#they should never go unread unheard or forgotten

[risoria]

a few tweets from the past few days from doctor in Gaza, Ghassan Abu Sitta. link to his twitter account. hear the words of citizens of Palestine

[okaywhatabouthades]

Do you understand?

Do you see what the USA is supporting?

Or are you blind?

[fallenrepublick]

Back To Normal

As per @any59‘s request, I’ve created a ~thing~ using a concept we’ve been discussing these past few days.

Warnings: The prompt here was created with a concept rooted in a misunderstanding involving infidelity, but it’s only vaguely implied, and not explicitly mentioned here. The plot itself is not reliant on it, though, and can very easily be replaced with a number of other misunderstandings.

Thrawn usually liked silence. He liked the calm associated with it, when he could think, determine any plans for the coming days, or even find something unrelated to work that he enjoyed. Often, he’d take these moments with you, where you brought along your own hobbies or reading, or even joined him in his own. No words ever had to be said, but your presence had grounded him, made everything more bearable, and you always felt his comfort in the glances he gave you as the minutes passed.

But he no longer enjoyed the silence. It left him to the behest of his own mind, and as a consequence, his own anxieties. Tonight, he was distracted, the files he was meant to be preparing all but untouched on his datapad, and a frustrated hand pressing into his temple as if trying to force himself to concentrate. The place on the floor he had chosen to sit at was becoming irritable, his back leaning against the side of the bed that you were on and the back of his head every so often hitting the mattress with a weighted sigh. But he dared not move. It was irrational, of course, but he feared somehow, that the moment he stood to find a new place to occupy, you would announce your displeasure and leave abruptly, as he had been expecting you to do for the past three weeks.

There was no question that it was more than likely, he would tell himself, and as he still told himself, datapad in his lap, fading into a fuzzy shape that was little else than an outline of what it once had been. He had made a rash decision, one that cost him everything, one that cost you even more. The words of other humans don’t often mean much beyond hearsay, and yet he took the unreliable observation as gospel, forming a conclusion that, after consideration of the implications, could not have made less sense.

In so many words, he had betrayed you, undeniably, and against all promises he had ever made to you. As he had believed you to have turned from him, it was in fact, him that turned you away. And yet, here you were, once more sitting in his room, not even a hint of contempt in the words you said to him, as if it had never happened. So why, why did it only make him hate himself more?

His head turned up slowly, careful not to make too much noise, lest his fears come true, only to find you cross-legged with a book in your lap, the same position you had been in the last time he turned around. You noticed it, obviously. How could you not? Rare were the times that he moved without caution, though this was becoming ridiculous.

“Have you gotten anything done?” you asked amusedly, knowing fully that he had turned to see you at least once every five minutes, and the screen hadn’t changed in over an hour.

The fear didn’t dissipate, though you had hoped it might have at least alleviated. If anything, it made it worse. Though as he turned around fully, setting the screen on the floor beside him and placing the elbows of crossed arms on the edge of the bed like one would imagine a mermaid placing hers on the side of a sailor’s boat, you were made even more aware that had you not known him any better, you might never have been able to see the tension he carried at all. He was actively hiding it. If out of concern that acknowledging such a thing would make him too vulnerable, or that you might realise he was correct and follow the worst case scenario, you still weren’t sure. But the emotions he allowed to show clearly through his eyes were nothing short of the admiration and kindness he had practically bathed you in before the fall out. If anything, it was stronger.

“Not at all,” he admitted, each word heavy on his tongue, yet no lighter to hear than a morning breeze. But the weight didn’t go unnoticed to you, and the labour it took to even speak that he vehemently fought to conceal was a spotlight to your eyes where others might find a closed curtain of uncertainty. They often claimed that he was unreadable, that what he may feel, or if he even could feel, was something no one would know. Each breath, though, each syllable, something carried behind his eyes that so often put on a show for those that cared to look no further than a pretty picture, all but sung the answers to you in perfect rhythm with your own heart.

Certainly not forgotten, you had come to terms with the circumstances, knowing that the mission and orders had created simply the perfect clash. At the time, you had hated what he did, feeling unheard, unseen, demoted to just another human that lied through their teeth for little reason other than deception for deception’s sake. Looking back, it was the expected response. His trust runs deep, and it is terribly, tragically, fragile. Vulnerability is a commodity, one he locks behind walls and walls of steel, trusted only to those he’d give everything for. Still, upon learning of his mistake, he had offered you no less than his heart, barriers be damned, and as much time as it had taken you to accept it, you knew the fault didn’t lie entirely with him.

He, however, as much as he might have insisted that he’d done the same and moved forward, still clung to his mistakes in a manner uncharacteristic to his usual self. To everyone, he had repeated time and time again that learning from lapses in judgement or missteps was key, that continuing on from them was necessary to progress. Why, then, had he not moved on from this? Oddly enough, he had no answers to give, either. All he knew, or rather all he felt, was that he had not done enough.

“Maybe you should get some sleep,” you said, offering a hand to his cheek, which he, as always, leaned into. Anyone else would have missed the hesitation. “You’ve been more tired lately and I don’t want you getting too sleep deprived.”

Placing a careful hand over your own, the touch only slightly lighter than you remembered it, he finally nodded, the idea of sleep stealing away the emotions that overwhelmed him tempting him to rest, even if he had been telling himself it would happen every day since you returned. And still, his eyes, rubies in their own right, reflecting the light of a nearby lamp, difficult to tell if they were shining more than normal, continued to hide. If you had waited just a second more to say the words in your throat, your heartstring might very well have snapped at the sight.

“Thrawn...” you began before he had a chance to move away, chest tightening as his name escaped your lips. For a moment, his façade faltered, changing in reflection of the fear he had battled so desperately to contain. This was it, he was certain of it.

“I love you.”

And he doesn’t know what to do. It was no longer fear that took over once the words had sufficiently processed and calmed the storm that threatened to shatter his mind, but rather a relieved shock, the kind one would have upon discovering the safety of a prized heirloom that had been stolen years prior, or the reunion of a close friend who had moved far away without any way of contacting them.

With that, though his pulse still raced, you felt his fingers tighten the tiniest bit around your hand, as if given permission to do so, and he felt familiar again.

“I know you think I don’t,” you continued, unsure why you were on the verge of tears. “I know you think my forgiveness was conditional, that I’m only here temporarily. You try to hide it, but I know it’s what you’re feeling.” Your free hand found its place on his opposite cheek, ensuring he didn’t try to turn away, regardless that you felt no evidence of such an attempt. And when you leaned forward, he did so in response, meeting your forehead halfway between the edge.

“I’m here,” he said at last, shaking breath beginning to slow. “I won’t leave you again.”

[ibijau]

Hi I hope you are well! in Worse engagement AU, does NHS ever find out about LXC getting longer-lasting incense, or LQR intentionally failing him his first year in Cloud Recesses? Poor NHS just can't catch a break, and I love the angst

Worst engagement AU

He does! And I may or may not have pushed myself to write nhs failing his year just because of how badly I wanted to write this, ahah.

Set soon after they get married :D

warning for... I guess he’s having a panic attack of sorts?

Unpacking is a terrible chore, worse in some ways than the packing that preceded it, but at least Nie Huaisang gets some help from his...

His face heats up. It's going to take a while to get used to the fact that they're married. It's only been a few days, and half the time it doesn't feel real. Which is the entire reason why Lan Xichen insisted that Nie Huaisang unpacked his things so they could put everything in its proper place and turn the Hanshi into something that's home for both of them. Even more than Nie Huaisang, it's obvious that Lan Xichen can't believe he gets to have this. It shows in the way he looks at Nie Huaisang when he enters the room where he's working, always half surprised to see him there. It shows also in the way he clings to him at night, as if Nie Huaisang might disappear otherwise, or run away, or do whatever other insane thing Lan Xichen might be imagining.

“What are those?” Lan Xichen asks, having opened a chest and found it full of various papers.

Nie Huaisang abandons the books he was trying to organise and comes to sit next to his husband, a little closer than necessary perhaps, but he knows Lan Xichen will appreciate it.

“This... Ah, it's a bit of everything,” Nie Huaisang admits. “Things I’ve done for fun these last few years. Most of it is bad poetry. Some of it about you, actually.”

“Did you?”

“I got very creative with insults at one point. I made Jin... I made someone read them, he found them very funny. Jiang Cheng saw them too, but he made a fuss about me being rude.”

Lan Xichen's smile freezes into that very annoying, very polite expression he has when he's unhappy about something. They usually avoid talking about Jin Zixuan, really, but Nie Huaisang was so taken by nostalgia for a moment that he half forgot. Besides, the poems really were funny.

Still, Nie Huaisang takes pity on Lan Xichen, and quickly digs into the chest to find something that will let him change the conversation. There's some half finished paintings, some calligraphy attempts, even notes from his time as a student and...

“Oh, right, I kept that,” he mutters, grabbing a neat little stack of paper. “That's probably good for a laugh.”

“Poems?”

“Even worse,” Nie Huaisang chuckles. “It's that exam I failed, my first year in the Cloud Recesses. I really thought I'd done great, you know? Well, maybe not great, but decently at least. Heavens, sometimes kids are so stupid they can't even see how stupid they are.”

Lan Xichen tenses next to him, and rather than to laugh along, throws him a concerned look.

“You kept that? Why?”

Nie Huaisang shrugs, grinning, and looks over the failed test. It always just felt like an important reminder that he’d never manage to play by the rules of others. A good chunk of the paper is unreadable because Lan Qiren had crossed over those wrong answers, but suddenly Nie Huaisang feels curious to see if he'd figure out how he got it so wrong.

“May I see?” Lan Xichen asks, his tone almost too careful, as if he fears he might offend.

“Sure, why not,” Nie Huaisang replies, handing him the papers and turning his attention back to the chest. “You know, I think I have a few portraits of you somewhere in there. Let me just find them, I think one at least is pretty good.”

While Lan Xichen deciphers the physical incarnation of all of his failures, Nie Huaisang continues digging into the chest. He does find a few portraits, but not the one he wants. These are doodles of Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng, and this he must get rid of discreetly because it's Jin Zixuan, smiling, so Lan Xichen won't like it, and this... well that's a painting of Lan Xichen alright, but he doesn't know how his husband might feel about, ah, imaginative depicting of what Nie Huaisang had once thought their married life might become. Besides, aside from the faces, everything was copied from one of his artful books, so it hardly counts as his own work. And this...

“Huaisang, are you sure this is the test you took back then?” Lan Xichen asks in a strange voice.

“It's not something I'd forget, is it?” Nie Huaisang replies with more bitterness than intended.

He half regrets it when he looks at Lan Xichen. Nie Huaisang almost can't figure what sort of an expression is on his husband's face except that it's an intense, rarely seen one.

Then it hits him.

Lan Xichen is furious.

“If you're having second thoughts because you're realising that I'm really an idiot after all...” Nie Huaisang starts, an old, half forgotten rage and terror already welling in his guts.

“Huaisang, I wouldn't have passed that test.”

Nie Huaisang stares. It's all he can do, when nothing makes sense. 

"And I'm not saying I would have failed it when I was the age you were," Lan Xichen continues, blind to Nie Huaisang’s growing panic, his hands clenched on the papers, nearly tearing them apart. "As I am today I would probably not pass this test. The questions are made to look simple and to have easy answers, but they are actually on complicated subjects that only a scholar would know.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Nie Huaisang mumbles, fear still curling in his chest, though a little less tight now. Lan Xichen is angry, but not at him.

Possibly for him. 

But it makes no sense, none of this makes sense, because if his exam was really this hard and tricky, then…

“Uncle set you up for failure,” Lan Xichen states, almost a hiss.

Nie Huaisang stares.

This is. This is important. This changes. It just. It changes everything. It should make him angry, and it should make him happy. It should make him feel something, but instead he’s just numb.

It changes everything.

It changes too much.

Nie Huaisang doesn’t even know how to start unpacking everything this discovery means. It’s too much, it’s all at once, it’s the very basis of everything he’s done and felt those last few years being shaken on its foundations so badly that it threatens to crumble.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t think, he can’t breathe, because it’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too much, it’s…

He feels hands on his and that grounds him. One of the hands move to his face, wiping tears he hadn’t realised started flowing down his cheeks, just as he doesn’t know when he closed his eyes. He opens them when a gentle, worried voice calls his name.

“Huaisang,” Lan Xichen whispers. “Huaisang, I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t know.”

Nie Huaisang nods, trying to remember how to breathe. He doesn’t doubt that Lan Xichen didn’t know. Neither of them wanted to be forced to spend time together at that time, Lan Xichen wouldn’t have played along if he’d known, not even for his uncle. 

But this is still…

“I didn’t fail,” Nie Huaisang manages to gasp. “I didn’t fail.”

“You didn’t.”

“I’m not stupid.”

He hears Lan Xichen make a noise almost like a wounded animal, feels himself being pulled into a tight hug that he doesn’t, cannot resist.

It’s not.

It’s not that he actually thinks he’s stupid. Nie Huaisang has learned, has accepted, that he’s quite smart, in his own way. He’s good at reading people, and at becoming friends with them, and he knows about literature and poetry and art and, and he’s nearly as good as Jiang Cheng for mixing patterns, and he understands animals and how to tame them. Nie Huaisang is clever, and he’s forced everyone who matters to see how clever he can be, but he knows what some people still say.

Even now, there are some who think that Lan Xichen should be pitied for their marriage. He’s heard them say that Nie Mingjue should have released his sworn brother from that ridiculous engagement, now that there are no Wens left to justify the need for an alliance. That a man as brilliant and respected as the mighty Zewu-Jun deserves a better spouse than that kid who somehow managed to fail when studying in the Cloud Recesses, something nearly unheard of.

But he’s not stupid.

He didn’t fail.

“You’re the smartest person I know,” Lan Xichen whispers against the top of his head, fierce and sincere in a way that Nie Huaisang doesn’t know how to handle. This, also, is too much, but in a way that hurts less. “I will go talk to Uncle. He owes you an apology.”

It’s almost funny. The idea that Lan Qiren might have to say sorry to Nie Huaisang… 

Not so long ago, he would have said that it was impossible. He would have suspected that Lan Xichen would never dare confront his uncle, least of all on Nie Huaisang’s behalf. But now, if Lan Xichen says he will obtain an apology for him, his husband believes that he’ll really fight tooth and nail to get it. He’ll probably still fail, because that’s Lan Qiren and he isn’t one to admit mistakes, least of all when he can argue that things turned out fine for Nie Huaisang, but it doesn’t matter. The apology doesn’t matter. What does matter is knowing Lan Xichen is on his side, and the fact that he didn’t actually fail.

“Don’t go now,” Nie Huaisang demands, pressing himself closer to his husband. “I want… stay with me for now? I don’t care, I really don’t care, just stay with me.”

“Anything you want, my love. I wouldn’t have gone until you felt better, don’t worry.”

Nie Huaisang sighs, and closes his eyes again. He’s breathing easier now, the worst of the shock has passed. Later he’ll feel angry, he suspects. Furious even.

Later.

For now he is at relative peace, in his husband’s arms, loved and protected and seen, the way he always wanted to be, even back when he was a child too shy to dare want anything.

The rest doesn’t matter not really, not when he’s proven his worth in spite of what others say, but…

He didn’t fail, and an old wound he didn’t know he still carried stops itching.

[pi-cat000]

MSA: ‘Too Late’ fanfic edition.

A gift fic for @loveallthing. Hey, I love your art, thanks for being awesome :). This fic is based on this work. Hope you like it. 

Summary: Things don’t work out too well for anyone (Hellbent AU). 

.

“Get the hell away from Arthur.  YOU BASTARD!”

Vivi’s yell pierces the silence, drawing his attention. In amongst finding Lewis, falling onto a stone spike, and excruciating pain, he’s forgotten all about her. There is the sound of footsteps rushing nearby. He tries to blink or move but finds the action difficult. The space around him is a dense black, observing his vision.

Maybe, for a second, a flash of purple breaks through the endless dark. When he concentrates, he can feel vibrations. A second later he hears Vivi gasp in shock.

“No. No. Nononono.”

“NO!”

The yelling transitions from distressed to angry. Vivi is mad. Really mad. He should do something about that and let her know he’s okay. Only he isn’t okay. How could he be? That last thing he remembers is choking on his own blood. A spike wedged into his lower abdomen. Lewis standing over him, watching.

“You’ll pay for this!!”

Arthur’s never heard Vivi scream like that. Pure rage. He tries again to move, but everything is heavy, like his body asleep even when his mind is buzzing. Air is displaced nearby. Metal impacts metal, accompanied by more vibrations. Those footsteps grow fainter and further away.

“That’s right! You better run because I’M COMING FOR YOU!”

Vivi’s voice is far off now, only audible due to its volume. When Arthur concentrates, he thinks he can hear Lewis’s lower tone. All other sound fades. He needs to move. He needs to speak to Lewis. To explain himself. To apologies for…whatever he had done to deserve being skewered at the bottom of a cliff. To find out why.

Above him, as if in response to his new resolve, the darkness shimmers. The black expanse shifts from to grey and then lightens. It takes him second to realize that his eyes are open and he is staring up at the grey metal interior of a rectangular-shaped space.  He pushes, trying to sit up, struggling against the impossible weight holding him down. The more he struggles, the heavier the weight becomes, pulling him back.

No! He is not going to let himself be dragged away. Not yet! A horrible ripping sensation, like paper shredding, drowns out all other stimuli. Pain shoots up through his chest, akin but also different to the visceral feeling of landing on the spike. And, finally, Arthur sits up.

Reality materialises around him, solid, replacing the last vestiges of darkness with dim moonlight. He is sitting in a metal rectangle, resembling the bed of a semi-trailer. Out one end, Arthur can see the sky, moon, stars and the tips of desert cactus. One thing for sure is that this isn’t the purple cave. There are no spikes anywhere. No Lewis either for that matter. Where is Lewis? How is Arthur alive?

Troubled, Arthur rises into a standing position, scanning for answers. Dredd. The emotion is strong and vice-like. Something’s wrong. When he tries to move, he feels oddly uncoordinated and weightless. Almost like he’s floating.

He looks down at his legs.

He immediately wishes he hadn’t because he catches sight of the orange, yellow and red mess at his feet. Below him is…himself. Dead. Definitely dead. Dead and bleeding all over the metallic ground. Oh…So he hadn’t survived after all…White noise fills his head, blanking out his thoughts. This can’t be right. This can't be real. A high-pitched whine echoes, bouncing along the metal walls, and it takes Arthur a second to realise it’s him making the noise. Quickly, he backs away in horror, trying to put some distance between him and the messy scene.

/Arthur?/

The voice is deep, reverberating in his skull, snapping his attention up. He twists around, flinching to the side, raising a hand to cover his head. Blocking the entrance to the trailer is a large black and white fox. Its many tails fill the small opening, swaying back and forth in time to some unheard rhythm. Mystery. That’s Mystery. Arthur’s only seen this form once before now, and that hadn't exactly been a fun night either.

/Oh, Arthur. Do not be afraid./

The fox steps forward cautiously, head low. The tails still, dropping so they don’t look nearly as threatening as they could have. Trapped between Mystery and his own dead body, Arthur has nowhere to retreat to.

“What’s happening?” He asks instead, inching up along the wall. The action takes him closer to Mystery, but, right now, it is the lesser of two evils. He’s already dead, what more can Mystery do to him.

/I am so very sorry. /

He swallows nervously, but Mystery looks genuinely sad, like he feels responsible for this entire mess.

“Am I a ghost?” Lewis had been a ghost. It made sense that he was also a ghost. The evidence is pretty damning.

/I am sorry. / Mystery comes forward again, lowering his head to muzzle Arthur’s open palm. The hand, once made of metal, is now some sort of glowing yellow energy. Mystery’s nose is cool to touch. It has been a long while since Arthur’s felt sensation in that arm. Hesitantly, he reaches out with his opposite hand to ruffle the fur covering the fox’s head. When he does, the smell of rice fields, grass and dense forest waft up around him. For a second, he can almost hear a river rushing in the distance. The impression fades quickly, replacing fear with sadness.

“It’s not your fault,” He mutters, meeting Mystery’s gaze when the fox’s head tilts up.

/ I wish that were true, but I fear I have made a grave oversight. /

Arthur has no idea what to say to that, so he stands, floats, in commiserative silence.

“Mystery?” Vivi’s voice sounds from outside, causing both of them to shift in her direction. Her tone is flat and lifeless, very un-Vivi-like.

“You’re in my way.”

/Do not come ./ Mystery turns fully, using his bulk to shield Vivi from view. Yes. Good idea. Arthur doesn’t want Vivi seeing his body either.

/This is not something you want to see./

“Too fucking late!” Vivi snaps, anger returning, “Now, get out of my way. The least I can do is put him somewhere more comfortable before I hunt down that ghost bastard.” She spits the last few words.

/ I see. / Mystery wilts, eyeing him with a more unreadable expression, / Then perhaps you would reconsider those plans. /

“What are you…”

Vivi begins to argue, but her voice fails when Arthur pushes around Mystery. In the small space, the action is somewhat tricky. Arthur and Vivi make eye contact. She gasps. Slowly, he floats down out of the semi-trailer to hover on the dirt in front of her. Now he is away from his dead body, he can almost pretend everything is normal.

“Ah,” He greets unintelligibly.

“Arthur,” She breaths out his name, one hand over her mouth, belaying shock. Despite being partially covered by her hand, he can still see her red eyes and patchy face, meaning she’d been crying not too long ago. Arthur doesn’t need to be a genius to figure out why. Behind him, the air shimmers red, and Mystery reverts back to his smaller dog form, making himself far less menacing.

“So… I died. But I’m okay now,” He tries to reassure. It has the opposite effect, making her eyes go all watery, “Seriously.  No. Don’t cry!”

Vivi flings her arms around him in a hug. He almost expects them to go straight through him. 

They don’t.

. 

NOTE: You’ve done some nice art for my fic. Here is a fic for your art XD!

[looking-for-wisdom]

It had begun with the standard political dinner, as if Zoya hadn’t already had enough reason to hate them. Such was the trouble of being an important person— there was no hope in slipping away undetected. Nikolai had insisted she’d come despite the fact he was bargaining for sponsorship. Zoya had never found finance particularly interesting, especially when it was a matter of wooing the rich. She’d had quite enough of wealthy men for one lifetime.

Unfortunately, she didn’t trust anyone else with the job of Nikolai’s partner. So she’d gone, and faked a smile and laughed at mediocre jokes and whispered silly secrets to Nikolai.

Men were horribly stupid that way. They blinded themselves with their assumptions of her and she never failed to be amused at their shock when they found out the King’s giggling arm candy had been speaking their demise into his ear the whole time.

It’d been going so well. The Count had done everything but vocally promise his support. It would have only taken a few more moments, but for perhaps the first time ever, Nikolai had decided to put his feelings before the state’s affairs. Zoya had always called him a fool but she’d never once believed it until then.

“If I were so inclined to agree to your terms,” the old man said, a mirth in his voice that suggested Nikolai had already convinced him, “perhaps you’d be grateful enough to allow me a night with your general. I’ve heard only good things.” 

He said the word “general” as if it were a title only put before her name to justify her spot as the king’s whore. That was the rumor, after all, and why would he believe she was a threat when he’d never seen her play that role. She could have gutted a man in front of him and he still might have made excuses for her. How could a woman so beautiful have room left for cruelty, men like him would wonder, as if cruelty and beauty hadn’t always gone hand in hand.

She’d inhaled sharply, barely keeping her rage in check, but bit her tongue. The insult to her intelligence was more infuriating than his poorly hidden lust. She was used to the latter. The former was almost as common, but she allowed less people to get away with it.

Juris had taught her the importance of biding her time, though, so she smiled stupidly all the while thinking of how she’d destroy him when he’d least expect it.

She’d been about to answer with a regretful excuse when Nikolai had jumped in, mistaking the way her body tensed for fear rather than anger.

“She is not a gift of mine to give or, for that matter, a prize of yours to take,” he’d answer with coldness in his voice that sucked any trace of humor from the room. When no one spoke he opened his mouth again as if to further scold the Count, but Zoya didn’t give him the chance.

She placed her hand on his knee. To an onlooker it might have looked like an act of comfort, sweet, even. But Nikolai knew how tightly she was gripping him. They’d worked together far too long for him to miss recognize her threat.

She hummed gingerly and broke the silence. “Now, now,” she cooed, relying on the one rumor that could save them, though it was a more dangerous one now that Nikolai’s fiancé was in the picture, “there’s no reason to be jealous. There’s plenty of me to go around.”

She winked at the Count from across the room, becoming more irritated by the second that she was the one forced to clean up this mess. The King could afford the gossip of being territorial of his lovers— his father had survived such rumors. He would not, however, endure being painted as the enemy of all disgusting men. They were a needed enemy for the time being— they held 70% of Ravka’s wealth.

Zoya felt him strain even further beneath her hand, but he got the message. She didn’t want his help.

The Count still seemed on edge, but he at least seemed to understand the explanation. Encroaching on another man’s property was frowned upon. Doing so to a king was just foolish.

“Unfortunately,” Zoya continued when she was sure the situation had been diffused as best as possible, “I fear I’ve had a bit too much to drink. Perhaps we can finish this discussion in the morning when our minds our fresh?”

The Count nodded though there was still a hint of strain in his face. Nikolai offered him a half-hearted thanks, though Zoya didn’t count doing the bare minimum as coming to his senses. She wanted him out of there as quickly as possible, before he could completely ruin their chances.

“Nikolai, would you be a dear and walk me to my room?” She asked, her voice honey sweet but her eyes assuring it wasn’t a request.

They weren’t two steps from the dining room when Zoya’s facade dropped, but she waited until they were behind closed doors to truly let lose.

The guest room she’d been allowed to stay in was large, albeit tacky, but with sun gone from the sky the room’s only source of light was the fireplace in front of the bed. It was there that she finally stopped and turned to meet Nikolai’s eyes. His expression was unreadable and sent a fresh wave of anger through her.

“What was that?” She snapped, finally, like a predator pouncing on its prey.

Any evidence of that impulsive, stubborn anger was gone from his face. It was almost enough to make Zoya think it’d never existed in the first place. Outbursts like that were rare from Nikolai— no, unheard of. Not once had she ever seen him lose his temper so suddenly. Not once, at least, before that dinner.

When he spoke, he did so with nonchalance, as if there had been nothing strange about it. The act made Zoya want to steal the breath from his lungs just to stop his words.

“You are a member of the Grisha Triumvirate, appointed by the King of Ravka. The Count knows you rank above him. Such behavior is completely unprofessional and a disrespect to the crown itself. To be completely honest I’m surprised you hadn’t torn him limb from limb before I had the chance— we both know your perfectly capable of it,” he answered with a half smile as if he expected her to return his banter.

Zoya was in no such mood.

She should have expected he’d know exactly what to say. Nikolai always did, and yet she was still taken aback by his approach. Leave it to him to appeal to her logic and pride of her position. When he said it like that, it almost made sense. But she had been in the room with him, and the distain in his voice had not been that of a cleverly worded warning. It’d been the distain of a man playing the part of the noble hero. He had come to her defense not because they both knew damn well she had more than earned the Count’s respect. He’d done it because she was Zoya— a human being who deserved to be treated like a person, not an object.

Zoya knew it with every cell in her body, because if he’d really been driven by the former she would not be feeling a long buried hope rising in her again. There would not be a part of her who was grateful to him, despite the stupidity of his actions, because she was convinced that no other man would have even thought to call the Count out that way.

She forced that feeling deep inside herself and directed her focus on more practical things. His kindness meant nothing when Ravka couldn’t afford a king who picked reckless battles.

“We don’t need some crusty old man’s respect, Nikolai,” she retorted, once again shocked that he of all people needed this reminder. “We need his money. Have you forgotten our country is broke or are you simply that stupid? If wasn’t going to have to sleep with him before, I certainly do after the stunt you’ve just pulled. But, of course, you’re right. Enjoy your petty fights, Ravka be damned.”

Nikolai paled and Zoya thought idly that her last comment might have been a tad unfair before he answered.

“No.”

“No, what?” She demand.

“No, you don’t have to sleep with anyone,” Nikolai answered, face fierce, leaving no room for dispute, “that is not your job. No one would ask that of you.”

She stared back at him, incredulous. This was not the usual assumption she could be softened and taught feelings. This was the assumption that she already had them— that she need not change in order to avoid being asked to sell herself. Zoya wasn’t sure which was the bigger insult.

“No one is asking anything of me,” she said sharply, “I am willing to do whatever it takes to save my country. In fact, the point of this conversation is to remind you that you have always done the same.”

There was a pause as she watched him straighten and shift, mouth set in a thin line. She knew this persona well, but she couldn’t remember the last time it had been used on her. This was Nikolai the King, not Nikolai the colleague.

“You will give that man nothing,” he stated, “that is a direct order from your king.”

Zoya’s eyes narrowed. She spoke slowly so he would understand what she was saying.

“Nikolai, I chose to follow you all those years because I thought you would be good for Ravka, but do not mistake me. I am not some pawn to control as you please. I have acted on your former requests because I have found no reason not to trust you. I suggest you do not make me reconsider that decision.

The room was silent for a long moment and Zoya found herself feeling sick. This was not the Nikolai she had come to know. This was not the boy she had saved from the thorn wood and fought along side in the war. The incident at dinner was perplexing, but at the end of the night she could have reduced it to a simple fluke. This was different. This was like seeing the old king out of the face of a boy she’d grown to depend on. This felt desperately close to losing him.

But then his face softened and Nikolai was himself again. Zoya felt herself let out a breath, though she hadn’t realized she’d ever started holding it.

“That is the Zoya I know,” he said finally, “I don’t understand where she went tonight.”

Zoya searched for words as a new anger rose in her chest. The hypocrisy of it was almost laughable. Just a moment before he’d had her thinking she had lost him to his own power. The grief of the prospect was still fresh. And now he asked how she could possibly act the part of something she was not?

Before the thorn wood perhaps she might have reacted the way he expected, before the civil war there was no doubt about it. But since she and Juris had become one she found that vengeance could wait. Patience was no difficult thing when she could feel lifetimes coursing through her. She almost thought it rude that he saw her as such a liability.

“I would burn down cities for this country. Enduring one evening of ignorance is nothing if it means we will be able to pay for the upcoming war. You know that as well as I.“

This time, Nikolai didn’t argue. Zoya relaxed with the knowledge that Nikolai’s oddness at dinner had been just that: an oddity. She still didn’t understand what cord had been struck to trigger such an uncharacteristic reaction, but she took comfort in the reassurance that it would not happen again. Besides, it was an equal trade, she supposed. He could not comprehend the reasoning behind her actions either.

“You know, I have dealt with the Count’s brand of stupidity for 13 years and have yet to stumble upon a new insult to rile me. You, on the other hand, have quite the knack of finding new ways to spark my frustration whenever I think I’m immune,” she teased allowing the conversation to fall back on more familiar banter.

“You give them too little credit,” Nikolai retorted, following her lead, “Surely you weren’t nine when it started— maybe when you really hit year thirteen they’ll find some clever way to spite you.”

Zoya quirked an eyebrow at that. He thought she was exaggerating the disgusting tendencies of men?

“If anything it’s been longer. Nine was simply the first time they put me in a wedding dress,” she said, feeling as if she’d won this round.

His next words kept her from feeling too smug, though. “That’s not legal.”

Only three words and yet they conveyed a whole world of naivety— a trait she’d never associated with him. Too late she remembered the incredulous look on his face as she’d suggested possible suitors. She’d thought it was a personal standard— she could understand refusing to wed a fifteen year old. Teenagers were beyond irritating. But the prospect that he truly thought it a universal belief that taking a child’s innocence was wrong? It was a moral she shared but knew most did not.

A sharp laugh was all she could manage. It might have been a bit cruel, but she couldn’t decide whether to be impressed by his horror or simply annoyed by his ignorance on the matter. “That’s not legal,” he’d said. Zoya wished that statement had been true for the nine year old her mother had tried to marry off.

“Your pampered upbringing is showing,” she commented, knowing how much effort he’d put into understanding the life of commoners but not caring as long as it wiped that pity filled look from his face.

Once again he said nothing and Zoya thought absently of all the times she’d wanted to put him at a loss for words. This was much less satisfying than she’d hoped. She knew she’d never mentioned it before— to be frank she hadn’t meant to let it slip out— but she’d never expected such a reaction.

“Quit looking at me like I’m an injured doe. Nothing came of it. I was discovered as grisha and brought to the little palace before I could go through with the wedding.”

“And if you hadn’t been grisha?” He asked eyes cold with an anger that wasn’t directed at her.

If she wasn’t grisha? Zoya didn’t want to think of that. Would she even be herself without her power? Would she be alive without it?

“What does that matter?” She snapped, not wanting to consider it any longer.

He stared at her for a moment, a silent conversation transcending between them. His gaze seemed to analyze her for any hint of pain left over from an incident over a decade before. Perhaps she would have had something to offer if he’d been there thirteen years ago. If Nikolai had been there... it was an interesting thought. If they’d known each other back then when she’d had Liliyana and unhampered ambition. If they’d known each other when she’d been cruel, a pawn in the darkling’s plan. Would things have been different? Would the grief in her be any easier to bear?

If she’d known his warmth during the worst of her life would she be able to give him up to Ehri in a few short months?

She was shaken from her wondering when Nikolai finally spoke. “Do you have any parchment here?” He questioned.

It took a moment to process the odd shift in subject, but Zoya gestured to her right. “In the desk.”

He nodded and settled at the poorly lit table. He didn’t speak for a long moment, focusing on whatever he was writing. Zoya watched him from her place by the fire, confused but not willing to start another conversation.

After what seemed like hours he stood and turned to face her, paper in hand. “We return to Os Alta tomorrow morning. Upon our arrival I begin the process of declaring this law.”

She took the page from his outstretched hand. It was a legal document— a bill amending the legal age of marriage thirteen.

It was obvious that he wasn’t completely content with it— if he’d had it his way he probably would have gone so far as sixteen or eighteen, but change was slow in Ravka. Zoya, however, did not share his disappointment. At thirteen she would have understood what the marriage entailed. She would have fought back. It was a step in the right direction.

She felt an aching gratefulness go through her body as she thought of the little girls who would be saved from her past. This time, Zoya was the one without words. She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing her impulsive temptations down with it.

Still, she could not chase away one realization: she had not known him all those years ago. She could not change that. But somehow having him with her now made the tragedy a bit easier to handle. He gave her suffering hope.

She wanted to do something, anything, to tell him that. But in the end she knew she had no such luxury. There had once been a time where they could spend entire nights spilling secrets. Nights where she could watch him in guarded wonder as his kindness prevailed despite Ravka’s often infectious despair.

Those nights had ended when he’d taken her advice and chosen a bride.

She handed the decree back to him, before replying. “It’s late. You should leave before people are given any more reason to believe you aren’t taking your engagement seriously.”

He pursed his lips and for a moment it looked as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he only nodded.

“Good night, General Nazyalensky.”

Not trusting herself with an apathetic reply she stood on her toes and planted a small peck on his cheek. She hoped it might say what she could not.

After he’d left Zoya had laid in bed for hours, cursing him for being impossible to stay angry with.

[justrazorboy-blog]

Decaying Words

For the @bfu60min prompt this week! (Prison AU)

Page 1 

Time – what a weird concept. It exists, but is simultaneously just another thing the human race has come up with to bring order to society. The change between night and day, the change of seasons, our failed attempts to keep from growing old and dying in this cruel, short existence; all real. But who was the fool to come up with the measurement of time? Hours, minutes, seconds? Why did everyone agree to follow this? I theorize it’s because as humans, we feel the need to understand. Understand why it is things work the way they do, and to bring some kind of closure to life. We need time because without it, we’d be lost.

I’m lost. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, or what time of day it even is. Has the sun risen? Is it just starting to set? Is there snow, or is summer just beginning? Without the ability to tell time, everything just feels… Slow. Time is passing, that I know, but only because I can hear others going about their day. Prisoners yelling from somewhere distant, and the occasional footsteps of guards walking past. Without those indicators, I’d be stuck in a dark hole. Unable to control my thoughts. My dark, regretful thoughts.“

"Ryan-”

Ryan whipped around, the book slipping from his grasp and plummeting to the cemented floor. As he steadied his breathing, which had quickened at twice its usual pace to keep up with his beating heart, his eyes narrowed at the man in front of him. “Jesus Christ, Brent! You can’t just sneak up on me like that.” Ryan hissed, shielding his eyes as the beam of light from his partner’s flashlight passed by his face.

“Me, scare you? You’re the one who suddenly disappeared!” Brent pushed the rest of his body through the cell’s doorway, his head barely missing a cobweb hanging above. “What the hell are you doing?”

Ryan bent down to retrieve the book he had been reading. Considering its age, it was in decent condition. The pages were stained yellow and only a few were detached from its spine, but the words still readable. The cover, however, was skimmed in mold after years of abandonment and rot. “I found a journal of sorts. I think it may have belonged to a prisoner here.” He turned and held the object out for Brent to inspect. The camera crew following his lead got closer, hoping for a nice shot for the episode.

“You’re telling me this thing has been sitting here for nearly fifty years?” Brent asked with obvious disgust. He waved his flashlight across the cell, taking in the surroundings of which it had been discovered in. It was a nearly empty room with nothing but a rusted toilet in one corner, and piles of rubble littering the majority of the floor’s surface.

“Precisely, yes.”

Page 103

My stomach won’t stop begging for food, and my throat for water. I can practically feel the inside of my body rotting away with each passing moment. How long has it been since I’ve eaten? Guards pass by regularly but never stop. Perhaps they’ve forgotten about me. Or, more likely, decided I should finally die for my crimes. But that’s quite an unfair situation, dare I say. They have the death penalty for a reason.

I resorted to drinking my piss a few hours ago (hours? days? minutes? I can’t tell anymore). It’s certainly not the most ideal, but at least I can quench my dehydration a little bit. Less suffering on my part. More suffering; much more suffering. What a stupid idea. Prolonged death is never a good option.

Hah. So this is how I’ll die. Covered in my own piss and shit, as pale and thin as a skeleton. Perhaps already a skeleton, if the guards truly did forget about me. Those idiots. I can see their faces now, the smell of my decaying body overwhelming their senses – opening my cell door to find my lifeless corpse, propped against this wall. The news headlines would probably be praising my death; ‘Serial Killer Shane Madej Found Dead in Solitary Cell, Covered in Own Bodily Excretions.’

“This is horrific.” Brent interrupted, his face scrunching up.

Ryan nodded slowly. “Sad, too. Even if he was a serial killer…” His words trailed off as his mind began to wander. He pictured what it would be like to be in Shane’s position; all alone, going insane.

Dying.

A shiver ran up his spine. They weren’t pleasant thoughts at all.

“How did a guy in solitary have access to a journal and ink anyway?” Brent questioned, gesturing for one of the camera guys to get a close-up of the page they had just read from.

“Must have smuggled it in somehow. Prisoners in this solitary block were rarely checked on, so it makes sense if it was never discovered.” Ryan shrugged, not entirely sure of his answer. The situation was weird in itself; a prisoner just being abandoned like that. Surely the staff couldn’t be that forgetful.

Page 132

Footsteps. I hear them. Coming closer, echoing down the hall! Maybe if I scream I can finally get their attention-

… They ignored me. I screamed until I collapsed, but they just kept walking. My body is too weak to move anymore. I won’t be surprised if these are the last words I write before finally succumbing to my death. I wonder what will be waiting for me on the other side? Huh, I really am going crazy. I’ve never been a religious person, so darkness. That’s the only logical explanation. No God, no afterlife… Just eternal sleep.

Before his passing, my old cellmate used to talk constantly about ghosts. Spirits. The people who are leaving something behind when they die, unfinished business that they have, so their souls are stuck on Earth.

Even if ghosts existed, that’s not where I’ll end up. I have nothing to keep me here. My family hates me, always have. But who can blame them? I’m a maniac. Insane. Fucked up in the head. I’ve done all of the work I needed to do. All those lives I took; I’m repaying for them by being here. I don’t owe money. Nothing.

I’m ghost-proof.

I’ll just slip into the darkness and wither away.

“Ryan we need to go, our time is up. That tour lady will be back any minute to lead us out.” Brent moved his flashlight from where it was directed at the book and started to talk with the camera crew.

“We skipped so much of his story, though…” Ryan whispered, flipping back through the many pages they had jumped across. So many words gone unread. How could they just leave it here, to probably never be found again? Without a second thought, Ryan grabbed one of their equipment bags and stuffed the book inside. He absolutely could not leave it behind.

“Yo- Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Brent asked worriedly, catching Ryan’s act. “That’s stealing!”

Ryan zipped the bag shut and laughed darkly. “Stealing? They wouldn’t even know it’s gone, clearly if it’s been sitting here for decades!” Usually, he wasn’t the type to take risks or commit crimes, but something about this man’s story made him need to take it with him. Before either could get another word out, they were approached by the lady from earlier who had guided them through the prison.

“Any luck?” She asked, eyeing the two boys.

“Nah. Nothing very compelling,” Brent replied, his gaze shifting to Ryan. He wasn’t about to rat his friend out, but he would much rather leave with a guilt-free conscious.

“May I ask a question about this cell?” Ryan asked the woman, who nodded. “According to our research, a man named Shane Madej once resided here. Do you have any information on him?”

Brent could have very well strangled Ryan right there but remained silent. After all, he was a little curious himself.

“Ah, Shane Madej – he was jailed for murder, about seven counts if I recall correctly. While in prison he murdered his cellmate for no given explanation and was sent here to solitary. It’s actually kind of a scary thought, because he was here for about four months in total, including when the prison was shut down and abandoned. All of the other prisoners were relocated across the country, but somehow their records got messed up. He was left behind, unheard of for years. Nobody had any reason to enter this place until a new landowner swept the place clean. He found Shane’s skeleton right there,” she pointed to a corner of the cell, close to where Ryan had originally found the journal. “And that was that. They identified him after finding out from the old warden that he had been the only one in solitary within a month before the shutdown. He insisted they had moved Shane back to his regular cell but, obviously, that wasn’t the case. After determining the timeline, and using modern testing, it is believed that he would have been alive in this cell for over a week after the shutdown, before his death. So, in short, it’s quite a mystery. No one is exactly sure of how that had happened.”

Ryan gaped at the woman. “They just… Left him here? That’s absurd!” He exclaimed, trying to fit together the story in his mind. How was that even possible?

Leaving him to his thoughts, the group followed the woman out of the prison. It was only four in the morning so it was still dark outside. He, Brent and their crew thanked the woman before parting ways. It wasn’t until they were back at their hotel, Ryan flipping through the pages of the stolen journal, when something suddenly clicked in his mind.

“Brent… If the prison was abandoned over a week before Shane’s death, then whose footsteps and voices was he hearing?”

Brent was silent for several moments before his lips tugged upwards, producing a grin. “I guess the guy wasn’t so ghost-proof after all.”

[myszkina]

Shadow and Steel - a Skyrim fanfiction

FF.net

Archive of Our Own

Chapter 3 - Smoke on the Water

The whole city knew that the Thieves Guild made their home in the Ratway. But those who had attempted to find them often died trying, lost in the maze. The thief's tools of deception and misdirection kept their home safe; the Ratway was a patchwork of old sewers and tunnels dug as escapes by lords and smugglers alike, layer upon layer deep underground. The remnants of the old city, burned to the ground by fire many years ago, boarded up and forgotten, had been absorbed into the maze. The stone lower levels of houses that had sunk beneath the waves, buried under the lake. Basements, underground warehouses, treasuries, cells from days past... All had become part of the City Beneath the City, sprawling under Riften. Not even the thieves knew the full extent of the tunnels.

As for the Cistern, it's location was a closely guarded secret, one that had to be earned, and one that the thieves had been tasked and trained to keep. But even if they did break, no one was likely to believe that it lay hidden under one of the finest manors in the city. Over the years it had been built into an odd mix of side rooms and tunnels off the original hall. The office was a fairly recent addition to the ancient Cistern added by Mercer’s predecessor, discovered by accident much like the senior members’ rooms and the larger dormitory, when the aging walls separating them from the main Cistern had weakened and started to collapse.

No one really believed Delvin’s rantings about signs and curses, but they could all see what this meant: Their headquarters was dying, falling apart along with the Guild, and it was going to take a lot more than bricks and mortar to save it. They were going to need a miracle.

Light footsteps echoed softly through the empty Cistern as Zarja stalked down the stairs from the city above. Her cloak billowed behind her as she swept through the tunnels, her wet, filthy boots trailing mud. The bag in her hand bounced against her leg as she walked, the cloth stained a deep crimson from its contents.

The door to Mercer’s office lay at the other end of the massive room, and was currently shut. But she knew he was in there, and that he was waiting for her.

Zarja also knew that this meeting was important. The letter she had received in Windhelm had given nothing but orders to return, but being called back from an assignment was almost unheard of. Ordinarily, after so long an absence, she would’ve taken the long route through the city to catch up on what she had missed. Today that wasn’t an option; no one kept the Guildmaster waiting. Not even she was exempt from that rule. The wooden door creaked on rusty hinges as Zarja flung it open.

She knew instantly that something was wrong. The tension in the room was stifling. The other senior members of the Guild were already gathered. The only one who acknowledged her was Brynjolf, who gave her a quick nod in greeting, a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Zarja stalked across the room, her eyes locked on Mercer. Without a word, she strode right up to the desk and tossed the sack onto the scuffed wooden surface. It slid the last few inches across the papers.

Mercer finally moved, straightening slowly. He undid the knot keeping the sack closed with a sharp tug and pulled out its contents - a severed hand, golden flesh grey and stiff. The sickening reek of decay filled the room.

“It's done, then?” Mercer finally said lowly.

“Did you expect anything else?” Zarja replied, bronze eyes distant. She could feel Brynjolf’s eyes on her; after eight years of this, she knew the grim set of his face even when she didn’t see it.

Mercer didn’t respond, turning the grotesque trophy over in his hands, studying it. Finally, after a too long moment, he nodded his approval, throwing it carelessly back into the sack.

Zarja turned and stepped back, leaning against a bookshelf. “So what's so important that you couldn’t say in a letter?”

Vex snorted derisively, but didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at Zarja.

Zarja ignored the Imperial, schooling her features into neutrality as she studied the other thieves, taking in every detail in a matter of seconds - Vex’s white-knuckled grip on her leather gear, the high, defensive cross of her arms; the almost painful-looking set of Delvin’s jaw; the way every thief refused to meet her stare. Mercer, infuriatingly, remained impassive. Zarja hated that unreadable mask, the absolute mastery of his expressions and temper that Zarja had never quite been able to match.

“Anein was caught in Markarth.” Mercer said finally.

Zarja sighed through her nose, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. This was why he’d called her back.  “If you had another assignment for me,” she drawled, pushing back a strand of golden hair. “You could have just said so.”

She had never liked the Dunmer. Well over a hundred years old, the former member of the Morag Tong - as he constantly liked to remind them, as if it somehow made him better - had tried to undermine her at every turn since he’d joined several years ago, hungry for her position in the Guild.

“I’ll head out in the morning.” She continued. “Though the mine will likely take care of him for us.” Or perhaps she’d drop a hint to Nazir, she mused privately. A debt owed by the Brotherhood held all sorts of possibilities.

“You aren’t going to Markarth.” Zarja’s brows shot up at the sharpness of his voice, and she blinked in surprise.

Then the Nord thief shifted, bronze eyes narrowed. The other thieves focused on anything but her. Whatever had happened, they knew.

“You're going to finish the Goldenglow job.”

Zarja froze, her stomach twisting and a roaring noise filling her ears. “‘Finish’?” She demanded, straightening away from the bookshelf. Her lips pulled back into a snarl. “What do you mean ‘finish’?”

Suddenly everything made sense - the strange silence, not even the barest shred of a rumor from here to Shor’s Stone, the tenseness of her fellow thieves.

Zarja bit down hard on her shock, fighting to keep a hold on her temper. Mercer had gone ahead with Goldenglow without her? They had barely started planning when she’d left for Windhelm.

“Yes,” Vex snapped, and Zarja’s head whipped toward the other woman, realizing she had spoken aloud. “We actually went ahead and did our jobs without the great Zarja Goldshadow.”

“And yet, here I am.” Vex’s brown eyes flashed when Zarja gave her a little smile that she knew made the Imperial’s temper flare. Zarja turned to Mercer. "You should have waited for me." She growled lowly, so only Mercer could hear. The Guildmaster's eyes turned thunderhead dark, and Zarja's words died in her throat. She clenched her jaw, not flinching from his gaze, but taking a quiet step back. She crossed her arms. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

“Dar’Ranir is dead.” Her former mentor said indifferently, twirling a blackjack point down on the desk.

“What?” Zarja demanded. Dar’Ranir, the grinning thief she had trained and trained with as often as Rune and Brynjolf since the Khajiit had joined, who’d somehow managed to fit in despite all reservations, coaxed laughs from her with horrible jokes or lewd anecdotes, had impossibly made a home under the lake he’d hated. Even Vex had liked him. “How?”

“Aringoth hired an army of thugs.” Brynjolf bit out. Zarja turned toward him, and under her rage felt a pang of sympathy for her friend; she knew how much responsibility he felt for the thieves in the Guild. He looked like he’d aged five years in less than a month. “Threw out whatever guards we might’ve had on our side. Almost like he knew.”

“They caught us on the second floor.” Vex forced the words out. “Rune by the hives. Dar’Ranir didn’t make it out.”

"You're a thief." Zarja hissed. Her voice, usually the cultured tones of Cyrodiil, roughened into the harsher lilt of the north. Her voice was a low growl; every word rasped past her lips like it had been dredged in gravel. "And he was your partner. You're supposed to be able to get in and out of places without being seen and make sure he does the same, and failing that you're supposed to watch his back!" Her fists clenched and unclenched, barely inching to the dagger on her hip as she took an unconscious step forward. She heard Brynjolf’s low warning, saw out of the corner of her eye Mercer tense dangerously and the blackjack freeze. She ignored both of them. “You had two thieves with you to carry the weight and you still managed to fuck it up, and on top of that you left him there.” “You would’ve done the same!” Vex snapped, matching Zarja’s step and refusing to back down from her glare.

Zarja slammed her hands onto Mercer’s desk, rattling the glasses. “I would’ve killed them all to get him out of there!”

“Enough.” Mercer snapped. Zarja and Vex didn’t move, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. “Stand down,” he murmured, and Zarja wasn’t sure if the warning was for her or Vex. She unconsciously tensed at the order out of habit either way. “Her patience has limits.” For Vex then. “As does mine.”

A muscle feathered in the Imperial’s jaw, but she wisely retreated back against the wall, averting her eyes.

Zarja rolled her neck, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “Is Rune all right?”

“He’ll live.” Brynjolf said. “Nothing that’ll keep him down for long.”

"What happened to Dar’Ranir’s body?"

"They burned it, from what we can tell. Didn't want any evidence floating around of a break in." Delvin finally spoke for the first time since Zarja had walked in.

"And a warning to anyone who would try again." Brynjolf added darkly.

"Because they know we're going to.” Zarja stated, speaking to all of them but watching Mercer, who merely toyed with the knife. “But this time, we will not fail."

A watery sun sat shone dimly from behind the clouds, the last remnants of the storm that had settled over the countryside for the past two days. The brilliant colors of the Rift were muted, reduced to dull greys and browns in the fog.

On the northern bank of Lake Honrich, the dark shape of the thief was indiscernible. From her post under a ledge near the road in a hollow between two boulders, wrapped in her cloak against the cool autumn air, Zarja surveyed the island, keen eyes watching the distant, ant-sized figures of the mercenaries.

It seemed like Aringoth knew very well the danger he was in. Zarja had rarely seen this kind of security outside of a Jarl’s palace. She counted roughly a dozen outside, patrolling over the bridges and around the main building, all heavily armed and armored and some leading dogs. She assumed there would be just as many inside the house. An increase in security, from what Brynjolf had told her before she left.

Then there was the island itself. The estate composed of three main islands, connected by bridges high over the water. A high wall wrapped around one of the smaller islands, protecting the beehives from the elements on all sides but one. Sharp rocks and high ledges surrounded most of the islands. The main house sat on the largest island, two stories high in the fashion of most houses in the Rift, on a rise in the middle of the island. Boulders and a few trees broke up the landscape, along with a few low watchtowers, with plenty of open ground between them.

Zarja rose with a quiet groan, stiff limbs aching in protest as she carefully hauled herself onto the ledge above her. Even with the bits of information she had gathered over the course of the morning and the day before, as she made the short trek back to Riften, her mood was grim.

The moons were sinking behind the western mountains when the thief returned, hidden behind a thick covering of clouds. The islands and the estate were dark shapes against the water. The torches were burning low, dim light struggling against the rain.

The swim in the freezing waters of Lake Honrich had not been pleasant, and the trek through the sewer even less so. Zarja’s damp armor clung to her body uncomfortably as she crouched at the entrance of the sewer, listening through the gaps in the wooden grate for any sign of the guards.

Hearing none, she scrambled up the ladder, damp and slippery with moss. The scrape of wood against stone seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet night as she eased the cover open, but didn’t seem to draw attention as Zarja hauled herself out of the sewer.

The sewer let out at the rear of the house, as promised, but it was further away than anticipated.

Merging with the shifting patterns of light and shadow thrown by the moon, the thief blended into the dark, matching the rhythm of trees and clouds as they stirred in the breeze. Slowly, as to not draw attention with errant movement, she crossed the distance to the door.

Zarja was grateful for the rain, even if it meant foregoing her usual mask to not further impair her already weather-limited senses. Thankfully, the downpour also meant that the guards outside of the house didn’t notice her slipping right past them. The second floor was fairly high up, but the window was darkened, and the latch was easily unlocked from the outside. She’d mapped the house already, in the days she had spent watching the island. If she was correct—and she was certain she was—that window led right into the second-floor Aringoth’s room.

Listening carefully, she waited until the guard was looking the other way, and began to climb. Her boots found their grip on the slick wood between logs, hands wrapped in a white-knuckled grip on the gutter.

Zarja kept her eyes and ears open, but no guards rounded the corner of the house. In a few moments, she was at the sill of the study window. The guard below didn’t even look up at the house towering behind him. Top-notch guards indeed.

One glance inside showed a darkened room—a desk littered with papers with a dimming candle at the far side of the room, a wardrobe, and a four-poster bed.

The thief hauled herself onto the ledge, and the slender knife from her boot gleamed dully as it wedged into the slight gap between the window doors. An angled jab, a deft flick of her wrist, and—

She eased the window open. One of the hinges creaked quietly, but the other swung away without a sound. Carefully, holding her breath, she eased the windows shut again.

Zarja landed in a crouch, her leather boots soundless on the ornate rug. The dim lanternlight showed a comfortably furnished home of a wealthy merchant; tastefully decorated, the walls were adorned with glittering decorations and colorful tapestries, and the wooden floors were covered with soft rugs.

The tiniest creak of floorboards under Zarja's feet as she moved, loud as thunder to her sensitive ears, was lost in the myriad of sounds around her. The house was alive around her; the sharp whistle of wind outside, snaking inside through tiny gaps in the outer walls and the patter of rain on the roof, the bear-like snoring of at least one guard of the house, the footsteps of another just outside the door. She pulled her mask up over her nose and started her search.

A quick sweep of the room showed no sign of a safe or keys. Papers were scattered on his desk, a ledger opened to yesterday’s date covered in the elf’s messy scrawl. Zarja doubted he would leave whatever she sought out in plain sight, but with no clear idea of where this thing even was, it was a good place to start.

A faint glitter at the far side of the room, caught her attention. It was a small bee statue, solid gold from the look of it, and it had a satisfying weight in her hands. Her mouth quirked into a small, satisfied smile as she tucked it into a pouch on her belt, and she crept towards the door soundlessly.

She moved through the room to the door, only to pause, fingers barely brushing the handle as her ears pricked at a muffled sound from the hall. She instinctively rolled out of the way, ducking behind a wardrobe just as the door was thrown open hard enough to bounce off the wall, and Aringoth stormed in.

"Useless mercenaries." He ground out. His hands clenched and unclenched as he walked, not even registering the silent, unmoving shape just a few meters away, or the wet footprints on the floor. His muttering hid the whisper of the thief's boots on the polished wooden floor as she turned back to the door.

The floor creaked under her.

Zarja's head snapped up as Aringoth started. Too far from the window to run, a guard outside the door, and no cover to hide her, Zarja could only watch with her heart in her throat as Aringoth turned toward the sound. They both froze, watching each other for too long a moment, both too shocked to respond.

Zarja moved first, the world snapping back into place around her. She dashed across the room, crossing it in three long strides. She didn't think, simply acted in a fraction of a second, drawing the blade on her hip. A half formed yell died on Aringoth's lips as a gloved hand clapped over his mouth, and the blade sliced across his throat.

Zarja emerged from the sewer back where she started, on the northern side of the island. A faint lightening in the eastern sky signaled that dawn was fast approaching.

She started to climb up to the wooden walkway above her. Her leather boots, while supple and supportive, felt traitorous on the slick stone surrounding it. She carefully navigated the rocks, staying as low as she could to avoid detection. Her boots slid, but her gloved fingers grappled onto the wooden supports. She managed to scramble her way up, risking a peek over the bulwark, and was greeted by a pair of boots directly in her line of vision. She immediately ducked back down, biting her lip to contain her curse. Above her the guard paused, suddenly alert. But in the early hour and the fatigue that accompanied it, and with nothing apparently wrong, he relaxed, slumping against one of the nearby crates. Zarja let out a quiet breath. She'd come this far; failure wasn't an option.

Gloved fingers gripping the rough wood above her, her feet carefully moved along the slanted support beams as she climbed further down the dock. Further down the bulwark, she pulled herself up and behind some stacked crates with little difficulty and took her bearings. On her left was the main house, surrounded with mercenaries who patrolled the walkways. On her right were the hives, which seemed unguarded.

The sound of creaking wood and thudding footsteps announced the presence of another patrolling guard on a nearby walkway. Zarja waited for him to pass before she climbed out from her hiding place. She headed toward the bee hives, carefully dodging guards as she went.

A distant shout from the other side of the island briefly drew her attention. There was commotion near the house, and it was slowly starting to spread across the estate as an alarm was raised. Stealth now a secondary priority, she quickened her pace.

The buzzing sound of the insects grew louder as she neared the center of the six hives. The combined drone of the bees and the patter of rain on the lake drowned out all other sound, and settled uncomfortably on her already frayed nerves. She tossed a quick look over her shoulder and, satisfied that no one had seen her, knelt down and pulled out her flint and steel.

The sparks crackled and died in the rain, costing her precious time. When the fire finally came to life, it leapt eagerly to the little wooden fortress. The fire made quick work of the hive and jumped to the next, the flames greedily devouring the hay and wood.

Shouts of alarm mingled with the crackle of the flames as mercenaries realized the hives were ablaze, and her satisfaction quickly turned to alarm.

Shielding her eyes against the smoke, Zarja searched for a way out. With the walkways blocked by the incoming guards, and with no time to navigate the rocks, she turned to the fence. But her boots couldn't find purchase on the smooth wood, and the wall was too high to jump. Behind her, the mercenaries were getting closer, and the sickeningly sweet smoke was blinding.

She sensed the attack a heartbeat before it happened. Zarja whirled and ducked, and the swing that would've cut her in two sailed harmlessly through empty air over her head and embedded itself in the wood above her, throwing the guard off balance in a shower of splinters. She came up with fast blow to the point of the man’s jaw; the guard was out before he hit the ground. She pivoted out of the way of a second guard's swing, and let her momentum carry her into a spin, bringing her leg up and delivering a solid kick to the man's side. Not an incapacitating blow by any means, with the brute protected by his thick leather armor, but it wasn’t meant to be, and it served it's purpose. He staggered and wheezed, and it took little effort for Zarja to grab his shoulders and force him down as her knee came up. There was a sickening crunch as the man's nose shattered, and he collapsed with a groan, blood trailing sluggishly down his face.

The entire sequence took less than four seconds.

Yells from the bridge reminded her that she wasn't out of danger yet. She turned, and the dull glint of the sword still buried in the wall just above waist height caught her attention. She took a few steps back and drew her elven dagger, paused briefly to make sure the contents of the safe were still secure in a pocket of her armor and the bee statue was undamaged, then ran at the wall, bracing one foot against it and pushing herself up so the other rested on the hilt of the sword. The blade shifted, threatening to give out under her weight, but she was already moving further up, sinking her own blade higher up on the wall. She grit her teeth against a lash of white-hot pain in her arm as she scrambled higher.

Her other hand gripped the edge above her, her dagger providing the added leverage she needed to pull herself up. She made it to the top just as the mercenaries reached the hives, ripping her blade free of the wood.

"There!" Too late, one of them spotted her through the thick smoke, but she was already gone, diving into the dark, frigid waters of the lake.

Zarja swam hard for the shore, letting the current carry her away from the island. She was nearly blind in the murky water, but she didn't dare swim on the surface in case the mercenaries were smart enough to carry bows.

Finally, lungs burning and muscles aching, she hauled herself up onto the muddy bank. She collapsed onto her back with a groan, staring up at the dark clouds above her. The only sound was her ragged breathing, and in the distance the faint yelling of panicked guards.

After a few moments a dull throb reminded her of its presence in her left arm. Her right hand came up, feeling for the source of the discomfort, and it came away red and sticky. Looked like the guard had managed a lucky hit after all; he had nicked her just under her leather pauldron. The cut wasn't too deep, but it burned beneath her hand, and was starting to itch. Lying in the mud probably wasn't doing it any favors either.

Zarja forced herself up against her complaining muscles. But it didn't stop the satisfied smirk that curled under her mask as she watched the distant figures of the mercenaries scurrying like ants around the burning hives. Despite their incompetence, she wasn't worried. With no wind, and the steady rain, the fires were already going out and remaining hives were in no danger, but two were already past saving, and the third was unlikely to survive.

She pulled the letter she'd found in the basement safe out of her pocket, thankfully undamaged from the swim, staring at it before a wicked grin stretched over her features. The letter clutched in her hand was proof that she had done it.

Within hours the entire city knew that Goldenglow had been hit. Half of the estate’s hives had been destroyed, the house stripped of valuables. The island and the lake were being searched for whatever was left of Aringoth; his room had been found in chaos, a bloody mess on the floor. No one expected him to be found.

The door to the Ragged Flagon flew open with a crash, drawing the attention of the few in the bar.

Delvin looked up with no small degree of surprise. No one had heard from the Nord woman in almost three days, and most had started to assume the worst. “You’re back! How did –“

“It’s done.” She said simply, giving him a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The mood in the bar lightened considerably, the patrons throwing curious questions at her, but she didn’t stop to elaborate.

In the Cistern, she headed straight to Brynjolf, acutely aware of Mercer’s gaze following her across the room as soon as she entered.

Brynjolf grinned as she approached, relief washing through him and the tension lifting from his body as pulled her into a quick hug. She winced at the contact, and his relief quickly turned to concern. He pulled his hand away reflexively, and it came away red and sticky with blood.

“Lass –“

“Looks worse than it is, I promise.” She interrupted quickly, her lips curving into a faint smile. She pushed aside the torn, bloodstained sleeve of her shirt, revealing the hasty wrappings around her arm. “More importantly,” With her uninjured hand she pulled out the letter from the inner lining of her armor. “The contents of Aringoth’s safe.” She raised a brow at his surprise. ”You doubted me?” she teased, but there was a warning edge in her voice.

“Not for a second.” He grinned, unfolding the letter. He skimmed over the document quickly, his easy smile fading with every word. “What about the elf?” he asked, his voice suddenly very serious.

Zarja looked somewhat surprised by the question, but answered, “Dead.”

“Good.” Her brow inched higher in a silent question. “Whatever you did, lass, it was a kindness.” Brynjolf said darkly, his green eyes glittering in the torchlight. “Aringoth sold Goldenglow. Maven would’ve skinned the mad bastard alive.” He shook his head, examining the paper more closely. “There’s no name on the certificate, just this odd symbol. Any idea what it means, lass?”

Zarja took the proffered parchment. The symbol was strange, but there was something almost familiar about it. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was a shadowmark.” She frowned, handing the letter back. “But it’s nothing like I’ve ever seen.”

“Blast. I’ll check my sources and speak to Mercer. In the meantime,” He said, folding the parchment and turning his attention back to Zarja, who was stifling a yawn. Hidden in the shadow of her hood, her eyes lacked their usual brightness above dark circles of exhaustion. “Get some rest, lass.”

"But I still need to-"

"Whatever it is, it can wait. You're a wreck." Brynjolf said bluntly. "Go get some sleep. You've done your part. I'll take care of the rest." When she didn't move he added, "That's an order, lass." With as much authority as he could muster.

Zarja snorted – they both knew he didn’t have any actual authority over her - , but inclined her head slightly. "Yes, sir." She said dryly to the Guild Second. Brynjolf waved off her teasing, shaking his head, and Zarja headed for her room, but sleep was the last thing on her mind. She pulled off her armor, gingerly maneuvering her injured arm out of the leather curiass and the sleeve of her tunic, and tossed it into a pile at the foor of her bed before heading to the improvised bathroom separated from the rest of her room by a wooden screen.

While not as advanced as Solitude or Markarth, The Rift had its share of dwemer ruins, and over time the hold's inhabitants had managed to replicate some of their more simple technologies - most importantly, the ability to heat and carry water through endless meters of pipes. The thieves simply tapped into the pipes installed by the nobility.

The old pipes groaned, only releasing a short trickle of water into the tub. Zarja frowned, urging the piping along with an impatient kick. After an unnerving shudder and one final loud complaint, water sputtered forth, growing into a steady stream. The water smelled of a faint metallic tang from the endless feet of piping, but it was still infinitely better than the freezing green waters of Lake Honrich.

Zarja soaked until the water was tepid, letting the heat and sweet smelling soaps soothe her aching muscles and growing headache, and changed into a fresh tunic and breeches - dark colored like most of the things she owned. She started on the chore of repairing her armor. It was slow, methodical work, but relaxing.

The peaceful silence didn’t last long. News of her return had spread quickly. By the time she’d finished caring for her water-damaged armor, half the Guild had come to her for the story. She’d given them enough details to satisfy their curiosity, but for the most part remained tensely silent.

She paused her task to talk to Tonilia about materials for repair. Returning to the Cistern, she saw the door to Mercer's office open, and Brynjolf leaning over the desk, his back towards her as he spoke to the Breton. She knew him well enough to recognize the tense set of his shoulders, and the cause wasn't hard to guess. The Guildmaster was furious over the news of Goldenglow’s sale. He glanced over at Zarja once, the unreadable expression sending a chill down her spine. There was something almost like approval in the look, but there was also something very dangerous that she couldn't name.

Zarja kept her face carefully neutral, turning back to her room and her chore. She pushed the uncomfortable feeling from her mind as she set to cleaning her weapons. The cleaning rag came away stained red with blood.

She stared at it for a moment, chewing the inside of her cheek. She roughly shoved the Aldmeri blade back in its scabbard, throwing it onto the pile of gear at the foot of her bed. Pausing only to throw a change of clothes, and some coin, she stalked across the Cistern, strapping on her weapons belt and her cloak as she went. No one stopped her when she slipped out of the hidden entrance and into the city streets.

[risoria]

what do you write someone whose people is dying - who is a victim of genocide? what words can begin to encompass it? ive shared the diary of writer and school teacher Eman, from g aza, because i have a few more followers here than on twitter and i want people to read the words of ordinary people living in p alestine, so their words never go unread or unheard, or forgotten. she has expressed that she writes her diary on social media as a form of resistance against i sraeli propaganda and misinformation. the strength of people in g aza is unfathomable - but it is extremely unfair that they have to be, that they live (and die) through such atrocities.

if you’ve missed it, i will put some of her previous posts here again

her latest posts say that she doesnt want to keep writing the diary, because she has lost hope. i have gone back and forth on if i should publish those screenshots here. to be clear - i dont want to ”protect” anyone living outside of this ”war”/genocide from the realities of what is going on. we can look away because we want a break. they get no breaks. however i dont want to be inadvertedly diminishing someones personal sufferings as if it is a PSA about boycotts or other such post.

in her latest post she is writing about how she feels helpless and hopeless, suicidal - even if there was an end to the siege, she has no hope for the aftermath. i cant paste the link for some reason, but her twitter @ is SometimesPooh, as you can see in the screenshot, - if you can, please write something. something from one human to another.

i want to tag this, but its clear that zi0 nists look through the tags on here and if she gets even one hate comment, that would be one too many. im asking followers who see this to read her words and to reply if you are able