#this took me like three days but it was very fun

[chaosduckies]

Congratulations on 100 Followers!!! Big achievement!!!!

Gonna take you up on your open commissions so I’d love to see your take on a tiny being forced to ask a giant for help.

Your choice of characters but I’m a sucker for hurt comfort so go wild ❤️

Congrats again!!!

Thank you! :D

I'm sorry that this took so long to get out! I was having a minor writing slump but I'm back at it! I did have a lot of fun writing this and I hope you do to! (classic borrower asking a human for help)

Word Count: 4.2k

CW: Minor blood

Snow Fall

———Forest———

Everything was going great. I set off on my own, leaving my parents behind and starting my new life. Of course I was scared. Who wouldn’t be when you were two inches tall and leaving everyone you know and love? It was terrifying, but I had to. Borrower children, even though some were some-what good at borrowing from humans, were supposed to leave their parents as soon as they turned fourteen since it was a liability for their parents. I was just lucky and extended my stay for 3 more years. What could I say? I loved my parents just as much as they loved me, and no matter how many times my mom pleaded for me to stay, I knew I wasn’t that good at borrowing. I would eventually get us all in trouble. Which was why I decided to find a new home when I turned seventeen. It didn’t sit right with me that I was still leeching off my parents. 

Humans were scary. The horror stories, the pets, the kids. Almost everything about them scared me half to death. Just thinking about getting caught in one of those huge hands has me shuddering. I couldn’t think about myself getting caught, or what would happen to me, and to be honest, leaving my parents was the worst decision of my life. 

I wasn’t a good borrower to say in the least. I could barely hurdle over the counters without somehow hurting myself or becoming so sore the next day that I could barely move, I wasn’t the best at hiding. I had no idea how my parents did this at such a young age, but I wasn’t like them at all. How did they end up with such a failure like me? I laughed at the thought. 

My new home was nice. The human here had a schedule that I could work around. They left for work every morning, giving me plenty of time to get a little bit of food that they leave out sometimes, get some other things, and head back. They weren’t very observant of anything in particular, perfect for grabbing a few extra paperclips since my hook usually breaks from my own misuse. This house was perfect… or so I thought. 

After a while, the person stopped laying out food everywhere, they had started packing up their things in huge boxes, people in strange uniforms came by and dragged out anything heavy. I had no idea what was going on, but it wasn’t good. I stayed hidden in my home in the walls, scared of what was happening. I was too scared to go out at night and get my daily necessities, like food and water. Humans were terrifying. If I was seen by even one of them, who knows what might happen? I didn’t care if I was so hungry that my stomach was digesting itself, there was no way I was going to get caught and placed in some weird science lab. Testing me everyday, killing me slowly. I shuddered at the thought, wrapping myself in the thin cloth I managed to snag before any of this moving was happening. 

Lately the seasons have been changing, and the human that I thought was still living here hasn’t bothered to turn on the heater. This only made things a million times worse for me. I was already hungry, practically starving from not having eaten anything for the past three days, and now it was freezing cold. There was nothing I could do about it though. I was terrified. Scared. Too paranoid about what would happen if I stepped outside the comforts of my dingy home in the walls. No matter how much I wanted to go back with my parents, I couldn’t. More because I barely even remember the way back home, but also because it was already dangerous enough getting to this new home. I had no choice but to stay here in hopes that I could get over this fear of being seen and that the human had left some kind of food out. But there was no such luck. The house was empty. Furniture moved, heater off, no sign of food in the cabinets. Just nothing. My hope diminished as I sluggishly walked back home in defeat. There was no way I was going to survive. 

The human that I found so easy to maneuver around without being seen, that left food out, was now gone. Who knew when another one would just move back in? Most days I would walk around out in the open because there was nothing to do. I mean, without a human there was no chance of me surviving. I was too afraid to go outside because I knew there were animals that wouldn’t hesitate to mistake me for food. So staying inside was really my only option. Plus, it was just the slightest bit warmer here than outside. 

Sometimes I’d go sit on the windowsill, stay there for hours watching these tiny white balls fall from the sky and cover the ground. People passed by wearing thick coats that protected them from the harsh cold, and I couldn’t help but feel jealous. I looked back at the thin piece of cloth wrapped around me, barely giving any warmth while humans were able to be so warm, get food without having to worry about anyone seeing them (or in my case get food at all), heck, they weren’t even scared of anything. 

I sat alone, in a quiet house just waiting for anything to happen. I didn’t care if it was good or bad. I didn’t know how I was surviving for so long, nor how I was still moving despite searching the top shelves and countertops desperately for something. But of course it was always the same way it was. Empty. Nothing was changing, but in a bad way. 

My legs were sore from the amount of climbing I’ve done the past few days, my body was getting even weaker than it already was. I guess I really was going to starve to death, huh? All of that talking with my parents about making sure I would have enough to last me and it’s just wasted. How was I supposed to know that only a week after I found a new livable home that the human I was just barely getting used to was going to move out? Life wasn’t fair. 

Today was yet another sad, depressing day. I dragged myself along the floor, trying to at least be active while I was struggling to survive. Would another human be coming here soon? As much as they scared me and borrowers alike, most relied on them to help us survive. When they’re clumsy and forget easily, it’s easy to “borrow” a few things here and there. They leave food out or there’s an easy way to get into a cabinet, we can take a few things they wouldn’t notice. It was almost impossible to live without relying on a human in some way. Ironic how the thing I fear the most was the thing that was keeping me alive. 

I hoisted myself up onto the windowsill, breathing heavily as soon as I was safely up. I groaned in pain, wrapping up my hook and sitting by the window, once again staring at the white scenery. Other houses just across that had a slight smoke coming from the top of their house. Must be warm… I rubbed my arms, watching as a few people walked by, possibly on their way to work. I shivered, regretting not taking my “blanket.” 

Life wasn’t fair. I knew that much, but I forced myself to stay alive for whatever reason. My figure was getting slimmer from the lack of food, but I somehow kept moving. It was cold, but I gathered up any cloth I could find and wrapped myself up at night. My hook looked like it could break at any point in time, but it was hanging on just like me. If my hook did break, then there was basically no way for me to get anywhere but home and on the floor. I hoped that something would happen one day, but nothing ever did. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught something gray scurry along the floor. I stared for a couple long seconds before shrugging it off and continuing to look out the window. It was probably just my imagination. Great, now I’m hallucinating. I sighed, watching as cars carefully passed by. 

I don’t know how long I stayed on top of the windowsill, but eventually there was a change of scenery. At first I thought it was just my mind playing tricks on me, but there it was. A car parked right in front of the house, headlights turning off and revealing a human, zipping up their jacket and looking down at something and back at the front of the house. I was too caught up in my fascination to realize that I was out in the open. The human slowly started making their way up to the front door, holding something that looked silver in their hands. 

I scrambled for my hook, climbing down as fast as I could, which was very painful. At some point I lost my grip and fell, but to my luck it was only a couple feet. I hurried to my feet, pulling my hook from the ledge it was dangling from and ran as fast as I could to reach the extremely tiny hole I squeezed myself through. I took a few seconds to catch my breath before the front door opened. My eyes were wide, my heart pounding fast. Would my luck finally be turning around? 

The human was taller than the last and looked much younger. I couldn’t really get a good look at their face, but I could make out his dirty-blonde hair. I could hear my own heartbeat. Is everything going to go back to normal? Would I be able to survive on my own again? 

The human moved around the place, shivering and pressing some buttons on something. Soon enough, the house was slowly but surely being warmed up. I let out a quiet sigh of relief. It might not be much… but at least it was something. Better than the frigid cold that had been filling the house for who knows how long. 

They moved around the house, checking everything out and smiling, their eyes a nice shade of light-brown. They looked… so nice. For a split second my mind wondered what would happen if he would ever see me. Would he keep me as a pet like I’m pretty sure most humans would? Or… nothing? No, why would I even be thinking about that? He would obviously want to hurt me even more than I already was. 

My stomach rumbled quietly, I winced, but confused to watch as they came from outside and back in, carrying a few boxes, bags and a small case that had wheels on it. Was I finally… saved? If this human was moving back in then I could actually have a chance to survive? I silently cheered to myself. How long has it been? Almost a week maybe? How did I even manage to stay alive? Didn’t matter anymore I guess. 

I continued to watch the human, putting up things in the boxes, setting up a few mini tables and placing picture frames of him and, who I was guessing, his parents. Of course occasionally taking breaks for a snack or two, leaving a plastic container filled with what looked like fresh fruit and vegetables. After most of the boxes were unpacked, a few still in their bedroom, he went back outside, most likely to fetch something else from his car. He usually took a while out there… so maybe it would be enough time to go and quickly grab something to eat? No, that was too risky. What if I was wrong and he came back early? I doubt I’d have enough time to find a hiding spot while out in the open since he didn’t exactly have any furniture or anything. 

I slumped, making my way back to my bland home in the walls. I had always tried to decorate… but since there hadn’t been anyone living here for me to “borrow” a few things from, I haven’t been able to decorate. Only the small bed I made by gathering up a bunch of cloth that the human before had forgotten about. It wasn’t extremely comfy, but better than anything I could’ve asked for. Otherwise, boring room. But it’s not like I need to decorate it anyways. Surviving was my main focus right now, and now that there was someone actually living here now… maybe I’d have a chance to get back into things. 

The wait was long, hearing the human talk to someone on what I think they call a phone, hang up, set up their house again and spend most of their time gathering up all of the blankets and pillows that he had brought with him and gathering them all up in what I think was going to be his room. As comfy as it looked, I knew I couldn’t just take a couple of minutes to get somewhat comfortable. Lately every night has been spent cold, hungry, filled with false hope. If I could just take a couple minutes to have some kind of sense of safety and security, that would be great. But I haven’t been able to, and I doubt that I’d be able to even now. I never realized just how hard it is to survive. Imagine what my parents went through while taking care of me… 

I hugged my blanket close, my eyelids threatening to close at any second. I heard the sound of the door open once again, and the loud sounds of him dragging something across the floor. It was all fine for me though. My eyes shut close, I laid down, and soon enough my mind drifted off. 

——————

When my eyes opened, there was a quiet noise of people talking outside. My heart had skipped a beat, thinking that there were more humans living here. That would make it impossible for someone like me to get past without being noticed, but as I groggily stepped outside, rubbing my eyes to wipe away the sleep, I realized that it was only the tv that wasn’t there a couple hours ago. 

I looked around the dark room, seeing that there was now a singular couch in what was the living room, a tv, a table that held two more frames. How long had I been sleeping? Or better yet, just how exhausted was I? Obviously the sun had already set, so I guess it didn’t really matter. I headed back to my room, grabbed my hook, and took off, every now and then finding a hiding spot just in case the human was somewhere I couldn’t see him. 

My head turned towards a dark shadow scamper right across from me, but I didn’t pay any mind. Probably just my imagination, right? Right now I was just trying to make sure that the human was asleep right now just before I go and see if he had any food out… or at least something edible in the cabinets. 

I checked the living room first, hiding by one of the legs under the couch, peaking my head out just enough to see him having trouble keeping his eyes open. Good enough for me. I ran quietly back to the kitchen, throwing my hook as far up as I could before testing if it was safely secure. I started my trek up, my arms and legs begging in me to go back down. Despite my arms threatening to tear off from the lack of strength. I really wasn’t good at borrowing. 

As soon as I reached the top of the counter, I took a few seconds to catch my breath. Once I get used to the human’s schedule I may finally be able to get back into things. No going hungry for that long, not worrying if I’ll make it to the end of the night. as soon as he turns on the heater things would be even better… I wouldn’t be shivering at night and struggle to find something that would act as a blanket. Yet another reason to be jewels of humans. They had everything borrowers didn’t. It wasn’t at all fair, but we all knew what would happen if a human found or saw us. The thought was pure torture to even think about. Literally. 

On the counter, there really wasn’t anything for me to see except for the half-eaten sandwich just lying on the counter. I silently walked over, not really wanting to eat part of the sandwich that they had already bitten into but I had to unless I wanted him to already be suspicious when it hasn’t even been a full day. 

I started cutting off pieces, making them fit inside my bag and taking a few more unnoticeable pieces for tomorrow, learning from past mistakes. As I was cutting, I realized that there was something off. The tv was still on in the other room, I figured that the human still hadn’t left the couch either, fighting off sleep. So why did it feel so off? I treaded carefully, watching every tiny movement that caught my eye. For a moment it was so quiet that I could hear my own heart pounding in my chest, and then too quiet. 

My eyes searched around, taking my final piece into my hands since no more would fit in my bag. I might as well grab as much as I could. Better than having nothing. I let out a sigh of relief, grateful that I wasn’t dead, that I’d at least have some kind of way to survive. Out of curiosity, I took a small bite out of the sandwich, only really getting the bread part but it tasted so good. To be honest, a sandwich was a definite score for borrowers, now when you’ve been starving for days on end, it tastes amazing. 

Two glasses hit each other behind me, I turned my head seeing them spin before returning to their still pose. My eyes widened, hurrying to my hook that was still hanging off the edge of the counter. I looked back, the light making it easier to see a rat chase me down, easily twice my size. I let out a yelp as I ran through several spice glasses in hopes of losing it, only to hear them all fall onto the counter with a loud thud! That was bad for two reasons, one because not only was it making a mess and trails that I’ve been here, and two, because I knew the human would want to come and investigate what was happening. Of course being the person that I am, I would never be able to run faster than this  surprisingly malicious rat. 

I struggled to keep up my balance, eventually tripping on thin air, dropping the small piece of sandwich a few feet away from me. I quickly rolled over, my chest heaving up and down as I faced the rat not even given a second before they scratched at my shirt. I winced, holding my stomach and seeing my hand covered in some blood. My breathing was getting more heavy as I saw a silhouette by the kitchen entrance. The lights turned on, blinding the rat for just a second as I quickly stood up and kept running towards my hook, holding my stomach. I knew what was happening, and there was no way I would be found the second a new human moves in, right? I blinked back the tears building up in my eyes, tripping once again. My vision was blurry from the tears, and judging by the small squeaks from the rat I thought was a good couple feet away, that meant that the human was here. 

Forcing myself to sit up, I looked at the bowl that kept moving. The rat screeching to be released from their prison. The human placed some heavy books on top, sighing to himself as he muttered something under his breath I couldn’t catch, but I didn’t really care. I scrambled back onto my feet, trying to run yet again and slammed into something soft and squishy. I winced as I fell and soon my entire world was moving again, the soft surface now everywhere. 

It settled in my mind slowly, realizing that I was in human hands. It hurt to breathe from my new wound, but I couldn’t help it. Tears streamed down my face as I struggled to muffle the sounds of my quiet cries. 

“Oh! U-um, I didn’t mean to…” Their voice sounded quiet and worried. I just continued crying, not even caring what would happen to me. Who was I kidding? I could never have survived on my own! I should’ve known when that first human moved out. Sure it was okay at first, but obviously them moving was a sign that I wasn’t meant to be on my own. I should’ve listened to my parents and stayed with them. This would’ve never happened, I would be alive and healthy instead of on the brink of death and in Death’s hands himself. Literally. Who knows what this human would do to me? It was scary to think about. 

“P-Please don’t h-hurt me.” I mumbled most likely too quiet for his ears to hear, leaning against what I think was his thumb. He flinched slightly, but why did it feel so… comfortable? 

“Aw little guy,” He smiled softly, “I’m not going to hurt you, okay?” I leaned into the warmth from his hands, hugging what was his thumb closely, still crying to myself. What else was I supposed to do? Of course I was scared but… I also just wanted someone to hold me. Right now I didn’t care that it was a human and I’d face my consequences later, I just wanted to be promised that I wouldn’t have to try so hard anymore. That I could just live without thinking about what I could manage to get for dinner. 

“You were just… hungry?” He asked as I picked my head up, seeing him looking straight at the piece I had dropped on the counter. I shakily nodded my head, hoping he would see. For now, I would just hide my fear. Right now this human was giving me everything I’ve wanted this past week. Comfort, warmth. Heck, I’m even crying in front of him. How embarrassing was that and he still hasn’t said or asked me anything. 

“Hm, here little guy.” He tried tilting me back onto the counter, but I grabbed onto his sleeve and hung on tighter. I didn’t want to be let go already. I know humans are bad and I’d face the consequences eventually, but right now I’d like to think that not all of them were as horrifying as the stories make them out to be. 

He softly laughed, cupping both hands around me again. I sniffled, “C-could you… h-help me? P-please.” I tried wiping away my tears, but they just kept coming. My eyes felt red and puffy, my legs felt like jello, heart racing. I was a mixture of emotions. Terrified, filled with hope, and most of all grateful that this human hadn’t decided to hurt me yet. 

The human studied me, worried. I stood still for a moment, hoping I would get my answer. It seemed ridiculous to be asking a human this. One that probably had no idea that they had saved me in the first place. My heart thumped in my chest, waiting in the eerie silence, awaiting my answer. My stomach still burnt from the deep gash, but I've had to go through worse. There was still some blood that was getting on the humans’ shirt sleeve, but that was the least of my worries. 

I felt something rub against my back, making me flinch, but lean into the gentle touch. Some part of me knew that this was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. I was sitting in a humans’ hand, talking to one, being seen by one. And for some reason, it all felt right. Everything felt right. That this was meant to happen. That it was alright for me to be vulnerable to this human. 

They started moving their hand as I continued to cry, pressing my face into the fabric of his shirt. When I opened my eyes, I found myself in a makeshift hug. I could hear his heartbeat in the background beating rhythmically, the slight rise and fall of his chest with every slow breath he took. I sniffled, shocked from the gesture but otherwise grateful. I wasn’t going to die. I was alive. I felt safe. There was no more suffering, no more false hope, no more anything. I would be fine. I smiled to myself, trying to wipe away the tears trailing down my face. 

I guess sometimes it’s okay to ask for help. 

——————

I hope you enjoyed! I don't know how to feel about this myself, but I think it's alright! Again, I had a lot of fun writing and thank you for the prompt!

Slowly getting out of my writing slump, hopefully get these prompts done plus something reallyyyy exciting (well at least it is to me)

Thank you for reading! :D

Taglist: @da3dm

[theggning]

The Ace Attorney Parenting Tier List

If there’s one thing our favorite anime lawyer series has a lot of, it’s murders. If there’s two things, then it’s murders and awful parents.

It’s harder to find a good, attentive, caring parent in these games than it is to find a well-adjusted prosecutor. But out of all the malicious schemers, child-abandoners, deadbeats and just plain dead people, who are the best and worst parents in the Ace Attorney series? 

I have decided to rank them into a tier list using a highly scientific rating system. 

Rampant, unmarked spoilers for the entire AA series within (including AAI1 and 2 and TGAA)

CW: child abandonment and neglect, some mentions of verbal abuse

In order to qualify for ranking on this list, characters must meet the following criteria: 

They must be a named character with actual canon information about them. Offscreen or mentioned-only characters are not allowed (eg: Mia and Maya’s father, Pearl’s father, Mr. Hawthorne, other “headcanon” characters)

They must be a parent, or have taken on the role of a foster parent. No siblings raising siblings, or I’d have half the characters in the series on here. Having “big dad energy” or informally/sporadically protecting a kid doesn’t count (Sorry, Badd and Godot.) 

They must be aware that they are a parent, have actually met their child, or have taken steps to do so. “Hypothetical” parenting assumptions are not allowed. (eg: That one character you’re thinking of from GAA is not here because he died before his child was born.) 

Characters on this list are ranked from S through F tier, best parents at the top, taking into account the following criteria: 

Absence: Is this person even available to parent their kid? Is it because they abandoned them or because they were murdered? (Being the victim of murder does not detract from parenting score, I go by what we know of them while they were alive.) Apathy: Is this person concerned for their child’s well-being? Do they take any steps to ensure their child is safe or taken care of? Do they pursue their personal goals regardless of how it affects their kids? Unpleasantness: Is this person a warm, caring, or kind parent? Or are they cold, difficult, cranky, demanding, or otherwise unpleasant to be parented by? (Parents with hard or unpleasant personalities are not necessarily mean or cruel.) Active Malice: Does this person take steps or make plans to actively harm their child? Do they knowingly partake in actions that will likely result in harm to their child? Scheming: Does this person involve their children in convoluted schemes? Are these schemes for their own personal benefit, or are they somehow meant to help the child in some way? (Almost, but not all of these schemes end up being terrible ideas.) Other Victims: Does anybody else have their lives negatively impacted by this person’s parenting choices? These actions must be related to this person’s parenting or kids, not just shitty things they do to others. This does include people who are victimized by the screwed-up kid’s later activities. Mitigating Factors: Does the parent have a good reason for their choices? Or are their decisions a result of events out of their control? Audacity Multiplier: Special consideration is given to circumstances which are over-the-top, absurd, highly unlikely in a realistic setting, or otherwise “super anime.” EG: summoning ghosts, international politics, or international politics that involve summoning ghosts. 

As much as I joke about science and math, all rankings herein are heavily influenced by my own opinions. You are free to agree or disagree with my list (and I’d love to hear why!) Here are a few other factors that swayed my thinking, mostly in ranking characters within tiers:

Canon evidence is king. We all ASSUME Manfred von Karma was a rotten, awful dad in the day-to-day, but unless there is actual evidence to prove it, I don’t take headcanons into consideration.

Child abandonment is so prevalent in this series you have to dissect it further to get anywhere. I take into account why and how the kid was abandoned, how much control the parent had over the situation, and the parent’s motivations, if applicable. When you get to the very bottom of the list, I consider abandoning a kid less bad than ongoing cruelty or abuse towards them. 

Actions speak louder than words. I judge these folks by what they do (or do not do,) not what they or the narrative says they think or feel. 

Loving your children and being a horrible parent are not mutually exclusive. Plenty of the people on this list love their kids, but do a bad job of taking care of them. 

Loving your children and being a horrible PERSON are also not mutually exclusive. Many of these characters are otherwise nice, decent people. Several are absolute bastards who do awful things. For the purposes of this list, I am only taking into account their parenting and how they treat their kids. 

Without further ado, the unofficial Ace Attorney Parenting Tier List:

S Tier: SUPER Great Parents 

The best of the best (admittedly, the bar is very low.) But these parents are not only great, they are alive and present in their children’s lives, and those kids are thriving. 

Herlock Sholmes: Here he is, the best dad in the AA series. Sholmes gets an infant dumped in his lap by his deported bestie/boyfriend and proceeds to absolutely nail the parenting thing. Iris is safe, happy, well cared-for, and has her MD at age 10. Great DADtective is more like it. 

Phoenix Wright: Our series protag also has fatherhood thrust upon him (in the middle of a massive life crisis, no less) but he takes to it with gusto. I ranked him below Sholmes both because he didn’t have to care for Trucy as an infant, and because he condones her being something of a con artist. Trucy’s doing great, though, and her New Daddy is a massive upgrade from her old one. (But Phoenix, could you please tell her about her mother and half-brother already?) 

Damian Tenma: Damian’s just a big proud dad/pro wrestler willing to fake demonic possession and eat a murder conviction for his baby girl. Jinxie is a bit skittish due to growing up in a youkai-themed village, but I don’t take quirky or unusual upbringings into account if the kid is otherwise doing well. All these high tier good parents are pretty much on the same level, so the next few rankings come down to my whims. 

Justine Courtney: Single career woman taking in her orphaned cousin and raising him right. In the tumultuous world of child acting, John will benefit from having a protective, strong-willed mother keeping an eye on him. 

Plum and Winfed Kitaki: Yes, the literal yakuza outrank many of the other parents on this list. The Kitakis may have raised their son in the middle of a crime family, but they have now abandoned the glitz of the “family business” after the lifestyle nearly ended Wocky’s life. Winfred’s determination to pay for Wocky’s surgery with clean money is a refreshing bit of self-awareness and restraint, too. Your average AA parent would be committing sixteen murders or a couple poorly planned grand larcenies to get that money. Fun fact: the Kitakis are one of only two sets of married parents on this list. 

A Tier: Good Parents with an Asterisk (Probably Dead)

The folks in this tier are also by all accounts good parents. There’s just some mitigating factor keeping them out of the S tier– mostly, that they have been murdered and are dead and no longer able to parent. 

Dead parents in this tier had to have shown some sort of valiant, selfless, or just plain involved parenting before their demise. 

Gregory Edgeworth: Would be a high rank in S tier were he not sadly deceased and unable to raise Miles. By all accounts, ol’ Greg Edgeworth was a fantastic, thoughtful, sensitive father who made his son’s well-being a priority at all times. This includes potentially lying to the cops when he was channeled after DL-6. RIP Greg, in Dad Heaven now. 

Sister Bikini: Iris considers the delightful Bikini her mother, and believes Dahlia wouldn’t have ended up such a nightmare if Bikini raised her, too. Bikini’s asterisk is only because Iris spends much of her youth running around colluding in crimes, of which Bikini seems completely oblivious. (Where did you think Iris was going every day for eight months?)

Jeffrey Master: A nice dad who will do anything to protect his beloved foster daughter, Katherine. Her devotion to him is evidence of his excellent parenting. She’s also 16 when Jeffrey goes to prison on false charges, so his “abandonment” is negligible (and also out of his control.) 

Courtney Sithe: Maria is a bit strange and has some morbid interests, but a quirky upbringing is by no means a bad thing. Courtney’s shady dealings do not extend to her daughter, who is also in possession of a medical degree at a very young age. They do, however, seriously upset and disillusion Maria onscreen, and this is what keeps Courtney out of the S tier. 

Byrne Faraday: Single dad, obviously very attentive to Kay. The father-daughter promise notebook is very sweet and shows a high level of involvement. His death comes about due to unforeseen betrayal (and because he was secretly part of a three-person spy ring) but there is family available to care for Kay in his stead, which is honestly a rarity in this series. A contingency plan for your kid’s welfare? Instant A tier. 

Inga Karkhuul Khura'in: Proving that personal character does not factor into parenting skill, awful bastard tyrant Minister Inga is actually a doting, caring father. He genuinely adores Rayfa (who he knows is not his blood daughter) and none of his schemes and power-grabs involve her in any way. Though he is a total prick to absolutely everyone else, he’s warm to Rayfa and she clearly prefers him over her mother. It’s especially fascinating to compare him to Dhurke (who, spoilers, is going to be way, way, way near the bottom of this list.) 

Jove Justice: Alas, poor Jove. He doesn’t get much time to be a dad, but he was by all accounts a good one. Splits parenting duties fairly with Thalassa so they can both pursue their careers, and dies in the middle of saving infant Apollo from a fire (though he dies from murder, not from the fire.) I also want to give him props for getting Thalassa away from her own horrible father, albeit temporarily. Pour one out for Papa Justice, he was a real one. 

Iyesa Nosa: I would normally consider a dad caring for his infant son “bare minimum” parenting and not worthy of extra praise. But given the time period and expected gender roles in Japan at the time of GAA, Iyesa taking on childcare duties when his measly salary can’t afford it otherwise is notable. Good for him. 

B Tier: Bare Minimum Decent Parents

Parents who just like, do parent stuff for their kids without any wild circumstances or bizarre plots. Parents who don’t do any spectacularly negative things or whose parenting is unremarked upon either way also end up here. 

Ernest Amano: The man himself is an obnoxious wealthy scuzzball. He does throw his money around for the sake of his equally obnoxious son, though, so I guess that makes him your basic decent parent. Eat the rich. 

Lawrence “Moe” Curls: Moe’s daughter Larina is in the custody of her mother, who left Moe due to his failed clown career. He laments this state of affairs and worries how he’ll support her if the circus ends up closed. So Moe’s marriage is on the rocks and he pays child support, at the moment. Guy just seems to be in a rough patch, and hopefully his swap to ringmaster will help work things out. 

Metis Cykes: Athena mistakes her mother’s chilly demeanor and experimental devices for a lack of caring about her, but this is a misunderstanding. Metis was trying to help her daughter and always had her best interests in mind, but was perhaps just not the warmest or most emotionally open mother to her. It happens that way sometimes. Otherwise, no reason to think Metis was anything less than decent. 

Russell Berry: Regina is not the most well-adjusted teenage girl in the world, and Russell’s avoidance of conflict ends up tormenting Acro right off the rails. But apart from the recent tragedies, everyone speaks highly of Russell’s kindness, and he adopted Acro and Bat and raised them as his own sons. Good dad, if a tragically flawed one. 

Genshin Asogi: Genshin dips off to London on a study trip for six years, but Kazuma is old enough at the time to understand this and exchange correspondence with him. Genshin then gets absolutely turbofucked by the entire British judicial system, which is in no way his fault. I also think the way he sent the liberating evidence proving his innocence back to Japan was pretty cool. Anyway, an unfortunate case of a good dad getting totally screwed over. 

Amara Sigatar Khura’in: Amara is the victim of political machinations that make her think her own husband has betrayed her, and lives imprisoned under an alias. She raises Rayfa under this alias and seems to be a good and caring mother. However, her apparent callousness re: Nahyuta and the stunning naivety that lets her and her children get manipulated by her clearly evil sister for 20 years are worth a raised eyebrow. Getting pregnant while being actively hunted down by an oppressive regime is also pretty dumb. Amara, please learn to think for yourself and stop believing whatever the last thing that Ga’ran/Dhurke/Ga’ran told you.  

C Tier: Parental Redemption Arc

These parents were not great, made some not-great choices, or were involved in not-great circumstances. They are now trying to do better. Not always successfully, but they are trying. Parents who actively take steps towards doing better are ranked higher than those who just kind of say they’re going to (or the goddamn writers haven’t let them yet.) 

Yujin Mikotoba: Deep in the throes of grief, Yujin bailed on his newborn daughter and Watsoned around London for six years before being deported back into parenthood. He feels severely guilty for not existing in Susato’s life for all that time, and is now trying to make up for it by being an indulgent, supportive, feminist dad.

He still jacks it up here or there. Lying to Susato about being on his deathbed is pretty fucked up, but it is an attempt to protect her. And if we get into Kazuma and what Yujin does or does not know about that whole situation, things get even muddier. But he’s TRYING, which is more than I can say for a lot of these jerks. (I’m not counting baby you-know-who in here, because Yujin only had custody for a very short time and did indeed see the kid into capable, loving hands.) 

“Twice-Fired” Mason: His wife left him, took the kid, and changed their surname to escape their miserable impoverished lifestyle. It seems Mason was more or less a deadbeat until Ashley re-established contact with him– albeit, so Mason could help him with a dangerous criminal conspiracy. Sensing trouble, Mason tries to intervene on his son’s behalf and ends up dead for it. Ashley’s proceeding actions (which I gotta say, are pretty metal) prove there was some fondness between father and son, but Mason’s life was cut short before they got the chance to fully reconcile. Bummer. 

Colin Devorae: Another falsely convicted dad. Colin escapes from prison, goes into hiding working for the Amanos, and conveniently reunites with his daughter Lauren when she starts dating Lance. Colin uses this situation to watch over his daughter, but for some reason chooses not to tell Lauren who he is– info then used to blackmail him into doing crimes for Lance. Halfway through crimes, after Lauren is already involved, Colin tries to murder Lance to… prevent Lauren from doing crimes? What the hell is this timing, dude? He’s like half a bead off from actually protecting Lauren at any given moment. He also gets pointlessly shot and dies for this. C for effort, I guess. 

Di-Jun Huang: Zheng-Fa President Huang was not aware he was a dad, but once he was informed about his love child he had every intention of taking responsibility. Unfortunately, he was assassinated before he ever got to do this. Huang is an edge case as far as my eligibility rules go, but his kid is actually born and he takes obvious steps showing he’s going to step up. That’s enough canon info to place him here. 

Thalassa Gramarye: Thalassa holds the dubious honor of losing not one, but TWO children in spectacularly dramatic fashion, neither of which were her fault at all. It is entirely understandable how she could lose track of Apollo, given the chaos in Khura’in after the coup. It’s also not her fault that her own shitbag father chooses to use her near-fatal accident as an opportunity to be an asshole. However, it is probably about time that Thalassa comes forward to Apollo and Trucy. It’s been like three years and I’m not sure what she’s waiting for. Even the credits of SoJ think so. C’mon girl, get to it. 

D Tier: Questionable/Criminal Parenting

Oh, now we’re getting spicy. These parents approach their duties with questionable or dysfunctional methods, up to and including using their children to do crimes. They are spared a lower tier by making an attempt to be decent, or at least not committing the spectacular fuckups of those below them. Yet.

Taifu Toneido: Maybe it was a quirk of being an old rakugo master, but being Taifu’s own kid seems like it was absolutely miserable. Geiru seems to think the only way to please him is to inherit his title, and she busts her ass to do so. The only acknowledgement she receives is worded like “you suck at this and you’ll never be my heir” when he allegedly means it more like “I can tell this isn’t where your passion lies and I want you to follow your own path.” He is so bad at relaying this idea that Geiru snaps and murders him quite brutally in a fit of pique. This is why it’s important for us to use our words, kids. Being cryptic gets you murdered by clown tits. EDIT/CORRECTION:  Okay, can you tell I only played Turnabout Storyteller one time? I completely forgot that Taifu Toneido is not Geiru’s father, her father is dead and Taifu inherited the rights to the name “Uendo Toneido” from him. Whoops. Either way, he sounds like a really obnoxious master, so he can stay here in spirit. 

Drew Misham: Drew starts off a decent dad, but chooses to use Vera’s prodigal artistic talent to create forgeries. Then he makes the quite literally fatal error of doing this for Kristoph Gavin. He is so terrified that Kristoph is going to show up and murder them that he goes full agoraphobic shut-in and cripples the already traumatized Vera’s social skills. Drew is absolutely correct to be afraid of Kristoph– but none of this would have happened if he didn’t decide to use his daughter for crimes in the first place. Womp womp. 

Ga’ran Sigatar Khura’in: Ga’ran keeps Rayfa around mostly as a bargaining chip to use against her sister and nephew– it is made very clear that she’ll destroy Rayfa’s life if either of them step a foot out of line. She’s also cold, demanding, and unpleasable to the point where Rayfa clearly prefers her father.

Ga’ran does, however, put on a motherly facade and allows Rayfa to be comfortable and well cared-for, which is the only saving grace that keeps her from E tier or lower. Her lust for power and cruel actions are separate from her actual parenting ability, though they do deprive several other characters of their good parents (still doesn’t count, though.)

Notably, apart from the Kitakis, Ga’ran and Inga are the only married parents on this list. Unlike the Kitakis, they absolutely hate each other. 

E Tier: Oh My God These Kids Need Therapy

Now we’re really in the dumpster. The people in this tier are either callous, cruel, spectacularly neglectful, or perform such outrageously fucked up actions that we can definitively say they are all awful parents. Some of these kids are so jacked up that they go on to victimize others– and the ones that don’t will definitely need the aid of a good therapist somewhere down the line. 

This is where the audacity factor comes in. Some of these characters do such wild and dramatic things that it’s very difficult to compare them to more mundane bad parenting in the examples above. 

Dane Gustavia: Gustavia’s complete and utter apathy at the disappearance of his kid is truly something to behold. Like man, this guy did not care at ALL when his son was traumatically kidnapped and vanished in the aftermath. This shocking neglect also creates one of the most fucked up monsters in the entirety of AA, who goes on to ruin the lives of multiple other people.

So why does Gustavia get to sit at the top of this tier? Because his parental carelessness is a one-time thing. He cares so little for his son that once he makes the choice to abandon him, he never gives another thought to the kid ever again. Other E tier residents screw up multiple kids, or make multiple bad decisions that I find more impressively galling. But make no mistake, the drop between Ga’ran up in D tier and Gustavia down here is MASSIVE. This guy’s an absolute prick. 

Pierre Hoquet/Isaac Dover: AAI2 may as well have the subtitle “Ballad of the Bad Dads.” Pierre also screws up his son in spectacular fashion, but easily plummets down the ranks for masterminding the child kidnapping scheme. Commanding your weeping, pleading little boy to imprison his best friend and himself in a car where the two of them nearly freeze to death is certainly one way to win an episode of Top Chef. This situation is so fucked up I’m also docking Pierre for child abandonment, when he would normally be excused for that on account of being murdered. Absolute yikesburger.

Misty Fey: Perhaps a controversial position for her, but I did write an entire post about what a garbage mom Misty is. To summarize: disappears for 17 years due to perceived wound to family pride. Zero contact with daughters, even when one of them is murdered and the other goes through numerous traumatic situations which all make the news. Comes out of hiding to plan and participate in the nutty Hazakura  murder prevention plot, which is a terrible idea on all fronts– but Misty agrees to it because it means she doesn’t have to face or talk to Maya (which she has no intention of doing. Ever.) The entire plot of Bridge to the Turnabout is just as much her fault as anyone else’s. There is also the bit where she tries to deal with a spirit trying to kill her daughter by BECOMING the spirit trying to kill her daughter.

Misty truly sucks at this, but I rank her worse than Hoquet and Gustavia because when they abandon their kids, it’s into the foster care system–  meanwhile Misty abandons her 12 and 2-year-old daughters in the custody of the sister who openly hates her and covets her legacy. Why not just leave Mia and Maya in a snakepit? The snakes might not be venomous, but Morgan Fey definitely is. 

What’s really sad is that the time and opportunity Misty had to get over herself and come back into her daughter’s lives is huge. She had 17 years and every chance in the world to do better, and she doesn’t. She never intended to. Her situation is resolvable, the tragedy is all preventable, and she lets it perpetuate for her stupid pride. 

Misty claims she “never stopped thinking” about her daughters, and god damn that picture in her talisman makes me cry every time. But my tears have not blinded me to the fact that holy shit, she’s a horrible mother. 

Dhurke Sahdmadhi: Another previous guest star on my blog. Dhurke is a noble person and a charming guy, and it honestly pains me to rank him below the likes of the AAI2 chef dads. Alas, the problem with Dhurke has to do with scale. The stakes in SoJ are ludicrously high, so when Dhurke fucks up his kids, it’s on like… an international level.

Being a wanted fugitive framed for a coup is not Dhurke’s fault, but again and again, he prioritizes his rebellion over the safety and well-being of his children. Note the plural, because Dhurke also screws up with ALL THREE of his kids. Because the revolution is “not his problem,” Dhurke abandons a 9-year-old Apollo in America (a country he has no memories nor cultural knowledge of.) He neglects to send Nahyuta along too, and he ends up right in the government meat grinder, breaking his spirit and turning him into a puppet of Ga’ran. He conceives Rayfa while on the lam, handing Ga’ran yet more collateral to hold over Nahyuta and Amara. And when he finally goes back to find Apollo, it’s to drag him kicking and screaming into the revolution, and a situation in which he will be executed if he fails. Apollo has every right to be pissed at him, and Nahyuta gets completely robbed of his own chance to be.

Dhurke is portrayed as a heroic and tragic figure who will do anything to protect his kids, but the latter claim falls apart with even the slightest bit of scrutiny. He means well and he may be trying his best, but good grief, Dhurke, your best absolutely blows. 

Shadi Enigmar/Zak Gramarye: Abandonment of your daughter is one thing. The premeditated abandonment of your daughter that you orchestrate by tricking her into thinking it’s her first magic show is quite another. Zak is ready to ditch Trucy and peace the fuck out LONG before the tide in the courtroom turns against him, and makes no attempt to ensure she’ll be taken care of once he bounces.

The apathy alone would score him low, but Zak comes back for the malice points seven years later, aiming to destroy Phoenix’s reputation. You know, Phoenix. The man who is feeding and caring for his daughter. Why? I don’t know, pure spite? God, this guy is such a dick. I kind of don’t blame Kristoph for bashing his brains out. 

Magnifi Gramarye: What the fuck is wrong with the Gramaryes? Magnifi was a world class asshole, impossible to please, and a nightmare to work for. But he wouldn’t be on this list if his shittery didn’t also include his daughter Thalassa. When she is shot in an accident during a rehearsal, Magnifi decides to take those lemons and make some lemonade– he lies about her “death” to threaten and blackmail his two apprentices, Valant and Zak (the latter of whom is also Thalassa’s husband. And also a jerk, but this is his wife, dude.) Meanwhile, he dumps his blind, amnesiac daughter off the back of the tour bus so hard she ends up a European pop star. How in the hell does that happen? Absolutely stunning.

If we counted his myriad apprentices as his kids, Magnifi would rank even lower on this list, because they’re still coming out of the woodwork pissed at him and seething for vengeance a decade after his death. 

Manfred von Karma: What really makes ol’ Manny stand out from the crowd is the time and effort that goes into his bullshit. Adopting your rival’s orphaned son so you can raise him wrong as a joke and then frame him for murder twice over fifteen years later is a plan so petty, so devious, and so prolonged in its cruelty that it’s instantly a finalist for the Worst Father in Ace Attorney.

However.

After much deliberation, I can’t actually give Von Karma that title. Why? Because his sinister parenting was only targeted at Edgeworth, and did not necessarily manifest in mundane, everyday cruelty. I have no doubt that having Manfred von Karma for a dad is an intimidating and harrowing experience. He’s absolutely strict and domineering, and Franziska certainly has an inferiority complex- but there’s no canon information that Manfred was abusive to her or the unknown other VK kid at all. (One of the anime episodes even shows him being quite indulgent, if not a bit cold and stuffy.) We don’t know that he was openly mean to Edgeworth either, for that matter.

Don’t get me wrong, this is in no way a defense of him. The fifteen-year long game to ruin Edgeworth’s life because his dad got him written up at work is truly unhinged and over-the-top evil. Only on this ranking is it “better” that you only have sinister plans for one of your three kids, and Manfred is a truly magnificent example of an awful, awful father– but there is one AA Dad who’s even worse. 

Also, please note that if this ranking was allowed to include all of the lives ruined by all of a character’s actions, Manfred von Karma easily takes the gold medal grand prize. I didn’t forget about DL-6, Manny, and neither did anyone else in this traumatized canon. 

F Tier: The Worst of the Worst

Reserved for the absolute worst father and worst mother in the series. 

Blaise Debeste: Absolute bastard, completely unpleasant in every aspect of his personality and character design. What lands Blaise down here beneath all these other atrocious dads is the explicit, onscreen verbal abuse he hurls at Sebastian at every given opportunity. Manfred von Karma makes cruel plans for his adoptive son, but we don’t see him degrading his confidence and calling him names. Other dads may abandon their kids without a thought, but at least those kids have a chance to get away from their shitty parents– Sebastian is stuck with Blaise, who is also implied to have “disappeared” his own wife, depriving him of his mother too. No other father in this series cares less and treats their kid with the same open contempt as Blaise Debeste, and that is why he gets the crown for Worst Dad. 

But there’s still one parent worse than him. 

Morgan Fey: With the given criteria, nobody else comes close. Morgan is bitter, spiteful, selfish, and cares nothing for her children beyond how they can help her reclaim the Kurain Master’s seat. When her twins Dahlia and Iris cannot, she gets rid of them (there’s some conflicting info whether Morgan gave them up or Mr. Hawthorne took them away from her– either way, Morgan doesn’t give a shit since neither of them have much spiritual power.) When Pearl turns out to have strong powers, the poor kid becomes the linchpin of all Morgan’s plans. She smothers Pearl and keeps her confined to Kurain Village, restricting who she talks to and what she learns (she can barely read and knows very little basic knowledge you would expect of a girl her age.) When Morgan’s first scheme to get rid of Maya fails and she’s arrested, she comes up with an even worse one.

The Hazakura murder plot is a grand culmination of Morgan’s spite, her selfish pride, and the way she views her daughters like tools– tricking an unwitting Pearl into summoning Dahlia to murder her cousin, then pinning all the blame on Iris. Sending Iris down for murder is pretty outrageous on its own, but turning her sweet, trusting 9-year-old into a murderer by proxy is whole new levels of twisted. (Dahlia also alludes that Morgan was planning to kill her– perhaps suggesting that if she had not been on death row, Morgan would off her for the sole purpose of this dumb plan.)

Every one of Morgan’s evil actions is directly tied to her children – and all of this is without including Mia and Maya, who were 12 and 2 when abandoned into Morgan’s custody. In case you need a refresher, she’s openly hostile to Maya, tries to frame her for murder and then tries to straight-up murder her.

As if all that wasn’t enough, Morgan’s monstrous parenting also gives rise to Dahlia, the second most prolific murderer in the trilogy, who ruins the lives of four additional people and almost takes out Phoenix Wright as well. 

So congratulations to Morgan Fey, not only the Worst Mother in the series, but the absolute nadir in this cavalcade of bad parenting. By a long shot.

Quick Edit: One small revision, swapped two people. See if you can guess who. 

[thou-babbling-brook]

Sanctuary

AO3

Rating: T

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationship(s): Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Maria Thorpe

Word Count: 6344

Tags: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Maria Thorpe, Al Mualim, Original Characters, Assassin's Creed I, Masyaf, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Crusades, Implied Happy Ending

Summary: After stumbling upon a small caravanserai during a narrow escape, Maria has questions about Altaïr's past - particularly, his defining scar.

This fic is based on some of @nebulacrum's thoughts and headcanons about Altaïr's relationship with Al Mualim, along with his lip scar.

You can click here to see @ramshackledtrickster's accompanying pieces!

I hope you guys enjoy!!!

“Baba, we have customers!”

Fahmi glanced up from his ledger, brow furrowed and eyes squinted as the setting sun squeezed through the cracks in the sandstone walls. His son bounced before him while gesturing wildly to the door. His words blended together with the constant ringing present in Fahmi’s ears. Setting his hands against the desk, he rose, groaning as the aches in his joints cried in protest.

“Ameen,” he murmured, hunched as he shuffled to the gnarled wooden door, sand seeping onto the floorboards as the evening gusts of wind swept the hot sand inside. Maryam wiped her hands on her tattered apron before laying them on Ameen’s shoulders. 

“Come, it is late, and your father is tired,” she whispered, kissing her son’s head while guiding him away from the door. Fahmi nodded his thanks, shuffling to the window and shielding his eyes from the golden glare of the sun as it sank into the horizon. 

“But Mama!” Ameen protested. Maryam shushed him, her words inaudible as she and her son walked through the narrow doorway. Fahmi groaned as he reached down to the floor. Grabbing a few wooden panels, he straightened his back and placed them against the open window. His wrinkled hands trembled with each movement. Each knuckle ached as he flexed his hands and flattened his palms against the wood.

A resounding thud against the door disturbed the sand and dirt gathered by the entrance. Squinting, Fahmi poked an eye through the minuscule cracks in the wood panels. Two camels knelt before the water trough. Their backs were still covered with blankets and saddles. Yet, aside from the rushing winds of sand, the quiet hissing of nearby snakes, and the low chuffs of the camels, Fahmi found no sign of visitors.

Ameen rushed to his side, much to the protest of his mother as he tugged at his father’s robes. “I told you!”

Fahmi quieted the child, hobbling to the door as he pressed his ear against the wood. Another resounding set of knocks, this one more desperate than the first, echoed in the sandstone room. Broken Arabic shattered the silence. A woman, her voice high and exhausted, shouted through the door. Her accent was foreign, reminding them of the soldiers that had marched through the desert not long ago. Maryam tightened her hold on Ameen, pressing him against her front with wide eyes.

Maryam turned to her husband. “We were not expecting any caravans for another week.”

“I know,”  he replied, voice barely above a whisper. Ameen curled against his mother as the pounding continued.

The voice begged and pleaded behind the door. Her pronunciations were muddled and awkward, but the desperation caused Fahmi to move his knobby hand. Slowly, he unlatched the door, prying it open enough to peer an eye through the crack. Immediately, he gasped, hobbling back and slamming open the door. The voice (a Frankish woman, it seemed. Though, it was nearly impossible to differentiate between their accents) was not alone. The pale woman stumbled forward, thanking Fahmi in her jumbled Arabic while Maryam covered her mouth.

“Help,” the woman pleaded, her eyes wide as she looked at her companion. Arm slung over her shoulder, a hooded man collapsed against the woman’s frame. An arrow stuck from his side, covered in gore. His linen robes were coated in dark liquids, sand, and dirt, a few notable slashes still seeping blood into the cloth. Maryam rushed to his side, shouting over her shoulder for Ameen to grab freshly drawn bandages, wine, and washcloths. The boy scrambled backward before turning and sprinting through the doorway. Fahmi knelt before the strangers, eyes darting to his wife as they shared a fleeting, anxious look.

“What has happened?!” Fahmi demanded, still breathless as Ameen returned, arms full of supplies as he tripped and stumbled into Maryam. The foreign woman could only stare with furrowed brows in return, her eyes jerking over Fahmi’s face.

“Mercenaries,” the wounded companion spat. It was clear that he was from the region. If not, a traveler passing through to his home. His face remained hidden beneath his cowl, eyes toward the ground while Maryam gestured for the woman to help her. The two laid the man on his back, flat against the cool floorboard. With the glaring sun hidden behind vast mounds of sand, Fahmi reached for two candles, placing them by his wife’s feet once they were lit. “We barely escaped.”

“God has willed it,” Maryam praised. Ameen sat awkwardly by his father’s side, face growing pale as Maryam and the strange woman attempted to treat the man’s wounds. Fahmi laid his hand on Ameen’s back, rubbing it soothingly. 

“Ready a room for them,” Fahmi instructed his son. “They will need somewhere to rest if he survives, God willing.” Ameen nodded and rushed off down the side corridor. In the meanwhile, Fahmi came to his wife’s side, his hands laying on the strange man’s stomach while Maryam surveyed the entrance wound. 

“It is shallow, praise be,” Maryam explained. The man grimaced, clenching his jaw and nodding. He turned his face to the woman, trading Arabic for a language Fahmi could not quite identify. French? German? It had been so long since he had served in the sultan’s army. He could not recall the languages of their adversaries. The woman shouted frantically back, to which the man turned to Fahmi and Maryam.

“Can you pull it out?” the man asked through gritted teeth. Maryam and Fahmi exchanged glances. 

“It would be unwise.”

“I did not ask if it would be wise. I asked if you could.”

The foreign woman seemed to understand enough of their conversation to slap his shoulder, grasping his chin and forcing him to look at her. She shouted again, her voice choking while her eyes glistened. The man squeezed her forearm, groaning and murmuring something that managed to calm her enough for him to return his attention back to Fahmi.

“You were a soldier. Have you dealt with this before?” the man asked.

“How can you tell?” Fahmi redirected. 

“You avoid resting on your knees.”

“You are right, but I have not seen this in decades.”

The man hissed as Maryam accidentally brushed her hand against the arrow. “Please, sir. My… my wife can help, but I will not be able to translate while you pull it out. I need someone with experience to help your wife.”

Fahmi, for the sake of the man, ignored his own, visceral reaction to such information that the strangers were married. Instead, he nodded, motioning for the woman to join him and Maryam by the arrow. Maryam handed the woman a cloth damp with wine, offering a weak smile as Fahmi placed his hand on the man’s stomach and the end of the arrow.

There was a silence before the man’s screams echoed off the sandstone walls, Fahmi quickly ripping the arrow out of the man’s body. The foreign woman slammed her hands down against his side, the damp cloth preventing blood from pouring out. While the woman kept pressure on the wound, Fahmi helped Maryam wrap the bandages around the arrow wound. They bound the cloth snugly around the man’s muscular torso, then turned their attention to the other slashes on his body. To the mysterious man’s credit, his screams only lasted as long as it took for the arrow to come out. Instead, he huffed through his nose, turning on his side and retching as nausea struck him all at once. His wife stroked his hair beneath his cowl, shushing him in their shared language until he fainted from the pain.  

“We need to examine his body for more wounds,” Maryam explained. She turned to the man’s wife, hesitating before gesturing to her own eyes, then the rest of the man’s body. It was enough for the foreign woman to understand as she crawled to the other side of the man, raising his robes high enough on his chest to view his other wounds. The trio worked diligently, trading supplies as they wrapped the wounded man’s body. 

“How is his face?” Fahmi wondered. He pointed to his own face, and the foreign woman nodded in understanding. However, she paused at the cowl still covering her husband’s head, as though debating whether to look. Her brows knit while her lips formed a pout. Maryam scooted closer, offering to help. The woman hesitated, but finally gestured for Maryam to continue. Fahmi thought nothing of it until Maryam gasped. 

“My God! What happened to him?!” she demanded. Fahmi hurried to her side while the woman tilted her head, squinting her eyes. His eyes widened at the scar adorning the man’s chapped lips. A man younger than what his eldest son would be now, God rest his soul. He laid his fingers against the scarred tissue, twisted and stretched from his chin to his cheekbone. A scar several years old, yet poked and prodded at judging by the abnormal healing.

“God help him,” Fahmi murmured, bowing his head and murmuring a prayer. “This is no sword slash.”

“And these are no normal wounds. Who is this man?” Maryam replied quietly. She raised the cowl once more. The man’s wife glanced between the two with a puzzled expression. Ameen returned with the commotion now ended, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot by the corridor.

“The room is made, Baba,” he spoke. Fahmi nodded, groaning as his knees protested as he stood. The foreign woman stood alongside him, glancing between him and Ameen.

“Room,” Fahmi spoke to the woman, gesturing to his son. “He will take you to your room.” He spoke slowly, overly annunciating his words. The woman nodded along, reaching inside her pockets. She handed him a heavy bag of coins. When Fahmi poked inside, his eyes widened. It was nearly a month’s revenue inside the bag. He protested, shaking his head and shoving the bag back into her hands.

“Too much,” he protested. The woman chuckled tiredly, laying it on the desk regardless of his protests. She knelt down to her husband, slinging his arm around her shoulder and heaving him onto her back. Her muscles strained beneath her tunic and trousers. Fahmi had to admit his astonishment at the woman’s strength, knowing he would be of little help. Regardless, he did loop the man’s other arm around his own shoulder, helping the woman carry her husband to their room. Together, they laid the man down on the bed. Maryam laid a fresh set of bandages, linen cloths, and a bottle of wine by the bed.

“For the wounds,” she explained. The woman nodded, eyes downcast to her husband.

Ameen scampered forward, offering a small bucket. “He might be sick,” he mumbled, cheeks flushed with color. The foreign woman managed a smile, mustering her best Arabic as she murmured her thanks. Fahmi and Maryam bowed their heads in respect, ushering Ameen out of the room and closing the door behind them. The couple shared fearful looks.

Just what kind of man had arrived at their doorstep? Worse – who had this man angered that dared mutilate his face before God?

.~.~.

“I have questions.”

Altaïr retched into the bucket, coughing and sputtering while nausea overcame him. He gagged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before turning to Maria. “Right now?”

“Yes, but I will give you the courtesy of finishing,” Maria decided, scooting closer to the Assassin. Her palm rubbed his back as he heaved. 

“How kind,” Altaïr muttered.

“I rather thought so.”

Altaïr heaved into the bucket again. This time, Maria slid her hands to Altaïr’s chest, holding him up while he kept the bucket close to his frame. Freshly changed bandages demonstrated that Altaïr’s wounds were healing appropriately, but they did little to dissuade the nausea. She laid her cheek against his toned back. 

“You called me your wife.”

Altaïr panted, setting the bucket down by the bed. “What?”

“Your wife. You called me your wife when you spoke to the couple,” Maria murmured. 

Altaïr said nothing. He laid back against the pillows, eyes closed as he steadied his breathing. Maria propped her elbow on the pillow next to him, cheek resting on her palm.

“You were a fool for taking that arrow to your side,” she chastised. 

“You would have done the same for me,” Altaïr replied. His eyes remained shut, brows furrowed as beads of sweat cascaded down his face and chest, his robes long abandoned as they sat folded neatly in a nearby chair. The sweating was good, Maria reminded herself, though it was harder and harder to do so with how pale her companion was becoming.

“It does not make you any less a fool,” Maria murmured. She laid her hand on his chest, fingers splayed over his torso. Altaïr laid his hand over hers, his heart thumping against her palm. 

“I thought you had questions,” Altaïr whispered. He opened an eye, peering down at Maria. She hummed.

“I do. You ignored my first one,” Maria replied.

“It was not a question.”

Maria huffed, pushing on Altaïr’s chest. “Fine. Why did you call me your wife?”

“To avoid suspicion.”

“You could have called me your sister.”

Altaïr paused. “Would you have preferred as such?”

Maria pursed her lips. After a moment, she answered. “No.”

“Then I see no reason for concern,” Altaïr responded tersely. He grimaced as he shifted on the bed, holding his side. Maria sat up, easing Altaïr into a more comfortable position.

“I did not mind it,” Maria clarified. “You know I did not. I… I was just curious.”

Altaïr nodded, though Maria could not tell if he agreed. She fidgeted next to her friend, eyes falling to his lips. His familiar, plump lips, marked by his most defining feature. She leaned forward, reaching up to his lips and pressing her fingertips against his scar. Altaïr stilled. She could feel his body tense under her simple touch.

“They seemed horrified when they saw this,” Maria explained. “I did not understand why. They spoke too fast.” She repeated the few Arabic words she remembered, but they felt clunky and heavy on her tongue. Altaïr’s lips parted slightly, dry and chapped from their journey through the arid dunes. He avoided her eyes, tilting his face to the side as he reached for the goblet of water.

“Your Arabic is improving,” Altaïr complimented. 

Maria frowned. “You are avoiding the question.”

“You did not ask a question.”

“You know damn well what I meant.”

Altaïr shot her a look. Maria gulped. Yet, she held her chin high, too proud to back down from her words now. “I thought your scar was a battle wound, like mine. The man seemed to think otherwise.”

“It is, in its own way,” Altaïr muttered.

Maria laid her hand on Altaïr’s cheek, turning his face toward hers. She studied his scar, eyes narrowed as her fingers returned to trace the sensitive flesh. His upper lip split into his scar, providing a small slit into his mouth and exposing a sliver of his teeth and gums. It was barely noticeable from afar, and rarely had any man reached Altaïr’s face long enough to observe how his scar melded into his face. But for Maria, it had been the first feature she noticed, the cool metal of his hidden blade nicking her throat while she sneered. Admittedly, it had terrified her upon their first meeting. No man’s lips should form such a gruesome tear, after all. She was surprised it took the older couple so long to notice it. 

Maria was no doctor, but she had experienced more agonizing pains and wounds than the average man could dream of. The scar marked just above her left eyebrow proved it, nicked by a Saracen sword in a battle alongside Richard I. For years, Maria wore such a wound with honor. It was her first permanent scar since she had traded a wedding ring for a sword. A sign that no man, nor woman, could confine her. An affront to the English nobility that once trapped her. Such scars were not becoming of a woman, so Maria puffed her chest and bore hers with pride. Her scar was not a trap, but an escape from desirability as she wandered to the ends of the Earth. Her scars were gnarled and twisted and deep, but they had healed.

Altaïr’s most prominent scar differed in this regard. It was gnarled and twisted and deep like her own, but the flesh had not healed as hers had. Her eyebrow scar healed over a decade ago. Altaïr’s lip scar looked nearly as old, but the flesh had not healed. Not until recently, at least. The outer edges of his scar were light, contrasting against his deep tan and dark hair. The edges were fully healed. His lower lip and chin had been spared as well, the scar a faint pale against his skin. But whereas these areas were faint and light, the rest of the scar remained an irritated red. Not infected, but irritated, as though prodded at constantly. The dark shade of his upper lip failed to conceal the redness of his scar. Only in the last month or so had it begun to heal, slowly fading into a pinkish red.

Even as Maria trailed her fingers along his scar, Altaïr sat eerily still. Too still, as though he was bracing for impact. His jaw was clenched. His biceps tensed as Maria moved closer, her face lingering by his. She guided her fingertips to his jaw, brushing her thumb against his jawline. 

“You should shave,” Maria hummed, eyes glancing up. “Your face is growing scraggly.”

Altaïr cocked a brow. “Is that a question?”

Maria shook her head and pursed her lips, brows raised. “No. A suggestion.”

Altaïr stared at her. Those piercing, golden eyes that made even Maria shift under his gaze. She remained so close, barely a breath away from his lips. The puff of air from his nose as he exhaled tickled her own. 

“I can do it for you,” Maria suggested.

Altaïr almost smiled. “This feels like a demand rather than a suggestion.”

Maria rolled her eyes, huffing as she stood and walked to their things. Searching his bag, Maria located a small razor amongst his barren things. Throughout their time together, he always packed lightly. Truth be told, she was surprised he even possessed a razor. She returned to the bed, guiding Altaïr to sit up further with a candle in hand. She set the candle down on the bedside table, then unsheathed his razor. Carefully, Maria raised the blade to the Assassin’s jaw and scraped away a few wrily strands of curly, dark hair. 

“No water?” Altaïr asked.

“You will be fine,” Maria remarked, eyes focused on her work as she brought the blade closer to her thumb. “Besides, it is a trim. I rather like your facial hair. You should let it grow out.”

It did not escape Maria’s notice how Altaïr tensed at her words. For his sake, Maria paid it no mind and continued her work, trimming his coarse hair. A moment of comfortable silence passed, interrupted only by the scraping of the razor against Altaïr’s sharp jaw and the snoring of their camels just outside the minuscule caravanserai. Much to Maria’s surprise, it was Altaïr who broke the silence. 

“You said they were shocked to see my face?” Altaïr spoke. His words were uncharacteristically soft.

Maria frowned. “Not your face, your scar.”

“Is it not one and the same?”

Maria stopped in her tracks. She leaned back, narrowing her eyes as she tracked Altaïr’s movements. His golden gaze avoided hers, cast down upon the scratchy sheets. His lips were parted ever so slightly, Maria watching as he quickly swiped his tongue over them. Her eyes flicked to his hands, which lay awkwardly in his lap. Once again, his body was tense, muscles straining and breath shallow.

“What makes you say that?” Maria questioned, tone harsher than intended.

Altaïr’s throat bobbed as he shifted his gaze back to hers. “What makes you ask?”

“No, no,” Maria argued, setting the razor down against the bed. “We are not starting this. Altaïr, what makes you say that?”

There was a long pause. In the past, Maria would have dropped the subject entirely, writing it off as some sort of Assassin trick to dig into the deepest pits of her heart and mind. Now, however, Maria held her chin high as she forced Altaïr to keep her gaze, her heart thumping against her chest.

“How did the scar upon your brow form?” Altaïr asked. 

Maria closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. “Altaïr, I am not going to–”

“Do you want to know or not?” He snapped. Maria’s brow furrowed, and Altaïr quickly cleared his throat. He repeated his question, his voice much softer and weaker than before.

Maria stared incredulously, but ultimately decided to play along. “My first battle. One of Salāh ad-Dīn’s men slashed my brow.”

Altaïr nodded. “Were you shamed for it?”

Maria shrugged. “A few soldiers from my infantry joked here and there, but no.” She squinted her eyes and furrowed her brow. “What are you getting at?”

“In Islam,” Altaïr explained, “it is believed God places all of our senses and beauty into our faces. It is why Muslims avoid striking the face.”

Maria scoffed. “My scar begs to differ.” 

Altaïr did not laugh, though she did see the corners of his lips tug up in a phantom smile. “It is taboo to do so. It can leave the face… disfigured,” he explained. “It is not so easy to conceal as a scar on one’s arm or leg.”

Maria’s expression fell. She hesitated before she finally asked her burning question. “Where did you get your scar?”

“Who do you think?” Altaïr all but answered.

Maria should not have been surprised. She only knew of Altaïr’s master through his stories and his codex (Maria could not help it – his journal had been left wide open). Despite Altaïr’s almost nostalgic tone toward a man who had betrayed him time and time again, each story left a sour taste upon her tongue. Now, her tongue tasted bile and copper in disgust. 

“How old were you?” she demanded, her words eerily still. Her blood boiled. 

“Old enough to know better,” Altaïr replied, quiet. 

“Horseshit. How old were you?” 

“Thirteen winters.”

Maria stood from the bed, pacing back and forth by the side. “You were a boy. A boy!” She rustled her dark locks from their meticulously braided bun as she grasped and tugged at her hair.

“I knew better than to speak out of turn,” Altaïr replied, his voice raised almost defensively. “I owed everything to him. My progress, my training, my life. He cared for me, in some twisted way, after my father’s death.”

Maria flocked to his side, kneeling before him on the bed as she cupped his cheek. Her thumb grazed over his scar. She tried not to gag imagining a small boy, voice yet to crack, begging the one guardian in his life for mercy. Apologizing desperately for words that should not have offended an allegedly wise leader so greatly. 

“That is one thing,” she managed once her voice was composed enough. “But it should be healed. It should be healed by now. For God’s sake, Altaïr, you are twenty-seven! Why is it only now healing?!”

Altaïr caught his lip between his teeth. “I have never been good at staying my tongue. I needed reminders.” His jaw clenched as his throat bobbed. Maria nearly choked as he spoke. “If I would not close my mouth, he would pry it closed for me.”

Maria stared. What else were she to do? She stood, pinching the bridge of her nose while Altaïr silently stared – no, glared – down at his own hands. 

“Your master would mutilate you before God,” Maria murmured, her head spinning, “and you would defend him?”

“He was an ordinary man,” Altaïr replied softly, “in control of illusions.”

“This is no illusion, Altaïr.”

“I know.”

Maria tossed her hands in the air before setting them on her head, pacing once more. She inhaled, standing and placing her hands on her hips. She gestured to Altaïr, speechless as she attempted to form words on her heavy tongue. “For thirteen years, Al Mualim slit and prodded your mouth to silence you, on top of his manipulation. As a boy, I understand your hesitance, but you never once fought back?”

Altaïr stood, hand clasping his side while he straightened his back. Maria took a step back, eyes wide but jaw tensed. “How do you fight a man who thinks himself God?” he questioned with narrowed eyes. “What would I have gained? Where would I have gone?” Altaïr winced and sat back down, eyes cast down shamefully. Maria sighed, sitting next to him on the sheets.

“Assassins are not always required to hide their faces,” Altaïr confessed quietly. He tenderly rubbed his stub of a ring finger, thumb brushing over the seared and scarred skin. “Most lower their hoods in Masyaf if they are not patrolling. There is no reason to hide amongst brothers.”

“And you?” Maria dared ask.

Altaïr shook his head, running a hand through his coarse curls. “I was no brother. I was his personal weapon.” His throat bobbed, and Maria tore her face away when she noticed his golden eyes begin to glisten in the flickering candlelight. “He created me. He could mold me into whatever he pleased. He could slice and strike my face. He could shave my beard and treat me not just as a boy, but a dog. He could isolate me. He could tear my name from me and make me the son of no one, loved by nobody. He could do whatever he pleased.” He turned to Maria, voice wavering as he spoke. “Where would I have run to? Who would I have hidden behind that would not whisper my arrogance to Al Mualim?”

There was silence as both Altaïr and Maria turned to stare at the cracked sandstone before them. “My face was unsightly, he told me,” Altaïr whispered. “Disrespectful, even.” He bent forward, elbows digging into his knees while he craned his head and rubbed his eyes. “Better kept hidden beneath a cowl, even in the arms of my brothers.” Altaïr swallowed. “He was correct.”

“No,” Maria opposed. “Your scar is not unsightly. It is not disgusting, or disrespectful, or anything that blabbering fool would have you believe. Your face is not unsightly. You are not unsightly.”

Altaïr chuckled, though it nearly sounded like a sob. “You do not have to lie, Maria.”

“I am not!” Maria all but shouted, coming in front of Altaïr and bending her knees slightly, stopping when she was level with him.

“I am nothing.”

“You are everything,” she pleaded. Maria cupped each of his cheeks, thumbs brushing the heavy, dark bags beneath his kohl-covered eyes. “You are kind and good and curious and wise and beautiful.”

It was Altaïr’s turn to scoff. “Beautiful? I hoped in our time together, you would have some respect for me, even if minute.”

Maria bit back an argument. Instead, she reached for his hands, squatting on the ground while she squeezed them. “You are not some ‘ugly, old Assassin’ beneath your hood,” she murmured, briefly lowering her voice and swapping her accent to mimic his words from Cyprus. Once she had seen his face in Cyprus for the first time, she had thought he was joking during their initial meeting with his Cypriot allies. Now, staring into his piercing eyes, Maria’s heart shattered knowing he had truly not lied. At least, he did not believe so.

She held his hand to her lips and kissed each knuckle. “You are so beautiful. Strikingly so. In fact, it is embarrassing to admit,” she managed a soft laugh. “You are not some broken, shattered weapon. You are the Mentor of the Assassins. You are a scholar. You are a man. You are Altaïr. And Altaïr is more than enough.” 

Altaïr was quiet. Maria did not press for an answer. His tear-stained cheeks, illuminated by the candlelight, were enough to signal the power of her words. Her heart pounded as she imagined the utter agony one man could carry. Maria had little autonomy under Robert’s control amongst the Templars, but Altaïr had possessed none under Al Mualim since the age of eleven. His name was stripped from him. His masculinity was torn away in favor of a boy to manipulate. His face was mutilated simply because Al Mualim could. To be at the mercy of a man with none, who believed himself worthy of the powers of God… Maria choked back her tears, instead burying her face in his hands and kissing each palm. 

“Altaïr,” she murmured, gazing up into his tearful eyes, “you are everything to me.” She cupped his cheek, ignoring her own hot tears as she smiled solemnly. “You have given me a fresh start. You have given me compassion, wisdom, love.” She swallowed a sob, standing before repositioning herself on the bed. Altaïr still said nothing, his eyes simply following Maria with every movement.

“Please,” Maria begged softly. She cupped her hands around Altaïr’s. “We are more than the instruments people would craft us to be.” Shuffling forward, Maria laid his hands over her heart, her own hands keeping them flat against her chest. “You are Altaïr. I am Maria. That is all we need be.”

Maria could not recall what resulted in Altaïr’s lips melding perfectly against her own. Perhaps it was the thump of her heartbeat. Perhaps it was their matching tears and snotty noses. Perhaps it was Altaïr’s released anguish. Or perhaps, it was merely Altaïr distracting himself from his nausea. Whatever the case, Maria gladly opened her mouth, finding Altaïr’s mouth absolutely delectable as her fingers combed through his curly locks. It was not the first time their lips had met so fervently. It was not even the first time their lips had met with so much love. But it was the first time their lips had met so unencumbered. There was no hesitance as Altaïr deepened their kiss, no weariness behind his lips. Nothing but relief and love and catharsis.

Eyes fluttering, Maria dug her fingers into Altaïr’s coarse hair. The warmth of their breaths mingled with each kiss. She sank her teeth into Altaïr’s lower lip, tugging it and slipping her tongue into his mouth. All the while, Altaïr pressed fervently in return, deepening their kiss as he tugged her forward. Maria’s head spun as her lips lingered by Altaïr’s long after they parted for air. His breath was hot and ragged on her cool skin. She tilted her head up, squinting her eyes as she analyzed his face. Tears stained his sharp cheeks. His eyes were red and puffy. Even with his mouth shut, Maria could see his teeth and gums through the exposed sliver of his scar.

Maria cupped both of his cheeks, her thumbs swiping the stray tears from his skin. She watched as his eyes crinkled and his lips tugged into an awkward hint of a smile. His curved nose, slightly crooked from Maria’s boot to his face only a few months prior, bounced the candlelight off his face. The flickering light highlighted his strong, sharp cheekbones. His eyes, a piercing swirl of gold and amber, were only emphasized by the kohl beneath them. Every inch and crevice of his face captivated her. The longer she stared, the more he strained against her palms as if tugging away from the attention. Tears welled in his eyes as her hold left him utterly exposed. But she could not let him tear away. His dark curls and his striking gaze and his full lips and his winding scar and his scruffy beard and his tan skin enchanted her very being. 

She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life. 

“Say something,” Altaïr croaked.

Maria did not. Instead, she leaned forward, peppering gentle kisses to his scar. Maria was careful not to irritate the slit in his upper lip any more than it already was. Rather, she gingerly trailed her velvet lips up along his scar, leaving small caresses along the trail. His facial hair – not quite a beard, but not quite stubble – tickled her cheeks. She smiled. 

“My first demand as your wife,” Maria murmured between kisses to his scar, “is that you must grow your beard out. I am fond of it.”

The world spun still with her words. Beneath her gentle touch, Maria could feel Altaïr’s body stiffen. “What?”

“Oh honestly, Altaïr, you cannot just stop listening to me immediately!” Maria huffed. “You have to wait at least a year.”

“I do not understand.” His voice shook – perhaps from nausea, perhaps from nerves, or perhaps from both.  Maria laid a hand on his bandaged chest. His heart threatened to thump out onto the floor. She grinned.

“We have been like this for many months,” she explained. “Stumbling around our feelings like some prepubescent children. One might think us virgins the way we stammer about.”

“Aside from insulting our maturity,” Altaïr spoke, his face contorted in confusion, “I am assuming you have a point to this.”

Maria waved her hand in dismissal. “Hush, let me get there.” The Englishwoman grasped Altaïr’s hands in her own, her thumbs stroking his calloused palms. “But tonight… something… it is difficult to explain.” She inhaled and squeezed his hands. Her pale, cerulean eyes met his amber stare. “I love you. I think you and I know that intimately by now. But it was not until tonight, with the mercenaries, the arrow, your scar… that I understood the extent of my love.”

Altaïr furrowed his brow. “I still do not understand. Why now?”

“Because for the first time,” Maria breathed, “I thought I would lose you.”

“This is not my first arrow. This is not even our first battle.”

“No, but I have never seen you so injured or ill. I have never seen you, the great Altaïr, retching over a bucket with bandages covering your entire torso.”

“If you do not make a point soon, I fear you may again.”

Cautiously, Maria handed Altaïr the water-filled chalice, waiting until he had drunk his fill to continue. Her throat swelled with tears as she gulped down her pride. “You have been so truly and utterly vulnerable tonight. You have shared with me the deepest parts of your pain. You have let me care for you and stay by your side.” She smiled through her tears, rolling her eyes as she wiped a few away and scoffed at herself. “Oh good God, this is humiliating.”

Altaïr managed a smile. A true smile. Not the phantom of a smile, or a mildly amused look. A small, bright smile that tugged his lips into his cheeks and formed a pair of dimples. Good God, Maria had never even noticed that before, and the revelation was not aiding her poor attempt at an explanation. “No, it is not,” he assured quietly. It was his turn to cup her pale cheeks. He swiped a tear from her eye, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Maria inhaled sharply, praying that God would not see her break into some weeping wildflower.

Mustering the courage and dignity that remained, Maria tightened her jaw and stared up at Altaïr. “I would walk with you to the ends of time, Altaïr. To our glory, to our doom, I do not care. As long as I walk beside you and chastise you for your foolish decisions to put yourself in front of arrows for the rest of my life, I will be content.”

Altaïr hesitated. “How can you make such a decision so hastily?”

Maria laughed. “My life is nothing but hasty decisions, Assassin.” She crawled beside him from the edge of the bed, wiggling by his side to find a more comfortable position. “But this is not one of them.”

Altaïr laid his head against the creaking headboard, closing his eyes. “So, you have decided that you are my wife now? I have no say in the matter?”

“Is that a question?”

“Maria.”

“No,” Maria answered plainly. “Not yet. But I will be.”

“What makes you so sure?” Altaïr taunted.

“I am a stubborn woman. You are a hot-tempered man. One will wear the other down eventually,” she teased.

“What if I said no?”

“You would not have called me your wife, then.”

Altaïr grinned. “That is true.” He opened his eyes and turned toward Maria, who quickly shot out her hand to ease the pain in his side. “Then you will need to learn more Arabic. It was horrendous before.”

Maria feigned a gasp. “You said I was improving!”

“Both can be true,” Altaïr countered.

“Fine. Next time, I will leave you to die amongst the vipers and vultures in the dunes.”

“You would not.”

“I will stab the arrow back into your side, Altaïr.”

“Now that, you would do.”

The two glared at one another, squinting their eyes and puffing their chests, until finally, Altaïr began to gag. Maria swooped for the bucket, lifting it to her lover’s face before he heaved into it. He murmured apologies, but Maria merely shushed him, her fingers stroking his curly hair. 

“You are still a fool for taking that arrow,” she reminded.

“You still would do the same,” Altaïr grumbled, panting into the bucket before wiping his mouth and gulping down what water remained inside the goblet. Maria kissed the top of his head, grabbing the nearest rag and wiping the beads of sweat from his face.

“You are not a weapon, Altaïr,” she reminded, careful as she dabbed around his scar. “You are a man. You do not need to earn my love or any other through reckless acts. You are a man, and that is enough.” 

Altaïr nodded, and Maria prayed he believed her.

[leieryx]

for make a terrible comic day except im way too invested i <3 making comicke

good timing though i was just about to draw :)

[skeletalheartattack]

im showing my friend clanker the awesome six eggs and single ice key i found today

[anonymusbosch]

sometimes i feel like extending the kindness you can, when you can, is the only thing there is

[elfsyellowflowerzart]

very busy babysitting a duo of kittens (only two months old) the last few days but i shall be drawing when i return home (this includes requests)

and also if anyone wants to see the babies send an ask and i can post them in response hehe i have taken SO many photos

[helianthologies]

so ive been making my mom play ut/dr with me bc i wanted to replay and my nephew always wants to tall to her about undertale when he comes over, and last night we finished deltarune ch1. and i BEAT JEVIL FOR THE SECOND TIME EVER . AND IT TOOK ME LESS THAN AN HOUR. I AM SO STRONG AND POWERFUL !!!!!!!!!!!!

[crossbackpoke-check]

wait you got me so invested in the stammer & heddy tailor au....

this is my standard disclaimer that i have never posted a fic on ao3* and for however much i say “au” i truly mean that it’s a universe that lives in my head & i am absolutely delighted to tell you all about, all the time <3 if it helps i ALSO got me so invested in the heddy & stammer tailor au

ok now that the author’s note is out of the way here’s some notes about the not!fic heddy & stammer tailor au:

stammer as the tailor from gent’s playbook, very reserved, quiet, with an excellent eye for details (honestly the evidence i have for his style sense is just that he’s best friends with pk subban so it has to be there somewhere if only by proxy irl) is hired by victor hedman, star of the tampa bay lightning who is every other tailor’s nightmare to dress (huge, opinionated, fashionable)

heddy is decently well-known throughout the league for being very well-dressed & becomes quietly well known for also being one of his new tailor’s favorite loyal customers [heddy has the nicest fabrics. he has his suits the first day a new collection drops & e v e r y o n e is jealous]

stammer’s business booms after heddy takes a chance on him as his first big client & promotes him, heddy sees him grow in popularity & get more clients

heddy also moonlights as a model for stammer’s suits on instagram, initially to help him grow his business because then he won’t have to pay for a model and then because he’s over there all the time anyway because they’re dating (that’s why the model’s face is never in the pictures)

there’s not really a plot to this besides the vague idea of a plot where stammer makes heddy his lucky suit that he wins the cup in & sews a special little tag into the lining of his jacket that says i love you

because love sometimes is picking out the perfect right color pocket square to match your husband’s beautiful suit that you fitted like a kiss to the curves of his huge body

& also sometimes love is making your beautiful husband who makes you beautiful clothing enjoy nice things for himself once in a while, like the fancy watch you bought him or the nice suit you custom-ordered for him (from him) just so you could take it off of him

[love-fireflysong]

I AM A PLATFORMING GOD!!!!!!

(...except not really cause I still need the 38 time trial relics for that coveted 106% 😭)

[teamahwol]

I have read two books in three days

[cibome]

.

[gallusrostromegalus]

Might I inquire as to what, precisely, a Mustain't is? (Aside from a string of letters I hesitate to Google in that order.)

In October 2014 I went on a road-trip to the Dryest Place In America.

I was having a rough year, very depressed from having dropped out of college for the third time. I decided a road trip was in order to re-set my brain and get a little distance. Being that it was October, and therefore all the campgrounds in the American Southwest were filled with people who have the good sense to camp in reasonable temperatures, I elected to take my parent's minivan so I could car-camp anywhere suitably isolated, and looked up some of the southwest's geographic extremes- the highest place I could drive to (Pikes Peak), the lowest place (Badwater Basin), and for fun, the Dryest Place in the continental US, which turned out to be the Pinacate Volcanic field just west of Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. It gets rain maybe twice a century and has no standing water, despite being less than 100 miles from the gulf of California.

It's a startlingly beautiful and alien place. The ground is a deep chocolate brown to black volcanic sand, and in mid October, the rabbit brush is turning bright yellow as it shifts to autumn, the organ pipe cacti are a dark green and stand, partially concealed in the brush at exactly human height. The air is alive with birds and insects and bats at night. The stargazing is like looking into the eyes of God.

You get there by driving down a little dirt road called "El Camino Del Diablo", or "The Devil's Road".

I drove out about three hours from Glendale, AZ to get there, arriving at sunset, and felt a profound sense of peace. I stargazed, listening to the bats hunt and sing, and slept peacefully for the first time in months.

I stayed out there for three days, sketching and painting the landscape, taking strolls through this almost alien landscape, and enjoying the light and sound and total absence of human intrusion besides myself.

On the fourth night, it was a new moon, and I awoke in the middle of the night. Something was amiss, and it took me a while to realize it was because I could NOT hear the bats. I was sleeping inside the van with the rear windows rolled halfway down rather than trying to set up the tent, so I when I sat up, I looked out of the van's reflective windows to discover what at first appeared to be A Horse.

It was something between pale gray and bright white in the starlight, standing maybe a dozen feet from the van, sniffing curiously. It made sense- I was in the middle of mustang country and there was quite a bit of foliage in the area for it and it did look like a truly wild horse- lumpy where the bones were jutting out, dusty about the hooves and face.

I was instantly seized by the sort of paralytic fear Sleep paralysis is made of. I couldn't move. It wasn't quite looking at me because it couldn't quite see through the windshield into the shadowy into the shadowy interior, but I had the distinct impression that if I looked away, it would know, and get me.

I already had problems with horses. My beloved Aunt Helen's Prize mare tried to kill me on two separate occasions, and the year before I had to carry my sister-in-law backwards out of a slot canyon whilst reciting the Saint Crispin's Day Speech as loudly as possible to keep a mustang from trampling us to death.

This is approximately what it should have looked like:

Instead, it was... off. like trying to draw a horse from memory.

The waist tapered in.

The legs were slightly too long or the torso slightly too short, probably both.

The ears were Triangular.

The head wasn't quite right- Too narrow and the jaw wasn't heavy enough.

The tail was too long and arced unnaturally away from the body.

The neck arched.

The nostrils were too high and close

The mouth too long.

Whatever this is, a Mustang it Ain't.

I watched it from the back seat as it sniffed around the front of the van, curious with about the side mirrors. It moved around the van, nibbling experimentally on the front door handle. It came up to the side windows, sniffing like a dog, and it's breath didn't fog up the glass.

Finally, it came up to the rear window, which was rolled halfway down to let the fall night air in. Not even half a pane of glass and two feet of air between us, and I could clearly see it's bright blue eyes.

Horses have Elongated pupils to give them a wide field of vision, and eyes that rotate sideways in their sockets so the pupil remains parallel to the ground. Rather creepy to watch, especially the ones with blue eyes.

A real horse that was curious about the interior of the van would have come up to the window more or less sideways, and looked at me with something like this:

Instead, the damn thing walked up and faced the back window head on, staring back at me with this:

I'm not sure how long we watched each other like that, eyes locked. My eyes burned. I couldn't blink. My mouth was dry. I couldn't swallow. My throat began to ache. I couldn't make a sound. My skin began to twitch, like I was severely dehydrated. I couldn't move. My lungs burned. I couldn't move. I couldn't move. I couldn't move. I couldn't move.

Something was touching the side of my hand on the seat next to me. It's my water bottle.

The realization must have broken the terrible paralysis in the lower parts of my brain first, because by the time I consciously realized I could move again, I was already flinging my water bottle out the window at it.

The top was open, and splashed out the window at the Mustain't.

I've never heard such a scream out of an animal. Something halfway between the sound of unquenchable rage vibrating in someone's chest and the way rabbits cry out to God when the dogs catch them.

It jumped back, pivoting away from the van, snarling at the water bottle. I don't think you're supposed to be able to see All of a horse's teeth at once, no matter how angry it is.

I watched it run into the night for some distance, it's pale body visible against the black sand and the dark gray shadow of the ancient volcanic cone it was headed for.

When the blood stopped pounding in my ears, I could hear the bats again.

I debated leaving right then, but I didn't want to get out of the van with that thing in the area, nor litter by leaving the water bottle out there. I also had the awful idea that if I left now, it might somehow be able to follow me home. I ended up staying up three hours to watch the sunrise, shaking and trying to figure out if I'd woken up from a vivid dream, if my meds had stopped working, or if that had really happened. I didn't dare move until I actually felt the temperature rise, before stepping out of the van to grab the bottle. I had my camera ready- I was still using a DSLR back then- to take pictures of the hoofprints, to show how close it had gotten to the van.

No hoofprints.

Beetle tracks in the soft sand around the van, and the clear foot-and-wing prints of a bird that had hopped around then taken off. But no hoofprints.

I went over the entire campsite with the tent broom, to make sure I removed every scrap of evidence I had ever been there, including my footprints, grabbed my water bottle, and drove the three hours back back to Glendale, then decided to do seven more hours of driving to Moab, Utah just to put more than 500 miles, the state line and at least nine things that could be considered "running water" between me and the Mustain't.

-

I still have that water bottle. It has a dent in the bottom from hitting something, but that could have happened at any time. Strange thing though. I can't drink that bottle dry. I'll have it on me, drink whatever I've put in there- water, juice, iced coffee- and eventually feel like I've drunk the whole think and that it's empty. But I open it up and it's still at least a quarter full. I drink that. I get thirsty. I open it up again. ...and there's always a mouthful left.

Not sure what the side effects of drinking from a bottle cursed by a Mustain't to always have some left are, but it lives in the Emergency Breakdown Kit in my car now, just in case I meet another one.

---

(I'm a disabled artist and make my living telling stories, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi or Pre-order the Family Lore book on Patreon)

[foldingfittedsheets]

Since everyone seems to love my sex shop stories, here’s another one.

Phone calls were literally a game for us. Not all phone calls, but there was a specific brand of call where guys would creep on us. 90% of the workforce at the sex shops was women. So we’d get dudes calling jacking off or trying to get their jollies from us.

The game: make them hang up. We could have hung up. On a few occasions I did, but for the most part we made a sport out of getting creeps to go flaccid. It really depended on a caller.

You couldn’t just go in for belittling them straight off- some guys wanted that. You had to tailor your strategy to the perv. Overall it was pretty fun and it turned an aspect of the job that could’ve become a major bummer into a fun sport. We’d get excited when the phones rang.

So one day the phone rings. I pick up and it was very clearly a young teen who was putting on a deep voice. I was utterly delighted, I’d never had a crank call before. He said, “I have a dildo emergency! Can you deliver 5 boxes of dildos to my home?!”

It took everything in me not to crack in that moment. It was so funny. It was like three kids had walked through the door in a trench coat and the phrase “dildo emergency” was one of the funniest things I’d ever heard.

But I kept it together. In smooth customer service tones I replied, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear you’re having an emergency, but due to the nature of our product we do require people to come pick it up themselves.”

The caller audibly deflated. Some of the deep voice he was putting on bled away when he said plaintively, “But it’s an emergency…”

“I’m sorry, sir, rules are rules.”

He hung up. I burst out laughing and told my coworker what had happened. She said, “I will buy you lunch if you call back and pretend you can deliver something.”

This sounded like an all around win for me, and the kid hadn’t used anything to block his number. So I called back.

“Hello!” This was before caller ID was common for home phones and so he picked up in his totally normal voice, several octaves higher than before.

“Hello, I’m calling regarding your dildo emergency?”

“Oh! Hem hem,” he coughed, getting his voice back into character for me. “Yes! The emergency!”

“Well I’ve spoken to my manager and it’s your lucky day. We’ll be able to make a delivery after all. Five boxes you said? We can swing it by later, we’ll just need your name, address, and credit card number.”

He was thrown by needing to provide info and was silent for a moment then said, “Well how much is it for five boxes?”

“About five hundred dollars, sir.”

He slipped out of his character voice to exclaim, “Five hundred dollars?! What kind of dildos are they?!”

“Just standard six inches with balls, sir.”

This was his breaking point. He started wheezing with laughter trying to repeat the phrase “six inches with balls” incoherently.

“So your address and card info?”

He hung up and I broke down laughing too. We both got a kick out of it, and I won the game twice in one day.

[ifeelfreewithoutmyshoes]

I kinda wanna go on a rant but I honestly just think I need to sleep

[likedbyuarmyhope]

rn my queue is full of all the posts that were left in my likes and drafts but as soon as that runs out i’m gonna start being normal and just reblog stuff as i see it. you know. like a normal person