. It only involved avoiding the booby trap someone had set for him in the hallway to his storeroom. Place didn’t so much count as a bedroom as he rarely bothered to sleep there: gathering up an array of...necessary supplies and hopping a horse he’d leave in the nearest town to the battlefield; he was good to go.

Mission was simple, least to his mind. These commanders tended to do their leading from behind, strategizing based off of reports and keeping themselves safe in a tent far removed from those who gave and lost their lives for whatever ideal or land being quibbled over. Surrounded by soldiers, they thought themselves to be safe. Protected. Untouchable. Heh. People assume in order to be an assassin you have to melt into the shadows. Not true. Humans jump at shadows! They distrust their own even. Disappear into the mundane though...no one will look twice. 

Think about it. Your water boy scurrying to keep the retreat horses fresh? What about the cook’s kid running rations, a medic’s assistant supplying fresh bandages, even an officer with the bearing and urgency demanding he not be stopped for anything or anyone, ducking into the command tent. It was always some variation and pretending to be in a hurry was the only steady requirement. When he got to this battlefield however, he couldn’t stop the swear word from being muttered.

“What the—? Lemon juice.”

No bustle to a central command tent. No commander in that one large, ostentatious tent either. A map, little flags which could surely help anyone intending to spy on their contingency plans, but no female commander. He was going to have to go into the fight himself, and he was beginning to see why they’d thought this would be such great fun. Fun for them.

A survey of the map showed him the general lay of the land, an idea of the commander’s intentions, how she had spread her troops, and where he might lure her to take her out. It wouldn’t be easy as she had plenty of people who were going to be trying to kill her. An entire army as a matter of fact. But if they sent him out there, the army wasn’t going to be enough to take her out.

Something about how the pattern was laid out was bugging him: only when he discerned she wasn’t the singular high ranking officer on the field did he understand. Sort of. Who fought with their own vanguard rather than dividing forces? There must be a purpose for it... He was going to need a vantage of the battle before he went out to join it.

Donning a uniform of the French army, he fished out a spyglass and took a cursory view of the battlefield, suppositions holding true. A maelstrom of blood and chaos was the field, soldiers and grass on fire, blades flashing, one of the soldiers fighting seeming to be made of fire and still plowing on. It was a mess. Rap shrugged and put away his tool. He’d picked out a spot to lead la Comtesse and his target to distract her with, which just so happened to be the second most dangerous force on the field to contend with. Who was on fire. According to the excited rumors in camp, that was the man he was looking for all the same. His own eyes confirmed it from the way the two moved in concert as well, even if logically what he was seeing was defying rationale.

By the time his traps were laid, set for both his target and those who may get between them, the battle had become more of a slaughter than an even fight. It was a matter of time before the opposing commander sounded the retreat; with the lack of officers on the field of battle it seemed surrender wasn’t to be the intention.

Anyone approaching the man on fire had been incinerated, disturbing visions of boiled metal and bent airwaves lending credence to the notion that whatever was actually happening over there and however the frak it worked, it wouldn’t be a bright idea to get anywhere close. Instead, Rap took advantage of the pile of discarded corpses surrounding the indefatigable duo and...played dead. The winds were probably changing soon, based on the way the clouds were moving. He was gambling on the hope this fire man wouldn’t want to risk accidentally burning his commander or allies, never mind the fact Rap had NO IDEA how in the name of insane bonfires anyone could survive being in the middle of those high temperatures, let alone send them off. 

It worked. It worked!! Fire man moved with the wind, using it to carry his incendiary discharges towards his enemies rather than risk his own. A useful breeze, the coat that surely served to project further fear in his enemies and protect the backs of his legs lifted. Just enough. A series of tainted projectiles fired in quick succession, more than half hitting the small target that was the back of fire man’s knee. Good thing Rap had gone with his metal options rather than the more innocuous wooden ones. Easier to hide the evidence afterward, but they wouldn’t have survived the heat. Then again, usually his targets weren’t walking infernos. A notion for further consideration later. Much later. 

It didn’t take long, though fire man must’ve had an elephant’s metabolism to not have dropped immediately, but in under a minute he was finally down on one knee. It would continue to work through his system; the flames guttering along with his strength. The delay gave Rap enough time to move into position though. He would lure the commander to his choice in battlegrounds. Not far from where they were, but just enough that his traps would remain untouched by the unwitting and unintentioned. He held his blow gun aloft, a short sword in his other hand. France’s coat of arms emblazoned on his chest and a very unsoldierly smirk on his lips completed the visage. 

Make her feel rage. Take away her calm. Peel back the strategy and finesse that made her a terror in her element. Force her to step into his world, one without rules of combat, and that would be the only chance he had to take her out. Then again...something made it seem like all his efforts wouldn’t matter. As if she would step just as easily from her realm into his and beat him at his own game. He would not, should not consider defeat. That would mean accepting death, and this had only just begun!

The cocksure rise of lips and brow would not betray fear’s frigid grip trailing sweat down his spine nor the faint tremor of nerves knowing this time, among all the others, the League had no intention that he should come back alive. They might just be right. But he’d never willingly give them the satisfaction.

Standing stock still in the open went against every single instinct in him, nearly all the training he’d received and the adrenaline screaming he move! Fight or flee, pick one!! But for this to work, she had to come to him. A few steps were all it would take and the first of his traps would be sprung...

[eternalstrigoii]

Unfettered - III

Original; I, II Borra (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil) x Forest Dark Fey Reader; Philip x Aurora; King John is Everyone’s Dad (reprise)

                    Your people did not celebrate the way they should’ve.

It should’ve been a glorious occasion – you were, at last, after centuries of destruction, on the path to justice. To true peace.

But Shrike kept only Ini for company, and you had yet to apologize for your outburst in the courtyard. You told yourself with increasing frequency that you did not mean it, though you were painfully aware that you did not speak because you had.

Because Percival went before them again afterward, and he told them of you. He told them that he was aware of your and the other fey’s captivity. You had known by the look on Philip’s face that the boy mandated the door be left open so you would not feel caged again, although you had.

The only comfort you had regarding that betrayal was that he had never partaken directly in your torment. He knew of it. He did nothing. And he answered honestly when Lord Azarias asked if he supported it – at first, he had.

You owed Shrike so much for standing beside you. You felt like you owed her your life; never once did she take your hand once she’d finished crying. She was like Maleficent, like Borra, like you would never be. She had her moment, her pain returned to fury, and if she could’ve burned him alive with her stare, she would’ve.

Even when he told them of how he stood beside her at Aurora’s wedding, and he saw, just as they did, how beautiful she was. He was rightfully wary, especially after you were found. He was open to change, since Philip was. Since Borra hadn’t killed him. But he expected retaliation, and so he waited.

He waited until he saw her fly during a great storm. It had been late in the evening; many shops simply closed for the night before their time. The torchlight in the palace, the hearths were all stoked. It was a cold rain, and it came down in a fierce, white blanket. He had seen her, felt the crash of thunder in the breastplate of his leather armor, and went to the highest point of the battlement protecting Ulstead from the sea. He stood on the very ledge where her people had been fired upon, battered by the ocean spray, and held out his hand.

You saw tears well in her eyes, but they never fell.

The ribbons of her bodice clung to her leather breeches. The braid in her hair was windblown; tendrils of rainbow jerked to and fro with every gust. And he called to her, the fool, catching his death in the storm to make sure she was safe.

That was when he decided to know you. All of you. To know you as Philip did, to love you as Aurora did. And he did, now. He loved your children. He cared for the moor-folk. He sat at your fire, he heard your stories, he brought sweets for your fledglings. He respected Maleficent.

And it did not erase what he’d done or what he hadn’t.

The tribunal lasted until sunset. You endured the full account of Lickspittle’s torment of the moor-folk; how he came into Ingrith’s servitude, how he could justify his actions to himself. How the poaching began, how it escalated, what he hoped to learn. What he intended to do. Why he never stopped her, or helped them, or let them go.

You were the subject he danced around the longest, and you knew it had something to do with the man at your back who did not know how to stand still or contain his frustration. Borra was not stationary. Borra was not powerless. And yet he heard, as did you, in excruciating detail how you entered the dungeon of a room, hauled in by a trio of poachers, bleeding from your wing.

You were delirious with pain. You didn’t recall what you’d done. You didn’t recall fighting, though he said you had. You were strong enough to knock things from the tables, nearly strong enough to break yourself free, had the third of them not restrained you by the throat.

Philip asked, gently, with his eyes locked on your mate, if Lickspittle knew their names.

No, the gnome had replied. He couldn’t even point them out if he saw them in the square, there had been so many poachers over time.

At some point, when your story began to interlock with theirs, you no longer craved solace. You stopped yearning for the vivid hues of pleasant memory in between his account of pouring the first dose of tomb-bloom treated iron powder onto a dandelion fey, and the way Borra recoiled as though intending to tear the very stone from the walls when Lickspittle revealed how your wings never fit in the ice bath – how you were never fully conscious when you were submerged, and yet you didn’t drown. (Ingrith was intrigued by that after Maleficent plunged into the sea; you did not recall it occurring at any increased frequency, though he attested that it had.)

You were still trying to make sense of it afterward.

After Aurora found the room. After Aurora found the missing fey. After Ingrith launched her attack and he hid for the duration of the battle. After she found you, and he almost thought after everything he’d done, they might show mercy.

Borra laughed out loud at that. The sound was sharp and musical and very much his.

Even Lord Azarias paled in response.

John declared the tribunal would resume in the morning once Lickspittle was finished with his urgent amendments – he swore he had plans to repent for the error of his ways, he’d nearly put them into action when the crown brought him to justice, and you smiled at that just as sharply as Borra laughed.

They walked home with you from the tribunal as though you were all too tired for flight. As though the citizens of Ulstead didn’t flock to their windows in numbers they hadn’t dared assemble in when the sun revealed them, as though their shadows blotting out the light didn’t give them away.

You walked home to the moors among the glowing toadstools and the dancing will o’ the wisps, several of which rushed to greet you once you crossed back onto unpaved land. You could’ve kissed the soil. You felt filthy and wrong after standing in their dusty little room for so long – your legs hurt. Your feet ached. Though, it was all the more pleasant to sink down in front of the fire and rip the meat from your falsely celebratory goat.

You did not say two words to one another until new steps approached. Booted steps.

Half of you sat upright with curiosity. You did. Borra did not.

“Hello,” Philip greeted them. He wore only his dressing shirt, no doublet, no coat. You blinked at him; wasn’t that considered half-obscene by his people? Like – well, walking around like one of you.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“Nothing.” He sounded equally tired, though, and you hoped that he’d brought his horse lest he walk all that way by himself. “I wanted to make sure you were all alright.”

Borra did not look at any of you. Not even to you, and you felt that was fair of him.

“I plan to ask you both to speak before the tribunal tomorrow.” He didn’t approach, though it wasn’t out of wariness; he wasn’t in attendance as frequently as Percival, but he understood your custom better than you thought he did. Though only five of you were directly involved, it was a matter of the collective, and he offered it just as anyone would’ve had you retained the meeting-cove. “If you’re willing.”

Borra finally looked to you. Were you? he asked with his eyes.

You nodded. Are you?

His eyes hid nothing. He would not keep his anger from them. It was a detriment to your people, and yet, if Philip offered him the floor, he would take it.

You linked your fingers securely through his. I will be with you every step.

“Does your father know of your decision?” Borra asked, and you pretended not to hear the note of mocking in his tone.

“He does. As does Aurora.” His posture was soft though he stood straight. “They know what you have to say will be necessary.”

That it will be unpleasant, and cause problems. But they want you to say it anyway.

Borra stood, then, allowing your hand to fall from his grasp. His wings perked, and the sheer difference in size between them with regards to his horns and his wings should’ve been off-putting.

Philip never faltered.

“You trusted me when I said I would not let her ruin your kingdom. Trust that I will not allow them to silence you, no matter what it is you have to say.”

His down bristled a bit, and you dug your feet into the soft earth to stand. They wanted to give you justice, but they gave him no outlet to act upon what he learned. Your people didn’t have law, you had sense. You had compassion. Empathy – for each other and your fellow creature.

Knowing that a man who came to you with love in his heart for your sister could be responsible for your father’s slaughter reflected poorly upon them as a whole, and that was the most drastic understatement you could make of the matter. Borra was right to be angry.

“Will you sit with us?” you asked.

You kept nothing from each other. You were family regardless of your blood-bonds. Without unity, you never would have survived.

Without unity, you still would not.

There were decisions to be made, and they came for you one after the other. Do you trust him? Do you trust any of them? Yes. In spite of it all, Philip was not his mother, even though when he frowned he shared the same partial pucker of his soft lips. He was an open, gentle creature, and he had come to you, knowing what had been said, knowing that you would be angry and hurt and desperately in need of rest. If he was afraid, it didn’t show. If he distrusted you once, he certainly placed his life in your hands now.

He looked to Borra. He wanted to make sure that it was alright, though your mate said nothing. Borra always knew what to do, what to say. He had never waited and watched from the sidelines. Your father implored him to, but he didn’t. There was action to be taken, justice to be dealt.

This was different. Now, he was forced to. Now, you all had been asked to trust an ornamental ruler whose people didn’t even choose him. You had to trust a murderer’s husband and a pair of children to bring you justice and preserve your peace – all, while they asked the man you love, who led your people for a reason, not to act.

Did he feel just as powerless as you, or had he already planned for the alternative?

“Come.” You held out your hand to Philip and rested the other upon a bare spot on Borra’s arm. He nearly recoiled at your touch, and that made you slip your talons into his braces and pull him closer to you.

Philip took your hand. Let you guide him over the logs and toward the fire. He saw the goat you ate, and you nodded toward the leftovers in event he desired some for himself.

“No, thank you.” He sunk down with you on the red-needled earth. “Frankly, after this afternoon, I haven’t much of an appetite.”

“It’s there if you want it.” You folded your legs under yourself, and the shiny strips of skin that ran from your knees nearly to the ends of your calves glinted in the firelight. You touched them absently, and it made you painfully aware of Borra, rigid beside you, so you claimed one of his hands and rested it on your knee.

“I’m sorry.” You had to begin there; before you could ask Philip anything, you had to reconvene with him. “I know I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He took a slow, deep inhale. Stars, he was seething. “You shouldn’t feel that way.”

“I shouldn’t, but I do. I depend upon you. You have obligations that I shouldn’t impede.”

“Do you still?” He did not share in your feelings, which you knew, but it still stung that whatever you said had to be breeched one subject at a time.

You were also aware that Philip, and the others, did not know of what you were speaking.

“When I feel overwhelmed, I do,” you admitted. If not for the immediacy of your fingers in his, he would’ve withdrawn. “I can’t ease my pain, and I have no outlet.”

“You’re not alone.” His frustration bled into his voice, though you knew it wasn’t at you. “You depend upon me,” he repeated, and you reconsidered; maybe he was upset with you. “As though I didn’t choose to be there.”

“My pain isn’t something you should have to endure.”

“I don’t endure it, Cas. I hate it when you cry. I hate that you flinch when someone moves toward you, I hate the way you shy toward me when they look at you. I hate that you need to hold my hand to cross the river, and I hate that you fear each and every last one of them – you, who are so powerful that you can still look at them and see their faces when you do.”

You ran your thumb over his fingers. It never ceased to compound your hurt, knowing that you caused him pain.

“If you died,” his voice lowered. Though sitting beside you, Philip was entirely forgotten. “If you died while you were still in the palace, I would’ve mourned. I could have respected your father’s sacrifice.” He lifted his uncovered hand to hold your face the way you liked, so you were resting in his palm like it was made to cradle you. “I would not if they took you from me now. By their hand, or yours.”

After what they did, you should not be alive. Just because you shouldn’t be did not mean you weren’t.

He did not take breaking peace lightly. He never had, not after the way your people suffered. Your suffering couldn’t be elevated, you thought, but you didn’t know if anything like this had been done before. Your people, slaughtered, yes – violently, cruelly, without regards for their age, frailty, or innocence. But to endure what you had, to survive in spite of it…

Perhaps he wasn’t wrong about you. About your strength.

“I cannot stop using you for my tether, and it frightens me,” you whispered, “It’s why I dream what I dream. If anything happened to you, I could not imagine what would happen to me.”

He stroked your cheek. You held his eyes, searched them for something, anything, that would help you find peace.

“You’ll be safe.” He could offer you no comfort but his immediate certainty. “Only once did they manage to shed my blood.”

You hoped he meant it as a joke, but you didn’t treat it that way. You kissed the heel of his palm and closed your eyes.

“I won’t let that happen.” There was a promise in Philip’s voice that you trusted without question.

He watched you, both of you, and somehow managed to hold Borra’s gaze when he said, “Our kingdoms are united. You have my full support.”

You didn’t want to lift your head from his palm, but you had to. Not for yourself, not for Philip, not even for your people – you raised your head from his hand so you could ask the impulsive question that had been nagging at you since you started trying to wade through your iron-fevered memories.

“Philip?”

His head perked.

“Tell me about the man in red. Why does he look at us the way he does?”

“Lord Azarias?” he asked. You saw in his eyes that he had some manner of answer, though you doubted it would be pleasant. “He distrusts you.”

“He hates us.”

“That as well.”

“Does he have reason?”

Philip hesitated. You braced yourself, so to speak; tensed the muscles in your wings little by little to distract yourself from your blooming anxiety. The ones that could respond, did; the ones that couldn’t quivered.

“His father was the advisor to King Henry that encouraged him to go to war with the moor-folk. They have had something of a crusade against fey for generations.”

“You let him sit on your council?” Borra interjected.

“We have to. He funds several smithy in Ulstead as well as Perceforest.”

Iron. What made the color of his coat so best resemble blood – the iron that bound you, the iron that gave you fever and left these marks upon you, it was his?

Borra stared at him, surely sharing your conclusion.

“He needed no role in my mother’s operation,” Philip said, lowering his voice as though it kept any of the others from hearing. “She had her own methods. I didn’t even know the cutlery wasn’t silver until Maleficent’s visit.”

“Methods like what?” Ever the tactician, Borra had to know the odds. He had to know what you faced when you returned to Ulstead in the morning – whether or not it would be of grave consequence.

“Annexation of the Midlands. She made a deal with their nobility; iron and weapons in exchange for the benefits of unity. Increased military support, access to the sea, no taxes upon trade.”

Access to the sea.

You tried so hard not to let your blood run cold, but even Borra bristled beside you. War was inevitable, then; had Maleficent not been rescued, it would’ve marched right to your home. It would’ve slaughtered each and every last one of you on the shores of your own land.

“I can’t arrest him purely because of his trade,” Philip was bright enough to understand your feelings, at least in part, “but I do keep an eye on him. He’s made no secrets of the enemies he makes.”

“And what will it mean if he makes an enemy of us?”

You dared ask, though the gravity in the young prince’s expression betrayed him long before he put the thought to words. He looked at the altered flesh around your wrist while you kept your grip on Borra, and it was to that part of you that he replied, “He won’t make an enemy of you. He’d make himself your enemy.”

                     You did not know how often your father looked toward Ulstead, when he was alive.

It had been generations since your people had connection to the earth the way Maleficent did to the moors’ tomb blooms. You never regarded the way you oriented yourself in the cage as your instinct to point yourself toward home – toward family and safety, the magnetic lines of the earth drawing you back like a compass. Your people were displaced, and you had felt displaced, disoriented as you were, and yet it wasn’t Borra’s comings and goings that motivated those instincts in either of you.

He knew you were alive with the same intuition all parents possess; you were tethered to one another by more than blood – by every beat of your heart when you were small and tucked into the safety of his arm, by every braid he wove into your hair, and every day when it was just the both of you, after your brother left the nest and the loss of your mother cooled in you both to a dull, reminding ache.

Your tether to this world was the reason you carried his name in yours.

Even when you were lost, you’d known the way home. Even when you were caged, half-dead, weighted and silent with exhaustion, you’d begun to cry when your tether slipped.

Lickspittle the Gnome remembered the sound of your quiet weeping. He’d attributed it to the presence of the sentry as they left bushel upon bushel of tomb blooms around the laboratory, more and more of them infringing upon your nonexistent space. You had been silent for some time; he’d nearly thought you slipped away. Then, he thought you may have been sentient enough to have heard his plans.

“Shut up,” one of the sentry struck the front of your cage with a pole-axe.

You were so weak, you didn’t even flinch. You were hardly sentient, not even delirious with pain. Your body had, nearly altogether, given up. You were dying, and then you felt…distant. And afraid. It was as though you’d lost your homing signal.

You did not know that your father had been shot. How many times.

You did not know of the iron coursing through his blood and yours. The way it had fallen, thick like molasses, half-congealed from the heat, into the grass; the way it coated Maleficent’s skin.

Your father felt you dying, just as you felt him.

You whispered for him, in your iron prison. Your wrists bled anew as you trembled.

“Shut up!” The sentry struck it harder.

You were so close to him. Just over the river. The tears that ran down your face were swift and silent, and took more strength to release than you had. “Papa,” you whispered in a child’s broken voice. You were afraid, and you didn’t want to die.

“Conall!”

When the infantrymen were dead – thrown from heights, dragged with branches into early graves deep within the earth, clawed, strangled, and otherwise destroyed – Borra rejoined them. Maleficent was barely strong enough to keep her shield, but, for your father, she had. She was weak again, breathing heavily, and his blood soaked her bodice and her skirts. They had gone deep, left several punctures through his great, dark wings. There were more embedded in his back, and Maleficent couldn’t contain the emotion in her voice.

“I’m trying to heal him,” she said. “I’ve been—”

“Can you fly?” Borra drew her attention from them, lest she start to see him choke. If they returned quickly enough, the elders…

Not even he could lie to himself that well.

“Maleficent,” his voice sharpened; she caught the sound of your father’s hitching breath and had to be drawn back to him. “Can you fly?”

She nodded. Her eyes were damp and her frown had begun to quiver.

“Then go. We have to get him home.”

It was a struggle for him to lift Conall by himself; they were nearly the same size, and his low-hanging wings would create problems. He nearly sent her ahead to warn them, to try to save his life.

There was so much blood. It saturated the grass where they landed. It soaked into the cracks of your now-lover’s skin, mingled with their lightly-toxic mortal blood as though it was necessary to wash it away.

“Find her,” Conall rasped.

The fury in Borra burned anew. He set his jaw, flattened his wings and took off. He had to beat them hard, waste precious energy, but he would not leave him, and he couldn’t very well ask Maleficent for the help. She was supposed to save them all, and yet she hardly had the strength to summon branches.

“Find my daughter,” Conall pressed, and, for a moment, he nearly sounded like himself despite the roughness of his breathless voice. “Bring her home.”

“I will.” There was a vow in the words he hadn’t been asked to make.

He hoped you didn’t feel him, wherever you were. He hoped you weren’t bound to them the way Maleficent was to her ancestors. He hoped you weren’t, but he also hoped you were – he hoped that Conall felt you, even now.

He hoped you knew that he was coming. That he would find you. That he would not abandon you, wherever you were.

By the time Conall had been laid beneath the Tree of Life, on the Phoenix’s eternal grounds where all of your once-living people rested if they were able to return to the nest in time, Borra hoped, above all, that you could wait for him. That you were strong enough. Because if you weren’t, then he would kill them for you. In your name and your father’s.

You felt it, when he slipped. When dawn broke and he chose to give Maleficent what little strength he had left in hopes of it being able to save her – to save you all, just as Borra said. You couldn’t breathe under the weight of the iron on your chest. You didn’t have the strength to cry out for him, though the agony of loss crushed you from within.

You felt lost. Truly.

No help was coming.

You were going to die in there, in that little iron cage that Aurora didn’t even notice.

You didn’t have the strength to cry at all, and yet, tears sizzled on your oven-hot skin, like the ashes of the phoenix from which they said your kind was born.

                    Say nothing of what you now know of him while you’re in Ulstead, Philip cautioned before he left, and you were still mulling over the severity of his voice as you crossed the bridge the next morning. You wore the purple of new dawn, which you felt was appropriate.

You slept well again in spite of the day before. It was becoming a habit, and you weren’t entirely sure if it was Maleficent’s doing or Borra’s.

Even after your outburst in the courtyard, he hadn’t left you. He had every right to turn heel and go back to his nest, to his privacy and space all his own, but he had stayed with you again rather than take flight over the moors. He held you in the curl of his wings, punctuated the silence with gentle kisses, and you fell asleep against his chest with the sound of his heart reverberating through you.

You held his hand as you walked the bridge, and you weren’t even clutching him.

Perhaps, in truth, you were emotionally drained. One day of it was enough for a lifetime, one day of watching things collapse as though a gust of wind displaced a child’s stick-pile in the high canopy left you feeling raw and tired and you hadn’t even spoken to anyone but those who were already beside you.

You gently bunted with his arm before you crossed to meet John, and you thought there might’ve been a hint of a curl to Borra’s lips when he huffed out a sigh.

John wasn’t present for the battle, and you both had that in common. It was part of the reason why he moved toward you both in his robes, trying to embrace you both at the same time as he did Aurora and Philip.

Borra took a step away, though, and sacrificed you to John’s enthusiasm instead.

You weren’t even upset about it; you hugged him as tightly as you could, bumping your wings on his arms. “Good morning, John.”

“Hello, Cassia.” He squeezed you like you were a child, and the warmth of it eased your worries. You relaxed as you let go, breathed out your tension as he straightened and nodded respectfully to your mate. “Borra.”

The hint of a smile was no longer on his lips. He nodded back, silent. Waiting.

“I need to warn you,” he gently laced your arm through his as you entered the great courts of Ulstead on foot for the second time. There were more people out and about, almost as though they’d forgotten about the tribunal. Peasant women hung their laundry like flags between the gables of their above-shop homes, “I have already given Lord Azarias a talking-to this morning.”

“The iron-monger,” Borra said, and you sighed profoundly when you looked at him.

John looked surprised, but not disappointed. “Don’t repeat that in front of him. Yes, he’s been…rather difficult about the impacts that the reparations treaty has had on his business.”

“Tell him to make silver,” you replied, and it was a joke though it didn’t sound that way.

People were staring. Again. It unnerved you, but none of them approached. None of them tried to touch any of you this time, or get within the berth of your personal space.

“I wish it was that simple.” He paused with you right there in the streets of Ulstead, and your whole collective drew to a stop with you. You were all wary of them, even Udo who loved their children; they kept eyes for you while you held John’s.

“I also came to fetch you this morning, personally, for a reason.”

You waited. You hoped your tension wasn’t palpable.

“I owe you an apology, Cassia. Though it will never be enough, I swear to you that I believed Ingrith could change. I truly believed that if she knew you, she would understand why, for so long, I��ve wanted peace. She could be a cold and distant woman, but I never thought her capable of what she did. That is as much my fault as Percival’s.”

You drew in a deep breath. An apology was insufficient in ways he would never understand. You didn’t want his justification. You already trusted that he was innocent because you knew he was a very kind and gentle man – and also rather foolish. It was endearing, though your feathers bristled anyway.

“It is not as much your fault as Percival’s.” You were not your father, though you often wished you could at least pretend to be; you hid nothing from him with your face or your eyes or your words. “It is as much your fault as Lickspittle’s.”

John was taken aback. Still, there was a profound and genuine sadness in his eyes, and he rested his hand on your cheek for a moment as though you were Aurora and there were not scores of eyes upon his every move. “You are a very brave girl, Cassia. Your father would be proud.”

Your eyes dampened.

“I certainly am.” He touched his lips to the marks painted on your forehead, and you poorly resisted the urge to grip his sleeve.

John was a kind man, kind to the point of foolishness, and he loved you. He loved you like he knew the appearance of your people was not the catalyst for Ingrith’s war, just as you knew that Maleficent’s plunge into the sea was not the catalyst for yours.

And you were grateful, for once, for the pain that bloomed anew in your chest. John had to enter before you, being king, and it gave you the chance to linger in the courtyard with your fingers on the etched blue stone around your neck. You could almost feel it, the gentle bunt of your horns against your father’s before he’d gone to join them for council.

“I love you,” must’ve been the last thing you said to him. Your voice was dancing; it was as much a dismissal as a reminder, because you were redoing your braids and his lingering blocked what was left of the fading light.

You recalled, all by yourself, the way he smiled at you. The kindness that radiated from him always, the sadness and the love in his eyes. “I’ll be back soon.”

Borra stepped toward you, and Ini fell in at his back to keep eyes.

“Don’t hold back with them,” you whispered. It was the opposite of what you should’ve said.

He touched your chin, guided your face upwards, and bunted horns with you gently. He would be there when you needed him. You could be weak; he would be there to keep you from drowning.

“I hope I give you the strength you’ve given me,” you admitted, knowing well that you had to withdraw. You took a breath of him, the heat of the desert radiating from his skin, and you held on to your newly acquired calm.

He touched the downy hair at the back of your neck lightly, brushing his thumb over the little curls too short to be trapped in a braid, and let his lingering touch speak for him. You did, and it would be alright for you again. You weren’t alone.

Ini touched your back, and you rested your hand over hers. You nodded, and the five of you, watched so closely by the people of Ulstead, rejoined the tribunal in their chamber with the wide-open doors.

Philip introduced you again, as though they had forgotten who you were. It must’ve been a formality, though the rest were shorter than they had been; the date was declared, and the purpose cited as established. There was almost no time at all between when you entered and when Philip looked up at you, you and only you. “Cassia, are you ready to join us?”

No. Yes. What you wished to do was not what you must.

You still touched Borra’s arm to support yourself, though it was also to remind him that, just this once, he did not have to follow.

This was not your people’s meeting-cove, but it was functionally the same. You perked your lopsided wings to keep them from dragging on the floor, and when the left one started to tremble from the effort, you let it. You let them see what had been done to you in the light under which they were gathered.

The nobility, whom you’d heard in passing had been rather unkind to Aurora before she was queen, exclaimed quietly in shock at the shine of your scars.

You breathed, and the tall posture at which you held your wings relaxed. The left one sagged significantly; you let them see how it drooped from the very joint. Even Lord Azarias sat forward, his head canted at the sight of you.

He had never seen you beyond the shadows, you realized. You wondered if he could see any of you back there, since he looked that way so often and so intently.

“Cassia Born-of-Conall,” Philip spoke to you, “how did you arrive in Ulstead?”

Again, you breathed. They watched you, their faces so nearly like yours – nearly as colorful as the lot of your people’s, their eyes nearly as bright. Were it not for their mannerisms and their dress, your similarity might’ve been a source of comfort.

“I left my home on impulse.” It was the first time you’d said it, and it made you feel like a fool. “My father was at council with the others, and I wished to fly freely. Truthfully,” you remembered, now, why you’d gone. “I wanted to taste the sea-breeze. I missed the brine. I missed the clouds and the stars; so rarely did I leave, I had just…grown restless.” It was still a foolish reason, but it was a reason you’d forgotten. “I veered close to land, though it wasn’t intentional. I saw a man in your river, struggling against the current. He was headed toward the falls.”

You saw him in your mind as clearly as if he’d been in front of you, no more than a little black dot at first. Had he not moved so strongly, you might’ve thought he was a bobbing log.

“My father, Conall,” your heart bloomed with pain, and you let yourself reach up to touch his pendant against your chest, “he sought peace with humans. Your kind as a whole have decimated ours since the dawn of our existence; we want only to live freely in nature. Beside you, rather than among you. We mean you no harm.”

There was a low murmur from the nobility; it sounded like approval.

“I reacted without thinking. I flew down to pluck him from the water, and carried him to shore. No sooner had I set him down than I was shot,” you tried to raise your left wing, and had to reach back to part your feathers. The scar was severe, pink-shining even then as though unhealed. “I was shot by another poacher.”

“Would you have saved him,” Lord Azarias interjected, “if you had known what he’d done?”

“Yes,” you replied, and the ease at which it came startled you. “He was drowning in the river, Lord Azarias. Not even the other poacher helped him.”

“Why? Men were slain on the moors for what they’ve done to your kind.”

“My father wanted peace,” you repeated. “I wanted freedom. Those things are rarely achieved without some measure of empathy.”

“To your kind, perhaps,” he pressed. “I’ve heard this story already; you were shot and dragged through the courtyards kicking and screaming, you tried to fight your way out—”

“I was shot through the base of my wing,” you cut him off. “I was in pain. I went for the river myself before I was caught; I tried to escape. Yes, I was dragged through the courtyards of Ulstead – by my wings. I was blind with pain. I couldn’t run, let alone fly. I don’t even remember making it inside.”

“What do you remember?” Philip’s gentle voice interrupted.

You focused on it, on piecing together your past like shards of broken crystal. Glimpses of the stars from the ground, drips of dark blood congealing on the pale stone, the sear of iron melding into darkness.

“…His arm was already around my neck.” His hand over your mouth to quiet you. You couldn’t breathe, and you were afraid, and you dug your heels into the stone until you choked. You were so afraid, beating your wings. Trying to gather up wind only to be crippled by pain. You twisted, and darkness encroached… “I was unconscious before they entered.”

The whispers died abruptly.

You pretended you did not feel the heat of Borra’s eyes. The weight of his fury.

“I remember pain.” And you did. “Iron touching me.” You’d jolted, coughed. You weren’t even fully awake. “I tried to step away, but the floor was made of it. My wings hit the bars. I must’ve cried out. My back…”

You were pushed into the bars, and you screamed. You lurched forward only to have the door slammed in your face. You struggled to your feet, gripped the bars, begged the sentry man – please! It burns! Oh, stars, it burns!

“…she was there.”

“The queen?” John asked.

You nodded. “Ingrith.” You saw her just as vividly, too, in her iron-bright dress with shiny ornaments in her white-blond hair. “She stood behind several of them, at first. Watching me.”

“Is that a faerie?” she’d asked Lickspittle in the same manner of accusing tone she used when she felt he wasn’t working quickly enough.

“Yes, your majesty,” the gnome replied. “They call them dark fey. Maleficent of the moors is one of them.”

You’d never heard that name before. You hardly paid attention. The iron scalded your feet and burned your flesh and you were woefully under-dressed; you tucked your right wing as close to flat against your back as you could get it and curled the left around yourself, cradling it to keep it from sagging.

“Please,” you repeated. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone where I’ve been.”

“No,” she clicked her tongue at you as she approached, parting the sentry with her hands. “You won’t. Come here.”

She reached in toward you, even though one of the men repeated her title. You thought she was going to be benevolent, so you did; you went to her, and she only recoiled a little before placing her gloved hand upon your chin.

“I see it now.” Her voice was cold. You didn’t understand what she meant; no one had ever seen your eyes or your cheekbones or felt the warmth of your skin and disliked them. Not even the tundra-children when they falsely swooned and told you that you were going to burn them to death like iron, being from the temperate forest, oh being out of the snow was such a tragedy!

“One bolt injured it?” She withdrew her hand, and herself, to walk toward the gnome at his table.

Injured what? you’d thought.

“In the wing, yes,” Lickspittle replied. Your skin was still burning and you didn’t understand; you shifted, restlessly, trying to alleviate the pain in either foot.

“Would another be fatal?”

The gnome was quiet for a moment, as though contemplating how quickly you might be killed, though you were slow to realize it. At first, you truly didn’t understand. Then, you hadn’t wanted to. You did your best to believe differently, but your skin was peeling and you hurt and you couldn’t take refuge anywhere.

“If you struck her somewhere vital, yes. In the back, the belly, the head or the heart.”

You recoiled. The hiss and bite of iron into your flesh nearly made you scream, and yet when you peeled yourself off the bars against the wall, it wasn’t by far.

“Which is the most vital? Does it have defenses?”

“She is not all that different from you—”

The iron queen’s hand came down on his work abruptly, and you thought you saw the gnome startle. You didn’t think her voice could get any colder, but she never moved closer when she said to him, “Do not show sympathy for that beast. It is not human.”

You were so scared. Your heart pounded; you wished for them, though you were afraid to do it. You wished your father, or your family in some combination or other, would come to your rescue. You were afraid that she would kill you. You had no way of knowing that she would rather make you wish for it; that you were folded around yourself not too unlike the way Maleficent would be when she first laid eyes upon them.

“I don’t know how long she kept me there, at first.” It could’ve been hours, it could’ve been days; you had no way of knowing the measure of time by the sun, and your body felt the effects of exposure quickly. You were not Borra; you never exposed yourself with intent to build tolerance, though it struck you as a very good idea at the time.

“I sacrificed parts of my covered legs in rounds. Sat there on my knees. My heels. Tried to reason with him.” You shook your head. “I was so sick I couldn’t even remember when I’d last had water.”

You recalled, in parts, the way the sickness took you. Iron is lethal to fey, everyone knows this. You were sick, and then you were tired, and, though the pain was immense, eventually, you laid down on your broken wing. You used it for a shield and a pillow and tried to curl your body onto it with no such luck. It was hard to sleep, but even harder to be awake. You were dizzy and nauseous and grew weak.

“She put the collar on while I was asleep.”

You woke to the burn of it. The pain. You screamed and fell on your back, grabbed at the hands of the men who put it on you. You wouldn’t have hurt them; you wanted them to take it off.

“The shackles followed.”

Strung through the iron-bar door, your hands were left on the outside. You were forced onto your knees, and you furiously beat your good wing in hope of doing something to free yourself. Blinding pain in your neck, your wrists, your legs. Your toes lost your grip on the bloody floor.

“Stop that noise,” Ingrith ordered, and one of the sentry grabbed the end of your wing. You screamed and fought, pulling hard. You felt the joint roll, but he had good hold of one of the hollow bones toward the apex.

“He snapped it.”

Right below the claw, like an extra thumb. You’d screamed at the top of your lungs, and that earned you another. The other wing flared out on instinct, the bad one, and someone else grabbed it. The first time she had your wings broken might not’ve been intentional, but you’d seen the pleasure on her face – the ecstasy in response to your pain.

You screamed yourself hoarse. You screamed until you could do nothing but cry. Until you shook, and you were limp, and the fever in your skin claimed you fully. You put your head on your arm and wept, and your tears did nothing to heal your burning skin.

You prayed, out loud. You recited old rites. Ancestors, please guide me; ancestors, give me strength, my body is weak but my soul will join you—

How quickly she had you struck for it. So violently that you were dazed. Your stomach lurched from the force and you laid your head back down on your arm.

“I lost track of time quickly. I was wholly engulfed in sickness and pain. Once she bound me, I lost the ability to move. To resist.” You moved then, though, and the stiffness in your gait betrayed you – how long you’d been left in one position. Your joints sometimes forgot what it was like to be mobile. “At some point, someone fed me. Water and bread, I think. I do recall water,” so cold that it felt wonderful in your raw throat, like it might break your fever if you were submerged. “being given from a leather flask. It didn’t burn when it touched me.”

“Forgive me,” Philip interrupted, “but do you have any idea of how long you were there?”

“The tide was high,” Ini said from where she stood with the others. “It was a full moon. One and a half before Maleficent came.”

You were doing well, you thought. Shaking, but sentient. Lost to your memories but not the emotion. You still couldn’t look at Borra, because you knew he saw all of your scars and knew of their making, now.

They were silent, aside from John. “Six weeks?” he whispered. Six weeks in an iron prison? Did that seem right? Six weeks sought to erase the entirety of your life – how had you not succumbed?

“Can you recall anything else?” Philip asked.

“Your majesty,” Lord Azarias interrupted, “We know this story. I understand that it’s a formality—”

“It is more than a formality, lordship, Lickspittle is not an authority on Cassia or the other fey. Hold your tongue. And wait to be spoken to.”

You told them all in painful detail of the re-breaking of your wings. That the memory was so violent that it haunted your nightmares and your waking dreams. You told them of the guards and the jab of their weapons, the scars on your body that they would not see. You told them of the ice baths’ abrupt addition, and that you supposed it was because your blood had baked solid and offered you some measure of relief. You told them of the addition of the iron weight, and that you didn’t know why. Just that you shook with chills and burned with fever and you knew that you were going to die in between your fitful periods of waking. You knew that you would close your eyes and you would not wake up again. That there was a long period in between when you lost consciousness and when you regained it in a royal bed.

You did not see that Philip was no longer looking at you.

“You should have been dead,” Borra agreed. There was a familiar harshness to his voice that comforted you; you knew it wouldn’t offer the humans the same, but you knew him, and you were happy that he joined you on the open floor. It was like your council again. “Aurora stayed with you when she found you in that cage. She couldn’t lift you.” When he spoke, it wasn’t to them. He sought your eyes and no one else’s. “I did.”

You suspected, but confirmation still warmed you in a strange and twisted way. You hated that you caused him pain, but you were so glad he gave you comfort.

“All of this,” he lifted your wrist, brushed his fingers over the scars at your throat, “was bloody and raw. You were drenched in it. You stunk of blood and burnt flesh. Your wings barely fit through the door. They were limp and wouldn’t bend.”

There was no hiding the anger in his voice, and you didn’t want him to. He only told them because he was also telling you – filling in the gaps of time lost.

“I had to hold you to hear your heart beat. You were so weak you barely breathed. She gave you a bed, and it wasn’t big enough.” He blinked, and you knew he saw the sight of your freshly-unfurled wings in the brightness of his memory. “You were so broken I didn’t even see the shot that started it. They had to send for the elders.” His jaw flexed. He suddenly had to look anywhere else but at you. “I thought they’d start giving you rites.”

You let your eyes fall closed. You let yourself worry your pendant over the imagined memory of shared heartache.

“They’d given them to your father that morning. Couldn’t deal with it if they had.”

Aurora silently blotted her eyes.

“Couldn’t leave you even if they would  have. Couldn’t bear to touch your wings.” He did, then, lightly, like they might break again because of the remembered action. “No human in the palace would touch you; they thought cleaning your wounds would make you bleed out. They wouldn’t even dress you.”

You thought, faintly, back to when you awoke in pain. Your change of clothes and how you never even noticed what it was you wore.

“I did.”

You met his eyes again.

You fledged together; blind as you were to his feelings for you, there were periods in your life when you felt you knew him better than you knew yourself. You always knew of what befell him, how he got each and every burn. You’d been there when his kinsman’s fledgling – the little, desert girl last born to his niche of people – rushed up to him at the bonfire with the braid of woven grass he wore around his ankle. For luck, he’d whispered to her, and you hadn’t hid your smile.

“I saw the wounds on your sides. How fresh they were. I stayed with you,” and his voice was different – strong still, hard still, but not the same. Because he wasn’t speaking to them. Pain bled through his anger. “Every moment that the elders cleaned your wounds. Every balm, every salve, every tonic they used. You slept for a day.” He moved again, the restless shift of his feathers brushing across the stone such a familiar sound. “I couldn’t watch them set your wings.”

“Where did you go?” you whispered. You hadn’t meant to sound so forlorn; you didn’t want him to share in your pain, and yet you couldn’t understand why he hadn’t.

“The balcony.” He hadn’t gone far. You could almost see him, the shift of his weight as he listened for a break in your silence. “The others went to the moors with whoever desired to stay; everyone else returned home.”

“Why didn’t you?” Philip asked, and you assumed that was equally a formality.

His eyes spoke volumes only to you, volumes that did not match how he responded to the young prince. “After your men shot her father,” the anger returned in full, and you loved him for it. You loved him because he would rather incite their fury in return than make you vulnerable by admitting that he loved you. “All he could ask was that she be found. Brought home.”

“So why haven’t you left?” Lord Azarias asked.

You thought, for just a flicker, that you’d have to hold him back. No, you had to give him more credit than that; he wasn’t foolish.

“She cannot fly,” Borra replied, the hiss of emphasis on the word drawing many eyes back to your lopsided wing.

“Perhaps, but can you not carry one another? Wouldn’t it have been more simple for you to just…go back where you came from?”

You were unprepared to interject if they needed you to. You were, but Philip was not. “Lord Azarias, I do believe I’ve made my feelings on your questions quite clear.”

“I represent the people, your majesty, and it is with their best interests in mind that I ask what I do.”

You hadn’t fought a war to run back home. Even a mortal knew that. Their people conquered territories; your family stood together to liberate themselves. And that was what Udo said when Borra didn’t justify the bait with an answer.

You knew it was in your collective best interest not to allow your emotions to get in the way, but you touched him when he got close. You met his eyes and apologized, and the hardness in his refuted it. You have nothing to apologize for.

“And yet, little lasting physical harm was done. Your people were free to go, as were the moor-folk, and you have the ability to travel back and forth as you wish. It wasn’t as though the crown infantry disrespects the honor of even a savage.”

They didn’t understand, but you did. You had to turn away. You caught Percival’s eyes by accident, and the horror in them betrayed, much to your relief, that they were too prejudiced to think that way. Oh, you had never been so glad that Ingrith’s hatred came wrapped in disdain.

“Azarias,” Philip interjected, much more forcefully than you thought the boy knew how to be. “Leave.”

The iron-monger blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Leave. The sentry will escort you.”

“Sire,” he didn’t even try to soften his voice, “you understand my intentions.”

“No, I do not. For that, I am increasingly relieved.”

“Philip,” John cautioned, which made Aurora sit straighter. The poor girl. They should’ve let her keep her rabbit.

“I will not have this tribunal derailed by your provocation. Leave. You are welcome to rejoin us in the morning.”

“What did he say?” Provocation wasn’t lost on Borra; you ended up holding onto his gauntlet, and his attention turned to you.

“It doesn’t matter,” Percival tried to quell the unrest before it began. “The crown sentry operates with honor and nobility. Lord Azarias speaks only for himself.”

Somehow, you felt like that only made the situation worse.

“What did he say?” Borra repeated, over your head. To Philip, directly.

The young prince did not respond. You didn’t even look up to see what expression he made; you thought you could cling to Borra and it would stop him, but something in Philip’s face told him. The young men of the crown sentry who knew well of your mate’s ferocity, having trained with him, did not move to stop him the way you did.

They were all afraid of him, and they should be. He was strong; he swept you behind him gently, his wings fanned out against yours as though they would act as your shield while you wound your fingers through the leather straps of his armor where they crossed on his back.

“You’re brave enough to speak to them. Say it to me.”

If Azarias was smart, he wouldn’t. Your experience with humans – humans who were not of the immediate crown family – had shown you differently.

He was arrogant enough to look your mate in the eyes despite the fact that you were holding on to him, practically begging not to let this escalate any further, and respond to him clearly. “No human sullied your little wife. Her virtue is intact, and yet the lot of you stand there posturing for sympathy.”

Even you were confused by the phrasing, though you still believed you understood. What in skies is a virtue?

When Borra breathed, you were surprised no growl followed it. You weren’t surprised that not even digging in your heels stopped you from being pulled along when he went forward; when his talons clicked deliberately on the wooden box surrounding the nobility and the gentry’s seats, as though anyone else had the nerve to join you.

“Posturing for sympathy,” he repeated. There was the growl, an undercurrent in his voice that soothed you like a big cat’s purr. “As though you don’t insult us to our faces.”

He raised a brow, nearly saying out loud that he didn’t imagine any of you understood.

“Do you know why poachers were killed on the moors?” It shouldn’t have made you feel so safe, the dangerous gravity in his tone. “They were cowards, just like you. Robbing sleeping children from their beds, shedding blood like animals.”

They were all fixed on him, but none of them dared look him in the eyes. Only Azarias did, and it reminded you so strongly of Ingrith that you felt the phantom weight on your chest return.

“Look at her like prey one more time and you will not have eyes.”

“That is a threat,” Azarias replied – posturing for sympathy.

“That is a promise,” your mate replied, and you had to hide your smile in his shoulder when the human collective jumped at the sound of agreement that arose from Ini, Udo and Shrike.

“Your majesty, you reason with savages.”

You thought John might muster some benign comment meant to placate you both, but his voice over your shoulder was hardly disappointed. “Yes, it seems I do. I agree with Philip’s motion to dismiss you, Lordship, and I remind you that your place in my gentry is contingent upon your willingness for diplomacy. I can, and will, excuse you if necessary.”

You knew he felt you smiling against his skin, and you knew that you weren’t supposed to, but it was so satisfying to hear John back you without regards for their feelings that you almost forgot what manner of unrest all of this might cause.

His lordship didn’t.

He left his seat without escort, departing from the hinged entrance to his box, and circling it down toward you. Borra’s wing canted around you like a shield, and the blood-red man paused in front of him. “So it was you killing innocent men on the banks of the river, then?”

“They weren’t on the banks of the river when I met them,” Borra replied, more even-toned than he’d been in some time.

“Is that a yes, or a no?” Azarias asked, and his deliberate enunciation made both of your pinfeathers bristle.

He got a cold smile for his trouble, and your mate deliberately, brimming with false and wholly performative innocence, cocked his head like he had no idea what it was he was being asked. Anyone with eyes could know the answer, and yet, the blood-red man stalked past you both. He was not afraid to weave through the gap between Udo’s and Shrike’s wings so he might exit, and John, to his credit, recalled the gathered humans’ attention nearly immediately.

“I apologize to our guests for the outburst, as well as his lordship’s blatant lack of diplomacy.”

“Apologize for nothing, John,” Borra replied, though you put your hands on his back in hopes he still might calm. “Best they don’t hide their intentions.”

“It’s not like that for the rest of us,” Aurora promised. She was so sad, and you felt for her, but you also had begun to feel something like relief. This fight was familiar – this stalking, this talking, the exchange of thoughts in a great chamber before a crowd. This was all so familiar to you that it was as though the war, and your captivity, solved nothing.

You stayed with him when Philip asked about the moor-folk. You stayed, though your fixed place behind him changed once you could breathe normally again.

You took your place at his side like your painted-on marks warranted. You listened, and you devoted your every breath, every pulse of your still-beating heart, to the lives that had been taken.

Lickspittle the gnome looked at you sidelong. The fear was plain in his eyes, though Percival nudged him with the side of his boot to make his gaze shift back to the tribunal. You held yourself differently. Like you were less burdened. From the iron-fire in your veins, despite the immobility of your wings, you perked them. And you held them up. Even as they trembled, even as they struggled to stay aloft. It was an instinct that you did not even notice until Borra’s hand on your back reminded you to let them down before it hurt you.

There was phoenix blood in your veins. And you were in the midst of her fire.

                         Lord Azarias made himself your enemy while you were still in Ulstead.

In the taverns, the smithy, and even the chapel, he spun stories with his iron tongue. They were lies, and many were afraid.

But fear was not the control he wanted.

The silence of it made his ears ring when he should’ve heard the pounding of the hammer upon the anvil. The renewed roar of fire in the forge.

“Bring me the human-slayer,” he said when no one rose to his call for action, “and you will be paid whatever it weighs in silver.”

There were many, still, that said nothing; the very idea was against the law, and if they were to fear the fey, they had to also fear their influence upon the king. Word traveled quickly of the way John touched you, the barrier your people made between you both and the outside world.

“Dead or alive?” one man dared ask. It was a joke to them, but Azarias set down a piece of silver before him, thick and beveled with the great, slain beast on Ulstead’s crest.

“It is a wild animal, killer of men. If I didn’t want to mount the whole of it, I would tell you to bring me its head.”

[faelune-home]

FFXIV Write 2020 #23: Shuffle

(A/N: Kind of a follow on from what I implied in my last ffxivwrite prompt from yesterday, but now fleshed into an actual fic, since that throwaway line gave me the spark to write this in the first place. Focuses more in on a broad allusions to miqo!Fu’s other jobs, with a bigger segment actually featuring some Astro focus.

Player wise, I’m trying to level them all for the fun to try them all, and for the Amaro mount. Character wise, miqo!Fu definitely only specialises in Bard and Dancer and a little bit Red Mage, but she’s tried everything. Some parts click and other parts less so. She can heal in a pinch if you need it at least.

Prompt def focuses more on the astro side of things with card shuffling, but I’d like to think of it like ‘shuffling through her jobs’ as well. Mostly focused on Alphi’s perspective of my WoL tbh.

I guess as a final comment, just one part of the fic to mention; Alphi being more uncertain about the Dark Knight job is kind of a mix of the wildness of the job itself and how miqo!Fu takes to it, and still some early characterisation of his own mixed in. It’s something that would balance out as miqo!Fufu gets more skilled with the job and less feral as she evens out with Fray, as well as a closer growing friendship.

Set mid Heavensward before the Aery, no spoilers mentioned. Being pre-Dancer unlock level and story wise is also why it stars with saying the favours the bow only.

Word count: 1363

@ffxiv-writers)

Though she favoured the bow, Fufu often liked to dabble in other trades. When questioned about it, she simply said the experience was good for her, expanding her repertoire of available skills should she ever need them.

Even after the hurried exodus to Ishgard, she yet made trips outside the city, returning with reassurances that she was fine, that she’d been careful around the cities, even if she hadn’t even entered them herself. Though it hardly placated him, Alphinaud couldn’t help but still be curious at her studies, even if she treated them like a simple pastime.

The weapons and tools she accrued in her gifted room at the manor for a start -- enchanted crooks and bejeweled staves, sharpened katanas and rusty knives, a serrated axes and magnificent broad swords as tall as himself that seemed to pulse with a heavy energy that made him dare not touch them.

He had once almost tripped over a pile of tomes left in the corner of the room, initially mistaken for library books until he opened one and found the familiar arcane symbols within.

“You’re studying arcanima?” he had asked her after the discovery.

To Alphinaud’s disappointment, she’d grimaced and replied, “A little, but don’t ask for any demonstrations. I’ve been at this for weeks and I’ve only the other day figured out how to summon a basic beginner’s Emerald ‘Buncle.”

He bit back the offer to teach, not wishing to push the miqo’te if she already struggled with the simple elements of the craft.

Nevertheless, she put in the effort to learn and practise her trades all the same. Some few times, the boy was actually able to see her work; one such case was their return to the manor after the trial by combat and her visit to the Archbishop. She’d offered to heal his wounds, and for all she derided herself as a novice, he was well within minutes, scratches stitched together, and the ache in his sides from the grip of the chains faded to nothing.

Another, more terrifying case that still plagued his mind was her rescue of him from a wild bear while traversing the frozen highlands toward the old mill. Where the bear seemed to materialise out of nowhere, Fufu had appeared even quicker, one of those broadswords in hand to gut the bear and cleave it almost in two. The dark spark in her eyes, the way she bared her teeth at the animal, hovering protectively over her friend.

Though he would never say he wasn’t grateful for the safeguard that day, to see her so unlike herself - the woman normally so cheerful and friendly suddenly so hostile and twisted, even aimed at another - he almost would prefer her more harmless surprises such as her sneaking in the shadows to frighten him over seeing that again.

Still, Alphinaud wouldn’t ever tell the girl that. Nor would he wish her to cease in her training. She had the right of it that the skills would be a boon to her someday, plus there was a certain feeling of delight at seeing her so enamoured with a new craft.

He got acquainted with another of her fresh hobbies during a period of downtime in Ishgard. A surprisingly tepid day for the frosted city, he’d been left idly waiting in the Pillars for word from either Cid or Tataru -- for either the Manacutters to be ready for Fufu and Estinien’s perilous journey into the Aery (One that he wished to join them on, but had ruefully accepted their advice that he remain behind), or word from Ul’dah and the next step in finding the Sultana and restoring order to the government.

He almost had nothing else to do but wander and wait, too roused at the events still to come to consider sitting still. His roaming feet took him aimlessly through the city, past the markets, the hoplon, and hurriedly away from the Tribunal, until he came to a stop by the airship landing. A fresh wind blew over the polished stone, bringing a chill back into the upper reaches. At least with Ironworks engineers buzzing around the landing, anyone could alert him to an update from Cid with a quick linkpearl call. Better to remain there for convenience.

Yet just as the thought crossed his mind, a hand shot in front of his face, a fan of cards spread in the grip, the backs facing him. He stepped back suddenly, spooked at the gesture, only to bump into someone behind him, who giggled, “Pick a card, any card!”

Reassured at the familiar voice, he turned, Fufu herself adjusted the card fan to press it flat against her chest, hiding the fronts. She gave him a broad smile then held it out to him again.

“What’s this for then?” Alphinaud asked, looking carefully at the cards then at the woman’s attire -- a white robe and tan long boots, and some decorative gold frames perched on her nose. 

Her ears flicked playfully. “A little something I’ve been practising in my spare time.” He spied the card holder hanging from her belt, and the edges of a globe attached to her back. The design of the cards had already seemed passingly familiar, and now he was a bit more certain.

“Is this astrology? I’m aware the Ishgardians use it to monitor the Dravanians, but this bears a resemblance to the Sharlayan variety.” While not a field he was interested in, the study of the stars and use of magicks in healing was a speciality of his home, he could still recognise it in passing. Perhaps the rumours he’d heard of a Sharlayan dignitary being in the city and telling tales of ‘odd star magic’ had some weight to them. Fufu’s grin widened.

“Maybe it is, maybe it’s not. Pick one!” she insisted, bouncing impatiently on the spot. Finally deciding to amuse his friend’s whimsy, he plucked one from the centre of the deck. A tree.

“Well then, what does this mean?” he inquired, showing her the card while she shuffled the remains. Slotting them back into her holder and taking it back, Fufu stared intently at the image, humming loudly as she thought.

“I can foresee,” she droned, voice dipping deeply in exaggeration, making the boy chuckle, “fire and lightning, and wild winds! But! I also see us all safe back here in Ishgard.” She nodded sagely, a serious look on her face, until she grinned, breaking the effect.

“Is that truly what the stars say?” Alphinaud asked with a mirthful tone, clearly entertained at her theatrics. The miqo’te blinked, pocketing the card into her holster and shielding her eyes to look at the clouded skies, answering, “I’m not actually sure, I can’t see the stars.”

Then with a sheepish chuckle, she added, “And I’ll confess the whole star reading thing hasn’t sunk in much. I don’t get it. But I’m good with the magics! I don’t need to worry about the fortune telling stuff. Not now at least.” She planted her hands on her hips, confidence radiating. Despite her positivity, Alphinaud couldn’t help but sink, thoughts returning to what was yet to come.

“Would I be a poor player if I asked if that was to reassure me? Given the upcoming mission?” He was proud, he’d admit, but she was his friend, and their extended travels through the Dravanian wilds had seen them grow closer. He liked to think at least. He was less afraid of openly admitting to worrying for her.

Her tail flicked. “Maybe a little. But I know you only want us both to be safe.” She turned back to him and ruffled his hair, his protests weak at the act. It was already a habit of hers, dare he think he was adjusting to it. Yet before he could voice his objections to the act, he stopped, seeing her stare intently at him. Then she smiled.

Her smile was warm and comforting, all traces of teasing or exaggerations gone. “We’ll be fine, I promise. No need to look to the stars to say that.”

He hesitated at first. Then a nod. “Of course. I trust you completely.”

[nightklok]

magnus or abigail? :D

Send a Character’s Name to receive Four Different Headcanons [Open]

Aaa of course!! Thanks for asking!!! :D

 Magnus

Headcanon A:  Magnus gets his royalty checks from The Hammer. If Magnus registered his song through BMI or ASCAP (and the info on all the songs registered is public), he’d have the copyright of the song, therefore, Dethklok wouldn’t have been able to use the song without paying for the royalties. It would be easier to accept the losses rather than deal with an angry Magnus threatening them again. The thing is that Magnus rarely uses the checks for himself. Living in a shitty apartment and just getting by is more honorable to him than using money from a band that kicked him out. Originally burning it, he then heard from those gossipy neighbors that a family was close to eviction so he ended up using the next paycheck on them anonymously instead. He’d eventually use most of the paychecks to help fund the revenge when he and MMA meet but always reserves some to help out those who need it. (Though he probably told Charles to keep the royalty checks for streaming when streaming became more recognized as a music format.)

Headcanon B: He 100% has an ex-wife and lost custody over a dog; I have no idea why but just the idea that somehow this guy whose shirtless 24/7 and incredibly revenge-seeking somehow secured a relationship enough to get past marriage and then blew it at the same time is hilarious. (Don’t worry he kidnaps the dog who preferred him anyway-) 

Headcanon C: Magnus would’ve died anyway, had he impaled himself or not. He never took good care of his health, to begin with, and probably has the beginning signs of a fatal disease that he is aware of but chooses to ignore it. Of course, Toki being the observant person he is would have taken Magnus to a doctor but it would’ve been too late by then. It would’ve been the driving force for Magnus to continue on with the plan and kidnap Toki & Abigail; because if he was gonna die soon, might as well go out with a bang, right?

Headcanon D: He lives Magnus actually lives a comfortable life because of the royalty checks as stated in Headcanon A. He figured one of the best things to use revenge for was use the money that Dethklok obviously didn’t want have to have for himself; he just keeps up the homeless look because it’s his ‘aesthetic’. 

 Abigail 

Headcanon A: The tribunal probably did try and hire her to give more intel on Dethklok but she declined immediately. She had warned Charles about it when he interviewed her but he already would’ve been aware of it. Still, the fact she didn’t join the tribunal was rather admirable so it would be one of the reasons why he agreed to let her be the new producer or ask her to tell the Tribunal she changed her mind just so they can be one step ahead. (because Charles definitely knows how the boys will be with a female added in so there had to be a valid reason-)

Headcanon B: She was actually in a death metal band herself in high school/college. It had received a small following but eventually broke up due to them wanting to move on from it. She was actually the lead vocalist. She had worked as a substitute teacher in college and got fired due to her using her death metal voice on a bunch of 4th graders-she hasn’t used it since.

Headcanon C: A close family member drowned when she was a kid and that had carried over to a fear of water. She refuses to be anywhere near an ocean or swimming pool and will be one of the few times she actually shows her vulnerability. (the only reason she got on the Dethsub was that she wouldn’t be actually in the ocean and it would be easy to ignore it). For that reason, she doesn’t know how to swim. And if she continued to be with Dethklok after Doomstar, most likely would be more involved with water which is her biggest fear. While Nathan is called to the water for fulfilling a prophecy, she is called to it for all the wrong reasons. 

Headcanon D: Abigail would’ve forgiven Magnus. I’m entirely putting this headcanon as a self-vent/healing thing but I don’t think long-term hatred is really in her nature. It would’ve, for a while, an ugly feeling that makes you lash out on anyone and everything. She would’ve definitely hated and not forgive him at first and who could blame her? She would’ve done things she would’ve never done for that very reason, wanting nothing more than for everyone around her to suffer the same way she did. But eventually, that rage calms down. No matter how hard she tries to keep it up but it gets exhausting doing that. Time and therapy and a good support group help with it tremendously along with the pressure that she doesn’t need to forgive Magnus if she doesn’t need to. It will take a while, such a long time, but she will learn to forgive him eventually on her own terms and at her own pace.