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ihatecoconut · 4 years

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Tell Me About Heaven

Also posted to AO3.

“As most humans know; in the beginning, God created Heaven and Earth. What they don’t know is before the beginning, when God created me and it was mostly just the two of us- occasionally accompanied by one who was similar to Him and balanced Him out.”

“The Darkness, right? Amara?”

“Hush, Adam. Yes, it was Amara, but she had no name back then. Nobody did.”

It was one of the times when it was just Michael and his Father, the way Michael had found he preferred. There was no time, so it was impossible to say how long he had existed, although he knew he had existed for longer than he had been called Michael- he hadn’t been Michael for very long, but Father had said it was his name, and that was now how He addressed him. The Darkness, who had become Amara at some point the same way he had become Michael, was off doing whatever she did when she wasn’t with Michael and Father, and Michael would have said that was how she spent most of her time, but he had no concept of time or most or anything aside from utter devotion to his Father.

Regardless, it was some distant point before the creation of the universe and it was just Michael and Father staring off into the nothingness that they existed in when Father told him He was planning to create more like Michael- similar to him but different, in the same as Himself and The Darkness. He told Michael they would be his ‘siblings’ and he was to raise and care for them with the same devotion He had given Michael in his youth. Michael agreed to do so without hesitation, but at that point- and for most of his existence- he would have ripped out his own wings if Father had told him to, so it could be argued that this did not mean much in the grand scheme of things relating to consent.

Michael waited patiently for the fore-mentioned siblings to arrive, eager to fulfil the only task he had been given so far and eager to do something to earn his Father’s attention, yet before Father created them, He created somewhere for all of them, and Him, to live- Heaven, He called it, and He also told Michael to call it his home. After Heaven’s creation, Amara began to visit less and less, staying away from the two of them longer than she had before. Michael did not ask Father about her, and when she had been gone for long enough that Michael struggled to call up the memory of her form, God presented him with another one like him. A small angel He said was to be called Lucifer. An angel who was to be God’s left hand while Michael was His right.

Lucifer was beautiful, more beautiful than anything Michael had ever seen, and he was tiny, at first, but grew with the nurture of Michael’s grace and Lucifer’s own grace soon became even brighter. Being presented with Lucifer was the first time- and only time for most of his existence- that Michael considered he could love any being more than his Father.

“What was the other time? Times?”

“Here,” Michael replied, not as snippy as Adam expected at being interrupted, “with you.”

After Lucifer was old enough to run about Heaven alone, or with minimal supervision- when he didn’t need Michael’s attention all the time- God came once again and presented the two of them with another tiny angel- Raphael. She was also beautiful, but the memory of the energy it had taken to raise Lucifer was probably why she didn’t inspire the same consideration of loving someone more than Father. And as he raised her, Raphael listened to Michael in ways that Lucifer had not, she did not disobey even half as much and the few times that she did were at Lucifer’s persuasion. When Michael would reflect on it, many years later, he would acknowledge that she was the easiest to raise out of every angel that ever came into being. She became interested how her grace healed at a young age and the way it swirled into Michael or Lucifer’s when she was feeling particularly strong emotions. God told Michael, once in confidence, that she would become the healer of all angels. Michael did not ask how many angels there would be, no matter how much he desired to know. Lucifer did ask. God laughed.

Gabriel was given to them before Raphael had finished growing, and he adored Lucifer on sight despite the fact that Michael was the one who cared for him and taught him how to fly. If Michael had been familiar with emotions he might have recognised that he was unhappy and slightly jealous, but God had never taught him about feelings or even hinted at their existence, so he wasn’t aware of the cause behind the pressure in his chest or how to deal with it and he trained more vigorously with his sword to make Father pleased.

“Michael? Are you still there? What happened?”

“My apologies, your brother’s soul has been taken.”

“At least it isn’t kicking around here without a body.”

“They did not even look for you.” Michael told him, and he sounded more betrayed than Adam actually felt.

“Do you want to continue with your story?”

There was still no concept of time, but if there had been, Michael would have known that the four of them had several millennia to play and do as they wished. Very often, Father would come and give them a task or two to do among the four of them- mostly creating small clusters of gas that he referred to as stars- but even that was happy and gentle. They flew around Father’s new creation- the universe and weaved in and out of each other; Gabriel particularly enjoyed trying to knock into the three of them hard enough that they lost control of their wings briefly and plummeted.

God hadn’t yet decided that gravity would only be for certain things, and it was everywhere they went- a constant pull down that strengthened their wings as they pulled against it.

At night they returned to Heaven to curl up together and rest- it was one of the only things that Father insisted upon, Michael couldn’t fathom why since they had seemingly no reason to do so, but His will was obeyed, and Gabriel and Lucifer seemed to enjoy it anyway.

That was their life for the first few millennia of existence, and Michael grew to love his siblings in the exact way that Father had told him to- dwelling on that for the first time, was also the first time that he realised Amara had not once visited Heaven since it had been created, but she was Father’s sister, so surely they must love each other as he loved Gabriel, Lucifer and Raphael?

“You seem troubled, Michael, what is wrong?”

He looked up into his Father’s eyes. No matter how much they grew, Father was always taller than them, and he always had to look up to speak to him. With permission given, he asked his query about Amara, and God laughed softly in response,

“Sometimes,” He said, sitting next to Michael and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, “it is good to spend time apart from your siblings to develop your own, personal interests. Amara and I have differing interests so we’re developing them apart from each other. Do you understand?”

Michael didn’t but he nodded anyway and privately thought that he would never want to be apart from any of his three siblings. Even if Gabriel and Raphael’s incessant curiosity could be too much sometimes, and Lucifer’s pranks were more annoying than they were funny sometimes, the three of them were all he had- aside from his Father- and they were always there.

“You’re quite good at foreshadowing.”

“It wasn’t something that I ever thought could happen, at the time.”

“I’m sorry.”

God deemed them ‘old enough’ out of the blue, and would not explain what He meant by that or what they were old enough for, but after that he demanded that they spend more time in Heaven than out of it. They did, of course and wandered around the wide-open spaces, adding trees and plants in certain places to make it happier and more homely. The office-like part of Heaven had not yet been created, since there was not yet anything for anyone to keep records of as there would be once the souls started coming in. Not that the four archangels had any idea that was going to happen.

Their Father vanished for long periods at a time as this was happening, and Lucifer was convinced that He was planning something- the other three agreed with him, but didn’t want to say anything because it encouraged Lucifer’s wild speculations and his speculations could get incredibly wild. It was funny though, and since being borderline confined to Heaven they had very little to laugh about. Michael hoped that their Father would finish what He was working on soon, but as God often told them that His work could not be rushed, he created some small, round things to amuse his siblings and the four of them took turns to see how far they could throw them.

Lucifer generally won.

It was during one of those games that God finally emerged from His work with two more angels in tow. He called one ‘Metatron,’ the other ‘Naomi’, and He said that they would be His personal assistants in all things to do with His creations. Michael found himself brave enough to ask why he was not good enough to be God’s personal assistant and his Father just smiled,

“Because, Michael, I have other plans for the four of you.”

The Archangels did not see Metatron often, as he was generally following their Father around and recording his plans for future creations, but they did sometimes see Naomi, and she would give them small updates on what was going to happen soon- which was more than their Father did. Michael like to pretend that she was sent by Him to do this, but the reality was that she didn’t really have much to do since she was only second to Metatron. Apparently, Metatron was given a title- Heaven’s Scribe- and he stayed with their Father all the time, and he wasn’t forced to rest at certain time intervals.

Naomi asked if he was jealous, but he wasn’t.

After Naomi and Metatron, God seemed to have decided that even more angels was a good idea, or maybe He had decided that a long time ago and only chose to act on it now, but He began to create more and more, which Naomi would bring to the archangels to look after. She was the one who told them that God’s new angels were different to the original six, and that she and Metatron were different to their original four.

“You are Archangels,” she had told him stiffly, handing over another giggling fledgling who was apparently called Bartholomew this time, “Metatron is The Scribe, I am his second, and these-“ she gestured at the children that were milling about the grass, “-are Seraphs.”

Every movement that Naomi made was arguably stiff, and she didn’t seem to enjoy talking like the other archangels. Sometimes Michael wished that he had been given a chance to raise her as well, maybe then she would be slightly more relaxed and happy around the fledglings, but her position allowed her to filter information down to him, so perhaps it wasn’t so bad.

“Seraphs.” He repeated after she was gone again, he had noticed the differences between the four of them and the new angels- they only had one set of wings, like Naomi, while he had three and Metatron had two. Not that Metatron really had need for any wings since he was always with God, but that was beside the point.

“What is wrong?” Raphael asked, as she moved to stand next to him and look across the new angels as well.

“They are Seraphs.” He told her, feeling clumsy with the unfamiliar word. She screwed her face up and repeated the word carefully, making Michael feel even closer to her as he knew it was not just him struggling with the newness.

“What does it mean?”

“I do not know. Only Father knows.”

She nodded sagely, and then their attention was taken by the fact that several of them were trying to climb on Lucifer- Ishim, Malachi, Ramiel and Anna, if Michael had not mistaken their names again. It was quite hard to remember all their names when there were so many new ones at once.

“Did they really climb on Lucifer?” Adam asked, laughing at the image

“They would climb on all of us- and each other if none of us were near.”

Adam laughed again, “That’s adorable.”

“It was, yes.”

Gabriel adored the Seraphs, all of them with no questions or hesitation, (Michael supposed that might have had something to do with the fact that he was the only one of the archangels to not have a hand in raising another) but a few Seraphs in particular attached themselves to him with a ferocity Michael had not realised they were capable of. Castiel, in particular, loved Gabriel along with the Seraph siblings he was closer with, Balthazar, Anna, Inias, Samandriel, and Benjamin, plus a few others who seemed to float in and out of different groups.

Raphael gained a small following as well, of those Seraphs who were impressed by her ability to heal the little injuries that they sustained through play and Lucifer became a focus for those who disliked having to obey Michael’s schedules. He did worry about them slightly, especially since some of them seemed to love Lucifer more than their Father- Azazel in particular acted like Lucifer was above everything else in his small existence, and it was concerning- but, as Raphael pointed out, they were only children still and they had not seen their Father that often as He was still creating other Seraphs, and a new kind of angel He was apparently going to call ‘Cupids’. Naomi told him that she was almost certain that He did not want the four Archangels to raise the Cupids as well, which was a slight relief as there were many, many Seraphs and Michael wasn’t certain that he could deal with another type of angel on top of that.

The Seraphs existed, they grew, and they learned with help from their four eldest siblings, and once Father finished creating the Seraphs and His Cupids, He began to spend more time mingling with His children once again. Michael found that he was happy once again, in the same way he had been before the creation of anything other than him- it was different of course, and he had more responsibility and he had to train the Seraphs with his sword as well as practicing to make Father pleased, but it was always bright in Heaven, the Seraphs’ laughter could always be heard from at least one direction and everyone could feel the strength of Father’s presence. Even Naomi seemed to lose some of her stiffness when she helped him to usher the Seraphs from one task to another, and a few times he was almost convinced he saw her smile.

It didn’t last. Father had more plans for the universe He had begun to create, and He soon tired of just spending His existence playing with fledglings. He returned to the place where He created, taking Metatron and Naomi with Him- Metatron was not missed by anyone, but Michael missed Naomi’s ability to be firm with the Seraphs, and some of the Seraphs missed the way that she would carry them if they refused to move. It got harder to raise them with the lack of divinity that they had all enjoyed while their father was around and some of the younger ones would cry more often and sometimes be completely inconsolable. When Michael had the time to reflect, many years later while ruling Heaven, he would wonder if that was where Lucifer’s resentment of their Father started.

Naomi came back to report that their Father had created a ‘planet’. The stiffness had returned to her movements and she looked at the Seraphs with her original apathy. She said the planet was to be called Earth and that it would be the site of God’s next creations.

When given permission, Michael took all his siblings down to Earth to explore.

Naomi had told them that, while they were down there a fish- one of Father’s earliest creation would emerge from the water that covered everything, and it was important in the next development of life on the planet. Michael passed on this information to the rest of the archangels and someone made it into a sort of game, in which they competed to find the fish first. If Metatron had spent slightly more time around them and explained the concept of God, they may have known that it was already written who would find the fish, and they had no say in it. However, Metatron fancied himself as above all the other angels and therefore did not spend anytime with them at all if God had not commanded it, and he certainly didn’t go out of his way to start conversations.

They managed to split the Seraphs into four groups- later these groups would be divided again and called garrisons, but God had no use for organised fighters yet- each with one archangel at the head and they flew down to Earth, so more clumsily than others.

It was Castiel who found the fish first, he was standing a little way from Balthazar and Inias who were playing with the sand that was found at the edge of the water, when it crawled out- tiny appendages visible and with lungs that started working as soon as it hit the air. He crouched down to watch it and Gabriel, who had been trying to teach some of the other Seraphs to build what he was calling a ‘sand-castle’ noticed and flew over. Carefully he pulled him back to give the little fish some space.

“Don’t step on that fish, Cassie,” he told him, looking down at the wide-eyed Seraph, “big plans for that fish.”

Michael joined them soon after, “Have you found Father’s fish?”

“It seems like it.”

Everyone gathered around to look, and together as unified angels, for what would be the first and last time, they watched together as the struggling fish took it first movements up the beach and onto land.

“And then you have the seven days of creation, or whatever it was, right?”

“It wasn’t seven days- that was the story He told the early humans because they had no concept of that amount of time- but yes, He created night and day, sea and land, the plants, the other heavenly bodies, animals for the land, sea and sky, and then finally humans.”

“Adam and Eve.”

“It was Adam and Lilith originally.”

“Really? I don’t remember that in Sunday school.”

God showed off His newest creation to all His children with pride, and He told them that the ‘humans’ were more important than they were for His plan. Michael stayed on Earth for quite a while after that, watching the naked humans stumble about the garden and destroy Father’s plants by pulling things off of them with no care, and scattering those they did not like on the floor. He didn’t understand how something so careless could be more important than the angels who would never dare to destroy any of God’s creations so brazenly. Unknown to him, Lucifer agreed, but he was angry about it.

Lilith was a beautiful woman and she probably did love Adam at first, but he viewed himself as more like God, since God came to them in a male form, and demanded she submit to him as his wife. Lilith was also proud and strong and she refused to do so- Michael wasn’t present when it happened, but God agreed with Adam and cast Lilith out to reside in a place He had named ‘Hell’ until He decided what to do with her. As a replacement He then created Eve from Adam and the two humans were equal no longer.

Raphael was horrified at that development, and she had Gabriel and Lucifer supporting her- although Gabriel was just supporting her because he didn’t know what else to say, and Lucifer supported her because it allowed him to develop his narrative of the incompetence of humans when compared to the angels. Michael, however, stood by his Father’s decision. Lilith’s banishment was probably the start of the rift between the archangels, but it was only increased by the return of Amara.

If Michael were completely honest, he would admit that, by that point, he had almost forgotten about Amara’s existence- which was forgivable since she had not shown herself since before Heaven was created and his Father did not speak of her often, or at all. Her return was the only time that Michael ever saw Metatron without God before He left Heaven for good- he had been removed from the throne room, along with Naomi, and both of them were sat with their backs to the doors, waiting patiently. Neither of them knew what was happening when he asked, but Michael stayed to talk to them- mostly Naomi, since he still regretted not having looked after her more- and that was why he was there when their Father forcibly removed Amara from the throne room and yelled that she was not to return. Father didn’t even acknowledge the three of them, waiting patiently, He just turned back into the throne room, slamming the door behind Him.

Later, the four archangels were summoned to the throne room and informed of a special mission they must undertake alongside their Father.

“None of you were concerned about that?”

“I think we were just grateful that we were allowed to be near him again.”

“Michael…”

The actual fight with Amara would forever remain a blurry memory for Michael, and he was never certain why- it was possible that it was something to do with the sheer amount of power he was exposed in while in the middle of God and Amara fighting each other with the full force of their power.

There was a cage- he remembered that- and the reason the four of them had been brought along was to lure Amara into that cage and shut the door on her, so she could never escape. Then the lock was sealed with a mark on Lucifer. God had smiled when He told them that, said that the brightness of His Morningstar’s grace would be able to withstand the evil and anger of the mark that originated with Amara. Michael had been a little concerned for Lucifer when He had first explained this, but the utter joy that Lucifer displayed at regaining his position as the Morningstar- God’s favourite- was enough to silence Michael’s concern. If he had taken the time to consider his Father’s battle plan, as he would when he was in charge of making them, he might have wondered why God already had a strategically placed cage that could hold His sister, and a plan on how to seal in forever, as it was he didn’t- he didn’t consider why until he had to seal away his own brother in yet another cage.

The Mark was obvious on Lucifer’s grace, even if he wore it as a symbol of pride, it was dark and ugly, and Michael hated it.

“Michael?”

“Sorry. I just can’t help but think if I had thought through what He was doing…”

“It wasn’t your fault. You know that right?”

“Yes but…”

“No!”

There was a pause and Michael smiled at him sadly, his smile suggested that they should agree to disagree, or they would circulate that conversation for years. Adam sighed,

“Is this when he does the first temptation?”

They all expected that God would spend more time with them after Amara’s imprisonment, Naomi had suggested that she thought worrying about His sister was what had taken up so much of His time previously, but she was apparently wrong. God went straight back to focusing on His humans- doting on them in a way that He had never done with His other children. The humans were given a rule then; they weren’t to eat from the fruit that hung from the new tree He placed in the centre of the garden.

Speculations picked up in Heaven about why God had given them that rule, but nobody really knew, except maybe the new angel Joshua who had been created on the same level as Metatron and left to look after the garden. That was the cause of confusion as well, God had previously said that the humans were to look after the garden, so why did He create an angel to do the same thing? Lucifer was convinced that He had a plan, but he didn’t seem very happy about it. When asked by the Seraphs about Lucifer, Michael didn’t know what to tell them, but he knew that Lucifer was still upset from a second rejection from their Father. God still preferred the humans.

The temptation of Adam and Eve was recorded quite accurately by humans in the future, which Michael never understood, except for one part- Lucifer did not go down as a serpent to speak to Eve, but as himself in all his utter beauty. It has been said that the devil comes disguised as everything you have ever wanted, and that was completely true for Eve who only had Adam to speak to the majority of the time, and a friend- who was willing to listen to her theories about the garden and what certain herbs could do- was exactly what she wanted. That was the other part that humans never recorded, Lucifer did not go down once and convince them to eat the fruit, instead he visited regularly and let Eve build up trust in him before he slowly steered the conversation towards the forbidden fruit.

In the end, that took too long, her natural curiosity couldn’t quite override her belief in God, and Lucifer lied. He told Eve it would make her as clever and knowledgeable as God- even more knowledgeable than Lucifer himself, and he left her with that knowledge. Eve told Adam, and the rest of it- as they say- is history. Although, very few people realise that Eve was heavily pregnant when they were banished from the garden, and she gave birth for the first time as they were trying to find somewhere new to stay.

The need for the angel Joshua became abundantly clear in Heaven.

God became noticeably absent again.

“Again??”

“Yes, Adam.”

“And I thought my dad sucked.”

With their Father suddenly absent and nobody giving orders, Michael was lost and thrust into a position he had not been prepared for. He forbade Lucifer from going down to Earth, and assigned some of his most loyal Seraphs to follow that order- Zachariah and Uriel among others- he hoped that this would ease some of the horrified tension that had built up in Heaven since Lucifer had committed the unthinkable. It did not.

Heaven became slightly disorganised alongside Michael trying to step up as a leader in the absence of God, and Lucifer’s Seraphs, as he had come to think of them, began to pull back from following his orders and look to Lucifer instead. In desperation he reorganised the small garrisons that had started to form so that Lucifer’s followers were mixed among those still utterly loyal to God. Nobody was really happy, and even those he had separated from Lucifer somehow found their way back. Michael chose to speak to Lucifer about it, although it can be said that it wasn’t much of a choice when looking at his options.

“You can skip this bit, I kind of know how it goes.”

“No. No, it’s just that I realised that was the first time we fought.”

“Oh…”

“He accused me of trying to divide Heaven and make our siblings unhappy.”

In the end, Michael allowed the Seraphs to return to where they preferred, but the damage had already been done. Maybe it had been done with the original temptation, or maybe it was Michael’s failed attempt to fix it, but it was damaged and his arguments with Lucifer began to get even worse.

Gabriel and Raphael had no place in that fight, and they watched from the side-lines as their two older brothers, the two who had raised them together and loved them more than anything, began to fall apart. If you had asked either of the younger archangels, before the fighting had begun, if they believed in soulmates, their answers would have been yes, and they would have pointed to Michael and Lucifer as an example. They had always been joined at the hip, as the humans would say much later on in their existence, and they used to move together as though they were part of one being. In the same way that the eldest child watches their parent’s relationship fall apart before a divorce, they kept the Seraphs away from the arguments, and amused them with whatever they could conjure up when the fighting became to much to ignore. They took on extra duties to fill the gaps where Michael and Lucifer had been, along with trying to fill the gaps left by their Father, and when the Seraphs were resting, they would curl up back to back and try not to let the other know they were crying.

And then one of the Seraphs, Remiel, who was old enough that she remembered the peace from before but young enough that she thought she could help, tried to break up one of Michael and Lucifer’s fights. She got in between them as Michael lunged with his blade, aiming for the centre of Lucifer’s grace, and she became the first casualty in what would become the first civil war in Heaven. Michael in the cage referred to it as The Civil War because, to his knowledge, there had not been another and he could never have imagined that Raphael, the healer, and Castiel, a Seraph, would be bold enough to start another.

Her death caused an emotion within Michael that he was not aware anyone could feel, his grace was twisting in on itself and it wanted to destroy whatever had hurt her. He couldn’t because it was him, and the unidentifiable emotion was grief. Unbeknown to him, Michael would become achingly familiar with the feeling as time progressed.

And then God came back.

Michael wanted to think that God had come back because things had gotten out of hand, and he hung onto that belief with a frightening conviction, even when the fighting between him and Lucifer increased. Prior evidence considered; it was more likely that Remiel’s death was another part of His plan.

Raphael and Gabriel were still struggling with the Seraphs, and it was one time when Michael and Lucifer had retreated to lick their wounds that their Father spoke to the two of them alone for the first time ever.

“He is building something in the place that Lilith resides.” Raphael had said as they sat alone, overlooking Earth and the children of Adam and Eve- Lucifer had tempted one son to kill another, and by doing so had passed on part of the Mark that sealed Amara’s cage.

“I noticed.”

She looked at her brother, he was hunched over and miserable, still mourning the loss of Remiel, and unable to care about much at the moment. She was about to reach over and reassure him, tell him that angels couldn’t simply cease to exist and that she had to be somewhere in the universe when their Father appeared, and both shot to their feet in surprise.

“Hello, children.” He greeted them with the same benevolent smile that He always wore on His face that didn’t seem as comforting as it had been previously in light of the newer developments in Heaven. He sat with them, an intruder on what had been a quiet space and He waited. They didn’t know it, but He was waiting for them to tell Him how worried they were about everything in Heaven, how they were scared for the future and didn’t know how to look after the Seraphs without Michael and Lucifer anymore.

They didn’t tell Him, it all seemed too much to vocalise, and in the end, God got tired of waiting for them to talk to Him and instead just launched into His comforting speech.

“I know that this is a hard time for you, my children, but you must understand that I have a plan.” He smiled at them as though this was the most fantastic news, “There is unrest at the moment but with my plan, it will all be sorted quite soon and all you will have to do is wait.”

The three of them sat in silence for a little while after He finished speaking, the two archangels unwilling to say anything and unable to express their fear. Eventually He rose and smiled at them again, “Hang in there, my children, it will all come to its conclusion.”

And then He was gone again, leaving them alone and miserable and even more frightened for the future.

“I don’t know if I want to find out.” Raphael whispered,

“Find out what?”

“What His conclusion to all of this is. I’m scared.”

“As long as no more Seraphs die, it doesn’t matter.”

“Did more Seraphs die?”

“Yes. Not only then but they have continued to fall in number as the years went on.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Lucifer killed a Seraph who dared suggest that he was in the wrong, and I believe that is what pushed Gabriel away in the end.”

Anabiel was dead now, as well as Remiel and her death hadn’t even been the same accidental circumstances as Remiel’s. Lucifer had pulled out his blade in a fit of anger and run her through without a pause or a second thought. Raphael had buried her, and she and Gabriel had tried to reassure the Seraphs, tried to tell them that their oldest brothers loved them still, even when two dead seemed to point to the contrary. God had not created His Seraphs to be stupid, however, and they saw straight through the archangels’ desperation. No one said anything, but they all knew that their words held less truth every day.

The awful routine that had unfortunately been set up continued- Raphael and Gabriel roused the Seraphs come morning, Raphael and Gabriel continued to educate them about Heaven, Raphael and Gabriel played with the Seraphs and indulged them in their silly games, and all the while in the background of their strained normality, Michael and Lucifer fought. Some days, one or the other would join them in playing with the Seraphs and there would be silence in the background- but never both of them together, the four archangels were not a complete unit any longer.

That could be the end of the story, we know that the Heavenly Host fell apart, and continued to fall apart until all that was left were warring factions who didn’t even know why they wanted to destroy each other- what happens next is quite common knowledge, but it doesn’t share the awful emotions that come with having family ripped apart, slowly at first and then with a huge pull as ordered by your father.

Gabriel was the youngest of the archangels, and as such he had been completely doted upon by his three older siblings until the creation of the Seraphs, and during that time he had been instrumental in keeping them together at all times- he would insist upon games that required all four of them, he had been the one to demand all four of them shared a nest, and he was never quite sure how to function without the other three parts of his whole. Now he only really had one other piece, and even she was pulling away to avoid being hurt, so he took a slightly drastic measure and he removed himself from the whole.

“What are you doing?”

He jumped, almost guiltily at Raphael’s voice and looked up from where he was carefully taking feathers from what used to be the archangels’ nest.

“Nothing.” He told her, but she was impossible to lie to and had been considering the same course of action.

“You’re leaving?”

“I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, not angry, not disappointed, but understanding and sat down next to him silently and he suddenly found all the words that had been stuck inside him pouring out for her to hear.

“I can’t do this, I can’t just sit around and listen to them fighting every day while we try to convince the Seraphs that nothing is wrong because there is something wrong, there is and we both know it, we can both feel it and I’m crying whenever there isn’t anyone to see, and the only person I have is you but even you are busy all the time with the children.”

They both started crying then, and Raphael found herself begging him not to leave her, while Gabriel begged her to come with him, but they both knew that their choices had been made even before they stepped into their old nest for the first time in years. Gabriel, and only Gabriel, would be the next angel to leave them.

“I’ll miss you.” One of them said, or maybe both of them because it was true on both accounts and they cried together for another length of time until it was time to send the Seraphs back to their nests for the night. Gabriel did it by silent and mutual agreement because it would be the last time, he would see them, and they deserved to spend that last time with him before he left.

“I won’t tell anyone.” Raphael whispered as he got up to leave. “I won’t let them know that I knew.”

Michael, who was regaling this story to Adam in the cage, obviously did not know the full details of their conversation before Gabriel left since he had not been there, but Raphael had given him a short version of it while they were ruling Heaven together and he had wondered why Gabriel had left them. She didn’t tell him about the tears or the fact that she had promised not to tell, just Gabriel’s motivations, and she hadn’t told him that she had wanted so desperately to join him.

“What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. He was impossible to find.”

“But he told the Virgin Mary she was pregnant, didn’t he? Or has the bible lied to me?”

“He was impossible to find to everyone except God.”

Nobody spoke about Gabriel’s unexpected disappearance; his absence was something everyone was hyper-aware of but ignored out of fear of the reaction of the other archangels. It would have broken Michael that his siblings were afraid of him if he had been aware of anything other than Lucifer’s continued rebellion. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on the point of view of the person looking on, he was not aware of anything other than Lucifer’s continued rebellion and the Seraphs no longer came to him with their little problems or to sit with him and try and persuade him to let them play with his sword. They avoided him unless he gave them an order and that, unknowingly, set the new precedent for Heaven.

Michael and Lucifer were pretty much evenly matched in their fighting- Michael had taught Lucifer how to fight, and he had taught all his siblings all he knew so that they could be strong. Neither of them ever ‘won’ any of their fights in the traditional sense, they would just fight until they both pulled away due to exhaustion and the cycle would start again the next day. It was a cycle, and it was never ending to the point where their shouts could almost always be heard throughout Heaven. Raphael put the Seraphs through their paces as the blows started again in the background and she wondered if Gabriel was happier than her.

“How long did that cycle last for?”

“I couldn’t say. It felt like forever.”

“How did it end?”

“Father finished what he had built in Hell.”

“The Cage.”

Michael made a sweeping motion around them at the unfortunate emptiness. “The Cage.”

God came back again, from wherever it was that He had been while Gabriel had run away, His two oldest had attempted to kill each other again and again, and while Raphael had begun to be colder with the Seraphs, and He did not bring good news, although He told them He did.

“You want me to trap Lucifer in a cage you have built?”

“He has become too dangerous, my son, and he is the cause of the unhappiness in Heaven.”

Michael thought about that very carefully, “If I do this, Heaven will return to its previous state?”

“Yes, my son.”

“I shall organise my garrisons.”

Maybe if Michael had known that God had begun to construct the cage, that he was to trap Lucifer in, many years before any violence had broken out in Heaven he might have asked what God’s overarching plan was, but God was careful and Michael did not know that, he only knew that his Father had not lied to him before and he knew that he wanted Gabriel back and he wanted Raphael to be happy once again. She had not laughed in years.

He told Raphael of the plan because he would need her- she was the one who had been training the Seraphs while he and Lucifer had been fighting. Raphael did not argue, she did not complain or ask Father why this was necessary, she just nodded and began to organisations that Michael wanted. The Seraphs noticed how miserable she was and obeyed without question, they wanted to make her life easier, even if they didn’t quite understand. Unfortunately, some of the Seraphs were still more loyal to Lucifer and they told him what Michael and Raphael were doing- and they embellished the little that they knew as well because they were only young, and they did not understand that there would be consequences greater than they had known before.

“You don’t have to tell me about the actual fight.”

“It was so much. He positioned those loyal to him around him, as a line of defence and I had to cut through my siblings to reach him.”

“Michael…”

“There was so- there was… there was so much death, Adam.”

Raphael took her place at Michael’s right hand and looked across the battlefield. Because that is what it was- a battlefield, where even more of their siblings would be lost- and she didn’t cry, but she wanted to. Lucifer was surrounded by Seraphs that she had helped raise from fledglings, and if Michael were to succeed, he would need to get through them. She could almost see the path he would take, and she knew which of them would be the first to die.

“We do this for Heaven.” He had told them, forceful and righteous, “We do this for our Father.”

Maybe the Seraphs had been emboldened by his short and rousing speech, but she was not, and it was too late to stop anything anyway. She spent a short amount of time wondering what Gabriel would do before she realised- he would have left, and that was exactly what he had done.

“I should have gone with you,” she whispered into the cold air, “I wish I had.”

Michael heard her and he wanted to say something, something encouraging and bright to help her get through this, but when he turned to look at her, he realised that he didn’t know what would help her anymore, he didn’t know the cold figure with a sword who had once been the healer. His little sister was gone, a warrior stood beside him, Gabriel had run, and he was about to cast Lucifer out of Heaven.

“This is what Father knows to be best.” He announced, and then he charged. Raphael kept at his side throughout the whole battle and no matter how much faith she might have lost, she fought as though she was doing the right thing.

Far away, from a hidden pocket on Earth, Gabriel stood in the rain and watched the burning trails of his siblings fall from Heaven as Michael cast them out, cast them down to live in Hell, and his tears mingled with the rain but it didn’t matter because there was no one around to convince that he wasn’t crying. Lucifer’s fall was the most obvious- he might have become corrupted but there was nothing in Heaven or Hell that could have dulled the overwhelming brightness of his grace. It burned like the sun was falling and his pain was felt for miles. Gabriel fell to the ground and sobbed even harder.

Unknown to all of them, up in Heaven, Raphael was doing the same thing, sitting in the middle of where the battlefield had been, surrounded by the burnt wing patterns of the Seraphs she had trained. The remaining Seraphs were scattered around, eyes wide open and scared, looking to the two archangels for help where none could be offered. Michael stood on the edge, watching the space where Lucifer had taken his fall and he too cried, for a loss that would never be filled and a family that would never be fixed. The dull ache that wrapped around his grace and wanted him to scream was back, he turned to see the overlapping burns that littered Heaven’s floor and he was lost, completely lost.

God broke the silence, unexpectedly.

“Congratulations, you have all saved Heaven.” He smiled His benevolent smile, and turned away abruptly, “Metatron! Come along, we have more work to do.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“He just left you all there to mourn the loss of, like, half of your siblings and didn’t even try to help?”

“The universe was important to Him.”

“More important than- forget it. What happened next?”

“Naomi was given to us to help raise and train the Seraphs and Heaven continued as normal.”

“What about Raphael?”

“She became more distant and closed off. I think she lost faith in our Father, especially after He left for good.”

“And Gabriel?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since.”

18 notes · View notes

renwritesstuff · 4 years

Text

first impressions

I submit to #MERWEEK2020, First Impressions. Samantha Traynor x FemShep

Sure the first time they spoke was on the Normandy SR-2, but that was not the first time they met.

October 22, 2183

“I thought you were allergic?”

“To free food and rubbing shoulders with the top brass?” A plump woman with a short bob of brown hair and blue eyes arched an eyebrow as she swept lipstick over thin lips.

“To bullshit,” Specialist Samantha Traynor clarified, her arms still crossed as she hunched in her desk chair.

Specialist Mary Dietrich gave an acknowledging shrug. “You’re not wrong, but free food does wonders for keeping my bullshit allergy at bay.” She made a theatrical sniffing noise.

Sam pressed harder, “You know the ANN vultures will be there. Probably Khalisah al-Jilani too, your archnemesis.” She took a loud slurp of cold tea from the mug on her desk, racking her brain for more reasons why they shouldn’t go out tonight. “Also Staff Lieutenant Jeong and the rest of the smug quartermasters who love rejecting our grant proposals. You know we would be done with the new defense suite if Jeong wasn’t besties with Bautista in applied physics, right?”

Sighing, Mary made flicking motions to smooth out wrinkles on the sleeves of her dress blues. “Well now I want to go just to kick Jeong in the balls.” The orange holo screen projected from her wrist that was acting as a mirror disappeared as she set a glare on her fellow R&D mate. “C’mon Sam. Contrary to your belief, this is actually one of the perks of working on Arcturus Station. First on the victory tour to celebrate the end of the Eden Prime War! Oo-rah!”

Oo-rah, Sam groaned inwardly and more than a little sarcastically. Her nose wrinkled with her silent scowl.

Mary must have seen the face Sam made, because she stood up, hands on hips. “Suck it up, newbie! I will pull rank on you if it’ll make you leave the damn lab.”

Samantha squawked in protest. “I leave the lab!”

Sometimes! To sleep!

Traynor.

Okay, I sleep on the couch most nights. To change?

...Traynor.

Well they shouldn’t make the laundry service so convenient then. To shower?

……Traynor.

Fine! L Wing has the best faucets! Not my fault the washroom is one door down! I am a slave to convenience, okay??? It keeps my mind researching and developing per my job title, doesn’t it??

“Sleeping and making tea don’t count,” Mary scoffed back. “Plus this is a big deal. Don’t you want to be able to tell your grandkids about meeting all the heroes who saved the Citadel and the Council?”

“...Do I have to?”

A laundry back was draped over Sam’s face, filling her vision with crinkling plastic. Mary patted her head through the bag. “Damn right, you do. Or you get to tell Lydia you made me late.”

Oh fuck. She had only met Mary’s wife Lydia half a dozen times in the 6 months since she started at R&D on Arcturus, but the woman made an impression. A stern, stoic Kodiak mechanic, Lydia had never cracked a smile once at any of the dozens of quips and small jokes Sam compulsively made. And Lydia had a voice like a drill sergeant that made Sam want to stand up straight before offering to do push ups please-and-thank-you-ma’am.

Pulling the bag off her face, Sam unzipped it to find her dress blues freshly laundered and folded crisply. She mumbled, “....I’ll be good.”

Arcturus Station was the pride and joy of the Alliance with a state of the art light rail to traverse the 5km diameter arms. At the center was a large convention hall that could hold 20,000 of the 45,000 population at one time. Surrounding departments had been cleared out to serve as food stations, coat checks and privacy areas to host the current set of guests.

Sucks to be them, Sam frowned in empathy as she waited with Mary in the biometric security line. I can’t imagine having to clean up and stash all the rubbish we have lying around just so some fancy-pants donor can hang their coat up. Reminds me of a grammar school open house.

The overwhelming number of people made it hard for her to carry on a conversation with her coworker. Mostly human, with a few asari in sleek dresses and tuxedoed turians sprinkled in made up the meandering line that started at the light rail station. Background noise consisted of a dull roar of voices that grew louder the closer the two women got to the convention hall proper with just the faintest bass beat of music.

As they finally crested the last stairwell, the site of the grand hall was truly breathtaking. Large blast windows revealed a swirling backdrop of the Arcturus Stream nebula. Even the Arcturus mass effect relay was visible, the blue element zero core at its center flickering like a star. A few moving pins of light appeared next to the relay, more ships arriving to join the fleets already at Arcturus Station.

Decorated in heavy Alliance blue and gold, there were holo posters posted at intervals around the circular hall. Dramatic vid portraits of human heroes (with occasional notable alien Council SpecTRes appearing in between, no doubt a nod to the Council guests present) animated silently, larger than life.

A red-headed woman appeared multiple times at different angles and wardrobes on the vids, clearly the focus of the event. In one image the woman was pictured with a straight backed salute wearing dress blues, another wielded a rifle in heavy armor, another was flanked by a group of men and women (human and alien alike).

Commander Annelise Shepard, First Human SpecTRe. Hero of the Citadel. Captain of the Normandy SR-1, the most advanced ship in the Alliance Navy.

The room was warm with all the bodies and Sam found herself clinging to Mary, who was busy texting Lydia to attempt to meet up somewhere on the crowded floor. The clamor of conversation barely dipped during a few speeches broadcast across the hall. Admiral David Anderson’s low bass voice welcomed the guests to the station and indicated there would be a meet-and-greet with the Heroes of the Citadel after cocktails.

Excited jabbering was all around them as people tried to catch glimpses of the headliner heroes. Sam was only somewhat familiar about the events from a few weeks ago, much of it still under top secret clearance. Just that all the recent geth activity triggered from the terrorist attack on Eden Prime culminated in the attack at the Citadel. A joint task force crew, helmed by the first human SpecTRe, was responsible for bringing the terrorist down and saving the Citadel and the Council at the cost of human lives.

It seems kind of far-fetched, doesn’t it, Traynor?

Like something I’d read in a story. Or play in a video game.

Ooo, I hope it has a character creator. And I can make the character super hot.

It took the better part of a half hour of crowd weaving to track down Lydia Dietrich, Mary’s wife. A tall woman with very short, slicked-back hair was nursing a beer while she chatted with a small group of fellow mechanics hunkered by the dessert table. While Lydia and Mary started a row of friendly bickering (“What took you so long?” “What took you so long?”), Sam wandered over to the desserts to seize an opening in the line.

Ooo, lemon curd tarts! Her fingertips drummed impatiently on her pant leg as she watched the pile of tarts diminish with each new tiny plate down the buffet line. Couples in front of and behind her were laughing and gossiping.

“Oh did you see the Commander? I saw Cameron snap a holo of her.”

“I thought she’d be taller.”

“Not sure why they felt the need to bring the quarian, too.”

“I mean, it was on the crew, right?”

She. She is on the crew. Even Sam knew that.

“Can’t believe General Williams’ granddaughter was there, too. I thought all that family knew how to do was surrender.”

“Maybe she and the quarian were a distraction for the real heroes to do the real work.”

Simpering laughter followed which made Samantha’s skin crawl.

“Not sure why they had to open this event to all the little minions at the station. We paid forty-five thousand credits a plate for this? While little desk-jockeys like miss-didn’t-even-do-her-hair over there can show up and eat our food?”

It took a glance backward for Sam to realize they were talking about her. She resisted the temptation to lift a self-conscious hand to her hair.

Poppycock, I know I look amazing. I always look amazing.

“I know, darling. Our tax dollars pay their salary. You’d think they’d have the courtesy to stand behind us in line. Like good help.”

Remaining silent, Sam continued the slow march to the dessert table. She did fire up her Omni-tool and do a quick scan while waiting, the extranet chugging a bit due to the density of guests. But she was satisfied with her results.

The long-awaited distance closed and Sam finally stood before a half-empty buffet table. The dextro desserts had been picked over, as had some of the hybrid mini-cakes and parfaits. It looked like everything was in the process of getting refreshed by the catering company. Several waitstaff with tall silver trays were making their way over from the back.

But all that mattered is that there were still three lemon curd tarts left. All of which ended up on Sam’s dainty white plate as she swept out of the line. She felt a tug on her sleeve.

An older human woman in a far too tight evening gown scowled back at her. “I beg your pardon! Where do you think you’re going? How dare you take the last tarts? Have you any idea how long we’ve been waiting?”

Sam shrugged. “I’d wager about five seconds less than you as I was ahead of you in the same line?”

The woman’s date, a balding, rat-faced gentleman in a shiny tuxedo stuck a finger in Sam’s face. “Such rudeness! We actually paid good money to be here, so we deserve priority.”

“Perhaps she’s with the catering company, darling,” the wife simpered back as though struck with a thought. “She’s certainly dressed like them.” Her saccharine-smile was betrayed by cold, smug brown eyes.

An excited commotion could be heard behind them in line, but Sam didn’t dare glance away.

Remember, Traynor. Fixed eye contact. Bullies look for weakness.

She smiled back. “I wouldn’t say you paid Good Money to be here, did you?” She took a bite of lemon tart, savoring the acerbic flavor accented by a light sugary texture.

“What do you mean?” The couple replied in unison matching their haughty glares.

“You really should have better security on your Omni-tool. I mean, any old desk-jockey could just waltz right in and see that your asari mistress scored you free tickets. An asari mistress in the quarian slave trade, no doubt. Tsk tsk.”

The glaring transitioned to sputtering, confusion from the husband and outrage from the wife.

“Oh don’t worry, I reported her to the authorities for tax evasion, too. I mean, how else will your tax dollars pay my salary, right? It's the only way I can afford to eat such delicious tarts.” And Samantha took another large satisfying bite before saluting with the pastry, turning on her heel, and walking proudly off to go find Mary and Lydia.

The couple stepped out of line to argue, hands gesturing wildly. They turned to leave when they walked straight into the source of the commotion: Commander Annelise Shepard flanked by Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams and Tali’Zorah nar Rayya. All 3 women stood, hands on hips, glaring back at the pair. The two fled the hall, pushing past other lines in a desperate bid to save their dignity.

Ash and Tali burst into laughter before spotting Garrus Vakarian waving them over to a photo op with the turian hierarchy. Shepard remained behind, watching the dark-haired lieutenant disappear into the crowd. Her eyes crinkled and she suppressed an airy laugh.

“What are you so happy about, Shepard?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re smiling.”

“Am I?” Commander Annelise Shepard tried for nonchalance as she helped herself to a fresh lemon curd tart. She sniffed the confection, intrigued. She had never seen anything like it, but she couldn’t wait to try it.

“You are. It’s been awhile.” The asari in a low-necked evening gown came up and wrapped a hand around Shepard’s elbow, careful of the sling that held her left arm hugged tight to her chest.

“Oh, uh, yea. There’s just been a lot on my mind lately.”

“Well, I’m grateful for whatever it was.”

“Me too, Liara. Me too.”

And for the rest of that night Shepard’s smile came a little easier.

#merweek2020 #june 1 #first impressions #shaynor #samantha traynor #femshep #better late than never?

17 notes · View notes

dmcdrabbles · 5 years

Text

Misbehave

pairing: Dante/AFAB Reader

summary: Dante's heat is coming up soon, and he's been (mis)behaving worse than usual. His S/O decides to remind him how he's supposed to act.

wordcount: 2,917

warnings: Dante gropes the reader character multiple times (in public) even after they tell him to behave himself. They are written as being more annoyed with this than uncomfortable

notes: Thank you for 200+ followers! I've actually surpassed that by now by like, a lot so very sorry it took so long （●´･△･｀） Not proofread as usual because I guess messy writing is my style ;; I hope that I hit the prompt okay, I feel like I always go a little off the rails lmao.

"Should we come back another time?" Trish asks, eyebrows raised in a quirky mix of amusement and displeasure. She has the look of a guest at a dinner party that just watched the family dog start humping the host’s leg and well that’s not too far off, is it?

You turn your head back at Dante, sitting in his desk chair as smug as can be with both hands planted on your ass and all but deaf and blind to the world until you plant a foot on the seat between his spread legs and kick. His chair slams back against the wall and he’s finally coherent again, snapping his head between the three of you with an almost confused expression. Lady lays a hand over her mouth but you can still hear her soft snickering.

“Just give us a minute,” You respond with as much patience as you can muster, “Morrison will be here soon anyway, we can finish up our plans when he gets here.”

The two prance off to the back room of the office, and you lean over to watch them disappear into the doorway before you turn on Dante. Your arms cross, and you cock your hip. Dante’s eyes follow the movement and the fucker licks his lips. You uncock your hips.

“Dante.”

“Mhm?” He hums, leaning back in his chair. His eyes trace the entirety of your body before they reach your eyes. He sees the disapproval in them and shrugs, only the tiniest bit sheepish. “Told you, it’s that time of the year. Can’t help it.”

“Ten minutes, I just need you to focus for ten more minutes until we can send everyone off and you can,” Conscious of the two in the other room, your voice drops to a whisper and you lean in.

“Have me every way you want. Understood?”

Dante tries to meet you halfway, tries to reach up and cover your mouth with his. Tempting, but you’ve been through enough of Dante’s heats to know that if you give him an inch, he’ll demand the mile. You plant a hand just under his throat and push him back against his chair. Dante growls.

The door to Devil May Cry creaks open. Both you and Dante turn to see Morrison patiently shaking his umbrella outside, trying to get the water drops off before he drops it in the holder inside. Trish and Lady must’ve been listening, of course, because they’re back in the main room immediately.

“What’ve you got for us today?” Lady asks hopping up on Dante’s desk. Trish leans against the other corner, and Dante scoots his chair up as you find your usual spot behind him.

“Oh, nothing too exciting.” Morrison adjusts his hat absentmindedly. “Small infestation on the other side of the bridge. Mostly round the industrial district, contractors willing to pay big for a quick cleanup.”

Beside you, Dante huffs out of his nose. You can tell he’s already lost interest.

“What kind of infestation did they mention?” Trish asks.

“Based on the description, two or three Behemoths. They didn’t want to get too close to check, you understand.”

Dante’s hand finds the back of your knee, and you school your expression into a perfect mask of calm as you gently kick the side of his foot.

“Ugh. It’s not just going to be those, they only really show up when there’s other demons around to munch on.” Lady sighs, “Are they willing to pay more when we find more?”

Dante’s hand slides up slowly, fingers sliding in to brush over your inner thighs. You kick him again a bit harder, and you can just barely hear the rumble of another growl in his chest.

“I can ask, but I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” Morrison rubs his fingers together, his usual gesture for any client with pockets too deep for their own good. “They want to get business going again ASAP. Probably losing a couple grand every day their guys gotta stand around or they lose another one to demons running rampant.”

Dante’s hand slips even higher. His thumb rubs against your ass.

“Ooh,” Trish snaps her finger, “Use that when you ask.”

“Alright, alright,” Morrison sighs, “But if they get stubborn and think they can fix it themselves--”

Dante’s fingers find the top of your inner thigh, where your leg meets your groin.

“Then we charge even more when they come back to us again.” Trish responds, coolly.

Dante’s hand rubs along the seam of your pants.

“Damn,” Morrison whistles.

You grab Dante’s hand and pull it off you, slamming your other palm on the table. The others jump and the conversation screeches to a halt as all attention falls on you.

“I think we’ll have to follow this conversation up later, once we’ve got a response to the new price quote.” You look at each of them in turn. “Right?”

“Right,” Lady says slowly, then looks at Trish. “No point in talking it over any more until we know if they’re going to pay up.”

Trish shrugs, stands up as Lady hops off the table. Morrison looks confused, but gives you and Dante polite nods in turn.

“I’ll call you up when I get a response. If your phone is still working by then.”

Dante gives a tight smile in return, and the three leave. Trish throws a chastising look over her shoulder at Dante on the way out. Of course she knows, she can probably smell it on him.

“Hey, problem solved?” Dante quips at your side, “They’re gone now.”

Deep within yourself you manage to pull out another string of patience. You turn to Dante, sounding strangely calm to your own ears.

“Let’s head up to the bedroom.” Before Dante can make a suggestion to have you on the desk, you press a finger against his lips. “I’ll lock up. Off you go.”

You step into the bedroom just as Dante kicks off his pants. The room is already a mess of his clothes, shed as though he tossed them all around the room in his haste to be as naked as possible. In the low light of his dim lamp his skin glistens with the light sheen of his sweat. It’s a good look for him.

“Too hot,” He pants, reclining on the bed. By the time his heat actually begins he’ll be molten, but mercifully he won’t notice. The present Dante, the one who hasn’t really started his heat and therefore should really behave better, stretches himself out on the covers like he’s hoping that if he tempts you enough you’ll just pounce on him.

“Dante, do you remember what I said before Morrison showed up?” You ask from the doorway, toying with the equipment in your back pocket and letting yourself admire the flex of his abs as he sits up to listen.

“That I could have you any way I wanted?” He perks up at his own convenient retelling, and you stroll over to stand between his spread legs. A purr starts up in his chest and he curls his arms around you, pulling you on top of him and kissing you so deeply that you almost melt into him. Your hands run down his shoulders, his biceps, his forearms until they slide over his hands, wrapping over the small of your back and coaxing you to press your hips to his.

Quickly, before he can wonder where your hands have gone, you pull the handcuffs out of your pocket and snap both ends over his wrists. He jerks away in surprise and almost yanks you all the way up his chest with the chain at your back, his eyebrows climbing and mouth agape like this was some brilliant strategy you just pulled off.

“I said,” You purr, planting a hand in the center of his chest and pinning him onto the bed, “That you could have me any way you wanted if you focused.”

“Ah.” His face morphed into a smirk. “And because I got handsy instead?”

“I have you any way I want.” Dante looked over you slowly, chest rumbling under your hand where it still pinned him.

“I hate to break it to ya, but that doesn’t sound too bad to me.”

Clearly, you haven’t trained him well enough yet. You slide out from under his arms, sit on his thighs and push his arms up by the elbows, coaxing him to lift them over his head. Under your appreciative gaze he even flexes a bit, showing off the contours of his well-built body.

“When you say ‘the way you want’, is that just ogling me while I’m all defenseless? What a waste.”

“Hush.” You slide your way up his body, hips grinding up over his cock- immediately his cocky expression melts away and he growls again, all teeth bared. His arms twitch as though he’s going to bring them back down again, but you banish that thought with a pointed look. You hover over his chest, grip his chin. “Watch me.”

He obeys without a quip this time, engrossed in the way your top parts under your deft hands and bares yourself to him. You didn’t wear undergarments today, why would you? Dante in heat was a predator to any of your delicate lacy things and you had at least planned to give him free reign this morning. You let your top drape open around you, tantalizing valleys of skin bared one moment and hidden in the next as you move.

Dante bites his lip. His arms flex, relax, flex again.

Your fingers flit over your pants next, tugging at the buttonhole and abandoning it in intervals. His eyes followed every movement with such intensity, narrowing and narrowing until they all but flew open as your hand slid into your pants. You grip the headboard and moan, every rub of your fingers over your clit intensified by the blatant jealousy on Dante’s face. His arms started to move up-

“Down.” And they grip the headboard enough to make it crack.

“C’mon babe, at least let me see…”

You hum in thought, pulling your hand out of your pants. Dante’s eyes catch the way your fingers glisten with your wetness and just to be extra mean, you wipe it off on his chest. In his state he can smell your arousal just as well as he can see it, maybe even more so. He’s faintly trembling with his attempt to stay obedient enough for you to continue.

It takes some wiggling around, but you manage to slide your pants off and bare yourself to him. You lean back, spread your legs, and his mouth drops open.

“Nice,” He says, dumbly. You smirk and reach back to give his cock a quick stroke. He’s looking so hopeful now. “Planning on going for a ride?”

“Sort of,” You shrug and grab his hair, tugging his head back as he hisses softly. He knows what’s coming even before you shimmy your way up, is grinning even before you flip around to face his lower half.

“Oh, well. No complaints.” He mumbles before leaning up and burying his face between your legs, licking a long stripe over you. You shudder. Not yet, at least.

Dante’s cock twitches immediately in your grip and beneath you Dante groans, coming up to suck at your clit as if he could muffle himself like that. You stroke slow, squeezing tight- it’s not his favorite rhythm but it’s yours, for nothing more than the way his whole body seems to tense and twitch as you get to the tip. You rub your thumb against the head in circles and Dante pulls back and presses his forehead against your thigh, panting loud.

“Ah ah,” You let go immediately. “Get back to it.”

Like some sort of petty retaliation his tongue rubs your clit in slow circles and you squeak. Without Dante’s hands to hold you up as they usually do, it’s a full-time job to keep yourself steady above him. You pump his length hard and his pace doesn’t even falter this time even as his toes curl and his hips twitch up to meet your hand. The good behavior’s a trick to get his own treat out of it,you’re sure. But he’s not getting off that easily.

Dante’s already smirking by the time you lift yourself off his face, looking so smug for someone with that much wetness glistening in the whiskers of his beard.

“Showtime? And I was just getting warmed up-” He chokes gently as you move over his cock, pressing your hips down against his. You lift yourself to position, stroking him a few more times for good measure. As if he could get any harder at this point. You lower yourself on him. Slowly.

As wet as you are, his size barely feels a challenge until it finally registers. That familiar stretch of him, so thick that it makes you gasp. You pause, roll your hips and tremble from it. It’s so good you wonder if you could come from just this- but maybe that’s a question for another time. The next time Dante misbehaves, undoubtedly.

“Fuck,” You moan, leaning back and just bouncing yourself on the tip. Dante’s head falls back and his handcuffs rattle and rattle as he tugs on them even as he tries to hold still. He’s moaning over and over between his panting. Your hands fall to his chest and scratch down his stomach and his voice rolls into a growl, gaze catching yours under his half-lidded eyes.

You slide down him further, inch by inch until your hips almost touch. Even so aroused that you’re dripping down his length, you can’t fit all of him in you. You let out a shaky laugh in wonder. Your body jolts as Dante bucks up, and you’re scrambling against him to hold yourself up.

“Dante.”

“Move,” He complains, looking too pleased to have that whine in his voice. “C’mon, the ride of your life is right here.”

“Dante,” You say again, patiently, and you grip his chin. “You’re going to stay still until I tell you to, or I get off of you and fuck myself on my fingers. Got it?”

Dante latches onto the promise of ‘until you tell him to’ and nods reluctantly, stretching out his legs so he can’t leverage himself. You scratch under him under his chin like a prized pet and rock your hips slowly, sighing in pleasure. You could string him along like this for hours if you wanted- you know he has the stamina for it. You don’t, however, and you’ve wanted to come on his cock since the second you saw him spread out on the bed like a feast.

You lean back on one hand and bounce on him, free hand working down your body to scratch at your face, grip your thighs. Finally, it slides between your legs and you stroke where the two of you are joined. Dante trembles, letting out a desperate moan. It makes your head spin, watching him. The strongest man you’ve ever seen and he’s holding still as you tease him just because you told him to. You gasp the second you rub your clit and squeeze around him involuntarily, ripping a growl from his throat. You’re close already and you can both tell.

“Dante,” You moan, bucking down against him faster and pinching your clit. A grin spreads across his face and he purrs encouragement, arching as you lean forward and claw down his chest with your balancing arm.

“Let me fuck you, babe-- c’mon, I’ll make you come on my cock.” His hips give a few little bucks, and it’s more than you allowed but it hits so right that you don’t protest. “Babe...” You lean forward entirely, pinning his hands down by the chain between his cuffs. A reminder of exactly how much leash you’re giving him.

“Fuck me.”

His first thrust up nearly knocks you off him, and you squeeze your legs around him with a gasp. His pace is steady but his eyes are hungry, watching the way you buck and squirm on top of him like he wants to devour all of it. He gets his feet under himself, bucking harder. You’re bouncing on top of him like you weigh nothing, it’s all you can do to hold on as he’s sending you toppling over into climax as he all but growls in your ear. Every bit of you clenches around him, thighs cramping as they put up a valiant effort to squeeze him to death.

It keeps going and going. You tremble from head to toe as he slows his pace, generously giving you a second or two to breathe as you come down from it. You barely have the strength to lift yourself off of him and plant yourself on his thighs, letting go of the chain to lean back.

“Hey babe,” Dante interrupts, bucking his hips the tiniest bit to get your attention. “Think you’re forgetting something.”

He hasn’t come yet, cock bobbing up against his stomach and sweat glistening all over his chest. Well, you suppose he’s due to be off early for good behavior. You take one last deep, deep breath and smirk down at him.

“How do you want me?”

“Oh hell yeah,” Dante groans, and he’s snaps the handcuff chain in two faster than he can roll on top of you.

#dante x reader #I FINALLY FINISHED IT #hopefully with time I'll be faster with writing ;u;#dd extra spicy #dd celebration

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gramilano · 6 years

Text

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Act 1 snow scene, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

Balanchine’s The Nutcracker is new to La Scala, in fact, new to Italy. And how the Scala regulars were relishing in the opportunity to grumble and mutter “humbug” during the interval. It’s certainly different from the Nureyev production which was seen in Milan for many years, and light-years away from the strange version by Nacho Duato that the theatre endured four years ago but which has already been consigned to La Scala’s extensive bin in the sky.

Balanchine’s version is danced less than Nureyev’s in the first act, and it has a less original storyline than Peter Wright’s versions for The Royal Ballet and the Birmingham Royal Ballet, but if you accept that it starts with lots of mime, and group ‘walking’ dances, and slowly moves its way toward the pas de deux finale — the dancing only kicking in with the snowflakes — it is a beautifully crafted piece of theatre. And if the acting scenes are handled as well as they were at La Scala, with charming and not vomit-inducing children, with realistic interactions among the guests, and subtle background stories being played out, it is an absolute joy to witness.

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Valerio Lunadei as the Soldier, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Paola Giovenzana and Vittoria Valerio as Harlequin and Columbine, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

There are, of course, two dancing spots in the first scene when Drosselmeier – here sporting a bizarre Harpo Marx wig — brings Harlequin and Columbine, and the Soldier, out from their boxes. Tempi throughout were often slower that at the New York City Ballet, and that took the wind out of the sails of the Harlequin and Columbine number, but Valerio Lunadei was exciting as the Soldier as was Mattia Semperboni in a second cast.

Designer Margherita Palli has largely followed the spirit of the NYCB production in the first scene with some ravishing costumes for the guests, especially for the little boys in a dark palette of velvet knickerbocker suits; her snow scene is dazzlingly bright and crisp; but her land of the sweets was disappointingly flat. Where her designs in the programme show a shopfront inspired by Vienna’s Apotheke zum weissen Engel (here called “La Gourmandise”), which I imagine was to fade in transparency to reveal the shop behind as the gauze was raised, we were immediately in the shop as the curtain opened. And while her shop design was full of predominantly pink and green goodies — blancmanges, cupcakes, gateaux, bowls of fruit — all in enticing detail, there was a wall of pink. The elements were all there, and La Scala has some excellent scene painters, so I suspect the look may have been down to overenthusiastic lighting by Marco Filibeck which didn’t let the designs speak for themselves. Oddly — though maybe someone knows an historical reason for this — the ‘throne’ for Marie (not Clara in this version) and her Prince to sit on was a scallop shell decorated with a starfish a conch shell with two pearls as seats… in the land of the sweets?

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Act 2, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

Palli’s elegant colouring of the first act costumes was thrown to the wind in this act which sees groups of costumes for hot chocolate, tea, marzipan, candy canes and so on go from stylised (marzipan) to feebly commonplace (tea) with colours ranging from almost fluorescent to subtly shaded pastels, so that when they all shared the stage it looked a real muddle.

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Nicoletta Manni as the Sugarplum Fairy, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018 01

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Nicoletta Manni as the Sugarplum Fairy, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

The first night Sugarplum was Nicoletta Manni, who was as calm and assured as ever, notwithstanding the difficulty of the role. Timofej Andrijashenko, poised as her Cavalier, doesn’t get much chance to shine but was dashing and dignified. Beatrice Carbone was radiant as the mother, Frau Stahlbaum, possessing a face that easily projects to the whole house. Andrea Crescenzi as Tea was magnificent with each grand jeté à la seconde seeming ever-higher and easier, Nicola Del Freo was confident with his hoop as Candy Cane, Vittoria Valerio made Marzipan’s steps seem effortless, and Samuele Berbenni hit just the right tone as Mother Ginger in Palli’s glorious, mouth-watering costume.

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Samuele Berbenni as Mother Ginger, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Nicola Del Freo as Sugar Cane, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018 01

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Andrea Crescenzi as Tea, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Maria Celeste Losa as Coffee, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Vittoria Valerio as the Marzipan Shepherdess, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Nicola Del Freo as Sugar Cane, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Francesca Podini and Massimo Garon as Hot Chocolate, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

It was Martina Arduino, though, who stole the show as Dewdrop, being the only one to really capture the Balanchine style. Her off-balances were daring, her epaulement and stretched-back neck opened up her dancing to the gods, and her port de bras was ample and extreme without being excessive. She’s either been doing secret classes in New York, shrewdly studying videos of the great Balanchine ballerinas, or has stumbled on a technique she just happens to be perfect for.

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Martina Arduino as Dewdrop, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

Less than 24 hours later, Arduino found herself as the Sugarplum Fairy and showed off brisk turns before a deep and pliable cambré during the final pas de deux, with little head movements keeping the upper body free and supple. She also has great charm and has become a firm audience favourite. Her Cavalier was Del Freo whose pirouette sequence was musical and exuberant.

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Martina Arduino as Dewdrop, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018 02

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Martina Arduino as the Sugarplum Fairy, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

This second cast found Crescenzi this time as Candy Cane and he caught the spirit of the solo perfectly with the cute wiggle when jumping through his Hula Hoop, and he was literally bent double in his leaps through the hoop for the ballet’s finale. Riccardo Massimi as Dr Stahlbaum maintained his period elegance during his good-humoured play with the children and Gaia Andreanò made a convincing debut as Dewdrop.

Company Director Frédéric Olivieri’s approach to casting seems to use the occasional reduced price performances as an opportunity to test out new talent. It worked marvellously well with Don Quixote before the summer last year, and he got it right again with the third cast which debuted in the first performance of this year.

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Act 1, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018 01

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Act 1, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018 02

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Act 1, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018 03

Caterina Bianchi and Mattia Semperboni took the two main roles. Both have had notable successes during 2018 — Bianchi as the Queen of the Dryads in Don Quixote and Semperboni as Alì the slave in Le Corsaire. They appeared wonderfully confident and glided through the technical difficulties without a hitch. She is a musical-box ballerina with perfect proportions and must be a joy to partner; he has grace combined with impressive pyrotechnic thrills. La Scala has a new pair of leading dancers.

Massimi and Emanuela Montanari were delicious as Hot Chocolate in their dreadful costumes — good on paper, horrendous on stage — Crescenzi repeated his crowd-pleasing Tea, Andreanò was a near-perfect marzipan shepherdess and we’ll surely see much more of her in coming seasons. Regrettably, Lunadei came into trouble with his hoop a few times and it remained trapped under his feet for the final pose, but as they say in Italian, “Non tutte le ciambelle riescono col buco”, literally, “Not all doughnuts come out with a hole” or rather… things don’t always turn out as planned.

As with all good meals I’ve left the coffee until last. All three casts offered supple, graceful dancers as Coffee. Maria Celeste Losa and Francesca Podini were both superb, but the first cast’s Paola Giovenzana was sensuous as well as sinuous and she’s another name to note.

The best Marie/Prince pairing — the children Chiara Ferraioli and Edoardo Russo — were whisked off into the sky in a giant gingerbread sleigh with, unfortunately, all its supporting cables clearly illuminated, as was the rope pulling up the Christmas tree transformation in the first act. Come on La Scala, nowadays the magic can seem real.

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Nicoletta Manni and Timofej Andrijashenko, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018 01

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Nicoletta Manni and Timofej Andrijashenko, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Act 1 snowscene, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018

George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker®, Act 1 snowscene, photo by Brescia e Amisano, Teatro alla Scala 2018 02

In Balanchine’s Nutcracker at La Scala the magic is almost real – three casts reviewed Balanchine’s The Nutcracker is new to La Scala, in fact, new to Italy. And how the Scala regulars were relishing in the opportunity to grumble and mutter “humbug” during the interval.

#Frédéric Olivieri #La Scala #Martina Arduino #Mattia Semperboni #Nacho Duato #Nicola Del Freo #Nicoletta Manni #Timofej Andrijashenko #Vittoria Valerio

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fa-dubu · 7 years

Text

First Meetings

After 5 million years, I’m finally done with this. Starts at Charoix’s first meeting all the way up to them catching feelings. Not as polished as I want it to be but what do I know about polishing lul. Let me know if I messed up on my copy+pasting and things don’t make sense.

Rated K+ for Croix’s temper.

Warning: Long? It’s like 11k words.

The first time they met was at the matriculation ceremony that one year.

Croix was blinking back every second or third yawn - and losing out on the others - eyes foggy with exhaustion. Staying up for nearly a week to get a head start on the winter research project definitely hit the top five dumbest things she’d ever done. Maybe top three…

Now she was stuck here for the next hour or so, listening to Holbrooke drone on and on through the same spiel she gave every year while Finneran glared every student, from the first years to the upperclassmen, into attentiveness. And if it wasn’t the teachers forcing her to keep her eyes open, it was the incessant buzzing of the overly-excited first-years whispering to each other: oooh they were finally at Luna Nova and did you know such-and-such graduated from here and oh I can’t wait for the start of classes and ooh goodness I can’t believe they allow those type of witches in really I thought this place had standards.

On top of it all, her roommate kept digging her harpy-claw-like elbow into Croix’s side, hissing snidely, “Meridies! Hey, Meridies! Better not be falling asleep now; don’t want the honor student setting a bad example eh, Meridies?”

Croix grit her teeth, counted to five, and did not kill her roommate on the spot. Good…. If she murdered Yulia Borowski she’d never hear the end of it from Finneran and Holbrooke would trap Croix in her large, uncomfortably muggy office and lecture about oooh how disappointing it was that Luna Nova’s finest would act out at such a momentous occasion and ooh what sort of impression was Croix giving to those poor first years? Then her research project would be delayed even further and she’d have nothing to present to Professor Woodward and that would be an absolute tragedy. So. Unfortunately. Yulia Borowski must continue to be a gnat encircling her existence. For her research.

God. Was Holbrooke done yet?

Her thoughts were answered in that moment when her savior flew through the great oaken doors of the grand hall in a flurry of dirt, muddy foliage, and a …. a polar bear?

First years shrieked and tumbled around in their desperation to avoid the bear - easily the size of a pony - and its rider who ragdolled around on it. Between the chaos of the screaming students, confused professors trying to maintain order, and her own half-awake state, Croix could only make out a mess of red bouncing around amongst the rest of the mess.

Sparks like fireworks shot off at random intervals from the rider’s wand. Each shot burst and bud off in a never-ending chain reaction and the polar bear, pupils blown wide with enchantment by the sparks, flounced around, rearing up on its hind legs to reach for the sparks flying around. And in doing so, mowed down any student or teacher in its path.

Before Croix’s near-dead reaction time could catch up to what was barreling towards her with the speed of a crazed polar bear, she realized everyone else had ran and she was the only speed bump left before the rampaging animal.

Just before impact, Finneran snuffed out the rider’s firework spell and Badcock fumbled her way through a restraint spell. The polar bear was forcibly pulled to a stop and the rush of wind generated from that knocked Croix’s glasses askew.

“W-woah, easy ArcaaaaAAAAAssss!” The rider screamed as the polar bear struggled madly against the restraint spell, snarling and roaring.

Little bits of dead foliage, crusted mud, and polar bear spittle splashed onto Croix’s face throughout the spectacle. She blinked a few times, brain start-stopping into an attempt to process what was happening before her.

The polar bear heaved up and down, and as Croix’s brain finally delivered the much delayed ‘hey maybe you should move maybe?’ message to the forefront of her mind, the polar bear dipped down and its rider slid forward in her seat, coming to a stop nose-to-nose with Croix.

A dirt-crusted face and wide red eyes peered at Croix; hot breath rolled over her lips.

“Um,” the word travelled the short distance between them and those red eyes had the good sense to look sheepish before saying, “Hi?”

“You! First-year! Would you please! Care! To explain! The meaning of all! This!”

The polar bear’s rampage taken care of, a different kind of chaos replaced it. Students cried and shoved each other in the ensuing mess; Finneran was on a warpath and the red-headed rider was yanked off the bear and marched away like a prisoner.

Their split-second meeting seared into her mind, Croix blinked at the sight of the the professor’s assembling like judges in a trial. For some reason, those red eyes still managed to peek through the gaps of those academic robes and find hers.

“Miss Chariot du Nord, I demand an explanation!”

“Now, now, Professor Finneran, no need to take that tone,” Holbrooke said placatingly from somewhere in the crowd.

Croix couldn’t quite remember what happened afterwards. Teachers and fairies marshalled the the students out of the assembly room and Croix felt herself being swept away with the rest of the crowd.

The only thing she remembered thinking was: ‘Her name is Chariot.’

And after that, Croix did not think of Chariot for nearly a year.

- - - - -

Croix stretched her arms overhead, joints cracking loud enough for Yulia Borowski to glare across two tables and three stacks of magical tomes.

Whatever. Borowski can go stuff it.

After more than a year of digging through the archives and pouring over barely legible scrolls, Croix’s research was finally bearing some fruit. She had another month before she would present her findings before the professors, but that was another matter. With this much already accomplished, she was well on her way to being one of the top witches of Luna Nova, if not one of the best in the entirety of Western Europe. Croix smirked. She could probably teach some of these classes better than the current professors.

A chilly autumn breeze drifted through the open library window.

Croix sneezed.

That was something to fantasize about another time - back to work. But first, the window. Croix preferred the cold, but the breeze was distracting. One hand on the latch, she paused at the sight taking place in the grassy courtyard below: a sparse gathering of rather unimpressed students and a lone student with her wand held aloft.

Though her back was turned, something about her red hair gave Croix pause and for one who so easily ignored distractions, Croix found herself distracted by watching the scene below.

The red-head gesticulated wildly and waved her wand with a flourish, familiar sparks shooting into the sky like fireworks, budding and sprouting in a chain that slowly but steadily grew out of control. The magical fireworks escalated until the spectators fled the scene and one Yulia Borowski leaned out the library window and casted a spell that summoned a miniature rain storm above the flailing red-head and her chaotic streams of magic, snuffing the fireworks and its castor in one cold downpour.

And nearly right into Croix’s ear, Borowski hollered, “Hey, you daft??? Don’t cast the spell if you can’t use it! Moron!!” Without further ado, she slammed the window shut, muttering, “That Chariot du Nord…. Why is she even here when all she does is mess around?”

Chariot…. No wonder those sparks were familiar: that first year with those bright red eyes. When Croix glanced out the window, she found the drenched red-head toeing the muddy grass around her glumly. Seems Chariot hadn’t improved since then.

As if hearing her thoughts, Chariot raised her head and met her eyes, a spark of familiarity growing in her eyes. She lifted her hand in greeting and even from this distance Croix could make out the beginnings of a shaky smile on her lips.

Croix turned away at the last moment. It had nothing to do with her.

- - - - -

Or so she thought. Ever since that afternoon in the library, Croix seemed to hear about Chariot’s various colorful exploits everywhere she went. Fireworks shooting out of the second floor toilets every time they flushed. Somehow catching a love-love bee and “losing” it in the faculty lounge. More fireworks going off during broom practice. The list goes on.

She could be in class, in the cafeteria, or in the library, and someone would be talking about Chariot. Seemed strange to be surrounded by so much gossip of a girl Croix hadn’t really ever even interacted with. Was Chariot always this infamous or had Croix just somehow never noticed how talked-about Chariot was? Or was it that Croix just suddenly found herself distracted by Chariot?

Even by herself in the cafeteria, Croix found herself frowning. Ridiculous. How could she be distracted by some underclassman she never even talked to?

Her research project had been welcomed by the professors with open arms. Now that the bulk of her time was free until the next project, her brain needed something - anything - to fill that space. It just so happened her brain decided to latch onto school gossip. That was it.

Besides, they were in different classes and different grades: no reason they would ever interact. With that thought firmly in mind, Croix stood and immediately walked into Chariot.

“Oomph!”

“Ow, ow!”

Between her aching forehead and those wide red eyes peering up at her, Croix didn’t know where to begin.

“Um…” Chariot started, eyes darting back and forth like a small nervous animal before she decided on a sheepish smile, “Hi?”

The sheer ridiculousness of the situation and the wave of familiarity it brought washed over Croix and she let out a breathless laughter. “Hi.”

Evidently Chariot hadn’t been expecting that response; she flushed and struggled to say anything else for a few moments.

Amused at the younger girl’s hesitant manner and how it completely contrasted the overly confident performer in the courtyard from the other day, Croix smiled lightly and said, “That spell you were casting the other day. It’s the same one from the matriculation ceremony.”

“Ah...yeeeeah... that,” Chariot muttered, scratching the back of her neck, a mix of embarrassment and irritation on her face. “I thought I finally got it down after trying for months, but… I guess not.”

“Well, of course not,” Croix said.

Chariot’s demeanor dropped, her face a miserable picture of shame.

And then Croix remembered the gossip and criticisms circulated by the other students regarding Chariot, the very thoughts she had been so distracted by. Very rarely did Croix regret her words. If she said it out loud then they were necessary. But now more than ever before, Croix wished she could slap her words back down her throat. Seeing the normally lively girl be so quiet and withdrawn felt wrong.

Ridiculous! They don’t even know each other!

Despite that thought, she continued, “T-that’s an advanced spell; most witches don’t even start attempting it until they’ve completed at least second year. You’ve just started here, so there’s no reason to expect you’ll get the spell down in a few months.”

Chariot perked up as Croix’s words settled in her mind. Slowly, the usual starry-eyed glimmer in her expression returned and a hesitant smile began growing on her lips.

Croix felt herself calm down at the sight. She knew she could be blunt at the worst of times, but she really hadn’t meant to be insensitive. Not that they’re all that close or anything, but Chariot must get enough of that from her classmates. No need to be unnecessarily cruel to someone with that much exuberance for magic.

Croix continued, “I think it’s an admirable attempt though.”

The wobbly smile on Chariot’s lips blew up into sheer, unrestrained joy.

It was… captivating. A nice smile, yes - that’s what it was.

Chariot suddenly smacked her forehead. “Oh my gosh!”

Startled by the other girl, Croix tensed, “What?”

“I almost forgot why I came over here!” She held out her hand, face flushing with embarrassment though her smile in no way diminished. “My name is Chariot. I’ve been wanting to apologize for the… um… bear. What happened at matriculation?” Chariot floundered, but pressed on, “I didn’t know how to approach you in case you were still mad, but then when I saw you watching my magic the other day I thought, ‘just go for it! how mad can someone be after a year?’”

Croix eyed the hand offered before her. She stayed silent long enough for Chariot to pale with nervousness.

“Wait. You aren’t actually still mad are you?”

“Pffft!” Croix broke into barely-controlled laughter. What an entertaining girl!

It was Chariot’s turn to tense up. “W-what?”

With more exuberance than her normally droll persona allowed, she took Chariot’s hand in hers in a hearty handshake. “No, I’m not mad, Chariot. Indeed, it’s nice to meet you. My name is Croix-”

“Oh I already know your name!” Chariot interrupted, clasping Croix’s hand with both of hers.

“Really now?”

Chariot nodded excitably. “Yes! Croix Meridies! I saw your picture on display with the trophies and awards. The professors always talk about you. You were the anchor for your team in the broom relay race and you completely blew the competition out of the water!”

Having that starry-eyed gaze focussed on her was a little too much. Despite being the center of attention for most of her endeavors, Croix had to look away before she did something out of character, like turn into a blushing, stuttering mess. “R-right.”

People usually kept their distance even when they heaped their praises and expectations on her. This was different. This was harder to defend against. Her face felt too warm.

Croix noticed Chariot had yet to let go of her hand. But Croix didn’t mind. Their first real interaction and Chariot was already the exception to so many of Croix’s norms.

Eventually they parted, to Croix’s strange and slight disappointment.

Backing up with playful hops and steps, Chariot waved her hands at Croix, her already familiar wide grin in place, “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. I’ll see you around, Croix. Thanks, bye!”

Croix waved back, certain that this was just the first of their strange and oddly comfortable interactions.

Then Chariot spun around and bumped into the door knob on the way out and Croix had to try her hardest not to snort with laughter as the girl hissed in pain and limped away.

What a strange girl.

- - - - -

Before long, the two of them were spending time together regularly. When their schedules would allow it, they took lunch together or studied together; although it was more Croix studying and attempting to tutor Chariot while Chariot found increasingly creative ways to practice her firework spell, and most recently her new hobby: transformation magic.

Croix found that Chariot learned better by doing rather than staring at walls of text until something stuck. Even then, Chariot dragged her feet when it came to classwork.

“But it’s boring! I already know how to do this; I want to know how to make it awesome!” Chariot complained, limply flicking her wand and causing the flower seed between them to turn into a green rat with a faint poof.

Croix looked up from the textbook, which displayed a similarly colored and sized rat in the answer box. “Yes, but ‘awesome’ isn’t going to pass your exam. ‘Accurate’ will.”

“Boo. Boring.”

“Now, moving on to the written portion of the practice exam-”

“Ewwwwwww.”

Croix tapped the page idly before closing the book and leaning over. “Tell you what: you finish the written part in less than forty minutes and I’ll watch you perform for the rest of the afternoon.”

That got her wayward mentee’s attention and Chariot shot up from her slump. “Seriously??”

“Seriously.”

“Oooh, Croix, you sure drive a hard bargain. Okay, okay! Let’s go!” Chariot said, enthusiastically sharpening her pencil and shoving books and sheets of papers out of the way.

Two tables away, Yulia Borowski looked up at the noise and glared daggers at them.

Chariot waved cheerily back and Croix shrugged in a ‘what are you gonna do about it’ way.

Yulia Borowski huffed, threw her things in her bag, and stomped away, the racket her angry exit caused drawing the ever-lurking librarian like a shark to fresh blood.

Croix and Chariot watched the scolding take place, twin grins of smug satisfaction leveled at Yulia Borowski over the shoulder of the irate librarian.

“Now that that’s taken care of, “ Croix raised her wand over the hourglass between them. “Forty minutes: ready… and… go.”

Satisfied at the amount of concentration Chariot was pouring over her exam sheet, Croix turned to her own classwork.

Even taken into consideration the amount of time she spent hanging out with Chariot, Croix hadn’t neglected her own studies. As a matter of fact, helping Chariot study didn’t even put a dent into the amount of free time she had this year. After her research project delighted the other professors, she had presented her findings to Professor Woodward, who merely thanked Croix for her contributions and sent her on her way without any additional assignments.

Croix frowned. Either her work wasn’t up to Woodward’s standards or Woodward was leaving her on her own to figure out where to take her research next. Maybe she needed to be more specific in her topic? What was something she could delve into and further her work?

While her thoughts raced wildly in her head, her wand moved through sheer muscle memory and conjured sigils in the air - the topic of her rune-shaping workshop this week. Distractedly, she strung the sigils together, the glow of the magic washing their table in a light mint green.

“Hey, Croix.”

“Mm?”

“Y’know, I noticed that… well…”

Croix flipped a page in her book, waving away the light mint green sigil and carving another one in its place. Still distracted, she had yet to look up, instead saying, “Thirty minutes left… now twenty-nine minutes, Chariot.”

“No, seriously, I have to say this! It’s actually been bugging me for a while now…”

Blinking, Croix stopped, at last tuning into their conversation.

Chariot chewed her bottom lip, her hesitant expression at odds with her words just now.

Croix set her book aside. “What’s bothering you?” She prompted.

Chariot tapped her pencil against the tabletop, chewing the words over in her mind. “Well… like, just now? That spell you were casting, it looked… well, it looked awesome!”

Amused, Croix sat back. “That was intermediate rune writing; it’s nothing special. You can do it too, if you take the class. I wouldn’t recommend it though, the lectures are a little dry-”

Without warning, Chariot pointed the tip of her pencil at Croix. “That! That’s what I mean!”

Staring down her nose at the pencil, Croix was confused. This wasn’t the first time Chariot had seen her scrawl runes. In fact, Chariot’s seen her cast dozens of spells from her advanced-level courses. She’s seen her summon a wyvern for goodness sake! Each time, Croix remembered with a bit of pride, she wowed Chariot with the magic, leaving the younger girl starry-eyed and gaping. And each time Chariot would excitedly hop up and attempt her own casting of the spell, usually to disastrous results, but she’s been learning. Chariot’s firework spell is nearly stable enough to hold a truly beautiful performance; a great and rapid improvement from earlier in the year. The girl certainly didn’t lack drive; Croix’s tutelage only really helped focus that drive. All that work was Chariot’s alone.

Maybe that was it? Chariot had improved so much that Croix’s spells were no longer impressive? The thought dropped a heavy stone pit down her stomach. Wasn’t that the reason Chariot had approached her in the first place? She had been dazzled by Croix’s skill, much like their classmates; yet for some reason, Croix had humored her. Why?

Well, Chariot was impressive in her own way, constantly seeking to find creative uses for even the most elementary of spells. She was innovative and driven in a way that gradually inspired even the most gossipy and snippy of her classmates to look past her blunders.

In fact, Croix had to admit Chariot was an inspiration to herself at times.

“It’s just…You know, your magic is awesome,” Chariot repeated, before adopting an introspective look. “But everytime I watch you, you look a little… bored with it?”

Leaning back in her chair, Croix tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. She hadn’t been expecting that. Bored? That was… new. ‘Wonderful,’ ‘ingenious,’ ‘graceful,’ and even Yulia Borowski had conceded she was ‘proficient.’ But bored? A small bit of irritation bubbled up from the pits of her stomach. Croix knew her magic and knew how she felt about magic. Bored? Magic had been everything she ever wanted to study. If her exemplary grades and extracurricular performance didn’t perfectly showcase just how enthusiastic she was about magic, then nothing did.

She’ll get back at Chariot for that surprisingly stinging comment; the girl was certainly fun to tease.

“Been watching me much?”

On cue, Chariot flushed a glowing red and she shook her head roughly. “No! No I don’t… I mean! Oh geez, I didn’t mean to…!” Chariot dropped her head. “I just…” she looked aside, fiddled with her pencil, “I really admire your magic. Like I said, I think it’s awesome and you’re awesome and I want to get as good as you.”

Croix mirrored her actions, glancing down. The praise soothed her wounded ego embarrassingly fast. But then again, when it was coming from Chariot, it sounded genuine enough to come from truth.

“... your magic is so wonderful, I can’t help but want to see you smile and feel how happy I feel when I see it.”

That…

That was so sweet and so, so embarrassing.

Croix whipped off her glasses and made a show of cleaning it to distract from the sincere expression on Chariot. “I-is that right?”

“Yes! I mean it!”

The grin that worked its way onto Croix’s lips was impossible to hide. Sheepishly, she looked up through her bangs at Chariot.

Exuberant, Chariot jabbed at Croix with her pencil again. “Now that’s what I’m talking about! You have to smile like that, Croix! No reservations, no fear! Show the crowd your pearly whites… wow your teeth are seriously nice.”

Huffing with laughter, Croix replaced her glasses and waved Chariot away. “Seriously, Chariot-”

“No, seriously, Croix! You have the best smile,” flushing at her own words, Chariot grinned. “You gotta show it off more!”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Huh, wha?”

Croix leaned back in her chair. “Fifteen minutes left.”

“Huh...oh. Noooooooo,” Floundering, Chariot turned back to her exam sheet, dismayed at how much blank space was left. “No fair; you distracted me with your winsome smile!”

“You started it, Chariot.”

As Chariot fumbled and panicked, Croix watched the girl, amusement and fondness growing inside. Chariot’s words warmed her heart more than she cared to ever admit.

...Bored, huh.

She never really thought of it that way. For as far back as she could remember, she had voraciously devoured any books on magic. Always looking to expand her knowledge, compare the theories and magics of then to those of now. She remembered thinking to herself, at seven years old and halfway through a tome dating back to the 13th century - which she understood about 10% of, but that certainly didn’t stop her - that one day she was going to write her own grimoire, make her own contribution to magic. Young witches centuries from now would read her ancient and weathered grimoires and know that Croix Meridies had changed the world of magic.

Geez, it’s a little embarrassing to remember how dramatic she was as a kid.

But ever since childhood, that was what magic was to her. It was endless possibilities, it was open doors and a bright future. It was no longer hiding in the dark dusty corner of history, it was being proud, it was being worthy of succeeding the Nine Olde Witches.

Oh yes, she remembered the fables and other little stories her grandmother would tell her. Those tales were a little more fanciful compared to the endless volumes of tomes she tried to read, but they fascinated her no less. An age where witches and magic were as part of the world as planes, computers, cars, and the internet were to present times. When people depended on magic, embraced it. She really thought she could change the world, laying there wrapped in her bedsheets and the soothing voice of her grandmother.

She glanced at the hourglass. Then at the girl across from her.

But something had changed between then and now. Hadn’t it? Croix can’t believe in those fairy tales anymore. Reality dictated she could only believe in her studies and in the future her research would build. These last few years all shaped and sharpened that belief in her. And she had clung to that belief wholeheartedly. Right up until she ran into this strange and exuberant girl. The girl that rode polar bears, tripped over her own broom, and thought the simplest magic to be a wonder in and of itself.

When once Croix would’ve thought that childish, now she wishes Chariot would let that simple-hearted belief carry her as far as it could.

Croix eyed the remaining bits of sand in the hourglass. “A little under a minute, Chari-”

“Done!”

Surprised, Croix could only watch as Chariot met her eyes and smugly dropped her pencil on the table between them.

When the pencil finished bouncing and rolling, Croix adjusted her glasses. “Well, it’s not enough to finish within time-limit. The answers have to be right too, you know.”

“Oh no fair! You didn’t say that before!”

Laughing, Croix stood up. “No, I didn’t. Let’s go.”

As usual, Chariot’s face was an open book and she skipped happily around the table towards Croix. And if anyone thought it strange to see Croix walking down the hallway with an overly-excited Chariot clinging to her arm, Croix certainly didn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her be embarrassed about it.

- - - - -

One afternoon, Croix was making her way through the courtyard, looking for a quiet corner to practice her object-oriented teleportation magic, when Chariot sprinted out of the bushes with more than a few ruffled feathers. Literally. Evidently she had been practicing her transformation magic again: a pair of magnificent tawny wings grew where her arms normally were and as she ran, leaves and feathers fell off her person.

Croix immediately noticed the small shape Chariot held awkwardly between her wings.

Chariot’s eyes lit up when she saw Croix. “Croix! I need your help!”

Kneeling on the cushiony campus lawn, Chariot gently unfurled her wings to reveal a small baby crow. It was as fuzzy and awkward looking as most species of baby crows, the only difference being that the feathers growing in were stark white.

Croix crouched down and could tell what the problem was without Chariot telling her: its left wing was bent at an angle that could only mean it was broken.

“Please help me, Croix! I wanted to cast a healing spell when I first saw him, but,” Chariot was nearly in tears. “But I knew I was gonna mess it up! And I couldn’t find his nest, but I didn’t want to waste too much time so I had to run and find you-”

“Chariot, breathe. It’s fine,” Croix said, gently clasping Chariot’s shoulders, ignoring how awkward the transition from Chariot’s normal human bones to the magically formed wings felt beneath her hands. “It won’t die from one broken wing-”

“Oh my god he’s gonna die!! B-because I’m too stupid to heal him!”

Croix bit her tongue. Clearly not what Chariot wanted to hear when she was running frantically around campus, too distracted by the baby crow’s pain to change her wings back to arms.

“Chariot!” She must’ve sounded angry because Chariot immediately stopped her babbling and stared up at Croix with watery eyes and wobbling lips.

Not what she wanted to do either… But at least Chariot was listening.

“Okay. Where did you find it?” Croix needed all the information available before she decided the best course of action.

“I found him-”

Right. ‘Him.’ Remember that, Croix.

“-him not too far from the shed on the edge of the south quad. There wasn’t a nest in any of the trees nearby. I tried flying up to take a look around, but I didn’t want to leave him alone for too long.”

“Good call,” Croix said, gently running her fingers along the small creature’s head. It cracked open a tiny beady eye at her but stayed silent. “We don’t know how long he was there for.” Croix tilted her head and noted the layers of dirt and spurs lining the little crow’s belly feathers. “It looks like he spent some time crawling around. He might’ve been trying to find his nest-”

“And ended up getting even more lost.” Chariot finished with horrified realization. She held him closer to the warmth of her body. “Poor thing. I can’t imagine being this small and lost. You must’ve been so scared…”

With a sigh, Croix stood up, wincing at pops and cracks her joints made at the action. “Well,” Croix tilted her head back and eyed the afternoon clouds. The sun would be setting in a few more hours. With the disappearing daylight goes the odds of his parents finding him. “The best thing we can do is take him back to where you found him. His parents might be trying to find him and we want to put him somewhere they might see.”

Chariot immediately protested. “I’m not leaving him out there! What if he gets eaten??”

Even taking into consideration Chariot’s soft-spot for all creatures great and small, this fierce protectiveness she had for this weird, lumpy, albino crowling was still a surprise. As Chariot glared, eyes still watering and lips quibbling with further protests, Croix could feel herself giving in.

Not like she often said no to that face.

“He won’t get eaten because he won’t be alone,” Croix answered, crossing her arms, finger tapping at her chin as her mind raced to list all the materials she would need to gather.

“Wha-”

Making up her mind, Croix nodded decisively. “Take him back to the shed. Stay there. I’m going back inside to grab a few things we’ll need.”

Chariot had already scooped the baby crow into her wings and was ready to take off again before Croix even finished speaking.

“Gotcha! I’ll be waiting, Croix!”

Croix watched her friend quickly make her way across campus again, tired smile forming on her lips. The things she did for that girl…

When she rounded the corner of the shed, Chariot was already on her feet, reaching for Croix’s hands and dragging her towards a makeshift nest propped on a couple of small boxes.

“Hurry, hurry!”

Croix let Chariot take her bag from her and sift through the contents. She crouched in front of the nest so that the baby crow was directly at eye level. He seemed more awake than earlier, eyeing them both warily. With his small size, he couldn’t be more than a week to two weeks old. Strange. From what she knew of crows, they were incredibly protective of their young. The moment Chariot picked him up, his parents should’ve swooped down on her.

“What’s the bird book for?” Chariot asked, holding up the rather large, hardcover textbook.

“For reference. I need to know the general size and shape his wing is supposed to be,” Croix answered. Slowly and making sure he could see her hands at all times, she reached out and brushed against his back and body. Aside from tensing under her fingertips, he did not respond. When her finger strayed close to his misshapen wing, he cawed angrily and nipped at the offending digit.

Croix snapped her hand back just as Chariot swooped down over the crow, immediately soothing it.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay… Croix didn’t mean that; you’re okay.”

Irritatingly enough, that seemed to calm him down; his harsh cries died down and with one final glare in Croix’s direction, he settled down.

Just a little irked at being bit for her troubles, Croix muttered under her breath, “Oh thanks for checking, I’m perfectly fine, Chariot.”

Only after copious reassurance from Chariot did the crow allow Croix to get near him again. Propping the thick textbook up against the shed wall, Croix took note of the diagrams and descriptions before applying an advanced mending spell.

Chariot watched, red eyes wide and amazed at the magic flowing gently from the tip of Croix’s wand and into the young bird in her hands. “Wow… this is amazing.”

Before her eyes, the awkwardly protruding segment of the young crow’s wing receded and corrected itself, his wing straightening out. As the glow of the healing spell faded, he gave his wing an experimental flap, though his movement was stiff.

Croix blew out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her eyes stung with sweat that dripped from her forehead. Wincing, she rubbed at her eyes from under her glasses, tired but incredibly proud of herself.

As expected, Chariot started pouring out praises. “Wow...wow! Croix, you did it! It’s perfect; look at him!” She could only contain her excitement for so long before she hopped up and spun around, holding him up towards the sky in her hands. “Now you’re perfect, little guy!” Chariot laughed freely, worry and fear draining from her voice as easily as if they were never there.

Resting against the shed wall, Croix cleaned her glasses and watched Chariot’s antics with bemusement. “Careful. His wing’s been healed, but he’ll still be sore for a few days. I can only do so much even at my level.”

“Still! He wouldn’t be able to move at all if it weren’t for you, Croix.” If Chariot’s grin grew any wider it would split her face. The amount of joy and gratitude in her gaze was too much.

Croix glanced aside.

Sensing Croix’s embarrassment in a way only she could, Chariot continued softly, “It’s true, Croix. You’re so amazing.”

What was she supposed to say to praise like that? ‘Gee, thanks’? Chariot’s always been talking up her accomplishments, even the mundane ones like grabbing her a drink after hours of transformation magic practice. Were it anyone else, Croix would be annoyed and brush them off. But Chariot’s words were always bathed in a genuine light.

Or maybe she’s just blinded by her adoration for the girl. Croix’s affection for the little dreamer had almost caught her by surprise, but it really shouldn’t have. She knew from their first few meetings that there was something genuine and good emanating from the girl that nearly ran her over with a crazed polar bear.

“See? He looks so grateful!” Chariot held the crow dangerously close before her eyes.

He glared down at Croix, reaching forward and pecking her. The only thing saving her vision were her thick-lensed glasses.

“You’re welcome,” Croix gritted out, picking up the textbook and letting him peck away at the hardcover instead.

Chariot giggled.

And maybe because she was exhausted and sweaty and tired, Croix found herself joining in. What were they even laughing about? Who knows! All she knew was that Chariot had a delightful flush spreading from her face down her neck the more she laughed; always meeting her eyes, then darting away only to laugh harder.

What a strange, adorable girl.

Taking a deep breath, Croix pointed at the discarded bag next to Chariot. “There’s some feed in there.” As Chariot reached down and dug into the bag with one hand, Croix continued, “I stopped by the kitchen and asked the fairies for some help and this is what they gave me. Should be enough to keep him fed for a few days while he heals up. We can take turns…” Her words trailed off when she noticed how quiet Chariot had fallen.

Chariot stared at the sizeable pouch of feed in her hand for a few moments, eyes fluttering open and closed.

“Something wrong, Chariot?”

Her words set off a strange blush on the girl’s face and she rapidly stood up to set the young crow into his makeshift nest. With her back to Croix, she shook her head. “N-no! No, I’m good.”

While she busied herself with pouring out a handful of feed, Chariot spoke quietly, “It’s just… I mean, I already knew, but… you’re so nice, Croix.”

What was with Chariot and embarrassingly genuine compliments lately? Glad that Chariot was facing the other way, Croix didn’t bother hiding her reddening cheeks.

“Now that’s something I don’t hear often.”

“It’s true!” Whatever other self-deprecating comment Croix might’ve had died at the sureness in Chariot’s tone. Without warning, Chariot spun around and met Croix’s eyes. Even as Chariot held her gaze determinedly, her hands stayed clenched and trembling at her sides, a furious blush growing across her face.

Croix was speechless.

“You’re so good, Croix. And not just because you’re super smart and talented or whatever...although that’s really cool too....” Chariot shook her head, muttering, “Wait, that wasn’t what I was going for…” Again, meeting Croix’s eyes, she stumbled on, “I just wanted to say… thanks. For being here with me. Right now.”

Seeing her friend gradually lose steam, Croix took that moment to stand up and dust herself off. She still wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do with that praise. With everyone else, she just shrugged them off, but with Chariot, she answered the only way she felt she could. Face still slightly flushed, Croix wrapped her arms around Chariot’s shoulders. “You’re too sweet, Chariot.”

And they stayed like that together until the young crow, tired of being ignored, squawked for attention.

Startled, Chariot made to pull away before pausing and burying her face further into the hug. “Wow… this is soooo embarrassing!!”

Croix snorted, though she too was dreading the moment they both had to step back and take in each other’s blushing faces and replay that embarrassingly intimate moment over and over in their minds. “You started it, Chariot.”

Agonizing it may be, as the older of the two, Croix had to take the first step to set them back on track. Taking in a deep, steadying breath, Croix gently pushed Chariot back and made a beeline for her bag and belongings, making up their schedule as she did. “Let’s see, now that he has food and shelter, the two of us should take turns keeping an eye on him while he heals. We also need to watch for his parents.” Croix doubted they were coming, but she knew better than to say that out loud. Stuffing the textbook back into the bag, she glanced over her shoulder at the other girl. “We can switch off every free period. Does that sound all right, Chariot?”

Strangely, Chariot kept quiet. She still stood where Croix had moved her, hands clasped to her face, eyes tremoring with some kind of internal struggle.

Worried, Croix set her hands on Chariot’s shoulders, hoping the gesture would ground the other girl. “Chariot?”

Without a word, Chariot slowly tilted her head forward until it rested on Croix’s shoulder.

“Chariot?” Croix asked, hands hovering over Chariot’s back, unsure of what was happening.

She felt the huff of a tired sigh against her shoulder, her only warning before Chariot slumped bodily against her.

Sorry…” Chariot’s muffled voice drifted up from her shoulder. “I’m super, suuuuper tired from all the running and the panicking… and the running…. and the transformation magic... And… and I know you must be super wiped from the healing spell too so-so...let’s just take it easy for a bit.” One hopeful eye peaked up from underneath a mess of red hair against her shoulder. “Yeah?”

Croix’s athletic prowess being what it was, her trembling legs held them up for all of a second after that shy, hopeful, and positively adorable request.

Honestly she tried.

In the next second Croix collapsed and tipped backwards, back crashing into the side of the shed with a thud and crack. Chariot shrieked, the crowling squawked, and Croix’s glasses flew off her face.

When the proverbial dust settled, Croix was slumped on the ground, aching back resting against the shed, and Chariot’s face still glued to her shoulder while the girl kneeled between Croix’s legs.

“Um…” Chariot began, hands moving up to clasp Croix’s shoulders, fingers flexing into a grip to either hold onto Croix or to move away.

The events of this afternoon being what it was, Croix was too tired to care about the state of her back - although the numbing pins-and-needles feeling traveling from her lower back down her legs tell her she’s probably going to be limping for the next week or so god broom practice was going to be a literal pain - instead, she patted Chariot’s head.

“You’re right. Let’s… sit… a moment.”

So they sat there in the shadow of the old shed, afternoon light slowly and gently disappearing, with a young albino crowling squinting judgmentally at Croix over his new favorite person’s shoulder.

This atmosphere Chariot created for them this afternoon seemed so much like what their relationship had been heading towards these past few weeks. Croix had always felt this gentle affection for the younger witch, an appreciation for her dogged earnestness and her love of magic. A little different from Croix’s own dedication to magic, but no less admirable. Even if it took her brain a while to catch up to how clingy Chariot had grown, it wasn’t something she actively disliked. She might even go on to say she looked forward to those little brushes that gave Chariot an excuse to cling to Croix’s arm or swing their clasped hands together. Though she never liked being touched before, this was what friendship composed of for most girls her age. Definitely not something to pointlessly think about in her head again and again.

Croix peered down at Chariot. How did Chariot feel about their friendship? She was the one that usually initiated all the hugs and casual hand-holding. Maybe it was all something she did without thinking. She was a friendly girl after all. Definitely not something to overthink.

Chariot hummed and giggled to herself, cheeks practically glowing with a fierce blush, nuzzling into Croix’s shoulder.

Croix’s heart skipped a beat.

Definitely, definitely not something to overthink.

- - - - -

Fighting back a yawn and losing miserably, Croix readjusted her bookbag and stumbled her way back to campus. Another uneventful free period chaperoning the injured crowling, another afternoon of dull lectures and seminars to not look forward to. Gray clouds crowded up the sky above head. They were expecting miserable rain for the next few days. Great. Now she could expect to be cooped up in that old shed with awful weather and a little crow that hated her guts. She didn’t have many textbooks left that haven’t been thoroughly pecked through.

Nearly two weeks had passed since Chariot found the small animal and since their strangely intimate moment. Obviously ‘strangely intimate’ as in ‘this is the most platonically close we have ever been in our fast and firm friendship’ and not… not ‘intimate’ as in ‘her heart was going to beat out of her chest from the strange need to be even closer, to be all that filled up Chariot’s beautiful, large red eyes.’ Not… not that. Well...either way, not a whole lot had happened since then, neither with the crow nor with the two of them.

Croix knew from the beginning not to expect much from hoping that the young crow’s parents would suddenly reappear; even if she knew the best choice would be to either let the crowling go his own way or find alternative arrangements, seeing the way Chariot dash out excitedly every break to check on him and reassure him that ‘Today is gonna be the day you’re going home!’ made it that much more harder to tell Chariot to face reality.

A frown worked its way on her face as she made her way across the damp grass.

Chariot’s kindness and earnestness was beautiful and admirable, but ultimately foolhardy. Croix might’ve suggested the idea in the first place, however dragging it out to the extent Chariot has was too much for too little gain. Really…

“That girl…” she mumbled.

Always charging off without a care for direction or destination, always at her own pace. How can it be that what she loved so much about Chariot was also her most exasperating trait?

And speaking of Chariot…

The pitter patter of overexcited feet charging in her direction alerted Croix to the presence of her friend. Chariot raced from the campus, several large plastic bags of what Croix could only guess were ‘supplies’ - knowing Chariot it was all junk food and comic books - swinging from her hands.

Chariot noticed her and made to slow down, a small hesitant smile working its way across her face, the sight of which brought a frown to Croix’s face.

Then without stopping, Chariot picked up her pace and raced towards the shed, leaving Croix with just a small wave and that wavering smile.

And that was all Croix could think about throughout her afternoon seminar, even as the professor called Croix into her office to suggest some research topics and reading materials. The elderly witch’s voice was a steady buzz of background noise to all the scenarios racing through Croix’s mind: did she do something to upset Chariot, was Chariot somehow uncomfortable with Croix initiating that hug from two weeks ago (but she didn’t say anything at the time!), was it because Chariot was no longer starstruck over her magical prowess and was tired of her, or was it because that damn, ungrateful little albino crow had finally turned Chariot against her?! Each case was more outrageous than its predecessor and though Croix knew logically that her panicked thoughts had almost no basis in reality, her anxiety over this recent weirdness in their relationship dictated she spent as much brain processing power obsessing over it.

“...and regarding the other matter-... Miss Meridies? Are you listening, Miss Meridies?”

Fortunately, the professor deviating from her standard droning knocked Croix back into the moment. From behind thick-lensed glasses, the professor regarded her with worry and just a slight bit of disapproval. The weather outside, as if setting the mood for the situation, suddenly kicked up a bluster of wind that rattled the windows. The light casted by the magical lanterns around the office flickered, shaking from the force of the storm beginning to grow outside.

Croix coughed into her fist. “My apologies, Professor.”

“How very unlike you, Miss Meridies.”

How very unlike her, indeed. Chariot seemed to throw everything into disarray, even when not present.

“Are you alright?”

Probably not, but as the top student of her grade, if not the entire academy, ‘probably not alrights’ can’t be factored into the equation.

Straightening up, Croix clasped her hands behind her, the very image of stoic and rapt attention. “Of course, Professor. Regarding the other matter…?”

That seemed to satisfy the professor, either because that was what she expected from Croix or she didn’t care and wanted to get on with it. “Yes, regarding that particular point in your research: the Nine Olde Witches and the Arcturus Forest. You’ll be pleased to know there are some additional materials available in the restricted section of our Special Research Hall.”

Arcturus Forest… Now that got Croix’s attention.

“Although I’m sorry to say most of the material is incomplete and misfiled from that accident back in 1412, I’m sure a bright mind such as yours would have no trouble making use of them.”

“Of course,” Croix replied, though her mind was already jumping into the possibility of newly uncovered information, by herself no less! This was great!

And for the moment at least, all her anxiety over Chariot and their relationship was quietly set aside.

In the distance, thunder clapped a warning that Croix failed to notice.

It was well past dinner time by the time Croix finally looked up from the dusty, half assembled tome from the Special Research Hall, pulled back into reality by the shrill laughter of her roommate from somewhere down the hall. Irritated, Croix whipped off her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. Leave it to Yulia Borowski to interrupt her when she was on the verge of an important connection. Now that she was here, all mental maps and Venn diagrams regarding the Nine Olde Witches and the Seven Words of Arturus she had been steadily building in her mind for the last several hours evaporated, leaving only a few sad clumps of thoughts and theories clinging to the corners of her exhausted brain.

As if to add insult to injury, her stomach decided right then to complain - loudly.

Slumping in her seat, Croix squinted around her desk, checking her snack stash for an energy bar. None. Ugh.

Well, she could probably bully the fairies in the kitchen to heat up some leftovers for her.

Her windows suddenly rattled, shaking in their frames from a boom of thunder. Within moments, the lights in her room blew out, magic interrupted by the lightning that followed. Various shrieks and screams sounded from the rooms around her, the loudest of which came from her roommate, of course. A bare few seconds later, the flow of magic resumed and the lights came on, illuminating the heavy sheets of rain pelting her window.

Croix pushed herself to her feet, idly scanning the view outside as she stretched and winced. It was brewing up to be quite the storm of the season outside.

Chariot didn’t like storms, Croix found herself thinking as she quietly made her way out of her room. Not that Chariot was afraid of them or anything. Croix remembered an afternoon when they were rained in from transformation magic practice and Chariot had swaddled herself in sheets on her bed, sitting as far from the window as possible, but stared out at the lightning and rain with rapt attention.

Croix remember thinking her strange at the time, but the thought now brought a fond smile to her lips. The recent weirdness aside, it was those little moments that really attracted her to the girl, finding the quiet sides of her underneath all that excitement and glee. Obviously ‘attracted’ like… well. Maybe she should stop overthinking all these little justifications. Maybe she should just…

Ah.

Croix paused.

Chariot would probably appreciate some hot cocoa right now. They hadn’t really had the chance to hang out for a while; even with the weirdness, this could be a good opportunity to spend some time together storm-watching. Croix could use the break and the company.

Changing course, Croix swung by Chariot’s room, but to her surprise, Chariot’s roommates met her question with only worried looks and hesitant voices.

“What do you mean Chariot’s not here??” It’s almost curfew - not that that would’ve stopped Chariot, but still…

One of her roommates, a thin willowy brunette answered, “We thought… she was with you?”

Apparently her roommates thought they were attached at the hips. Well, she wasn’t entirely wrong. Maybe...

The brunette wrung her fingers. “Oh dear… you see, she never came to dinner. Oh dear oh dear, where could she be?” She turned to the other roommate, a stocky blonde. “Have you seen Chariot?”

“Uh…” The blonde’s eyes swiveled over to Croix, still at the doorway and very visibly losing patience from the look on her face. “Ihaven’tseenhersincelunch!”

“Oh dear oh dear!”

“What?” Croix said, all irritation quickly evaporating into worry.

Lunch? But that was hours ago. Was she practicing magic in one of the classrooms and lost track of time?

“Ah!” The blonde exclaimed. “Chariot’s been disappearing a lot during breaks recently.” She turned toward Croix hopefully, as if this brand new piece of information would appease her.

“Oh dear, what has she been up to?”

The worry in Croix quickly condensed into cold, solid fear. Chariot’s been missing since lunch… She never came back for dinner… Chariot’s hesitant smile before racing towards the shed… That crowling she’s been fawning nonstop over… The pouring rain flooding the quad outside...

Thunder burst from the storm and lightning flashed in tune with the rattling windows.

Oh no…!

“Dammit!” Croix growled, not caring that at present Chariot’s roommates thought she was bigger and scarier than the storm raging outside. Quickly scanning the room, Croix was dismayed to find Chariot’s cloak hanging limply on her bed post and right underneath it, a sad-looking umbrella.

Dammit!

Without wasting a second, Croix grabbed the cloak and umbrella and made a mad dash for the outside.

As soon as she burst through the foyer doors she was thrown into a cauldron of chaos: heavy rain and wind buffeted her slender self first in one direction then another, the sheer force of it nearly lifting her off her feet. Behind her the doors banged and clacked against each other; before her the storm stirred up the great tree branches dotting the quad, sending them crashing into each other and adding to the cacophony of unbridled fury in the air. She could barely make out the shapes in the quad: bushes or buildings, it was all a slurry mess - losing her glasses the second she stepped outside certainly didn’t help, not that having her glasses would help any in this situation.

So intent on slowly forcing steps further into the quad, Croix nearly forgot about the umbrella in her grasp. Goddamnit, she was smarter than this! Here she is, charging out like some bullheaded first year without even pausing to think her actions through - exactly like something Chariot would’ve done!

Flexing her clammy, numb fingers, Croix fought the wind and forced the umbrella open. Immediately the storm attempted to have its way with the umbrella, blowing it and the girl holding it one way than another. Her feet dragged through the muddy lawn from the pull of the wind; Croix struggled to remain upright and regain her sense of direction. She had to make it to the shed!

Chariot… the whole reason Croix was even out here, doing something so stupid as to run across the campus in this megaton fury of nature.

Croix gritted her teeth to stop them from chattering. No time to wade slowly through this crap. Taking a deep breath, she ran, each squelchy step on the skiddy lawn bringing her closer to her destination. Her loafers were ruined, she was freezing, and she was basically running blind, the wind-possessed umbrella constantly jerking her off course. It was like running in circles underwater, constantly getting nowhere.

Anger sparked inside.

This was just like something Chariot would do! Childish, eager, earnest, head-in-the-clouds, kind, stubborn, wonderful Chariot! So awfully kind as to cry and fuss over a dumb baby crow. So earnest in that kindness as to stay in a half-dilapidated shed during the worst storm ever with that crow. So.. so...stupid!!!

Her limbs were numb and her lungs on fire; a sudden powerful push from the storm flipped the umbrella inside out and snapped the pole. Croix held on to it, the sight of the dangling broken umbrella trailing in the wind fueling her anger and filling her with adrenaline her sedentary self had never before experienced.

When the door of the shed flew open, Chariot was suddenly face to face with a drenched, seething Croix Meridies, trembling hand clenched firmly around the mangled remains of her old umbrella. Wheezing heavily, Croix took two shaky steps into the shed proper and jerked the door close.

Sitting on the floor, with the baby crow nestled comfortably in her lap, Chariot could only stare up slack-jawed.

Croix stared back. Then she threw the broken umbrella down and shouted, “You idiot!”

… What??

Chariot’s jaws snapped shut with a clack; wide-eyed and still reeling from the shock of seeing a dripping wet Croix standing before her, a Croix that had evidently ran from the main building all the way over to this old shed on the very edge of campus through that very big and very scary storm, she could only say, “Buhhwhaavvvff?”

Croix stepped closer, hands twitching and still trying to gesticulate wildly. “You idiot! What were you thinking? Do you even know how bad it is out there right now?? Why would you-”

Without letting her get a word in, Croix carried on and Chariot could feel her eyes begin to shimmer with tears. Croix had never yelled at her like this before.

Disturbed by the intrusion and noise, the baby crow started cawing shrilly, catching Croix’s attention and giving her angry words another target.

“And this thing! Chariot, can’t you see you’re just wasting your time out here? You already know its a lost cause! Stop being stupid and come back with me-”

Anger sparked inside. Chariot shot up to her feet, a confused crowling sliding off her lap.

“He’s not a lost cause - you take that back!”

Staggering back at from the force of Chariot’s voice, Croix’s words stumbled out, “Wha-”

“And I’m not being stupid! You’re stupid, stupid!”

“C-camping out in this stupid shed is stupid! What did you-”

“We can’t leave Alcor by himself like this, stupid! He’s just a baby-”

“Wha- who the… you named it??”

“I named him, stupid! And he’s the handsomest baby boy in the whole wor-”

“What are you even talking about anymore?! You know what, nevermind! We’re leavin-”

“I’m not leaving him, stupid!”

“Would you stop calling me stu-”

Stomping her feet, the tears finally escaped her eyes. Chariot stomped forward until they were nose to nose. “Because you are stupid! If I’m being stupid, then you’re stupider for coming all the way here just to tell me I’m stupid!!”

Wordless, Croix grit her teeth and glared down, fighting the urge to feel guilty at the sight of Chariot crying.

Chariot glared back, heaving from the emotions and stubbornly refusing to wipe her tears or move.

From somewhere below them, Alcor squawked.

Croix sneezed. Into Chariot’s face. Who shrieked so suddenly and so loudly in Croix’s face, she too screamed.

And the very short, stupid standoff broke.

They sat side by side, a foot of space between there where Alcor lay snoozing. Outside the storm carried on, shaking the metal sheeting of the shed. The wind snuck in through gaps and crevices with a high whistling sound.

Croix had used magic to dry off as best as she could, putting more effort into drying Chariot’s cloak, leaving herself still cold and clammy. The cloak held in her hands, she sighed, losing the fight against her guilt. She had been immature and cruel; her desperate worry over Chariot was no excuse to go about shouting the things she did. Automatically her hands came up to whip off her glasses and clean them, only to be reminded she had lost them to the storm earlier. She hung her head. She was the older one, she needed to act like it. And seeing Chariot cry earlier…

Sighing, she held out the cloak between them, the cloth draping over Alcor who immediately complained. She ignored him and held it there like a peace offering. “Here. Your cloak.”

Chariot stared straight ahead. “Don’t want it.”

Croix bit her tongue, hating that her first instinct was to snap at Chariot and tell her to stop being so childish. Be mature, damnit! She tried again. “It’s cold.”

“So you wear it then.” Chariot shivered. “I’m fine.”

“Look,” Croix began, scooting closer yet still being mindful of Alcor who glared and threatened to nip her thigh. “Chariot.”

Her friend stubbornly stared ahead.

“Chariot.”

Croix could tell she was beginning to cave when Chariot slowly peered at her from the corner of her eye.

She took a breath. “Chariot, I’m sorry. About what I said before. It was… stupid. I was being stupid.”

They eyed each other, herself has hopefully and sincerely as she could, the other warily. Croix was cold, but Chariot was desperately fighting her shivers. She’d been out here for hours longer than Croix and if she was going to keep being stubborn, Croix was going to force her into her cloak.

Chariot caved and sniffled, rubbing at her eyes. “Okay… okay.”

Relieved, Croix made to hand the cloak over, but instead of taking it, Chariot faced her fully, eyes shimmering again.

“I’m sorry too. For being stupid…”

Guilt overtaking her, Croix scooted closer, ignoring Alcor, now squished between their thighs. “No, no, Chariot…”

“...for… for making you worried…” Chariot dropped her face into her hands, trembling. “I was so afraid you got tired of me. Tired of putting up with my… stupid little hobbies.”

...what?

“What… what made you think that?”

“Be-because!” Chariot looked up desperately, a trail of snot leading from one nostril to her hand. “You’ve got this look on your face! Like… like earlier today when we saw each other; you looked soooo annoyed with me.”

Croix struggled to remember what she did hours before.

Chariot noticed her and made to slow down, a small hesitant smile working its way across her face, the sight of which brought a frown to Croix’s face.

Wait. That?? Was that it? But she was worried she’d done something to Chariot!

Suddenly, Croix snorted, startling her friend. Leave it to the two of them idiots to let the most overused literary cliché to rile them up.

“W-wha…?”

“Chariot, I wasn’t annoyed with you. That’s just my face; that’s how I look at everyone.”

Flushing, Chariot scrambled for words, trying to sound serious even with that trail of snot still dangling there. “W-well! Yeah! But you never look at me like that.”

Brushing away tears of mirth, Croix tilted her head to the side, fighting back laughter. “And how do I look at you?”

“You… you…!” Chariot flushed so hard her shivers evaporated. She stared wordless and helpless up at Croix, wide red eyes shimmering with… something.

Chariot’s inability to respond and the way she was looking at Croix... somehow Croix found her face reddening to match Chariot’s hair. Teasing Chariot was supposed to be fun, not… whatever’s been happening recently. It had to be that hug! Had to be! Everything between them went weird after that moment. She had to have somehow did the hug wrong; maybe some crucial step she missed in initiating the hug?

Her thoughts went speeding off and before she could lose control of them, Croix quickly changed the topic. Averting her eyes, she gestured weakly at her own nose. “You… you got a little something there.”

“Huh?... Ohmygosh!” Mordified, Chariot blushed in a different kind of embarrassment and roughly wiped her face on her shirt sleeve.

Croix chuckled. The pair of them were ridiculous. From their first meeting to every meeting up until now.

Picking up a startled Alcor, Croix scooted until her shoulder and hip bumped against Chariot. Before the little crow could get a chance to complain or nip at her, she dropped him in Chariot’s lap and opened her arm, draping Chariot’s cloak over all three of them.

Chariot stared in surprise for a moment before a quiet smile stretched across her lips. Playfully nudging Croix, she snuggled into her and giggled.

It was warm and it was comfortable and even with the way Alcor was glaring at her, being together with Chariot in this stupid shed during this stupid storm was wonderful.

“I wasn’t annoyed with you, you know.” Croix spoke quietly. The howling from the storm had died down hours ago. It was chilly, but with the three of them huddled together like this, it wasn’t uncomfortable at all. Okay. Maybe the stiff sheet metal digging into her back was a bit uncomfortable but she wasn’t going to complain.

“Hm?” A red eye peeked up sleepily from her shoulder.

“I was just… worried… I’d done something to make you uncomfortable.”

“Like what?”

Croix shrugged the shoulder Chariot wasn’t using. “You seemed hesitant to approach me recently so I assumed…” She broke off, hearing the echoes of Chariot’s voice in her own words.

The other girl giggled. Though slightly embarrassed, Croix joined in. It was too warm and too comfortable to hold onto any anxieties and fears. She peered at the girl slumped against her and smiled to herself.

Squawking loudly, Alcor pressed into Chariot for attention. With her attention still on Croix, Chariot indulged him absentmindedly.

“You really have a way with animals, don’t you?” Croix asked, watching Alcor melt into her touch.

“Hm? Oh, I guess?’

Prodding Alcor with a finger, Croix watched with amusement as he seemed conflicted between darting after Croix’s finger and staying still to enjoy Chariot’s pets. “There was that polar bear from matriculation. What was… his name again?”

“Oh, Arcas! You remember him!”

“A little hard not to, Chariot. We got pretty close,” Croix responded dryly.

Chariot had the sense to sound sheepish. “Right right…” She hummed. “Arcas and I grew up together. That might be why I’m pretty good with animals.” She giggled. “Better than you anyway.”

“Better than most people, I would say.”

Flushing, Chariot nudged her, a little rougher than she probably intended, nearly knocking Croix over. “Oh stop it, youuuuu.”

She straightened up suddenly, a spark igniting in her eyes. “Oh that reminds me! I have something I want to show you!” Digging around for her wand, Chariot chuckled nervously. “I’ve… actually been practicing with Alcor here in the shed aaaaand I wanna say I got it down.”

Curious, Croix sat back and smiled reassuringly.

Taking a moment to gaze at Croix, Chariot beamed and raised her wand into the air with a flourish.

“Ut stella stellarum tripudium!”

Croix watched, dazzled speechless as light shot from Chariot’s wand into the air, bouncing off the walls and ceiling. With a flick of the wrist, Chariot sent out a stream of magic; the lights burst into sparks shooting across the room like fireworks, budding and sprouting in a chain. Colors danced through the air, merging and separating at intervals. And Chariot, the conductor of this gorgeous symphony, directed them to move in formation, the individual sparks coming together in shapes and constellations, a horse one moment and a sparrow taking flight the next.

“And the grand finale!” Chariot called, ever the showman.

With a final flourish, the sparks zoomed together into a shape of a sphere, turning bright red and orange, before they exploded into the form of a fire-breathing dragon, gentle sparks shooting out of its mouth to land harmlessly on them.

Chariot giggled at Croix’s instinctual flinch. And though she was embarrassed, Croix could only watched transfixed as the two of them were showered in dozens of little twinkling sparks. They were a multitude of colors, warm and gentle, yet not a single one compared to the stars in Chariot’s eyes.

“So what’d you think?” Chariot asked excitedly.

It was beautiful…

After that display, and seeing Chariot smile so wholeheartedly, Croix could only manage a nod, feeling her lips twitch into a smile.

Evidently Chariot saw something in her smile because the girl blushed and glanced to the side. “C-come on. Say something then.”

Leaning forward to brush the remaining bits of sparks out of Chariot’s hair, Croix smiled, voice gentle, “It was wonderful. I can’t help but smile after seeing it.”

Turning as red as her hair, Chariot gaped at Croix, lips flapping uselessly. Alcor squawked to fill in the noise for her.

Laughing, Croix swung an arm around Chariot and pulled her in.

What a strange, adorable girl she loved.

#little witch academia #croix meridies #chariot du nord #charoix #my writing #jesus this is the longest i've stuck with a piece of writing

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dvac25 · 4 years

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Cinema will die, or will it ?

Our planet is going through one of the first such event where the entire world has come to a stand still. No one in his or her wildest of dreams would have ever imagined something like this. Nobody could have wondered that their entire life would be turned upside down within a span of days and they would have to surrender to their home premises or where ever they are for months to come.

Our planet has got an opportunity to breathe , to heal. We have witnessed some powerful changes that just a few months of interruption in consumption pattern has brought. Rivers have come back to life, mountains are visible again, some of the extinct wildlife has resurfaced and many more. Moreover Humans as a species have got a rare chance to stop, slow down, spend time with themselves, introspect, and connect with their family and loved ones. The race has halted for a brief interval. That is one of the biggest blessing’s of Covid I can count.

Covid-19 has not left any aspect of life and its bearings untouched. Everything is affected. And everything will change, for good. Life will not be same again. Nor will the industries. The whole function and dynamics of all the industries will change. Human functioning will change. There will be entire washouts of some industries; where as some new forms of workability will take their place.

Being an independent Film Producer and a hardcore fan of real, meaningful Cinema, it pains my heart to see and predict that Cinema as a medium and Cinema Theatres as a business model will also see a major change because of this pandemic. Although like anything, there will be also be some good that will come out of it, and chisel the industry for better. I would like to throw some light on how Cinema will change due to the Pandemic.

Cinema will die, or will it? This is one of the questions that I can see lingering in the air since people really came to terms with Corona and its implications. Well, Cinema is a old age improved form of performed arts which originated when we were foraging as cavemen. It gradually evolved into Theatre and then with the advent of visual and audio technology, evolved into the Cinema that we see today. Now, I don’t think anybody can deny the fact, that nothing is permanent. Everything is changing, each moment, even while you are reading this, you are changing, you are different person that you were a second ago, your nails and hair have grown a bit long in the last one second, the earth we are positioned on, is changing its place, orbiting around the sun, which is orbiting around Milky way, which in turn is orbiting around Virgo Cluster and so on. So Yes, Cinema will also change, it will grow into something new and maybe more exciting.

With the advent of superfast Internet speeds, giving birth to streaming giants like Netflix and Amazon prime, the change was at the doorstep. We have already been a witness to their growing prowess in the last few Oscar Nominations where a streaming production took away most of the awards.

The rate and the conventional dynamics of people going to a Cinema Screen has changed considerably in the last few years because of the option to see the best of the best content sitting in the comfort of your couch. And Covid is going to be a final inevitable undeniable nail in the coffin of traditional Cinema. But there’s more to it.

A major event that we have seen during Covid is that of big studios releasing their films on Digital Platforms, because of the uncertainty over the functioning of Cinema Halls in the near future. Being locked at home and only having access to digital mobile medium as the only Content Provider had anyway made an average person more used to using it and watching content in his palms in the last two months, but release of such big budget films on digital platforms and people having no option but to watch it there, will make them further get used to this new arrangement and break the psychological glass ceiling in their head. It will set the norm and culture of such consumption pattern for future.

The kind of films that are made for Cinema Screen viewing has also changed significantly. These days, and more so in future, big budget, larger than life films are being and will be made especially for Cinema screen viewing that can immerse the audience in an experience that home viewing cannot thankfully replicate or replace currently. The small budget films and content will cater to digital mediums and it makes sense also because it takes a lot of money and resources to release any film in a theatre and the producer has to earn at least 2.5 times the investment to recover his money, after promotion expenses, distribution costs, theatre fees, taxes etc. Then there is another issue of fighting for a slot to be released and to not to be crushed by big players and finally there is no guarantee of film being a success. So it makes it quite a gamble. Big studios have deep pockets and work on an assembly line model and hence can sustain this model. Earlier small films did not have an option to release their films elsewhere and be a slave to such a difficult model but now because of digital foray, an entire new viable option has taken birth and is here to stay. And it is a welcome change. Film distribution model in India was severely screwed and desperately needed some major revamp. Covid will be play the part of balancing act for Cinema’s and its distribution model and will definitely improve its economics and structure for future.

So Cinema will open, and will open in style, as we are all waiting anxiously to go to a Cinema hall just to see a film without any interruption, on a large screen with world class audio and visual standards, that smell of popcorn and comfort of that recliner, immersing ourselves in that grand experience, being lost in the story and the lives of characters on the screen, laughing and crying with them. But how it is done might change. Like anywhere else, one will have to take precaution and there will better and more controlled hygiene and sanitation standards. Even the shoot standards will change how films are made. How intimate scenes are shot will change. These will change the energies of the story and it could be quite noticeable when you see a film.

Finally, one major change that we have seen in this industry is film festivals being cancelled across the globe. All the major film festivals across the world like Cannes, Venice, Toronto, Tribeca, Berlin Film Festival and others have got cancelled and they have joined forces to start a new online Film Festival called “We are One Global Film Festival” which currently happening entirely on Youtube. This in itself is a huge change in how we have always experienced film festivals in the past. Covid has forced the pattern to be changed. Earlier the best of world cinema was screened at these festivals and you had to be there physically to experience it. But now because of Covid, it has been forced to come into your lap. This festival started on May 28th and I feel privileged to have already seen some of the best global films this year sitting at my house.

To conclude, human beings as a species have always been an invincible and unflinching force that has defeated any adversity that has come its way, and has risen better and stronger from the ashes. I have absolutely no doubt that it will be the same for my favorite art form i.e. Cinema and I am excited about the prospects of how it will evolve and continue to engulf us, sensitize us and fascinate us in a much better way and form than ever before.

Remember Cinema is Magic, and Magic never dies.

To Cinema and its power.

Flair Contrubutor: Harsh Agarwal Co-Founder, Uncombed Buddha Pvt Ltd. www.uncombedbuddha.com

Producers of “Nasir” (2020) , “Nirvana Inn” (2019) & “Ghode Ko Jalebi Khilane Le Jaa Riya Hoon” ( 2019)

“Nasir” competed for hugely coveted Tiger Awards at IFFR, Rotterdam and was winner of NETPAC award there. It is one of the only two feature films from India selected for We Are One Global Film Festival ( 2020) which has been curated by Cannes, Venice, Toronto, Tribeca, Berlin Film Festival and others. It has received highly prestigious reviews from Critics around the world and is being called the most relevant film to come out of India in 2020.

“Nirvana Inn” starring Adil Hussain, whose three films have been nominated for Oscar premiered at Busan Film Festival and will be on a Major OTT soon.

“Ghode Ko Jalebi Khilane Le Jaa Riya Hoon” also got the rare privilege to visit Sundance Film Festival.

One of our other projects has been directed by a National Award Winner Director and is yet to release and the other one is competing for a BFI GRANT, London.

#coronavirus #COVID19 #harsh agarwal #Uncombed Buddha #Nasir #Nirvana Inn

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a-petal-on-the-breeze-blog · 7 years

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First ever Choices fanfic

Title: The Long Haul Pairing: Endless Summer, Jake x MC (who I’ve named Leah) Summary: After saving the world, Jake is faced with a heartbreaking decision.

***

The room is enveloped in the heavy silence that accompanies the pre-dawn hours. A lone figure stands watch beside the bed, troubled and torn. Beside him, a woman appears angelic in sleep. Her tousled blonde hair, silver in the moonlight, forms a halo around her peaceful face. After a night of lovemaking, she is cocooned in the deep slumber of one who feels safe and cherished.

Jake leans down to brush a pale strand from her cheek. His fingers linger, as if he can’t quite help himself. He has been awake for hours, lost in thought, tortured and deliberating.

Less than twenty four hours ago, they saved the whole world and partied like big damn heroes, the life-threatening mysteries and dangers of the island finally conquered. He had never seen her so radiant, incandescent with joy and exhilarated by their victory. By the fact that they had somehow survived it all and still had each other. After the group celebration had dwindled, they had come together with the fire and passion of two people grateful to be alive.

As they lay exhausted in each other’s arms, she had talked endlessly about the future. Her hopes and plans. With him. And as she went on, he had grown increasingly more uncertain, doubt clawing at his gut. Absolutely, she had a future worth planning. But he didn’t, and now that their time on La Huerta was coming to a close, the sad reality of their situation was dawning on him.

So he had kissed her, and murmured the correct vague responses at appropriate intervals, allowing her to dream aloud. But once she drifted off, her cheerful murmuring replaced by slow and steady breathing, he had slipped out of bed to pace restlessly. Weighing his choices. Considering her future happiness.

Hours later, he has finally reconciled himself to the decision he believes to be the most realistic. Jake briefly leaves her side to pack his few belongings, stuffing them into his duffle bag. Then he returns to the bed and gently kisses her forehead, pausing to look upon her one last time.

It feels a bit like he’s dying inside. The thought of leaving her, never holding her again, is agonizing. He shakes his head to clear it, and backs away unsteadily. If he doesn’t go now, he’ll never find the resolve.

Jake does his best to convince himself that this is necessary. Maybe, at first, she’ll feel devastated, he tells himself; but a girl like that won’t be lonely for long. He, on the other hand, will spend the rest of his life trying to forget her. Drinking away his memories, until they half exist, shrouded in a faraway, fairytale past. She’ll move on, to marriage and family. Soon he’ll only be a ghost to her.

He shoulders his bag, and doesn’t allow himself a final glance back before he exits their room. It hurts too damn much.

Accustomed to gliding through the shadows, he easily makes his way down to the grand staircase and through the atrium. Every step of the way he second guesses himself. Leah will feel abandoned by him. Will she blame herself for his leaving? Will she hate him for it?

“Where are you off to this early, Jake?” Sean’s authoritative tone startles him out of his pensive brooding. He nearly jumps a foot. “It’s not even dawn yet. Got somewhere you need to be?”

“Congrats on your stealth skills, Cap,” Jake bites off. “You scared the ever-loving shit out of me.”

Sean raises an eyebrow. “That’s a colorful way of putting it.” He nods toward the duffle bag. “You’re leaving?”

Jake’s jaw tightens. “Yep.”

The quarterback’s stare is stony, accusing. “Does Leah know?”

“I don’t see how any of that is your business,” Jake replies curtly, dodging the question. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Sean shakes his head and gives a short, entirely humorless laugh. “Wow, Jake. None of my business? Leah’s feelings and well being aren’t my business? Worrying about my friends isn’t my business?”

Jake turns abruptly, angrily wheeling back around to face his rival. “Oh yeah, I’m sure you’ll make it your business real soon. Comfort her in her time of need. You’ll be there to help her pick up the pieces and move on– with you.” He finds that he’s practically spitting out the words. His fists are balled tightly. “Isn’t that what you’ve wanted this whole time? Aren’t you the fella that always gets the girl?”

Sean blinks in surprise, clearly shocked. He shakes his head. “What are you talking about? We all know how Leah feels about you, and how you feel about her. What’re you doing, man? Why are you running from this?”

“Because that’s what I do, QB,” Jake retorts with exaggerated sarcasm. “I run. It’s what I do best.”

Sean glares back. “What about Leah?” He challenges. “Is this what she gets for trusting you, for loving you? Is this what she deserves?”

Could she really love him? A luckless nobody? Jake hesitates, his chest aching, the regret and longing suddenly too heavy of a burden. In his minds eye, he imagines her still wrapped in sleep, warm and comfortable in the bed they once shared, blissfully unaware of his betrayal. And he hates himself for what he’s about to do. What he must do.

“No,” he answers, resignedly. “She doesn’t deserve this. She deserves so much better than me.” He meets Sean’s gaze. “She deserves someone like you.”

Sean crosses his arms. “She chose you Jake. And you owe her an explanation.”

“The hell I do!” He is immediately ashamed of his words. They are all bravado and stem more from habit than truth. “She doesn’t really know me. None of you do. She’ll be better off without me. She can have the life she was always meant to.”

“Bullshit.” Sean says simply.

“Excuse me, Captain Cardboard?” Jake snarls.

Sean appears unaffected by the insult. “I said bullshit.” Jake opens his mouth to argue, but Sean cuts him off. “She does know you. She sees you as you really are and accepts you. And honestly, I think that scares the hell out of you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jake offers up lamely.

“Whatever, man. You’re acting like a coward,” Sean looks at him pointedly, “and I don’t believe for one second that you’ve ever been a coward in your life.”

They stand in tense silence for a moment, regarding each other with a mixture of mutual frustration and grudging respect. The quiet padding of bare feet on tile abruptly ends the stand off. Leah appears, slightly disheveled and blinking back sleep. She pauses to take in the scene, glancing back and forth between the two solemn men. The tension in the room is palpable.

“Jake? Sean?” She questions from around a yawn. “What are you both doing up?”

Sean nods in Leah’s direction. “I’ll let you two talk.” And after giving Jake a meaningful look, he slips out of the room.

Leah turns to regard him, and he is painfully aware that he looks as guilty as a man possibly can.

“What’s going on, Jake?” She asks, her gaze lingering on his traveling clothes and bag. “Please tell me you’re not sneaking out. Tell me that’s not what this is.”

He feels a lump begin to form in his throat. “You caught me, princess.” He shrugs, smiling weakly. “But it’s long overdue. Now that we got this mess cleared up, I have to see about some business. I’m headed back to Costa Rica just as soon as I can.” He pauses, fumbling over the words. “I’m really gonna miss you. Hell, even gonna miss the rest of the Scooby gang…”

Her face falls, disappointment warring with anger and heartbreak, and he instantly regrets the lightness of his tone. The false humor and cavalier attitude. Suddenly, all he wants to do is gather her up in his arms and apologize profusely for being an asshole.

“You were just going to leave without saying goodbye?” Her tone is more than simply wounded. It’s anguished. “Slip out in the middle of the night like this meant nothing to you?

He releases the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Leah–”

“I want you to answer me!” A storm flashes in her eyes. “Did I mean anything to you? Did this mean anything?” The pain in her voice is so raw it makes him flinch. He can’t bear to be the cause of it another moment, and so when he speaks, it is with slow, measured honesty.

“It meant everything to me.” He is so incredibly vulnerable right now. “You know that.”

“Then why?” She demands, and he can see the tears welling up in her eyes, deepening the hue, transforming them into glassy pools of brilliant blue. Those eyes that have captivated and haunted him from the moment they met.

Jake sighs raggedly, defeated. “Because I ain’t worth it, princess. Not your time, not your future. You have your whole life ahead of you, and there’s nothing I can offer you that can compete with it.” He smiles sadly at her. “College, your own Prince Charming, the house, the kids. The damn picket fence. You deserve all of it and more. And I can’t give it to you. I’m a wanted man. Hell, I’m a mess of a human being. I can’t give you what you want.”

She regards him silently through her tears, and then shakes her head. “How do you know what I want? You never even asked. You never gave me a choice in this.”

In that moment he feels like the coward he is. As much as he would like to claim that he’s being selfless, that he’s putting her needs first, a part of him has to admit that he has spent years perfecting the art of keeping everyone at arms length. Leaving them before they had the chance to hurt him. And he recognizes that deep down, he is scared as hell. Because he’s completely, helplessly in love with her and absolutely terrified he’ll mess it up. Terrified that one day she’ll see him for the loser he believes he is, and leave him high and dry. And alone again.

He drops his duffle bag and runs a hand over his face, unable to meet her eye. In an instant, she has crossed the floor and is standing less than a foot away from him. Close enough to touch, and man, does he long for nothing more than to touch her. But he remains still, stalled and unsure.

“I want you, Jake.” She says softly, and the sincerity of her words moves him to tears. He blinks hard to fight them off, but they burn and blur his vision.

Leah gently places both palms on his chest and leans her forehead against his, radiating empathy and forgiveness. “I want you, do you hear me? And that’s it. None of the other stuff matters.”

She is so damn good and he is in awe that anyone this kind, this loyal, could ever want to be with him. Could ever truly be his. She looks up at him, earnest, and he knows, down in his bones, that she means every word. Sean’s actually right about this one. She does know him, and she wants him anyway.

He envelopes her in a hug, crushing her to his chest, burying his face in her hair. “All right, princess,” he acknowledges after a long moment, kissing her temple. “You got me, for better or worse. For the long haul.”

She smiles up at him. “For the long haul,” she agrees.

He shakes his head wryly. “Fair warning, life with me ain’t easy. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I think I have a pretty good idea.” She tilts her chin toward him; an invitation. And one he gladly accepts. Taking her face in his hands, he kisses her deeply, tenderly.

“It’s still so early,” she says, nuzzling against his neck. “Come back to bed, and stay there this time.”

He has the good sense to look abashed. “Yes, ma'am. And I look forward to being able to make it up to you.”

“Good,” she smirks at him, reaching for his hand. “Because if you ever pull an idiot stunt like that again, I swear I will kick your ass, Jake McKenzie.”

He chuckles, kissing her knuckles. “And I’ll gladly take my beating, princess.”

She starts to lead him out of the room, but he stops her, his brow suddenly knitting in shame. “Leah… I’m sorry. I know messed up. I’m a damn fool. This,” he gestures feebly between the two of them, “this is all new for me.” He clears his throat, embarrassed. “And I, well, I just want you to know that you mean the world to me, and I don’t want you to ever forget that.”

“Hey,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around his neck, “You’re stuck with me, hotshot. We’ll figure this out together.”

He pulls her close and fervently captures her lips with his, winding his fingers in her hair, kissing her earlobe, her neck. And before he can stop himself, the words come tumbling clumsily out of his mouth, unbidden and urgent.

“I love you, Leah,” he whispers into her hair. It catches them both off guard, and she pulls away, staring up at him. He blinks back at her, mouth ajar, cheeks burning.

“I, uh,” he stammers, suddenly painfully awkward and so unlike his smug, roguish self. “I didn’t mean to–”

Leah touches a hand to his cheek. “I love you too, Jake.”

He breaks out into a relieved smile that soon widens into his trademark cocky grin. He nods his approval. “Damn straight, princess.” Jake takes her hand, interlacing their fingers. “Come on now, let’s get you back to bed.”

Together, they exit the atrium. His duffle bag remains behind, abandoned. He doesn’t give it a second thought.

***

#choicesstoriesyouplay #playchoices #jake #jakemckenzie #endlesssummer #JakeFanclub

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brainsinmyheadfeetinmyshoes · 7 years

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Celia’s Birth Story.

Welcome, Celia Fe! Born 08.05.17, surprising everyone 23 days before her due date.

*****

At my 36wk mark on Monday, I had a funny inkling that the baby would be here soon. I called to make a hair appointment and thought, "Wouldn't it be ironic if she's born before then?" The inkling kept tickling my mind and emotions and I wrote it off as a sense of preparedness. I was prepared for labor and delivery, and it was just me, ready to get to the other side.

By Wednesday, the inkling grew frenetic. I just KNEW she would be here soon. I was filled with strange new energy to get ready, quick. Pack the hospital bag. Take maternity photos with the boys NOW because the weekend might be too late. Get out the carseat and wash the cover. Just totally overwhelmed by this sense that she was coming SOON. And after I ate a hearty yogurt-apple salad at 3pm, I wasn't hungry again. Strange, I'm always hungry...

At 7pm, I tweaked an abdominal muscle somehow. It felt like the baby kicked or elbowed me and it triggered a sharp round ligament pain... except the pain spread to the other side, and lasted for hours. I couldn't roll over in bed or walk to the bathroom without assistance. After five hours, I phoned Labor and Delivery and they suggested I come in for monitoring. The jostling car ride over was terrrrrrible, but it was kind of nice to have a practice run since we hadn't delivered at this hospital before.

They kept us in triage for about six hours, then sent us home. Contractions started while there, and were regular, but I only dilated 1cm. The doctor credits the abdominal pain to carrying very low with very weak muscles. She said she could tell that the musculature was stretched thin because she could see baby's movements clearly without even palpating. She recommended a support belt, even if I only used it a few days, and sent me to labor at home.

We got home soon after 8am Thursday, and I proceeded to sleep most of the day while Erik took on the boys. I had the genius idea to try using our jersey-knit-fabric baby carrier to help support my belly once I dared to stand up and it made a huge difference. I had found a pelvic tuck-and-lift exercise that I intended to try anyway with my low belly, so this made it very easy to do. It entails manually lifting the belly during a contraction while tucking the pelvis in and bending the knees, for ten consecutive contractions. This presumably gets baby over the pubic bone and into the pelvic cavity, also coercing her to rotate into an optimal position if necessary. Contractions had continued most of the day at regular intervals and were around 5min apart at this point, so it was a straightforward activity. I think ultimately, it worked magic, because my pain went from a 7-8 at the hospital, to a 5 late Thursday, and ultimately, was nonexistent when active labor began. My belly felt and appeared higher than it had been as well, reducing that abdominal strain, with much less overhang over my pubic bone and a much more heartburny, cut-off-air-supply feeling at my breastbone.

Thursday night, contractions all but disappeared, so everyone got pretty solid sleep. Friday, I craved oatmeal for breakfast, despite it being an unfriendly gestational diabetic breakfast, but I needn't have worried about that--my appetite remained nearly nonexistent. It was extremely hard to choke down food these two days, made worse by the guilt that I should keep my energy up for active labor. I learned that I was likely experiencing "prodromal labor," which is essentially when early labor comes in fits and starts. It features very real contractions, at regular intervals, with real pain, that are productive at effacing and dilating the cervix, but never seem to amount to much. It can last up to a month before active labor begins. After a quiet morning, mine started up again in the afternoon at 15min apart, then progressed to 10min apart, and disappeared at bedtime. I resigned myself to this pattern for days on end. On the one hand, prodromal labor often shortens active labor which is nice, and gives you a chance to practice relaxation and breathing techniques, but on the other, it's total crap for morale and is physically taxing. Plus, who wants to be in limbo?! Either baby is coming or she's not...!

Around 1am Saturday, an extra hard, long contraction woke me up, and it was followed by three more before I finally got out the timer. They were between 60-90 seconds long, every 5-6 minutes. (Everything prior had been a minute or less long, with less intensity.) I got up to shower and move around, figuring they would stop if it was more prodromal labor. But they didn't. So then I thought, maybe they'll stop when I lay back down. But they didn't. After a few that required serious concentration, I was ready to hit the hospital. I could only take so much solo. Our sweet neighbor came over at 3:30am to stay with the boys, and off we went, with contractions every 3-4min.

I was admitted at 4:15am, at about 4cm dilated. I had been waffling about an epidural--I had one with Lucian, with a bad experience, and had no choice but to skip it with Lionel. So having a choice now was tough. The thought of getting hooked up to an IV, waiting for labs to come back, talk with the anesthesiologist, sit very still while they hooked it up to my back, the chance that I would be a passive agent at delivery... the hassle hardly seemed worth the (sheer bliss of) numbness. On the other hand, being a hero for hours upon hours as I slooooowly dilated was not something I had the morale to do. So a rock and a hard place. I got the IV drip just in case (extra fluids never hurt), but the conversation pretty much ended after that, because things moved quickly, thank heavens.

Within an hour I was at 6cm, which is rapid progress. It was the same every contraction: Erik would put his hands on my shoulders and apply pressure, and I begged him to give me a pep talk (even though I hate pep talks and he hates giving pep talks and also, he sucks at giving pep talks), while I inhaled, then moaned deeply, 5-8 times. Breathing was the thing I did poorly with Lionel and I didn't want to make the same mistake this time. The very sweet nurse, who stayed with us the whole time, constantly said, "Good job, you're doing great" about my breathing. At some point, I told her, "Tell me I'm one of the best you've ever seen," (Again, seeking that pep talky validation, haha) and she said, "You're really doing everything so well! Your Blah-Blah Breathing Technique is perfect. Do you do yoga?" And I almost laughed, because me, do yoga? Maybe four times in my life. I suck at breathing, that's why I DON'T do yoga. Ha! But maybe this will initiate me to a yoga practice since I apparently am capable of being a pro breather.

I had the urge to pee around this point, but the act of squatting on the toilet squared up the pressure way too much, so my grand plans of walking and moving during labor went right out the window then, and I just stayed in the bed. But it was really great to feel like that was 100% my choice, which was not an autonomy I felt I had with Lucian and Lionel.

Things got pretty dire at 7.5-8cm. It was totally textbook. That's when women tend to want to give up. To think they can't do it. They really need to gather themselves between contractions so aren't chatty or cheerful. The sounds of labor follow a certain pitch and scale. But damn, it was really hard. During the car ride, I had explained to Erik that the pain during a contraction was like changing gears in a car, with identifiable levels requiring deep breathes, then faster deep breathes, then a low moan with each breathe, then a louder moan, etc. You can physically feel the uterus kind of inch upward, like drawing up a curtain, bunching at the top to dilate at the bottom. Each time it bunches, the pain amps up. And from 8-10cm, that curtain was totally being yanked into place within me. And I couldn't find the corresponding response, since I was already moaning and groaning up a storm and had nowhere else to go. Especially when the urge to push kicked in, when it felt like my uterus was squeezing so tightly, I had no choice but to join it.

The one thing that got me through that last 10 minutes before pushing was a cherry popsicle. I was drenched in sweat, and couldn't open my eyes, and the contractions came every 1min, and I was so tired and just wanted to rest, and the thought of that icy sweet relief got me through each contraction because I couldn't wait for another taste. It was a perfect gift.

The team assembled quickly as I escalated. My waters hadn't ruptured throughout ALL of this, and I felt enormous pressure. I just wanted to push, if only to force that pressure away. Two residents managed the delivery and through my last 1-3 contractions as I begged them to let me push, they said they wanted to wait for the attending physician. F*** that, man. I know there are protocols that they need to follow, but I feel like they had enough notice to get themselves organized. I recall mention of baby's heart rate slowing down and I think that was the main motivator for them to let me push. Apparently the attending physician WAS present, but I never registered her entrance. They poked that amniotic sac, and oh, the relief as the clear fluid poured out. Only not. I recall pushing being a welcomed reprieve from contractions with Lionel, something I bore cheerfully, but I wanted this baby OUT. I didn't pay any attention to riding the waves or pausing between contractions, I just inhaled and pushed, inhaled and pushed. Erik thinks it lasted for three contractions. I think it was for maybe 6-8 counts of 10, which didn't necessarily correspond with contractions. Who cares. At some point I was positive her head was out, but when I asked, they said she was only just crowning. Which made me push harder, damn it.

Within probably five minutes though, she slithered out, 1hr 45min after I set foot in the delivery room, and they put her right on me. She gurgled and cried right away so the neonatal team didn't have to sweep her off, though they did assess her right away and she passed with flying colors. Delivering the placenta, an unpleasant memory from my other two births entailing much unceremonious yanking of the umbilical cord, was no big deal this time, requiring only two small pushes. As they rinsed me off, someone (maybe it was the attending physician) said, "Does it make it better to know you had zero tearing?!" So no stitches for me. A nice reward I suppose, though things are so messed up from the waist down postpartum, it doesn't seem like such a huge perk. Maybe I'll be grateful in a few days, when the swelling has gone down and I'm not using sitz baths. I don't know. Tearing was never one of my big hangups.

They brought her right back for skin to skin contact. She was so peaceful, though alert, and had no trouble starting to nurse. In fact, she's a champ breastfeeder with a hearty appetite and thank goodness--they have to check her blood sugar at least six times, and get good readings before we're discharged because of the gestational diabetes. But go me for managing my sugar well enough for her not to tank. Also, because she's considered preterm (by only two days but still), all the usual concerns about weight gain and jaundice are especially heightened. Despite being only 5lb 15oz, all the medical staff assess her to be very healthy, appearing more advanced than her gestational age. So it was just time for baby girl to come out!

Erik says he was really impressed by me throughout. I seemed calm and in control, did a great job breathing, managed the pain well, and did everything like a champ. It feels good to hear, of course. But despite having that same sense myself--I knew what was going on and what to do this third time around--coming out of labor and delivery, all I've felt is relief, with a slight tinge of negativity. It was a hard battle won. Such a hard battle. The pregnancy wore on me. The gestational diabetes wore on me. The prodromal labor and abdominal pain wore on me. So my feelings of, "Whoa, that was really something, can I try it again and do better?" after Lucian, and "Whoa, I delivered a baby in an hour with no epidural, I'm a rockstar!" after Lionel, are in sharp contrast to a feeling of not wanting to do this again for a long, long time. If ever.

Another way I know labor impacted me differently this time, is that when they gave me Pitocin to control the bleeding immediately after delivery, each tiny little cramp I felt entered my psyche as, "Oh God no, not another contraction," and I braced myself. It took quite awhile to mentally accept that it was over. So it caused a little emotional trauma I think.

Finally, I was so excited to write out Lucian and Lionel's birth stories. It was cathartic. A processing mechanism. Something I had to do before I could get any sleep. This time, while I've still written all this out in less than 12 hours following her birth, it came from a place of, "I guess I gotta document this one too," despite the strong desire to just leave it in my memory. Perhaps that means I did a proper job of emotionally processing in the moment. Or perhaps I'm just so bone-weary from these hard years of childbirth and child-rearing, it feels like an excessive mental exercise. Regardless, I've written the thing now, and I know I won't regret it!

Erik is bringing the boys now with cupcakes to celebrate Celia's birthday. I can't wait for them to meet her. And I can't wait to eat a cupcake.

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personal-stxff-blog · 7 years

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The Phoenix

Hey everyone! So, here’s another x-files college au with a weird twist. It’s also on AO3 so I’ll link that here (so far there’s seven chapters but I’ll post them all up here in one bulk - sorry ‘bout that). If anyone on here is interested I’ll continue to update on Tumblr, although I might do that anyway to be honest. Anyway, sorry for the ramble. Here you go!

It wasn’t Mulder’s idea of a great night out, but they dragged him along anyway.

Ringo had been the one to suggest going, and for once Melvin had actually agreed to one of his ideas. John seemed impartial and rolled with what they were saying. Fox, however, wasn’t too keen on it. They had pored over movies on TV and at the cinema - nothing. None of them were hungry and the angry old farmer at the top of the hill had caught them UFO-spotting a few nights ago and had told them that if they came back one more time he’d set his dogs on them. It didn’t seem to leave them many more options.

“I just don’t see why,” Mulder huffed. “Since when have you guys been into brawling and street fighting? In fact, when have any of you cared about any variety of sport?” Ringo Langley - who, like the other two, preferred to be addressed by his last name - grinned and tapped his nose.

“Ever since we started watching Gladiators,” Frohike sighed, smiling to himself. “Natalie Lennox is an absolute babe.” Langley glanced up from his computer with a frown, opening his mouth to protest immediately.

“Uhh, have you seen Marisa Peré?” he argued. “She was the original Lace -and she was the best!”

“Lennox is way hotter - what are you talking about?” Frohike persisted, throwing his hands up dramatically. “And besides...”

Mulder tuned out the sound of their ceaseless bickering as he approached the crumpled poster on Frohike’s desk. It was torn and dog-eared from some sort of excessive reference which Mulder preferred not to consider. “Got what it takes?” was slapped at the top of the paper in vibrant red writing. He continued down the page, skimming through the information. “The Combat Zone proudly presents...Fight-And-Fantasy REDUX!...Old and new acts every week...sign up if you think you’ve got what it takes...winner wins $500, losers win a broken nose...$10 a ticket. The more the merrier.” Mulder shook his head in disbelief. Did he really have nothing else to do but waste ten bucks watching a bunch of amateur fighters and scantily-clad women beating each other up?

Apparently so. The argument had been cleared and the three boys were reaching for their coats by the door. Byers glanced back at him hopefully. “You coming, Mulder?” With an internal sigh, he nodded, grabbing his jacket from the chair behind him. How bad could it really be?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Pretty bad.

They were stuck in a stuffy room with crowds of people who were primarily drunk or terrifying - sometimes they found men and women alike who happened to fit into both categories. Mulder had never felt so small in his life, or so excruciatingly young. They were the youngest around by far, the rest of the people in the cramped bar/arena starting in their late twenties and drifted into the thirties, forties, even fifties. Many of them looked as though they were part of some type of biker gang. If this bothered the Three Stooges who dragged him through the scary masses, they hadn’t shown it. They smiled and excused their way past the bar and shuffled into a tiny booth with a surprisingly fair view of what was supposedly the ‘ring’. A rickety wire cage that snaked all the way up to the ceiling, the sides concealed by thick curtains that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a theater. Maybe that’s what this place used to be, he thought, staring around absently. It wouldn’t surprise him.

“One of our favorites is coming on tonight,” Byers said excitedly. “She’s called the Phoenix. Just wait ‘til you see her, Mulder. She’s such a fantastic fighter. Nobody knows who she is, or where she came from. That’s why they call her that - she just rose out of nowhere, like out of the ashes, or something. We’ve heard that even the managers and coaches have no idea who she really is.”

“She’s hot, too,” Frohike agrees, sipping on his drink. “Wait until she comes on, she’s got a body like you’ll never believe.” Mulder rolled his eyes, a gentle huff of laughter breaking between his lips. The mention of cute girls made this entire idea seem a little less ridiculous, though he wasn’t willing to admit that to anybody just yet. He wasn’t necessarily pleased with the idea of them beating the crap out of each other.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The widespread clamor of everybody yelling over each other dwindled into eager murmuring as a voice boomed out of the tinny speakers. Mulder opened his mouth but Langley quickly nudged him into silence, his eyes rooted to the spindly cage. He looked around; everybody was hypnotized, under some sort of spell, by the looks of things. He momentarily entertained the idea of witchcraft and laughed to himself. “It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for, for tonight we have some wonderful people with us. We’ve got a vicious fight between the deadly Viper and her arch-rival Nemesis -” The audience cheered and clapped, drinking in the MC’s voice. Mulder cringed. “Then we’ve got the Lion and the Wolf up against one another in the second round -” More whooping and hollering. Mulder couldn’t help but wonder if they all had such embarrassing names. Talk about wannabe wrestlers. “And there’s plenty more where that came from folks, but I know what you’re all here for... The ultimate showdown between our much-loved killer queens - it’s the Phoenix and the Widow, fighting once again for the grand prize of $500!”

The room was filled with ear-splitting screams and shouts. Most people seemed to be hollering in the Phoenix’s honor, although there was a scattered undertone of people screaming ‘Widow!’ hysterically. Mulder wondered if he’d even be able to make it to the final fight without taking a couple of painkillers in the bathroom, or just straight-up walking out. His head was pulsing already.

“Is it always this loud?” he yelled into Frohike’s ear, who also happened to be whistling and cheering on the Phoenix. He nodded, patting his friend’s shoulder and laughing. Mulder held his own face in his hands, void of hope.

“Our first fighters of the night are new to the ring, so be nice,” the MC teased through the speakers. Everyone roared with laughter. He introduced them slowly, bringing up fabricated backstories and leaving everyone hanging as he called out their names. “Iiiiiiiiit’s... Storm!” and “Heeeeeeeeeere she is: it’s Athena!”

Mulder watched them both saunter into their corners, throwing furtive looks to the crowd and blowing kisses at nobody in particular. His three friends lapped this performance right up, their tongues practically hanging out of their mouths. He raised his eyebrows and sunk further back into the leather seating. Surely any movie would’ve been better than this, right? Did we really have no other choice?

The fights came and went without provoking any other emotion but pure, consistent boredom from him. It suited his friends, who designated him as the one to buy more cans of Coke and Sprite from the bar. This didn’t improve his mood in the slightest, for he needed to push past all the tough biker guys to get to the bar, which was also tended by a pretty scary looking man. As much as he wanted to leave, he found himself hanging around. There was no real reason why. He felt at though sticking around would be the polite thing to do, but that never normally kept him from running away from whatever his friends had planned out. Screw politeness, there was something else. He figured he’d stick around until the end. Maybe he'd been a little too harsh on the guys, maybe he was making a big deal over nothing. Maybe something good would come up somewhere.

Emphasis on ‘maybe’.

The evening dragged on and the acts were all the same; cute, flirty girls with feisty attitudes and beefy men with cocky smiles and bulging muscles. Blood was spilled on more than a few occasions and hastily wiped away in the intervals between brawls. Lion spat out a piece of broken tooth into the audience mid-fight and it landed at Langley’s feet. Mulder wasn’t a particularly sensitive person but he drew the line after watching Viper’s nose break and seeing her getting carried off the stage screaming and wailing for help. He picked up his jacket and nodded at his friends. They immediately looked disheartened.

“What’s the matter, Mulder?” Byers asked. “The Phoenix is about to come on! Don’t you want to see what all the fuss is about?”

“Not particularly,” he mutters, hurrying his coat on. “It was great guys, but I think I’ve had enough gore for one day. I’m actually surprised you three survive in a place like this.” They have the dignity to look offended.

“Sit down,” Frohike insists. “Trust me. She’s way hotter than Lennox and Peré combined.” Well now I definitely want to stay, Mulder thinks sarcastically. Yet against his better judgment, he sinks into his seat again, propping his elbows up on the table and resting his face on them like a sullen schoolboy. He concentrates on deliberately ignoring the stupid MC bigging the girls up, delving into their non-existent stories. His focus slips, however, and he finds himself listening in on snippets from the Phoenix’s introduction. She swanned out of nowhere, out of the ashes, as Byers said. Young, fiery, not to be messed with. He scoffed under his breath - not that anybody would’ve heard him. The roars of her fans were deafening as she was introduced into the cage.

Mulder squinted, waiting for her to appear so he could see what all the fuss was about. This had better be worth it, he complained internally. He leaned forward, his head resting on his knuckles.

There she was. The Phoenix.

The first thing he noticed about her was that she carried herself differently to the other girls who had previously been. She didn’t flaunt, she didn’t have any flair or glamor or anything that marked her as something of a show-off. She walked like she meant business - like she knew what she was doing. He found himself impressed, for some reason, and found himself sitting up a little straighter in his chair. The second thing he noticed was that she didn’t need to prove her sexuality to the audience, not deliberately at least. Her legs were dressed in skin-tight leather, accentuating every curve of her lower half. Watching her felt wrong, somehow. It felt almost obscene. He found his face flushing, though no one could see for the only lights were those illuminating her arena - and it definitely was hers. She had her audience hanging onto her every movement. She was wearing a tight black vest too, but he tried to skim past for the sake of keeping some illusion of being a gentleman. Then he remembered that they weren’t the only ones in the room and felt stupid. He didn’t look anyway; his shirt wasn't long enough to pull over his lap.

The only thing missing was a face, an identity. She was looking away from the audience; all he could see was a burst of flame which just so happened to be her cropped red hair. As though reading his mind she turned suddenly and abruptly. The only glitzy part about her was the glitter dashed against her cheeks and lips; it sparkled under the lighting like embers.

No wonder they called her the Phoenix. She didn’t just look like fire, she was fire; she was a burning flame, passion, desire, life itself. Mulder found himself captivated, suddenly enthralled by the idea of street-fighting so long as she was involved. She had pulled him into the most wonderful inferno imaginable and he never wanted to leave, only to be surrounded by everything she represented.

He found that he was gaping and immediately stopped himself, trying to regain his composure. Of course, the others had already noticed but they had also fallen into her trap. They were gazing at her like they couldn’t believe their own eyes. Mulder pinched himself. This is not a dream.

He may or may not have been in love, in a wonderfully starstruck kind of way. He decided that the combat zone wasn't so bad after all.

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No Exit from Fantasyland

by Alasdair Czyrnyj

Monday, 22 February 2010Alasdair tries to come to grips with the Fencer Trilogy~

Before I begin, I have a confession. Up until a few years ago, I had never read anything of that great amorphous genre of fantasy. It was a matter of bad timing, really. I spent most of the pre-teenage years most sensible people spend reading children's fantasy reading Star Trek tie-ins, and the years after that saw me shifting through classic science fiction and history in rapid succession. By the time I started to get serious about revisiting fantasy I'd hit university, meaning that my choice of fantasy has tended to fall in line with my other literary interests. When people talk of fantasy, my mind hearkens to the glacial machinescapes of Ian R. MacLeod, the Marxist surrealism of China Miéville, the savage deconstructions of Michael Swanwick, the humanist comedy of Terry Pratchett, even the bureaucratic terror of Franz Kafka.

And K. J. Parker.

K. J. Parker is something of an odd duck. She's been writing for over a decade now, though she's only gained any recognition in the last couple of years. Her output tends to be fairly modest; normally a new book a year, with no short stories or other external writing. We don't even know who she is; "K. J. Parker" is a pseudonym, and about the only things anyone knows about her is that she's a woman, she hails from a farming family in Vermont, she likes history and skilled trades, and she's married to a solicitor in southern England.

So, what it is about Parker's work that merits serious critical attention? What would compel me, a reader who normally avoids trilogies like grim death, to work my way through her entire bibliography in the space of a year?

In short, it is because she writes fantasy the way no one else does. And it is

horrifying

Here, I'll explain what I mean.

Colours in the Steel, or How to Besiege a Late-Medieval Metropolis in One Easy Lesson

Parker's first work, the Fencer Trilogy, has something of a misleading format. While there are three books that describe the journey of a particular group of characters, it doesn't really

read

as a trilogy. Each book is set in a completely different location from its predecessors, and each is separated from the previous book by an interval of several years. The books also ignore the classic conventions of genre by redefining the relationship the characters have with their world. Rather than commanding their narratives and acting as the centers of the universe, the characters of the

Fencer

books are forever bound to the material and economic forces that drive their world, where success is determined by a comprehension of these forces which, due to human nature, can never be total.

To understand this world, we are given the mopey (if initially sympathetic) character of Bardas Loredan, ex-farmer, ex-soldier, fencer, bowyer, and occasional general as a guide. We meet Bardas in

Colours in the Steel

(1998), working as duelist at law (a profession, surprisingly enough, that Parker renders as plausible, or at least as logically illogical) in the Constantinople-flavored Triple City of Perimadeia. Like all great cities, Perimadeia has its enemies, chief among them Temrai, leader of the plainspeople whom Perimadeia has traditionally dealt with through the time-honored strategy of butcher-and-bolt. A modernizer in the style of Peter the Great, Temrai has traveled incognito to Perimadeia to school himself in the construction of heavy machinery, so that his people may devise the weapons they need to bring down the Triple City once and for all.

While this sounds like a fairly generic setup for a fantasy novel, Parker's prose gives the story a unique bent. While most authors would bring their worlds to life through architectural tours and history lessons, Parker builds her world with machinery. Through all three books, great care is lavished on the step-by-step forging and assembly of material goods. In the course of reading the

Fencer

books, a reader will learn how to forge a sword, how a water wheel works, how to assemble a trebuchet, how to assemble a bow, and how to subject armor to destructive testing. While this would normally read as mere authorial self-indulgence, it is a credit to Parker that these passages serve to drive the story. After reading page after page of construction, the reader begins to reinterpret the story appropriately, reading the plot not as a simple clash of personalities, but as a conflict between great, grinding forces made up of millions of people, animated by a single goal, and fueled by the prosaic things we take for granted in our world. Rather than magic or the feudal privilege, Parker's world operates by economics, political struggle, logistics, and, ultimately, by conflict. While Perimadeian culture is kept somewhat murky, by watching how its inhabitants use and interpret their machines, we see how Perimadeia operates and how its citizens interpret the world.

This is not to say that there is no magic in the books. Indeed, one of the main plotlines of the trilogy concerns the operation of magic. Early on in

Colours,

a young woman approaches Patriarch Alexius, the chief lecturer at Perimadeia's magical college, asking that he place a curse on Bardas Loredan to punish him for his role in "murdering" her uncle during a duel. After applying the curse, Alexius spends the rest of the story trying to undo it, revealing a hidden truth about magic:

no one knows how it works

. Despite studying it for decades, Alexius does not understand anything about its operation, as he freely admits. Even Parker's description is hard to puzzle out; it appears to operate on a sort of system of universal balance dubbed "The Principle," and it can be used to alter key decisions through precognitive visions, though it's never made clear if the visions are prophecies or simply hallucinations. Oh, and they might be manipulated by someone none of the characters know about.

The book builds slowly for the first half, with Bardas drifting from job to job, Alexius trying to figure out just what he did, and Temrai transforming his nation into a mechanically-competent band of semi-settled tribespeople. At the halfway mark, Temrai's people approach the gates of Perimadeia, and a great siege begins. The depiction of the siege is one of the high points of the novel, and one of the areas where Parker's writing shines. The whole enterprise is gloriously messy. There's uncomprehending denial on the part of the Perimadeians, skirmishes that devolve into rugby scrums, artillery duels that don't accomplish much, illogical politics, and even a decent secret weapon. Despite his dislike of the military life, Bardas is conscripted into the defense of Perimadeia, managing to fight the plainspeople to a draw.

At this point, the book explodes.

Throughout the book, there are references to an unnamed bald, bearded figure who seems to have a hand in every major development of the book, acting as an advisor to Temrai and haunting Alexius' visions. In the final hundred pages of the book, a name is finally put to the face: Gorgas Loredan, estranged brother to Bardas. However, as he explains to Alexius in a somewhat out-of-place monologue, his motives are simple. It turns out that years ago, he, Bardas, and the rest of their family were all living on the farm off on the island of Mesoge. However, after an unfortunate incident in which Gorgas pimped out his older sister to two visiting noblemen, only to kill them, his sister (failed), his father, and Bardas (failed again) when the latter two caught them in the act, Gorgas fled home, while Bardas left later to join the Perimadeian army. However, what's past is prologue, and all he wants to do is reconcile with his brother.

Then he opens the gates of the city.

It's shocking. It's totally unexpected. It seems like Parker is cheating. At yet, as the city falls and the cast flees, it doesn't seem like a cheat. Perhaps there's more going on than meets the eye. Maybe the next book will have some answers.

The Belly of the Bow, or Bank Vs. University: Blood on the Ledger

The Belly of the Bow

(1999) opens, there is a bit of a shock. Two years have passed between books. The action has shifted to the environs of the late city of Perimadeia, specifically to the island of Scona, the peninsula of Shastel, and an island-based trading community know as "the Island." Fortunately, most of the characters from the first book have escaped the fall of their city to make new lives for themselves.

Once again, war dominates the novel, but it is a rather odd type of war. The cause, it seems, is philanthropy. Some time ago, a great charity and center of learning based with the august title of "The Grand Foundation of Charity and Contemplation" started a homestead program in Shastel that, due to a misunderstanding of basic economics, ended up creating a peninsula of indentured peasants. After a civil war or two, the Foundation became a regional political player, only to be undercut by a new bank on the island of Scona, which buys out tenant farmers and offers loans at less ruinous interest rates. However, since this is the days before the World Trade Organization, the two groups are forced to resolve their differences in the only civilized way: by cross-border raids against recalcitrant debtors.

The bank, incidentally, is named the Loredan Bank, after its founder, Director Niessa Loredan, and with sergeant-at-arms Gorgas Loreadan handling the management of the day-to-day bloodshed.

While

Belly of the Bow

departs from the setting of the previous book, it uses the opportunity to examine the dynamics of the Loredan family. In a genre that has gleefully abused the concept of rape for the purposes of titillation or for ill-advised stabs at profundity, Niessa Loredan is a welcome change of pace. In the years after her experience (and her hounding out of the family at the hands of Bardas and her other brothers), Niessa has remolded herself into a vicious utilitarian, focused solely on securing her bank's future. It is through Niessa that magic makes a return to the story, becoming in her hands an instrument in which the will can directly manipulate the future, with no consequences worth considering. (Alexius is conscripted by Niessa into this precognitive war effort, with the result being a sort of magical war between the two polities that may or may not be affecting the actual war.) Overall, while a functional human being, Niessa still endures her past, neither capable nor all that interested in escaping it.

Bardas, meanwhile, continues to wander. He spends most of the book setting himself up as a bowyer (i.e. Guy Who Makes The Bows Archers Use) in a secluded hut on Scona, quietly pretending that his livelihood isn't dependent on his siblings' charity. After that illusion proves impossible to sustain, he escapes and returns to the family farm in the Mesoge, to the two brothers who never left. What follows is a rather heartrending sequence, as the three attack each other with waves of mutual recrimination and deflected self-loathing. In the end, Bardas is spirited back to Scona, a man with no home.

The real driving force in

The Belly of the Bow

however, is Gorgas. In the initial pages, Gorgas appears as having truly reformed, becoming a beloved general and a family man to boot. However, there is something off about his character. Gorgas routinely moves heaven and earth for Niessa and Bardas, despite the indifference of the former and the outright hostility of the latter, while remaining curiously detached from his own family. Indeed, as the book progresses, Gorgas becomes a terrifying figure, not so much for his actions but for his outlook on the world. For Gorgas, the entire point of his life is to make restitution for his crime and reunite his family. Unfortunately, that's the only purpose to his life. For Gorgas, opening the city gates for an enemy army or assassinating complete strangers or riling an island into a futile rebellion is justified, for it is always the Loredans against the world. What's past is in the past, but family is forever, even if the family no longer exists.

As the Loredan family disintegrates, the greater gears of war and money grind on. The war between Scona and Shastel continues. Scona wins a great victory against a Shastel raiding party, dooming itself to eventual defeat at the hands of the Foundation. Scona is invaded. Battles repeat themselves. Meanwhile, Bardas discovers Gorgas' role in the fall of Perimadeia and his twin motivations (wipe out the Loredan Bank's bad debts, and get Bardas back with the family), and proceeds to do something so horrific that it will forever destroy Gorgas' love for him. It doesn't work. The book closes as the first did, with the main cast fleeing the fall of Scona across the waves.

The Proof House, or Things Are Smashed Apart

Just as the appearance of Gorgas drastically altered the end of

Colours in the Steel

, so too does

The Proof House

(2000) drastically alter the course of the

Fencer

story with the introduction of the Empire. This great polity was never mentioned in the previous two books, apparently being landlocked out of sight and out of mind. However, with the fall of the city of Ap'Escatoy (a joyful accident care of Bardas Loredan, working the saps for three years since the end of the last book), the Empire now has a western coastline.

In many ways,

The Proof House

is the grimmest of the three books. The tale it tells is one of imperial conquest and consolidation. In the previous book, much care was lavished on the depiction of the various societies that inhabit the waters around Perimadeia: the bibliophile factionalists of Shastel, the easy-going disorder of Scona, the frivolous horse-trading Islanders, even the backwater dullards of the Mesoge. However, in

The Proof House

, it's suddenly revealed that this great, varied world exist in a space no bigger than the Aegean, and that it is all fated to be consumed by a great foreign power, not out of malice, but just because imperial expansion is what they do, and that's that.

This process of absorption and assimilation is illuminated through two main plotlines. After spending his new promotion at useless assignment at an imperial proof-house (a place where plate armor is made and tested to destruction), Bardas is given honorary command over an Imperial army sent to drive Temrai's semi-settled people out of the old Perimadeian hinterland. After the Imperial commander is killed, Bardas takes command, returning, for a while, to the one place where his skills were put to constructive use. The second plot thread concerns the fate of the Island at the hands of the Empire. The whole affair starts out as a sort of comedy, with the merchants of the Island essentially selling the Empire a fleet, never realizing that the Empire might decide to not give them back. Events soon spiral out of control, and comedy fades to annexation, rebellion, incompetence, and death.

As the center fails, mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. In the early chapters, many of the characters are in magic-based communication with Alexius whom, it is quickly revealed, died between books. Figures seen in the dreamscape grow increasingly blurred, claiming to be students from the future watching a critical turning point in the past. Eventually it appears that the voices are none other than the voice of the Principle itself, which is not so much a force of magic as a metaphysical avatar of entropy itself. As for Gorgas, free of Niessa's control and set up as king of the Mesoge, the time has come to reunite the Loredan clan by every means necessary. By the end of the book, cities have been stormed, beloved secondary characters have been drawn and quartered, the future is nothing but boots on human faces, and Bardas Loredan has, in essence, been condemned to hell.

So, What Is It?

One of the main problems any reader will have the

Fencer

trilogy in trying to fit it into some sort of rubric from which it can be judged. Using the Romantic framework of classic fantasy is out of the question, and "dark" fantasy is more of a marketing contrivance than a useful critical tool. In her 2008 work

Rhetorics of Fantasy

, Farah Mendlesohn described the trilogy as an "immersive fantasy," a fantasy story that (to vastly oversimplify), is set in a coherent self-contained world within which the characters inhabit and critique. For the longest time, I had tended to think of these books (and Parker's work as a whole) as materialist fantasies; stories not set in our world but which obey all of its physical and sociological parameters. All these terms are helpful in describing the

Fencer

books, but they don't really tell the whole story.

In the end, perhaps the best way to look at the

Fencer

trilogy, and K. J. Parker's work as a whole, is as absurdist fantasy. To crudely simplify something I cribbed from Wikipedia, absurdism is a branch of existentialism which holds that the universe does not hold any fundamental meaning pertaining to the individual, though individuals can construct their own meanings if they so choose. For the characters in the

Fencer

trilogy, life is deeply absurd. Their world is one bound by great impersonal material forces with individuals can only influence intermittently, assuming they even recognize what those forces and when those critical turning points occur. There are no deities, literal or otherwise; aside from the plainspeople, the peoples of the

Fencer

books are overwhelming atheistic. Furthermore, because the world is bound by material systems of infinite number and complexity, there is no safe haven. Everyone's action affects someone else, with the end result being that the vast majority of mankind is nothing but grist for the mill of history. Even when decisions are made, they are often made by people who are under the grip of some illogical idea, or who simply don't understand the implications of their choices. This point is driven home in the second book, where an argument over a reprisal against Scona swells from a small reprisal raid to an invasion on the scale of Operation Barbarossa all so one faction of the Shastel elite can one-up the other. It's hilarious and horrible at the same time.

The

Fencer

Trilogy does not make sense. Intentionally. And that is why it is brilliant.

Is It Worth It?

Compared to Parker's later books, the

Fencer

trilogy is very much a first work. While the description is evocative, the sudden twists are suitably shocking, and the jokes are funny (Yes, there are jokes. Can't have an absurdist novel without a good joke or two.), the books do have a uneven feel to them, as if too many ideas are being assembled into a framework that can't quite hold them. While the characters are interesting and sympathetic, at times they seem to be reduced to mere viewpoints, rather than being individuals caught in the grip of great external forces. There is also far more "down time" than in Parker's other books, with scenes just designed to just worldbuild rather than worldbuild and drive the story. In the end, while I would recommend it, I would suggest that newcomers to Parker start with the later

Engineer

Trilogy, which covers many of the same themes with a far more efficient mechanism.

Also, after you finish the

Fencer

Trilogy, you may feel the need to drown yourself in a nearby lake. This is normal. Just wait a few hours and it will pass.

Oh, and:

Fantasy Rape Watch

Women raped: 1 Women mind-raped: 1, maybe Number of women who suffer from their experiences: 1 (it's hard to tell just what happened with that second one. 'Course, that's probably the point.)

Themes:

Fantasy Rape Watch

Books

Sci-fi / Fantasy

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~Comments (

go to latest

)

Arthur B

at 17:28 on 2010-02-22This review is awesome, but I'm wondering whether Parker's philosophy is as unique in fantasy as you imply. The

Vlad Taltos

series by Steve Brust has always had a good line in the sort of materialism/absurdism and social/economic critique you talk about here. There's some bits of Erikson's Malazan series which seem informed by a "no meaning but what we impose ourselves" philosophy, and Jack Vance's books are almost all characterised by peculiar social constructs, raw economics and greed, and the necessity of people to find their own way in a world that doesn't make sense to them.

I will be looking into the

Engineer

trilogy though, if you feel it's genuinely better than the

Fencer

books. Does it need much knowledge of the earlier series to fully appreciate?

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Andy G

at 20:43 on 2010-02-22Dare I also mention Ursula le Guin again? ;)

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Arthur B

at 23:01 on 2010-02-22LeGuin is always worth a mention...

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Alasdair Czyrnyj

at 00:02 on 2010-02-23Well, as I said Arthur, I'm still feeling my way around the fantasy genre (hell, I read literary criticism, for cripes sake), so my idea of "generic fantasy" is still a collection of broad stereotypes I've picked up from people bitching on the Internet. Still, I would say that Parker has a gift for taking those elements you mentioned above and making them as these great, terrible things that will consume all in the end.

As for which books to start, I'm biased towards the

Engineer

books because they're the ones I started with, and they're the ones I had the easiest time trying to figure out (Having a decent amount of sustained online criticism helped a bit too). Fortunately, all of her trilogies and her recent singletons are set in completely seperate worlds, so there's no risk of missing anything wherever you start.

Still, I would recommed waiting before you get to her

Scavenger

books. They're one of those trilogies you have to read twice just to figure out what the heck was going on.

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Wardog

at 09:18 on 2010-02-23I read The Colours in the Steel and quite liked it ... but I had really trouble shifting from that to The Belly of the Bow. I think it was more a question of my expectations than the books though - this article inspires me to revisit and re-evaluate.

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Alasdair Czyrnyj

at 21:06 on 2010-08-08Random K. J. Parker news!

If there's anyone out there who wants to sample her writing, she recently did a short story for Subterranean Press' seasonal magazine, which they have thoughtfully posted on their website.

http://subterraneanpress.com/index.php/magazine/summer-2010/fiction-amor-vincit-omnia-by-k-j-parker/

She's also got another short story out in a sword and sorcery anthology,

of all things

, and

a new book

coming out next winter.

#Ferretbrain #Alasdair Czyrnyj #Fencer Trilogy #K. J. Parker #Fantasy Rape Watch

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