#this thing feels near impossible without the cross+wind book spell

[chromatundra]

[ferretandtheweasel]

Ginny:

What the heck was his problem? No seriously, Ginny Weasley wanted to know. Granted, she was in the wrong class (by mistake, mind you!) and she was just as embarrassed as anyone would have been in her situation but that hardly warranted the scornful look he had on his face upon seeing her. She wasn't exactly thrilled to be in Malfoy's company either, Merlin knew the memory of that day tortured her as much as it annoyed him but she didn't go around acting disdainful towards him. Okay sure, it had been a brief connection, eye to eye, steely grey met her own honey brown, but his look stung her in her chest for some reason, it was a look accusing her of being in the same room as him, as if she wanted that! Leaving potions class, after quickly making apologies before Snape could use her momentary blunder to take points off of Gryffindor, she tried to make sense of her dilemma.

So yeah, why was Malfoy being an utter twat, more than usual, you ask? Well, it all came down to that one fateful day when she was out with her class in the forbidden forest. Dumbledore had announced a compulsory program for year 4 and aboves, they were meant to form groups and with teachers' supervision, would have to spend 5 days learning camping skills. Apparently the ministry of magic thought that students had become too "lazy" and needed more outdoor activities. She didn't even know what Draco was doing there in the first place since his class was supposed to have their camping exercise later but who cares now. All she remembers is that somehow she'd walked right into him sitting near a lake reading a book. And before you ask, she was initially going to ignore him and walk back to the camp, because believe it or not she wasn't particularly interested in talking to him, plus she had wandered off a bit too far in her search for food, and she wanted to go back to her friends when he spotted her and made a rude comment.

Here's the thing you should know about Ginny Weasley, she had that infamous Weasley temper (which she's working on, come on now give a girl a break please), but yeah she can get exceptionally hot headed when she's hungry... and she was very hungry that day hunting for food, so she may have been particularly nasty towards him and may have said something about his upbringing. Listen, he was rude first, she just returned the favour. That kind of started their age old tradition of insulting each other and somehow she and Malfoy ended up in close proximity, somewhere during their shouting match. She doesn't really remember how but it's possible that she may have been the one to shove him first, in her defense, he had insulted her mother's annual Weasley jumpers so she had to do something. That is definitely how both she and him, ended up in the lake and here's the thing, she kinda doesn't recall much of what happened afterwards, because he did look like a snack alright. It's because his white shirt was wet and it was see through, so she had a moment of weakness, may her ancestors forgive her. So yeah, she may have looked at him a certain way, but he was at fault too, he was giving her looks that did things to her heart and elsewhere in her body, his cool silver locks fell over his molten grey eyes and she was sure her heart probably stopped beating at the sight. She can't explain it.

Merlin knew that moment is exactly where her mind was wandering off to, when today she had accidentally, walked into professor Snape's potion lecture when she was meant to be attending charms for year 6 in a different building! No no no, this would not do. Ginny would have to take control of her mind that kept wandering to that day- ugh! There it was again, she was trying NOT to think about it but somehow the memory of Draco's soft lips descending upon hers, his slender hands slowly making their way down her body, her arms pulling him closer and their tongues locking in a passionate embrace.... yeah, that memory won't leave her alone.

It... It felt like he'd done something to her, like that kiss had changed something fundamental in her, she couldn't look in the mirror without thinking of his kiss. She could still imagine it, picture it, taste it even if she closed her eyes long enough... It felt as though he had tattooed that kiss on her lips and it will never go away.

The point is, yeah, she had been affected by that sudden kiss, but she wasn't going around the school being grumpy and passing him dirty looks. She was feeling tortured inside but she was acting indifferent and trying her hardest to forget everything that had transpired between them because unlike a certain irritating man, she didn't want people to suspect anything. She was sure he was disgusted by their kiss, but could he act more mature about everything please? Because she was trying her hardest to ignore him but his constant remarks every time they crossed paths, his eyes which dug holes in her back and his scathing looks were making it very difficult for Ginny Weasley to forget what they'd done in forbidden forest.

Just last evening she was trying her hardest to concentrate on her homework in the library, she had to read each sentence several times to get it through her head, that's how much Malfoy's presence had started to affect her. As she was trying and failing to concentrate, a loud thud from the other table rang throughout the quiet room, making everyone snap their heads in his direction. Malfoy was grumpily packing his books to leave the the library, giving her a murderous look as if everything was her fault somehow he left. She wished things could go back to normal somehow, but what was normal for them, ignoring each other? Or going back at each others throats? It was all very confusing.

Draco:

Merlin! She was doing this on purpose wasn't she, "accidentally" walked into potions, yeah right! How was he supposed to forget the mistake they'd made if she kept showing up everywhere, looking like... that! What was wrong with him? She must have put some kind of spell on him to torment him. Yes, that made sense, because why else on Merlin's earth would he, Draco Malfoy, find her agreeable. It was worse, he found her more than agreeable, those damn red hair, they enchanted him how they flew with the wind as she rode her broom during a match or when they partially covered her face in the dining hall while she would talk to her friends, tempting him to abandon all common sense and run his fingers through them to tuck them behind her ears. Fascinating, how those silky strands danced on her button nose when she was working on her homework in the library until she ended up putting them in a messy bun, which made her look adora— Mental!

She looked mental, she was a weasel afterall. Draco was frustrated, he was tired and most importantly he was angry, how was it that one kiss, one moment of relapse in judgement on his part could change things between him and a nobody like her so much so that here he was, all rewired somehow sitting in potions thinking about her red hair!! Was this how it was going to be from now on, she would just walk into a room and just like that, all logical thoughts in his mind would go out of the window, he would be transported to that singular moment of his life when her honey brown eyes looked up at him right after their kiss, in surprise and... shock. When she had moved her fingers to touch her lips in astonishment, innocent brown eyes looking up to him in confusion, hesitation, wonder? and then they had heard Pansy calling out for him which had made them both snap back into reality. Within moments, they were out of the lake, unspoken agreement that whatever happened, didn't happen.

And now here he was days, weeks later trying his best to be the old Draco, except it seemed like he didn't know what in the name of Salazar he was supposed do in a situation like this? All he knew was that she was suddenly everywhere, in the dining hall, on school premises, in the quidditch training pitch but most importantly, on his mind! That was the worst place she had occupied, it made it impossible for him to function anywhere. She had ruined his peaceful quiet reading spot because he couldn't go there anymore without thinking back to what they did, without imagining 'what if' scenarios, what if Pansy hadn't come to looking for him? What if Ginny wasn't a Weasley, what if he wasn't a Malfoy? Merlin! His ancestors were all probably rolling in their graves right about now.

"Weasley's sure got a nice arse"

Crabbe's loud observation almost made him want to hex the guy but miraculously, at the last minute his self preservation skills kicked in and he was able to keep his cool. He wished Ron Weasley had heard it right now, he would not only shut them up but also provide quality entertainment while doing so. Seriously, if Merlin was about to put him through Crabbe and Goyle's disgusting comments about Ginny Weasley's arse then, he would have no other option but to jump from the astronomy tower maybe, because no way in hell was he going to sit here as Crabbe and Goyle discussed her. Besides, her arse was just okay, like it wasn't all that special or anything. It wasn't big or small, just the normal size... if he was forced to comment on it, he would say it was pert, well-shaped probably because of all the quidditch training she did, it was perfectly round and firm, and frankly speaking, made to fit right in his palms. It wasn't his attraction speaking, no, it was just an objective fact that her arse fits in his hands, he knew that because he'd had the chance to grab it when they had kissed that day. Of their own accord, His hands itched to do touch her again —

"Woah, relax mate, you're gonna break that thing."

Draco looked at where Blaise was pointing and realised he was about to snap the beaker full of potion, he relaxed his hands and exhaled a sigh he didn't know he had been holding. What was that bint doing to him, he was going insane. Zabini didn't press him on what was going on and he was grateful for that. Instead he read more instructions and kept on working on THEIR class project, something they were supposed to do together! Had Draco not been so out of focus lately he would have helped out, but as it happened, a certain foul-mouthed, red-haired, brown-eyed gryffindor was on his mind and everything in life was upside down.

~

When Draco and Ginny fall into a lake in the forbidden forest, it ends up in an unexpected event. One moment they're arguing, honouring their ancestral family rivalry... the next they're locked in a passionate embrace neither saw coming. What happens now? Where do they go from here? How the heck did it even happen? Merlin, help them.

[loki-godofmischief-myking]

Remnant Daughter

Loki x Deceased!Reader x Daughter OC

Loki loved you. There was no one else he loved more than you. The day you died he resolved to protect that love that had resulted in a daughter. She was a perfect reminder of you, one he would preserve. No harm would ever come to her so long as he lived. 

Warning: None really. Just note that here Loki never tried taking over Midgard. When he found out his Jotun heritage he didn’t resent Odin and Frigga, rather thanked them for his upbringing.

“Loki-”

Loki tossed and turned in his bed as he heard his name being called out. The voice was meek and full of desperation. His skin began to turn blue as his mind took him back to the day he lost you.

Your lower body shook and trembled as you had yet to recover from delivering your baby daughter. One hand kept you stable along the cold cavern walls as the other held your newborn close to your chest. 

A cold huff of air escaped you as you got closer to the cavern’s opening where you could hear your husband fending off the intruders.

Unfortunately, your pregnancy had not been easy. Only Jotunheim housed the climate appropriate for your half-Jotun daughter. You were near death when you arrived, your skin burning to the touch. Only Loki was able to handle your feverish skin long enough to get you to where you had to be. 

After finding out his true parentage Loki remained in Asgard- where his beloved was. All for you, he gave up his line to the throne letting it go to Laufey’s other son. A son who hated Loki’s very existence.

When he had gotten word of his being within the realm he sent for him. That is when they caught wind of his reason for coming back. Laufeyson ordered your child be taken and killed to honor his father’s wish that would have seen Loki dead in the first place.

Loki would never allow any harm upon his child. A child you had desperately wanted in order to complete the vision of a perfect family you always painted for him. 

In full Jotun form, Loki growled, “Leave while I allow it.”

The Jotuns towered over him still, not backing down after being given strict orders from their king. 

“Loki,” you happily sighed as you saw your husband was unharmed.

Loki’s chest constricted once he heard the sweet sound of your voice. Only in his sleep could he accurately recall how truly beautiful a sound it was.

Without a moment to spare you had your free arm wrapped around him as your daughter was warmly nestled between you. “Thank Norns you are safe.”

He returned your embrace kissing the top of your head before tucking it under his chin. “You should not be out here, it is not safe. He will send others.”

“How can I remain hidden and do nothing when you are outnumbered? I am your wife, I will forever stand by your side.”

Loki’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he desperately tried to will himself awake knowing very well what came next. But his efforts were fruitless as his mind made him relive the most traumatic moment of his life. 

"Choose, your wife or your daughter?” 

“Don’t you dare harm her!” 

Laufeyson inched his ax closer to your neck when Loki took a step towards him, making you feel the sharp edge against your rapidly cooling skin. He had stripped you of the warm fur-lined coat that had kept your body temperature stable in the harsh cold of the realm. The thin Asgardian dress did little to shield you from the sharp winds. Hypothermia would soon claim you who was not built for such an environment. 

Loki tried to keep from showing how horrified he was by the decision. He could see the fear in your eyes, the paling of your skin, and the soft whimpering of his newborn which he held in his arms. It was impossible to choose. 

He could never hand over his daughter and yet he could not fathom the idea of returning to Asgard without you.

“Daddy~”

“Choose!”

“L-loki,” you shivered. “Please take her and go,” you begged him through teary eyes. Of course, you did not want to die but you would give your life for his and hers. You wanted nothing more than their happiness.

“I can’t-”

“Please just...” you knew Loki would never make the decision. You knew you had to make it for him.

His eyes widened as he saw your hand discreetly pull a dagger out of your sleeve as you wordlessly mouthed your final confession of love for him.

Loki’s eyes shot open when small hands began to hit his chest repeatedly. His ragged breathing came to a halt when he saw the look of concern on his five-year-old daughter.

“Kari, what are you doing here?”

“I could not sleep.” 

Her bright red eyes examined his expression knowing very well that this was the case for him as well. Unlike Loki, she had no control over her eyes as they remained her natural Jotun red but lacked the sheer darkness behind them. There was a gleam that illuminated them, undeniably inherited from you. That very same gleam that had gotten him to notice you when he had been surrounded by women who only sought him for his title.

“You were having a bad dream Daddy.” In an effort to comfort her father Kari wrapped her little arms around his torso laying her head against his chest. “Was it about Mommy?”

As he looked down at her he could not help but remember the way you would cling to him begging him to stay with you a moment longer instead of going about his duties. If he knew then how limited his time with you would be... he would have fulfilled your every wish. Now all he could do was regret. 

“It was,” he responded by putting his own arms around her and kissing the top of her head. 

Kari immediately looked up giving him a look of sorrow. “Daddy,” her eyes silently apologized for your absence. “Mommy isn’t here but I am. Kari will always be here for you.”

The heart-wrenching words of his concerned daughter had Loki smiling. He tucked her in with a light-hearted chuckle to show he had been relieved of his lamentations. 

Once again she was his strength. 

“I know my dear.”

He would live to protect this last remnant of you.

\\\

“If you have already finished the reading then perhaps it is time we introduce you to more complex literature.”

Kari sighed as she followed behind her grandfather’s advisor. He was a tutor to her when it came to diplomacy. As a princess Kari was expected to learn everything there was to be known about all the realms. 

“Here,” the elder man handed her a rather large and heavy book. “This will be of use to you. I remember when I first read it. I was much younger then.”

“The reason I read so quickly is to rid myself of my duties. Had I known this was going to happen I would have dozed off longer.”

“Princess you have been gifted with a mind like no other.” He smiled at the young girl showing he meant well. “Your mother read her way through this library. She was always searching always wondering, a true scholar. Your father and mother were different in every sense. This was the only place they ever crossed paths.”

“So I hear... but I’m not nearly as interested in dusty old books.” She was an eight-year-old girl who wished to have fun with the other children. Until now she had been urged from one lesson to another. Diplomacy, etiquette, magic, archery, economics, language, astrology, and worst of all- math. But it mattered not what task they put in front of her. The young girl was incredibly talented with unmatched intelligence and natural charisma. 

“I want to have fun.”

So much so that at times everyone was thankful Loki was so strict on her.

“What would your Highness consider fun?”

Kari shrugged, fun was never something she strived for. Only recently had the word come about after she heard the other noble children raving about how they spent their days riding horses to a secret waterfall the adults knew not of. And through books, she learned the most fun realm of all was Midgard.

“I would like to go to another realm.”

“Another realm?”

The little girl nodded, “I wish to see things for myself rather than read someone else’s account.” Her eyes trained themselves on the rainbow bridge which she could make out in the distance from the window. “Someday I will travel and become master of all realms.”

“How ambitious of you little one.”

Kari beamed as she heard her grandmother’s voice. 

“Queen Frigga,” the advisor gave a curt bow of his head which she acknowledged. At the same time, he was relieved of his duties as Kari’s tutor to be turned over to her. He left the royals with a cautionary warning to the young one that she should not overlook the wisdom of old dusty books.

Being in the presence of her grandmother Kari knew she could relax, evident by the way she rid herself of the glamour spell she had perfected to conceal her bright red eyes with beautiful gold irises. Although beautiful she much rather preferred that which made her different. 

“Much better,” she exhaled contently.

Frigga smiled, “My...what a beautiful granddaughter I have been bestowed.” Her hand gently prodded Kari’s chin to tilt her head up so she could meet her eyes. 

The compliment immediately gained Kari’s laughter. “You always say that...”

“And I always mean it.”

The little girl’s smile reached her eyes only to be withdrawn when she heard the familiar grumbling of her grandfather. “Kari!” He sternly called her name, not a fan of her openly displaying her Jotun heritage. 

Immediately she hid her eyes from view. 

“What have I told you?”

Kari sighed, the lecture had been engraved in her memory. “That I must adapt to what Asgard expects of me... and what they expect is a well-mannered, well-bred Asgardian princess.”

The rest of Asgard knew not of Loki’s lineage. For his sake and now for Kari’s sake, Odin had them conceal their Jotun attributes in order to keep any from questioning Loki as a prince of Asgard. This was helped by the fact that you, a sensible young woman from a noble family took an interest in his son. You hid the truth well even from your own family who to this day believe you had died of complications during childbirth. 

They never approved of your relationship with Loki, in turn, they despised Kari for causing your premature death. 

This was something Kari had no knowledge of. Loki made sure her life was nothing but positive. If ever an inconvenience arose he would deal with it. Therefore your family no longer resided in Asgard. 

“Do not be so hard on her, she is only a child.”

Odin sighed knowing there was truth to Frigga’s statement but he was only looking out for his granddaughter. He truly cared for her. He had to ensure her future as a princess of Asgard. “She is the firstborn princess of Asgard. It is a title she must not take lightly.”

Loki appeared as if out of nowhere, his hands behind his back as he sported a playful smirk. “I really do wish Thor would just marry and give you other grandchildren to torment.” 

He was grateful for Odin taking him in but knew all his life he had been at a disadvantage with Thor who was a blood son. He knew once his brother had children Odin would turn his attentions to them the future Kings or Queens of Asgard. 

“Loki!” Frigga warned her youngest son to watch what he said, especially in front of Kari.

“Daddy,” Kari ran into her father’s arms happy to see he was back. Her arms latched around his neck as she rested her head on his shoulder. “I missed you.”

“And I missed you, my little one.” One arm carried her weight while the other hand gave her full head of silk-like hair a pat. 

Odin remained silent not justifying himself to Loki. He had his reasons for doing things the way he did just as Loki had his.

Thor soon appeared as well having been left behind by his brother. 

“Uncle Thor,” one hand reached out to him wanting to also greet him but not enough to let go of her father. 

“Kari, my sweet princess.” He smiled brightly at the affectionate scene before him of his niece latching onto his brother. Never had he seen him so openly display affection before Kari’s birth. Even with you, he seemed to hide his attraction making others question the validity of your relationship at one point. He reached out to hold her hand in his and kissed the top. “I hope you have behaved yourself while we were gone.”

“Of course she has.” “Of course I have.” Father and daughter simultaneously respond.

“Then I suppose we can bestow you with the gift we have brought.”

Kari’s eyes lit up. “A gift!”

The entire royal family had trekked out into the stables where Kari’s gift lay in wait. A gift that was actually not from her uncle or father. 

A crowd of people was gathered in awe at the gift. For many this was a new creature for others it was a memory of the past for there had been many in Asgard until they went extinct. They waited to hear how the creature had ended up here.

“Alfheim has gifted one of their precious unicorns to the firstborn princess of Asgard.”

Kari gasped seeing the white unicorn that stood as a stark contrast to the surrounding horses. The unicorn’s distinct horn was incredibly long and shiny, when the light caught it there seemed to be an iridescent shine like opal or pearl. The mane was hard to describe in one word. It was white but somewhere in between, it seemed to give a hint of blue shine. One thing was for sure, the mane was long and silky in the way each strand fell perfectly back in place. 

“Is it really for me?” She held her father’s hand tight with giddiness. 

Loki was not fond of the idea of his daughter riding but had to admit defeat at the happiness she was radiating. “If you promise to behave and take lessons before attempting to ride him-” 

“Him, hmmm...” The young girl tapped her chin in her pursuit of a suitable name for her beautiful new companion. Her hand slipped out of her father’s to approach the magical looking creature. That is how she was able to see the sporadic deep blue streaks of hair that were outnumbered by the white. “Azure,” she spoke mostly to herself yet to the unicorn. “Did you know there are hundreds of words for the color blue. There are many languages and dialects each with their own word.” Her hand gently ran through the ends of his mane, the only part she could reach. “You look more like an Azure.”

“What a lovely name my dear,” Frigga beamed seeing how her spirit had been lifted after being reprimanded by Odin.

“Yes, but what good is a horse you can not ride.” Thor, the ever fun-loving uncle that he was, went against his brother’s wishes and lifted his niece up onto the unicorn’s back.

“It is not your ordinary horse you oaf!” Loki scolded. His brother knew not of a unicorn’s differing mannerisms and personalities to horses. They were far more gentle creatures with the temper of a bull and the charge of a rhino only far more dangerous with that sharp horn of theirs. 

Kari was fighting with her urge to go along with her uncle or listen to her father’s demand for her to get off.

“Come now brother, nothing will happen. Let our young princess have some fun, Odin knows you did when you were younger.” With that Thor mounted Azure keeping his niece safely between his arms as he took the reigns. 

To Loki’s surprise, Azure listened to Thor entertaining them with a steady gallop.

Odin’s lips seemed to curl up into a brief smile that only Frigga caught before he retired back into the palace.  She brought her hand onto her son’s shoulder assuring him there was no harm.

Loki’s worries were only put to rest by Kari’s laughter. His daughter’s quick liking to the animal reminded him of you.

Loki smirked using your lack of agility to his advantage as he stole your current interest right out of your hands. He held the book above your reach to examine it. “What has my love so interested in Alfheim?”

Your brow furrowed in discontent, “It is none of your concern-”

“If you wish to visit you only need say so.”

The book was handed back to you allowing you something to grasp while you remind him of your situation. “You already know that is impossible when all of Asgard is watching us.”

You had married Loki only a few months ago and were determined to do everything in your power to earn your place. There were still too many who did not acknowledge your marriage to Loki simply because they thought Thor should be first to marry. 

“You worry too much.”

“Do I?”

Loki nodded, “Now tell me why Alfheim?”

“Unicorns.”

“Unicorns,” Loki eyed you with skepticism. “A realm known for its magical knowledge, nature, music... and you simply want to see a horned horse?”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Unicorns are said to be magical creatures. The alicorn being the source of their magical and medicinal properties.”

Loki recalled watching you flip through books as you animatedly recounted your research on the rare creature. He could only imagine you would smile just as brightly upon the unicorn’s arrival.

Kari interrupted his thoughts when she came running to him. “Did you see me?”

“You were wonderful my little one.”

Although his lips were curled into a smile Kari could easily read her father. There was a certain look in his eyes, darkness, whenever he became saddened by the thought of you.

“I love you Daddy,” these four words were her magical tool against her father’s dark thoughts. She need only say it once for him to come back to his senses.

Loki truly smiled now, wonderfully surprised by his daughter’s sentiment. “I love you too.”

The young girl wondered if someday she could take her father’s pain away. She wanted him to be the fun mischievous person everyone always recalled in their stories of times before she was born. 

That night Kari would not go to bed no matter how many times her nursemaid tried to coax her. She relentlessly went on about waiting for her father to be done so he could tuck her in like when she was younger.

“Princess your father is very busy-”

“I can wait.”

“Please princess have mercy on me. Your father will be very displeased with me if I do not complete my tasks.” 

Kari had seen many nursemaids come and go throughout her short years. Each one having been replaced after Loki saw they were not fit to uphold his standards or if one got too attached to her. 

He did not wish for anyone to play the role of mother to Kari. His daughter already had a mother. 

“That is not my problem,” Kari crossed her arms over her chest standing firm. “I will do as I please until my father retires for the night.”

The nursemaid sighed unable to do anything but wait to be reprimanded and perhaps sent to another noble family to care for their children. 

Hours later Loki had yet to retire. 

Kari sleepily hung onto hope for a bit longer before going across the hall to his rooms in search of him. She pushed the heavy door to gain entrance into the silent chambers. 

She knew if she would just call out to him he would appear before her but this time around she was curious to know why he had not come to see her. That’s when she heard a muffled sound coming from his study, the door slightly ajar.

Loki sat back in his chair, a chalice of mulled wine in his hand while he faced the farthest wall where a portrait of you hung as the only decoration. It was commissioned post-mortem when he realized there were no portraits of only you. 

He concentrated greatly needing more time than usual to picture you in all your glory. Then in a second, you were standing before him in golden shine. It was an illusion he had created of you.

“It’s getting harder-” A knot in his throat stopped him mid-sentence. The thought of possibly forgetting you was more than he could handle. “Why can’t I summon you at will?”

The illusion of you stood still flickering slightly when he took a drink.

Lately, he could only remember you in your last moments of life. He found himself forgetting the finer details of your appearance and personality.

“I forget my love... did you like postmodern romanticism or was it transcendentalism?”

He took another drink and yet again you flickered.

Loki stared at the illusion he had made, judging the appearance. He always remembered that pale green dress you wore when he first noticed you. It fit you well, hugged all the right places and complimented your lustrous skin. Your hair and your face- he gripped the chalice trying to recall the color and feel.

The image that came to mind was much to generic for his liking... just like the portrait.

He stood up approaching the illusion and looked up at the portrait. 

“Sure it is beautiful,” he admitted. It resembled you but was it truly you. “No one can ever accurately capture you, my love.”

Kari’s eyes teared up when she heard how hard it was getting for her father to speak.

“And your voice...” 

“Loki,” the illusion called to him in your voice- or at least what he thought was your voice. “Loki, my love.”

“How I wish to hear it.” A tear finally found its way down Loki’s cheek as he resigned himself to the fact that even he couldn’t reproduce the sweet sound of your voice.

In his dreams, he heard it but it was always followed by your cries of pain.

“I love you Loki,” the illusion smiled with a tilt of its head in the same way you would every time you playfully professed your love to him.

When the chalice was empty Loki picked up the bottle and drank directly from it. The illusion flickered continuously until he had downed the entirety of it.

Kari stepped into the study now fully in tears from what she was seeing.

“Daddy...”

Loki quickly turned to see his daughter cautiously approaching him. “Kari-” he wanted to reprimand her for not being in bed but found it difficult when she was sorrowfully staring at his illusion of you.

Up until now, he had been careful not to do this in front of her. He knew it would be too much of an emotional trigger. He could hardly handle it himself. When he made a gesture to be rid of it Kari stopped him.

“Wait-” Her small hands reached out to him. Now it was she who compared the illusion to the portrait above. All she had ever seen was that portrait but never imagined her mother’s voice.

“C-can she-” she was almost afraid to ask. As if her father would deny her request. “Can she say my name?”

Loki inhaled sharply. His daughter’s request was difficult but not impossible.

“Kari~” the illusion called out effectively rendering the little girl motionless. This time Loki managed to envision your joyous expression upon his return from long trips. He had the illusion give a similar smile and say, “I love you Kari.”

“I love you too Mommy-”

The little girl’s lips trembled unable to stop herself from crying profusely. She had never met this woman yet she felt so strongly about her.

His daughter’s tears were sobering. Loki put down the bottle he had so viciously been gripping onto. He knelt down in front of his young daughter, the illusion now vanishing into nothing but golden specs of light. 

“Kari-”

"Daddy...” Kari’s small arms wrapped around her father as she continued to cry into his chest.

Loki held her silently. There was nothing he could say that would make her feel better. For years he had tried finding comfort from the neverending pain he felt after your loss. But nothing could ever fill the void you left behind.

At one point he damned you for making him fall in love with you. He damned the empty promises of forever. You dared entice him with the picture of eternal love and a family to cherish and call his own only to leave him behind.

But in the end, he knew it was all worth it. 

Loving you gave his life new meaning. 

Before you, he never imagined himself as a father and now he couldn’t imagine a life without his precious daughter. 

Kari found comfort in her father’s embrace although she didn’t care too much for the smell of alcohol on him. The gentle caress of her hair and the slight pressure atop her head of his lips seemed to coax her out of the mournful sorrow she was suddenly hurled into. 

Slowly the tears began to dry up and she was able to find her voice again.

“Daddy... Do you think- do you think she would have loved me?”

“She loved you before you were even born.”

“Really?” Kari looked up with swollen eyes and a runny nose.

Loki nodded, “She couldn’t wait to meet you.” 

He recalled your constant lack of interest in him as you worried over your growing belly.

“Do you think this is normal?” 

You continued to inspect your reflection in the mirror as you stood in front of it with only a towel wrapped around you. It had become a regular occurrence after your bath. Your hands were on your protruding belly but your eyes were on Loki as he approached you from behind.

Loki placed his hands on top of yours not really focusing on your question but on the way you had completely let your guard down. His lips found your bare shoulder to be much more important. 

“I doubt there is something I know that you do not my lovely wife.” His lips lightly trailed kisses up along your neck as he continued to whisper loving words into your ear. “But I do know I can hardly keep my hands off you when you are this enticing.”

“Forever the silver-tongued prince...”

“Forever the beautiful vixen who seduced this prince.”

You laughed, “Seriously Loki... do you think she is alright?”

“Do not worry, everything will be fine.”

"Even now she loves you...” 

“Really?” He nodded in affirmation but Kari was still unconvinced. 

Loki was always known for his lies but he dare not deceive his own daughter. You were a mother who gave her own life for her daughter. Although he couldn’t tell her this now, in the future she would know it.

She would know how you protected her.

She would know how much you loved her...how much you loved them.

She would know of your loving sacrifice.

“Trust me little one.”

-end-

A/N: Sorry for the long unexplained hiatus. In the meantime, I hope you accept this humble offering as an apology for my absence.

[firjii]

Chapters: 1/1

Words: 1206

Fandom: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion

Rating: General Audiences, No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Female Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Martin Septim Additional Tags: arocace relationship, MartinLives!AU, PTSD, Post-Canon Fix-It, Bosmer, Older Woman/Younger Man, tense switching

Summary: Alive but not entirely well some time after the canon events of Oblivion, Martin and the HoK have settled into a quiet retirement in an attempt to heal their various traumas and support each other in ways that few other people could. Written approximately in the style of some in-game documents rather than as one specific scene.

Plain text version under the cut...

The shadows come back easier than they can be banished, but Martin knows that. He’s seen it from the start.

She’d come to Kvatch so suddenly, so randomly, so accidentally. Even seasoned soldiers would have had difficulty understanding what had happened there. By all rights, she should have died: a wood elf with more experience in running away than fighting, a sporadic archer at best, a mage who could only be called a mage because she excelled at a single spell. And some would say she was getting on a bit, even by elven standards. But she knew a great deal about potions, so she’d survived, if only because she’d been weighed down with flasks and herb pouches when she’d gone through the gate.

He’d watched her struggle after that.

With nothing else to compare such an experience to in her life, she’d veered from shock to disbelief to cockiness and everything in between. Common people had looked on her after that with fear, wondering if she’d sided against them, with or without realizing it. She’d hated their suspicion, but nothing in the rumors was beyond what she’d wondered herself. Soldiers and battlemages and bards had stared on in admiration, curious to know the specifics of the tale. She’d hated their gazes but had only rarely squirmed in discomfort. She’d fully realized that if it had been someone else, she’d be among the adoring throngs.

She’d often referred to it as a dream. Martin had lost count of how many times he’d seen the disconnect in her: wanting to be prepared, but learning in secret, furtively, often alone, all because she’d also been in denial about anything like it ever happening again. The impossible couldn’t happen twice – could it?

Martin barely made it out alive in the end – the Hero isn’t the only one who has nightmares.

But she knows this. She never once denies him his time when his eyes become gloomy and dour because a daydream has turned into a flashback or a nightmare. When he wakes in the night screaming, she simply wraps another blanket around him and holds his hand until he falls asleep again. She does it because it is no more or less than what he would do. She does it because it’s all that can be done sometimes.

More than occasionally, their nightmares synchronize on the same night. When it happens, they draw arms around each other, if only to remind each other that they’re not alone in the darkness. They’re not in another realm or another plane anymore. They’re in Mundus, on Nirn, in Cyrodiil, in the little cottage that Martin so carefully chose for them.

On those nights, they seldom fall back asleep easily. Instead they listen for the signs that they’re home: the cattle and goats murmuring amongst themselves the next valley over, the odd bark from a dog, the chickens in the backyard that Martin so painstakingly picked out for them. She’d often remarked that pets were somewhat unusual in Valenwood but that it was the first fact about human culture she’d heartily embraced. He’d thought against getting a dog – they were too much like wolves. Cats and several other small creatures made her nervous. But she was fond of birds. Chickens are just enough to keep her mind busy without being overwhelming, and she enjoys learning all the uses for eggs in Cyrodiilic cookery.

She won’t go outside any more than she needs to. Cities make her panic. Traveling, no matter how gradual and quiet, has made her faint – more than once. The sight of open fields and hills usually makes her sick.

But after awhile, she lets Martin leave for short intervals – an hour or two to speak with a farmer, an afternoon to retrieve herbs and mushrooms, a half day in a town or city. She gladly listens to his stories. He makes a point of only telling her interesting or funny or happy things. There’s no need to mention that the Imperial City is still scrambling a bit to keep things together. There’s no need to tell her that harrowing near-misses of other sorts still happen throughout Cyrodiil.

Instead, he fills her mind with jolly jokes he overheard during lunch. He remarks on the unusual wares he’s starting to see in the shops – at times a sign of reestablished trade with the far corners of the province, at others merely proof of the chaos and banditry that comes with decimated villages and ruined estates.

He also brings back a few more books every time. She appreciates all of them, from history accounts to recent political commentaries to poetry and novels. She claims to be illiterate, but he’s seen her methodically examining books often enough that he knows she simply prefers it when he narrates them for her.

She smiles, and for awhile – maybe only a moment sometimes – her shoulders aren’t quite so hunched forward, her hands don’t quite fidget about so much, her face isn’t as sickly. Her eyes dance when he comes to an exciting part in a story. She rarely speaks, but she always listens. In time, she even prompts him to re-read certain volumes.

And he always smiles to see it.

They are strangely bound together now: more than comrades, less than lovers – not that he minds – and always, always a careful balance as subtle as one strand of a spiderweb yet as steadfast as the moon cycle. Few people understand it, and even fewer can see that it will be their way of life until they die. Martin knows enough to admit that it is as unavoidable as it is fitting. And why should he want to avoid it? Why would either of them want to avoid it?

Gradually, he finds her sneaking moments at twilight for fresh, cool, sometimes rain-tinged night winds. Sometimes she doesn’t entirely cross the threshold of their home – sometimes she only opens a window – but her face feels the moonlight and open air.

And he always smiles to see it.

She cares for him as deeply as he cares for her. She’s even shown glimmers of craving him. Such it was from their first days traveling together after Kvatch. Yet she still fears too much. She still crumbles too often. She usually shudders if she is embraced, even if the attention only comes from a mild little tot seeking to admire the hero who has become the focus of so many stories.

In the ten years they have known each other, they have only shared a kiss thrice. He is content to let her lead, and if she never asks for more beyond that, she will still be perfect in his eyes.

But in time, she holds his hands when he offers them, the simple reminder of another’s presence enough to scatter the storm clouds in her eyes for awhile.

And in time, she asks him to brace her when the storm clouds consume her a little too much. Quiet times indeed, entire hours spent staring at the hearth, her face ever a melding of heaviness and exhaustion and desperate fear – but softened at the reminder that he can and happily will share her load.

And he always smiles to see it.

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 25: To Want and To Have

Some want what they can’t have. Others have what they don’t want. And there are some that wish they could let go of what they want the most. 

Warning: Smut under the cut :)

(Art is by @le-mooon)

Read here or on AO3!

*********************

Dorian squinted at the papers before him. His desk was full of them, so full, in fact, that he could barely see the dark mahogany wood underneath the layers of parchment spread out in a messy array. He had been at this for days, weeks, it felt like, ever since they had all returned from the Emerald Graves. His head was heavy, the diagrams and glyphs he had copied from the Venatori ritual dancing behind his eyelids, even when he closed them for the night. Most of them were confusing and incomprehensible, but there was something so familiar in them that Dorian couldn’t help but wrack his brain to find it. It was driving him quite mad.

With a heavy sigh, he glanced outside the library window, overlooking the training grounds. Too often had he stood there, watching Trevelyan practice with Heir. Hours could pass without him realising it, following with keen eyes as Trevelyn flowed through the various poses, tight muscles flexing and relaxing under his pale skin, flushed from the sun and the exertion, blonde strands clinging to the sweat at the nape of his neck. Dorian’s heart thrummed with longing when he looked down to find the grounds void of Trevelyan’s presence. It felt to him like they had been apart for ages, although it was little less than a week.

It was with a hint of reluctance that he turned back to his research. He smoothed his fingers over a yellow and wrinkled piece of parchment, one he had found in a dusty corner of the library. It was a thesis on mind-control spells and their effects on small rodents by one Marcellus Tulius, that Dorian hadn’t at all expected to find there. It seemed unlikely that even a sliver of Imperium research had found its way to Skyhold, yet there it was, right before him. Unexpected discoveries like these always excited him, and this time was no exception. Still, he wasn’t sure how much of help this would be in his current research.

He was about to gather all of the papers and call it a day, when a memory tugged at him as his eyes fell on the old parchment again. He remembered the last time he had found something like that, when he was still under Alexeus’ tutelage. It had been an exceedingly hot day, a scorching western wind blowing from the dessert. Sand and dust hung over the tall marble spires of Minrathous, the sky tinged in hues of blue and muted yellow as Dorian had weaved his way through the crowded streets on his way to the Grand Library.

Small beads of sweat had clung to his brow when he was finally away from the stifling heat and into the magically induced coolness of the Library inner. His feet had taken him down the narrow marble stairs towards the underground library, reserved for high ranking members. He had been looking for a certain thesis on time magic, but as usual he had veered off that to brush the tips of his fingers over ancient scrolls and documents. It was there that a scroll had fallen from the shelves, the leather binding around it almost crumbling with age. The glyphs etched on the smooth surface were unlike any he had ever seen. Eleganty, flowy lines, precise to the point of madness, incantations in ancient languages lost to time. His eyes had widened so, he had thought they would pop out of their sockets. Blood magic at its finest- if it could ever be called that- and so terribly similar to the ones the Venatori had been using that it could not be a coincidence.

Dorian’s pulse quickened as he snatched his notes from his desk, trying to compare them to the glyphs of his memory. Yes, they looked vaguely similar. Unless his memory betrayed him, which was very rarely the case. If this ritual was based on the one he had seen on that scroll, then that would mean… No, it was impossible. The magic described in that scroll was powerful enough to subdue a dragon to the caster’s will. A dragon filled to the brim with lyrium, at that. The Venatori mages had done much to reduce the spell’s potency, but even so it was no surprise that the poor people they had used it on perished almost straight away. What in the Void could the Venatori possibly be doing?

He stood up abruptly, clutching his notes close to his chest. He had to tell Trevelyan. He had to tell him straightaway. This couldn’t wait. He would pull him out of whatever meeting he was in, even if he had to fight his way through his armoured guards. He would-

Oh. Yes. Of course. Trevelyan wasn’t there. How could he forget?

He sat back down with a soft exhale, absently arranging the papers in neat stacks. He would need to send a letter to Maevaris, asking her to look for the mysterious scroll, or any other work written by that mage, even though he Dorian wondered how easily it would be found again after so long. Maevaris had always been thrifty with her resources, but even she couldn’t work miracles.

A calloused hand with ragged, bitten nails flew past his shoulder to snatch the paper Dorian was holding, startling him from his thoughts.

“Oi,” Sera’s voice said. “What in the frigging Void are those squiggles?” She tilted her face this way and that, features smushing in a confused frown. “That what you stare at all day?”

“Give that back.” Dorian stood up, taking a step towards her as she backed away, giggling, holding the paper out of his reach. “Sera.”

Sera let out a shrill laugh, perching herself on the back of the armchair in the corner. “And here I thought it would be a naughty letter. Must have loads of those, right?”

“Whatever are you talking about, my dear?”

“You and Quizzie-butt, ‘course!” she explained. “I bet you send all sorts of notes to each other. Telling him how you’re going to stab him. Or is it him that does the stabbing? Do you draw him pictures of your staff, too?” She wiggled her eyebrows at him.

Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Sera, I’m going to need this paper back now.”

She pretended not to hear him, curiously examining the glyphs on the parchment in her hands, squinting. “If his bits look like that, it’s no wonder you act like you have a bloody stick up your arse all the time. Yeesh.”

“Sera-”

“Fine, fine, here you go. Wouldn’t want that thing anywhere near me, anyway.” She handed the paper back to him and Dorian snatched it away, huffing in annoyance. She slid off the armchair, hands- for once- clasped behind her back as she perused the neatly arranged books on his shelf. “I heard His Inky-arse-ness will be back within the week. Can’t wait for a proper round of jousting, eh? That might brighten up that sour mood of yours.”

Dorian gritted his teeth, shooting a cautious glance around the rotunda. Thankfully, there weren’t many researchers on the floor at that time of day, most of them having left for lunch. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Any buckets of water to fix above someone’s door? Any lizards to hide under someone’s mattress? Quite literally anything else other than pester me?”

“Done that already,” Sera shrugged, leaning forward to squint at a vial by his windowsill. She touched it gingerly with the tip of her finger, then recoiled in disgust, wiping her hand on her stained vest. “How does it work with you two, by the way? I’ve been wondering.”

“What, the jousting? Less horses, marginally. More cheers, definitely.”

“Nice,” she said, smiling wickedly. “But I wasn’t asking about that.” She shot him a curious glance over her shoulder. “How does it work, being the Inky’s man?”

Am I? he wondered, his gut clenching uneasily. Ever since they had returned from the Graves, it hadn’t been clear to him what they were exactly. Dorian may have left it vague on purpose himself, but it wasn’t as though Trevelyan had been overly eager to define what it was they were doing. Oh, he was thoughtful and caring with him, of course, and seemed to be very fond of him, what with those lingering glances and tender touches, and all the nights they had spent together in his room. Not to mention the poems and the flowers -flowers!- he kept leaving by his pillow before slipping away in the mornings, before Dorian had even opened his eyes. It had startled him at first, confused him, turned his otherwise carefully arranged thoughts into a jumble. Which seemed to be the case more often than not when it came to Trevelyan. What was going through that man’s mind was nobody’s business, yet even so Dorian could see that he cared, he cared… yet where did that care end? How far did his affection extend? And where did reality kick in, with Trevelyan being the leader of the Inquisition, all eyes in Thedas turned to him, and Dorian simply being an adornment on his arm at best, a pretty on the side at worst?

Dorian’s lips tightened in a line, his heart even more so. “Fine. Everything is fine. Splendid, actually. Yes, it’s quite fantastic, indeed.”

Sera looked at him under furrowed brows, chewing on a fingernail. “That bad?”

Dorian blinked at her. Opened his mouth. Shut it. He slumped against his desk, crossing his arms before his chest. “... Maybe.” He rubbed his temples, sighed. “Worse, probably?”

“Right.” Sera strolled towards him, sitting on the desk beside him. “He does make puppy eyes at you too when you’re not looking, you know. If it makes you feel any better.”

He chuckled breathily, looking away. “I’m not sure it does, right now.” His mind drifted to the last time he had seen him in his quarters. Trevelyan’s eyes, dark and blue like whirling pools, gazing up at him with so much tenderness, his arms wrapped around him, and Dorian feeling suspended in a moment of bliss that seemed never-ending. Of course, the moment had soon shattered when Dorian had put his foot in his mouth and started talking about exclusivity or whatever other nonsense had crossed his mind right then. And then ran away in a panic. Dorian Pavus, Scion of House Pavus, had panicked. As simple as that. They hadn’t exchanged so much as a word before Trevelyan left for dratted Crestwood, and Dorian had been steadily boiling in a stew of his own making ever since.

“I’m not sure where I fit in this whole thing,” he muttered, more to himself than to Sera. “Or if I do at all, in fact.”

“It’s never easy being with someone like him,” Sera said, nodding thoughtfully. “I would have ran for the hills long before if I were you. Wouldn’t want that kind of attention on me, if you catch my drift. But I’m not you. Thank Andraste for that, right? Friggin’ sparkly shite all over the place.” Dorian glared at her, and she laughed. “Look, if you want him, better just tell him, yeah? If it’s not meant to work out, it won’t, and that’s that. At least you can say you tried.”

Dorian sighed softly. Perhaps Sera, despite her usual gibberish, had advice to impart that could almost be considered wise. Perhaps he really should talk to Trevelyan and clear the air once and for all. Or… he could come up with a way to make up for his blunder. A particularly creative way.

"Why are you smiling like a fecking dimwit?"

Dorian snapped out of his thoughts to give Sera a cold glare. "I am not smiling, I am thinking. This is what it looks like when people think."

"Thinking about how to include sword swallowing in your magic trick routine?"

"Right! I think that's enough chatting with you for one day." He stood up, herding her towards the stairs. "Off you go now. That's marvelous, yes, one foot in front of the other. So long. Give the Iron Bull my regards." Sera’s high pitched cackle echoed around the rotunda as she hopped down the steps.

***

The headache that seemed to split his head in two as soon when he opened his eyes the following morning was amongst the worst Tristan had had in months. Years. Perhaps ever. Probably ever.

He groaned as he swung his legs over the side of his bed, rubbing the back of his neck. He had been so drunk the previous night when he went to bed, almost to the point of blacking out, that he couldn’t quite remember walking up the stairs. On the bright side of things, with that amount of whisky, he had managed to get something close to a full night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. The mark flared ever so slightly, a sickly, fluorescent green that cut through the dimness of the room. A soft sound, like hushed whispers, a sussurus of distant voices pulled at the edges of his consciousness, and Tristan shook his head weakly. He must still be drunk, he supposed.

The aftertaste of that terrible whisky he and Hawke had drunk still clung to the back of his throat when he pushed himself up, his stomach roiling painfully. Had it even been whisky? He highly doubted that now. His taste buds had been so blitzed the previous night he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell stale beer from Antivan wine, but now he was thoroughly regretting his choices. Some of them, at the very least.

He made his way down the stairs, cursing under his breath as the world still swung every time he made an abrupt movement. Everybody was already up, breaking their fast on what looked like sweet, milky porridge. Tristan was sure he would vomit.

“Blondie!” Varric said cheerfully, raising his mug. “Come, join us.”

“We thought you’d be dead or passed out. Was about to come wake you,” Blackwall added.

“Who told you he wasn’t?” Hawke chuckled, sipping from his mug. “With the amount of berig he drank last night I’m surprised he’s still standing.”

“You drank way more than I did,” Tristan grumbled, sitting beside him. He leaned forward to glance inside Hawke’s mug, wrinkling his nose when he found it was honeyed tea. “If anyone were to die, that should have been you, don’t you think?”

Varric laughed. “Him? Die of drink? No, Blondie. He could drink a boatload of whisky and still be up swinging his sword the next morning. I don’t know what his liver is made of, but he can drink like no one I’ve ever met.”

“I’ve told you time and time again, Varric. I have my Fereldan roots to thank for that. You born and bred Marchers couldn’t handle your liquor if your life depended on it.”

“Hey,” Blackwall cut in, shaking a finger before his face, eyes narrowed. Even so, Tristan could see that he was only half serious. “We Marchers are a proud lot. Watch your tongue.”

“Or what?” Hawke retorted, shooting him a wry grin. “You’re going to pelt me with Grand Tourney trivia until I fling myself out the window?”

Tristan scoffed. “Not all Marchers are obsessed with the Grand Tourney, you know.”

“Oh, yeah? Tell me who won the title in 9:31 Dragon.”

Tristan, Varric and Blackwall exchanged awkward glances. Varric’s brows were already climbing up his forehead, warning them not to fall in Hawke’s trap, but Blackwall was the first one to cave in. “Ser Abel Kaylen the Brave,” he grumbled.

“....from Denerim.” Tristan added half heartedly.

“....sword and shield category,” Varric finished, eyeing him sideways.

Hawke leaned back in his seat, mirth playing at the edges of his lips. “What a pretty picture you all make. Add a dash of superiority complex, mage antipathy and a weird obsession with Antivan spiced cakes, and you’re all the perfect example of the average Kirkwaller.”

The three of them groaned, rolling their eyes while Hawke’s booming laughter echoed around the small room. From his table at the corner, Solas eyed them over his book, one brow raised.

“Hey elf,” Blackwall said, turning to him. “Your travels must have taken you to the Marches at some point. Care to give us your insights about the people there?”

Solas’ expression became stony for a quick moment, before he adjusted in his seat, discreetly clearing his throat. “I’m afraid I would have nothing to contribute to this conversation. The Marches are as lackluster a place as any, and the inhabitants even more so.”

Blackwall glared at him, just as Hawke let out a loud guffaw. “I think I may have found myself an unlikely ally, Blackwall.”

The rest of the breakfast flowed in a similar vein, Hawke’s teasing jokes and clever quips making Varric and Blackwall laugh until there were tears in their eyes. Even Tristan laughed once or twice, taking care to hide the sound within his mug. It felt like hours later that they gathered their things, walking out into a day that was as miserable, grey and rainy as the rest. The inn’s stables were humble, but at least the horses had been given fresh hay and water. Almond wickered softly when she saw him, tossing her head back when Tristan reached inside his pocket for a piece of dried apple he always kept for her.

“Good girl,” he whispered, stroking her forehead as she chewed.

“That’s a fine horse you have there.”

“She is,” Tristan agreed with a small smile, glancing at Hawke over his shoulder. “So is yours.”

“You’re in a fine mood today,” the other man said, leaning against the door of the stall. “You should get plastered more often.”

Tristan huffed a laugh. “I really should.” He walked around Almond, his palm brushing her shiny coat as he moved to fix the saddle on her back. “My advisors wouldn’t be particularly pleased if I showed up to my meetings reeking of booze, but I think I can get away with it every once in a while.”

“You can. The world will still be there if you let loose every now and then, of that I can assure you. I’ve found that a few drinks and good company can solve just about anything.”

“I wish I shared your optimism.”

“It’s only common sense. Good times and good people are always needed, even in the most dire of circumstances. Perhaps especially then.”

Tristan sneaked a glance at him from the corner of his eye. “Why are you telling me all this?” He moved to Almond’s other side, turning his back to him.

He heard the brush of Hawke’s hand against the dark stubble of his cheeks. “Our conversation last night got me thinking. When you are elevated to such great heights, it's easy to forget that you're only human sometimes. Humans are not meant to handle so much on their own.”

"Right." The familiarity in Hawke's tone made Tristan bristle. He kept fixing the saddle about Almond's back, checking and rechecking straps and buckles that were already tightened, stubbornly refusing to meet the man's gaze.

"You probably don't need any more of my advice, but I'll still give it to you." Hawke paused, letting out a soft exhale. "Don’t push away those that care about you. There may come a moment when you'll regret it.”

Tristan’s fingers stilled on the leather straps for a moment before resuming their work. His back straightened up defensively and he clenched his jaw. “Why would I do that?”

“You look the type.”

Tristan turned to find dark, considering eyes regarding him thoughtfully. The concern in his gaze made his gut twist uneasily, and he looked away, pretending to be absorbed in securing the straps on Almond’s bridle. “I’ll… be sure to keep that in mind.” When he said nothing more, Hawke nodded sharply before walking away. His footsteps stopped short when Tristan spoke again. “Hawke.” The sound of gravel under his boots as the other man turned back, then silence. "Thank you."

“Nothing to thank me for,” Hawke said simply. “Just stating the obvious.”

“Yes. Of course. Yet, even so… Thank you.”

They looked at each other for a moment, then Hawke inclined his head. He disappeared behind a stall, only to come out a moment later, guiding his tall, dark stallion into the pelting rain outside. Tristan followed soon after, gently tugging Almond’s reins. The others were waiting for him already, mounting their horses. Tristan drew the hood of his woollen cloak over his head as he hauled himself up on his saddle.

“Right,” he said, glancing at his companions. “Time to get back to Skyhold.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be joining you, Inquisitor.”

Tristan turned to look at Hawke, startled by his own surprise at the man’s words. He hadn’t really given it much thought, yet now he realised that he had actually expected Hawke to return with them to Skyhold. Why he would ever expect that, he could never know. His departure made their earlier conversation ring in an entirely different manner.

“I have… pressing business to attend to,” Hawke continued, noticing his silence, and Tristan nodded knowingly. “I will be informing Varric of my location whenever I have the chance. As soon as I have more information regarding the Grey Wardens, I’ll let you know.”

“Very well,” Tristan said. He gazed into the distance, at the grey horizon that stretched over the mountains. “I guess this is farewell, then.”

“Only until we meet again.” Hawke smiled his usual wide smile, but there was warmth in it now, and it was directed at him. It became even wider when he reached out, patting Varric on the shoulder as he sat on his saddle next to him. “I’m off, old pal. Take care. Keep your socks dry. Don’t get killed.”

Varric craned his neck to look up at him, returning his wide smile, though it felt a touch forced. Perhaps more than a touch. “I’ll try not to get killed. Though you know I can’t make any promises about footwear.”

The tall man laughed, giving Varric’s shoulder a small squeeze before grasping his reins again. He kicked his horse forward, giving them a sharp wave over his shoulder before disappearing around the bend of the road. They all stayed there for a long moment, the rain and wind whirling about them, the distant thunders and the crackling of the rift in the lake the only other sounds.

Tristan let out a soft sigh, urging Almond in the opposite direction. “We have a long way ahead of us,” he said flatly, eyes set on the path that stretched before them. “We shouldn’t linger.”

***

“Welcome back to Skyhold, Your Worship.”

Maighdin’s expression was stern and aloof as always when she greeted him, her back stiff when she bowed her head to him. Tristan nodded sharply in acknowledgement as he dismounted and gave Almond’s reins to a lanky stableboy. His gaze lingered on the boy only momentarily before he turned away. There were so many new faces in Skyhold these days, it was impossible to recognize them all, let alone remember their names.

He walked ahead of Maighdin across the now empty yard. The moonlight fell stark and grey on the dark stone walls of the keep, the hushed whispers of the guards on patrol on the battlements drifting with the wind. Everyone else had retired to their beds long before, it seemed. Tristan couldn’t wait to sink in a tub of hot water and wash the road off him, and then plunge in his soft feather bed himself. Travelling through the pouring rain and mud soaked roads was not enjoyable, to say the least. He had hoped he would return early enough to visit Dorian, perhaps even have some dinner and wine, spend some much needed time with him. Especially after the way things had been left between them before his departure for Crestwood...

Tristan’s lips tightened at the sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. Exclusive. That was the word Dorian had used, and according to him, they weren’t it. Did that mean that… that he had been sleeping with others, all this while? Who could it be? Was it someone he knew? Had Tristan been so big a fool to think that Dorian would limit himself to him when he could have literally anybody he wanted? When he could be with someone better, stronger, more handsome, more clever, more… normal?

He shook his head to brush the thoughts away. This was no time to be thinking about all that. It was late, and he was tired, and he only needed some sleep. He could feel his leg muscles cramping from all those days on horseback as he climbed up the steps to the throne room. The guard that was outside his quarters was a tall and fair haired man, his pointy elf ears half hidden under a dusty blond mop of hair. He bowed eagerly to him, then stood at attention.

“Your Worship,” he said, knuckling his forehead.

Tristan gazed at him under furrowed brows. “Who are you?”

“M-mathras, my lord,” the elf said, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

Tristan waved him at ease, then turned to Maighdin. “Where is Nhudem?”

“Change of guard, ser,” Maighdin replied. “He starts after the midnight bells have rung.”

So, Cullen had taken the liberty of increasing the number of his guards, having people follow him and guard his quarters at all times. It seemed what Hawke had said was true. There were evidently lots of people that wanted his head, and his advisors knew that too. He wondered what Leliana and Cullen knew that perhaps he didn’t. Information that they may have kept from him on purpose. The way those two were headed, he would soon have guards in his bed, and the way he was headed, he would be thankful for it, too.

Well. At least those guards he had could take breaks from handling his foul tempers. That should be a good thing, shouldn’t it?

He let out a soft sigh as he opened the door to his quarters, when Maighdin’s voice stopped him. “Lord Pavus is waiting for you upstairs, Your Worship.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shot up, and his heart fluttered with anticipation in his chest. Perhaps Dorian had missed him just as much as he had. Perhaps Tristan had misjudged him, as he was wont to do. He nodded sharply to Maighdin as he closed the door hurriedly behind him and hopped up the steps.

The dancing flames in the hearth suffused the large room in a soft, tremulous glow. A bottle of wine was set on the low table, two crystal glasses next to it. And sprawled on the large sofa was… he.

Dorian’s head was on the arm rest, eyes moving gently under closed lids in his sleep. The flames from the hearth painted the side of his face amber, shadows playing across features that seemed as though carved in marble. Black hair falling over his smooth forehead, immaculate even when uncombed. The laces of the violet silk shirt he was wearing had come slightly undone, and a swath of velvet bronze skin peeked from within the folds. He was perfect, and perfectly serene in his slumber, beautiful beyond compare, and Tristan simply stood there, gazing at him for what felt like an eternity.

Silently, on tip-toes, he approached Dorian’s sleeping form. He stirred when the cushion dipped under Tristan’s weight, dark eyelashes fluttering open to reveal a pair of eyes like polished silver gazing blearily at him.

“You’re here.” His voice came out croaked, and he cleared his throat, brushing the back of his hand over his lips.

Tristan smiled. “So are you.”

“Your guards let me in. Apparently, you’ve ordered them to let me enter whether you’re in or not.”

“I have.”

Dorian huffed a soft laugh. “I must have fallen asleep. Way to spoil the dramatic welcome I had prepared for you,” he said as he made to sit up, but Tristan stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“It’s alright,” he said softly, brushing a stray lock away from his forehead. “You needed the rest.”

A soft smile curled Dorian’s lips, and his eyes glided gently over his features. There was so much warmth in his gaze, that Tristan’s breath hitched in his throat. He looked away, nodding at the decanter and the glasses. “What’s all that?”

“Consider it my way of making it up to you after letting you trudge all those days in that rainy bog on your own.” He reached out to him, a long finger running down the side of his face. “It must have been terribly dull without me,” he whispered teasingly, but Tristan thought he heard a tinge of regret in his voice.

“Oh, it was alright,” Tristan replied in a non-chalant tone. “I daresay Varric did his best to fill in for you.”

Dorian’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Ha! The nonsense you speak. As if Varric could ever stand as a substitute for my dashing presence.”

Tristan laughed softly as he leaned forward, brushing his nose over his. “No one ever could.”

Dorian’s mouth opened eagerly, pulling him in, the taste of red wine lingering on his tongue as it glided over his own. Warmth spread all over his body, seeping into tired limbs and knotted muscles, a need so intense it turned into a dull ache. He had missed the feel of his lips, the taste of his mouth, the smell of his skin, the softness of his hands as they threaded through his hair. He had tried his best not to think about him the time they were apart, kept the images away, carefully out of reach, yet now the sensations hit him all at once, like a storm. He returned Dorian’s passionate kisses, bringing up no resistance as long, beringed fingers started working the latches of his leather armour open.

“I missed you so much,” Tristan blurted out in a breathless whisper.

Dorian chuckled against his lips, pulling the top of his armour free. “I can’t blame you. I’d miss me too, if I were you.”

Tristan edged back to frown at him. “I mean it.”

“So do I. My company is irreplaceable. Oh, stop giving me that look, will you?” he said when Tristan’s frown deepened. Then, he rolled his eyes and let out a sigh of mock exasperation, lips pursing slightly. “Fine. I may have missed you, too. A little.”

“Just a little?”

Dorian’s expression softened. “Perhaps a bit more than that.” His fingers tangled in the fabric of his cotton undershirt, pulling gently. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Tristan’s smile was wide and teasing when he kicked his boots off and slid between Dorian’s legs. “Can’t make any promises.” The couch was far too narrow for the both of them, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about being comfortable, not when Dorian sighed underneath him, rolling his hips over his, igniting the flame that quivered inside him.

Tristan groaned, closing his teeth over Dorian’s bottom lip. They rocked against each other until the final latch on Tristan’s armour popped open. He paused for a breath, sitting up to slide it off his shoulders and throw it carelessly on the floor beside them.

Dorian’s palms slid underneath his cotton undershirt to caress his stomach, silver eyes blazing under heavy eyelids. “Come back here,” he rasped, hooking two fingers under the waistband of his breeches to pull him back to him. Tristan tilted his head up when Dorian planted soft kisses along his jawline and down to his neck, breathing deeply.

“You stink,” he announced.

Tristan pulled back a hair to look at him, embarrassment tinging his cheeks. “Do I?”

“Oh, yes. You smell of sweat, dirt, and just a hint of cheap whisky. So very manly.” He took another deep breath, running his tongue over the tendons of his throat. “I love it.”

Tristan huffed a laugh, a shiver running down his spine with the feel of Dorian’s wet tongue on his skin. “I should bathe less often, then.”

“Don’t push it.”

Tristan kissed lips curved in a smirk as he slithered a hand underneath Dorian’s silk shirt, the slippery fabric retreating easily. His heart pounded in his ears as his fingertips ran over warm skin, soft and supple over taut muscles. The shirt slipped easily over Dorian’s head, messing his hair up only slightly before falling to the wooden floor with a hiss.

The moan that left Dorian’s lips when Tristan’s mouth slid to his neck was low and breathy and just a touch pleading, sliding down his spine like warmed, spiced honey. A shiver ran through him as he brushed his tongue over a stiff nipple and inhaled the distinct scent of Dorian’s skin. Heady, deep, intoxicating; an earthy sweetness that lingered at the back of his throat when he breathed.

“Cardamom,” he whispered softly.

“I beg pardon?”

Tristan raised his gaze to see Dorian looking at him curiously. He hummed as he trailed lower, following the dip under his ribs. “You smell like toasted cardamom,” he said. “And oakmoss, and sandalwood… and is that star anise?”

Dorian laughed, but it was a tad huskier than normal. “It wouldn’t do if I gave out all my secrets, would it?”

Instead of responding, Tristan’s fingers slid underneath the waistband of his breeches, drawing out a gasp from Dorian as he curled his palm over his hardened length. “There’s one secret I’m interested in in particular.”

With a sharp tug, he pulled down his breeches, until Dorian was naked underneath him. He couldn’t help but take a moment to look at him as he lay before him. Relaxed, yielding, palpable, within reach. Within his reach. He let his gaze roam over the smooth stomach and the long, sculpted arms; the deep flush that steadily crept up his cheeks, like a glorious sunrise; the glistening lips and the heavy lids. Maker, but he was the beautiful man he had ever seen.

“Are you just going to keep staring at me, or are you planning on doing something to me? I’d rather you did the latter,” he said peevishly, but the breathiness in his voice made Tristan smile. His mouthy lover.

He leaned down between his legs, planting an agonizingly slow trail of kisses on his thigh before closing his lips over his hardness, taking him in as deep as he could. A gasp broke free from Dorian’s lips and his hips bucked forward, his fingers threading in Tristan’s hair. Tristan lifted his eyes to watch him as his mouth worked up and down, slowly, almost reverentially, tongue sliding over the ridges of his cock. Dorian was watching him too, his breath coming short and fast, lips slightly parted. The firelight was doing wondrous things to his body; making shadows pool in the dip of his collarbone, gather in the contours of his chest and his navel, like rivulets flowing over polished stones. He was warmth and fire and tenderness, all smooth planes and soft angles, and Tristan wanted him. All of him.

Dorian’s hold on his hair tightened when Tristan took him in deeper, the tip of his cock reaching the back of his throat, his tongue moving in broad strokes. The moan that left him was low and throaty when his cock twitched with his climax, and Tristan held him fast as he greedily swallowed every drop.

He had barely taken a breath before Dorian pulled him up impatiently, tasting himself on Tristan’s tongue. Tristan hovered over him, palms running down his exquisite body as they kissed fervently, all tongues and lips and teeth.

“Filthy clothes come off now,” Dorian murmured and pushed him playfully away. Tristan got up with a groan and hurriedly tugged at the hem of his undershirt, when Dorian stopped him with a raised finger. “Slowly.”

Tristan laughed at the teasing glint in his silver eyes, sleepy with the afterglow. Dorian propped himself up on his elbow, watching him. “You’re very demanding, you know.”

“I know. It’s one of my characteristic traits.” Dorian quirked a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him, and the sight of it made a fever swell in Tristan’s chest. He wanted nothing more than to pounce on him and get lost in his welcoming warmth, but he was determined to give him a show. He pulled his shirt off slowly, purposefully flexing his muscles, biting back a smile at the spark in Dorian’s eyes. Next came the laces of his breeches. He pulled at them leisurely, taking his time working each one free, until Dorian huffed impatiently.

“Oh, just take it off and get over here, you tease,” he said, crawling to him and hooking his fingers over Tristan’s waistband, pulling them down, letting his hardness spring free. Tristan couldn’t help a moan when Dorian’s long fingers curled around his length. A small smile curled his full lips when his tongue darted out to lick the bead of moisture that had gathered at the tip, then his mouth wrapped around him in a wet and warm embrace. Tristan threaded his fingers in his luscious hair, shivering as he was taken in deeper, the velvet heat of Dorian’s mouth chasing away every other thought in his mind.

There was something about the sight of Dorian on his knees before him, watching him intently as his lips were wrapped around his cock, that made his blood course that much more swiftly through his veins. He didn’t bring up any resistance when Dorian pulled him down on the sofa, kneeling between his legs. His mouth worked him steadily, harder, faster. He brought his long fingers up to caress him alongside his tongue, until it was a tangle of lips and fingers and tongue, driving him closer and closer to the edge.

The look in Dorian’s eyes was feral and indecent when he slid a long and slick finger inside him. Tristan bit back a moan at the unexpected pressure, pleasure and lust building inside him, spreading like wildfire.

He reached down to cup the back of Dorian’s neck, drawing him up, seeking his hot and velvet mouth. The flat of Dorian’s tongue brushed over his lips as he eased another finger, and Tristan gasped.

Dorian pulled back to look at him. “Good, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Tristan breathed. “Yes, ah-”

Three. There were three fingers inside him, yet he wanted more. He kissed Dorian hungrily, moaning against his lips as his deft digits drove deeper.

“I want to feel you,” Dorian rasped. His breath was hot against the shell of his ear when he leaned closer to whisper, “I want to fuck you so hard you weep.”

Tristan nodded eagerly, licking his lips. “Yes. Please, yes.”

The soft feather mattress sank under their combined weight as Tristan lay on his stomach, Dorian hovering over him. His breath hitched when he felt Dorian’s cock brushing against his entrance, then came out in a soft hiss when the tip of his hardness slid inside him. Dorian leaned down, placing soothing kisses between his shoulder blades as he sank, inch by agonising inch, inside him.

“You feel so good,” Dorian whispered, burying his face in Tristan’s neck. “So warm, so wonderful…”

Tristan felt full. Unbearably full and uncomfortably stretched, but he dug his fingers deeper into the plush pillows, taking a deep breath. Soon, as they gently rocked together, the pressure gave way to pleasure, deep and slowly building. His moans were muffled by the pillow as Dorian thrust harder and faster, deeper, as deep as he could go, hitting that spot again and again. Dorian’s gasps and the garbled Tevene that crashed against Tristan's skin like waves made the already burning fire inside him unbearable.

The seconds stretched on languidly, seemingly endlessly, as Dorian fucked him hard. Everything was him; he was on him, behind him, around him, inside him, his scent and the feel of his cock and the softness of his hands blocking out anything else. It felt odd, losing himself into someone else like this, not being in control for once. It was with some surprise that Tristan realised that it felt… good.

Dorian leaned forward over him, and Tristan twisted his head, searching for his lips. They kissed deeply, Dorian’s tongue brushing the roof of his mouth as he drove himself deeper still, faster, burrowing as much of his cock inside him as he could.

“Fasta vass,” he moaned, deep breaths expanding his ribs where they touched against his back. “Amatus-”

Tristan met him, thrust for thrust, his tongue twining with his, seeking more, more, more. “Yes,” he whispered. “Fuck, yes, yes-”

Dorian hooked an arm underneath him to stroke him firmly, thumb brushing over the weeping head. Blinding white light exploded behind Tristan’s eyelids, all the warmth and ecstasy and tension that raked his body and clouded his vision finding their release on Dorian’s curling fingers. Dorian followed him soon after, shuddering with his own climax, his guttural groan drowned against Tristan’s skin when he sank his teeth in his neck.

With the rapture of the moment easing away slowly, albeit steadily, Tristan was soon lulled into an unusual sort of calmness by the beating of Dorian’s heart against his back. He felt warm, content, sated. Dorian’s weight on him was comforting, his breath on the back of his neck even more so. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt like this in the presence of another person. He couldn’t even rightly remember how long it had been since he had slept with someone before Dorian - the last few years of his life before the Inquisition seeming like a dark, unending, agonising dream. He had probably managed to sleep with a few people when nigh on black out drunk, not that he would be able to recount much now. He had felt empty, so empty back then, and those encounters had left him emptier still, and it hadn’t been long before he had written off any thoughts of companionship or affection or… or love. Was that what he was feeling now? Was that what he and Dorian had? Love?

His heart was suddenly gripped in a vice, and his breath felt constricted in his lungs, pinned as he was under Dorian’s body. He dug his palms in the mattress, gently shrugging Dorian off as he pushed himself up. Dorian eased himself off him with a sharp inhale, his palms lingering on Tristan’s hips before pulling away. Tristan rolled on his back with a sigh, resting his head upon his curled arm. He took a deep breath, stretched his legs. Stared at the ceiling.

Dorian shifted on his side to look at him. Soft fingertips glided down his chest, following the lines of his muscles, making the hairs on his body stand on end. Tristan hummed softly, closing his eyes. “That feels nice.”

Dorian exhaled a soft chuckle through his nose, smoothing his palm over Tristan’s stomach. He slithered closer to him, nuzzling his ear. “How does that feel?”

“Even better.” Tristan turned his head to him, their noses brushing. Dorian’s lips parted on a sigh, his warm tongue darting out to explore the contours of Tristan’s mouth, as it had done so many times before. Tristan kissed him back, palm gently running over his sides. There, in the half dark, in the comfortable silence, it felt like nothing else existed beyond them. It was just them, and the warmth of their bodies as their limbs tangled once more, and the sounds of their breaths when they met and mingled.

Even in that moment, though, doused in the golden light of the afterglow, Tristan couldn’t help the thoughts that slithered in, cold and invasive; was it really just them? Had it ever been? Did Dorian feel the same way, or was Tristan simply chasing an impossible dream, one that he stretched bodily to grasp yet was never meant to have?

The bitterness that he had been trying all those days to suppress rose to the surface in a wave, choking him. He pulled away, untangling himself from Dorian’s embrace. He lay on his back again, resuming his thorough examination of the high ceiling of his quarters. The moonlight slithering through the tall windows played along its surface, illuminating the swirls and knots in the grain of the wooden beams.

Dorian’s gaze on him felt as keen and sharp as a metal object piercing his skin. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Tristan gave a sharp nod, eyes still fixed above them. Dorian stared at him for a long moment before clearing his throat. “That’s an excellent ceiling you have here. Very sturdy. Fascinating, really. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

“Mm-hm.”

Another long stretch of minutes where no one spoke. A soft click of his tongue, an exasperated huff and Dorian sat up to glare at him. “Will you tell me what is wrong, or do I need to pry it out of you by force?”

Tristan glanced at him, throat constricting painfully before he looked away again, pursing his lips. “There’s nothing wrong," he said, his tone sharper and far more curt than he intended. "I’m just tired. I’ve been travelling for days.”

Dorian gazed at him for a moment longer, silence stretching heavy between them. “Perhaps I should let you rest, then," he whispered. "It’s late as it is.” He waited for a breath. Tristan never answered.

With slow, unhurried movements, Dorian rolled out of bed. Tristan’s eyes followed him as he padded across the room, around the couch where he had left his clothes. He was retrieving his shirt from the floor, when panic, deep and visceral, rose in Tristan’s chest.

“Dorian, wait.” Sterling grey eyes snapped to him, blazing with anger. Tristan swallowed thickly, sitting up on the mattress. “Please stay.”

Dorian’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, then crossed his arms before his chest. “Whatever for? You seem quite over my presence already. We haven’t even been together for an hour and already you’re making it very clear that I am not wanted here. I think…” He paused for a moment, looking away. “I think it’s best if we just let things be.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” Dorian gazed sadly at him, the distance between them suddenly seeming wide enough to engulf them both. “It means that I’m not certain whether this can work,” he whispered.

Cold tendrils slithered through Tristan’s stomach, freezing him to the core. “You don’t mean that.”

“I’m afraid I do.” Dorian’s eyes were soft, gleaming eerily in the waning light. He seemed so tired all of a sudden, bone weary, but his movements when he pulled his trousers on were steady and precise. Tristan watched him motionless, numb, sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress, like a stone sinking in dark waters. Drowning. He should just let him go, he knew. It would probably be for the best. For both of them. It wasn’t like whatever they had could possibly last. Everything fell apart in the end, and this was no exception. Better to end it then, while it was still early. While there was still time.

Don’t push away those who care about you. There may come a moment when you’ll regret it.

Hawke’s words echoed in his mind, jolting him awake like a cold shower. Dorian was halfway to the stair landing when Tristan stood up abruptly. “Don't go,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. He raked a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. "Please, just… wait. I-” He paused, worrying his bottom lip. “I need to talk to you.”

Dorian turned to glance at him over his shoulder. Tristan’s hands opened and closed at his sides as he tried to arrange his thoughts. His face felt hot like a pan on the stove. “The other day, when you were here... Before I left for Crestwood. You said that we- that I, uh... That you- we aren’t-”

The flush in his cheeks grew warmer and warmer as Dorian’s frown grew ever more perplexed. Tristan let out a sharp exhale, dragging his palm over his face. “Perhaps I should start over.”

Dorian tilted his head to the side. “Yes, I think you should. You’re just making noises at this point.”

Tristan shifted uncomfortably on his feet for a moment before gingerly walking towards him, closing the distance between them as he came to stand before him. He cleared his throat and looked up into his eyes, trying to appear as composed as he could, despite the fact that he was stark naked. “Before I left for Crestwood, you said that we… that we aren’t exclusive. That we’ve had our fun, and we are both free to do whatever we want, with whomever we want. That was the way you put it, wasn’t it?” Dorian’s lips tightened as he gave him a slow nod. Tristan took a breath to steel himself. “Is that what you want?”

“Is that what you want?”

No. “I…” Tristan looked away, clenching his jaw. The evening cold slithering through the windows was making his skin prickle, and he hugged himself tightly. “I don’t know.”

He heard Dorian inhale sharply, drawing himself up. Tristan glanced at him just in time to see him squeezing his eyes shut. “Then what else is there for us to say?” he snapped. He looked angry, yet his voice sounded at the edge of breaking. He turned to leave again, when Tristan reached out, catching his arm.

“I don’t know,” Tristan started, a whisper so low he could barely hear it himself, “how to be with someone.”

Dorian brows were furrowed in confusion when he turned his body to face him. Tristan held on to his arm with both hands, as if afraid he would float away if he let him go. For a moment, it felt like his entire life was whirling in his mind, a torrent of tangled images and thoughts that he struggled to put to words. He took a deep breath, willing his voice to stay level. “I’ve been on my own for too long. I don’t know what it’s like, having someone so close to me. After my sister died, I… I could barely live with myself. I thought I didn’t deserve to be happy, not when Tilly wasn’t around anymore. I wasn’t even sure if I deserved to be alive. Bloody hell, some days I still don’t.” He paused, blinking as his eyes burned like coals under his lids. His heart was beating so hard he could feel his pulse in his throat, but he made himself hold Dorian’s gaze. “I vowed that I’d never let anyone get too close. That I’d never let myself be happy, or in love. And I had succeeded in that, until… I met you.”

Dorian moved closer to him, and Tristan's hold on his arm tightened ever so slightly. “I don’t know what it is. About you. About us. But I feel like… Fuck, I’m drawn to you. I can’t explain it. I want to be close to you. I’ve tried to fight it. You know that better than anyone. Yet I always come back to you.” His thumb brushed over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the pulse beating underneath it. "I want you, Dorian. I don’t want anybody else. Void take me, it’s never even crossed my mind. Not since the moment I saw you. I don't know how to be or how to act around you, but I still want to be with you. More than I’ve wanted anything before.”

He reached out, fingers hovering only a breath away from Dorian’s cheek, when a sharp pang of panic made him draw his hand back. “I-I can’t expect you to want the same things I do. If you want to sleep with others, then… Then I can’t stop you. I wouldn’t even dream of it. And, let’s be honest, you’d probably be better off with somebody else. I know that this, all of this, the Inquisition, my predicament-” He stopped abruptly, closed his eyes, opened them again. He exhaled slowly, swallowing through the knot in his throat. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Least of all you. I want you to… I want you to have everything. Maker knows you deserve it. I’m not sure if I could even give you half of that.” He let out a quiet, defeated laugh.“Selfish, isn’t it? I don’t know if I can ever make you happy, yet I want to be with you all the same.”

Tristan lifted his eyes to Dorian’s once more, searching his face. Dorian was still watching him carefully, his expression unreadable in the shifting light of the fire. He hadn’t uttered a word, simply listening as Tristan talked on and on. Tension coiled in his gut like a snake, and he bit the inside of his lip down hard. “I understand if you think me a fool. I would too,” he mumbled. He ran his fingers through his hair, eyes burning. He let Dorian's arm go, taking a step back.“Let’s- let’s just forget everything, alright? I’m probably not making any sense. I just- I’ll…”

Dorian’s fingers closed about his wrist, pulling him close. He leaned forward, his velvet lips finding Tristan’s, drawing him in like a magnet. Relief washed over him in waves, enough to make his head swim. Tristan kissed him back eagerly, savouring the sweetness of his mouth, breathing in the scent of him, his fingers tangling in his shirt as he held him. He clung to him, as though he were a piece of driftwood floating on stormy seas. His only chance at keeping his head above water.

Dorian pressed their foreheads together, taking a deep breath. “I want to be with you, too.”

“Y-you do?”

Dorian nodded, a soft smile curling his lips. “Of course I do, you idiot. Couldn’t you tell?”

Tristan’s heart fluttered in his chest with the gentleness in his voice, but he shot him a sullen frown. “Couldn’t you have said so before I spilled my guts?”

“And stop you when you were finally talking for once? Perish the thought.” He held him close, fingers sinking in his hair, holding, pulling. "I didn't really intend to leave, you know. Or if I did, I'd probably come back. If only to kick some sense back into you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes." He let out a soft sigh. "I've told you before that I can't stay mad at you for very long. You have that effect on me."

“Oh.” Tristan laughed weakly, rubbing the dampness from the corners of his eyes. “Good,” he breathed. “That’s good. I hope.”

“It is good.” Dorian’s thumb ran in a smooth semicircle over Tristan’s cheek, brushing a stray tear away. “It is for me. You are the one that I want, amatus. You will have to do a great deal to change my mind about that. I...” He paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words. There was a tinge of sorrow in his eyes when they met his own. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

Tristan couldn’t describe what it was he felt when Dorian’s gaze swept over his features, sadness mingled with care and so much tenderness. Even if he could find the words, he didn’t think he had any strength left to breathe them into being. He wrapped his arms around Dorian’s waist, pulling him flush against him, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Dorian hugged him tightly, pressing kisses on the top of his head, his temples, his cheeks, the shell of his ear.

“Now,” Dorian whispered after what felt like an age and a blink of an eye, “let’s get the stench of horse and dirt off you, shall we? It’s quite overpowering.”

Tristan hummed with amusement as he pulled him towards the bed again, deft fingers tugging at his shirt. “Not just yet.”

[themackenzies]

Last night I dreamed about making soap. I haven’t made soap yet, myself, but I’d been scrubbing the floor yesterday, and the smell of the soap was still on my hands when I went to bed. It’s a nasty smell, something between acid and ashes, with a horrible faint stink from the hog fat, like something that’s been dead for a long time.

I was pouring water into a kettle of wood ash, to make lye, and it was turning to lye even as I poured. Big clouds of poisonous smoke were coming up from the kettle; it was yellow, the smoke.

Da brought me a big bowl of suet, to mix with the lye, and there were babies’ fingers in it. I don’t remember thinking there was anything strange about this—at the time.

Last night I dreamed that I shaved my legs. I was using Daddy’s razor and his shaving cream, and I was thinking that he’d complain when he found out, but I wasn’t worried. The shaving cream came in a white can with red letters, and it said Old Spice on the label. I don’t know if there ever was shaving cream like that, but that’s what Daddy always smelled of, Old Spice aftershave and cigarette smoke. He didn’t smoke, but the people he worked with did, and his jackets always smelled like the air in the living room after a party. Once Gayle told me that she’d gone out with Chris and hadn’t had time to shave her legs, and she spent the whole evening trying to keep him from putting his hand on her knee, for fear he’d feel the stubble. Afterward, I never shaved my legs without thinking of that, and I’d run my fingers up my thigh, to see whether I could feel anything there, or if it was okay to stop shaving at my kneecaps.

Last night I dreamed that it was raining. Hardly surprising, since it was raining, and has been for two days. When I went out to the privy this morning, I had to jump over a huge puddle by the door, and sank up to the ankles in the soft spot by the blackberries.

We went to bed last night with the rain pounding on the roof. It was so nice to curl up with Roger and be warm in our bed, after a wet, chilly day. Raindrops fell down the chimney and hissed in the fire. We told each other stories from our youths—maybe that’s where the dream came from, thinking about the past.

There wasn’t much to the dream, just that I was looking out a window in Boston, watching the cars go past, throwing up big sheets of water from their wheels, and hearing the swoosh and rush of their tires on the wet streets. I woke up still hearing that sound; it was so clear in my mind that I actually went to the window and peeked out, half expecting to see a busy street, full of cars rushing through the rain. It was a shock to see spruce trees and chestnuts and wild grass and creepers, and hear nothing but the soft patter of raindrops bouncing and trembling on the burdock leaves.

Everything was so vivid a green, so lush and overgrown, that it seemed like a jungle, or an alien planet—a place I’d never been, with nothing I recognized, though in fact I see it every day.

All day, I’ve heard the secret rush of tires in the rain, somewhere behind me.

Last night I dreamed of driving my car. It was my own blue Mustang, and I was driving fast down a winding road, through the mountains—these mountains. I never have driven through these mountains, though I have been through the mountain woodlands in upstate New York. It was definitely here, though; I knew it was the Ridge.

It was so real. I can still feel my hair snapping in the wind, the wheel in my hands, the vibration of the motor and the rumble of tires on the pavement. But that sensation—as well as the car—is impossible. It can’t happen now, anywhere but in my head. And yet there it is, embedded in the cells of my memory, as real as the privy outside, waiting to be called back to life at the flick of a synapse.

That’s another oddness. Nobody knows what a synapse is, except me and Mama and Roger. What a strange feeling; as though we three share all kinds of secrets.

Anyway, that particular bit—the driving—is traceable to a known memory. But what about the dreams, equally vivid, equally real, of things I do not know of my waking self. Are some dreams the memories of things that haven’t happened yet?

Last night I dreamed that I made love with Roger. It was great; for once I wasn’t thinking, wasn’t watching from the outside, like I always do. In fact, I wasn’t even aware of myself for a long time. There was just this … very wild, exciting stuff, and I was part of it and Roger was part of it, but there wasn’t any him or me, just us. The funny thing is that it was Roger, but I didn’t think of him like that. Not by his name—not that name. It was like he had another name, a secret, real one—but I knew what it was.

(I’ve always thought everybody has that kind of name, the kind that isn’t a word. I know who I am—and whoever it is, her name isn’t “Brianna.” It’s me, that’s all. “Me” works fine as a substitute for what I mean—but how do you write down someone else’s secret name?)

I knew Roger’s real name, though, and that seemed to be why it was working. And it really was working, too; I didn’t think about it or worry about it, and I only thought toward the very end, Hey, it’s happening! And then it did happen and everything dissolved and shook and throbbed—Well, none of the books I’ve ever read could describe it, either!

I had my eyes closed—in the dream, that is—and I was lying there with little electric shocks still going off, and I opened my eyes and it was Stephen Bonnet inside me. It was such a shock it woke me up. I felt like I’d been screaming—my throat was all raw—but I couldn’t have been, because Roger and the baby were sound asleep. I was hot all over, so hot I was sweating, but I was cold, too, and my heart was pounding. It took a long time before things settled down enough for me to go back to sleep; all the birds were carrying on. That’s what finally let me go back to sleep, in fact—the birds. Da—and Daddy, too, come to think of it—told me that the jays and crows give alarm calls, but songbirds stop singing when someone comes near, so when you’re in a forest, you listen for that. With so much racket in the trees by the house, I knew it was safe—nobody was there.

I tried to forget it, but that didn’t work. It kept coming back and coming back into my mind, so I finally went out by myself to work in the herb shed. Mama keeps Jemmy when I’m there because he gets in things, so I knew I could be alone. So I sat down in the middle of all the hanging bunches and closed my eyes and tried to remember every single thing about it, and think to myself about the different parts, “That’s okay,” or “That’s just a dream.” Because Stephen Bonnet scared me, and I felt sick when I thought of the end—but I really wanted to remember how. How it felt, and how I did it, so maybe I can do it again, with Roger. But I keep having this feeling that I can’t, unless I can remember Roger’s secret name.

Last night I dreamed about my friend Deborah. She used to make money doing Tarot readings in the Student Union; she’d always offer to do one for me, for free, but I wouldn’t let her. Sister Marie Romaine told us in the fifth grade that Catholics aren’t allowed to do divination—we weren’t to touch Ouija boards or Tarot cards or crystal balls, because things like that are seductions of the D-E-V-I-L—she always spelled it out like that, she’d never say the word. I’m not sure where the Devil came into it, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to let Deb do readings for me. She was, last night, though, in my dream.

I used to watch her do it for other people; the Tarot cards fascinated me—maybe just because they seemed forbidden. But the names were so cool—the Major Arcana, the Minor Arcana; Knight of Pentacles, Page of Cups, Queen of Wands, King of Swords. The Empress, the Magician. And the Hanged Man. Well, what else would I dream about? I mean, this was not a subtle dream, no doubt about it. There it was, right in the middle of the spread of cards, and Deb was telling me about it.

“A man is suspended by one foot from a pole laid across two trees. His arms, folded behind his back, together with his head, form a triangle with the point downward; his legs form a cross. To an extent, the Hanged Man is still earthbound, for his foot is attached to the pole.”

I could see the man on the card, suspended permanently halfway between heaven and earth. That card always looked odd to me—the man didn’t seem to be at all concerned, in spite of being upside-down and blind-folded. Deb kept scooping up the cards and laying them out again, and that one kept coming up in every spread.

“The Hanged Man represents the necessary process of surrender and sacrifice,” she said. “This card has profound significance,” she said, and she looked at me and tapped her finger on it. “But much of it is veiled; you have to figure out the meaning for yourself. Self-surrender leads to transformation of the personality, but the person has to accomplish his own regeneration.”

Transformation of the personality. That’s what I’m afraid of, all right. I liked Roger’s personality just fine the way it was! Well … rats. I don’t know how much the D-E-V-I-L has to do with it, but I am sure that trying to look too far into the future is a mistake. At least right now.

Last night I dreamed that we were lying under a big rowan tree, Roger and I. It was a beautiful summer day, and we were having one of those conversations we used to have all the time, about things we missed. Only the things we were talking about were there on the grass between us. I said I’d sell my soul for a Hershey bar with almonds, and there it was. I slipped the outer wrapper off, and I could smell the chocolate. I unfolded the white paper wrapper inside and started eating the chocolate, but it was the paper we were talking about, then—the wrapper.

Roger picked it up and said what he missed most was loo-paper; this was too slick to wipe your arse with. I laughed and said there wasn’t anything complicated about toilet paper—people could make it now, if they wanted to. There was a roll of toilet paper on the ground; I pointed at it, and a big bumblebee flew down and grabbed the end of it and flew off, unfurling the toilet paper in its wake. It flew in and out, weaving it through the branches overhead.

Then Roger said it was blasphemy to think about wiping yourself with paper—it is, here. Mama writes in tiny letters when she does her case-notes, and when Da writes to Scotland he writes on both sides of the page, and then he turns it sideways and writes across the lines, so it looks like lattice-work. Then I could see Da, sitting on the ground, writing a letter to Aunt Jenny on the toilet paper, and it was getting longer and longer and the bee was carrying it up into the air, flying off toward Scotland with it.

I use more paper than anyone. Aunt Jocasta gave me some of her old sketchbooks to use, and a whole quire of watercolor paper—but I feel guilty when I use them, because I know how expensive it is. I have to draw, though. A nice thing about doing this portrait for Mrs. Sherston—since I’m earning money, I feel like I can use a little paper.

Then the dream changed and I was drawing pictures of Jemmy, with a #2B yellow pencil. It said “Ticonderoga” on it in black letters, like the ones we used to use in school. I was drawing on toilet paper, though, and the pencil kept ripping through it, and I was so frustrated that I wadded up a bunch in my hand. Then it went into one of those boring, uncomfortable dreams where you’re wandering around looking for a place to go to the bathroom and can’t find one—and finally you wake up enough to realize that you do have to go to the bathroom.

I can’t decide whether I’d rather have the Hershey bar, the toilet paper, or the pencil. I think the pencil. I could smell the freshly-sharpened wood on the point, and feel it between my fingers, and my teeth. I used to chew my pencils, when I was little. I still remember what it felt like to bite down hard and feel the paint and wood give, just a little, and munch my way up and down the length of the pencil, until it looked like a beaver had been gnawing on it. I was thinking about that, this afternoon. It made me feel sad that Jem won’t have a new yellow pencil, or a lunchbox with Batman on it, when he goes to school—if he ever does go to school.

Roger’s hands are still too bad to hold a pen. And now I know that I don’t want pencils or chocolate, or even toilet paper. I want Roger to talk to me again.

Then I woke up and I really was cold. Roger had pulled all the covers off and rolled himself up in them, and there was a terrible draft blowing in under the door. I nudged him and yanked on the blankets, but I couldn’t get them loose and I didn’t want to make a lot of noise and wake Jemmy up. Finally, I got up and got my cloak off the peg and went back to sleep under that. Roger got up before me this morning and went out; I don’t think he noticed that he’d left me in the cold.

Last night I dreamed that Roger was leaving. I’ve been dreaming about his going for a week, ever since Da suggested it. Suggested—ha. Like Moses brought down the Ten Suggestions from Mount Sinai. In the dream, Roger was packing things in a big sack, and I was busy mopping the floor. He kept getting in my way, and I kept pushing the sack aside to get at another part of the floor. It was filthy, with all sorts of stains and sticky glop. There were little bones scattered around, like Adso had eaten some little animal there, and the bones kept getting caught up in my mop. I don’t want him to go, but I do, too. I hear all the things he isn’t saying; they echo in my head. I keep thinking that when he’s gone, it will be quiet.

I can still see every last thing in the china cabinet in the living room: Mama’s great-grandfather’s hand-painted cake stand (he was an artist, she said, and won a competition with that cake stand, a hundred years ago), the dozen crystal goblets that Daddy’s mother left him, along with the cut-glass olive dish and the cup and saucer hand-painted with violets and gilt rims.

I was standing in front of it, putting away the china—but we didn’t keep the china in that cabinet; we kept it in the shelf over the oven—and the water was overflowing from the sink in the kitchen, and running out across the floor, puddling round my feet. Then it started to rise, and I was sloshing back and forth to the kitchen, kicking up the water so it sparkled like the cut-glass olive dish. The water got deeper and deeper, but nobody seemed to be worried; I wasn’t. The water was warm, hot, in fact, I could see steam rising off it.

That’s all there was to the dream—but when I got up this morning, the water in the basin was so cold I had to warm water in a pan on the fire before I washed Jemmy. All the time I was checking the water on the fire, I kept remembering my dream, and all those gallons and gallons of hot, running water.

What I wonder is, these dreams I have about then—they seem so vivid and detailed; more than the dreams I have about now. Why do I see things that don’t exist anywhere except inside my brain? What I wonder about the dreams is—all the new inventions people think up—how many of those things are made by people like me—like us? How many “inventions” are really memories, of the things we once knew? And—how many of us are there?

Twelve Days of Outlander - Ten Blogs a Posting Dreams a Journaling

[naturezoneunite]

King Arthur's Legacy Vol. I Ch. II: Ayumu Intense Training|Welcome to Rosalia Tribe!

(Saturday Morning at the Sacred Valley in the East side of the Hiraoka Tribe, Ayumu was waiting for his father Kitono to finish upgrading his sword, he was thinking about that power he felt in the sword he wield. The Hiraoka Spell Book is being upgraded as well.) [”How was I able to take down that monster? I couldn’t remember anything when I passed out.”] (Ayumu couldn’t stop thinking about it, it was bothering him, he didn’t noticed that his father overheard his conversation.)

(Kitono finished placing the Hiraoka Tribe Symbol into the power sword called Hirazaka, the sword that have been asleep in the tower for ages, the Hirazaka was more powerful, but the magic is locked permanently since it hasn’t chosen it’s new master yet.) (Kitono went outside to tell his son about his gifts.) “Hey son, son snap out of it!” (Ayumu snapped out of it and looked at his father in the eyes.) “Are you okay son?” “I’m fine father.” (Kitono patting Ayumu head gently and smiles at him.) “Your sword and your spell book is ready.” (Kitono handed Ayumu his gifts that was upgraded a few minutes ago.) “Thank you father, I appreciate it.” “The sword is called the legendary Hirazaka.” “Eh? I don’t get it father.” “Right, I will explain it from the beginning.” “The sword is called Hirazaka, the most powerful weapon in the Netherworld, the sword that negates magic, and have unlimited magic.” “That sounds cool father!” “There are more weapons out there that are different from the Hirazaka.” “How many weapons are in total father!?” “That is a mystery I can’t tell you, but in the near future, you will figure it out.” “This weapon were made by your great godmother Erica Hiraoka.” “This weapon and other weapons out there must be used to slay the evil which is the ruler of his clan, The Demon Lord.” “Demon lord? Is he evil?” “Yes he is indeed evil, ruler of all demons, slaughtered the previous Heroes, even the previous hero ages ago in the first war, his plan is to rule the world, to take over the Netherworld and the Human World to it into his own world.” (After Ayumu listened to everything his father told him, He hold the powerful Hirazaka in his right hand and his spell book in his back pocket.) (35 minutes later, both of them gets in battle stance prepare for battle.) “Alright son, hit me as hard as you can.” (Ayumu charged at him at a normal pace, he strike first, he left a little cut on his father’s left cheek. Kitono was disappointed.) “That wasn’t strong enough, you need practice, I will have to push you at your every limit, even if it takes all night.” “Sorry father.” “Try again.” (Ayumu tried so many times but keep hesitating.) “Alright son, what’s going on with you? Why are you so distant and hesitant!?” “Why...?” “Tell me why are you being so hesitant and not focused?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know?” “I don’t know father, It’s just that I...” “That your weak?” “No father!” “Then what’s bother you, let me know, tell me!” “I’m afraid okay!?” (Ayumu started crying gripping onto his sword.) “I’m just scared of those monsters I seen in the tower, I’m not as strong as you!!!” “Son, why do you think I’m training you, for fun!? No, I’m training you because you are the chosen one of our tribe, I’m not getting any younger, your mother and I are in our early 40s, I want to train you first and then your sister Ayumi, face your fears, believe in yourself.” “Believe in myself?” “Yes son, I believe you can do it if you put your to it.” (Kitono train him all weekend, the training was intense, sure there was a lot of pent up frustrations, a lot of stress, and tempers flaring, but Kitono strict training helped Ayumu control his power, keep his mind, body focus, and he gotten five times stronger. Kitono noticed his son was getting stronger.) (Monday Morning, Kitono took his son to the unknown place known as Rosalia Tribe where the Rosalia family lives, it’s a safe, secured tribe, full of royalty. They landed at the entrance of the Rosalia Tribe. Ayumu got distracted by seeing animals for the first time, he got lost in the forest called Sakura Forest far from Rosalia kingdom. He was feeling lonely being separated from his father.) “Father...? Where are you? Father!” “Excuse me, are you looking for someone?”

(Ayumu turned around and noticed the mysterious girl who is the same age as him. She has neon green hair, light green eyes, short hair, she her eyes are like beautiful as an angel in heaven. The princess of the Rosalia Kingdom, the chosen hero of the Rosetta Bow, and daughter of the Rosalia family.) (When he turned around, she blushed a little bit seeing his face for the first time, his lavender eyes, black and red hair, and his whiskers.) “Who are you and what is this place?” “Where are my matters? My name is Chikara Rosalia, I’m princess of the Rosalia Kingdom, daughter of the Rosalia family. Nice to meet you.” “My name is Ayumu Hiraoka, son of the Hiraoka family, Nice to meet you as well, Chikara.” “Ayumu Hiraoka?” “If it’s hard to understand, call me whatever.” “Very well, I shall address you in a respectful manner, Is that okay with you?” “Yes, thank you Chikara Chan.” “W-We are in this forest called Sakura Forest, follow me Ayumu Kun.” “Wait for me!” (Ay Kun and Chikara traveled to the Rosalia Kingdom together, she sees her guards looking at Ayumu suspiciously in a rude disrespectful fashion.) “Your majesty, why did you bring a commoner here to the Rosaline Kingdom?” “He’s my friend, no matter if he’s a commoner or not, let us in!” (They did what she asked them to do without hesitation, clearly they didn’t have much of a choice. They step aside as Ayumu and Chikara went inside the castle. He was surprised how huge the inside of the castle was, the castle has 9 floors. Ayumu and Chikara had to meet the king and queen of the Rosalia Tribe first before they do anything else.) (Ayumu and Chikara got on both knees and bows to the king and queen, but the king wasn’t pleased because of his presence)

“How dare you bring an outsider in our kingdom, not just he’s an outsider, he comes from a different tribe that isn’t royalty, he’s a peasant, begone peasant!”

“Father he’s not a threat, he is my first friend that I met, he would never do such a thing!” “Nonsense! All Rosalia cast wind magic, we don’t trust outsiders that isn’t from our tribe, his presence disgusts me!” (Ayumu ignored what the king said because threats doesn’t hurt him.) “Now dear, let’s not be hasty, it doesn’t matter if he’s a outsider or not, he doesn’t cause a threat to our kingdom, he’s a nice boy that is our daughter’s first friend, give him a chance.” “Fine, I’ll give you a chance, why are you here?” “Thank you father.” “My name is Ayumu Hiraoka, I got lost in Sakura Forest, your daughter brought me here because I’m looking for my father, your majesty!” “Your father, do you mean Kitono Hiraoka?” “Yes, that’s my father, how do you know him?” “Him and I went to war together for years.” (Ay Kun was surprised hearing that his father and the king went to war together.) “My name is Cid Rosalia Jr., I am the king of Rosalia Kingdom.” “My name is Jennifer Rosalia, I am the queen of Rosalia Kingdom.” (Celestia explained the history of the former legendary heroes who served Lucrencia Palazus, the goddess of this world, She explained everything so Ay Kun and Chikara can understand.) (Few hours later Chikara took Ay Kun to the entrance where Kenneth would wait for his son.) “I hope we meet again Ayumu Kun.” “I agree, I believe we will cross paths someday Chikara Chan.” (He holds her hand thanking her for bring him back to his father. Chikara started blushing so much at the moment that Ayumu held her hand.) “Your hand feels warm.” “Huh?” “N-N-N-Nothing! It was nice meeting you A-A-A-Ayumu Kun!” (Ayumu let go of her hand and went back to the Hiraoka Tribe with his father. Chikara was happy and joyful to have a new friend for the first time ever, even Ayumu was happy to have a friend as well.) (The Hiraoka Tribe had dinner together, they had a feast, Ayumu believes that if they cross paths again, they can overcome anything, anything is possible if you put your mind to it, making the impossible the possible is relevant.) (To Be Continued)

[fabulousahoy]

Original Story - J & O - Chapter 1

I wrote an original story... well part one of it. Dunno if it any good, but imma posting anyway.

A defeated and resigned Pumpkin Man gets a visit from his old “friend” which causes him a lot of trouble.

Far away from all civilization, in a dimension between life and death stands a small house. Hidden from prying eyes of humans and other creatures alike, this house belongs to a certain being. He who once struck fear into the hearts of men, yet now resides here. Alone, detached from everything. He who once commanded the entire might of Underworld, the Lord of Pumpkins himself... Jack'O.

* * *

Returning home with groceries was usually the best part of the "shopping day". Though of course, it's not like Jack'O actually bought stuff. It was more akin to stealing, though he preferred to call it "borrowing without giving back". After all, the only place he ventured to from his pocket dimension is the human world. Buying stuff is quite challenging(impossible) when you have a giant pumpkin for a head. Besides, he did not have any money anyway.

As he crossed over from the usual dirty alley into the dimension his home was in, Jack'O let out a sigh of relief. Navigating human cities always gave him anxiety, even if he does it after dark. Now that he stood at his front porch however, everything was peachy. He snapped his fingers in order to close the dimensional gateway and without even turning back he opened the door with his right foot. There was no need to lock them ever. No one could get into this dimension without him allowing it anyway. Humming to himself Jack'O entered the house, unaware that the gateway did not close completely. A small hole remained through which some sort of black liquid slowly poured in. After couple of minutes it stopped, and the hole closed itself. As if it was alive, the huge pool of black goo began to move towards the house.

After putting away everything he bought, Jack'O sat down down in his favorite(only) armchair by the fireplace and sighed in relief. Reaching out with his right hand towards the table, he took a dart out of a cup full of them and set his aim on the dartboard hanging above the fireplace. This particular one is a custom, which Jack'O made in the image of the creature he despised the most. The dartboard itself had the shape of a demon's head with crudely painted details, such as a shark-teeth smile and an eye patch.

Before he had a chance to throw the dart, a loud knocking noise came from the front door.

- What the...

Jack'O got up from his chair, taken aback by this impossible situation. He simply stood there as the sound continued.

- Who's there?!

The knocking stopped for a couple of seconds, only to resume again at a faster pace. Losing his patience, he decided that the only right course of action is to open the door and face whoever or whatever it is. After arming himself with a frying pan he slowly approached the door and in one swift move opened it. But there was no one there. He stepped out into the porch but he found no signs of anyone or anything.

- Maybe it was the wind. Or maybe I just need more sleep.

With that said, Jack'O returned inside the house and shut the door behind him. Once  back inside however he noticed someone is sitting in his armchair.

- Cozy house you got here, Jacky. Mind if I crash here for awhile?

A long time has passed since he last heard this voice. Voice of the repulsing demon who betrayed him and because of whom he became a literal nobody.

- You...

- Indeed. Me.

The entire house shook to its foundations when Jack'O fired a giant beam of dark matter energy from both of his hands. His poor and trusty armchair exploded into nothing in an instant taking the table and darts with itself. Laying on the floor near the fireplace was a demon woman. Long black hair, pale skin, all white Gothic-like coat, a huge eye patch over the right eye and of course a pair of pointy horns. The look on her face was a mix between shock and genuine confusion.

- How dare you show your face to me, you foul carcass of the abyss?!

Jack'O began preparing another attack. Within his hollow eyes burned a fire, one which hasn't burned for long years.

- Look, Jacky. I know last time we saw each other, we had a bit of an uh... scuffle, you and me but...

The Lord of Pumpkins roared like a crazy beast and fired another shot, this one destroyed the fireplace along with the rest of the wall. The woman avoided the blast at the last second by jumping towards the kitchen then rolling into it like a ball. She stopped by hitting the sink so hard the faucet almost came loose. Now laying on the back with legs over her head she watched as the furious Jack'O towered over her like some sort of murderous madman with a vengeance.

- Okay, could you please stop trying to kill me, Jacky? I'm not here to fight you, and besides, I have had enough of a roller coaster ride today as it is.

- Then why are you here?

- Look, if you'll stop destroying your house and we just sit down like civilized Underworlders, I'll tell you everything.

The Lord of Pumpkins' fire seemed to have been instantly extinguished the moment he realized he just destroyed a wall, an armchair and a table. After short overlooking of the rotten fruits of his carnage he turned to the demoness on the floor.

- This better be good, Ovelia.

* * *

Another day, another load of paperwork done. Although she would never admit it in front of anybody, the amount of dumb requests citizens of the Underworld make is astronomically high. For instance, just today she had to deny thirty different pleas from Underworlders who wanted cleaner air. Like, what is she supposed to do about it?

Yawning, she got up from her chair and looked outside the giant window of the office. Thanks to her efforts the once horribly medieval Underworld became a technological juggernaut. Combining magic and technology yielded results surpassing those of humans. So what if the air is not as clean as it used to be? Everyone(who is a first or second class citizen at least) gets free cable TV and all the wondrous perks of magic and technology at the same time. It's a win-win all around, unless you're a complete failure and can't even afford shoes. In which case, oh well.

Taking out a small mirror out of the pocket in her coat, Ovelia took a look at her eye patch, and seeing that it is crooked she fixed it up.

- Well, nothing wrong with indulging myself a bit.

Back at her desk, she pressed the button four on her intercom. After two beeps a tired voice answered the call.

- Yes, miss Ovelia?

- Hans, if I have any appointments today then I want you to cancel them. In fact, tell everyone I am out and about doing charity or whatever it is.

- You want to watch "Funnies in the Family", right?

There was a brief but tense silence.

- Shut up.

She pressed the button again to terminate the call. Now that all of the "chorepointments" were null and void, she could enjoy the luxury of her favorite sitcom... or so she believed, because the lights went out, and the reinforced glass window behind her simply shattered.

- What. - She mumbled, quite confused.

With multiple pieces of glass now lodged in her back, Ovelia turned into black liquid and then swiftly reshaped back. Now free of the pieces, she took a look around her office which had shards of the window everywhere.

- This is going to be a witch to clean up. Welp, good thing it is not going to be me.

She pressed button four on the intercom couple of times, until it hit her that it wasn't just the lights that went out.

- Drat. Now I'll have to walk.

- Excuse me! Can you finally turn around for scariness' sake?!

Ovelia sighed and turned around towards the raspy voice. What her eyes beheld, could be simply explained as black floating rags, some chains and a bag of bones with barely any meat on them.

- By the seven pits... who let you in here, you filthy hobo?!

- What? I'm not...

- Yeah, yeah. Sure. You probably prefer to be called a "jobless individual". What? Cannot find any work for a fellow of your education?

The bag of bones and rags laughed like a maniac who smoked one cigarette too many in his life.

- Well, you see. I'm not going to be jobless for much longer, Abyss Demon!

- Indeed. That is me.

- Because I'll be taking your seat at the top of the Underworld!

With that said the bag'o'rags laughed again. Ovelia smiled wryly in response.

- Okay, that was cute and all. Now get your tattered bones out of here before I'll have to remove you myself.

- You... you don't remember me, do you?

She raised an eyebrow.

- Should I?

The hobo shrugged and took out a book from behind his ragged cloak. Upon opening it, and quickly skimming through a couple of pages, he began reading a passage in a language most ancient. A magical circle appeared under Ovelia's feet.

- I think I have had enough of your wacky hijinks. Get... out!

Usually at this stage she would make a very scary face, the air would tense up and the intruder would have been knocked out of her office, in pieces at that. Instead, she just lost her balance and fell face-flat onto the floor.

- Buh-wha? - She mumbled, spitting out a shard of glass from her mouth. The raspy laugh resounded again.

- It worked! It worked! Bless your dark heart, Abysswalker!

- What just happened?

Ovelia got up slowly and arrived at the conclusion that she feels much less powerful than usual. It was almost as if she had no crazy broken powers at all anymore.

- This spell was made specifically to deal with you, Ovelia! To be more precise, it seals most of your great power!

Before she could even process this information the raggedy hobo grabbed her by the hair and dangled outside of the window.

- It's a long way down, little abyss runt.

- Who in the seven pits of hell do you think you are?! You will not get away with this!

- Who? Why, I am... The Boogeyman!

With that said, he let go of her hair and in accordance with the laws of gravity, Ovelia plummeted down. In the brief moments during her fall she could hear the raspy, yet roaring laughter of victory. Then, there was only darkness and silence.

* * *

- Hold up. Boogeyman? The same Boogeyman we trashed completely and threw down into the Sea of Gehenna?! That Boogeyman?

- Well, considering he seems to kinda hate me, I think so.

Jack'O sighed.

- Look, if he hates me, then he hates you as well, Jacky.

- He only went after you because you were the top dog in the Underworld. Now that you were thrown away like yesterday's trash I'm sure he has more important things to do than go after me. Besides, he can't find me anyway, secret dimension, no?

- Uhh...

Jack'O sent Ovelia a cold piercing gaze.

- Which brings me to my next point. How did you find me?

- After Boogeyboy noticed I am not dead, he sent multiple assassins after me. I high-tailed it to the human world to lose them. After I wandered a bit, I noticed you going about in the dark with your bags of merchandise. I knew I could hide inside your dimension if I followed you. It was a pretty lucky coincidence, I must say.

- Mhm. - He shrugged. - Alright.

Jack'O turned around towards the kitchen, only to quickly turn back and punched Ovelia right in the gut. The might of the hit sent her flying right into a bookshelf. It immediately collapsed right on top of her. He carefully watched her turn into liquid then reform back into regular form next to him.

- What was that for?! - She asked, pouting.

- You tell me. While I would be otherwise inclined to believe in our "lucky" and "coincidental" meeting, I just simply can't. You said you "knew" about my dimension. From where? Who else knows?

- Uhhh...

Jack'O cracked his knuckles.

- Alrighty! Fine! I kept spying on you after you left, so I could laugh at you! I had special cameras installed at almost every place you visit! That way I always had a fresh stream of your misery!

They both stood there in complete silence for a bit.

- I can't believe this. I need a drink.

With that said, the Lord of Pumpkins simply went into the kitchen and returned with two cups filled with vodka. After staring at puzzled Ovelia for a couple of seconds, he poured both cups down his throat, one after the other.

- So... can I stay here?

- No.

As if on cue, the sky of the dimension split open with a loud and terrible noise and through the crack flew in a giant dragon. Alongside him a four armed being, whose head seemed to be composed of flames, descended upon the house.

- I have found you at last, wretch of the abyss! By the order of the almighty Boogeyman, I, Pyreman - Lord of Fire and Ashes, will cast burning judgment upon you and your comrade!

Upon finishing his speech, he threw a bunch of fireballs down onto the house and laughed proudly as everything around quickly went ablaze.

[thebifrostgiant]

If You Know Where to Look - Part 19 (1/2)

Summary: in which you do some studying and pick a fight. A fire is started.

Part 1 / Previous

Read on Ao3

Word Count: 2,220

Rating: T

Pairing: Loki/Reader

*

Chapter 19: Nothing at All Is Hard to Find...

The walk back to the inn is long, and your feet plod mindlessly, suddenly reminded of how tired you are. The scarf, a soft woolen thing of deep green, keeps the worst of the wind’s chilly little fangs from your ears and nose — even despite the wind, your neck is rather toasty — but your fingers are still stiff to aching and your toes aren’t too far behind. It’ll be good to be back at the inn. You’d like nothing more than to take a nice hot bath and bury yourself under the thick quilt of your bed and drift off to the familiar, comforting clicking of the heater, snug and safe and so deliciously warm. Thinking about that makes you move a little faster.

[[MORE]]

And then it starts to rain.

Cold, wet, lashing drops of water come upon you all at once, pattering against the earth and your jacket, and you’re soaked within seconds, gasping like you’d plunged headlong into an icy river.

Loki looks at you with an expression of similar shock, and after a moment, literally frozen, you both begin to run, as fast as you can over the slick grass, skidding, trying to cover your face with your hands to keep the stinging rain out of your eyes.

Lightening slices the sky with flashing fingers, and you run, if possible, even faster, cursing and spluttering in the impossibly cold water tumbling down.

When you reach the inn, you stumble up the steps, immensely grateful for the lip of the roof overhanging your heads, and you clasp the railing tightly, gulping lungfuls of air. You take a moment to just breathe, dripping all over the porch and shivering, and you catch Loki’s eye.

He’s also breathing heavily, teeth bared against the cold, cheeks red and his hair- his hair is plastered to his skull, clumped against it tightly and it-

You laugh.

“What?” he asks, plainly unsure what is particularly funny about being caught in a horrifically cold thunderstorm. Even he looks like he’s feeling it, arms wrapped tight against his middle, jacket saturated, making him seem smaller than usual and-

“I’m sorry!” you gasp, wide-eyed and grinning. “But you just-“ Another peal of laughter escapes, and your sides heave with it. “You look like a drowned rat!”

For a moment, you think he might be offended, and it’s almost enough to make you stop laughing. Almost. But then he crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow, and pointedly looks you over. Right. You’re not looking much better at all right about now.

“I know, I know!” say in emphatic delight, still terribly amused. “I do too. I feel like a drowned rat!”

And even he’s biting his lip, shaking with quiet laughter, until your teeth are chattering too hard to stay outside.

Stepping into the inn feels like stepping into an oven, and it’s almost too hot, but it’s blissful. You stand there a moment, soaking it in, beads of water trailing from your hair down your face and neck.

Loki puts his hand on your shoulder, giving it a little push.

“Quick,” says he, “before our dripping floods the floor.”

You giggle again at that, and skitter up the stairs faster than Ratatoskr on his way to gossip with the eagle.

You peel off your jacket once you’re in the room, boots kicked off by the door, and hang it over the curtain rod in the washroom. You grab a fluffy towel and toss Loki the other, and rub dry your face, your hair, your arms, until you’re merely damp, and on the way to warming up.

“That was,” you say, still vaguely out of breath and much calmer now, but smiling, “exhilarating.”

Loki huffs, what might be amusement or incredulity, and pulls the towel away from his face to give you a bemused look.

“That is... one word for it.”

“Don’t tell me it was too cold for you.”

“I thought it was lovely,” he says, and it’s not even a good lie, not at all. But his eyes are mirthful, and so brightly green that you nearly find yourself staring.

“So...” you say, innocent and guileful, “You’re saying you don’t need any hot chocolate to warm you up?”

Loki grimaces, caught in a trap halfway of his own making, and you cannot help smirking just a little bit.

“You know me,” he says lightly, far too lightly, “I would never say no to the finest beverage in all of Midgard.”

“Do you think Kathy will make us some if we ask nicely?” you ask, already turning toward the door.

“I suppose we shall find out.”

***

In the end, you don’t even have to ask Kathy, because the kitchen has little packets of cocoa already prepared, and it’s only a simple matter of heating some water in a kettle before you’re able to inhale the rich, sweet aroma of the chocolate and suck up the warmth of the mug through your hands. Loki, of course, belies his words by opting for leftover coffee from breakfast, although you cannot begrudge him, not when he is holding it close to his face and letting the steam wash over him with a tiny smile.

You shuffle into the main room, with all the patterned couches and organized clutter, and settle in an armchair near the hearth. There’s a soft brown knitted blanket draped over the back of it, and you wrap it around your shoulders and snuggle down with your drink. The rain sounds pleasant and soothing from in here, the rumble of thunder far from frightening at this distance.

Loki wanders into the room a short while later, his hair still damp but looking much less ridiculous, in deep black waves about his face.

“You’re not going back to our room?” he asks, forehead bunching at the center.

“It’s warmer out here. The heater in the room isn’t on at the moment,” you say by way of explanation.

“Ah,” he says. “You’ve been paying attention to that?”

“You don’t find it distracting?”

He shrugs elegantly, and softly walks to the other armchair tucked up close to the fire.

“I’ve learned to tune things like that out.”

“It woke me up the first few nights,” you admit. Loki had slept like the dead right on through. “But I kind of like it now.”

You look into the flames, watching them leap and flicker, ever-changing and steady. The firewood crackles and pops, shifting from time to time and releasing sparking ashes and settling once more. The smoke curls high and out the chimney, and the soft orange glow bathes the area in warm light.

Energy and light, Loki had said. Nothing more. Energy and light and so much potential.

You sip your hot chocolate, feet curled under you and cozy, staring at the fire for a long time.

“Research?”

Loki’s voice pulls you from your trance-like state, and you blink, feeling suddenly quite sleepy.

“Hmm?” You don’t follow.

Loki tilts his head to indicate the fireplace.

“You were studying it.”

The side of your mouth tugs up in a grin.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Figuring it out, more like.

You catch sight of the book in his lap, surprised. One of the leftover ones from the library, which you’ll need to return at some point, come to think of it.

“And you? Why are you still reading that thing?”

“Not research,” he says, folding the book closed with a finger to mark his place, and shows you the cover, embossed leather with gold letters titled A Guide to Runes, Spells, and Potions. “I just found this one rather interesting.”

You nod, and the moment slips into a thick and comfortable silence. Your eyes find the fire once more.

“It’s what lead me to you, you know,” you say quietly, after a long while.

Loki looks up from his book, shadows pronouncing the confused frown on his face.

“What did?”

“Fire,” you murmur, watching the hearth. “The fire Bǫlverkr and Lyngvir lit. I followed the smoke.” You turn your head and watch the dance of the flames reflected in Loki’s wide eyes. You smile softly.

“That’s a lot to attribute to mere happenstance,” he whispers.

“I know.”

***

For all the tenderness in the way Loki had spoken about magic, you wouldn’t have guessed that trying to practice it would have you near tears. You blink viciously, and bite hard at the corner of your lip, willing them away. But hopeless, choking frustration has lodged itself like a burr in your chest, growing bigger with each passing day, each new attempt the same as the last. It’s been weeks, and you have managed to do nothing.

“Maybe I just can’t do this,” you say without inflection, even though the thought makes your eyes sting once more.

“You can,” Loki says immediately, somehow managing to remain calm about this. He sits with his legs crossed, indifferent to the cold ground or the dirt. “Try again.”

You do not want to try again. You want to be done trying, you want to just do something already. And, shamefully, part of you just wants to give up. At least with the books, you had something to show for all the uselessness of the endeavor.

You turn away from Loki, and scrub a hand furiously over your eyes.

“How long did it take you to conjure fire?” you ask, even though you know you are stalling, because you just, just can’t right now.

Loki looks sheepish. He runs his fingers through his hair, tucks a stray dark lock — loosened by the faint breeze — behind his ear.

“A few days.”

“Days,” you repeat, the lump in your throat sinking deeper. “I’ve been trying again for weeks.”

“And you’ll get it eventually,” he says. “I had the benefit of being taught by one of the most gifted magic users in all the realms.” He’s got that wistful sort of look in his eyes again, just for a moment. Then he snorts, cracking a wry grin. “You’ve just got me. I cannot even show you how it’s meant to be done.”

“Easier than explaining it?” you ask with a watery half smile, reluctantly reassured, just a little.

“Very much so.”

You nod, once, and remind yourself to breathe. You widen your stance and lift you arms yet another time.

Fire, you try again. Sparks rising in the heat. The golden waver all around. Changing, resilient, beautiful. Only, something shifts in your mind, and you picture a sharp white-blue flare, gone in a blink, but the afterimage in your mind like you’d stared at the sun. Lightning was fire, was it not? Once it struck, it could engulf an entire forest in an ever-hungry, ever-spreading flood of flames, a wildfire from a single branch. Energy and light and heat, and sound too. The thunder was merely the voice, the echo; the true power was in the frightful streaks of lightning, both deadly, and inspiring a sort of awful reverence. Power, and a soul, and magic.

You hands shake, and your eyes fly open, and for a moment you watch them, waiting.

There is nothing.

And like that, what little motivation, what tiny thread of hope had been renewed, wilts utterly. Cracks. You clench your fists, but they still shake, and you shove them in your pockets so you don’t have to see them.

“Sit.”

You jerk your head up, startled. You’d almost forgotten that Loki was still here. Still watching. Seeing yet another failure. It just makes you feel worse.

You stare at him, torn between irritation and a fragile sort of need, but for what, you’re not at all sure. You don’t understand how he isn’t ruffled by any of this, how he can sit there like you’ve all the time in the world to figure it out, like it’s just a trivial matter, insignificant, and not a way home. Eventually, you’re sure, he will run out of patience. You know he wants to go home as badly as you. To see his brother again. His parents. Eventually, that composure will crack, like day old ice beneath your feet. And that... You wet your lips. You don’t like that thought.

But for now, his gaze is steady, as immovable as the ash tree he leans against. It’s like he has become part of the forest, like he belongs there, among the fallen leaves and moss-flecked rocks, with only his eyes and scarf as vivid contrast to all the brown and grey and dull orange of autumn.

He reaches a hand up toward you, never blinking, and you hesitate only a moment before pulling your own out of your pocket and letting him take it, letting him tug you down beside him so your back is against the strong, straight trunk as well. The smell of leaves is stronger down here, warmed by the dapples of evening sunlight that reach this little glade. You lean your head back against the tree, and your eyes fall shut without you even meaning to let that happen. Some of the tightly-wound chagrin loses its footing.

“I chose this place for a reason.”

You open an eye to give Loki a long, measuring look, but what he meant by that, he does not say.

(2/2)

__________________________________________

*Tag List*

@steve-rogcrs @ps-ghost @ha-tep @professionalphangirluniverse @whosaidididthat

[warehouse13pod]

Show Notes 105 A and B "Elements"

Hello, Agents, and welcome to the show notes!

As always, you can listen to this week’s episodes while you read along with the show notes by clicking here for 105 A and clicking here for 105 B. You can also click play on the embedded player below, if it appears for you.

I am aware that some content—embedded players, gifs, etc.—is not showing up on some versions of the post that are automatically cross-posted to Tumblr. The main issue seems to arise on Tumblr mobile. If you have issues with that, please let me know! I’m working on fixes, and I want to make this content easy to access for everyone. In the meantime, please know that you can always access any show notes directly on our website.

More important than any commentary or analysis regarding the themes in this week’s episode are the lives of the people that cultural misappropriation affects…

…so we’re putting the link to the Lenape non-profit organization that this week’s expert recommended right here at the top.

There were a whole lot of ~heavy themes~ this week.

But we were so grateful to be able to shine a light on not only general issues of cultural misappropriation but also the misrepresentation and homogenized representation of Native and Indigenous people in media, which is something that is rarely discussed or even addressed in mainstream discourse.

These show notes will address all of the issues we touched on, but don’t worry. It’s not all heavy! We still love Warehouse 13 and appreciate the lighter moments in the episode as well as the ways the episode helped to grow Pete and Myka as a team and as individual characters.

Let’s kick it off.

We started 105 A with an excerpt from the Tracks by Louise Erdrich. The excerpt is copied below. (The chapter is widely available online from many sources, so I feel comfortable posting it here also. Especially as it is for the purposes of quotation, criticism, and review.

C H A P T E R  O N E

Winter 1912

Manitou-geezisohns

Little Spirit Sun

--

NANAPUSH

We started dying before the snow, and like the snow, we continued to fall. It was surprising there were so many of us left to die. For those who survived the spotted sickness from the south, our long fight west to the Nadouissioux land where we signed the treaty, and then a wind from the east, bringing exile in a storm of government papers, what descended from he north in 1912 seemed impossible.

By then, we thought disaster must surely have spent its force, that disease must have claimed all of the disaster must surely have spent its force, that disease must have claimed all of the Anishinabe that the earth could hold and bury.

But the earth is limitless. And so is luck and so were our people once. Granddaughter, you are the child of the invisible, the ones who disappeared when, along with the first bitter punishments of early winter, a new sickness swept down.

To iterate what I already said in the podcast, I highly recommend that you read Tracks. It is fascinating, important, and beautifully written. Also, from a linguistic standpoint (for those interested in such things), it often applies some elements of Ojibwe language in astounding ways to Nanapush’s English-language narrations, which creates a really refreshing and new perspective on language than one would typically find in a novel with influences from only western/European languages. 

While I do recommend it as a standalone novel—and you do not need to read any of the other novels to understand it (because it is set in the earliest part of the timeline of the series)-it is part of a tetralogy of novels. Here’s more information on the novels and writings of Louise Erdrich.

Despite an embarrassing amount of time spent researching this for you, I was unable to find an electronic version of the book to share with you. But it’s worth spending money on this truly excellent novel. Here it is for purchase as a paperback. You can also download it from Audible (with or without a membership) as part of a pair of audiobooks. The other audiobook is Louise Erdrich’s Four Souls, a standalone novel.

So, why include this specific excerpt in our podcast? Well, in addition to the reasons we discussed near the end of our discussion in 105 B, we felt that the points in this excerpt were deeply relevant to the issues we brought up in our own discussion and—more importantly—the issues that our brilliant and generous expert, Dr. John Norwood, brought up.

Let’s break this down.

“We started dying before the snow,” but the rest of the paragraph goes on to describe that they didn’t all die. Nanapush’s people—the Anishinabe—survived illness, Eurocentric colonization, and American Westward expansion. It brought heavy losses, but the Anishinabe (and indeed, native cultures more broadly) continue to survive. That’s one of the things that Miranda and I agreed was among the most vital to impress upon our listeners:

Native cultures continue to exist. It is harmful to treat native cultures as if they are relics of the past.

(Note: I know I spell Anishinabe without the double-a. I went with the spelling in Tracks. If the other is preferred, please let me know)

One important way you can take this to heart is by educating yourself about what native cultures exit in or around your area.

Because I promise there are native cultures that exist around you.

Here is the Wikipedia page detailing indigenous peoples around the world that may help contextualize more specific information that is linked below.

For the United States of America…

Here is a list of federally recognized tribal nations.

For Canada…

Here is a list of Canadian First Nations and their associated languages.

For Mexico…

Here’s what info I could find on Mexico’s indigenous population as well as a thorough Wikipedia page on the subject.

Moving on to South America…

Here is a list of the indigenous people of South America.

Now for Australia and New Zealand…

Here is information on the history and modern life of the indigenous people of Australia and New Zealand.

There are also indigenous populations in Europe!

That’s a complex subject that I can’t provide a single comprehensive page for, but here is the link to the entire Wikipedia category on the topic.

Two-thirds of the worlds 370 million indigenous people live in Asia…

…but they still face widespread non-recognition and marginalization. While I couldn’t find a separate page of information detailing the indigenous groups of Asia, there is a wealth of information on the page of indigenous peoples around the world at the top of this section.  And here is an article about some of the issues facing those communities.

And in Africa…

I’ve gathered a few sources of information on the indigenous cultures of Africa [Link 1, Link 2].

And of course we haven’t forgotten about Island Nations!

There are indigenous people from island nations, as well

Finally, it’s also important to note that many native cultures don’t have official federal recognition, but that does not mean that they don’t exist.

Here is a list of those (for the United States).

This is why we say it is so important to recognize that indigenous and native peoples are still here, living, surviving all around us. It is so, so vital that we do not contribute to a culture that makes them feel invisible, when clearly there are so, so many people who deserve to be seen and heard. 

This week, our Writer Appreciation Corner focused on Dana Baratta. Interestingly, this episode is her only “written by” credit for Warehouse 13. However, she remained a co-executive producer on the series for seven episodes.

We talked about how having so many writers credited for story and teleplay didn’t necessarily do this particular episode of television any favors. However, we also mentioned that seeing multiple people credited for writing an episode isn’t necessarily a negative thing. We mentioned Season 7 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, as it provides many examples of well-written episodes with a lot of hands involved in crafting the script.

Those episodes are:

707 "Conversations with Dead People” (written by Jane Espenson and Drew Goddard)

708 "Sleeper” (written by David Fury and Jane Espenson)

710 “Bring on the Night” (written by Marti Noxon and Douglas Petrie)

717 “Lies My Parents Told Me” (written by David Fury and Drew Goddard)

and 721 “End of Days” (written by Douglas Petrie and Jane Espenson)

Other notable episodes of the show that remain fan-favorites include (but are not limited to): 111 “Nightmares” (Story by Joss Whedon; Teleplay by David Greenwalt); 311 “Gingerbread” (Story by Thania St. John and Jane Espenson; Teleplay by Jane Espenson); and 221 “What’s My Line (Part 1)” (written by Howard Gordon and Marti Noxon).

Moral of the story? It’s tempting to think there’s too many cooks in the kitchen, but having many hands on a project is not a reliable indicator of poor quality. It’s all a matter of the writers’ ability to share a vision and work as a team.

We weren’t sure if the language in the opener was accurate (and based on the rest of the episode’s level of cultural accuracy, I highly doubt it would be), but here is some information about Lenape and Delaware languages.

Dr. Norwood also mentioned that many Algonkian tribes came from the Lenape people. There are many Algonkian tribes—among them the Ojibwe-speaking Anishinabe people featured in Tracks—but I’m unsure which amongst them are related to or descended from the Lenape. From what I am able to gather, an Algonkian tribal nation refers to those native groups and cultures that speak Algonkian languages.

When talking about the flute trills in the opening scenes of the episode, Miranda referenced that this is a common pan-Indian filmic trope about which she learned from the podcast Metis in Space—a podcast about indigenous representation in science fiction.

Shifting gears a bit…

I mentioned seeing a piece of art that I really liked sitting in a chair in Leena’s Bed and Breakfast. I tried to screenshot it for you all only to find that—as it turns out—its impossible to screenshot anything from Amazon prime on any device! If you try, you just get a big black square or rectangle saved as a picture! Thank goodness for you, dear listeners—for many reasons—but specifically at this time for coming together to solve this problem for me!

Thanks to the teamwork of @AslamChoudhury and @Zincstoat I can now tell you that the picture looks like this:

The picture is “Ophelia,” by Lyse Marion of Imagine Studio, Montreal, Canada.

Unfortunately for me and for anyone who shares my ~aesthetic~ the picture is no longer available for sale, but many other works from that artist are. Click their Etsy shop to find something that speaks to your soul.

Thanks again to @AslamChoudhury and @Zincstoat! I looked for hours to find that piece of art and couldn’t find anything. For your extraordinary retrieval of this artifact and for allowing me to catalogue it, I’m naming you Agents of the Month!

Speaking of art, Miranda references not understanding modern art and being a pre-Raphaelite type of lady. As for myself, I’m divided. I absolutely love art of all kinds and can spend hours looking at anything from antiquity through to the age of impressionism and surrealism…at which point my brain kind of breaks. I love half of modern art—especially paintings and half don’t understand it at all. I went to the MoMA once and had a great time until I was standing in a room where the lights were dimmed and there was a pole in the middle of the room with lots of heavy cannon-ball sized orbs scattered across the ground. I…did not understand what was happening. I still don’t understand what was happening. Art is vast and ever changing. It’s okay not to understand it all. If you’re interested in learning more about Modern Art, here’s some information straight from MoMA itself! And, from The Art Story, here are some terms to know.

Think that might be too much for you and you might be a Pre-Raphaelite kind of bloke? That’s chill. Here’s some information on what Pre-Raphaelite art is from the Tate Museum! Interestingly, the Tate’s first example of Pre-Raphaelite art is this painting:

This painting is also called Ophelia and is a work of Sir John Everett Millais

This is interesting not only because of the parallel to the painting from the B&B linked above, but also because of the connection to Myka that we’ll see in a future episode. This, my friends, is what we call a motif.

In the episode, Pete mentions wanting to see a Broadway show. As a theater fan myself, I can relate. If you’re one of the lucky people who can afford tickets to a Broadway show (or live close enough to wait in lines for more affordable rush tickets) here’s a list of the shows currently playing on Broadway.

In New York, Pete locks eyes with Lacell for the first time. We can’t blame ya, Pete. We also both found Lacell (or, rather, the actor who plays him) quite attractive. That actor’s name is Caleb Verzyden, and he does…not have an extensive filmography. Now, initially, Miranda and I tried researching him further to see if he was an actual Lenape person cast as a Lenape character. We were unable to find this information, but we did find something awesome, and in the episode we promised to share it with you:

Y’all, he runs a lumberjack company now!!!!! His current hobbies include cutting down trees and sitting in front of the big pile of wood while smiling and wearing a suit. Go on, Caleb. Live your best life! 

That was a fun interlude, but unfortunately, it’s time to return to the rather serious matters in the show.

Dr. Norwood talked about Powwow culture representing a specific cultural exchange within American tribal nations and not representing Native culture as a whole. Here is some information from the Nanticoke tribal nation on the matter and information from the Lenape people on the same matter.

For more information on the Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape Tribal Nation outside of powwow culture check out their online learning center and museum and their official website.

We also talk a little bit about now the Warehouse itself participates in the oppression of native peoples. Here is some information on the Native history of the South Dakota badlands on which Warehouse 13 resides.

There is a great joke about the band Earth Wind & Fire in the show.

But you know what’s not a joke? The way Artie conflates all Native creation myths as if they’re one thing. Here is some information on the real and multiple creation stories of the Lenape people.

Moving forward, we address the issue that is Jeff Weaver. On Jeff Weaver, I have this to say: Money isn’t a personality and Jeff is boring as heck. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

Miranda wonders in the episode if Jeff is supposed to be some kind of White Savior figure. For those unfamiliar with the term, here’s what that means in relation to filmic and televisual storytelling.

In the Warehouse, Claudia solves Artie’s chess conundrum and Miranda and I talk about the deeply impressive nature of a person who understands chess. There is a beautiful film called The Dark Horse that I saw a few years ago that is deeply relevant to this episode. The movie is based on a real-life man named Genesis Potini who was a man of Maori (Native culture of New Zealand) descent who taught chess to underprivileged teens in Auckland New Zealand while homeless. It is moving and highly worth a watch.

We pick up in the hospital with Pete recovering and Myka dutifully standing watch over him. Myka mentions Jeff asked her on a date…

…and Pete tells Myka she’s pretty when she smiles.

It was a sweet moment (and a funny one when he calls her scary right after).

Miranda and I use the moment to talk about the problem of men telling women to smile (even though Pete was loopy and totally wasn’t the kind of bad guy we’re talking about in this particular situation). Here’s one of many, many think pieces on the subject.

After that, we get back to our super uncomfortable but necessary to talk about ~heavy themes~ where Artie tells Leena that the Lenape “sold Manhattan for $24 of arts and crafts.” The episode talks a lot about why this is such a problem. Here’s some more information on how indigenous understandings of land ownership differed from European views and lead to these kinds of insensitive summaries of complex histories.

Moving on to 105 B (Yes, those were ALL notes from 105 A, but don’t worry! The first part of 105 B involves a lot me talking about how much I dislike Jeff Weaver and—while important, because he’s really, really boring—it isn’t a subject that lends itself to extensive show notes.)

Let’s give Pete a big shout out for pulling himself out of his hospital bed to get to work. Poor guy. In the show, he rips out his IV. Don’t do that. It’s a bad idea. It hurts and is super bad for you.

They talk about an artist named Walter Burleigh in the episode. The one in the episode is fictional for the show. But there was actually a real Walter Burleigh who is relevant, but he’s not an artist.  

Spoiler alert: he was TERRIBLE.

The real dude lived after the dates relevant to this episode and he lived in a different area, but he did deal with native populations in the Dakota Territory and the native populations with whom he interacted hated him. I wonder if that was more of a plot point and was more accurately portrayed in an earlier draft of the episode and, if so, why, how, and when in the writing process it was changed.

In lighter news, Pete made a great I Love Lucy reference.

Fun fact about the famous “You’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do” line from Ricky Ricardo in I Love Lucy: No character was ever allowed to make fun of or imitate Desi Arnaz’s accent aside from Lucy herself (for those who don’t know, the two were married in real life). This is because they were mindful even back then of allowing there to be a real joke that would exist in the lives of interracial romantic partners but also not allowing it to become an excuse to treat the minority character as a joke or a stereotype. You can find out more about that and other aspects of Lucille Ball’s life with Desi Arnaz (and without him) in Episodes 82 and 83 of The History Chicks.

Finally, Miranda and I talked a little bit about ley lines and telegraph lines. If listeners are interested in a great fantasy novel about ley lines, Miranda recommends The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater. Bonus! It's queer. Second, the source of her information about telegraph cables and Australia having bad internet is a book called The Undersea Network by Nicole Starosielski.

That’s all I have for this episode.

Thanks for learning and growing with us, Agents.

[gloomy-goober]

Make Believe (Part 5)

@but-jesuschrist-im-never-good​ @vergeangst​ @louvrejpeg​ @here-to-vent​ @justanotherpurplebutterfly​ @holdnarrytight​ @fangirl4ever07​ @twinkly-lights​@fandomsandanythingelse @that-space-gay-writes​ @abstractedthinking​ @fandomsofrandom​ @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch​

A ROMAN’S KINGDOM SPECIAL! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5! Buy me a Ko-Fi?

Note: This takes place late highschool-early college. Not sure where it fits perfectly into the time line of GUPoaW but I wanted to do a thing that was more fantasy but based in this universe.

Daring sword fights, magic spells, a prince in disguise! What could be more amazing than a world that can be shaped to the whim of the pure creative energy of a man? Or could it be something terrifying as pure energy can sometimes run without reason?

No sunlight appeared over the small village as morning began; the sky was completely overcast. It was like the universe was reflecting the terrible feeling of dread that permeated the air. Not even the birds dared to sing their morning song as if they understood the dark nature of the day to come.

Roman groaned as he slowly came out of the unconscious and dreamless sleep the night had brought him. The nature of the rising day seemed to cut into his very being.

His mind felt groggy and every muscle ached from the battle of the day before. Despite how quickly he fell asleep, he did not feel well rested. In fact, Roman felt like he had stayed up the whole night without even a quick dose.

The prince shifted onto his back and grimaced as his side flared up in pain. He did not have to look under his shirt to know that Patton’s steed had left a nasty bruise on his side. If anyone on their small band of merry men saw the bruise they would insist on him resting but the prince had a quest to lead and an investigation to begin. He could not let mundane things such as that stop them.

“Anxiety,” Roman mumbled the name as he rubbed his face to try and wipe off the sleep. Tired brown eyes stared up at the ceiling as he tried to fight a yawn. “Anxiety, I know you are a creature of the night, but we have a quest to start. There is simply no time to wait for you to rise from your coffin.”

Creativity’s eyes traced a crack in the ceiling as he waited for a grumbled answer.

A light breeze carried in the smell of rain that had not yet fallen and ruffled the prince’s messy hair. He did not remember opening the window the night before or if it had been opened by the anxious side. The thought of the oddity moved from his mind as he noticed a lack of grumbled words or the sound of someone shifting on a bed.

It was just the wind.

“Anxiety?” Roman grit his teeth and forced himself to sit up. His side screamed in protest at the movement, but he shrugged it off. “Anxiety it is time to-.”

His words died on his tongue as he turned to the bed across the room.

The window that was beside it was wide open; showing the dark clouds that had blanketed the sky. The bed itself was empty of the side Creativity was looking for. The blankets were strewn on the floor at the foot of the bed and the pillow had landed next to Roman’s.

“Well then,” Roman frowned at the scene before him. “Gets up early for once in his life and leaves the room a complete mess. Does he have no manners?”

Roman scoffed at the rude actions of the darker side as he turned to the more pressing matter of how much longer this journey would be. Without another glance at the bed the prince pushed himself up to his feet and stretched. The bruise once again reeled its ugly head and sending Roman into other thoughts he did not want to entertain.

If he could not beat this pain, any other battle that they may face on this long quest would be very difficult for him to fight. His companions would be vulnerable. The hero that he was supposed to be would be allowing them to be hurt for him when he should be the one to protect them.

Roman curled more into himself as the pain slowly began to subside. He could not let that happen; his family would not get in harms way because of a small battle wound.  I cannot allow that.

He took a deep breath and moved towards the chair that sat near the door. His white uniform laid on the seat; ready to be worn out once again. He moved slowly to get it on but once he did he felt some more confidence about his ability to help the others.

Whatever that they would cross he would be ready for it.

A knock on the door pulled him from the imagined horrors that they had yet to face. His world coming back to the current present of the Inn.

“Come in,” Roman stood up straighter and forced a smile onto this face to hide the concerns.

The smile turned more relaxed and less like a mask when Patton’s bright smile peeked into the room.

“Came to wake you kiddos up for breakfast. I helped make some chocolate chip pancakes, your favorite~.” The door opened fully as he spoke to show a borrowed apron covered in flour.

“That sound great, Patton. I was just about to head downstairs.”

“I’m sure you were, Mr. ‘We need to leave at sunrise’,” Patton laughed and turned to leave the room. “Make sure Anxiety is up and downstairs with you. Don’t want anyone getting cold pancakes.”

That last comment made the smile on Roman’s face freeze and slowly morph into a look of confusion. “I thought Anxiety was already awake and downstairs with you?”

Patton stopped in the doorway and looked back at the princely side. “No?” He seemed to look around the room as if he had just looked over the youngest side. “I thought he was still asleep up here.””

“No,” Roman threw the red sash over his shoulder, “I assumed he got up before me and was already downstairs being his gloomy self. Maybe he simply moved to another room while I was asleep. My mistake.”

“B-but I haven’t seen him all morning since I got up.” Morality’s smile had disappeared, and a dark cloud of worry seemed to over take him, “Roman you don’t think he got-.”

Creativity cut him off with the wave of his hand as he moved past the older side into the hallway. “Impossible. A creature would not dare take Anxiety when we are on our own tale’s path. More-so, while I was in the room. I am sure he just went to sulk in some hidden corner that has not been checked.”

“But-.”

“Look, you can check up here if you are so worried. I am sure he will turn up when we need him or when we don’t. He is good at just appearing.”

Roman started towards the stairs but stopped when he did not feel Patton following him. He turned to find the moral side staring back into the empty room.

“Morality,” Roman sighed and walked back over to the other, “If it worries you so much we can search for him. He has to be somewhere in the Inn, after all.”

There was none of the usual over excited energy that Patton gave when he got his way; only the worried eyes of, what one would call, a parent as he turned to look at Roman. The older side gave a nod, “Thank you.”

The lack of excitement brought a small seed of worry into Creativity’s mind. Patton was attached to the anxious side, everyone in the mind palace knew this, but he was just realizing how much that attachment went. There could be a slight chance this was more serious then Roman wanted to believe.

“You can start with the upstairs. Make sure he did not just sneak into your room after you and Logic woke up. I will go downstairs to search. When you are done up here, we can go check outside if this place is empty.”

“And if we find him?” Patton asked nervously.

“Then we can all have a nice breakfast.”

“And if we don’t?”

Silence hung between the two sides. Roman shook his head and started to the stairs with quicker footsteps. “That won’t happen, Padre. Trust me.”  

He did not give Morality a chance to say anything more as he hurried down into the main room of the Rainbow Otter.

The common room was a scene of morning peace, just as Roman would have expected. Logan sat at a table with a mug next to the book he was reading intensely. Marge was over by the counter, the girl looked tired in more then the physical sense. The conversation yesterday evening seemed to have drained her.

The sounds from the kitchen led Roman to believe that her father was cleaning up the dishes that Patton had left.

There was no sign of Anxiety. Not that Roman expected it to be that easy.

“Good morning, my friends,” the prince greeted them grandly, “How are you this stormy morn’?”

“Unenthusiastic to be riding in this rain,” Logic answered without even looking away from his book. “But the sooner we get this journey over with the better.”

“Ah, Logan, I can always count on you to give the longest of answers,” Roman gave a small chuckle and looked over at Marge. “And, how are you?”

“Fine,” Was her short answer as she busied herself with an already spotless glass.

“Good. Good.” Roman nodded his head and looked between the two.

It took a few seconds of awkward silence to pass before Logan sighed and closed the book to look over at Creativity. “Yes, Roman?”

“Well, you know I never wish to be a bother-.”

“All evidence proves contrary.”

“But Patton is a little on edge because Annnn-,” he paused and glanced at Marge. His mind worked quick to fix his near error.

“Anon,” the name did not sit right but it was all he had, “was not up in the room with me. I just wanted to know if you have seen him,” He moved further into the room and started to open doors to look in. The restroom was clear and so was the coat closet. “It is no trouble. I am sure he just hid away somewhere.”

Logan looked quizzically at the other. “Whom?”

“You know,” Roman made a vague gesture, “Dark, stormy knight.”

“Oh,” Logan nodded, “No. I have not seen him this morning. I thought he was still asleep.”

“Ah well, he probably just took a morning walk,” Roman shrugged and grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter. He rubbed it on his shirt to make the red surface shine.

“Was the window open?” Marge asked as she set the glass down.  

Roman paused just before he got a chance to bite down on the apple. He thought back to the smell of rain in the shared room and the breeze that had pushed it in.

“Yes?” He answered slowly and put the fruit down, “But I do not see how that is-.”

“Was it open before you went to sleep?” Came the next question before Roman could finish his thought.

“Well, I do not remember it being open,” Roman confessed and shifted on the balls of his feet at the gaze Marge had him pinned with, “But… but it is possible he opened it during the night. He does have this thing against small spaces. And new places. And old places. Just life in general, really.”

Her gaze did not faulter and Roman felt his guard go up. She was obviously not amused by his ramble of information. The look that Marge had on him was one of accusation; like he had done something wrong. “What does this have to do with anything? Did you suddenly get a no open window policy?”

Marge shook her head and went back to her already cleaned glass. “Most of the people that disappeared were taken at night through the window. Just thought it is strange that you can’t find him and that the window was open.”

“Most,” Roman countered weakly, “This…this does not mean anything. I was there all night, I would have heard something.”

“Roman,” Logan seemed to appear at the prince’s side, “Did you hear anything strange last night?”

“What? No!” Roman stepped away from them both, “I went to sleep faster then I ever had. Did not even dream.”

Logan gave the man a look that made the prince bristle.

“If anything had taken him I would have known!” Roman insisted, “Look, he is probably just somewhere we can’t find him.”

Logic did not react to the “We cannot just discard the possibility that we need to rescue him just because you are overconfident in your abilities.”

Marge stared down at her glass, “Or not seeing as you don’t want to help us.”

Roman’s eyes flickered between the two people in front of him. He felt helpless. He wanted to help the little town he loved like the second family. He should have been able to protect a person he was in the same room with.

“Villains don’t get kidnapped! He is not missing!”

Marge put down the cup down with a clatter and glared at Roman with fire in her eyes.

“But should the dancers, or the baker, or the Tailor’s daughter be allowed to be kidnapped? They are all loved by someone and yet they were taken because something out there thought they weren’t.” She came out from behind the counter and poked Roman with her finger, “And you want to keep on with this quest instead of even trying to help us. You don’t even think one of your own is important enough to go after! Do you just not care for anyone?”

“I want to help you, Marge, I really do,” Roman protested, “But I also owe it to them that I complete this quest and get them home safe.”

“Can’t do that if you are missing one.”

“We don’t know that he is missing,” Roman stood up taller, but he still felt small under her gaze, “Plus we don’t have a lead, so it would be impossible to even start looking for anyone.”

“You never asked for one,” she stated and crossed her arms.

Logan put a hand on Roman’s shoulder before the prince could say anything else. The side stepped forward and placed himself between the two.

“Do you know where we should look?” Logic stared at the woman calmly.

“What!?!” Roman expected last night’s speech to be restated by the collected side.

“Only care because your friend is missing?” Marge countered harshly.

Logan sighed, “I admit that I was…” he paused, “that I worded my ideals the wrong way yesterday. I am not an emotional man and I was explained the full situation. Your situation is something that should take priority in Roman’s life since it is his responsibility. Now that one of our own is missing it is now all our problems. I apologize.”

Roman stared at Logic in shock. That was the closest he would ever get to having Logan admit he was wrong.  If he was not so annoyed that his own view was being ignored he would have thought this moment special.

Marge seemed to understand the gravity of the situation and flushed slightly. “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Your loss is just as important as mine.” She shook her head, “Gosh, I’m such an idiot.”

“Apology accepted,” Logan gave a small smile before he focused right back in on the problem at hand, “But I do think we should start on this rescue soon before the storm outside begins.”

“You are right,” Marge moved past them and headed over to the entry way wall. The two watched her as she took down one of the framed pictures and set it down on the table.

With a wave of her hand, they were both summoned to her side.

“This is a map of the town,” she explained, “Since the kidnapping began the old manor has been active. No one has really thought about it since mostly squatters live there but I have been keeping an eye on it.”

Her finger rested on the place that was labeled ‘Duke of Chicanery Manor’ in a neat, faded scrawl. Roman barely glanced at it as he followed the path back to where the Inn currently resided in the town.

“Chicanery,” Logan said the word slowly, “That word means trickery. Mostly in the sense of legal or political purpose. Interesting title.”

“Really, Nerd, that is the first thing you think of?” Roman grumbled under his breath and looked at the map, “This does not even matter. We have no proof that Anon is even missing. He could just be sulking in a corner somewhere. I bet this is all usel-.”

“Roman!” The sound of hurried footsteps came from the stairwell and Patton appeared. There were tears in his eyes as he clutched at something dark in his hands. “I can’t find him anywhere! All I found find was this and it is hanging in the window box. Please tell me you found him!”

The distraught side shoved what he had into Princey’s hands. The dark cloth was from the cloak that replaced Anxiety’s hoodie when he entered the imaginary kingdom. It was only a scarp, but it looked like it had broken off because it was pulled too hard to stay together.

Roman looked at Morality’s crushed expression when he did not get an immediate answer and then looked back at Logan and Marge. He pocketed the material and stood at the head of the table. His eyes locked directly onto Marge’s.

“What can you tell me about the manor?”

“Glad to have you on board,” Marge gave a weak smile before her attention was back on the picture of the manor. “The Duke used to live up there when I was younger, but he just disappeared one day. No one knew why or really cared to ask,” Marge said with a shrug, “But that does not matter. What matters is that it is the only location that could be the best lead.”

“What makes you think that the people will even be in there?” Roman asked as he broke his gaze away from Marge to focus on the path they would need to take, “They could be hiding in the woods.”

“I went up there,” Marge admitted nervously, “With Julia…after a few of her mother’s customers went missing. We heard things. It looked like someone had been staying there but we never saw anyone to confirm it.”

“Well, it could be squatters like you suggested,” Logan pointed out and then glanced at the path from the Inn to the manor, “But I suppose it is the best lead we have.”

Roman sighed and looked out the nearest window just as the rain began to fall. They did not have a lot of time before it would begin to pour, and their vision would be obscured.

“Lead?” Patton wiped at his face and moved over to look at the map. “What are we doing?”

“Staging a rescue for your friend,” Marge answered with an encouraging smile. “We are going to get them back. Everyone.”

“Yes, and I suppose we should not delay any further,” the prince sighed and stood up straighter and tried to flash them an encouraging smile to the three of them. “Our Dreary Damsel is in distress and these people have been gone for far too long.”

“You really think we can save them?” Marge looked up at her friend with hope filling her eyes.

“Of course. I am the hero, it is what I do.”

Roman did not have a chance to prepare himself before Marge launched herself into his arms. The girl hugged him tightly and buried her face in his chest. If Roman wanted to embarrass her, he would have pointed out the tears in her eyes. Instead he held back just as tightly despite how much his body wanted the hold to be gentler.

“Thank you, Roman.”

“Don’t thank me just yet, Princess,” he kissed the top of her head in a brotherly manner before their hug parted.

A clear of the throat broke the moment between the two and they both looked over at Logan, who now stood by the map.

“I do not wish to disturb but we really should not delay,” the logical side said, “I shall fetch whatever supplies we may need. If you could get the horses ready and by the door.”

“Of course,” Roman nodded and straightened out the white jacket.

“I’ll help Logan,” Patton said with a small sniffle and trailed after Logic as they moved to pack some more provisions for their journey.

Roman watched until they had disappeared before he started to the door that would lead to the rainy exterior.

Creativity wished it would stop raining but he could not will it to happen. His usual bend to the world around him would not listen to his desire. He tried not to let this worry him, it happed from time to time when the story got a little bit crazy. When this side quest had ended he would be able to focus his powers back into control once again.

He opened the door and stared out at the fat drops of water that were turning the dirt path to mud. His outfit would not stay white. He could feel it in his gut. What a shame.

“I’m coming with you.”

Roman turned around to face the inside of the Inn quickly and stared at Marge with wide eyes.

“You are doing no such thing!”

“I can help,” the Innkeeper’s daughter insisted and walked towards the prince, “I know the path to the manor like the back of my hand. I know who is missing.”

“It is out of the question, Marge,” Roman waved his arms in an ‘X’-like motion, “I have already risked one person on this journey and I will not risk you. It will be better if you stay here and take care of your father.”

Marge crossed her arms and glared at him, “You would not even know where to go if it was not for me.”

Roman mirrored her stance, “And I am grateful for that, but I am not risking your life and your father’s only child on this mission. Too many people are already gone.”

“Roman-.”

“That is final!” The prince turned on his heel and walked out into the storm.

He wished that the old Inn door could slam loudly but it just slowly closed as he trudged through the mud toward the stables. The jacket he had on stuck to his body as he pushed open the doors and let himself into the musty dryness.

The stables smelled like hay and poo. He was used to it but with the added humidity it made the royal scrunch up his nose in disgust. He loved his animals but sometimes they could just be messy.

Darling whinnied in greeting as his mud-covered boots made their way across the wooden floor over to her. The white horse looking perfectly content on staying inside as the rain pelted the roof over her head.

“Good morning, Darling. I hope you are ready for a ride.”

As if you answer him, the horse turned away just as he got to her gate. Her tail flicked as if she was offended he wanted her to ride in such conditions.

“I know, I know. I do not want to ride in this storm either, but this is of great importance,” Roman sighed and started to search for her saddle. “One of our own as been taken by an unknown enemy and we cannot hesitate any longer then we already have.”

The dramatic speech did not seem to sway the stubborn animal from where she was. She just ate some hay and refused to look at her owner. Roman held the saddle and glared at her back. He and his horse were too much alike sometimes. He loved and hated it.

“I will give you so many apples when we get home if you would cooperate with me.”

Darling’s ears perked, and her white head slowly rose from the hay to look back at him.

“I will not name numbers, but it will be so many,” He gave a blinding smile for good measure.

The horse clicked her teeth and fully turned for him to saddle her up. He made sure nothing was too tight for her to be uncomfortable but still enough to hold him in case of an emergency. Darling playfully nipped at him when he finished, and he gave her a mock glare in return.

Patton’s horse was more willing to be saddled then the royal steed. The chestnut colored animal did not even move as they were saddled and pet. They even seemed delighted to be led by the reigns out into the rainfall. Their ears were perked in interest while, in contrast, Darling’s were pressed back against her head.

The prince got to the doorway just as the other two sides stepped out into the morning air. Patton’s hood was pulled up over his head to protect him from the falling drops. Logan just allowed the water to fall onto his face and over his glasses.

Logan nodded to Roman as he helped Patton up onto the brown steed before he climbed up himself.

“We just have to head up this road,” Logan instructed as Roman climbed up onto Darling’s back. “It should not take us too long if the weather is kind to us.”

Roman took in a breath as the sky rumbled ominously, “Then let us get moving.”

With a flick of the reigns, both horses began to move down the muddy road out of town. Darling moved slightly faster to put Roman in the lead. Rain stuck his hair to his head and seeped into his clothes. He let himself move to the story that should be played out.

The prince and his party moved into the unknown to save one that they assumed was their enemy in disguise. Another road in their long quest to the Dragon Witch’s keep. It should feel like a great act of heroism…

But for some reason all the prince felt was dread.

[ramblinganthropologist]

DA Halloween 2017 - ‘Til Death Do us Part

(Also, Inkjournal Day 27: A Magic Spell)

For @dahalloween‘s 2017 contest. 

Summary:  Writing letters inside is no fun, particularly when your new boyfriend is outside in the lovely weather. When Kaaras Adaar decides to run away from work for a small break, he gets more than he bargained for. Luckily, he’s fond of squirrels, even if they are dead. Word count: 1882

---

Oh, what a lovely day it was to be stuck inside doing paperwork.

There was enough ink on Kaaras' left hand that he was certain he could get a full hand print if he really wanted to – which he didn't. It was making the anchor glow a strange, purple-green color, and as much fun as it was to look at, he still had three letters to get through before he could give his pen a rest.

“Who is this for again?” He frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his clean hand. It was some lord from somewhere in Orlais... or was it a lady from Ferelden? Lately, they all seemed to mash together into one whining hoard that wanted things from him. Keeping names straight was a hellish task, as was neat writing.

It wasn't his fault he was left handed and the ink loved to smudge; it was the damn shem ink.

The page in front of him was half finished, but if he went any further it was bound to smear. While waiting, he should have considered reading other letters, but instead he stood and stretched. Just a little walk couldn't hurt.

Outside, fall was in full swing in Skyhold. Golden leaves littered the ground and crunched underfoot as he walked from the main building with no real destination in particular. A light breeze scattered more to the ground, crimson and orange with just the lightest hint of brown. Being so close to the mountains was perfect for the coloration.

As it was for the piles; off to the side, some of the children had taken to jumping into gathered up bundles of leaves. Kaaras chuckled as he watched and made sure to step aside as one made a particularly long-distance jog. Had he tried that, he might've made a hole in the ground.

Well, maybe not a hole, but a pretty decent dent.

“I wonder what Dorian is up to today.” Color flooded his cheeks, but he kept with his line of thought. If he really wanted to be his boyfriend like they had discovered, he might not mind a little visit to distract him from his work. It might be appreciated even, given what a lovely day it was.

Kaaras would have headed for the library, but a familiar sensation stopped him in his tracks. He had been around the mage long enough to recognize his magic, and it was out in full force near the gardens. In some ways, it reminded the qunari of a cat that was fond of winding its way around someone's ankles: it could be friendly, or it might just break your neck. It all depended on how the user was feeling that day.

He found Dorian near the gardens in a small, closed off area perfect for practice. Just to be safe, he ducked behind a wall to avoid being noticed. With his positioning in place, he was now free to watch the show.

And what a show it was.

Sweat was dripping down the mage's forehead, but he paid it no mind as he swung down his staff towards the ground. Thanks to his choice of outfit for the day, Kaaras got to appreciate Dorian's toned muscles as he worked through whatever spell he had in mind. And oh, he definitely appreciated it as he kept his position behind the wall.

The end of the staff started to glow, and near the man's feet, bones began to rise. Slowly, aided by dark violet energy that swirled like mist, they began to assemble into the skeletal form of what could have been a fox when it was alive. Now, held together by magic, it did a quick run around the yard before stopping under a tree.

“No, go up the tree.” Dorian sounded like a pet owner trying to coax an unruly cat into taking its medicine. The fox was of a similar mind, and stayed firmly on the ground, staring up at its creator with purple lights for eyes. “It's not that hard, I promise.”

It took everything in Kaaras to keep from laughing, including pressing both of his hands over his mouth. Maybe if he had been able to talk, he could have told the mage that the type of fox he was playing with hadn't really been into climbing while alive. Dead, it was just acting on muscle memory.

Well... not muscle memory. There was none of that left. Bone memory, maybe?

Dorian shook his head as he reached down to pat the fox on top of its skull. “Well, at least you're a charming little fellow. I think that will make up for your lack of climbing acumen. You can go back to sleep now.”

When he moved his hand away, the bones slowly crumpled back into a pile on the ground with a light clatter. With a light sigh, he went back to where he had placed a large book and began to thumb through the pages. Thanks to the distance, it was impossible to tell what he was saying.

Maybe practice was over for the day.

Really, he knew he should have been at least a little disturbed by what had gone on. After all, it wasn't an everyday feat to see a pile of bones reassemble itself into what it had been in life. Some people might have considered that perverse even.

Luckily, those people were Andrastian, and he was very much not. In fact, there was something almost strangely charming about how the man tended to his temporary constructs, almost a tenderness to it. It was... sweet, in a weird way.

A very weird way. He would have to get used to that if... whatever they had kept up. He hoped it did, anyway.

At any rate, there was still paperwork waiting for him back inside, and the ink had probably completely dried. Kaaras would have considered turning back, but something  was staring at him. He blinked in surprise as he realized he was face to face with what he guessed might have been a squirrel. It was a guess, of course, because without the flesh or the bushy tail, it could've been a large rat. With just the bones, it could be anything.

It looked at him with glowing violet lights in its empty eye sockets and rubbed its skull with its bony little fingers. Then, it jumped and soon landed on the qunari's shoulder. After a few seconds, it settled in, almost taking a rest there.

In his mind, it could've been cute if not for the fact it was a reanimated dead squirrel skeleton.

“I think it likes you, Kaaras.” Dorian's voice drew his attention – he was waving slightly, an amused grin painted on his face. “Though, I think he'd like it more if you'd stop hiding behind that wall. I assure you I won't bite.”

Well, he had been found out. Still, the qunari chuckled as he stepped out of his hiding space. He brought his new friend along for the ride as he joined the mage in the middle of the yard, stopping only when the squirrel jumped from his shoulder to land at the ground by its master's feet.

Lightly, Dorian prodded Kaaras' cheek with a finger. “Did you skip out on writing letters?”

Before he could ask how, the mage added, “You've got ink on your cheek and chin. Thinking deeply on some matter, are we?”

Now, why would the Inquisitor need to think about anything? This was the easiest job he'd had in years, apart from the whole end of the world, hole in the sky, Andrastian cult fiasco. He should have considered it years ago.

Kaaras chuckled in response as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I'm a little messy when I write.”

Dorian echoed his laughter, the sound causing butterflies to erupt in the qunari's stomach. However, it got even better from that point. From his pocket, the mage drew a clean handkerchief and leaned forward, aiming for the ink spots.

He stopped though, and a frown crossed his features for a brief moment. His hand started to pull back, and briefly he looked to the side. Even the squirrel seemed to shrink down a little, though it was more obvious about it than its master.

Well, he couldn't have that.

“I'm sorry to ask, but could you help me out?” Kaaras flashed a nervous smile. “I'll be here forever if I don't have a way to see where the ink is. Might make it worse and all; probably not a good thing for the Inquisitor to do.”

His words had the intended effect as Dorian popped up like a flower that had just been watered. It probably was all subconscious, but it was still good to see as he finally made the connection between the two of them.

“You're lucky you have me here to help you evade Josephine's wrath. Imagine what she would say if you went into the war room with ink on your face.” He scrubbed a little harder, then added, “Though,if worst came to worst you could always claim it was safe for human contact vitaar.”

Kaaras chuckled at the admittedly weak joke, and leaned into the touch. “Now there's an idea I'm going to have to keep in mind the next time I get something on my face.”

“See? Aren't you glad you have me around?” And then Dorian lowered the cloth. “There, all clean and ready to face the world.”

His hand still lingered on the qunari's cheek, warm despite the chill of fall. Neither moved, focused on the other. Kaaras' hand twitched at his side, perhaps unsure as if to stay there or perhaps travel towards Dorian's shoulders.

A hug wouldn't be inappropriate this early in, would it?

He began to move, but his plans were foiled. The skeletal squirrel had appeared on his shoulder and used the bridge of his arm to jump to its master. There it sat, purple lights glowing in a way he often saw with a certain elf, cheeks stuffed full of stolen chocolate.

Who knew personality transcended species?

The mage shook his head as he looked towards the squirrel. He lowered his hand at last. “That's it, I'm naming you Jackel.”

He then looked towards Kaaras. “I should probably get back to work before this one causes havoc. Besides, don't you have letters to finish?”

There was a teasing lilt to his voice, one that made the qunari's face heat up. Still, he had a point. The fun had to end eventually, and now was as good a time as any. Any longer, and it might grow dark before he wanted to get back to work.

And then, well, the day would be over.

“I'll see you later then?” Kaaras nodded at the squirrel. “Don't do anything your namesake wouldn't do, Jackel.”

And then he was gone, heading back into the main building to finish his letters. Still, he stole one final glance back to Dorian as his cheeks heated up. When it came down to it, the man looked damn good in the fall.

Hopefully, he would be able to avoid work with him more often.

[rustleandeddy]

Chapter 4

“An adventure, Rustle! Finally an adventure! Wind and air, down in the sea. I’ve never heard such a thing! And I know you haven’t. Adventure!” Eddy crowed.

“I’m not so sure…” Rustle said.

“You wanted something new, a new story to tell. This is as new as there is.”

“But you can’t follow. I would have to go alone.”

The merman scratched his head. “That is true… If only I knew how to give myself some land swimmers.”

He dug into his bag and set down the book. A bit of leafing through brought him to the page. Or rather, the pages, with the spell for conjuring legs.

“… There is a lot of these words… This is very much spell…” he muttered. “Maybe there is more water further. I can crawl a little on land. Maybe if there is more water not far, I can crawl from here to there. Go look!”

“But we don’t know what is out there.”

“I know,” he said eagerly. “And we will learn! Together! You just have to go first is all.”

“That’s not how we are taught. Fairies don’t go alone. They don’t venture out to unknown places by themselves.”

Eddy crossed his arms. “You’ll never learn anything without being brave sometimes, Rustle. This is a time for adventure.”

Rustle grumbled. “Yes, Eddy. It is an adventure. You’ve said. But having an adventure isn’t everything.”

“No, but it is something!”

“Why don’t we head back to the mine. I’m sure you can show me something else, and I can tell you more things about the surface.”

“Rustle! This! Don’t you understand? The sea is a big place. There are a lot of merfolk. No one out there knows the name of Eddy. And why would they? What has ever Eddy done? Nothing to remember. You know who gets stories told? You know who people sing songs about? The ones who go places and do things that no one else would or could. And for the merfolk, that is the surface. When I was new, and my mother and father still looked after me, do you know what they told me each morning before I would go out into the sea? They would tell me one of the five big stories. They would tell me of Torrent, who was the first mermaid to walk on land. They would tell of Rina, who seduced an elven prince and trapped him in the sea until his people agreed to stop fishing in her people’s shoals. They tell of Krista, who sought the great crystal along the southeastern shores. Even Calypso, who ventured to the churning cliffs and never returned.

“These are names that will never die, Rustle. They are names that lived more than the rest of us. I want that for me! I want to see the thing, to do the thing. I want to bring back the thing no one knew was missing, to fight the thing no one thought could be fought!”

“I don’t. I just want to know about it so I can tell my people about it.”

“Then we are a team! You see the thing and tell me. Then I go to the thing and do the thing. And then you tell the people about the thing! But you go first.”

Rustle glanced out into the darkness.

“I don’t—”

Eddy clasped his hands together. “Please, Rustle! Just look. If there is no thing to see, no thing to do, then we go. No harm. And if there is something scary, you come back very fast and I will tear it to pieces. Please!”

The fairy chewed his lip. Exploring this place was a bit tantalizing, but finding exciting new things seemed a lot more desirable when it was simply an idea and not something he actually had to do.

“Fine. But just a look.”

“Yay!” Eddy clapped. “You call back, tell me what you see!”

Rustle buzzed forward and upward. The wind was strange and constant. On the surface, it was always a bit chaotic, whorls turning this way and that. The best fairies could bend the wind to their whims. The worst could at least read it and know from where it had come and to where it might go. But here… it was different. The whisper in his ears and around his wings that he’d craved to be reunited with was certainly back, but it felt as though it was speaking a foreign language. It didn’t feel like proper wind at all, but he couldn’t put his finger on just what it did feel like.

As he buzzed deeper, the pocket of air proved to be quite large. It looped up, then down again, and opened into a yawning emptiness. After a few minutes of flitting about, he looked back and realized that he could no longer see Eddy. That he was alone in this place sent a jolt of concern through him, but to his great surprise, it was tempered by the feeling of anticipation. The merman’s words must have sprouted the same seed of curiosity and wonder that had led him to meet Eddy in the first place. This was something entirely new. For each nook and cranny of the black stone walls, his were certainly the first fairy eyes to behold it.

It was thus with a mixture of relief and disappointment that, for nearly ten minutes, his buzzing and exploration turned up very few things of interest. The place was enormous, yes, but filled with little more than the foreign wind. Unlike in the rocky tunnel and practically everywhere else he’d seen on the sea floor, this is place had no crusty glaze of tenacious life clinging to the stone. Indeed, it was gleaming and perfect, with the same perilously sharp texture. He did find more water. It covered nearly the entire bottom of the massive void in the sea floor. It was some distance below where they had entered, far further than he suspected Eddy was willing or able to crawl across the land, particularly in light of the vicious sharpness of the stone. Other than that, there was nothing. He flew along the roof of the place, buzzing against the flow of the wind. No matter how far he flew, its strength never wavered. How could he have gone so far and not felt some inkling that he was nearing its source, or at least where it entered the current cave?

When his curiosity was no longer capable of overruling his survival instinct, he turned back, this time dropping low and following the surface of the water. Mindful of what had gotten him into this situation in the first place, he gave himself a bit more distance than when he’d investigated the half-seen form that had turned out to be Eddy. The relative friendliness of his captor was a profound and unlikely stroke of luck. He didn’t trust such good fortune to come his way again any time soon.

The time in the darkness, lit by his own subtle glow, had allowed his eyes to adjust. Below him, the water rippled gently under the influence of the constant wind. It created little rolling waves, all propagating in the same direction. They caught and bent his glow into rings and loops of light. The water spread outward into the darkness in all directions, vanishing at the edge of his glow. He could almost imagine that it had no end. If not for the wind, and his innate skill at using it to navigate, it would have been impossible to be certain he was heading in the right direction.

He gazed down into the water. Unlike the higher levels of the sea, where it was a murky soup, here the water was eerily clear, offering fleeting glimpses of rock formations beneath the surface as they caught a glimmer of his light. Not far from the foot of the steep wall leading up to where Eddy patiently awaited his return, Rustle finally spotted something worth noting.

It was beneath the water, at the very limit of his vision—which thanks to the clarity of the water, meant it was a long way down. At this distance, he couldn’t make out precisely what it was, but there seemed to be intricate designs of a pearly white material inset into an oddly smooth and rectangular slab of stone. He drifted closer to the surface of the water and strained his eyes, but the ripples kept him from getting any more detail. The smoldering spark of curiosity flared again, and he swept his eyes anxiously about. He’d yet to see anything that suggested there was any life in this cavern. Perhaps, if he was swift, he could risk a quick dip beneath the surface. Without Eddy’s ‘water for air’ spell, he would have to hold his breath, but he only needed a minute or two, not the hours he could hold his breath if he set his mind to it.

Rustle drifted down and risked a toe to the water. It was warm. Not scalding hot, but warmer than any natural body of water he’d felt before. Before he could talk himself out of it he buzzed up his wings and plunked below the surface like a dart. He’d gotten a great deal more practice in the water in the past few hours than he’d had in the rest of his life, so making the switch from fluttering to swimming was swift and smooth. He shrugged off the light squeeze of additional pressure as he swam deeper and finally came to the unusual artifact.

It wasn’t very large, a bit smaller than he was, and sat in a carefully smoothed recess in the floor of the cave. He ran his fingers across the stone and its mother of pearl inlay. It must have taken a profound amount of effort to create such a thing. The shapes were familiar, not so different from those on Eddy’s book. More of the merfolk writing, he supposed. He stepped lightly on the smoothed stone and reached down. The slab was thin, and though it wasn’t exactly light, he found that with a bit of effort he could lift it. He heaved it free and swam for the surface. Hopefully this would satisfy Eddy’s thirst for adventure.

#

Eddy’s eyes darted across the page of the spellbook detailing the complex spell to conjure up a pair of legs. The incantation was an extremely long and complex one, and the procedure for casting it was liberally sprinkled with warnings against novices casting it. That much didn’t concern him. The same warnings had been applied to the much simpler water-for-air spell, but that one was at least fit on a single page, and most mermaids knew it by heart. If he’d miscast it, he would only have needed to find the nearest mermaid to set him straight. He would have had to do it before he drowned, but fortunately that hadn’t been necessary. This one would be reshaping his body, and he was a long way from anyone who could help him if he didn’t do it correctly.

“Why do all of the interesting things happen where there isn’t any water…” he moped, slamming the book shut and huffing out a sigh.

“Eddy?” called a tiny voice.

He instantly perked up. “Yes! I’m over here! What did you see for me, Rustle the Fairyman!”

The glow of his friend approached from the distance. Rustle was bobbing low to the floor of the tunnel, his flight clearly labored. When he arrived, Eddy held out a hand to receive the odd tablet he was carrying, but instead, Rustle landed on it and sat down on Eddy’s palm.

“It is enormous,” Rustle said. “It is like there is no end to this place. But in all of my searching, this is the only thing I found besides wind, water, and stone.”

Eddy took the tablet with his other hand. Though quite clear and legible, the words inlaid on the tablet were of an incredibly ancient dialect. It was nearly unreadable, but after a bit of puzzling he worked out what it said.

To all foolish enough to venture to this place. The doors above and below are sealed. The Bandits cannot leave. We cannot know what the years ahead may hold. There may come a time when Bandits are second to a greater threat. For those times, we offer this key. May it be used only by the bold.

Following this inscription, rendered with even greater care, was a brief sequence of words. He’d never seen them before, but they had the same shape and structure as the words covering the pages of the spell book.

“You’re just staring, Eddy,” he said. “What is it?”

Eddy looked to Rustle, then back to the tablet. “It is… I do not know for sure what it is. It is very old.”

“Can you read it? That is writing, isn’t it?”

“I can. Yes, I can read it.”

“Well? What does it say?”

Eddy grappled with himself. On one hand, he was quite sure if he spoke those final words aloud, something would happen. On the other, he wasn’t quite sure what would happen. That sounded wonderful to him, like the beginning of a hundred exciting stories from his youth. It also sounded like the sort of thing that Rustle would not like. … But then… Rustle didn’t know any of that…

“It says Oorow Ho-own Willwoon.���

Eddy’s eyes darted about as he watched for some sign of the effects. He was a bit disappointed when nothing seemed to happen at all. When he looked back to Rustle, the little fairy had quite a different look on his face.

“Something is wrong,” Rustle said, huddling down and looking over his shoulder.

From his posture and expression, one would think he was certain he would find a hungry creature breathing down his neck.

“What? Nothing happened?” Eddy said.

“You can’t feel it? The wind! It’s blowing the other way.”

Eddy scratched his head. “I know currents change. Does wind not change?”

“Not like this… Wind flows and weaves. It eases this way and that. Even in a storm it doesn’t move like this. First forward, now backward, nothing between. That isn’t right.”

“Odd…”

“Did the tablet say anything about wind?”

“Nothing about wind.” He glanced down. “And it didn’t say about water either! But look!”

The edge of their little pool was edging up along the slope.

“I don’t like this… What if the water is rising down there, too.”

“Then look please! Down there! Please look, Rustle my friend!”

“Fine! I’ll go. But if there is anything bad happening, I want to leave this place, immediately.”

“Yes! We go if anything is bad. But look now!”

Eddy tossed Rustle in the direction of what was now a quite audible rush of water below. The fairy gave him a hard look, then buzzed off into the distance. In no time at all, he was on his way back.

“What do you see?”

“I think the water is rising. Slowly, but it is rising.”

“This is very good! If it gets close enough, I can explore as well! We can explore together.”

“Eddy, you said three words, and it reversed the wind and caused the cave to begin flooding. That is powerful magic.” Rustle said firmly. “We should go. We don’t know what else will happen.”

Eddy crossed his arms. He tried to scrape together some sort of argument that might convince him to change his mind, but Rustle’s steadfast expression made it clear he would not be budged.

“Yes. This cave will not go anywhere. If it floods, then tomorrow, or the next day, I can come and explore.”

He gathered his things together.

“Thank you…” Rustle said, profound relief in his voice. “There is already so much for me to learn elsewhere.”

“It is no problem, Rustle my friend. If we are friends, we cannot always do the things that I want to do. You are small and afraid. That is not bad. It is good. Keeps you safe.”

“I am not… Well, I am small. But I’m not… I… I am afraid. … But that’s not a bad thing!”

Eddy furrowed his brow. “I said this. I did say this, didn’t I? Is the spell working less now?”

“You did say that, but… It felt like…” He sighed. “I suppose sometimes seeing big brave things makes me think maybe it isn’t always good to be small and… cautious.”

“If you say so. Get ready for breathing water again.”

He grabbed the fairy, murmured the spell again, and plunged down into the water. Once there, he released Rustle and swam along the darkened tunnel.

“It is best if we wait until tomorrow for adventure. Today there is more work to do. Almost we are out of time for lunch, and then there is mining.”

They swam along, working their way back through the tunnel to the main mine. It was taking a bit more work to do so than he’d expected. There was a current now where there wasn’t one before. That stood to reason. If the water was rising, it must have been coming from the tunnel. And quite quickly at that.

He worked his tail harder, but the current was getting stronger by the moment. They’d barely reached the midpoint of the tunnel they’d uncovered when it was all he could do just to keep from losing ground.

“What’s happening?” Rustle called out, holding for dear life to Eddy’s hair.

“I said it was good to be small and afraid.” Eddy gritted his teeth, the water beginning to draw him backward. “This time, it was better than being big and brave, I think.”

Bits of stone and silt were rushing along the tunnel toward them, striking Eddy’s face and chest painfully. He worked his way toward the wall of the tunnel and tried to hold tight to it, but the jagged surface cut his fingers. He reached back and grasped his pick. A mighty thrust wedged it into the floor of the tunnel and provided an anchor point.

“What do we do?” Rustle said.

“Do not worry! We learn about how to handle too strong current when we are young.”

“Then what do we do?”

“Get in shelter.”

“But we can’t do that!”

“Then you get up and away from anything solid that the current can hurt you against.”

“But we’re surrounded by that stuff.”

“Then you find a thing to hold tight to. Like I do now!” He turned his head, offering an exhilerated smile to the fairy clinging to the end of his fluttering hair. “You see? Nothing to worry about. We know all about how to stay safe.”

It was entirely possible Rustle did not hear this final assurance. The current had reduced Eddy’s hearing to little more than a mass of current and turbulence. He shut his eyes and lowered his head, streamlining his shape as best he could to keep from being swept away and to help avoid being too badly scoured by bits of jagged stone.

Eddy had faced a strong current before. Being in the wrong place during a tide, or being too near to a mudslide when it happens could cause the water to become dangerously churned up. And sometimes, where warm and cold water mixed, or two currents met, there could be a whirlpool. But all of those reached intensity like this only very briefly.

His hands were shaking, but he held firm until the pick itself suddenly shifted. He risked opening his eyes long enough to see the wall where he’d embedded the pick’s head was beginning to crumble.

“Rustle!” he cried.

The fairy did not answer but the painful tug at a lock of his hair assured him where the fairy was. He released the failing pick with one hand and snatched Rustle, then held the terrified creature close to his chest.

“This will be bad, Rustle. If it is very bad, I am sorry. But I will try to make it worse for me than for you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I will tell you after. If there is an after for me.”

#

Eddy’s fingers tightened around Rustle. The fairy couldn’t see what was going on, but a heartbeat after the merman had clutched him tight, he felt them both lurch into motion in the direction of the current. Eddy curled himself as tightly into a ball as he could, his thick folding up, his head curling down, his arms pulling in tight.

The pair thumped and bashed into the walls with punishing force, but protected as he was in the center of ball Eddy had made of himself, Rustle was spared the worst of it. He could hear Eddy grunting and wheezing as he smashed and slid against the walls.

All at once, the bashing, pummeling journey changed to a tumbling, flailing arc, as the tunnel ejected them in a geyser. They struck the steep cliff twice on the way down, then splashed into the water below.

“Eddy?” Rustle said, dizzily recovering from the journey.

The merman didn’t answer. His grip was still painfully firm around Rustle. That was a good sign.

“Eddy, are you awake? Are you hurt?”

“Ugh…” he groaned.

The grip loosened and Rustle flitted out to see what had become of him. All things considered, the merman had faired remarkably well. His entire body was checkered with scrapes and gouges, but none seemed particularly dire. His eyes were half-lidded and looked unfocused.

“Where are we?” he said, blinking and feeling a lump that had formed on his head.

“We came back out of the tunnel. We’re down in the cave again.”

“Do you see any rays?”

“… Rays?”

“Big fish. Like the sail of a boat. Are there any here? Golden? Pulling a shell behind?”

Rustle glanced around. “No, I don’t see anything.”

“Any… black crabs?”

“No, there is nothing.”

“Good…”

“Why? What would it mean if there were?”

“They say when we die, if we are good, a team of rays will bring us down to the heart of the sea. If we are bad, big black crabs will pull us to pieces and put our souls into oysters to become a black pearl. If they are not here, I am not dead. Or maybe the crabs and rays cannot find us here. One is the same as the other, I guess.”

“We had better not die here. When fairies die, the seventh wind sweeps us up and brings us to the rose garden of eternity, and the wind won’t reach me here,” Rustle said.

“Funny how fairies and merfolk go different places. Maybe this is the first time a fairy and a mer went somewhere together.”

“Right now, I just want to know how we’re getting away from here.”

Eddy nodded and swam up toward the surface, which was churning much more than Rustle remembered. They each peered through. Once gain, the only light was their own, but they scarcely needed it to see that they wouldn’t be going back the way they’d come. Water was pouring down the face of the cliff, and they could hear the intensity of the geyser that the entrance had become.

“This… This is not all bad,” Eddy said.

“How is it not all bad, Eddy? We’re trapped!”

“Only a little.”

“A little?!”

“Yes. We are trapped in a big place. Not so bad. And the water is rising. When it gets to the pool, there won’t be much more water to add to the cave. So it will slow and we can escape, probably.”

“Probably?”

Eddy nodded with a smile. “Probably!”

“I don’t like probably, Eddy. I like definitely.”

He shrugged. “We don’t have that. But we have probably, and that’s almost as good. Much better than not at all.”

“What are we supposed to do until then?”

Eddy turned and gazed, eyes twinkling, into the inky depths below.

“Explore…”