#thread: dereliction of duty

[princepsumbra]

Dereliction of Duty

continued from here; @indevouement

Leo accepts the teacup, pulling it closer with one hand, noting the impressive polish that makes the golden rim gleam. How Jakob produced tea service on short notice, Leo will never know--though he suspects the butler keeps an emergency tray fully prepped at all times. Such devotion to his craft is certainly a magic all its own.

He listens quietly. A bird flies past his office window, casting a brief shadow across the room. "Kidnapping?" Leo prompts when Jakob pauses. Silence stretches on. In the span of seconds, Jakob's entire demeanor shifts into one of barely concealed panic. He does an admirable job covering it; if not for the desperate way he asks for tea, Leo would think he was avoiding an unpleasant memory.

Green eyes narrow. "Almyran pine needles, please," he replies. "And to answer your question, I am curious because of the staggering use of magic. A spell like that would require massive amounts of energy, not to mention exact incantations. Sustaining anything of that magnitude for an extended period of time would wear out even the most talented of mages."

Expression clears of suspicion as he speaks. An overreaction, surely. "Yes, others can provide me with clarity, and I intend to ask at some point. I thought it best to inquire with those I already have an established rapport. Corrin has told me little herself." Underhanded, some might say, of him preying on Jakob's devotion. But Leo isn't lying--he has not been made privy to the full extend of the nightmares that befell his beloved.

One more push. "Consider this part of my research on the subject. If what everyone is saying is true, none of your perceived experiences were real, and therefore, none of your actions had any lasting consequences in the real world." What an incredibly jarring effect that must have regardless.

[dsm-v]

i deactivated my twitter last night because someone asked me to put CWs on a thread that I had already posted and I was just like you know what, fuck it

[ninibeingdelulu]

Hidden ✧

Plot: You’re the president’s daughter he came to rescue, and you both need to hide in a small hole.

A/N: the president’s daughter reader is back y’all yeahhh

As your frantic footfalls echoed through the derelict cabin's dimly lit halls, Leon's calloused grip clamped vice-like around your wrist.

Forcibly dragging your stumbling frame towards a promising crevice of safety tucked along the far interior wall.

In one fluid series of motions, he shoved you into the musty shadows of that nook before barricading the open space with an ancient wardrobe wedged against the crumbling sheetrock.

Effectively sealing you both inside that makeshift sanctuary from whatever evil forces still lurked beyond those creaking timbers...

"Stay low and keep those pretty lips zipped if you know what's good for you," Leon's gravelly baritone hissed out mere inches from your face through the suffocating blackness enveloping your curled forms.

Just the thought of whatever merciless terrors he was willing to unleash in order to uphold this mission's integrity sent a tremulous shiver rattling through your shoulders to silently obey.

Until that spoiled, entitled nature of yours simply couldn't resist one final petulant sigh of displeasure over the cramped captivity.

"There's barely any room at all to-"

Before you could finish that complaint, a single broad palm slammed over the part of your lips while his forearm pinned you firmly against the damp wall.

Body caging yours in as the former RPD officer issued a scathing reprimand on a rough whisper skimming along your jaw.

"Shut up if you want to live, princess ..."

Within the next breath, you were being hauled up against his rock-solid frame until your backside suddenly landed against the cradle of those corded thighs wrapped around your waist.

Heat instantly prickling under your cheeks at such scandalous proximity to those taut muscles bulging beneath his battle-worn fatigues.

"What are you doing ?" you indignantly mumbled against the leather-scented palm still locked over your gasping mouth as Leon shifted and adjusted your positioning atop his bunching arousal trapped beneath those cargos.

"Just giving you what you wanted, princess..." he rumbled out on a hissed breath fanning your hairline. "More space to wiggle that restless body around in without blowing our cover entirely."

In a true testament to Leon's pragmatic stoicism, he simply pulled your squirming form flush against his torso once more.

Then wrapped one solid appendage around your ribs to silently signal he'd tolerate no further fussing over the matter.

Crossing your arms with an indignant huff, you were left silently stewing about the fact that at least in this shadowed intimacy...he wouldn't be able to witness the furious bloom of crimson staining your cheeks at such close proximity.

But of course, your pins-and-needles started kicking in from supporting all your weight on those throbbing legs less than a minute later - leaving you fidgeting ceaselessly to find a more comfortable position once again.

A deep, guttural hiss of air sliced past your cheek as Leon's rock-hard abdominals spasmed beneath your restlessly shifting weight - only realizing belatedly that your churning rear end kept grinding against the rapidly swelling ridge suddenly tenting the front of his heavy-duty garments.

Instantly freezing in shock when you craned your neck up to search those inscrutable features hovering just overhead...

Without warning, a powerful hand was cupping the nape of your skull while calloused fingertips threaded sharply through your tangled locks to jerk your focus frontwards again.

"Don't move. A muscle" came his sandpaper growl against your temple - syllables nearly lost amidst the roaring drumbeat pulsing beneath your own frantic pulse points as your thighs instinctively clenched around his.

Too shaken to disobey, you simply swallowed back your shuddery gasps and meekly nodded.

Practically tasting those electrifying waves of primal aggression rolling off his hulking frame while he waged whatever internal war against himself.

Close enough in the darkness for the heat gusting from his flaring nostrils to fan across your cheeks in tandem with each strained exhale.

And then...there was nothing but bristling tension coiling tighter and tighter between your suspended forms until even Leon's very bones seemed to thrum with it - scarcely allowing either of you to cycle air into your lungs.

At least until the droning swarm beyond your flimsy barricade quieted for more than a few minutes' respite, signaling your opportunity to extract yourselves from this debauched tangle of limbs.

"Break’s over, ...use your feet and shove that dresser out of the way."

Leon finally ground out once that punishing grip eased from the back of your skull.

"We need to get moving before I give those freaks an even bigger reason to hunt us down."

Bobbing a rapid nod, you braced your calves against the barrier until it gave way enough to slither back outside into the fading twilight hues.

Every breath hitching raggedly into your constricted lungs as the dark, woodsy scents finally chased away the aroma of leather and gunpowder consuming your senses.

From there, Leon slipped back into that hardened survivalist on autopilot - all traces of those searing undercurrents wiped clean from his expression save the barely perceptible flush tingeing those razor-etched cheekbones.

So you had no choice but to fall back in step behind his long, purposeful strides guiding you deeper into the night's embrace without so much as sparing you a sidelong glance this time.

"Come on, princess...we lost enough time back there." His signature endearment for you practically snarled out with customary disdain.

"The rendezvous coordinates aren't getting any closer dawdling around like this."

Rolling your eyes, you simply complied in silence with those unspoken orders.

[greenqueenhightower]

https://www.reddit.com/r/HouseOfTheDragon/comments/15nfr5o/the_loss_of_aemonds_eye_was_everyones_fault/

There's whole threads dedicated to the night Aemond lost an eye and where the hell was everyone including Criston who was meant to be on guard duty. He personally comes with some lameass excuse why he was not at his post. Where is he specifically that night when he's meant to be guarding the royal family? He was meant to be on watch and he wasn't. I wonder how he got away with such dereliction of duty. I'm guessing B &C he does it again, just wandering off. I don't know what part Alicent plays in it properly but he has a certified history of deserting his post.

Criston was meant to be on guard duty yes, but where exactly? Outside the King’s chambers? Outside Alicent’s? Aegon’s, Aemond’s, Helaena’s? Because again, they are guests of the Velaryons. The Velaryons have their own guards (which are many more). The comment “You have the night watch, Ser Criston” that Westerling makes at Driftmark informs us that yes, Criston will be keeping watch at night, but he wasn’t the only one (as we see later on when there are guards present at the Velaryons' hall). It just means that Westerling won’t be keeping watch. If you remember, Westerling asks Viserys “Shall I look after Queen Alicent, Your Grace?” to which Viserys says no. Therefore, Criston is assigned that role. So Criston wasn’t meant to be guarding the whole Velaryon household, and neither would he get any near Rhaenyra’s and Daemon’s children. His position has always been with regard to Alicent, serving as her sworn protector. The fact that Westerling (and in armor) found the children first indicates that he had rather still not gone to bed, not that he had the night watch. He simply heard the commotion and ran. Criston was probably further away (as were Alicent and Viserys) when all this happened. If you take a look at the scene, Criston is not blamed by Westerling. He is questioned by Viserys but so is Westerling. Even if Criston was blamed by Westerling who is his superior, it could be explained due to their animosity as it is established throughout season 1. Westerling, if he put the blame on Criston (and he didn't) would have been looking for a scapegoat to blame in the heat of the moment just like Alicent did by slapping Aegon. All in all, I would not say that Criston has a “certified history for deserting his post” since Westerling, his superior, didn’t seem to think so.

[skitskatdacat63]

Boy King AU | Vettonso + Martian | 1.3k

There's something about putting the future emperor of the Holy Realm on his knees like this. About how easily he goes, how willingly, how obediently. What would his adoring public think if they could see him now. If they saw their beloved king pressed down like this, in the cramped space between Fernando's legs. When they realized their little boy king took it like he was a little concubine instead. 

Fernando's bitterness is lifted away in moments like these, like taking off a heavy cloak on a winter's day. It was hard to feel humiliated about his own situation when watching Sebastian debase himself like this. 

He always gives himself up so easily. When Fernando threaded his fingers through his thick curls. When he pulled them, and then when he pressed his face down further down into the vee of his legs.  Sebastian rubbed his cheek into the coarse fabric of Fernando's breeches and blinked up at him. Fernando had to smother an embarrassing sound; he was just like a little cat!

Sebastian quirked his lips up into an odd little smile and slightly rose up on his knees, "What's funny?" Fernando swallowed lightly and schooled his face back into being impassive, "Nothing. As you were." Sebastian simply smirked at him and let himself be pushed back down by the fist clenched in his hair. 

Fernando scoffed internally, there was only so much pleasure in putting the other man in his place when he instead acted like this, this degrading action, was his birthright. He took to ruling and indulging in carnal pleasures as if they were of equal gravity. To be privileged to hold such high station and also let himself be taken apart like this…Fernando felt embarrassed for him.

He is dragged away from his musings when Sebastian moved to settle his hands in Fernando's lap, clutching his hips over the fabric and slightly squeezing; Fernando fought against the urge to shiver. Sebastian pushed up the skirt of Fernando's waistcoat and smoothed his hands over the opening flap of his breeches.

His eyes darted up at Fernando again, a daft smile on his face. Fernando scowled at him, "What?" Seb's grin sharpened, "You could stand to be a little more gracious. This is your future emperor, and future husband might I add, kneeling for you on this dirty, depraved, derelict- ah–" Fernando tugged on his hair again and hissed, "Well then, why don't you show me how eager you are to perform your marital duties?" 

Seb licked his lips, completely unconcerned by Fernando's annoyance, and unbuttoned one side of the closure to Fernando's breeches and moved to open the other–

The door to the carriage flew open, arrival announcement dying on a wheezing breath as the servant took in the image the two kings made. One splayed across the seat, exuding power, the other kneeled, debauched, between the former's legs. 

One would be hard pressed to determine which was higher on the totem of power and titles. 

There was something gratifying about this to Fernando, about being caught. He had been humiliated enough throughout the entire courtship, what was one more thing? And, certainly, what was one more thing if he could drag Sebastian down into the dirt with him. 

"Oh Mark, don't act so abashed! It's nothing you haven't seen before, in fact, we have been in this very position not even a fortnight ago!"

Oh. Yes. That. 

It was hard to be completely pleased when he remembered how Sebastian had already spent years prior to their engagement sampling the palace's ample selection of fellow high-born men. And how all those men seemed to be completely and utterly wrapped around his little finger.

Fernando released his hand from Sebastian's hair as if it had burned him. He did not understand why he felt ashamed with Mark looking in on them like this. Fernando was the one marrying Sebastian, not Mark; Mark was just a lowly courtier who had the esteemed duty of spending practically every waking hour with the brat…something he himself was decidedly not looking forward to. 

Sebastian stayed kneeling, staring impassively up at Mark, still fiddling with the clasp on Fernando's breeches. Fernando gritted his teeth and looked up from where he was watching Sebastian's clever little hands; Mark stared back at him placidly. 

Mark's indifference made the entire situation worse. Fernando now felt as if he was not doing anything unique, not doing anything particularly new. How many other men had Mark caught Seb with in this exact position? Fernando felt like he was just another plaything of the boy king, soon to be boy emperor, except his position was forever, permanent. He was the "Kept King", the king who only kept his throne due to the whims of a boy who doesn't even understand what power is.

Mark coughed, "Well," he says, "Your Majesty, I do believe you have a meeting to attend." Seb pouted at him and whined, "We were just getting to the main course," but still braced himself on Fernando's thighs and got up off the carriage floor. 

Seb pranced down the steps Mark had placed next to the carriage, miming tripping sown the stairs, snickering when his action made Mark reflexively reach out to grab him, and then playfully skipped off the final step. 

Fernando couldn't help but stare as Mark made the weirdest grimace in response, and he inexplicably felt all his mortification seep away from him. Huh. Maybe Mark is-

Seb then turned around and frowned at him, seemingly disappointed, but his eyes are deceivingly sharp, "Fernando, I regret to inform you that I have other duties I must attend to, you will simply have to wait." He then grinned up at Mark next to him and giggled as the other man stiffened when Sebastian looped both of his arms through Mark's. 

He leaned all his weight on the other man, Mark not so much as shifting his weight, "Oh Mark, won't you carry me back to the palace? I'm so very tired after all the horse riding," Seb looked up at him imploringly.

Fernando observed as Mark rolled his eyes and shrugged off the man, though notably not pulling his arm from Seb's grasp, and he got the distinct feeling that this exact scene had been played out countless times before. 

Fernando clenched his jaw as he watched Seb turn and saunter off, Mark trotting alongside him like a loyal dog. Fernando was supposed to be the unaffected one in this partnership, the unflustered one, the unconcerned one. And yet here he stood, in broad daylight, in a foreign kingdom, on the steps of a carriage with his breeches half unbuttoned and his cravat in disarray. 

He heard a cough from beside him, jolted and looked to the side. Sebastian's loyal Horse Master stood there, lounging against the side of the carriage. Fernando had forgotten who had even been driving the carriage in the first place. After Seb has let himself be pushed down, his hair still windswept from their ride together, everything else seemed to fade away. His thoughts were reduced only to how he could mess up the younger man's hair further. 

Jenson grinned at him wolfishly, and casually crossed his legs,  "First time?" he inquired. Fernando glared at him. The other man laughed openly at him, "What? He's a busy man with big prospects. You're not his majesty's only conquest, you know. Now your throne on the other hand…"

Fernando seethed, it was one thing to be humiliated by the future emperor, but to be patronized by the king's horse boy? No. It would simply not do. He closed his eyes in annoyance, pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled, and prepared a speech about how he was not about to be talked down to by a man who didn't even have a throne to speak of! 

But when he opened his eyes again and opened his mouth to begin his tirade, Jenson was already wandering away to tend to the horses. Dios mío, Fernando was not mentally prepared to spend the rest of his life with all of these impertinent morons. 

[fayes-fics]

Hey congratulations for a new milestone 🥹💕

Can I request a mini drabble for Anthony

From Part I #4

Anthony + Stop looking at me like that or my knees will not hold me any longer

March 2023 Mini Drabbles Masterpost

Hi Nonny!

Thank you!

So that is Anthony + “Stop looking at me like that, or my knees will not hold me any longer.”

I hope you enjoy what I have come up with below. It's a bit angsty, actually. 😁🧡🧡

He is staring you down, his chest heaving under the white shirt he wears untucked.

“Stop looking at me like that, or my knees will not hold me any longer,” you whisper desperately, your last shred of propriety hanging dangerously in the balance.

“Then leave,” he challenges.

And yet your legs cannot do anything but stay rooted to the spot, mesmerised by the sight of him on the moonlit terrace. 

“You have until the count of three. Then I will not be held accountable for my actions. One…” he warns, low and threaded with danger.

“You are not my husband,” you hiss.

“If I were, you would not be so unsatisfied. I cannot believe Lord Wetherby is so derelict in his duty,” his tone cutting. 

“He tries…” you counter weakly, knowing it's not true. 

Your husband has barely touched you beyond the necessary mechanics to produce an heir on the few times he has even bothered to try. You know just from one glance at Anthony Bridgerton, all riled and agitated as he is, that there are passions beyond your current realm of understanding. And god knows you want him to be the one to show you. To take you right now, here. Against the walls of his home.

“Two….”

“Anthony, we cannot… I….” your protests sound hollow and token even to your own ears. 

You can't look away from the maelstrom of his face, a curl of his chestnut hair caught by the night breeze as it dances around his forehead. You look down at your wringing hands and then back up at him, already knowing how this will go. 

“Take me,” you murmur. 

And as he advances on you and your lips meet in a frenzy, it feels like the very opposite of defeat.

[inscrutable-shadow]

Mediwhump May Day 4 - Pain

@mediwhumpmay

This is canon-compatible with the current version of the ieiunus-verse (the current name of the universe in which my vampire stories take place) and therefore uses the main WIP tag. Thanatos is, obviously, a vampire. Born in Athens in 421 BC, he is currently working as a therapist in a modern-day city while living with his lover, the physical manifestation of Reality itself. The Archfey just thinks he's cute, and the vampire sex is a plus, too. The only content warning is I guess skip this one if you don't want to see PG-13 flirting, lol.

Thanatos was used to waking up and wishing he hadn’t. This was usually due to laziness. He would never have purported to be a hardworking sort of man, and immortality had not inspired in him any sort of work ethic. He preferred to spend his days either reading philosophy, writing his own essays, or systematically destroying the worldviews of his therapy clients, none of which he considered “work“, but rather entertainment. Today, however, he’d be unable to do any of those things. Getting out of bed was a challenge when his curse ached like this.

As much as most vampires would like you to forget it, vampirism is, in fact, a curse. Since Lord Cain Umbra had forged his contract with the Shadow on a distant planet tens of thousands of years ago, each vampire has been forced to abide by the terms of not only his original agreement, but their own contract: offer up blood and death to the Shadow in exchange for power and eternal life.

Well. Not life exactly. A vampire wasn’t technically dead, only mostly so, the natural ties that bound the soul to the body replaced by threads of dark magic. It felt just as if someone had taken real thread and stitched it throughout your body, and the pain never went away. It wasn’t as bad after four thousand years as it had been when he’d freshly turned, with the wounds on his soul just as fresh as the memory of life without pain, but it was still known to flare up from time to time. 

Why today of all days? It wasn’t as if he’d been derelict in his duty to the Shadow. He’d just hunted two days ago, and he was barely hungry. Nor could he recall any contact with high levels of light magic such as a seraph or a revenant would be able to wield: his life had been rather peaceful of late. He couldn’t ponder it any further, though, distracted as he was by the Archfey materialising under the covers next to him. It was so strange how ae did that.

“Good afternoon, slug-a-bed, if you have no pressing work to drag you from your sheets, perhaps you will consider pressing something else...?” ae whispered in his ear, and he realised ae wasn’t wearing aer robes, the coolness of aer skin granting him the smallest relief from his curse. 

As much as he wanted to make love to aer, with aer eyes like the sun and smile like the hearth, the thought of doing that much exercise made him want to lock himself into a coffin and not come out for a few hundred years. “Forgive me, my love,” his voice was faint and strained with effort. “I don’t think I’ll have the energy today…”

The Archfey’s forehead wrinkled as ae rested aer chin on his shoulder. “Are you unwell, Thanatos? Tell me what ails you. Shall I conjure blood for you? Or is the house too cool? Have you grown tired of the wallpaper or the carpeting? I can change-“

“No, my dear heart, you needn’t change the furniture. The curse is quite painful today, is all.” He wanted nothing less than for the Archfey to conjure blood for him. Even after the thousands of years they’d spent together, ae was still as bad as it as ae’d been when they met. He cupped aer cheek affectionately, trying not to focus on the edges of his soul burning. 

Ae thought for a moment, leaning into his touch. “Would... drinking my magic help?”

Thanatos shook his head. If anything, that would probably make it worse: it had just occurred to him that his close proximity to the literal manifestation of reality, a being composed of pure magic, likely disagreed with his soul stitching and caused these flares to begin with. “I just need to rest, Rea. Don’t fret over me.”

The Archfey seemed to have come to a decision. “Yes. You can drink your fill later.” Flirting with him? Now? Ae kissed him on the cheek and teleported away, leaving him to wonder what ae was up to.

Than had just started trying to go back to sleep when his lover returned clothed and bearing a tray, upon which sat a bowl of hot water and some towels. “I watched mortals do this recently. A ‘warm compress’ relieves muscle tightness and reduces pain. This will help you.” He didn’t think it would, but he thought the whole thing was adorable, so he didn’t argue.

To his surprise, as the Archfey packed the hot cloths around him, the pain receded slightly. Even if, by the end, he looked like a mummy and was just as immobile as when they’d started, he felt much better. He groaned as he relaxed into the pillows, letting the heat sink into his bones. It wasn’t as if his vampiric body was producing much of its own. 

“How is that, darling? Any better?”

“Mhm,” he mumbled with his eyes shut, already dropping off again. The Archfey smiled and tucked aerself in next to him.

Perhaps the curse wasn’t so bad after all.

Tagging @albatris because we are vampire mutuals now :) lmk if you'd rather not get tagged in ieiunusverse content!

[toryo]

Hoc Est Sanguis Meum

I sip the last drops

Of cherry flavored cold medicine

From a tiny plastic cup

To ease my covid symptoms

To throw my anchor overboard

Into sleep

It is red

And alcoholic

"Hoc est sanguis Meum"

A voice inside me echoes

I do not want to be reminded

Of the terms of my covenant

To submit to the will of God always

Until death and forever after

"I have seen enough of this life

And have no interest in an eternal version"

I had prayed

On the first day of symptoms

That this would be It

That the farce I was birthed into

Would finally be over soon

And my spirit would finally

Float onto the shores of Sheol

My consciousness would fade

Into a dark and quiet oblivion

A voice echoes inside me

"For this is My blood

of the new testament

Which is shed for many

For the remission of sins

Whenever you drink

Do this

In remembrance of Me"

I am a poor servant

But a servant still

A single meager thread

In God's grand tapestry

O Christ

Grant me strength

That I do not falter and

By dereliction of duty

Harm Your creation

[solarisrasa]

All I Could Bring Myself to Want is You pt 7

A Malec fic canon divergent from the moment Alec hands the Family Ring back to Maryse Lightwood.

Read it here on Ao3

part six

Isabelle’s hands no longer shook from venom withdrawals and her sleepless nights were no longer the by-product of her body violently aching for yin fen but it was a feeling she would never forget.

Sitting at her desk, staring at the tablet laying dark on it, she imagined the ghost of her withdrawal weeks. Her arm ached were Raphael had most often bitten her and she cursed herself for focusing on it in an effort to ignore the messages that had come to her.

Consul Penhallow was hanging onto her seat by threads as dissent in the council forced a widening divide between those who wanted to work with Downworlders, embrace the unity Alec had sparked and Izzy had worked for, and those who wanted, not that. Most of the side against Jia and the more progressive members of the Clave was claiming that they wanted a return to the “status quo” and were shouting about Jia’s policy being a “dangerous change motivated by the desire to gain favor with the youth.”

Izzy knew, as she was sure Jia did, that a frightening number of those voices truly wanted to subjugate and openly harm the Downworld.

The increasing number of messages in her inbox asking for her to send results of the recent team-up crews from  both sides made her insides twist. She believed in the cause and knew to her core that the Clave backsliding would tear the Shadow World to pieces but she had never wanted to spearhead the change. Well, not in the position she was now.

Isabelle knew she was brilliant and capable and more than able to run the institute but the dance of politics on top of her other obligations threatened to crush her. She knew that Alec had been prepared to handle it, had been making arrangements to be a more active voice in Downworld equality on both sides and he had done what he could to help her when he handed her the reins. The real problem was he had planned to do it with Jace, Clary, and herself to bear some of the weight of the institute and Magnus’ support and advice, maybe even Simon’s. Izzy had Simon.

Angel, she loved him but he could not help her cover the amount of ground that was needed.

Alec and Jace had been forced to step back, both with their own issues and the brand that Catarina Loss had left on her brother. Its consequences spilled over to Jace as they were Parabatai and though he suffered no physical affects the Downworld had turned away from him as strongly as they had Alec.

The dark tablet screen in front of her lit up with another incoming message and she closed her eyes. It was barely noon and her stress headache was ratcheting into a blinding migraine already.

She focused again, swiping at the screen and reading the words.

“Fuck.”

Jia’s delay in choosing a new Inquisitor to replace Imogen Herondale was being cited as “total dereliction of duty” and while that wouldn’t stick, especially with Lydia temporarily filling the position, it would ring true enough with both sides. Even Isabelle couldn’t understand what had delayed the posting. Or she hadn’t been able to, before another message came in, marked urgent from the Consul’s office.

  Ms. Lightwood,

I was recently made aware of Magnus Bane’s return to New York. I am advising you to take the steps you deem necessary to arrange reconciliation of some kind between himself and Alexander Lightwood. Mr. Lightwood and Mr. Herondale’s continued disengagement from the affairs of the Clave as well as Downworld missions has become dangerous. If no agreements can be reached I may be forced to take actions that I would   very   much prefer to avoid.  

  I trust the importance of returning stability to a capable and shrewd leader like Mr. Lightwood and a brilliant fighter like Mr. Herondale is something you can understand.

  I expect a response at your earliest availability

 J Penhallow

  Consul

Izzy could read between the lines well enough. Jia wanted Alec patched up enough for her to offer him the Inquisitor’s appointment. Izzy might want that for him eventually but he needed more  time to sort out the disaster the last year had been. Not that she had a choice. Not that it was even her call to make.

She typed her reply, acknowledging but promising nothing, and summoned Andrew Underhill to her office.

-

Magnus tore a chunk of soft white bread, holding it up between his fingers as he examined it in the warm afternoon sunlight that slanted over the dining table.

“A friend of mine used to say you could soak anything up with the right sponge.”

Alec, tired with red-rimmed eyes and so beautiful, smiled at him, a tired thing but lighter than it was before.

“I don’t think you should use that to clean the kitchen.”

Magnus shrugged a shoulder and popped the piece of bread in his mouth, nudging the thickly sliced loaf toward Alexander who sighed fondly and took some of it. He chose his topping carefully and Magnus repressed a smile when he settled on wild clover honey and banana slices.

“That would be a misdemeanor at the yeast.”

He tilted his head back a little but kept his gaze on his own plate as he spread honey butter over a slice. He glanced up quickly at Alexander and the look on his face made him laugh finally.

“Was my joke too crumby?”

Alexander snorted, turned back to his careful honey spreading, “I think you could do butter.”

“And people find you dry, darling.” Magnus smiled.

Alec looked back at him, raising his bread, “As toast.”  

He took a bite and Magnus swallowed. Watching an emotionally wrung out man make terrible puns and eat honeyed bread should  not be doing it for him, but then, Alexander was in a league all his own.

“What are we sponging up with the bread?”

Alexander’s voice was soft and Magnus shifted to brush a hand against his wrist, “Well I, for one, needed a snack and I find that there’s something about good, soft, bread that makes it hard to cry while eating it.”

“Did you think you’d be doing a lot more of that, while we were eating?”

Magnus, once, could have taught a masterclass in reading Alexander Lightwood. Things were a little different now, the edges between them somewhat strange, but he still knew this. The tension that chased itself through a clenching and forced relaxing of the jaw, the way his free hand curled inward, thumb rubbing against his finger, his eyes focused and serious but not quite looking at Magnus.

“I find, sometimes, that the answers to hard questions make me glad of something in my stomach. I also find myself reluctant to hide my emotions from you, so yes, Alexander, I assumed I might have more crying to do.”

The warm light, catching dust motes, left Alexander with no shadows to disguise the displeased twist of his lips.

“I don’t-” He sighed, setting what was left of his bread down and leaning back, “I didn’t mean to show you everything I did. I wanted you to see just a little of  that  . Mostly I wanted you to see something from when we were  happy but once we started I just...I couldn’t stop the flood.”

Magnus made sure Alexander was looking at him, “ I gathered as much. I think that it was important that I saw all that I did. I don’t think you would’ve been able to explain some of the things that have happened since we parted otherwise. I am also grateful still that you chose to go through that with me.”

He gave Alec a moment but with no answer, pushed on.

“I said I would have questions. I do.”

Alexander nodded, hazel eyes watching him and Magnus took the invite.

“Why did you believe that I would expect you to be able to choose between me and Jace?”

Alec sucked in a hard breath, “Because I should be able too? Because I should be able to say which one of you is more important?”

Magnus looked at him carefully, saw the pain the admission caused and more of the guilt as he tried to keep looking at Magnus.

“Should you? Or do you think that I, and whoever else, think that you should be able to say it’s me?” Magnus’ voice is cool but not unkind

Alexander’s brows furrowed and his mouth opened, then closed, opened again, “Of course it should be easy to say that. I love you. I love you so much I can’t live without you and being forced to tore my heart out but, he’s...Jace.”

“Alexander I would  never expect you to choose. Jace is your parabatai, a part of your soul, and the two of you have worked hard to nurture that bond into something wonderful, you love him as deeply as you love me. It’s not the same, you aren’t torn between us and I hate that you’ve ever thought otherwise. A heart,” Magnus taps his own chest, “has room for plenty of love, of so many kinds.”

Alec stared at him, “You really mean that?”

“Of course I do. When the Owl said it I didn’t even think about it, I knew the bond between us and the bond between you and Jace were both strong. That strength is not reliant on the weakening of one connection. Loving me should not strain your parabatai bond, having a parabatai should not be a test on our relationship.”

Magnus swallowed. They had only just agreed to be together still and already he was talking like this, but Alexander looked calmer, relieved.

“I think you’re right. It might take me a little bit to really understand that though.”

He pinched off part of his bread, rubbing it to crumbs between his thumb and forefinger, spreading a few drops of honey between them. Magnus reached for his wrist, drew the sticky fingers apart with a little smile.

“I promise to remind you. Whither thou goest, so will he, your people  are his people, where thou lodge, he is always welcome,” Magnus pressed a kiss to the honey sweet pads of Alexander’s fingers, “Well, almost always.”

Red spread over Alexander’s cheeks even though his tired eyes were wide, “Magnus?”

“I heard the oath, remember? You were dying on my couch and Jace came for you. I knew what I was getting into, loving you.”

He pressed another kiss to Alec’s thumb, “I am very glad, especially now, for him. Jace helps keep you  safe and maybe between the two of us we can get you to see how wonderful you are.”

Alexander sighed softly as Magnus released his hand only to press their palms together and tangle their fingers.

“Okay. I don’t have to choose.”

Magnus smiled gently, “Never when it matters. Now, cuddling partners? I am the obvious choice.”

“Yeah?” Alec laughed.

“I am  much cuter.”

They both laughed again and Alec squeezed their joined hands happily.

“Any more?”

Magnus nodded, serious again, “This isn’t a question Alexander. I owe you an apology.”

Alec started and Magnus lifted his free hand to stop him, “I do. I was unfairly harsh to you, not without my own reasons, but I never should have accused you of wanting me to be mundane or mortal. I was lashing out at you because I hurt but I shouldn’t have said those things or ever let you believe I could ever resent you for my own choices.”

Alexander shifts uncomfortably, “ You felt it Magnus, I was  glad.”

“Just as I would be glad if you were suddenly immortal.” It hurts to acknowledge this again, but needs must, “Even if it was not something you wanted, even if I did my best to help you fix it or anything you needed, I would not be able to stop myself from being relieved in some ways. It is only natural and it was hypocritical of me to make that feeling into an accusation. I’ll admit, I was even glad sometimes, when I wasn’t struggling so much. Being mortal, getting to grow old with you? There are worse things Alexander.”

Magnus had looked away while he spoke and now he made himself look at Alec again and his breath caught at the depth of adoration in hazel eyes.

“I love you.”

Magnus smiled softly, “And I love you.”

They stare at each other in golden light for long enough that Magnus almost laughs at how sappy they are, but the soft joy that has taken over Alexander makes him reluctant to break the moment. Finally he knows one of them must, they still have things to talk about.

“I know it will take time but I hope one day you will understand that you deserve love and that even when you make mistakes it does not mean you deserve it any less.” Magnus watched Alexander blink back sudden moisture.

“There are a few things I saw that I think I will let you find time to talk about,” he thought about the ring and Alec talking to the stars, “and some things I would like to talk about later.”

Alexander nodded, “My mother.”

Magnus winced but didn’t deny it. It seemed Alec was determined not to let things wait this time and he kept talking.

“I told her we had broken up. I told her it was so you could be whole again. I walked away from her and I never,” He swallowed, eyes going glassy, “I never spoke to her again. Everything was so crazy and without her runes she wasn’t safe to be involved in any of it. By the time I was out of the infirmary and Jonathon was gone and Clary-” Alec took a deep breath, “I didn’t even realize she was gone for a long time but Luke had gone to see her when he was able and he contacted me when he couldn’t find her.”

Magnus moved so he can wrap his arms around Alexander’s shoulders, “You thought it was your fault.”

He doesn’t ask, he knows, felt, that it was true but he does wonder why.

“Yeah. A mundane spilled something while they were driving and their car went up on the sidewalk. She was crushed and she,  Raziel, she died trapped like that, alone. I know she was on her way to the loft, I think she was looking for you because I wouldn’t talk to her, because I  couldn’t be Alec for her, I had to do my job.”

Magnus blinked his own wet eyes and pressed a kiss to Alexander’s hair, “Do you blame me?”

“What? No!”

“She was on her way to me, I was only a few blocks away. I had my magic.”

“Magnus! You couldn’t have known, your father was still here even, wasn’t he?”

Magnus didn’t move away, just spoke with his lips brushing through Alexander’s hair, “He was but he wouldn’t have stopped me just then. Alexander. If I couldn’t have known how could you?”

Alec didn’t respond and Magnus sighed, “If it’s not my fault then it’s not yours either.”

There is another long silence and Alexander relaxed more into the loose hold Magnus had on him, “I miss her.”

His voice was quiet and Magnus answered just as soft, “I do too.”

They didn’t talk more and eventually parted. Alexander picked up the food, packing it away methodically and Magnus manually cleaned the table and the dishes, both of them taking comfort in just  doing with one another.

When the last dish had been dried and put away Magnus pulled his Shadowhunter into the living room, ready to just curl up together and watch something mindless.

He didn’t get that far before his wards rippled. Another Shadowhunter, one he wasn’t very familiar with, was coming up.

“Someone’s here?” Alec asked, already moving toward the door and Magnus pushed down the urge to hide him away.

“One of yours it appears.”

A knock, light but purposeful, came a moment later and with a look to check it was alright, Alexander opened the door.

“Underhill?”

The blonde man at Magnus’ door was familiar, distantly, and when Magnus managed to place him he smiled a little.  Foolish.  

A second ripple alerted him to someone portaling into the hallway and he went tense until Lorenzo Rey stepped through.

“Mr. Lightwood.” Lorenzo’s voice was cold and Underhill winced.

Alexander sighed, “Do you mind?” He asked Magnus with a resigned air.

“I’d rather neither of you continue to darken my doorstep, so please,” he gestured broadly, “come in.”

Underhill let Lorenzo pass first and blushed a little when Lorenzo caught his hand and pulled him along. Magnus raised an eyebrow at that but Alexander didn’t seem surprised.

“I’m, uh, I need to go dress.” Alec muttered to him and Magnus was suddenly very aware of the state of him. Alexander was lovely as ever but he was still in soft comfortable clothing and had obviously been crying.

“I’m good at entertaining, darling. Go, get cleaned up and bring blondie back out with you?”

Alec nodded and paused to kiss him once, just a soft press of lips, hands lightly pressing at his arms and noses rubbing. He pulled away, smiled a little, and hurried to the bedroom.

Magnus closed his eyes, composed himself and snapped his fingers to dress himself in dark red, eyeliner perfectly in place.

“To what do I, we, owe to  pleasure? ”

Lorenzo’s smile was as fake as ever but he didn’t get the chance to answer before Underhill answered, “Izzy asked me to come speak with you and Alec. Jace too if he’s available.”

The man was as straightforward as most Nephilim but there was warmth in his voice that made Magnus like him a little more.

“Did Isabelle ask you as well?”

Lorenzo glared at him, “Last time I was in this apartment I was transformed against my will. I was not about to let Andrew walk into some trap.”

Magnus rolled his eyes, though, yeah, he should apologize.

“I wouldn’t have laid a trap you could help against anyway, but,” He moved to make them drinks, nerves and lack of having anything to really do propelling him, “I am actually very sorry about what my father did to you. I’m glad that Alexander was able to restore you.”

Lorenzo looked surprised and Magnus figured he’d managed to make his tone land somewhere in the realm of sincere. Which he was, he would’ve felt horribly guilty to find a lizard Lorenzo still waiting for him after a year.

“I’ve heard some things about what you did after you banished him. What you did in Edom.”

Magnus doesn’t reply to Lorenzo’s idle musing.

“I would thank you, if I thought you’d take it.”

Magnus startled, the martini he was pouring sloshing a bit. Impatiently he snapped the mess away, “Why?”

He looked at Lorenzo but the other warlock was looking at Underhill and he pressed a palm to the blonde’s shoulder, “You helped keep Andrew safe.”

  Oh.  

So it was more than a passing thing for Lorenzo then. Magnus suddenly realized that he finally had someone other than Tessa, who had been in a unique situation, to compare notes with on loving a Nephilim. How strange.

Underhill spoke up, “Really, you saved us all. I can’t thank you enough.”

There was warmth again and Magnus really looked at the blonde man on his couch. Andrew Underhill had a kind face, maybe too kind for someone who’s very existence centered around killing, and he held himself with understated confidence. He was older than Alexander and despite the similarities, the soldier in both of them apparent, appeared to be suited for a wholly different role.

“Underhill. Lorenzo. What’s up?”

Jace sauntered out of what Lorenzo  knew was Magnus’ bedroom in a loose t-shirt and Alec’s sweats, Alexander looking much more put together behind him.

Lorenzo shot Magnus a look but he rolled his eyes. Underhill definitely did not have a Parabatai then.

“Isabelle sent me. She’s been getting a steady stream of communication from the Clave today and things are getting tenser. There’s a group calling to remove Penhallow, they’re citing her reluctance to choose a new Inquisitor and the amount of control she’s allowed the New York, Bucharest, Cairo, and Miami institutes in implementing the new Downworld deputy and mixed patrols. They’re trying to say she’s been derelict and is making dangerous changes just for personal gain of some sort.”

Magnus handed a drink to Lorenzo without looking away from Underhill. Jace swore and he could see Alexander settle with his hands clasped behind him out of the corner of his eye.

“What does Izzy need from Jace and myself?”

Underhill rubbed his palm over his knee, “She wanted to keep you all informed. The faction that’s trying to remove Penhallow is very clearly aiming to return to how things were  before Valentine resurfaced and a number of them won’t be happy until they’ve got the Downworld by the throat.”

“ Los bastardos .” Lorenzo said, with feeling. Magnus was inclined to agree.

“They’d never manage it.” Jace, ever filled with conviction.

“They might. At the least they might manage to oust Penhallow and put someone who they’d prefer in the position and from there it would be dominos undoing what we’ve managed to pull together.” Underhill sounded tired.

“We won’t let that happen.” Alexander stepped a little closer to Magnus but his voice was steel. Magnus ached for him, they had only started working through their pain and already he was picking up the pieces of a mess he hadn’t made.

“ You can’t do much.” Lorenzo’s tone had gone frigid again but Alexander didn’t respond and Magnus looked between them before he growled.

“For Lilith’s sake! Catarina put the damned thing on him for me because she didn’t know what the hell happened. Alexander had  never betrayed me.”

Alec jerked and Lorenzo blinked, sitting suddenly on the arm of the couch next to Underhill who just looked confused. Jace made an odd little noise and Magnus’ head whipped around to look at the parabatai.

Alexander’s face was carefully blank but Jace wasn’t about to let him get away with it and he shook his head at Magnus, lips pressed tight together.

Right. Not the best way he could’ve handled that then. Shit.

“I-My apologies Mr. Lightwood.” Lorenzo’s voice was strained but Alec inclined his head and refocused, letting the awkward moment go.

“Isabelle also received a message from the Consul. She was requesting that Isabelle  facilitate a friendly meeting between you two,” Underhill gestured between Alexander and Magnus, “and made some not at all subtle comments about making sure you were stable again. Isabelle believes she’s trying to pull it all together and that Penhallow has always meant to name  you Inquisitor.”

Magnus doesn’t breathe, though with how silent it falls he doubts anyone else is either. Alexander would be the best Inquisitor in an age, fair and exacting with the right edge of mercy and deep belief in equality. Magnus knew this.

Magnus also knew that Jace is just getting Clary back, that Alexander and himself haven’t had even a full 48 hours yet. He also knew his Alexander, knows what he will do so it’s no surprise when he answered.

“Tell Izzy that she should report a successful meeting between Magnus and myself. She can tell Consul Penhallow, should the offer be mentioned, that I am ready and willing to accept.”

Underhill nodded but there was worry flickering in his eyes, for Alexander, and Magnus was glad of another ally. Lorenzo’s lips are pursed, “It won’t do you any favors to have that mark then.”

Alexander lifted his chin but didn’t make a remark on it choosing to continue directing Underhill, “Make sure the Consul is informed that I will require a month long period to transition into the new role.”

Relief hits Magnus hard. Alec is trying to give them the time they need.

“She might not go for it.”

Alexander smiled and Jace leaned forward lazily, “Tell her Alec is helping with rehabilitating Clary Fairchild and needs the time to help her adjust.”

Underhill didn’t have time to react before Alec was pushing on, “A month is longer than I need but Jia doesn’t need to know that. Make sure that’s what Izzy tells her. When she formally offers the position, then we can negotiate time.”

“Outside of your suddenly blossoming political career how will this help?” Lorenzo asked.

Alexander’s voice was firm, “With the position filled I can solidify backing Jia. Right now a lot of unrest is probably coming from people trying to gain favor or aiming for the position. Once it’s filled and I make it clear that I am not falling into line as a perfect little soldier given rank and pomp, some of the dissenters will quiet down. They don’t really want the trouble of real change, that’s why they’re fighting it now but if someone else deals with it they’ll care more about making good with the Consul, regardless of who it is. If that happens it’s less of a threat to the Downworld.”

“Plus Alec is the one who came up with the joint patrols and most of the steps that have been worked in place for gaining even footing. We just couldn’t let Izzy tell anybody that.” Jace smiled.

Lorenzo’s face made Magnus itch for a camera.

-

After Lorenzo and Underhill left Alec pulled Jace out onto the balcony. He smiled at Magnus and was reassured when Magnus’ answering smile was soft and understanding.

Alec turned and pressed their foreheads together and Jace laughed a little, a choked noise.

“Alec. This feels weirdly good man.”

Alec laughed too, he didn’t have words for the way that the bond felt lighter than it had in ages. There was worry, yes, and lingering pain, but there was real hope and joy looping between them too.

“You’re gross. You’re so in love with him, ugh.” Jace shoved at Alec’s shoulder but didn’t let him move away and Alec grinned.

“I know. I tried to ease back into it but I don’t think either of us knows how to do that. We haven’t worked  everything out but…”

They had shared a lot that morning and Alec felt drained but in a good way and he wanted to share a moment with Jace now that there was something  good.

“Also, you’re not better.”

Jace rolled his eyes, the movement so close to Alec’s own looked weird, “Yeah, yeah. Both of us are disgustingly pathetic in love.”

“Are you going to meet with her today?”

The spike between them of happy anticipation answered for him and Alec finally stepped back.

“Good. I just, I wanted to make sure you were good, you know? I think I might see if Magnus is up for just doing nothing with me today.”

Alec hoped that was on the table, judging by the languidness of Magnus’ movement through the glass door he’d guess so. He was happy but tired and really just wanted to curl up with Magnus for a while.

“I’ll get out of your hair a little early then. I’m sure Magnus would like that and it’s uh, it’s been easier to separate?” Jace sounded oddly guilty and Alec sighed.

“It has been. I still like you being close though and,” Alec smiled and glanced back at Magnus again, “Magnus gets it Jace. So, where I am, you’re welcome. Just, uh, knock a little first?”

Jace laughed at that but bright surprise and warm affection for Magnus lit up their bond and Alec gave him a smug look, “He’s un-hateable.”

It was a silly call back to an old argument but Jace took it, “Are you kidding? He leaves everything on the floor. He’s trying to kill us both via tripping hazard!”

Alec shoved at him, “Alright, you know what? Go find Clary a little early. Talk to her enough that Magnus knows where to start so she can deal with you.”

Jace flipped him off but they were both grinning and through the glass door Magnus laughed at the sight of them

Part eight

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Live Nation is to blame for the Astroworld deaths

It’s obviously grotesque to pick a “worst thing” about the Astroworld catastrophe that killed ten people (including a young child), but it’s pretty easy to pick a “most enraging thing” about the disaster — how foreseeable and preventable it was.

The kind of crowd-crush that killed and maimed those Astroworld attendees happens all the time. There was another stampede at the Astrodome, two weeks previous, at a Playboi Carti show.

https://news.yahoo.com/2-weeks-astroworld-tragedy-playboi-164952775.html

And that wasn’t even the first time a Playboi Carti Astrodome show had a stampede — the same thing happened in 2019:

https://www.vulture.com/article/essay-travis-scott-astroworld-tragedy-what-now.html

As David Dayen writes in The American Prospect, this happens at concerts all over the place, whenever you have the combination of general admission venues, a set of barriers that kettle attendees, and understaffed security. It happened in Central Park in 2018, at Snoop Dogg and Gwen Stefani gigs in 2016, and more.

https://prospect.org/power/the-astroworld-tragedy-is-a-story-of-corporate-power/

It would be weird if all these different venues all engaged in the same unsafe practices, but there’s a common thread running through all of this: Live Nation, the monopolist whose conglomerate also includes Ticketmaster, Pandora and Siriusxm. Live Nation also has an equity stake in 300 major venues. If you’re going to a gig, whatever happens is Live Nation’s fault, because it runs the show.

As Dayen writes, monopolists don’t have to care about adverse outcomes from corporate negligence. It’s nearly impossible to enjoy live music without enriching Live Nation, so why should they give a shit if people who go to those shows get killed?

Live Nation understaffed the Astroworld show. It understaffs all its shows.

https://www.ticketnews.com/2021/11/houston-chief-live-nations-astroworld-security-staffing-records-not-good/

And, as is typical for Live Nation, the company had no contingency plan for a crowd surge:

https://www.wnmufm.org/2021-11-10/astroworlds-safety-plan-called-for-deceased-to-be-referred-to-as-smurfs

(It did have a contingency plan for dead concertgoers, though: security staff were to refer to these corpses as “Smurfs” so as not to alarm other concertgoers).

Live Nation knows that, as a monopolist, it’s both too big to fail and too big to jail. The DoJ can whack it with $20,000,000 fines for corporate espionage and it just shrugs it off:

https://www.justice.gov/usao-edny/pr/ticketmaster-pays-10-million-criminal-fine-intrusions-competitor-s-computer-systems-0

It can illegally require bands to use Ticketmaster for all their live-shows, get caught, only to be told “Don’t do it again” by the FTC:

https://www.wsj.com/articles/justice-department-preparing-legal-action-against-live-nation-for-ticketing-tactics-11576266778

And then, it can do it again, knowing the only consequence will be the FTC saying “Don’t do it again,” again.

https://www.justice.gov/opa/pr/justice-department-will-move-significantly-modify-and-extend-consent-decree-live

No wonder the company’s stock-price hit a record high in the middle of a pandemic in which the global market for live events declined to a figure indistinguishable from zero:

https://finance.yahoo.com/quote/LYV

As Dayen writes, the failure to enforce antitrust law on concert promoters may seem like a mere dereliction of duty, but it actually creates a substantial risk to public safety. Without antitrust enforcement, it doesn’t matter how high Live Nation’s kill-count climbs, they’ll still be in business.

Image: Guzmán Lozano (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/pictfactory/2796367140

CC BY: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

LA2 (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bokpress_2010_1.jpg

CC BY-SA: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

[gentlemancrow]

14: “I’m screwed” shippy JMart :) 💚

Ehehe this one got away from me a little bit! But ask for shippy Jmart get a gushy mooshy Crow! Please enjoy! ; w ;

“I’m screwed…”

Martin watched helplessly through the slats of the yellowed blinds on Jon’s office window as his entire life went up in flames. He dimly recalled some trite old saying about seeing one’s life flash before one’s eyes before the moment of unceremonious besmirching from the cruel mortal coil, but for him it was more of a hysterical repeated rewinding of every single bumbling misstep that had orchestrated his imminent demise.

From the moment he decided he had just enough time before work to pop into the Tesco for the usual bouquet of flowers for his visit to his mother later in the day, to the snap decision to get the one made of tulips, bright crimson, orange, and yellow like a flame, rather than the usual white lilies, all the way up to entering the institute, Elias stuffing a file for Jon in his already laden arms, and then the chaos that had erupted as he attempted to deliver it, he lived it all over again. First there was something about the kettle being on the fritz, and obviously since he used it the most frequently, clearly he knew how to repair errant electronic kitchen devices. He was halfway through chastising Tim for false equivalencies in his logic when Sasha had breezed past and asked for a report he’d supposed to be finished with the day prior, and somewhere in the snarking with Tim and the flailing over his dereliction of duty the flowers had been abandoned on Jon’s desk and the file tucked under his arm instead.

By the time Martin realized he was missing something bulky and crinkly and fragrant it was too late. Jon was already in his office, tatty messenger bag still looped around his chest, forgotten, staring at the fiery bouquet on his desk with the scientific method scrolling visibly through his pupils as he regarded it like a corpse on an autopsy table, hand in a fist with his thumb pressed to his lips. Martin had never wished harder for some sort of horrific creature of the darkness to strike the institute again and just devour him whole this time to put him out of his misery.

“You’re what, mate?” Tim’s adjacent query only intensified that desire.

“Tim! SHUSH!” he squeaked, grabbing his friend by the shoulders and hauling him out of the line of sight from the office window.

“Easy there, big guy!” he laughed, “What’s all the hullabaloo?”

“I’m SCREWED. Big time,” Martin moaned, burying his face, which had been bright scarlet since the moment his hubris had roosted, into his hands, “See those flowers in there? I bought those for my usual trip to see my mum this afternoon but somehow between you being an idiot and me also being an idiot and forgetting to finish that report I sort of… left them there… by accident…”

Jon, meanwhile, had finally set his bag down and had circled his desk like a vulture. He reached out with delicate fingers like forceps and pinched the very edge of the card to inspect it, which, unfortunately, only added to the mystery with its coquettish blankness, as Martin had yet to fill it in. Tim watched, nonplussed.

“So? What’s the big deal about that? Just go explain it to him and I’m sure he… Oh. OH,” he cackled as realization dawned on him, “Yeah, nope you’re screwed.”

“Thanks…”

“Ahh, don’t sweat it. The man’s so thick I’m sure he thinks it’s just a prank or some continued spooky attempt on his life or something. The absolute last thing he would think would be that you of all people would…” Tim stopped himself in the withering blue glare blazing at him from behind round spectacles, “Anyway, again, this is Jon we’re talking about. He’ll just treat it like some weird cosmic mystery until he burns himself out on it or the next one shows up.”

“Y-Yeah but-“

“Just go explain! Unless you want to watch him wriggle about it like a fish on a hook all day. Which I am diametrically unopposed to, by the way, sounds absolutely hilarious.”

Martin winced, hating the idea of being the missing chunk of code that caused Jon’s brain to glitch for the remainder of the day, and sucked in a breath between his teeth.

“No, no you’re right,” he sighed, “Just… no flowers at my funeral if he kills me, okay?”

“Kate Bush songs only, got it, yep.”

Martin rolled his eyes, not dignifying that with a response, and shuffled on mechanical feet to the closed door of Jon’s office. He rapped lightly a few times before pushing his way in, smiling sheepishly at the head archivist who had clearly just unceremoniously flung himself in front of the mysterious bouquet to hide it from view.

“Martin!” he barked, “What in the hell are you-“

“Uh, just needed to talk to you for a second.”

He closed the door behind him

“Oh, uh… about wh-“

“About those, actually,” Martin confessed through his teeth, pointing, mortified, at the coy spray of flaming tulips peeking out from behind Jon’s hip.

He whipped around to look at them, then back to his assistant, then back to the flowers again, the blush that only ever seemed to find the tips of his ears glowing like two carmine rosebuds there.

“…You?”

That unreadable earthy brown gaze, somewhere between wilting regency heroine and venomous snake ready to strike with fangs bared, harpooned Martin directly to the heart.

“No! God no! S-Sorry!” he yelped, flailing his hands defensively in the air, “I-I mean they are mine, yes, b-but I-! Th-They’re for my mum! I-I try to visit her in her care home if I can on Fridays, and I always bring her some flowers! I was supposed to be dropping off a file for you, but then Tim was hounding me about the broken kettle and Sasha needed that damned report and I was all mixed up and I… I forgot them here. On your desk. Your desk of all places. I still have the file and um… T-Trade you? Hah…”

Jon’s finely sculpted brow shifted from pinched, to bemused, to a strange, sorrowful relief as Martin finished lamely in falsetto and he chuckled under his breath.

“Ah… right. Right! I thought for a second someone might have um…” he snorted breathlessly, “Hah, I knew that was a preposterous notion.”

The metaphysical harpoon still in Martin’s chest shattered in icy shards of anguish as his heart collapsed under the weight of itself.

“Wh- Jon, is it really that preposterous a notion someone might want to bring you flowers?” he asked, crushed.

Jon flourished a flippant, elegant hand.

“Come on Martin, this is me we’re talking about. I’ve never gotten flowers once in my life. I’m not the kind of person people think to buy flowers for. It’s not a big deal.”

“Well then let me be the first!” Martin insisted, his mouth and heart moving in tandem before his brain could stop them.

Jon’s brow creased again.

“What? Good lord no, I’m not going to take the flowers you bought for your mother. Who is also in a care home, mind.”

“I’d much rather give them to you.”

The skeptical expression marring Jon’s face did little to hide the blush flourishing at the tips of his ears again.

“Look. We’re friends now, aren’t we?” Martin elaborated shyly, “Friends can send each other flowers. And honestly? My mum doesn’t even like them… no matter what kind I bring. They usually end up being for her nurse instead. So I… I think they’ll have a much better home with you.”

A tiny smile quirked the corner of Jon’s mouth, snipping an invisible thread that softened his entire face into something innocent and full of wonder.

“I see. If you’re sure, I suppose I could…”

“I’m very sure,” Martin replied without hesitation, “Just tell people an old friend sent them out of the blue, or you have a secret admirer or something!”

“Well I don’t know about all that, but-” Jon chuckled, smiling softly, “Thank you. Just the same.”

Martin looked up, just for a moment, and met Jon’s gaze, letting the piercing erudite wood of it lay bare his fluttering heart.

“You’re welcome…”

Jon shifted in the beat of ensuing silence, his eyes flicking away from sky blue radiance to shift his shoulders back into a professional square.

“You uh, said you had a file for me?”

“Oh! Yes! Right! I-I will go fetch that file for you indeed and uh-! Oh yeah! Make sure you snip off the ends of the stems a bit before you put them in water. Helps them last longer,” Martin offered, snapping out of his enchantment and already slinking backwards to the door, “Oh and also! When they start to go, I’ll show you how to press one in a book, so you can keep it, if you like!”

“I’d like that very much, actually.”

Martin smiled, nodded, and saluted awkwardly as he escaped Jon’s office and closed the door behind, leaving him in private to wait until he was sure no one would see. Once he was certain, he preciously gathered the tulips into his hands and brought them to his nose, breathing in the field bright scent of his very first bouquet from a secret admirer.

[angelinthefire]

“Hey Cas,” Dean asked, pulling the balls from their gutter and rolling them across the table to Sam. “You ever play pool before?” 

“No,” Cas answered, watching Sam and Dean curiously.

“How ‘bout I teach you?” Dean asked, preparing to insist if Cas said no. Pool was a key component of hunter life: A way to relax after a hard day, to make some quick cash, to size-up other hunters, to show off for the ladies. Dean would be derelict in his duty to Cas if he let him go through the rest of his life not knowing how to play pool. 

“It’s simple physics. It can’t be that hard,” Cas replied

“Okay,” Sam said, as he racked up the game. “In that case, why don’t you break?”

Cas took the cue that Dean offered to him, chalked the tip, and lined up his shot. The cue ball drifted gently off to the side.  

Cas frowned

Sam caught the ball and rolled it back. “We won’t count that one,” he said kindly. 

Dean was a lot more direct in his approach. “Okay, Cas, listen here,” he said firmly. He knew that Cas had gotten a lot better about being bad at stuff after the firing range, but this was too important to give Cas the chance to get frustrated and give up. 

Dean stood behind Cas with a hand on his shoulder. “You need a wider stance,” he said, and kicked the insides of Cas’ shoes until he shuffled them apart. “Weight on your back foot.”

He moved to Cas’ left side, sliding his hand off his shoulder, and reaching in front of him for the cue. 

“You gotta have a solid bridge. Some people thread the cue through their fingers, some just use their knuckles.” Dean demonstrated as he talked. “But whatever you do, you can’t let it shake. Try it."

He passed the cue back to Cas. Cas curled a long index finger around the cue, and slid the cue experimentally through the opening. Dean closed his fingers around Cas' wrist, feeling his blood pumping hot at the pulse-point, and tried to shake him. Cas’ hand didn't budge. Dean blinked at his friend's apparent strength, and nodded in approval. 

"Okay, good. Now, your other arm…” Dean stepped around to Cas’ right side, trailing his hand across Cas’ shoulders as he went. The fabric was soft under his fingers, but he could feel the tense line of Cas’ muscles underneath. “Choke the cue higher up for more control, further back for more power. But most of the time...” Dean covered Cas' right hand with his own, and slid it along the smooth length of wood, paying attention to the angle of Cas' arm. Cas' bicep flexed slightly, but noticeably under his shirt. “... you want your elbow at a right angle."

When he was satisfied with the position of his arm, Dean stood as close to Cas as possible without actually getting cheek-to-cheek with the guy, doing his best to share his eye-line. "Now look," he said, gesturing between the cue ball and where the other balls stood lined up. Their bodies were pressed together along their sides, except for where the hard line of the pool cue came between them at Cas' hip. "See the line from the centre of the cue ball to where you want it to go. We're not gonna worry about spin just yet. For now, just follow that line with your cue."

Dean turned to Cas, and Cas' blue eyes met his own, shockingly close and sharp with that old angelic focus, taking in Dean’s every word.

"Remember:" Dean said, low and serious. "It’s not about speed or strength. It's about control, and it’s about confidence. Move smooth and steady."

Cas nodded, a subtle dip of his chin. For a moment Dean forgot why he was standing so close, and continued to stare into Cas' eyes. Then he blinked. 

Weird, I just kinda zoned out there . 

He clapped Cas on the shoulder and stood back. 

"Now go.”

With the look of a soldier going into battle, Cas turned back to the pool table. He gave the cue a practice stroke, and then took his shot. With a crack and a clatter the balls scattered across the table. 

“Ha! There you go!” Dean cheered.

Cas smiled proudly.

Keep reading on AO3

[stylishanachronism]

So uh, this Got Long, but here, have a couple of thousand words about Edér's narrative (and like... the game structure as a whole, I tried to stay on topic but I've got a couple of dozen essays somewhere (some are even cited because that's what I do with my life) about this nonsense so.) and also his character development, because those aren't actually the same thing. It is probably the Worst essay I have ever written, and that's saying something.

Anyways.

Edér's character thread (not his character development per se but the thing that permits it if I'm making any sense whatsoever) in both games is very much both 'grappling with religion' and 'grappling with choices he didn't know he was making' but also 'grappling with choices he made based on incomplete information' and the consequences of all three. (Honestly, speaking as somebody who, if I had a character thread, it'd be the same damn one, I was really pleased by how well they handled it in both games (the fact it’s not supposed to be his narrative in Deadfire nonwithstanding). Most series don't, but that's a completely different kettle of fish.) 

So like, in the first game, when you find him he's basically stuck at the point where he feels utterly betrayed (by his god, by his church, by his community, even by his family, sort of), but also like nothing he did mattered in the short or long run, and despite his best efforts, every time he's tried to help he's just made things worse, so there's really nothing he can or should do, and even if he did, it wouldn't help or matter, so why should he bother? Like he's flat out 'yeah, they're going to kill me next, just killing time 'till that happens, what of it?', which is a hell of a lead off, given you don't find out the rest of it until later and the fact that despite all that, he’s not particularly suicidal. And he's so desperate to feel like he's doing something he wanders off with the first wild-eyed possibly-crazy definitely-sicker-than-a-dog person he comes across, without even squaring up his debts or closing up his house or quitting his metaphorical job, (Obsidian show me your setting bible, I need to know what the Dyrwood exports and if ring lace isn't on that list somewhere I'll make every single developer eat the ring shawl I haven't knit, I have Opinions about this, but also, kettle, fish.), just because they gave him the thinnest, most ridiculous scrap of a hope that he might get answers that make the rest of it okay! And he doesn't! He never gets those answers! 

...Well, sort of. He doesn't get the answer to 'What did Woden, the brother I idolize above all else, know that I didn't?' for vaguely bullshit reasons (look I'm just saying if I can articulate 'yeah, that was really Eothas, and yeah, Woden basically had a fucking pentacostal moment and then got his brain steamrolled' (...more on that later, that's actually relevant), the Watcher ought to have been able to do the same, which changes the lack of answers to 'why didn't Eothas just... do something to prove it was him' and/or 'if it was that obvious, why did it come to that?', which are the questions that the narrative's actually concerned with (and also sort of get addressed in Deadfire, but More On That Later), Obsidian Where is Your Setting Bible I Have Questions), but he does get to come to terms with what he actually did, Not Knowing What Woden Knew (and it's a solid ending either way! I liked the consequences! Either he tries to make amends for what he sees as a dereliction of duty, not just to his god but to his community on a spiritual level (the Night Market ending), or he says 'fuck you, I failed but so did you, Eothas' and he sets out make amends for what he sees a dereliction of duty to his community and his community alone, on a practical level (the Mayor ending) and either way he's no longer stuck feeling worthless, and he has a purpose again, more accurately has learned to forge his own purpose, and he's good at whatever it is he's doing!)

And in the meantime, he's been doing good shit! Lasting shit! Even when it all goes to hell he's making progress, which is excellent for his state of mind (and you see that reflected in not only how he treats the Watcher but also how he reacts to shit like giant setbacks (Maerwald! What Happened to Woden! That time Defiance Bay was on fire! Hell even the wolf encounter in White March, that's something Gilded Vale Edér would have wanted to do, but probably wouldn't have been able to bring himself to do or would have but like, Knowing one or both of them would die for it, and by the earliest point you can hit that, he can just… do it) and this is the part where I do not talk about romance novel tropes because that development is also where he starts being the Romantic Lead for realsies. It’s very interesting! But this essay is trying to stay focused.)

Anyways that's… a lot of words to say the heart of his first game character arc is that he learns to live with what happened without ever knowing why, for better or for worse, it did, learns to forgive himself (and everyone else involved, more or less) and any way you cut it, he makes his own purpose, and he ends up okay at the end. 

(Going off on a momentary tangent, one of the things I really liked about the first game is how focused it was? Like all the quests, even the stupid ones, asked serious moral questions about various things, and made you stick to the answers. I've talked before about the Dyrford questline, which is ugly on every front, but doesn't pull any of those punches either, and doesn't have a clear 'right' answer, but they're really all like that to some extent, and especially the character quests. Like, Edér's is about religion and forgiveness, Aloth's is about authority and 'divine right v free will' so to speak, Grieving Mother's is about doing horrible things with the very best of intentions and living with that, Sagani's is about deciding what's important enough to hold on to when all else is lost, etc. etc., and even the tiny ones have questions like ‘if murder is the only way out of an abusive relationship, is that the right answer?’ like there's no quest you could cut without actual ramifications to the overall storyline or the worldbuilding, and that was Great.)

...Which brings us to Deadfire, and this is where it might get a little weird? I need to stress that my first playthrough was bugged to hell, my second was... almost as bad, tbh, and I didn't manage to finish any of the DLC (mostly due to charming things like invisible indestructible final bosses, for example, which still have not been fixed), and by the time I hit the third go round (because it turns out turn based is a ton more fun) I was extremely confused about the actual order of events, due to the aforementioned bugs, so some of the conclusions I've drawn might be a bit off base. (Also Deadfire suffers from sequelitis, by which I mean it has a bunch of internal and, uh, intertextual contradictions of established canon, and it’s not particularly tightly plotted, among other things. I still really liked it! But the worldbuilding's cracked a little bit.)

So Deadfire opens with Eothas bursting out of the earth like a really big chick in a really small egg or something, killing a lot of people in the process, and Edér going 'oh shit, my god just more than half murdered my bff!' and, touching back on what @brightoncemore said earlier, racing off after the statue he’s piloting on basically a hope and a prayer, Watcher in tow, on the half chance this might save their life. It's a hell of a thing, but it means that the opening of his Deadfire arc is 'Dear Eothas, why the Fuck do you keep doing this (to me)?', and depending on which of his endings he's coming off of, this is either a further betrayal from someone he'd managed, not to forgive, but to move on from, or a further betrayal from someone he had managed to forgive, and whose forgiveness in turn he'd spent a solid five years seeking. It is not 'huh, wonder what my old flame's up to?' (not that Elafa was his old flame, but more on that later, and alternately if it is the old flame is Eothas and the answer is ‘being a casually murderous dick for inscrutable reasons’), and nor is it a 'my biological clock is ticking and I didn't manage to adopt Vela properly', which to be honest is what I got out of his bit of his actual personal quest, more or less. (Spoilers: his personal quest is actually Bearn’s personal quest, and he’s not even a recruitable companion, which is rude considering Tekēhu, among other companions.)

What happens to the Watcher is rather more intimately tied up in his character arc in Deadfire, which is where the real trouble comes from; the developers Did Not Want the romance, so they kept trying to walk it back (remember I don’t find this particularly tightly plotted), while all of his character development was tied up in the same tropes that make him the Romantic Lead (we aren’t even going to mention the fucking wedding), and frankly it’s a mess.

So you’ve got the shoe-horned in ‘I’m head over heels for someone I literally never mentioned before, whoops she’s dead and her kid, who might be my kid (spoilers: he’s not, the timeline doesn’t work, not that the timeline works anywhere ever), is going to do something Really Stupid’ thing that his Named personal quest, which is just barely even about him to begin with, while meanwhile he’s yelling at gods and making the same big sweeping decisions from the first game as he gets more information about what did/might have/could have happened. Like, there’s one revelation in the base game (Eothas is the reason for his rad magic armor, and despite Edér feeling betrayed and abandoned for almost two decades(!), he really was paying close attention to everything Edér did, and I at least got the impression that part of the reason Eothas is trying to make amends is because of what happened to Edér due to his actions, like he’s here to ‘help’ kith in general, and Edér in particular, and the Watcher makes a particularly convenient tool to do so), and then BoW and FS each have another (that instead of St. Waidwen, it might have been St. Edér, and it was pretty much the flip of a coin that decided it the way it was, and also that Waidwen didn’t know what he was doing but he did it with intent anyways, so they were both betrayed on multiple levels (I left the first game convinced Eothas had just steamrolled Waidwen’s brain the same way he’d steamrolled Woden’s, so it was very interesting to discover that that didn’t precisely happen), and also that there was a distinct difference between Waidwen, who theoretically went into this with his eyes open, and Woden, who didn’t. There’s a whole series of essays in that alone, but again, kettle, fish.), and what ought to have been his ‘defining choice’ (v whatever happened to Bearn), is his whole thing at Magran’s Teeth, where he demands Eothas be better (which, if it had been his personal quest, could have been reactive on ‘I was right, you’re just as bad as the rest’ if he comes to the conclusion Eothas sees all their lives as playthings, and he doesn’t actually care he just wants to be Right, or the canonical ‘Do better you fucker’ if he comes to the conclusion that Eothas just Doesn’t Get It, with a reprise at Ukaizo, because I loved the narrative callbacks that actually exist and it would have been a really good place for one.), instead of what we got (I went and looked them up, what the fuck), which was… completely backwards for his character, holy shit. Either he goes and camps on Elafa’s grave because her kid was a moron (well… kettle, fish, here is another essay and this one’s already too long, we don’t need a discussion of cults and Bearn’s equal desire for a purpose, which is a narrative foil they could have done something with but never did), or he decides to parent this kid who he firstly doesn’t know, secondly doesn’t know him, and thirdly in a place that’s been pretty wrecked that he’s completely unfamiliar with for what’s seriously no reason (Bearn is…. arguably 17? 18? The timeline never works, but that’s about where he’s written, also kettle, fish, arguments that don’t go here.) since the boy is almost an adult to begin with, none of which has anything to do with his need to have a purpose, or the fact he explicitly follows the Watcher around as part of that, and they’ve gone back to the Dyrwood either way. Like it’s just… such a reversal from his growth in the first game, basically dropping him back where he started at the very very beginning, mired in hopeless, apathetic guilt over something that he actually had fuck all to do with this time around.

Anyways, the whole thing where the developers rooted his endstate choices in something that, to be really frank, could have been deleted without doing fuck all to the narrative (remember how all the quests in the first games were important? Yeah, no, a solid chunk of the quests serve little to no real purpose in Deadfire, even the ones I love.) is unfortunately a Thing. Tekehu’s lack of a quest is the Watershaper’s Guild questline, it straight up should have been his personal quest, he’s got the only solid one in the game, Xoti’s feels like it was supposed to be a callback to Grieving Mother’s, but in reverse, and while I loved it, it doesn’t go anywhere, not for her character (either she does a shitty thing for a good reason and goes crazy and can’t regret her choices, or she does a good thing for terrible reasons and doesn’t learn from that either, so far as I can tell) or for the narrative as a whole (there is also an essay about Gaun’s place in the worldbuilding here, kettle, fish), Seraphen either asks the important questions and Gets It, or he doesn’t and he… doesn’t, and either way it’s literally never addressed again, Maia’s has backwards consequences for some reason, which completely defeats the purpose of a character development quest on top of being basically Sir Not Appearing in this Game to begin with, Aloth’s doesn’t really do anything for his development either (his is all elsewhere in the game, too), and as much highly appreciated narrative context Pallegina’s provided, it didn’t make any sense for her character where it was (in either state) in Deadfire, not to mention it was confusing as hell. (Also, narratively speaking? Rekke should have had one, as should Ydwin, on the bias (she’s bugged to shit, and therefore keeps vanishing from my playthroughs, but what I’ve managed to see of her opens a lot of doors, so to speak). They’re both more plot important than some of the *actual* companions, and it’s terrible.)

And like, I get it, Deadfire had a *lot* more moving parts than Pillars did, having character quests that were any more timeline/location dependent would have been a terrible idea, it’s already so easy to fuck up the order of events without even trying, simply because you can just travel anywhere at any point just by picking a direction, and I have the very strong feeling that a lot of the existant character arcs were not intended to be as important as they ended up being, but still. Still. I expected a lot more out of… pretty much everything.

Speaking of: the very last sequence of the game. Eothas, doing the thing. Breaking the wheel. Murdering the world. Ending the Game. Whatever you want to call it.

Dear Obsidian: what, pray tell, the Actual Fuck.

One of the things that I got out of the first game, like not even extrapolating it’s right there in black and white in the text, is that the Wheel? Co-opted by the Engwithans, who essentially bolted a tap onto it to power their gods, but who neither invented nor really affected it in any way, shape, or form. Like, I think it’s Iovara who says that the gods are built on an existing system, parasites on a natural process? I’m not citing this and I don’t remember, but it’s in the last sequence of that game somewhere, and I’m 99% sure it’s one of her revelations. Anyways, smashing the physical wheel should have done fuck all to the metaphysical process, even with the Valians eating all the adra, like the question of ‘what do we do now???’ should have been about ‘how do we keep the gods alive, and do we even want to?’ not ‘oh shit, how do we keep the fucking world running’, that’s not the thematically relevant question. Like the game spends the whole time asking nitty gritty questions on the theme of ‘do we need the gods or do they need us?’ (Pallegina’s whole quest, for example, everything about the godlikes ever, a solid chunk of the underpinning of all three DLCs, the weird shit in Cignath Mor, like it’s woven through e v e r y t h i n g.) The fact that the final deciding question is instead ‘who gets the leftover power’ (and that you can’t talk Eothas out of the thing, or tell him to tip it back into the wheel in like, a useful way) honestly felt like a cop out to me. Like suddenly the narrative weight is on a random god and/or group of people who spent most of the game squabbling over stupid shit while the Watcher tried to save the world again, this time with Real Actual Obvious signs of shit going down. Like in the first game? The Watcher doesn’t figure it out until almost the end of the game, but what you stumble into stopping is both highly subtle and *really* awful on every level, and the consequences are going to be worse, but nobody knows anything about it and you’ve only got the clues you have because you made a bunch of stupid decisions a dozen lifetimes ago, like, you don’t have proof and there’s no way to get it until everything’s over and done with. Deadfire? People have seen Eothas! He’s wandering around, wrecking ships and causing tsunamis and basically being Obvious as Fuck that he’s the thing causing all these problems, and letting him keep going is a Bad Idea, And Yet. Literally nobody in the entire fucking game can focus on the real problem for five seconds until it’s too late, and even then they can’t let go long enough to fix it. And yes, I know, the developers intended it to be more politically minded, they’re not focused on Eothas because he’s far away and this particular thing blowing up in their faces is right here, but…. that’s not how it worked as a narrative? Not even a little? Eothas is on top of your super secret laboratory and he ate your lighthouse or whatever, but that’s not important right now because oh no there’s a different lighthouse that’s a weird color (yes I know the diseased adra pillar is not a lighthouse give me the metaphor) really, really doesn’t look like being politically minded, frankly it looks like, well, real life right this second, and let me tell you, if I had a god I was hell bent on yelling at for being a dick telling me I had to pick who ended up in charge of the fate of the world, I’d be yelling him into not doing that using any trick I had to. And obviously that wasn’t applicable when Deadfire came out, but the sentiment remains.

And what complicates this is that I loved most of Ukaizo. Like up until the final two minutes I found it really narratively fulfilling, more or less (I remain cross enough about said last two minutes it’s rather scrambled my actual impressions of the rest, but I remember being very excited), and then that happened (and the game crashed because I had technically defied the gods again I guess) and then I was very cross.

If this was a real essay, I’d have something to say here about looking at the narrative as it is, not how I’d like it to be, or maybe about how Edér ends up with multiple narrative foils that literally never see any use, and that’s another essay right there. If I were editing this into something readable, I might have actually come to a point at some point, and I could talk about that instead, but I guess I’m just going to say that I wish the developers had owned what they’d built, instead of trying to head it off. Like, cheers, you built one of the more rewarding romances in modern fiction, tell me more about Edér’s relationship with god, don’t murder a perfectly good female character to give him something to be sad about so you don’t have to acknowledge that.

[troger]

the atlantic: This is your last free article.

me: *shares the fuck out of it*

Trump Has Justified Breaking One of America’s Most Sacred Norms

The tradition of granting post-term immunity from prosecution to those who leave the White House now comes at too great a cost.

12:33 PM ET

Paul Rosenzweig

Principal at Red Branch Consulting

In the 240 years since America’s founding, no former president has been indicted for criminal conduct. This isn’t because they were angels—far from it. And it isn’t because post-term indictment is not legally allowed. Instead, it is because Americans don’t like the idea of criminalizing politics. Both parties and the public see the prospect of post-term immunity as a guarantee that the country’s politics will remain civil and that power will transition peacefully from one party to the other. That is what drove President Gerald Ford to pardon Richard Nixon. And it’s one reason why the Office of the Independent Counsel decided not to indict former President Bill Clinton.

The presidency of Donald J. Trump has upended those calculations, and the resistance to post-term investigation may now come at too great a cost. When he leaves office, whether in January or four years later, the next administration or one of the states can and should investigate citizen Donald Trump—a former president whose legal status will be no different from that of any other American. The risk of politicization of such an investigation is far outweighed by the danger posed by failing to uphold our nation’s values. To protect future presidents from retributive investigations once they leave office, however, any investigation should be limited to Trump’s conduct before and after his presidency, not his behavior while he was president. If the findings of such an investigation justify it, prosecutors should indict the former president for violations of criminal law.

I come to this view reluctantly. The risks in the approach are both real and substantial. But after having served as a prosecutor in the Department of Justice, as a senior counsel in the Whitewater investigation of Clinton, and as a Bush appointee at the Department of Homeland Security, I’ve come to recognize that challenging, balanced judgments of the sort necessary today are sometimes forced on us by circumstances beyond our control. Hard choices do, sometimes, make bad law, but they cannot always be avoided. To decline to investigate Trump’s alleged criminality after he has left office is itself a choice—and it’s the wrong one.

The biggest danger of countenancing the investigation of ex-presidents is also the most obvious: an ever-escalating cycle of retribution. One can easily imagine a losing president resisting the call to leave the White House at least in part because he feared subsequent prosecution, or a winning president prosecuting her opponents over normal political differences. Indicting one former president risks making a habit of doing so, and reducing America to little more than a revolving-door banana republic. That’s why, for example, former Attorney General Eric Holder has reacted with grave concern to calls for Trump’s post-presidency prosecution. As Holder might put it—with substantial justification—if you thought “Lock her up” was the wrong thing to say about Hillary Clinton, you shouldn’t support a “Lock him up” perspective on Trump.

But a reluctance to prosecute does not mean there should be a prohibition against doing so. The idea of absolute presidential impunity from prosecution for all time and for all actions is just a re-instantiation of the kingly prerogative—“The king can do no wrong”—that was one of several reasons America had a revolution. Should a president who committed murder before his election that was only discovered once he was in office be immune from prosecution after impeachment and removal? Surely not.

And yet the promise not to prosecute after a term ends is part of the price we pay for the routine peaceful transition of power. One can readily imagine, for example, the violent reaction of some presidential supporters to even the hint of a possible criminal investigation.

This is true even in normal times, but it is all the more true during periods of deep political hostility. The prosecution of Trump after he leaves office, as the conservative journalist Jonathan V. Last recently wrote in his newsletter, The Triad, is of secondary importance to the more important value of preserving the nation: “Buttressing the rule of law today won’t matter if we descend into widespread, open civic unrest that undermines the legitimacy of the political system itself. That would be a generational, ongoing crisis. And once the toothpaste is all the way out of that tube, then there is no going back until the people who have decided to be against the system die off.” That’s a pretty grim prospect, and if that were the choice, it might be wise to buy civil peace with the coin of prosecutorial deferral.

But is that the standard we aspire to? Do we think so little of our civil society that we set rules of behavior based on fear of mob rule? America is often said to be a nation of ideals, not of cultural groups. It exists as a collection of aspirational principles—equality of opportunity, freedom of expression, and, ultimately, the rule of law. If we discard those ideas to save the nation, have we actually saved the nation? If we truly believe in those principles, then, without prejudging the result, it would be a dereliction of duty for the next president—or for any state with cause to investigate—to refrain from examining the potentially illegal actions of former President Trump just because of his previous title. As Teddy Roosevelt famously said, “No man [should be] above the law and no man [should be] below it; nor do we ask any man’s permission when we ask him to obey it.” To categorically say otherwise is to undermine the foundation of American democracy.

A post-term investigation would be on solid legal footing. Post-term immunity is fundamentally inconsistent with the ground that is offered by the Department of Justice for immunity from prosecution while a president is serving. The DOJ has long been of the view that sitting presidents cannot be criminally charged. It justifies that position in two ways.

First, it looks to practical questions of implementation. The DOJ has argued, broadly, that the possibility of an indictment and criminal prosecution of a sitting president would “undermine the capacity of the executive branch to perform its constitutionally assigned functions.” It is difficult, they say, to imagine a president running a government while sitting in jail. While other, lesser officials have successfully continued in office from prison (the example of James Michael Curley, who served as the mayor of Boston while in prison for mail fraud, springs to mind), it is not unreasonable to think that doing so would be impossible for the president of the United States.

In addition to the practical difficulties created by a requirement for the president’s physical presence at a trial or in jail, the DOJ has relied on the intangible but significant effects that an indictment and trial could have on presidential power. As Nixon’s DOJ put it in a memorandum prepared in 1973, “The President is the symbolic head of the Nation. To wound him by a criminal proceeding is to hamstring the operation of the whole governmental apparatus, both in foreign and domestic affairs.”

Notably, for our purposes, both the analysis and the import of the DOJ’s views are limited to a time when the president is still in office. After the president’s term is over, there is no longer the practical problem of running a government. Nor are there the same sorts of intangible effects on presidential symbolism; he is, after all, no longer the “head of the Nation.”

All of this is precisely why the DOJ has long justified its term-based immunity argument by contending that a president would be subject to prosecution “after he left office” (albeit while noting the possibility that a lapse in the statute of limitations might create a gap in criminality). In other words, in the department’s view, it is the office itself that commands the immunity, not the person. It would be strange and ironic if the argument for immunity during a term of office were somehow converted into a prohibition on post-term indictment as well.

Quinta Jurecic and Benjamin Wittes: How to corrupt the Justice Department

It is likely that even the DOJ would argue against this sort of impunity. To do so would be, in effect, to recant much of what they said in 1973 and later repeated in 2000, with respect to Bill Clinton. As a formal matter, no legal barrier to post-term indictment exists.

Thus the ultimate question is not whether a former president can be investigated but whether one should be. What is best for our country? How can the country uphold the rule of law and the idea that no one is above the law, without driving itself into civil discord and risking fatal polarization?

There are no easy answers here. The best one can offer is a discretionary judgment that has some convincing rationale and offers a plausible way forward. In my view, the outlines of this are clear: It would be too great an affront to law for a president to have perpetual immunity. At the same time, the risks of polarization from criminalizing decisions that were made by the president during the course of a presidency is substantial. Alternatives, such as impeachment and loss of an election, exist that can address those wrongs.

Hence, let us try to thread the needle: Forgo the prospect of prosecution for actions undertaken while in office, but recognize that crimes a president commits while a regular citizen should not be excused just because he or she has served as the president of the United States.

This is not, by any means, a perfect solution. In our parade of horribles, there might be edge cases of conduct that occurred while the president was in office that would be so egregious we would want them to be criminally addressed. If, say, a hypothetical future president committed murder while in office, we would hope that a post-term prosecution for that offense would be permissible.

This example suggests that a ban on temporally based prosecution may be too broad and would, if strictly interpreted, revive the kingly prerogative against which we rebelled. On the other hand, any bright-line temporal rule that we adopt as a prudential matter has the virtue of being easy to administer and of avoiding post-term disputes about the level of egregiousness necessary for certain conduct to be prosecuted.

As a theoretical matter, the discretionary policy of not prosecuting an ex-president for acts committed while in office (especially those involving even tangentially the execution of his official duties) would have to yield in extreme cases. And while we cannot, with precision, define what those extreme cases might be, one hopes we would know them when we saw them.

Thankfully, we have yet to confront this degree of egregious behavior. For now, it is sufficient to articulate a general rule: A president should not be prosecuted after he leaves office for actions that occurred while he was the head of state, but he should remain subject to investigation for actions that occurred before or after his term.

To say anything else would be an affront. The powerful should be held to account. For society to function, all Americans must believe that crime doesn’t pay and that everyone is equal before the law. To avoid strife, we may exempt a president from criminal investigation for his political actions (however heinous and criminal they may be), but if we go further, and extend to him the kingly prerogative of impunity for his lifetime, we go a long way to destroying the faith in the rule of law that undergirds democracy.

With those concerns somewhat resolved, how do we decide whether to investigate former President Trump?

In many ways, the investigation of an ex-president should be no different from that of anyone else. As in other cases, a prosecutor would conduct interviews, subpoena documents, serve search warrants, convene a grand jury, and, in the end, if appropriate, ask the grand jury to return an indictment. There may be plea agreements, or trials, and then convictions, appeals, and, ultimately, perhaps, a prison sentence.

Kevin Wack: American justice isn’t impartial anymore

In that context, a prosecutor would typically ask two interrelated questions: First, is there sufficient admissible evidence of criminality that could sustain a conviction on the crimes to be charged? If not, the prosecutor should let the matter drop.

In Trump’s case, it seems clear that multiple credible criminal investigations are warranted. While not all of them may prove well grounded, the existing public record of well-documented allegations of criminal misconduct provides plentiful predication for opening an inquiry. This record includes but is not limited to a New York Times investigation that has described potential tax and mortgage fraud by Trump and the Trump organization; a narrower investigation of a series of transactions in the run-up to the 2016 election that has suggested the possibility of both tax fraud and campaign-finance fraud; a claim in Bloomberg that Trump may have committed insurance fraud; the uncovering of evidence by ProPublica of Trump’s alleged mortgage and tax fraud; the allegations of Trump’s niece, Mary Trump, that the Trump family committed fraud in the probate of her father’s will; and multiple alleged incidents of sexual assault (to the extent not barred by a statute of limitations).

There are other investigations for which there is likewise predication, but that, as a matter of prudence, we ought to forgo because they involve actions the president took while in office. For example, more than 1,000 prosecutors have concluded that the Mueller report uncovered ample evidence of Trump’s criminal obstruction of justice, and, additionally, former Trump staffers have reported the president’s corrupt offer of a pardon for illegal conduct that advanced his political interests.

One cannot, of course, know what an investigation of the allegations of pre-term criminal conduct might ultimately uncover (and, indeed, at least one, and possibly three, investigations are ongoing). But were Trump just an average citizen, there would be a basis to open up an inquiry into his behavior.

Which brings us to the second question: If prosecutors (at least those in the federal system, with which I am more familiar) conclude that there is sufficient evidence to prosecute, they will ask if reasons of public policy exist that suggest that the prosecution should not be brought. Typical reasons might be that it’s a small enough infraction that it’s not worth their time, that they don’t have enough resources, or that the prosecution won’t have any deterrence value.

The Principles of Federal Prosecution are intended to guide prosecutors in the exercise of their discretion, and offers nine (admittedly flexible) factors for assessment and consideration.

The first of these, which asks what the current federal priorities are, is not specific to any individual. It allows, for example, for an administration to say that it is focusing on drug crimes or for another to devote resources to fighting child pornography or white-collar crime.

The remaining factors, however, deal with the specifics of the offense and the nature of the defendant. How serious is the crime? How culpable is the accused in the scheme, and what is his role? What is his criminal history? And, more generally, what would be the deterrent value of the prosecution?

Here, it is fair to say that any balance we can strike at this stage, before all the facts are known, strongly suggests that an investigation of former President Trump would be consistent with these principles and that they would not bar an investigation of his conduct were he just a typical citizen. Trump’s pre-term conduct (if it is proved) would indicate a long-standing scheme of fraud (akin to that perpetrated by Bernie Madoff, for example) and significant financial abuse—exactly that sort of pattern of conduct and severity of offense that, in normal cases, would demand the investment of federal resources. If Americans are to have any confidence in the concept of the rule of law and equality before the law, and if the Principles of Federal Prosecution are to be applied in a neutral manner, the same result must obtain here.

Focusing exclusively on potentially illegal conduct that occurs outside the presidency is unlikely to solve the problems that lie ahead. Trump’s supporters will not be mollified by the distinction. And leaving unaddressed criminal activity that occurred during the presidential term may be too high a price to pay. But this sort of uncomfortable compromise is the only way to maintain accountability for crimes without making political differences a criminal offense. At least, I hope that is so.

The real shame, of course, is that we even have to contemplate this issue at all. Three times in the past half century, Americans have had to ask whether a president should be prosecuted after he leaves office. Perhaps the better solution would be to be more careful in the person we elect.

PAUL ROSENZWEIG is a principal at Red Branch Consulting. Twenty years ago, he served as a senior counsel in the investigation of President Bill Clinton.

[thefinishpiece]

Dance Of Exploding Eggs

The dead do not wash their feet.

Neither does not Nadia. She was still alive, still staring at the marks of peckish dirt encasing her feet like a spotted glaze. Yet, less appetizing.

Instead, she was reviled to find where her veins strutted up to form long, sinewy ridges—her usually clear complexion blemished in wildfires of tawny gunk.

Even her tiny hairs, which she regularly shaved, were now trees bristling in leaves of muddied bluster. In the clefts between her toes, little clans of grungy warriors built camps and lit fires, letting their filth fly freely, while fending off the fungal barbarians sure to be surrounding them any second now.

Her toenails fared no better, each one piling unto itself as a layered cake of dead cells. Hardened, deadened, sharp—soot-stricken orphans seeking shelter beneath the curves, shivering yet ordained by structure to never clog or obstruct the construction of new nail, which constantly builds outward as a bridge of flattened crystal-flesh. Until gravity clutches it and pulls it down, looping back into the very toe it tried to escape from, almost like a parasite that can’t quite leave the taste of its host behind.

And the stench from all this—pervading passed all bounds of invisible air, leaping up so fast and flourishing, by the time it reaches the nose it is a blossoming fist of smell, punching nostrils closed, knocking out any other aroma present.

How could any conscious being permit such an expanse of putridness to grow on itself?

Nadia did not have to ponder for long because she blamed herself supremely and solely. Just as well, since she blamed herself often and deeply.

“I have to wash my feet...” she muttered to herself. “A good soak is all they need.”

In her quiet inspection, she lamented the dead. For as they were, being deceased, their feet could deteriorate and decay all they like, because at six-feet-under earthly crust, no one can smell them or complain about them, and they themselves could not openly accuse themselves of being the opposite of hygienic and failing to hide natural odor from their own judgmental eyes. Because despite how natural the growth of dirtiness on feet seemed to be, it was still considered hideous to everyone—especially Nadia—and frowned upon by many in circles high above the very ground upon which these very feet walked on.

“There is fungus growing on these, I just know it.” Nadia assured herself.

But as she did, pinching the derelict spots in quiet contempt, her companion muddled platitudes of support, remarking how happy he would be to scrape off all those mushrooms on her feet and cook a nice dish with them—maybe a soup or pasta or something.

“Wild shrooms like that always have such an earthly taste you can’t find anywhere else!”

“Here then, have a taste yourself!” Nadia sneered, shoving her foot right into her companion’s face, her wilderness-blessed toes tapping classical melodies on his face.

He playfully grabbed her ankle and kissed her toes all over, licking his lips, wearing a face like a golden-tongued chef being asked by the gods to decide whose confection was best—was it the lemon-frosted cream-cake by Hekate, or perhaps the pineapple-pudding pie which Hermes made?

Nadia giggled, curling her toes, still concerned by her bothersome feet, but quite content to have someone overcome it for the sake of amusing her. And he did amuse her—in all ways. It is the only reason she even agreed to go on this trip—especially after what happened so long ago.

Otherwise, she would have stayed at home, soaking her feet to a wrinkled gleam.

And as she removed her foot from his face, returning her leg to a proper position, she was appropriately careful not to disturb the eggs on the dashboard, which were bundled together in a basket, with blots of cotton mixed in to keep them buoyant and prevent unintentional collision.

As they both quit laughing—his attention focusing in on the road ahead and Nadia suddenly forgetful of the plague wreaking havoc on her feet—the quiet hiss of the eggs could be heard. Whatever it was developing within them, it emitted this sullen spitting, penetrating through its shell at a volume just loud enough to hear in silence, but just silent enough to be swallowed by any mention of another sound (any other mention of sound).

Nadia gazed at the eggs, listening to them curse and whine, wondering if it was pain or hate that compelled them to make such sour tones.

“These things are so foul.” Nadia noted. Her companion nodded without looking. “Sure, but so are your feet.”

A smirk bit his face, and Nadia just shook her head smiling. At least she had him here. These eggs seemed rather harmless with him here.

|1|

The shells were golden, as if molded after myth and greed.

But why did they have to stay in the bathroom? On the sink, where they paired with their reflection to ensure a double flood of grotesque gold every time Nadia must floss her teeth or comb her hair? Why could they not be hidden somewhere out of sight—especially somewhere insulated so their acidic whispers could not be audible to anyone?

Especially to Nadia, who was in here simply to clean her feet, not hear the hissing of eggs she only agreed to transport because he had asked. No one else could have convinced her.

Her hope was that the droning drops of the bath faucet would wrestle the background noise to a comfortable hum, a soothing sensory song of automated splash and meditative whirl. Her plan functioned the way she intended—as soon as the metallic mouth started spraying its aquatic continuum, the noise of the eggs suddenly dispersed.

But they remained problematic in sight—they clung to her peripheral vision, a visual squid stretching its tentacles all around her attention.

Nadia prepared herself in front of the toilet rather than the mirror, quite resistant to being in the same reflection as these hideous eggs. Her companion rested in the adjacent room, a reasonably upheld hotel room which was lighted in decorative wallpapers depicting seashells and seahorses—a recently refurbished décor which imitated the appearance of something fancier than the price indicated.

But in spite of such comfortable accommodations, a thorn continued to reside in Nadia’s proverbial sides.

Those eggs, which strung such horrible tunes in the air and were plunged in equally offensive hue—a gold of unnatural paleness, something not gifted from heaven but from some otherworldly dimension where an affectionate spectrum does not exist, thus having to translate its previous color into one compatible with this reality, but without an actual frame of reference to consummate the translation. There was no color in this place that could suffice for these eggs. And the gold that they finally settled on was not even really matched to any credible source—it may have been a color you could recognize and possibly categorize, but only in a dissimilar demeanor, such as comparing the tides of ocean to the tides of flame.

These eggs had chosen a color that only pretended to be a color.

This imitative impression disgusted every sensibility Nadia possessed. But for whatever morbid condition ailing her, she could not bring herself to look away. And this only further repulsed her.

So, in response, she swathed a towel over the eggs, concealing them from view, then proceeded to peel herself bare and bathe. However, every once in a while, she still glanced at that mound of cerulean-cloth, knowing in her mind’s eye exactly what lay beneath, even though it had been deafened and buried. It was the power of a thought over a reality.

Nadia sighed. She desperately desired to change the course of her thoughts. She sunk into the porcelain tub, at first cold and crippling, awaiting its eventual completion.

The faucet drummed, and waves formed floor after floor of boiling bubbles, swirling in suds, molten layers of cleansing water swaying over her to and fro, steady and unhurried. The coldness was removed, replaced by rippling heat, almost as if blankets of temper were tenderly placed over her body, one after the other, building a tomb of liquid steam around her.

It was a reverse evaporation—the atmosphere condensation upon her, the dissolved now soluble again. Once free particles of hotness pinched from the sky and folded into pockets of wetness, spraying on Nadia’s body in a measured massage.

Finally, she was relaxing.

Her mind receded to memories—as a wandering mind is known to do. Instances made of time and place, proportioned to emotional heights, to moody lows, to kinetic propulsion of person and thing, interacting in a dream, where motion is unclear, and the most prominent aspect is how far away something so superbly significant can feel. That paradox of memory.

In hers, there was a beach.

On a day of stormy composition. Yet rain had held back, and a warm breeze flew swanlike across the scene. Deep hues of sapphire magma spiraling against the shore, not in rage but in prance.

How strange to see it cascading in the horizon, colliding with a sky of dreary steel, specks of blackened rust puncturing the clouds—much akin to dirt on feet. But it is not dark. Even through stormy screens, sunlight performs its duty and the world is visible in leaden beauty.

Nadia is there, in a dress.

A thing of red-clay converted to silk, with threaded jewels of turquoise. She is spinning in an unseen weaver’s wheel, their fingers rolling her around. But she is not dancing alone. For there is another, a man, joining her and twirling with her. His unbuttoned shirt is flurrying as he moves. Until at last, they spin into one another, joyous. They both laugh and tremble, collapsing onto the sand, their arms stuck together in a knot. And they lay there, tied together, unflinching, undisturbed—as if being made into a knot was their one true intention all along.

And these two human strings admire each other. So much so that when rain oscillates upon them, they do not even notice. In drenched, clustering sand, they reciprocate affection, lips lancing against each other, bodies tying together, their knot tightening ever more and more, until one has to wonder if you could ever untie them apart.

Nadia giggles. She remembers how unconcerned they were with ruining their respective garments. The clumps of damp sand encrusting both of their backs like the shells on a tortoise. But their torsos were untouched—so concerned with being wrapped so close to each other, no open space was possible. And the feeling of wet lips, uncaring to rain and sand, compressing themselves dry in the heat of faucet-fusion.

Then the deluge pours over, erupting across the smooth-sides, and Nadia jumps, startling herself.

In her delighted daydream, she had let the bath overfill, now overflowing onto bathroom tile. She leaps for the octagonal handle, carved of candied glass, halting the water and ending the storm.

Now she is alone again.

Except for that faint fuse, with its spark flickering forever. Though it never reaches its destination—it only barks continually, that sound of sparkling dust. Then Nadia’s state of dazed grace concludes abruptly, as she understands there is no dynamite-stick, but a collection of disgraceful eggs, unmuted. She wishes so much she could just boil them, get it over with.

Nadia loosens the drain, ignoring the eggs, her peaceful spa now tainted and confused.

Upset, she watches the water vanish piece by piece, until all that is, is a remainder of puddled past—a shallow spit of soap caught on the edge of indented drain. Reminiscent of gunk beneath toenails. Reminding her of scattered sand memories.

And those blasted eggs, hissing and hissing and hissing…

A space Nadia must escape.

She leaves the bathroom, still drenched but entombed by a bathrobe. She strides passed the bed where her companion remains asleep, his own body beneath a crypt of blankets and sheets, resting in infinite dreams in some unhurried afterlife. Snores ensuing.

Nadia has never quite contoured to his awful snoring, so steady and surly. She assumed after a certain period of time her ears would be accustomed to it, that she would barely notice his nasal belches as if they were blank booms. But this threshold proved unreachable, and every time Nadia hears it, she can never concentrate nor slumber.

Rain casts against the window. A shame because Nadia desires to peek outside, absorb the bounty of the natural world, refreshing and ravaging all at once. Storms have an unusual pull on the heart, which in turn, has an unusual way of peeling the body—unable to hide oneself anymore, becoming a spark of nude thunder.

Replacing one insensitive sound for another, Nadia crumbles in indolence, retreating to the bathroom, considering that she cannot smother her companion with a towel to stop his bleating, but she can at least inter the eggs to divisible hum. And from there, all she has to do is plead ignorance. So, back to the bathroom.

|2|

Back in the bathroom, Nadia is given a dress.

Even though she is still wet from the rain, she cannot reject such a gracious gesture, so she glues it to her skin to prevent it from slipping off. Then she is asked to dance.

“Are you sure? I don’t think I’m any good.” Nadia blushes. But it insists. “Okay—but only if you dance with me.”

Nadia extends her hand. She is taken by a presence and together they twirl and taper across the slippery tile. At first, they are sloppy, awkwardly jutting into corners or stepping over each other’s path. But eventually they adapt, they crease together, a makeshift rhythm developing between them, motion now momentum—bodies now ballet.

They dance ellipticals across the room, channeling each other’s orbits, certain not to collide, and certainly not to disrupt the beautiful gravity they have plumed. But Nadia, without intention or reason, happens to witness her feet, and by their gross gravitas, she plummets to the floor.

No more dancing.

Nadia sighs. All the vapors have disappeared. The bathroom is cold again. Shivering, she looks around for a towel. But the only one is placed over the dreadful eggs she despises so much. It seems as if Nadia has condemned herself to a fate of lying naked on the floor forever.

“I hate these eggs!” Nadia shouts.

Nobody is disturbed. Not even her companion, who continues his hibernation uninterrupted. It is just Nadia, alone, with that menacing mumble, ceaseless yet contained, the eggs still whining even under their threaded prison.

She accepts her misfortune and adjusts her position to sitting on the toilet lid, her bottom crippling from the icy white, but she seems unbothered.

Nadia angles her legs up, her feet poised on the bathtub ledge. She grabs a complimentary sponge and starts scrubbing her feet, up and down every crevice and crack, across entire soles and ankles and toe-folds. Precise, she does not move too rapidly—she takes the time to ensure perfection on her mission of erasing every negative note from her two feet.

The procedure has become habit, and habit lends itself to repetition becoming daydream. Daydream which lends itself to becoming habit, and habit which turns into the rituals of reality that bind us to corporeal certainty, whether consciously or not.

And isn’t that such a curious thing how the brain tricks you into believing what it wants you to believe, what it thinks is best, what it thinks is real—strangely contradicting what your conscious view sees? What you truly want?

Nadia never quite comprehended how her mind could repel in two alternate directions, as if the thing inside her skull was nothing more than a mere magnet, positive and negative pulses, rippling against each other, stuck in marrow-molded bondage, forced to reconcile petty differences and levitate in static vibration; a feigned vibrancy where thought and imagination and curiosity can pretend to be things of their own, when truly they are products of electrical folly. Nervousness.

And she absolutely did not comprehend the track of time either, which seemed to have evaporated, along with a patch of her skin, as suddenly she was stabbed by a searing sensation on her foot.

Wincing, she examined the cause, seeing that in her furious daze she had rubbed too heavily with the sponge, scraping off a small surface of her foot, now catalyzed in blood. It did not bleed in a traditional way, but due to the nature of the wound, seeped out of the area in knitted dots, scarlet-putty pushing through a weave.

Nadia grabbed the towel and padded her foot, but in doing so, permitted those dastardly eggs to breathe once more, and their breaths were just as constant and corrosive as ever. All they did was hiss, hiss, hiss…

Waves.

From sound and light. Sneaking up Nadia’s skin like little spiders of clustered vibration.

Into the green she goes.

Eaten up by trees, her hair yearning to be a leaf on her head, vibrant and veiny, waving and curling in verdant wind. Along a road she goes, feet swimming across the mud, her body moving like a tidal wave against a shoreless beach. Escape.

At the zenith of her path—an overlook, decorated in tufts of earthy hair and nails, with strewn logs and sharp boulders. A view of the remaining wood, its belly lunging up and down in tectonic reflux, aligned with pine and bark and brush, each ridge and valley adorning itself in its own personal collection of green.

Nadia approaches the edge of this cliff, which oversees the forest it is a part of as if separate from it.

A table is set, draped in a pretend-petal curtain, where anxious porcelain cups hold its quiet magma, blessed of roots stripped and shaken and seared. Her companion is there, holding a bouquet, so full of rainbow passion, an assortment of flowery praise that only Aphrodite could deserve—yet it is for Nadia, of all things!

A surprise picnic at the end of the world.

Her companion offers her a seat, which she does not refuse. The sky is elaborate in shades of violet and azure, a strange suffusion of dark and bright—a peripheral sunrise stuck in perpetual sunset. But it is not a fiery sun so much as it is a sun of shadows; yet everything under it is visible and vibrant. Only in a dream.

But Nadia does not listen to such negative inclinations, her attention purely focused on her companion, who sits beside her, his arm nestling against her shoulders, warm and safe. They both grab a cup of tea, ascend to touch and tip their fortunes to each other, then lifting to their lips to swallow it to oblivion—how odd to have stomachs, our own personal abyss within our body.

It tastes like angel-bath, sweet and mentholating, warm and exasperate in faith—the faith that this feeling would last forever.

For Nadia, it might as well, because every other moment after was nothing but pale failure.

And, especially, when her companion gazes into her eyes, without breaking away, with an amount of longing and affection so deep and infusive, she finds herself trembling, even though sight is only sight.

But she stares back at him, his face crinkling together almost like a cone, pointed directly at her, as if no surrounding sensation could deter him from this view. Not the mountains; not the sky; not the dream of universe complete. Only her—Nadia—and her face, however dirty or seemingly normal it may seem to her, is a boundless source of inspiration to him. And she feels enslaved by it, put in a bondage that is pleasantly accepted—a surrender, a submission.

Then the purples fade.

And light of fairy-blood returns, swirling and maddening.

Suddenly, trees are bleeding viridian, and their natural hue strolls unto review. Back into the green again, as Nadia feels a kiss, and disappears forever in trees of passion pleased.

But something is sour.

She does not remember his kiss being so acerbic, cutting her, leaving her in bled-refrain. What sort of perverted spring is this?

It stings. She wipes his saliva from her lips, but it bubbles on her fingertips, to the point of boiling. She grimaces, wondering why there is pain. She looks up to see her lover’s eyes vanished, and alone on this precipice. Her entire jaw is sliced away, sliver by sliver, her bones crackling, her muscles spoiling. Her face falls like rotten fruit from its frame, the heaviness of mold and rot too much for romantic gravity to bear. So it drops her all the way to a tomb of disgrace. Buried beneath the earth, there is Nadia’s love—a displaced view.

Nadia awakes. Returned from the green.

She is holding one of the eggs to her lips, kissing it.

In her trance, her mind had found folly in trying to replace the imaginary with an effigy of the real. Disgusted, she flings the egg away from her face, splattering it on the bathroom mirror, its sizzling insides leaving a repulsive stain. So bitter.

Nadia immediately invokes the sink, splashing water onto her face, trying to remove the taint from her mouth, still smoldering in a sourness of demonic proportions. As she spits, there is blood—not fantastical illusion or fanciful daydream, but actual, fetid blood.

“I hate these fucking eggs!” Nadia screams, her throat convulsing in rage.

Nobody responds. Except, of course, the eggs, which hissed and hissed and hissed…

|3|

There once was a time when Nadia was loved.

The way a person should be loved. The way a foot is loved by the hand that cleans it. So thoroughly and carefully, so unpretentiously unconditional—just doing what it needs to do to make everything clear and happy again.

Whatever it takes, Nadia used to think. For the sake of clean feet.

Nadia snickered. That was not at all what she used to think. How could one remember so far away?

Those distant shores of memory, where every cleft of sand looks the same as every buried barnacle. Where is the savior ship come to rescue us from pity and pernicious regret?

Marooned on a beach of unused life, wallowing through our scorn like gulls picking through twigs, snapping and scuttling over branch and jewel, trying to find our prize, our possession of perfect scene and elation. That moment when our lives essentially defined themselves, and everything after relegated to the fade— our true revelation of this story we continue to scribe.

But Nadia, no matter how much she scoured, could not find this missing trinket, of which she thought for sure would finally unravel the mystery of Nadia.

Was it the first day of school when she threw up on the classroom floor, a nervous bile overtaking her when the teacher asked her to introduce herself?

It should have been a simple, ‘Hello, my name is Nadia.’

But instead, it was a terrible mosaic of gulp and gruel. So embarrassing.

No, surely, it was in her feet. The mark of her miraculous moment. When they were still young paws, so fresh from hatching they still had webbing on them...

Nadia wanted to be a ballerina.

One of those composed and captured creatures, ignoring the chaos of the world around them, performing a movement of perfected grace and graceful ritual. Every step a note on the composition’s line, leading a symphony of shape and swerve, never letting itself become consumed by any emotion or nonsense which would disrupt its willful path.

An offering to the gods of geometry, aligning your feet in a poise more perfect than constellation, moving in the same seasonal march of ebb and flow—repeating, repeating, repeating. This is the dance of no-dance. A motion of purpose.

Until it is over.

Until a cormorant appears, and Nadia, too far gone in her ellipsis, trips right over the flurried thing, spiraling through the air, over the side of edible stage. Now, she is drifting into the black, gravity’s charms dispersed, composer’s graciousness displeased.

Until suddenly, she emerges from the black unto the blue—a crystal shore she has seen before, the only sound being that of pant and wave. And there is the feathered imp, whose beak is whistling to her demise, as she pours onto the beach.

“If only you could fly...” the cormorant says.

Nadia scoops herself up from the sand, wincing. “Must be nice.”

The cormorant fluffs its wings then takes to flight, soaring high above the earth it mocks.

Nadia’s foot vibrates in pain, every muscle and tendon and ligament ringing a rapacious storm of ache. Before she can soothe her pain, however, Nadia’s mother comes and grabs her hand, leading her away.

Nadia cringes with every step, her left foot refusing to touch ground, her right one barely stable and straining as it is dragged along.

“Your father’s gone—not that he was ever here...”

Nadia’s mother puffs a cigarette. There are no other kids in the hospital room. Only passed and broken people. Corpses.

Nadia rubs her toes, trying to allay the bristling numbness in them. She thinks perhaps her mother should be holding her in her arms or something, nestling her into motherly bosom, patting her on the head with lips and whispering how everything will be alright and the pain will go away.

But Nadia looks up and sees her mother puffing a cigarette, watching the wall, complaining how much of a waste of time it is they have to be here. Then she looks at Nadia, scowling.

“This all your fault. You should have been paying attention—you’re never paying enough attention, Nadia!”

And maybe she was right—because Nadia suddenly realized she had been standing on the bathroom tile for far too long.

The inner scars of her feet began to flare up again, so she took a seat on the toilet and lifted her left leg, her hands desperately massaging her flesh, trying to ameliorate an old wound. The eggs watched her, and she despised how they lay witness to her weakness. Now they knew her fiercest flaw. They would probably use it against her—if they could.

But they were just eggs, right? Just eggs that only hiss and hiss and—

Nadia called for her companion but there was no response. She desired to deign him to fetch a bucket of ice for her from down the hall. Was he still sleeping?

Nadia shouted again. And again, he did not reply.

The eggs grew louder, as if trying to answer in his place, and Nadia spat at them out of spite. Then she gripped onto the sink and raised herself up, limping out into the room. But it was empty.

“Where the hell did he go?” Nadia muttered aloud. Then she sighed.

There was once a time when Nadia was loved.

When he cared enough to always be called. To be there for whatever she needed.

During a period of a particularly grisly flare-up, he would rub cooling ointment on her feet every night, his fingers unafraid to peel into every hidden spot, pushing her bones and blood to comfortable stasis. He always knew how to subside her pain—he never protested to coddling her feet either.

After he left, Nadia had to mend her own feet. Her youthful damage both unforgiving and never forgetful. No agony was greater than when her companion departed, however. A cut on the physical self is nothing compared to a rending of the heart—the unseen epicenter of all feeling and worth.

With him, she had felt like she had value. Without him, she was nothing but dirty feet. How hard it was to have herself be heartbroken by him. To find him the way he was—she stopped herself.

Nadia did not want to return to this feeling. Now that he was returned, she would do anything to keep it that way. Even if meant dealing with those ghastly eggs—that’s why she had said yes.

And Nadia exceptionally loathed those damned eggs.

She staggered through the door into a hallway, which peeked both ways in endless doors and floor, none of them unique, enslaved by pattern. She was concerned where he had gone, but she also knew her primary focus was to end the unease throbbing in her left hoof.

Nadia peered right, assuming the ice-machine was down there, because she recalled that is where the elevator had been, so other amenities must be nearby.

She leaned against the wall, wobbling along, careful not to bang into someone else’s door, for fear they would wake, that they would appear and harass her in marvelous temper. But she also took care not to apply pressure to her left foot, where the injury was sourced and had been most severe.

Her right was still strong in many ways, although its largest toe had been shattered then in her youth as well. So now she walked awkwardly so as not to upset it and reawaken its hindered might.

Altogether, Nadia looked like quite the circus clown stumbling down the hallway. Almost falling on herself every other hinge, wafting through diluted air like a dumb cloud, constantly astray. How did it come to this?

There was a time once when Nadia was loved.

When she did not have to wrestle with hallways. When the earth did not stifle beneath her feet. When lovers brought ice—when she had a lover at all. She stops, leaning against the wall with one arm. Panting. Suddenly, a familiar sound—though not a friendly one. A stretching sound. Sinister and expanding. Slithering between her legs and beneath her body. On and on until the entire hallway is swimming in it. Nadia, fearful, almost falls down. It feels like walls around her are shivering, a stinging chill. Viscous vibrations inundate her. Even the waves in the air become feverish. And then there it is—hallways hissing. Nadia, totally shattered, but saved by a flight of energy, lets her pain sprout into wings and compel her forward on its frenetic wind. She begins scrambling, wobbling in a frenzy, arm rowing against the wall and her one good leg hopping heavy steps. Edges of light behind can be seen scattering in its shadows ahead of her, silhouetted in the form of an unfathomable thing, a body of a beast so terrifying just its reflection pierces Nadia’s heart every step forward she takes. What horrible thing has hatched in this place? Suddenly, another familiar sound—the mellow notes of an ancient folk song, which Nadia happens to know the melody of. Like it is playing just for her. But the rest of the memory still clouded. She recognizes it; quickens her pace toward it. Anything to deafen out that hiss of eternal doom. That splintering of soul that follows her everywhere she goes, enveloping itself in her flesh, in her very being, until she is shrouded by it. A cloak of gore. Dissolution. There it is—that open door, pink and blue light casting out from it in the ever darker and blurrier hallway. Just like she remembers. Into it she goes—into an underworld of nostalgic void. Standing in the doorway entrance, now entered, she closes the door to the hallway. No more hissing. That gentle folk vocal weaves in. Those sweet strums of mountain love and lake calm. A natural hymn. Alluring. Nadia gazes at the pink and blue light now painting her body. Both familiar shades. She looks up to see the pane of a room, and a shadowed corner blocking her vision. Next to her, a dark and empty bathroom. This hotel room—I remember this room, Nadia thinks. Curiously wistful. The pain her foot still retaining, but fainter. She lags closer, every inch expanding her view of the room and diminishing the shadow of the corner of the wall. An oak table, three used glasses full of wine stains, beside a half-bled bottle. A chair with a cushion, assorted strips of clothing strewn about it. Then the corners of a bed, sheets sundering. Nadia inches nearer and nearer, breath draining into back of her throat as if preparing a gasp in anticipation. So, for what? Finally, she turns around the corner, and sees her horror. There he is—her loving, devoted companion—slathering over another woman, angel-faced demon of blonde desire, the both of them naked and engaged in erotic trance. Nadia screams. Her companion does not notice her, his head buried in the other woman’s tomb—but she looks up, stares at Nadia and smiles, blows a kiss while winking. Then she returns to moaning and fawning all over him, like a deer trapped underneath a boulder. A spider weaving its prey in sweaty web. Hissing in his ear. Nadia runs out of the room. Back into the hallway, ambushed by an eruption of hissing, those damn eggs blistering into her mind in inescapable flashes. She clasps her head with her hands, frantically stumbling toward her room, all her previous pain nullified by needles of adrenaline. Turning her head inside out. She can’t even hear her own screaming over the sound of this hissing. Nadia collapses into her room, shattering into the bathroom, seeing those dreadful eggs sitting there in punishing flames. Despite all the rippling nerves in her body, she grabs the basket of eggs, takes it out into the bedroom, and slings them out the bedroom window, letting gravity grasp them and crush them far down upon its immediate earth. Destroyed forever. Exploding on the concrete in a dance of denouement. Nadia unleashes the cry of a bat, shrieking. Then she falls onto the bed, whole body entangled by pain, her foot so swollen its bubbling and bursting in blood. Crying. Over now. Nothing hisses. Only the sound of her sobbing. Of heartbeat in crescendo, then descending to crippling silence. And it languishes on, for what seems like hours but is only fragments of a little time, not quite mature enough to constitute a length of being. There is Nadia—just Nadia. Breathing. Emptied of tears. Aftershocks of pain dragging but dwindling. But she doesn’t stay alone forever. After this while, she realized her mistake. What will he say when he comes back—when he sees I got rid of the eggs? How could she ever explain herself? Would he understand and forgive her? Her mind was controlled by these thoughts—panic, paranoia compulsive loathing. She had to assure herself what she just saw was only an illusion—a product of those damned eggs. He would never do that again—her companion had repented, and she had forgiven him. Devotion was all she could see! She’d do whatever it takes she told herself. Whatever he wanted—forget what she wanted. She’d give up being Nadia. There was once a time when Nadia had desires of her own, but the loneliness had scared that out of her a long time ago. And the brokenness had cursed her to obey only doom. She would never make another mistake again—he’d never have another reason to leave again. Not like last time. He could put a blade in her hand and push it up to her throat, tell her to pull it at the snap of his fingers, and she’d do that magic trick a million times over if she could. Anything to keep away the hissing. Anything to be loved. Anything to have him hold her up again, carry her every limb if he has to, and dance with her one last time—forever.

[starcunning]

Drasteria adumbrata

Happy birthday to my very favorite Leo/Virgo cusp.

Oh, you thought we were done? We might actually be less done than before.

[M/F] [WOL* (Kallisti)/Nabriales][G-rated Fluff][ARR 2.56][Shadowbringers spoilers][Erebidae][4k words]

[AO3 mirror]

The air in the cave was gelid. That might have been a problem once, long ago, but Kallisti had passed beyond such concerns in the moors of Yafaem. There was a stillness to the aether, too; much of it was likely bound up in the summoning of Saint Shiva.

That might have been a problem she was expected to address once, but to slay that false goddess would have seen Kallisti turned out from the shelter of the Warrens. She had been accepted among Iceheart’s heretics only by Nabriales’s insistence, being otherwise too recognizable a figure. And being still wanted for regicide, there was little to be done but shelter among the ice and snow while Nabriales and Igeyorhm directed events.

Soon enough, she had been assured, it would not really matter what she was accused of.

It was evening, and the wind whipped her indifferent cheeks as she strained to catch the last rays of the sun. The heavy blanket of clouds overhead dampened the sunset to something almost unrecognizable, but she did not turn her head as she felt the displacement of aether that presaged teleportation.

“Your work is done for the day?” she asked. The wordless affirmation was felt rather than heard, but Nabriales nodded. “What are you doing?” he asked after a moment. “Trying to remember what daylight looks like,” Kallisti replied. “It’s so cold here.” “You do suffer so, don’t you,” he said, tone dripping with false sweetness. “Things are drawing to a close.” “We should go to Costa del Sol,” she said. “If there’s time.” The non-sequitur seemed to confuse him. “You want to take a vacation?” “It will be time for a Calamity soon, won’t it?” Kallisti wondered. “That’s why you’re doing all this? The last one changed things significantly. It seems a shame not to enjoy it while it lasts.” Nabriales pursed his lips beneath the rim of his mask. For a moment she thought he might refuse, but when he spoke, he said, “There is another place we should visit before the Ardor. It will not survive the Rejoining, and it is past time you were illuminated on certain matters.” “My schedule is clear,” she said.

Nabriales extended one hand. The claws of his gauntlets glittered like ice in the dim light, but when she put her palm in his she was surprised to find he was as warm as ever. He drew her in, enfolding her in his own aether, his darkness blotting out her vision. She closed her eyes and leaned in against him, reaching out with her senses to feel him—not just the cloak of shadow wound around her like clouds around the moon, but the core of dark crystal at his heart. She felt it distantly, through her body and his, but focused upon it as she had learned to do when he had brought her to the Chrysalis.

She did not think they were headed there now, but dared not speculate on what might be so important to him that he would derelict his duties for it. It was easier to travel with an empty head in any case, so she focused only on the sound of her own breathing, and did not allow it to hitch as the teleportation hooked into her gut and reeled her along. It seemed to last a long time—longer than she was accustomed to, and when she felt earth beneath her feet once more it took her a moment to get her bearings.

They stood upon a stony beach—white rocks about the size of her fist dappled the shoreline. The water was clear blue, the waves dappled with golden light. Kallisti adjusted the brim of her hat, turning in a slow circle, but found no sun sinking upon the horizon. Against her better judgement she glanced up, expecting to find it at its zenith, but the firmament overhead was undifferentiated light—equal but opposite, in its way, to the clouds that blanketed Coerthas where she had stood but moments before.

She turned back to Nabriales, thinking to put the question to him, but he was cringing beneath the brilliant sky. Instead she asked, “What’s wrong?” “The Light,” he said. “It is anathema to us. Beneath the water is better, I’m told.” Then he was off, wading into the surf, Kallisti’s hand still in his own. “Where are we going?” “The Caliban Trench,” he replied. “To the last place the Light does not touch.”

He seemed eager to get there, already submerged to the waist. Kallisti’s robes billowed around her, the waves lapping at her chest. With her free hand she clutched at her hat.

“Nabriales,” she said, drawing him up short. He turned back to look at her, seeming baffled by her hesitation. “I still need to breathe.” “You had no such need when we visited the Chrysalis,” he pointed out. Her ears brushed the brim of her hat, laying back. “Why would the air of the Chrysalis be unsuitable?” she wondered. He grinned. “The moon you are all so keen to worship as a goddess is more like Dalamud than you think. It, too, serves as a prison, and at its heart slumbers Zodiark. The Chrysalis is as near as we are allowed to His presence.” She squinted, not merely at the brightness of the sky, but at him. “The Chrysalis is on the moon?” “In, rather, in much the same way the Sharlayan Antitower penetrates to the heart of the star, unto the borders of Hydaelyn’s influence,” Nabriales said. “Antitower?” she echoed. “What? I think I would have heard of it.” The Ascian’s smile broadened: “There is much that was kept from you,” he said. “The secrets of Sharlayan not least of all.” A wave broke upon his back, and he took a step closer to her. “I still don’t think I can do it,” she said. Nabriales merely shrugged, and then reached up to take her by the throat. With exacting delicacy he put the claw of his other forefinger to the side of her neck. She felt her pulse leap and then settle—surely the Echo would warn her somehow if she were in mortal danger.

Not that it would save her, she could not help but reflect. After all, Laurentius Daye had had her dead to rights, as Nabriales did then.

She could feel her blood trickle over her skin as he opened a slash in the side of her neck, so delicate as to be almost painless until the sea spray hit it, and then salt seared the wound. He turned her head by force, repeating the gesture on the other side. He reached into her, then, his aether commingling with hers and felt herself rearranged—not in the same way that Lensha might have done, straightening and reinforcing in the service of healing, but in a way that left her transmogrified thereafter. Her neck tensed, and new muscles flared—her gills gaped, for that was what he had opened in the sides of her neck. She pressed her hand to his, feeling the edge, and then dove past him into the water. The drag of the water tore her hat from her head, but she abandoned it, reveling instead in the coolness that suffused her.

The light that permeated did not warm, but it was altogether more temperate than had been Coerthas—it did not seem to be winter here at all. As Nabriales caught up with her and they broke from the surface, threading through forests of seaweed, she recalled the question that had struck her first when she arrived, forestalled by the sight of him in pain. He seemed relaxed—even content—then, so she opened her mouth to ask the question. It came out in a rush of bubbles, and she felt water fill her lungs.

When it had finished—and she could walk along the seabed—she repeated the question. “What is this place?” “This is the First Reflection,” he said. “Mitron and Loghrif had primed it for Rejoining before they … retired from this place. When we trigger the Ardor upon our return, it will be reabsorbed into the Source.” “It looked a lot like La Noscea,” Kallisti noted. “Functionally, it is,” he replied. “I was born not far from here,” he said, “albeit on a different Reflection.” “The Twelfth,” she said, remembering distant Dravania. “Do not ask to see it,” he said. “It was Rejoined shortly after I was uplifted, some time after the Thirteenth collapsed.” “Do you miss it?” she wondered. “Do you never wish to go home?” “Where do you think I am taking you?” he wondered, his lips quirking in a crooked smile.

He led her then to a place where the current swept out to sea, and they let it carry them—past the shelf break, and they sunk to the slope. The water dimmed much of the light overhead, everything dimmed to a murky green that reminded her, almost, of home. Their passing startled schools of fish, and once a coterie of Sahagin drew near, but Nabriales’s sigil flared over his mask, and they dared no closer. Soon, however, they came upon it.

There was a vast ruin beneath the sea, in a trench that opened before them. Its structures were in ruin, shattered glass in broken tracery, spires of corroded metal stretching upward toward a surface they would never reach. Even broken, she could see its grandeur.

“What is this?” she asked. Something stirred in her breast—some half-forgotten dream of a memory not her own. Was it his? “This was Amaurot,” Nabriales said. “The original Nabriales was born there.” Her brow knit, and she looked from the city to his masked face and back. He reached out with his empty hand. A moment later her hat settled upon the crown of her head. She tugged it into place, ears swiveling and flicking to settle it correctly. “Shall we go down there?” he asked.

He awaited no answer, only stepped from the ledge. His robes billowed around him in the water as he sank. Kallisti clutched the brim of her hat and stepped after him. There was a walkway below, but it had crumbled into dozens of rough-hewn boulders. Still, when she touched down upon it, her feet met level ground, and she looked down to find the stone underfoot smooth and unbroken, graven with an elegant, regular zig-zag pattern. Nabriales offered her one gloved hand, and she took it, careful of his claws.

She could see fish and other creatures among the ruins, flitting through the water or peeking from the crevices. Still, for a bubble several yalms wide around the pair, the stone was repaired; the facades of the buildings gleamed; even grass and trees grew in the wells in the stone. Looking back at the way they had come, however, left no trace of their passage.

“What did you mean, ‘the original Nabriales?’” she wondered. “Oh, little fool,” he laughed. “Your mothercrystal would not have told you. Before She sundered the world, there was but one race of man, and we lived free of worry or need. We were ageless beings, and given to us was the power of creation. Nabriales is not a name, but a title, and we lived here, in Amaurot.” “Your name,” she said, tail twitching sluggishly behind her, “is not Nabriales?” “No,” he said, as though this were obvious. He led her from the walkway up to one of the buildings. In one instant it was all but collapsed, the door sagging from the hinges; in the next it was pristine, lamps casting cones of light up the white marble facade. The door was heavy and paneled in bronze, and when he pushed it open they stepped into an atrium of golden yellow stone with bronze pilasters. The floor underfoot was inlaid with contrasting cream and deep brown stone. These too were bounded by gleaming metal. “So what was it?” she asked, approaching one of the empty benches there, wrought on a scale rather too broad for her. “I had thought you might like to know your own name,” he said. “You were Eris.” “We knew each other?” she said, reaching out to touch the lacquered wood. It was cold, but solid and real. “Were we lovers?” He laughed softly—not the triumphant sound she had grown so accustomed to, but something gentler, more intimate. “No,” he said. He reached out to curl his hand around her throat, tipping her chin upward. Her gaze lingered on the chandelier there, its milky glass and metal inlays reminding her of the nautilus shell motif of Sharlayan. “Who were you to me?” she asked softly. “We were rivals,” he said. “Of a kind. My colleagues and I were members of the Convocation of Fourteen, and you … were always bringing a dissenting opinion to our public addresses. Debate was something of a pastime in Amaurot, so none of us really minded. Elidibus,” he said, his tone souring, “was quite amused, actually.” “There are fourteen Ascians?” she mused. “I had assumed one for each shard, plus the Source, so wouldn’t that be fifteen?” Again his laughter sounded in her ear. “We were not Fourteen when Zodiark was made,” he said. “One of our number left after his wife, Helen, departed for one of the cities already in the grip of that first primordial calamity, which we summoned Zodiark to halt.”

“And it was her fault,” came another voice. Kallisti whipped around, her robes swirling in the water. She regarded the newcomer, and was surprised to note that he was Garlean, of all things. He wore no robes and no mask, but a dress uniform heavy with medals. He looked at her for a moment, then scoffed and snapped his fingers. The room changed around them, the details of the mosaic refining into sharper clarity. “Really, Nabriales,” he said, “stick to what you’re best at.” “What is that?” Kallisti wondered, head canting beneath the brim of her hat. “Supercilious self-aggrandizement,” the man said. “‘The Majestic.’ Well. It certainly was not architecture—and not recruitment. Do you even recall the trouble you caused, Eris?” “You knew me too,” Kallisti said, blinking in fascination. Nabriales shifted his weight, interposing himself between the pair. “Emet-Selch is of our number,” he said to her, then turned his face forward. There was a tension in his posture. “Why are you here?” “You are not subtle,” Emet-Selch said, rolling his golden eyes. “I am steward of this shard until it is rejoined, since I have no need of my mortal guise, and its original tenders sacrificed themselves to prime it. But why are you here?” “To show her the city,” Nabriales replied. “It is her birthright, which Hydaelyn has kept from her.” “Mmm,” Emet-Selch temporized. “No. I suppose, being born to the Source, she might have better claim than you, pale shade that you are. What did you think? That she might become the new Mitron? Igeyorhm has already asked me to consider elevating her half-formed pet to Loghrif’s station. But she is no Ebrietas, and this is no Eris.” “She is as much Eris as I am Nereus,” Nabriales—Nereus?—said with quiet vehemence. Emet-Selch laughed, though it sounded deadened in the water. “She actually is more Eris than that,” he pointed out. “But she is not Mitron, much as you might like to dream of her filling the seas with new life. When this shard is rejoined, we will go and find a proper Mitron. Eris was the one responsible for Menelaus’s departure from the council; it is not just that she should sit among us like she was fit to govern.” “That is Elidibus’s decision to make, not yours,” Nabriales said. “Oh, so his authority is at your convenience. I cannot imagine Lahabrea will speak for Ebrietas, and I certainly will not speak for Eris. Really, what will you do when you are denied?” Emet-Selch asked. “Put your head underwater and scream? You are already here, so I will leave you to it. Do remember,” he said, “that if things go poorly on the Source because you could not attend to the simple tasks you were given, we know exactly where to find the next Nabriales.”

It was a threat, Kallisti grasped instinctively, though she could not exactly put what it meant into words. Nabriales bristled, stepping further in front of her, blocking her view of the room beyond. When she looked to peer around him, Emet-Selch was gone. “Are you alright?” she asked. The new name felt strange upon her tongue, but she forced it over her lips just the same. “Nereus?” “He does love the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he,” the Ascian said. “Why do you remember this place and I don’t?” Kallisti wondered. “Because I was ascended, and while I can unmoor you from your mortality I cannot do that. That is reserved to Ascians of the Source—their souls are more complete and their powers greater. It is why you are stronger than me, when you remember how to be.”

She thought about that a moment, and then she pulled herself up onto one of the too-large benches, settling there with a sigh. “Elidibus knew,” she decided after a moment. “I have to assume so,” Nabriales agreed, materializing beside her. Kallisti leaned against him, letting his aether wash over her, much warmer than the seawater around them. “Who is Ebrietas?” she wondered. “She was Igeyorhm’s partner. She was not part of the Convocation.” “No, I mean, who is she now?” “Guess,” Nabriales laughed. “Who have you seen in Igeyorhm’s company of late?” “Wait, Lensha?” she said, sputtering. “The very same,” Nabriales confirmed. “She was of the faction that departed with Menelaus.”

“Who’s Menelaus?” Kallisti wondered. “I guess it would have to be Arenvald; he’s the only male Echo-blessed I can think of.” Nabriales shook his head. “We don’t always come back the same,” he said. “The other shard of Nabriales they have waiting in the wings should I ever require replacement is—you would recognize her as a Xaela Au Ra, though she would call herself something else. Menelaus could have incarnated as a woman. He has before, in eras past. But his last incarnation was shortly before the Sixth Ardor, known to you as the Calamity of Water. He usually does come back just as conditions are becoming ripe for a rejoining.” “So he could be Minfilia.” “He could, but he is not,” Nabriales said. “His absence has made us bold, it’s true; we would not have primed another shard so quickly, were he here to stand against us.”

“Why did he leave?” “He departed the council because he objected to our plans to halt the destruction of our very star. In pursuit of his wife he visited the cities across the sea, and was disturbed by what he saw there. That should have strengthened his convictions; instead it made him doubt. It is he that created Hydaelyn.” “Created Hydaelyn?” Kallisti sat upright. “And you summoned Zodiark … but that would make them …” “At last you see, little fool,” he murmured, pulling her in to press his lips to her forehead. “Your goddess is the very thing you sought to destroy. What did you think Her blessing was, to protect you from tempering? Only the very same thing.”

Kallisti closed her eyes, but found little comfort in his embrace. She slipped from his grasp, and made for the door of the room, which now seemed much too close, for all it was vast. Nabriales followed after, his restorative bubble recreating the stoop out front. She left the door open as she withdrew, until they stood in the middle of a grassy plaza, the bounds of the Ascian’s influence clearly visible.

Beyond them—past the crumbling rim of their circle—the door to the building hung open, not returned to its crumbling state. She could see the gleaming metal inlaid upon the floor within, and the warm light of the chandelier spilled out into the ruin. A school of fish swam through the shaft of light, glittering, and darted into the chamber. She waited for it to decay; to crumble back to metal skeleton and shattered rock, but it did not. It stood, unchanging, and she stood facing it, feeling unexpectedly defiant.

“If you were to revive Zodiark,” Kallisti said softly, still staring into that open door, “what would you do?” “We would restore things to how they used to be in our time. Part of this would happen automatically—when the sundered souls come together—but we would use the powers of creation restored to us to recreate the rest.” “As Emet-Selch remade that room,” she said after a moment. “I am surprised he stopped there,” Nabriales admitted. “He is fond of gilding the lily.” “And nothing would ever change again,” Kallisti asked, not quite a question. Nabriales shook his head. “Life … would continue, of course; children would be born and new concepts would be developed and refined, but the ideal is a complete existence in a perfect world.” “I thought you were bringers of chaos.” Kallisti scoffed. “But really, you’re more bound to order than anyone.” He laughed, turning to embrace her, his clawed gloves pressed to her cheeks. “You sound just like you did then,” he said. “You were never happy here.”

She watched the ebb and flow of water through the city—invisible to mortal sight, but her aetherial senses were awakened to the subtlest change. Fish swam through the ruins, and some few creatures crept toward the open door, drawn toward the light that spilled out into the street. None dared approach the pair, skirting the bubble of restoration. They might have, Kallisti assumed. There was no barrier that separated the two of them from the vast seas. They were merely discomforted by the sudden change in the environment.

So too was she.

“I don’t want this,” she said after a while. “I don’t want to suffocate under rules or tempering.” “I wonder,” Nabriales said, “were I made whole, and none could dispute that I owned the name ‘Nereus,’ would you remember me?” His expression was half screened away by the mask, but the way he pursed his lips betrayed some discomfort with the question. “I don’t know,” she said. “Well,” he murmured. “We need not worry on that now. What strictures bind you we can find a way for you to slip. You were not of Her party when She was made. She has little hope of keeping you under Her thumb.” “I am worried now,” Kallisti insisted. “If this city is my birthright, I want to abdicate. Would you choose me over this?” She reached for him, skimming her hands over his chest until she cupped his head between her palms, and put her thumbs to him to pry away the mask. It dissolved at her touch, and his dark eyes fixed on her. “Yes,” he said. “Then …” She paused, trying to organize her thoughts. “I don’t want to be Eris, and don’t really want you to be Nereus. Let them ascend the other Nabriales in your stead.” “You’re asking me to run away with you?” “Yes!” Kallisti said. “I think so.” “Where will we go?” “I don’t know!” she laughed. “Where do dragons come from? Meracydia, sure, but Lensha told me they were from somewhere else before that.” “True,” the Ascian said. “They arrived after the sundering of the shards, and none of the reflections have them.” “Then we have a destination,” Kallisti said.

He leaned down to kiss her, the warmth of him smothering in the cold, deep water. Something occurred to her, then. “If you’re giving up your title and your ancient name … what do I call you?” “My name before I was ascended …” He paused, seeming to think about it a long time. “It was … it was Brett.” “Hi, Brett,” she said, giggling. Then she said, “Do you think we have time to visit Costa del Sol before we leave?”