#time might pass and grief will become a lesser part of my life

[bisonaari]

Nearly four months and I'm still sad and sour as if it had happened yesterday

[bestworstcase]

In fairy tales of remnant there's that story about how the two brothers began life as a single whole before splitting in half, so that could be what CC meant when he alluded to his maker.

ooh, good catch. the primordial dragon figures in a lot of my endgame theories (<- the brothers are broken and need to be healed through recombination, either literally or by spiritual reconciliation) but i hadn’t considered that he might have made something else before he sundered himself to become the brothers. it does dovetail thematically—the dragon divides himself out of loneliness, nothing hurts the girl who fell through the world more than the loneliness in her chest, the narrative understands the innermost core of all pain to be the feeling of being alone. so exploring that through the lens of the cat’s longing for a maker who no longer exists is potentially interesting, and brings the grief narrative full circle in a really interesting way.

if the cat’s maker was the primordial dragon, i think that does raise some fascinating questions about the lore. this would make the cat the oldest being in existence, older even than the brother gods. potentially that would give them a unique perspective on the creation of remnant itself—they would have been already quite old by the time the brothers settled enough to share their toys—and maybe reframe their curiosity in 9.4 as less about the origins of remnant and more about what the girls know? and then there’s the obvious question of whether the cat knows that their maker became the brothers through an act of self-destruction and how that possibly alters the nature of their goal, if so. (e.g., do they want to find their maker so they can demand an explanation, or is their intention to recover their maker by recombination of the brothers?)

& then in the broader scope, the myth describes the primordial dragon scouring “all the realms and all the worlds” in search of other beings, but finding none. he isn’t the creator of the cosmos itself but rather the first life and the first death, and through the act of self-annihilation he becomes the progenitor of all living things. the origin of the lifeless cosmos and the primordial dragon aren’t important except insofar as they develop the thematic conceit at the foundation of the story—the heart of all pain is loneliness, death begets life and the inception of creation is destruction, so forth—and they don’t need to have been real in the literal sense. but if they were and if the primordial dragon made something else before he destroyed himself to create the brothers, that’s… interesting? that’s interesting. it changes the thematic composition of the story in a major way.

it makes the cat… i think, maybe the expression of primordial loneliness—the desire for connection—possibly something like the cosmic heart. the mythical clean break becomes messy—the primordial dragon divides himself in half and is destroyed; the sum of what parts remain is lesser than the whole. something is lost, something needs to be given up—the bindings severed—and maybe that something is the cat. or even the ever after in its entirety, i do—i do love a cosmic whale fall, hfgshdjs.

metaphysics aside i think it necessitates that the cat be centrally involved in the resolution of the brothers, because they remember the whole that was sundered and want it back. once you introduce that into a story about broken gods passing their brokenness down you do have to commit to making it the narrative centerpiece, otherwise the whole thing unravels—this is where i’m skeptical, because i think it would be pretty tricky to handle without making the ozlem narrative ancillary to the primordial grief of this cat. not impossible but a heavier lift than i would want to deal with, if i were writing it.

i do think it’s potentially very very interesting though. depends on how interested they are in unfolding the primordial cosmological side of things (my impression so far is that they’re not, but i would be delighted to be proven wrong.)

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[astaroth1357]

Brothers Finding Out a Lesser Demon with a Crush is “Moving In” on MC

You know, I like to show the good sides of our boys a lot… But how about the ugly for today? Let's let them just being mean, nasty, possessive little demons, huh? 

Full disclaimer: I almost didn’t post this because I received an answer post from @diavolosthots that ended up being distressingly similar to this idea about 3/4th of the way through drafting it. I’m posting it anyway because of the time I’ve already sunk into it but in exchange I will absolutely encourage you to read from @diavolosthots if you aren’t already. They’re a big reason why I’m making content to begin with and I love what they’ve done. Warning: their blog is a LOT less fluffy than mine (they probably wouldn't be into my stuff 😅) and has NSFW content so be prepared for that going in. If that’s not your thing then just give them a pass, cool?

Check out the Masterlist for more!

Warnings: Violence, Bullying, Cyberbullying, Cannibalism(?), Murder, Yandere-ish

This is all for the purposes of fantasy and in no way an endorsement for these behaviors in real life. Be nice (and smart) with your lives, my friends.

Lucifer

Is honestly offended for them.

Don’t they know the caliber of demon MC rubs elbows with every day? Do they honestly think they’d stand a chance? Any one of his brothers would be more deserving than some lesser demon suitor and that even INCLUDES Mammon.

But of course, the real reason they’d stand no chance is because he wants the MC too and he’s not planning on sharing with or losing to someone who isn’t even worthy to be stuck under his boot...

He may lay down some… “discreet” hints for the poor demon to look elsewhere.

Things like advising Diavolo to make some emergency changes to the classes at RAD so they no longer share any class together or watching the demon extra closely for any minute slip up he can flag them for. If he could have them expelled for a dress code violation, he’d do it no sweat.

Okay, "discreet hints…" Flagrant misuses of power… Same difference right?

He may never come right out and say they should leave MC alone (why dignify the guy with such a response?) but if looks could kill then his “competition” would be utterly decimated by now. Especially if he ever catches the two in the same room... Yikes.

Mammon

Oooo buddy, he ain’t happy. He doesn’t even like sharing with his brothers and now some rando wants a piece too?? Nuh-uh. No way.

Takes the more direct approach and just confronts the guy when the MC isn’t around. It's good for the demon that Mammon doesn’t like resorting to violence if he doesn’t have to. Heated words and a threat or two will be exchanged then they can go their separate ways.

That can be the end of it if the guy backs off (as anyone with sense should). But if not…

When he makes a threat, and he’s serious about it, Mammon makes good on them.

He’ll come back to the House one night a little beat up, maybe with a few nicks and scratches. Of course he’ll want the MC to play nurse for him and he’ll be delighted if they accept (even if his tsundere ass won’t say it).

The lesser demon apparently dropped out of RAD the next day. No explanation given. He didn’t even step foot back on the school grounds to do it...

Of course, everyone’s sure there’s no relation between the two. I mean, this is the same Mammon we’re talking about… right...?

Leviathan

It’s a miracle he even found out but now that he knows he’s pissed. He’s not the Avatar of Envy for nothing.

Look, he might be a shut-in and not worth all that much but he’s got to be better than some lesser demon guy! He’s the third born and he has a freaking navy for crying out loud!!

Will likely leave his room for the first time in who knows how long to follow the MC to RAD. Once he’s got a face to the name, that’s all he needs for his hatred to really get going...

He will make this dude’s life a living hell with the best tool a shut-in has, the Internet. 

He’ll dedicate a freaking week to digging up dirt on this bozo then start releasing it out to everywhere he frequents. Not a single sock of that dirty laundry is getting left out. All of his most embarrassing secrets are laid bare for the Devildom to see.

He’d cover his tracks, of course, so nothing can be traced back to him. The MC is probably none-the-wiser to who’s spreading all this hot gossip but his brothers know right away.

Once the dude’s social life and pride are in utter ruin, he’ll invite the MC over for a movie marathon to celebrate! He might even get a little more cuddly than usual... His MC is with him and that’s how it ought to be.

Satan

Pffft… That’s cute. Real cute they think they stand a chance. He’d wish them luck but he also kind of wants to stab them so…

On the one hand, he knows he probably shouldn’t waste his time but on the other he just can’t resist the call to absolute devastation that his inner rage is forcing on him...

His new goal is to utterly undermine the new competition in every way, mental and physical, which means he will take every opportunity he can to demonstrate just how much on another level he is. 

Gets nitpicky and corrects the guy’s every move. If he says something wrong in class, he’ll berate him for it. Make a social faux pas? Well now the whole school is going to know about it.

Doesn’t stop there, though. He will do everything in his power short of throwing the first punch to try and instigate a fight with the him. He knows that if he technically starts it then the punishment will be on him, but the other way around he can say, “Hey, he’s the one who punched Wrath incarnate. What was he expecting would happen?”

Any resulting fight between the two would be a very one-sided bloodbath. He will not hold back at all and stop when he damn well feels like. The guy will be in whatever the Devildom equivalent to a hospital is for weeks...

If the MC tries to ask him about his behavior, he’ll gaslight them and change the subject. He doesn’t really like indulging in the more violent side of himself in his day-to-day life but some things just can’t be helped, can they?

Asmodeus

Honestly not as bothered as the others are. He knows they stand zero chance, so why worry? It’s bad for the skin.

But that doesn’t mean he’s going to sit back and do nothing. Oh no, a zero chance could always become a one, even five percent chance if you’re not careful.

Asmo’s preferred method of ridding competition is like a mixture of Satan and Levi, but Oh. So. Much. Worse.

Lesser demons can be astonishingly easy to charm without them noticing and he is the best charmer of the family. He’s pretty popular to start with but suddenly he’s talking to almost everyone he comes across until, well, he’s got the whole school listening.

From there it’s child’s play. Suddenly, the demon’s friends won’t talk to them. People stare and whisper about them in the hallways, is what they’re saying true? Doesn’t matter. Asmo could feed them anything and they’d believe it.

He’ll make sure they feel isolated, alone, and hated by everyone they speak to and they won’t even know why. Going to RAD at all will be like walking into a prison. Ideally, they’ll just stop going, and then tada! Competition no more.

Of course, he could just charm the competitor to look elsewhere, but then who’s going to be the example to the others? Nobody needs any more “Zero-Chancers” popping up around the MC, right? You’re welcome, sweetie~! 😘

Beelzebub

He’s trying not to be that guy, he really is… but since the MC is involved… Really? You actually think you got a shot there, buddy?

Probably going to be the brother most likely to try and let the guy down gently at first, but make no mistake he will make sure he knows it’s a lost cause.

If the other demon still insists on being a competitor though… Alright.

MC pretty much goes under his “protection” from that point on. If they’re at RAD at all, Beel is not far behind. Not exactly looking outright intimidating but always just…. there.

But if the dude so much as enters a room with them he’ll be sure to stare him down and mention that he’s hungry a little louder and a lot more often.

To the MC that may just be typical Beel, but everyone else there knows Beel has swallowed lesser demons whole in the past. And for a lot less reason than this...

When Beel gets territorial he can be a subtle about it, but terrifying nonetheless.

Belphegor

Would laugh in their face and give zero shits about it. 

Like, even as the weakest sibling he could snap them like a toothpick and that’s not even getting to how they probably know jack all about the MC anyway. What even is this idiot??

Starts pulling some casual “pranks” on the guy to grief him at first. Little things like tripping him up with his tail or taking his things and hiding them in inconvenient places.

The lazy part of him hopes he’ll get the message and back off but that sadistic side really hopes he doesn’t so he’ll never talk to him directly...

When, of course, the dude doesn’t back off because he doesn't know he's supposed to, his pranks start escalating. A textbook in the school pool suddenly becomes an explosive curse put on their backpack. A kind of homicidal passive-aggression, if you will.

By some unholy miracle the guy manages to last a couple days after a barrage of progressively lethal murder attempts pranks, Belphie’s inner laziness and frustration will finally get to him and he’ll cut the passive from his aggression.

Much like with Mammon, everyone finds out that the demon dropped out of school quite suddenly. But he’s also seemed to have gone dark from all his socials and his friends can’t seem to find him anywhere... 

Concerns were raised with Lucifer but he doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about starting an investigation... It’s not the first time he’s covered for his brothers after all. 🙄🤷‍♀️

[teamxdark]

They say the pen is mightier than the sword...

My Dearest Arthur,

Today, as I was heading back to the castle, Galahad stopped me. He pointed out a bird, small and blue like the sky, drinking from a puddle on the ground. We both stopped, watching it as it drank its fill, stretched its wings, and flew away.

It made me think of you.

My love, you try so hard to be the best leader for us all. You do it without complaint, struggling with the problems of a populace, making the decisions that a lesser being wouldn't dare consider. I know how much this burden crushes you, but all the same, I cannot for the life of me think of anyone more worthy than you to hold such power.

I have heard the complaints of those who disagree with your choices. They throw about opinions without care for consequences. They know nothing of the thought you put into every decision you make, and every time I hear some scoundrel run their mouth about how they would do better than you, I feel the urge to silence them, with my words or my blade, I care not which.

The things you do to me, my love...

Yes, you are the most worthy king, of that, I am certain, but you are also the most deserving of the freedom you crave. I see it, Arthur. I see the way you stare out the window, into the sky, beyond the clouds, with such profound longing that I know and understand all too well. It is enough to make a man weep.

...I have wept, I must admit. For you, and over you. If I could grant you your freedom, I would do so in a heartbeat, even if it meant that you would be gone, leaving like that bird, flying away without a backwards glance and never looking back. My grief at your absence would only be assuaged by the knowledge that you are finally unburdened. That you are happy.

Sometimes, I like to imagine that you take me with you. I imagine your hand in mine, and your smile reaching your eyes, the portrait of joy that should never have left your face, and I follow you, just as I have vowed, to the ends of the earth and into the world beyond this life.

I know it is selfish. I know it is impossible. You, Arthur, are the most selfless man I know. I have seen you grow over many years, becoming more and more responsible with time and experience. It is I who has become selfish. It is I who indulges these fantasies of taking you away to bask in your brilliance that I can never get enough of. But you could never betray your people. You could never say yes to a premature freedom. You will not be king forever, and this we both know, and you are willing to wait for the end of your reign while I still imagine ripping you from this life without a care for those that remain behind.

My desires are inconsiderate, not just to you, but to everything you've worked for. To everyone who needs you. To those who need me, too.

I shall never be worthy of you, Arthur, but my heart shall never beat for anyone else in the way it does for you.

Forever yours,

Lancelot

...

Darling Arthur,

Do you remember when we were young? Do you remember when we were but boys, training until we were collapsed on the ground, day after day?

Do you remember the first time you called me 'Lance'?

I hated it back then. I warned you to never call me anything but 'Lancelot' again, for it was my name. It was the name my mother had given me, my mother who saved me and chose me before I even knew how to walk. My name was my link to her, an important part of my identity and my proof of being wanted.

I was, truly, a stupid child.

Now, I treasure the name you gave to me. I do not allow anyone else to use it. 'Lance' is the name you bestowed upon me, a name to signify our own link, our bond... one so close that it makes me dizzy with happiness when I remember just how much we mean to each other. I now hold that name close to my heart, next to my mother's 'Lancelot' and my son's 'Father'.

It pains me that I do not have such a name to give you, my love, save for the endearments in these letters that I shall never send. Yet I never miss how blissful you look when I call you by your given name. You appear unhappy by 'Your Majesty'. You appear troubled by 'my liege'. You appear vexed by 'Sire'.

And so, when I am able, I call you by your name. I call you my friend, so that you know that I love you and that you mean the world to me. You always have, even before my feelings shifted into what they are now.

I see you smile and it is as if I have been struck by lightning. I hear you laugh and I fear I might swoon. If I do even one thing to make you happy, I feel as though I am walking on air, and I wish to do it again, and again, and again, over and over, endless until you never know pain again.

Arthur, the way I feel for you consumes me, like a fire that will never go out. My feelings scorch me, leaving burns and scars that will never fully go away, hidden on the inside where you will never see them. You will never truly know just how deeply this arrow from Cupid's bow has pierced me... I dare say he's emptied his quiver on me, for the mere thought of life without you, without your smile, your warmth, your brilliance, your bravery, your understanding, without you and everything that you are...

I don't dare tell you about these newer feelings of mine. I know you, and I know you will not treat me any different if my particular type of love for you does not match that of yours for me, but my head is clouded by fear. I cannot stop imagining that you shall become uncomfortable in my presence, that you will hold me away at arm's length, that you will look for someone else to court in an attempt to help me move on... All the possibilities are so painful, Arthur. I would rather nothing changed, even though I know my fear is irrational. I should believe in our bond, trust in our friendship, rely on the knowledge that you would never push me away...

I am a coward, my love. To be called the Ultimate Knight feels like a joke, for I am so afraid that I cannot listen to the logic in my own head. My strength of body means nothing if my strength of mind is as fragile as glass.

Yet, even as I long for something different in my relationship with you, I cannot say that I am unhappy with what I do have with you. Perhaps this, too, is why I will not speak these words nor send these letters, for what I already have with you, such a close, personal friendship, is more than I can ask for.

You have always been enough for me, Arthur.

Eternally yours,

Lancelot

...

Glorious Arthur,

I must apologize. I must, for I fear my mind is spinning out of my own control.

Every day I think of you. Every morning when I wake up, every night as I go to sleep, in every spare moment of my life, you are in my waking thoughts.

You haunt my dreams, too. At all moments, it seems, my mind conspires against me. All I want is to be happy with what I have with you, but it appears my desires are only growing, not fading, with time, and they eat me alive with every passing day.

I imagine your forehead against mine, with your hands on my waist. You lift your head, kissing me once on each eyelid, and I feel weaker than I ever have in my life.

I imagine your hands, removing my armor so that they may rest upon me, touching my back, my shoulders, my chest, all areas that I keep guarded under steel and promises. You disarm me, and I allow it. My foolish heart wishes to be vulnerable before you, for I know I will always be able to trust you with myself.

I imagine the lightest touches on my arms, spreading like trails of fire as your fingers slide along my person, and I let myself be consumed.

I imagine your lips pressing to mine, and I lose the ability to breathe.

I imagine your eyes, looking into mine, glowing with care and love and happiness, and I drown without a second thought.

Sometimes I dream of things I dare not write down here, my sweet, for it makes my face burn and my heart race and all I want to do is apologize for thinking of you in such a way. It feels terrible, as though I am taking advantage of you in my thoughts, and I fear that one day you will discover the fantasies of my mind and feel discomfort or disgusted by me.

If I ever lost you, Arthur, I know my world would shatter, and I would never become whole again.

Apologetically yours,

Lancelot

...

Arthur,

I can't stand it. Today, I cannot stand it at all.

I feel desperate, like a caged animal. I feel my soul clawing at my body from within, needing to come out and indulge. My composure is in shambles, my mind is in disarray, and though you are not at fault, it is all because of you.

Arthur, I burn for you. My heart screams and cries out and it's painful. Every inch of me aches for the smallest touch, I long for the basest of acknowledgement from you, a look, a word, a smile, Chaos, anything! Just the thought of you giving me your attention sends me into a fit, and I know that even the brush of your arm against mine as you pass me in the corridor would be enough to bring me to ecstasy!

My head is pounding, my ears playing and replaying the sound of my name coming from your lips, and I crave it. I crave you, my love, and it has never been so powerful or so consuming before. I don't know what is wrong with me. I don't know why today is the day that I might go mad. I am afraid, Arthur. I am afraid that my need for you is pushing me to the brink of madness and that I will not be able to stop myself from jumping down into it.

Arthur, the love of my life, how can I even begin to fully describe this? I've written so much and yet it is only a crumb of what is flaring inside me. I think of you and I burn up. You are not an inferno, for that is a small candle compared to the one that burns inside me. You are nothing less than the sun in the sky, approaching me to incinerate me in an instant, but even that feels like a pale comparison today.

Arthur, I am deeply sorry, but I fear writing this is only making things worse. I must stop before I

...

My love,

My upcoming mission to Acorn Kingdom is fast approaching. Soon it will be time for me to depart. I hope that, when that day comes, you are not too busy to see me off.

I will miss you terribly while I am gone, but I take peace in knowing that I am doing this for Avalon, and for you. To make this world a better place, and for you to have one less thing to worry about.

It's pathetic, is it not? As a knight, I should be focusing on the best for my kingdom, as I vowed to when you first let Caliburn descend upon my shoulders and gave to me my title, and yet I know the truth.

It's for you, Arthur. It's always been for you.

...

In his study, the king shoves away the stack of letters, his face burning as a chorus of emotion swells within him, unable to take the guilt at having read so many of Lancelot's secret letters. His hands tremble as he searches around his desk for something to write with.

...

Dear Lancelot,

My wonderful Lancelot,

To Lance,

My dearest

Lance,

Please come see me when you have a moment to yourself. Do not be afraid.

Yours,

Arthur

[septembersghost]

(i wrote this this morning because i was upset seeing anon hate on my dash, i drafted it figuring i'd keep it to myself. then i changed my mind.)

actually, no, I am going to address this on a wider scale, because I am so beyond sick of it. too much of fandom has decided, en masse, to become a cesspool of bullies, and I’m TIRED of seeing it. if you are so damn pretentious and mean-spirited that you feel the need to send hate to people for expressing their sincere and vulnerable feelings in their own space, and then you have the GALL to defend that as “lol it’s only fiction” - who is the one with the problem here? because I can promise you right now, it is not the person being attacked.

isn’t it funny how it becomes “only fiction” when it’s someone expressing their grief, anger, and depth of love? you’re only a fool to be invested if you care? yet when people are claiming superiority and being cool and above it all, THEN it’s somehow “more” than fiction. it’s so intolerable and transparent. the absolute callousness of the way some people think it’s okay to treat others, mixed in with the air of false intellectualism that only ~real~ fans get it (are you kidding me? regrets for bringing this up again, but as someone who hung in from day fucking one, I do not hold with the idea of dismissing people or acting as though different spans of time automatically equate to lesser investment. I personally resent the insinuation that a misunderstanding of narrative theme, intent, characterization, and cohesion is happening when some of us speak. I could write you a cited thesis about it, but I know it wouldn’t make a difference, because fanon has decided to become that “this can’t stop me, because I can’t read” meme).

I’m honestly done with the viciousness and schoolyard mockery that some seem to think is acceptable behavior. it isn’t. digging in because you know someone is hurt is never okay. claiming intellectual superiority does nothing but prove the exact opposite. I am tender-hearted and lean towards openness and cultivating a soft and warm atmosphere, which has long made it difficult for me to not feel shame when exposing fury or criticism, but never have I felt more like I’ve earned the right to do so than in the past months. diminishing someone’s wounds isn’t a win, it’s petty and vindictive and reeks of insecurity. I’m for free expression, free thought, enjoying what brings you joy, but bald-faced cruelty I will never abide. it is loathsome behavior.

targeting people because you think it’s funny that they’re hurt or that they saw themselves in something, or they identified with themes (painful, uplifting, or anything in between) is...grossly condescending, to put it mildly. you have no idea what someone has gone through or might be struggling with, and throwing harm at them or suggesting they’re too sensitive (or that THEY DON’T DESERVE TO LIVE, are you serious right now?) only exposes a dearth of empathy.

“only fiction” is used to shame and undermine real emotion and discussion, and the only falsehood here is that claim itself. fiction is never an “only.” fiction affects us intrinsically. my “fantasy remains a human right” tag, from Tolkien? I’m a proponent of that because telling stories and passing them on, and cherishing characters and finding solace and reflections within them, is an undeniable part of the human experience. it’s not only fiction, because it lives in us. it’s not only fiction, because it affects us. it’s not only fiction, because it has REAL meaning to us. “it’s all in your head” gets a knee-jerk reaction from me as a chronically ill person due to its associated ableism, but fiction exists in a very special realm - intangible and imaginary as it may be, it’s also transformative and impactful in real ways. fiction does shape us. it does become a part of the texture of who we are. it does influence and remain in culture. art influences life influences art, and it persists, it lives beyond us. I have talked about this here on repeat in so many posts, but it’s why we still quote things written hundreds of years ago, can still be moved by art from a bygone era because it is humanistic. we carry it in our hearts, and it flourishes and persists. if you choose to demean and deride that, fine, but you never get to steal or diminish its flame and value for those who hold it close. if you can’t feel the depth and luminous presence of that, okay, but many do.

I’ll say it again. that love is real. it’s as real as any other love.

[fernysbasement]

On reading Dune not as a hero’s journey

Every time I saw people READ Dune and interpret Paul as very much the hero of the story I worried a little bit, about myself and how much bias I must have poured into my reading to understand this: that Paul is begrudgingly playing his part in a huge conspiracy that he hates, but which he can’t find a good enough way to oppose. 

Whether he is the expected Kwisatz Haderach, “the chosen one” seems a lot less important than what that entails. For himself and the future of humanity.

So, now that I’ve learned a bit about how to make conscious readings of text (and mind you, I’ve learned just a bit... enough to pass a couple exams, I suppose) I found myself in need of tracking the exact bits that informed such a reading. 

And I mean strictly the first book. We go the Barthes way here, no author commentary, no sequels, just the text within the book with only a whiff of the historical context in which it was produced. 

If we take free will to be a core theme and hope for the characters, which can be glimpsed by calling the rebel forces the Fremen, for instance; there’s little in the way of a happy narrative to be found. The Spice Melange, the amazing substance that can grant an extended life, extended consciousness, extended awareness... is coupled with a terrible realization. 

‘ We're trapped here, she agreed.

And she accepted the truth of his words. No pressure of the Bene Gesserit, no trickery or artifice could pry them completely free from Arrakis: the spice was addictive. Her body had known the fact long before her mind awakened to it. ‘

-When Paul finally realizes that he is, more or less, the supreme being that secret organizations had been scheming for generations to conceive, through careful breeding programs and planting of cultural blueprints... that sense of inevitability and entrapment in a net far too grand and systemic only becomes more clear.  

‘ And he thought: I'm a seed.

He suddenly saw how fertile was the ground into which he had fallen, and with this realization, the terrible purpose filled him, creeping through the empty place within, threatening to choke him with grief.

He had seen two main branchings along the way ahead--in one he confronted an evil old Baron and said: "Hello, Grandfather." The thought of that path and what lay along it sickened him.

The other path held long patches of grey obscurity except for peaks of violence. He had seen a warrior religion there, a fire spreading across the universe with the Atreides green and black banner waving at the head of fanatic legions drunk on spice liquor. Gurney Halleck and a few others of his father's men--a pitiful few--were among them, all marked by the hawk symbol from the shrine of his father's skull.

"I can't go that way," he muttered. "That's what the old witches of your schools really want."

"I don't understand you, Paul," his mother said.

He remained silent, thinking like the seed he was, thinking with the race consciousness he had first experienced as terrible purpose. He found that he no longer could hate the Bene Gesserit or the Emperor or even the Harkonnens. 

They were all caught up in the need of their race to renew its scattered inheritance, to cross and mingle and infuse their bloodlines in a great new pooling of genes.And the race knew only one sure way for this--the ancient way, the tried and certain way that rolled over everything in its path: jihad.

Surely, I cannot choose that way, he thought.But he saw again in his mind's eye the shrine of his father's skull and the violence with the green and black banner waving in its midst.‘

-Paul sees this path as the way humanity may remain constant in the universe, a universe it conquers and subdues. But at no point is he pleased by this, at no point does he embrace his place with joy, pride or passion. 

The tone remains as dry as the dessert that surrounds the characters most of the time. 

‘ Paul had sensed the jihad in their words, shrugged off the question with one of his own--learning then that Kaleff, the elder of the two, was ten, and the natural son of Geoff. Orlop, the younger, was eight, the natural son of Jamis. 

It had been a strange day with these two standing guard over him because he asked it, keeping away the curious, allowing him the time to nurse his thoughts and prescient memories, to plan a way to prevent the jihad.’ 

(...)

‘ "Nothing money won't repair, I presume," Paul said.

"Except for the lives, m'Lord," Gurney said, and there was a tone of reproach in his voice as though to say: "When did an Atreides worry first about things when people were at stake?"

But Paul could only focus his attention on the inner eye and the gaps visible to him in the time-wall that still lay across his path. Through each gap the jihad raged away down the corridors of the future.’ 

(...)

‘ Even the faint gaps were closed now. Here was the unborn jihad, he knew. ’

(...)

‘ And Paul saw how futile were any efforts of his to change any smallest bit of this. He had thought to oppose the jihad within himself, but the jihad would be. 

His legions would rage out from Arrakis even without him. They needed only the legend he already had become. He had shown them the way, given them mastery even over the Guild which must have the spice to exist.

A sense of failure pervaded him, and he saw through it that Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen had slipped out of the torn uniform, stripped down to a fighting girdle with a mail core.

This is the climax, Paul thought. From here, the future will open, the clouds part onto a kind of glory. And if I die here, they'll say I sacrificed myself that my spirit might lead them. And if I live, they'll say nothing can oppose Muad'Dib.‘

-Notice that the conjunction there is AND, not BUT. Which can be understood as these results not being quite contrary. 

-Then, after slaying his last enemy, the book ends with these words, shared mostly between Paul and those most close to him, his mother and his concubine: 

‘ "The Fremen are mine," Paul said. "What they receive shall be dispensed by Muad'Dib. It'll begin with Stilgar as Governor on Arrakis, but that can wait."

"And for me?" Jessica asked.

"Is there something you wish?"

"Perhaps Caladan," she said, looking at Gurney. "I'm not certain. I've become too much the Fremen . . . and the Reverend Mother. I need a time of peace and stillness in which to think."

"That you shall have," Paul said, "and anything else that Gurney or I can give you."

Jessica nodded, feeling suddenly old and tired.  She looked at Chani. "And for the royal concubine?"

"No title for me," Chani whispered. "Nothing. I beg of you."

Paul stared down into her eyes, remembering her suddenly as she had stood once with little Leto in her arms, their child now dead in this violence. "I swear to you now," he whispered, "that you'll need no title. That woman over there will be my wife and you but a concubine because this is a political thing and we must weld peace out of this moment, enlist the Great Houses of the Landsraad. We must obey the forms. Yet that princess shall have no more of me than my name. No child of mine nor touch nor softness of glance, nor instant of desire."

"So you say now," Chani said. She glanced across the room at the tail princess.

"Do you know so little of my son?" Jessica whispered. "See that princess standing there, so haughty and confident. They say she has pretensions of a literary nature. Let us hope she finds solace in such things; she'll have little else." A bitter laugh escaped Jessica. "Think on it, Chani: that princess will have the name, yet she'll live as less than a concubine -- never to know a moment of tenderness from the man to whom she's bound. While we, Chani, we who carry the name of concubine -- history will call us wives."

Here I will concede that Jessica’s proclamation seems victorious enough, but I can’t help putting emphasis into the subterfuge and compromises made. Paul has displaced a despot, but not punished him. He’s playing the political game, he hasn’t overthrown the system he despises, simply taken a higher position within it, because that’s the lesser evil as far as he can see, and the path in which at least he remains alive, in accordance to the wishes of his family and those that look up to him. 

So... my reading may not be diamond-solid, of that much I’m aware, but at the very least I’ve shed some light on why I felt the way I did about Paul’s journey not as that of a hero, but of a reluctant monarch. A messiah to those beneath him, but a conscious cog in a machine, in a greater sense. 

Now I wonder which tone will the coming movie display, how will it portray the actions and feelings of the characters involved and the futility of their actions against the grand designs that predict and guide them. The photography seems to be quite grey, and that may prove to be telling.  But there are more than fifty shades of grey.   

[ecoamerica]

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

[mirror-juliet]

Distractions Lee Keonhee X Reader X Kim Youngjo

This small AU has multiple parts to it, so look out for those in the future. This might be a bit of a slow burn because this part is mostly build up for the next few parts Warnings: Angst, mentions of infidelity, mentions of sex, depression

Being a mistress to a prince was never promised to be easy, being the mistress to Prince Keonhee was destined to be a living hell. But you've been prepared for it, Crossing all lines and meeting every challenge with a blank face has kept you by his side for many years.

You were six when you first met him, he was eight. Your father had taken you to the castle to watch him trade with the king. He provided the kingdom with it's jewels and minerals, in return the crown provided him and your family outrageous amounts of gold and lands.

Keonhee had seen your timid form, hiding behind your mother's dress and he became fascinated with you. "Hello, I'm Keonhee. Who are you?" He had snuck up behind you, scaring the living daylights out of your small form. From frazzlement, you had dropped your precious doll and were too scared to pick it up. "Here, this is yours right?" He had tried handing it back. "Well, don't you want it?" You only shook your head and hid behind your mothers dress further. "Why are you carrying it around if you don't want it?" Keonhee looked like your dog as he cocked his head to the side, somehow it made him seem more approachable. With shaky legs, you stepped forward and snatched the doll out of his hands. Retreating back to your mother's dress, one of your eyes peaking at him.

"I-i'm Y/n." Your voice was just below a breath. "That's a pretty name. Do you like flowers?" A nod from you was all it took before he was dragging you down the halls of the castle. He took you outside to a hedge maze. It was so confusing with it's twists and turns but Keonhee seemed to know where he was going. After what seemed like forever you both arrived to a clearing with so many different types of flowers. You were in awe, never in your life had you seen so many arranges. "Do you want one?" You quickly nodded your head, he giggled and plucked a red layered flower, weaving it into your headband. "It's called a dahlia. Let me help you make a bouquet." That had been the tradition for you both whenever you would attend court every few months; going to the garden and picking flowers for each other. Whenever you got to your estate you would have one of the maids press the flowers to preserve them.

********

"Y/n, we need to talk to you." Your mother said in the carriage. "You aren't just coming with us for trading experience....... You will be living in the castle from now on. When we leave for home, you can't come with us." Her words were strange and scary to you, being only ten years old. You didn't understand why you couldn't go home with her. "You are to stay and find a suitor. We will have lady's to help you of course and you wouldn't be making any decisions until you are of age." Your father had taken over talking, much more blunt than your mother's words. "Papa, why can't i stay when i'm of age? Why can't i stay with you and Mother?" You were on the verge of tears. Of course you loved Irestall court and the friends you've made there, but you didn't want to leave your family. "They will teach you how to be a wife. You'll follow instructions, you will not make a fuss or anybody's job hard. Am i clear Y/n?" Your father's tone was firm, letting you know this decision was final and you never had any say in it at all. Something you were going to have to get used to. "Yes father."

You spent nine years in court since you were ten, in that time Keonhee was your best friend, always finding you in his free time and whisking you away to some new adventure. You still picked flowers for each other, weaving them in each other's hair. The maids didn't like it when you did that to Keonhee. They always had to clean his hair before letting him be seen by nobles,  and Keonhee always made them take care in pressing the flowers. Eventually the flowers started to pile up so much that the king had two wooden chests made for you both. He let the two of you decorate them however you wanted and they were placed at the end of your beds.

When you became fifteen you received a note from your father that you had finally come of age and that you were required to find a husband. Only, you didn't want to find a husband. The boy you loved was already near you. Your love for Keonhee grew quickly, vining up the corners of your heart until soon your whole body was filled with love for him. The idea of marrying someone else hurt your heart beyond what you could describe. So you found yourself in the garden, on the stone bench dripping tears on your father's letter. "Y/n?" Keonhee. "Dongju saw you come out here. Whats wrong?" He sat next to you and cradled your face in his hands. "I've become of age." You shoved the letter towards him, the sparkle in his eyes dim as he reads over the words. "Keonhee, i don't want to marry." Tears began to spill faster onto your cheeks, Keonhee quickly caught them. "Then don't." "My family will shun me Keonhee....." "Not if you tell them that your suitors are unfit for you to marry. Come up with excuses, dig up any scandal that you can." You grabbed onto his arms. "We both know that there always isn't scandals with nobles." He pressed his forehead against yours. "Then i'll make the scandals for you. I'll do whatever i can to keep you with me, if it's the last thing i do." That was the day you and Keonhee shared your first kiss, it was sweet and it took your breath away. You knew you couldn't leave him in that moment.

Two years later, the day your father died, you weren't as sad as you felt you should have been. He gave you life after all, but when you received the letter from your mother, you found you had no tears left to shed. He was the one who turned your world upside down since you were ten, You haven't even seen your mother since you started living in court, Did you even want to? In the garden, you began to think about it. She had every opportunity to see you, but she didn't. She didn't make any attempt to make your life any easier. "Hello love." You hadn't even noticed him come into the clearing. "I have a gift for you. Close your eyes." He grabbed your hands in his surprisingly smooth hands. "Now i know this won't help your grief," The uncomfortable feeling of parchment became prominent in your hands. "But it might be a start. Open your eyes." It was indeed a folded piece of paper with the bankers seal in the red wax. "Whats this?" You were in shock peeling the wax off.

It was your dowry, deciding who received your inheritance of the mines once your father passed, as well as his wealth. "Keonhee....." He took your hands in his again. You looked in his eyes to confirm what your heart was refusing to accept. "You are now the head of your house. All the mines and wealth were transferred to your name this morning. You don't have to find a husband until you're ready." "I'm free. We can finally be together." The both of you became intimate that night, no longer having to worry about keeping your virtue for a husband, you no longer needed one. After your intimacy, Keonhee had surprised you with another gift. It was a golden ring with a ruby gem in the center, something you always saw him wearing. It was a promise to keep you by his side forever, no matter what you two faced together.

So you continued to watch him entertain suitor after suitor, declining them all while you traded with the kingdom; keeping your spot at court. You were the only one Keonhee could confine in when times got hard in the kingdom, letting you run your fingers through his hair. Often times than not he would steal you away to his bed chambers to let off steam. Keonhee wasn't the only one with troubles though, he was there to comfort you when your mind got too much for you. Keonhee is a desirable prince to have, Not only is he good looking, he had a very high education, could fight in a battle and give off war commands. Needless to say, many kingdoms want an alliance with him-Much like today. Princess Cadenza of Eryburn, the farthest kingdom away from Irestall. Having an alliance with them would be a extreme military impact, they rule over the neighboring country's of our own. Both crown's are the hierarchy's of the world, All other Kingdoms flicker in comparison to Irestall and Erybrun. If Keonhee and Cadenza marry, Keonhee would be ruling eight country's when his father, the current king dies.

"Maybe the king will see that he can find a better alliance elsewhere." Aeyoung, your lady's maid says as she pulls the strings of your corset taught; The damn thing constricting your breathing. "He wont, all the other desirable kingdoms have proposed to Keonhee and he's declined them all. You know just as well as me the impact this alliance will build. The king would be stupid to decline this offer." You gasp and hold tighter to the bedpost as she tightens it for the last time. "Didn't you want him to decline those girls though?" "Not exactly, the others, the lesser kingdoms....I would be able to control those princesses. They couldn't touch me-they had no power to." Aeyoung pulls your stockings up your legs and fastens them to your guarder belt. "And Cadenza has that power? Isn't it a crime to attack one of the prince's favorite people?" Poor Aeyoung, so un-jaded to the world of royals, though you can't blame her, she didn't grow up in court like you did.

"The difference is that Cadenza has assassins at her disposal, if i try to make it known to her that i am in first place. Well, you can imagine what happens next. I would be nothing but a name no longer spoken about the halls. There would be no way to trace it back to her." You began to put your jewelry on, slipping the over-sized ruby ring over your thumb. "Don't nearly all king's have mistresses?" "Yes, which i'm hoping she wont try to fight against that. Now, best for us to be going off then. Wouldn't want to miss Princess Cadenza's grand arrival."

You've known about her proposal for months, Keonhee told you as he was bombarding you with gifts. The news wasn't as bad until you had heard of who had proposed. You broke three vases in your room that week. She was finally here, in your territory and you'd be damned if you weren't gonna put up one hell of a fight. Because you had him first. You among other nobles stand in the throne room, waiting for her majesty's arrival. Your eyes can't help but wander back to Keonhee, how could one man possibly be so handsome? Most of his clothing is covered by a black velvet robe, the eye catcher is the breastplate sewn into the fabric. Golden and silver vinery , each leaf dawned with small diamonds from your mines. It was a birthday gift formally from your family, un-formally it was a gift you had hand crafted for him. A reminder to everyone in the room of your position in the princes' life. Because even though he is meeting his future wife, there he stands wearing a gift from his lover who stands not too far away.

"Princess Cadenza Gianna, Louella IV of Eryburn!" The foot boy announces as they open the large doors. Your heart stops beating once she begins to walk into the room, nearly forgetting to bow as she approaches. Cadenza is a gorgeous girl with skin the of pure honey, hair that resembles fire as it falls in delicate ringlets, framing her face so smooth it could pass as porcelain.  How you've prayed to the gods for her to be ugly, but she is everything but. In Keonhee's eyes, it shows he thinks the same of her. Beautiful as as goddess and for once in your life, you feel threatened by a woman.

She bows her hair in greeting, her status not needing her to do more. Another reminder that because she is his equal, would make it that much easier for her to steal him away. Your fingers rub over the ring once again, not listening as they go over the agreement of the alliance. Not a necessity-of course they've already agreed over letters. This is only the final chance for either country to back away. 'Please God, let us find an alliance elsewhere. Please.' Deep in your heart, you know, there is no other alliance, and this will start a war if they step away this far into the agreement. Cadenza's belongings are most likely being put into a chamber this moment. The same moment you watch Keonhee take in every aspect of Cadenza. "Then i don't see why we shouldn't set the day of your marriage." The king  says, your heart sinking lower and lower in your chest, deep into your stomach where it threatens to tear out.

"I also have a condition your majesty." The room becomes unbearably quiet you can hear the shift of everyone's clothes. What else could she possibly want? She's already ripping out half of your heart. "If i am going to make an alliance not only under Romes eyes, but in God's eyes. I need to be completely faithful in this. I won't take him if he has a mistress. "

No.....He wouldn't.....He can't agree to this. He wouldn't take Keonhee away from you. You and Keonhee's relations was in no way a secret, but for it to reach her ears? She has to know that king's have Mistresses. She isn't so stupid of a woman to actually believe he is a virgin. "Very well, No one besides you will entertain the prince in such ways." No..N-No No! This isn't happening! No, i have to get out of here. This corset-It's too tight. GET IT OFF! You shout in your head. You use Keonhee sliding a ring on her finger to slip out of the room. Only when you close the doors to your chamber is when you break down, ripping your clothes in the process of pulling them off, having much difficulty removing the torso cage that's restricting your lungs. "GET THIS OFF OF ME!" You begin to let out screams that are a mix between sobs as you tug and pull on the garment. "Y/n?!" Youngjo must have slipped into your room. "Please. Please i c-cant breathe" It must have been the look on your face or the tone of your voice because he's behind you in seconds all but ripping out the laces.

Once it's loose enough he pulls it off, allowing you to fall to your knees; you couldn't care less that you're in stark in your guarder belt, stalkings and undergarments. He can't see the exposed front of you anyway. Your broken sobs echo through the room, your hands covered in the salty liquid as they try to stop the flow, quite in vain because they only become hotter and more frequent. "Here, put this on." Youngjo practically dresses you in one of your nightgowns, taking his place in front of you on the floor. "He promised me this wouldn't happen." You hiccup "And it is. What did i do to get to this Youngjo?" He pulls you to his chest, stroking your hair as you let out all your pains hidden over the months.

Youngjo was also your outlet of safety here at court. Being the cousin to Keonhee, you both grew up together. He used to treat you like a pest for taking Keonhee's attention, as he realized you would be sticking around for a while-Youngjo quickly became one of your closest friends. Somewhere in the mix of soothing you, he had lost his overcoat, leaving a white undergarment shirt for you to clutch onto and stain with your tears. You're an ugly mess heaped on the floor, your hair unpinned in a rush-Thank god for Youngjo pulling them out of your hair and attempting to smooth it. You're rouge long gone from your face and now an uncomfortable shade of bright red. "Lets get you to the bed." Youngjo nudges you to stand with him. "Please don't make me." You've stopped crying, now seemingly numb to the world. Somehow you're more heartbreaking to look at like this. Perhaps because the emotion in your body has vanished, the only signs of life your talking and breathing. Youngjo swiftly picks you up bridal style, you would fight it any other time but you couldn't care less what he does at this point. The warm comfort of the animal skins remind you even more of your lost lover, he has a liking to the skins during the winter.

"What are you doing?" You ask as he slowly climbs in the bed next to you. "I'm not letting you be alone right now. Come here." He pats the space next to him, his arm raised up like you would be so willing to crawl into another person's arms so soon after the news of Keonhee. "I know you aren't okay." You scoff, isn't it obvious? "But let me help you be okay right now. Or at least help you forget for a while." The offer is quite tempting, a distraction would be heaven on earth right now. But how could you find comfort in someone else? Why do you feel like you're being unfaithful to Keonhee...... Youngjo makes the decision for you and scoots closer to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

"Why are you doing this?" Is what you croak out after what feels like hours of laying in one spot, doing nothing but watch the shadows change with the sun setting. "I know what it's like.....To feel alone....." Your memories travel back to the day when Youngjo's parents were announced dead. It was when the plague had swept through the kingdom, No one was allowed in or out of the castle. Youngjo's parents had to take refuge in a nearby village when the crown realized. Days had passed before anyone knew where they were, days to find the house they stayed at. He never even got to see their bodies before they were thrown into a mass burn grave.

"The thought of you feeling that again, it was unbearable to me." Why? Why would it be unbearable for him? You sit up to look at his face better. His defined jaw line, the start of stubble on his cheek. And his bug eyes he finally seemed to have grown into. When did he grow up? The room is silent as you share the same glance-sorrow bedded in your eyes'. You lean in to place a test kiss on his lips, he hadn't refused. You lean in to place a longer kiss, this time your lips dance together with his. His hands are placed on your face before you allow yourself to get too lost in the kiss. "Not like this. It isn't right while we're both like this." "It's okay." "No, it isn't. Lets just lay like this for a while." His smile is sad too, why would he be so sad?

You were angry. That was the word you could confidently say after three days, not sad, but filled with rage that you felt like bursting. Maybe that's why the maids have begun to avoid you. Aeyoung has tried to get you to eat meals but you always leave it untouched until one of the maids finds it in the morning.  You've found your favorite past time to be throwing things into the fireplace and watching them burn up.

"What are you doing?" "Sitting." "Get up then." "I'm busy." "Doing what?" "Watching." Your monotone voice echos the room, Youngjo looking at you in worry and frustration. You hadn't left your room in three days-Not drinking besides from the night Yongjo forced you to drink nearly a pitcher full. You hadn't eaten at all and your color was beginning to pallor, not to mention the lack of sun from your curtains being drawn shut; the only light emitting in the room came from the fireplace and very few candles.

"It's quite symbolic isn't it?" You throw a fresh piece of parchment into the logs. "How something so whole can be reduced to nothing in seconds. For what? The power of the nature at hand." You were beginning to sound dismal even to yourself, such is the mood. "The maids will be coming in to help you dress. Were going somewhere." No, we aren't.  "I'm not going." He crouches next to you, his voice low. "Me and you both know i am not above dragging you out of this room, now please get up." Your body shivers as you think back on the day he dragged you into the lake he and his cousins were playing in. The maids could never repair the dress after that day. As if on cue the door opens up to Aeyoung and two younger maids, she works to rip the blinds open fast, nearly blinding you to the harsh rays of light.

"Well look at you, isn't it nice to be out in the light?" Only now in the bright hall do you get a good look of Yongjo's outfit. A light-White long sleeved dress shirt, a slit going down to show a quarter of his chest. Basic black trousers and boots. The maids dressed you two to match, a light summer dress and shoes with a shorter heel-You would put money on he's taking you on a walk. "The cooks maid blueberry muffins, i heard they're quite tasty." Your stomach does hurt from not eating, you suppose a muffin would be fine-You would have to eat it on the walk though.

"Why are we outside? There is plenty of light in the castle." There wasn't a location he had taken you, only mindlessly wondering the paths around the courtyard. He seemed to be enjoying himself, the prick.

"Youngjo, i want to go back now." You had stopped in your tracks, your hand placed on your diaphragm. He follows your line of vision, eyes widening. "No, it's okay. Lets just go somewhere else." Lips pursed and ears red, you're mad. Mad that he is deciding what you can and cant do today. And her in your fucking spot. You un-sheath the sword from Youngjo's belt, storming off on the cobble path before he can stop you. This day was going to get a lot more hectic.

"Y/N!" Youngjo yells out but you couldn't care less, your target in sight getting closer with each stride. "NUAHH!" The sword sticks out of the chest cavity of the training dummy, that a very worried boy was training at moments ago. You pull it out and raise it over your head, having trouble with the weight-and bringing it down onto the straw dummy again. Swing after swing you feel your anger flow out of you, imagining a certain face instead of the burlap one staring back at you. How could he have taken her to the garden. That was you're spot-Not cadenza's. But there she was, having flowers put in her locks by the same fingers that once pleasured you not too long ago. Once the sword feels too heavy to lift up do you stop. Face flushed and breathing ragged. Apparently you're still capable of emotions after all.

Youngjo pulls the sword out and places it back in it's place on his side, watching you with a smile on his face. "Maybe next time you're busy we can get you a sword you can swing." It takes a moment to realize it, but you're smiling at his retort. "Only if it matches yours." He holds out his hand. "Help me forge it?" Without much hesitation, you take his hand and let him take you to the tower where he has his forge. He teaches you how to smith, allowing you to take part in the smiting of your own blade. If you had married someone, this is a luxury you would never be able to hold, but here you are-Inscribing your name into the blade with the help of Youngjo.

[ibijau]

Second to last instalment of the Bad Timeline, and seeing how original timeline LXC deals with this :D

BIG WARNING for suicide, blood, major angst, and implied violence against animals. 

The first few days of hiding in Cloud Recesses had been the worst ones. 

Xichen had been consumed with rage and grief and sheer betrayal over what had happened. He had known that Jin Guangyao was not all that he seemed, events had opened his eyes to that long before Wangji and Wei Wuxian barged in with the mangled body of his first love. But he had never imagined that his friend, his sworn brother, the man he'd trusted above any other, would have fallen so low. 

Huaisang’s own betrayal had been rubbing salt into the wound.

Of course, being manipulated into stabbing Jin Guangyao had been a shock… and there could be no doubts about that manipulation, not once Xichen had had some space to think about it. He knew what his husband was like when he lied. 

And yet, he could have forgiven this.

He could not forgive that Huaisang had never said anything about Mingjue’s death. That he had allowed Xichen to remain friends with the man who had so cruelly murdered the man he loved. That he had never trusted Xichen after all, no matter how much Xichen had tried to convince himself otherwise. Or had Huaisang thought that his husband had been an accomplice in his brother’s death? Xichen had pushed so much for Jin Guangyao to play Cleansing to Mingjue, he’d wanted so badly for his best friend and his lover to get along again. Huaisang would have been excused for suspecting Xichen.

But then, it meant everything between them had been fake. It meant Xichen had never become as good at reading through his husband’s acting as he had believed. All that affection and tenderness, those moments of happiness, the way Huaisang melted at the first sign of gentleness… could he really have pretended about that? And if so, what did it say about Xichen that he had taken all of it at face value, so desperate for closeness that he’d fallen for those lies?

By the end of his first month in seclusion, most of Xichen’s anger had calmed.

It was replaced by guilt.

He had failed Mingjue by trying to force that friendship with Jin Guangyao, by refusing to see the warning signs. Mingjue had told him that Jin Guangyao was dangerous, but he hadn’t listened, hadn’t wanted to judge too harshly someone who was so hardworking, who had risen in spite of difficult origins.

Maybe he had failed Jin Guangyao as well, by not seeing how life in Lanling Jin was changing him. In spite of all evidence, Xichen still believed that his sworn brother had been a good person once. Perhaps all this tragedy could have been avoided in Xichen had just known how to offer help the right way. Jin Guangyao too had suffered from his efforts to maintain the friendship between him and Mingjue. Who knew if he would have turned to murder if they had just been allowed to drift away from each other.

Above all, Xichen feared he had failed Huaisang. They were married. They were cultivation partners. They were friends even, or so he had thought. And yet, Huaisang had never come to him with what he had found out about Jin Guangyao. He had preferred to take revenge alone rather than to share anything with his own husband.

How to blame him, when Xichen had failed to protect those he loved before.

Somewhere near the end of the second month of seclusion, Wangji came home, Wei Wuxian trailing behind him.

Xichen, at first, refused to see him, just as he refused to see anyone. Guilt was harder to wrangle than anger, it ran deeper, it was more insidious.

But when Wangji insisted and returned several days in a row, Xichen gave in. His brother was not one to come knocking on his door without good reason.

Wangji was the same as ever. He sounded worried when he inquired after Xichen’s health, but when his concerns were dismissed, he simply went straight to the reason for his visit.

"I discussed your marriage with uncle,” he explained. “Gusu Lan can afford to repay your dowry, should you wish it." 

Xichen stared at his brother, trying to make sense of what was offered. Then, at last, it hit him. 

He could divorce Huaisang. 

He would never have to see him again. After everything that had happened, it should have felt like a gift, a blessing from the heavens. A kindness to both of them, when their marriage had turned out such a failure. 

Instead the thought was more painful than the betrayal had ever been.

Huaisang was a liar, a manipulator, a murderer, a monster whose crimes were no lesser than Jin Guangyao’s. 

But he was also Xichen's husband. He was a man who had opened up to Xichen over the years, letting him see parts of him that no one must have seen since his brother's death. They had laughed together, run their sect together, been happy together. Xichen refused to believe it had all been faked. Nobody could have been acting so perfectly, so consistently. Something had been real 

And whatever his crimes, at least Nie Huaisang had never committed them for personal gain, but only to avenge a brother he adored. The means had been questionable, but the intentions were honourable.

Besides, even though he had never known how far they ran, Xichen had long known there were deep shadows within the man he loved. 

And he still loved Huaisang. 

That thought shocked him, just as he had been shocked when he had first realised he felt that way. 

Even after everything, he still loved that odd little man he was married to. 

Even after everything, he did not want to lose him.

Xichen looked at his brother, and smiled in the polite, controlled way he had learned to do in unpleasant situations.

“I am very grateful that you would offer this,” he told Wangji. “But that will not be necessary. I need time alone at the moment, but unless he asks for it, I have no intention of separating from my husband.”

“Hm. He hasn’t asked.”

That lifted a weight from Xichen’s shoulders, freeing him from a tension he had not realised he was holding. After everything that had been revealed, Huaisang could easily have asked for a divorce as well. Nobody in the cultivation world would have blamed him for rejecting a husband who had been so close to his brother’s murderer. If Huaisang hadn’t asked for it, there might still be hope.

Xichen knew some of their relationship had to have been genuine.

Feeling a little lighter, his smile turned more sincere.

“I hear you’re married as well now?” he asked his brother. “Eloping, at your age… that’s not very serious, Wangji.”

Wangji smiled, unapologetic. He looked happier than his brother had ever seen him, and Xichen felt another weight leave his body. Even if Huaisang and him did not manage to reconcile, some good would have come from this disaster.

A little after the four months mark, Xichen felt ready to face the world once more. The guilt had not fully eased out, and the anger still returned sometimes, but he was growing too restless to stay in Gusu.

He thanked his uncle and brother for letting him stay this long, for respecting his need for isolation.

Then, at last, he left for Qinghe.

He left for home.

-

It was oddly pleasant to fly to the gates of the Unclean Realm at sunset and greet the guards. They all seemed very happy to see him again. Xichen realised the opposite was just as true. After ten years there, Qinghe Nie had become his sect, even if something of Gusu Lan stuck to him. 

This really was home. 

"Our Sect Leader will be glad you're back," one of the men said. "He's been moping around like a lost soul since he returned with…" 

The other guard elbowed him sharply in the ribs. Xichen pretended not to notice. 

"My husband can be a little dramatic," he agreed, feeling both guilty and pleased that Nie Huaisang might have missed him. "I hope he has not neglected his duties too much, or I'll have to scold him. Do you know where I might find him?" 

He expected to be directed to the gardens or the aviary, unless Huaisang had gone for a trip. Xichen would not mind waiting a little. 

"He's in his room," the first guard explained, glancing at his comrade who shrugged. "He's been there since early afternoon. He gave orders not to bother him for a few days, even if guests came, but… Master Lan, I don't think that applies to you." 

"Yes, go ahead and knock some sense into him," the other agreed. "He's been moody lately, it will be good for him that you're back." 

Lan Xichen thanked them for the information, and crossed the gate. It worried him a little that Huaisang would decide to isolate that way. Even though his cultivation had improved over the duration of their marriage, he did not think Huaisang had ever made efforts to practice inedia so far. Hopefully he was not pushing himself too hard. 

In spite of the guards’ hints that Huaisang appeared to have missed him, Xichen felt a growing tension seize him as he walked toward his husband’s room. Anxiety, he guessed. He hoped that Huaisang would want to see him again, that the guards were not mistaken, that he had made the right choice in coming home. Even if they could not reconcile, at least they should talk, there was so much they had never told each other. They needed to talk. They would talk. Xichen would not leave Qinghe until things were finally clear between them. He would…

It was only when he arrived at the door of Huaisang’s bedroom that Xichen realised the odd feeling he’d had since stepping inside that building might not have been nerves alone.

He could feel intense resentful energies coming from that room, strong enough to nearly gag him. Whatever was going on was so powerful that it should have been noticed by passing disciples and servants… but nobody ever came near Huaisang’s bedroom without his permission, and if he had specifically requested to be left alone…

Overcome with fear, Lan Xichen hurried to open the door.

The stench of blood hit him immediately. No surprise there. Several animals laid on the ground, some of them still twitching and agonising.

Xichen barely noticed them.

His full attention was on a pale shape on the floor, surrounded by words hastily scribbled in blood.

A naked man, his wrists and throat slashed open.

Xichen shouted as he ran toward Huaisang, falling to his knees in the pool of blood and pulling the body in his arms. It was still somewhat warm, but growing colder with each passing second.

“What have you done?” Xichen cried, holding his husband close. “A-Sang, I was coming home!”

Xichen could feel no heartbeat, not breath, but still tried to regain enough control of himself that he could share his energy with Huaisang in a desperate attempt to save him.

“I was coming home,” he sobbed. “I was coming home.”

The body in his arm did not react.

Xichen cried harder, never letting go, never giving up his attempt to heal his husband.

“I was coming home.”

[thewrongexecution]

thinkin’ ‘bout final fantasy

I go by Not The Author for exactly the reason that I ain’t no expert on any given work of fiction, but I do like to make connections what make me seem smart: an illusion, haphazardly crafted by incident accident and supplemented by precocious pretentiousness. All the same, here are some fun thoughts I had that you might also enjoy!

I do have a point, that I do get to. I feel like I should say that ahead of time, all things considered. Like, I can appreciate if you can’t appreciate a shaggy dog story? But there is a point to all this.

...Eventually.

Spoiler Warning:

Final Fantasies 1, 6, 7, 7R, 13 and 15

Content Warning:

Discussion of death

Cussin’

Length warning:

5621 words

13 sections

16 digressions

Let’s dig in.

- - - - -

Final Fantasy 1 was not my first Final Fantasy experience, but I think it was the first I ever played by myself? The remaster for the GBA, came bundled with FF2 on the same cart, which I played briefly but did not complete and do not remember, except that it had Cid.

FF1 doesn’t have a Cid, but I really loved the narrative anyway, straightforward as it was, because it was very specifically about spitting in the face of an uncaring god who would doom the world for a laugh. Take these chains that bind us to darkness and, though we be forgot to history, strangle with them that selfsame darkness to bring an end to its tyranny.

((it is a terrible curse, to love time travel. so many grand expectations, so few ever met. play ghost trick, chrono trigger, radiant historia, majora’s mask, outer wilds. have you any recs yourself, lemme know! I digress.

((I digress a lot, as I may have mentioned. they’ll be noted in parenthetical, like this.))

This is the foundation upon which Final Fantasy is built, and while any student of architecture could tell you of many and varied perfectly valid construction techniques, it resonates. Grappling with an immutable past to course-correct an uncaring future is, too, an apt description of personal growth; a theme as universal as being alive. And I, as an impressionable youth, ate that shit up.

((I assume I was young, at any rate. my love for time travel, be it era-spanning or moment-stretching, is, I suspect, not entirely coincidental to my terrible temporal memory.))

And that was the tale of the studio, too. Final Fantasy was so titled because, the story goes, the developers knew they would shutter if it didn’t make bank. Staring your imminent demise in the face, knowing your fate is doom, and giving it your all, all the same.

And then they made another twelve, plus two-and-a-half MMOs, and god knows how many mobile games and spin-offs, and now the Fantasy is that there could ever be a Final one. so say I: life parodies art.

((the half-an-MMO is FF14 1.0, which no longer exists and is a fascinating tale, a rally against bleak futures all its own. I’ll [link] Noclip’s three-part documentary covering the developer’s side of things, because that’s the one I’ve seen. there’s plenty other material to hunt down, though, if you wanna.))

- - - - -

Final Fantasy VII is a game about fate, too. Particularly Death, that most ultimate of fates. Tragic, to be sure; preventable, or at least delayable, in many cases; necessary, at times, for the growth of something new.

Unrelenting. Unstoppable. Inescapable.

Death, and the fights against it, take many forms. There are the fascist death squads that hunt down your ragtag band and any dissent against their cruel masters, but these will only truly stop by cutting off the hydra’s head and building an entirely new society; eight dudes and their dog, faced with a corporate private military, can survive but never win. There are such disasters as do slay that hydra, be they natural or man-made. There’s the space alien and the apocalypse it ushers. There’s literal illness and injury, physical or otherwise. There are the deaths of loved ones, friends and family, that lead to some subtler deaths within those that survive them. The deaths of relationships, by neglect or abandonment. The ideological deaths we inflict on ourselves, accepting ever-growing lesser evils in the name of some impossible ideal.

Every day, the person we were becomes the person we are, and soon, the person we are will give way to someone new, and this, too, is a sort of death. In this sense, we tally Cloud’s deaths at least five: failure to become a Soldier and rebirth in shame, the massacre of Nibelheim and rebirth in grief, arrival at Midgar and rebirth in delusion, his cratering at the Crater and rebirth in nihilism, and his death and rebirth in the Lifestream of Mideel.

((you could prolly hunt down another two if you wanna be cheeky, but I lack the knowledge, motive and patience. frankly, this whole thing is to create a leading line of logic and probably isn’t, uh. academically ethical? or whatever the term is. I’m not necessarily wrong, but I’m definitely scuttling nuance. oh well!))

Now, I say “rebirth,” because that’s how deaths of identity more-or-less work. There’s usually some new identity waiting in the wings to take over. And rebirth is itself a notable theme, inasmuch as it is one outcome of death. But death is oft more final than that, and what people do in its imminence and wake is key here, too. Wutai’s collapse into an insular tourist trap. Avalanche’s vengeful fervor, in general and post-plate drop. Bugenhagen trying to pass his knowledge on to Red. The whole party’s ongoing post-traumatic depressive episodes.

Ultimately, death is the inescapable fate of all things. It’s what we do, in light of that, that makes us who we are.

- - - - -

Final Fantasies 13 and 15 are the only modern Final Fantasies I’ve beaten, and I bring them up because both deal very prominently with fate and death, and as Square’s most recent mainline FF titles, Remake can’t exist without comparison to them. Here’s what I remember:

Final Fantasy 13 was a game I enjoyed. The stagger system mixed up my casual FF tradition of Get The Big Numbers by putting a prominent UI element onscreen that says You Can’t Get The Big Numbers Unless The Bar Is Full. Suddenly there’s a natural-but-enforced ebb and flow to combat built in, where you gotta juggle chip damage, survival, and crowd control while keeping resources enough to burst down a staggered foe, but maintain situational awareness to swap back into survival mode if you’re not gonna down your enemy, all in something close to real-time. Very obviously a direct precursor to the combat of Remake. I didn’t realize the depth of it, but it was still super fun.

People at the time didn’t like the linearity of the game and, I can see that in retrospect? I think it’s closer to, there weren’t breakpoints, there wasn’t variety. It was cutscenes, combat, and the stretches of land between them; the only real thing for the brain to get a workout on was the combat, and eating only one kinda food is gonna make that food taste bland.

((I didn’t mind, but I like idle games, and, also probably had depression around then. Take that how you will.))

The story, though, I loved. You got your uncaring gods forcing mortals to do their increasingly-impossible bidding, cursing them to agonized unlife if they take too long, and with blissful, beautiful death if they succeed. It sucks! And here you have a ragtag band of incidental idiots trying to rebel against a system that, actually, wants them to? Like that’s the plan? Have mortals kill god and summon the devil to destroy all life, because god, doesn’t.... like life anymore?

((The lore gets more than a little impenetrable, and I remember bouncing off it a couple times. The throughline of God Sucks And Makes Zombies was good though.))

The biblical parallels are obvious, and if they weren’t, the final boss’ design will clue you in, god that’s a good design. hang on I can add pictures and already tossed a spoiler warning, here, look at this:

(per the Final Fantasy Fandom Wiki [X])

That’s literally The Holy Trinity But A Sword The Size Of A Building. It’s perfect.

Anyway, I love this game, because the heroes win, which is what God wants, so in winning, they lose, as was fated to be, right? Fuck All That, say the lesbians from space australia, as they turn into satan and, as satan, stop God’s shitty metal moon from crashing into space australia and destroying all life.

((this awakened something in me, though, as is becoming a theme, I wasn’t aware of it at the time. actually hold up I’m gonna rewatch that sequence.

((yeah okay wow on review that was aggressively cheesy and had a whole bunch of weird emotional whiplash that just leaves a super-bad aftertaste. I don’t really like it as an experience, but big bazonga lesbian satan with arms for hair is still a look-and-a-half.))

The whole thing is not entirely unlike if meteor was also Midgar, and there’s more than a few points where I went, hang on, are they trying to evoke 7 here? “Lightning” is ex-military and bad at emotions, Sazh is a black dad w/ guns and emotional trauma and I love him, quirky pink healer girl who might be an alien is here, the game starts on a train and leads into a robot bug fight; obviously it’s not one-to-one but the connections are there for a brain like mine to make, and only more prominent for the fact that FF7 was the more satisfying game.

((I cannot speak to 13-2 or -3; 13-2 was fun up until the enemies were abruptly 30 levels higher than me, more or less a mandate by the game for me to do all the side content, which I was not on-board with. I skipped 13-3 entirely, especially when I learned the whole game is on a timer. did not and do not need that stress in my life.))

- - - - -

But okay, FF13 was “too linear” and wasn’t doing super great. Enter Final Fantasy Versus 13, by which I mean enter Final Fantasy 15 actually, we don’t need any more of this 13 crap. And once again, I enjoyed it! ...Right up until it was bad.

Final Fantasy 15 was not a finished game, and we know this for certain now, because all its DLC was to make it a finished game. At the time, though, there was uncomfortable and inconsistent story pacing, only one playable character, relatively sparse combat mechanics... but it was open-world, and hey, that’s what you wanted, right? open, non-linear environments? I picked it up because, Teleporting Swordsman With a Motorcycle Sword. I am of simple pleasures, and those are they.

Of the little I remember, one point that’s stuck with me is the sequence following the Leviathan fight. See, we’ve been talking about fate and destiny and how Final Fantasy likes to spite them. Here in 15, our main man Noctis doesn’t want the destiny he’s been burdened with, to Become The King and Save The World from the Coming Darkness, or whatever. He’d really rather be doing, anything else? like hanging out with his buddies or actually getting married or, I dunno, grieving the death of his father. Nope! You don’t get to do that. Go find the ghost armaments of your dead ancestors so you can ~saaave the wooorld!~ I would have been in college around then, so, eminently relatable.

Now, on this journey, you meet a guy called Ardyn. He’s the sort of character that was built as an attack on me personally: sleazy, charming, possessing airs of casual familiarity with people he’s never met, kinda helps you out in tight spots, and also, by the way, vizier to the empire that killed your dad and wants you and your friends dead too. But not in the “secret good guy” way, he just likes fucking with you! he’s perfect.

Right up until the Leviathan fight.

See, Lunafreya, your betrothed--

((I’m so mad about this stupid, stupid garbage. I love Lunafreya on principle, but the game doesn’t bother to give her screentime. you only ever hear about her incidentally, which can be cool if you then meet the character and get to compare/contrast what you’ve heard, but the initial release only has her show up for this one chapter, and your party doesn’t really get to interact with her that much.))

Your betrothed is here and she’s some symbol of the peoples’ hope, right? she’s got light magic or something, and can actually commune with the gods. the gods are on your side, but you can’t actually understand a word they say, but she can, and that’s sick as hell. anyway.

You lose the fight against Leviathan, because you’re a shitty emo teen who doesn’t know how to use your ghost swords, and she got beat up earlier when Levi got all pissy at being summoned. And then Ardyn shows up in his magitek dropship.

Now earlier, Ardyn had Luna as his captive, completely at his mercy, and right now, he who would be king of kings, destined to save the world from darkness, is clutching at rock in a hurricane, beaten, wounded and dying.

Of the two, which do you think he stabs to death?

if you thought, “the protagonist, which will allow him to win, and subvert Final Fantasy’s themes of defying fate by having the villain be the one to do it, forcing everyone else to scramble for some alternate solution and deal with the fallout,” congratulations! You win disappointment, because that idea’s cool as hell and they didn’t. fucking. Do it.

((Ardyn, before this, had given me major Kefka vibes, and thinking on it now, the world descending into darkness in the 15 we never had could have played with even deeper parallels to FF6... but I never played 6, and that FF15 doesn’t exist, so... I’ll leave that analysis to better scholars.))

now, with the benefit of hindsight, that was never going to happen. too long in development hell, game had to ship, had no time or budget for mid-game upheaval. but at the time? made me lose any interest I had in Ardyn, made me mad at the developers for passing up on fulfilling the themes their series had explored in past, made me almost stop playing the game. I’m still mad about it for crying out loud!

((thinking about it gets me tensed up, coiled, with that sort of full-body thrum that’s best conveyed with letters that jitter around. best I can do here is bold italics, but it doesn’t have the right energy. it’s a fleeting feeling, but when it’s here? god. given the men that wrote this scene I would fight all of them and win.

((inhale...

((exhale...

((and move on.))

We, the player, never really meet Luna, so there’s no real... impact, no substance to it. It’s sad, but impersonal. villain kills damsel to inflict manpain on hero. that’s it. we’ve seen this song and dance before.

But kill Noctis? The character the player’s been controlling all this time, who they know intimately? Now it’s personal. Now your party members’ grief is a mirror to your own. And now you get to play as Luna, maybe? give the game time to flesh her out, have her bond with your old companions over their shared grief, and maybe use her connections and public speaking skills to rally the people of the world, in a perhaps-vain attempt to resist the oncoming darkness, while simultaneously using that public-facingness to drive her to hide her own fear and hopelessness...? That’s a complex character ripe for drama and tragedy right there! And then her, at the head of a story about people coming together to solve a global calamity themselves, rather than await their appointed savior?

Even then, but especially now... You can see the appeal, right?

- - - - -

Lemme step back and zoom out for a moment, because there’s one more kind of Fate to discuss before I finalize my thesis. Yes, I promise, there is a point besides being mad at FF15, this is still ultimately about Remake. Bear with me a little longer.

See, Remake’s premise is that it’s not quite FF7, but that itself is predicated on Remake being essentially FF7. Certain things must be in the Remake series, or it will cease to be the Final Fantasy 7 Remake series. The developers have gone on record saying as much, that they’ll still cover the thrust of the original, and that makes a lot of sense from a development standpoint. Building on an existing framework saves loads of time, and lets them focus on details as they have in Remake.

((I think they've already set up an in-universe justification for this, too. The party may have defeated the Whispers at Midgar, but the Whispers are the will of the planet. The only way to truly defeat them would be to defeat the planet itself, which: kind of the goal of the villains!

((a bit ironic, because the villains are the Whispers’ means to keep manipulating events. Remake backends a very large portion of the plot, and I don’t think Rufus seeing the Whispers is a throwaway detail. The party chases Sephiroth by chasing Shinra in the original, so even if the party has shaken free of the direct influence of the Whispers, manipulating Shinra should in turn manipulate the party.

((on top of which, Rufus prizes power, and the power to change or control fate-- something both the party and Sephiroth have seized-- would be as enticing as anything.))

But this begs the question: How much of Final Fantasy 7 is necessary before it stops being Final Fantasy 7? Do you need all nine characters? The Weapons? Rideable chocobo? Breedable chocobo? What about locations? Can you drop the Gold Saucer? or Mount Condor? or Mideel? How many minigames am I holding up? These are necessary questions, but so is this:

“Would a one-to-one recreation of the original game have the same emotional impact as when it released, twenty-three years ago?”

- - - - -

Now, the phrase “emotional impact” is necessarily kind of nebulous and subjective, so lemme dig into that a little bit.

The first significant chunk of the original FF7 takes place entirely in Midgar, which is one huge city. Every screen is densely packed; movement is typically constrained to narrow corridors and industrial crawlspaces. The whole world is deeply claustrophobic and visually hostile, by design.

This is FF7 for the first few hours, before a motorcycle chase deposits you outside city limits, and then... you hit the world map, and everything changes. The world is rendered in three whole dimensions, now! (Then, a technological marvel in its own right.) There’s a sky! There’s a horizon! Grass, mountains, the ocean!

Boundless, terrifying freedom.

From a mechanical standpoint, there’s only one real destination, an A-to-B with random encounters before a small enclosure with an inn and shops, no real change from what you’ve already been doing. But the mood? Everything’s fresh and new, now. Everything’s an unknown.

So, how do we do that again, two-and-a-half decades on?

Let’s say, something like this: Remake 2 starts with Cloud and Sephiroth en route to Nibelheim. For new players, this provides immediate intrigue: why are these mortal enemies hanging out in a truck? how did they get here, where are they going? For veterans, it’s familiar: oh, we’re in the flashback sequence.

For both, it provides mechanical familiarity. We just finished last game hanging out in Midgar, a bunch of town squares with shops and cutscenes connected to hazardous corridors. Well, Nibelheim’s a town with shops and cutscenes, connected to a monster-filled anthill and capped with a reactor. We know this. We’ve done this. We can do this again.

And when the flashback ends, we’re in Kalm. Another town, maybe with sidequests this time; Midgar looming in the distant skybox as a reminder of how far we’ve come.

And then you leave Kalm, and the camera zooms out, and out, and out...

Remake is essentially 7, and you can’t have the impact of 7′s world map reveal if Remake isn’t functionally open-world too. Square has plenty of experience with open environments, however successful their more recent attempts have been; I’m confident that the have the ability, at least, to craft an expansive world that feels appropriate to FF7.

((I’d like to take a moment here to talk about FF14, which mixes both compact twisty dungeons and wide-open overworld zones, and is necessarily wildly successful to still be operating as an MMO... but though I have played it briefly, I don’t claim knowledge sufficient to go in-depth. The point is, Square not only can make a game like that, they have, and are, and apparently possess non-zero competency. I have worries, but I’m not worried, if that makes sense.))

So, can you recreate a given kind of emotional impact? Yeah!

Can scenes from the original Final Fantasy 7 be rendered into a new context, more-or-less as they were? Absolutely!

Would a one-to-one recreation of the original game have the same emotional impact as when it released, twenty-three years ago?

- - - - -

Aerith dies.

If you opened this post and didn’t know that, well. There were spoiler warnings up at the top, the game’s more than two decades old, and the spoiler itself is basically a piece of pop-culture, up there with space dad and wizard killer. There’re probably plenty of people who know next-to-nothing about Final Fantasy 7 except that Aerith dies.

Everyone knows because, at the time, it was so big a thing. This was a title that Square hyped to heaven and back to push JRPGs into mainstream western markets, and it worked. And this was before major death was so common and arbitrary as it is today; even now, Game of Thrones and its ilk are a relative rarity. The death of a protagonist or love interest wasn’t a new thing for games, or any media really, but usually you knew it was coming, or it served some purpose. Aerith’s death was sudden, arbitrary, you’re almost immediately thrown into a boss fight so you don’t even have time to process it right away, and it’s the first stone in an avalanche of other pointless arbitrary tragedy. It’s an obvious narrative setup for the endgame confrontation with Sephiroth; instead, Cloud has a breakdown, Meteor happens, and now there’s an entire Disk 2.

Fandom has always been fandom, even before the continuous immediacy of the modern internet, but... people wrote letters to Square, and got sad on message boards. There’s an entire subset of forum signatures, back when those were a thing, that you could sort as “people fucked up over Aerith dying.” And again, this was the world. Not just Japan, or Asia, but everyone.

((Or, everyone with the finances to have a PS2 and/or an internet connection. Gaming as a pastime remains way expensive, whether played or watched. But you know how it is.))

And that’s the problem with answering that question.

See, FF7 is a lot of things, but for better or worse, it is defined by Aerith’s death. It’s one of many factors, but you can’t... leave it out, right? or it wouldn’t be FF7 anymore.

Aerith dies in FF7, and everyone knows it.

- - - - -

But Remake has promised, repeatedly, that things will be different this time. Everyone is coming together to defy fate, and Cloud in particular is here to keep Aerith from dying. Bodyguard jokes aside, Cloud repeatedly has flashbacks (flashforwards?) to Aerith’s death and the events leading to it. When he meets her in the church, when they cross into Sector 6, twice in the final battle. Hell, the very first time they meet, Sephiroth taunts him about not being able to save her. Even from a metatextual standpoint, since everyone knows Aerith dies, that’s like, The Most Obvious Fate To Change.

If, after all that, Aerith still dies? It’s not just tragedy, at that point. That’s the developers, actively lying to the player about their intent in making this game series. That’s frustrating, and immersion-breaking, and when said death is likely to still have one or more entire sequels to come after? maybe not great for sales! I know I didn’t bother buying the complete edition of FF15; I couldn’t bring myself to care enough about a game that set up this cool possibility, and then just, failed to deliver on every count.

And, Remake is being made for two audiences. I’ve said “everybody knows Aerith dies,” but that’s not really true, is it? It’s been 23 years, after all. Remake could well be someone’s very first Final Fantasy experience. That’s why they’ve been telegraphing Aerith’s death so hard. Not everyone knows, but at least everyone can guess. Is it fair, then, to this new audience, with potentially no knowledge or understanding of the legacy of this flashy new action game, to foreshadow tragedy in the future, have everyone come together to say, We’re Going To Stop This, and then... not? Is that good writing? Is that satisfying? When this is a multi-game and potentially multi-console investment of time and money, is this, as a newcomer, a story you’d want to keep playing?

And then on top of that, it’s 2020.

I don’t mean that in the current-year-fallacy, “we’re better than this now” kind of way. Rather, the way I felt about Final Fantasy 15 is even more relevant now. People, in real life, are realizing that the powers-that-be are failing them, have failed them, have been failing them for far longer than twenty-three years. The people that already knew that are actually showing up for each other, to spite what felt and feels like inescapable fate and finding that, together, they might just be able to ruin God’s day.

Game development is, of course, its own whole beast, and projects in motion tend to stay in motion; deviating from a plan takes time and money that Square may be unwilling to spend. But, under current world circumstances: is making a game where the hero sets out to save one specific person from their fated death, and following that with a game where that one specific person dies anyway, aside from everything else, a good business decision?

- - - - -

So... Aerith, shouldn’t die, right...? But, FF7 requires Meteor, and so requires the Temple of the Ancients and the Black Materia. And, Meteor can only be stopped by Holy, so FF7 requires the Forgotten City.

FF7 is a tragedy. FF7 demands blood.

...Hey, actually, hold that thought. How come Cloud can remember Aerith dying in the first place? He’s not from the future, right? He’s got a connection to Sephiroth, who is from the future... and Sephiroth can manipulate his memories...? but, why would Sephiroth let him, or make him, remember that?

Hey, how come Zack is alive, but like, in the “narrative scope” sense? Wouldn’t his presence circumvent Cloud’s delusions about the Nibelheim incident?

Hey, how come Cloud had multiple big climactic Sephiroth confrontations at what’s essentially the end of the prologue, including one that mirrors the very end of the original FF7? Shouldn’t that still come at, like, you know. the end?

Hey, how come--

- - - - -

Remake has these... Callbacks? Refrains? Like my favorite, when Sephiroth throws a train-- you know, The Fate Metaphor-- at Cloud, who absolutely shreds the thing. Or, for a more direct example:

And it frequently uses these to show that people are changing, that things can change. You know, the whole Running Theme the game has going on.

Sephiroth gets a refrain, too.

At the start of the game (give or take a reactor), in his first real appearance, Sephiroth philosophizes at Cloud, makes sure Cloud hates him, and tells Cloud what he wants.

At the end of the game, in his last appearance, Sephiroth philosophizes at Cloud, tells Cloud what he wants, and makes sure Cloud hates him.

Structurally, these encounters more-or-less bookend the game; thematically, it doesn’t exactly indicate change. Barret may or may not have come around on Cloud, and his admission that Cloud is important to him after all is, itself, important. Cloud, on the other hand, was always going to defy Sephiroth. He stands resolute, now, ready to fight rather than flee, but apathy was never on the table.

Now, Sephiroth’s whole Thing is psychologically manipulating Cloud to get what he wants, and as part of that, what Sephiroth wants is usually not what he says he wants.

All throughout the original FF7, Sephiroth riled up Cloud so that Cloud would pursue and defy him, culminating first in the Black Materia incident, and then again in the Forgotten City. None of the Sephiroth clones could survive the trip through the Northern Crater, so Sephiroth had to lure Cloud, with the Black Materia, to him, and then also convince Cloud to give up the Black Materia of his own accord. Mind control, memory manipulation and illusions were involved, but if Sephiroth could maintain those indefinitely, he probably just. Would have done that instead. Way easier,

The point is, in Remake, in addition to all the intermittent retraumitization sprinkled throughout the game, Sephiroth goes out of his way twice to directly ask Cloud, “hey, you hate me, right?” And, as part of that question, he tells Cloud, “this is what I want.” And Cloud? He hates Sephiroth, and will do his damnedest to keep Sephiroth from getting what he wants.

So. What does Sephiroth... say he wants?

- - - - -

One last aside before we cap off: This post would not exist without the valiant efforts of one Maximilian_dood. His devotion to the series kept myself and many others engaged and excited and, frankly, hopeful, in the leadup to the release of Remake, and his correlations between the rest of the FF7 series and Remake were enlightening and entertaining.

and had he not the gall to identify defying fate as a device to make aerith’s death more tragic, I would never have been angry enough to write this.

((I know, I know. Gaming and streaming and lit analysis are all hard individually, and I don’t begrudge losing one for the other two. And it was a first playthrough! I might have seen these lines sooner than some, but collating all this info was certainly not instantaneous. And Square can be hack writers at times-- see again my rant on FF15-- so even then, I can’t discount the possibility.

((but, still.

((Really?))

So, while I would like to believe that I have, by now, made my thesis on Remake’s narrative direction abundantly clear, here it is spelled out anyway:

- - - - -

At the bottom of the Forgotten City, at the shrine on the pillar in the lake, Cloud will find Aerith, who believes her fate immutable.

Sephiroth will descend, and Cloud will sacrifice himself, that Aerith should live.

This is Sephiroth’s plan.

- - - - -

Hey, thanks for reading this far! With my conversational tone and rambling tendencies, I’d have preferred to make this an audio post or, god forbid, a video essay, but I got a keyboard, and that’ll have to do. Diction is important to me, as the capitalization, italics and use of punctuation may have clued you in on, so... maybe you’ll get a dramatic reading sometime in the future? but, don’t bet on it.

Feel free to riddle me with questions, or point out inconsistencies with this big ol’ thing! I’m not exactly an expert, and I’m sure I glossed over, heavily paraphrased, completely forgot, intentionally ignored and/or aggressively misrepresented some stuff, but I love learning and teaching esoteric bullshit about The Vijigams. On that note, anything that sounds like it should be sourced is sourced from “I heard about it on social media or in a stream or youtube video one time, but if I actually had to hunt it down this whole thing would never see the light of day, and it has already been like three months,” which isn’t to excuse my lack of due diligence, but I do, lack diligence, so, tough.

Oh! but the Remake screens all come from [here]. Don’t care much for that splash screen, but, I Get It, so, whatever.

There were some other things I wanted to touch on but couldn’t really find a spot for. FF7 Remake as a metaphor for its own development, for example. Or, some of The Possibilities, like how Cloud’s death could very literally haunt Aerith, or how Remake sets up a more fleshed-out Midgar revisit that Cloud’s death specifically would make infinitely sadder.

On that note, if it was not yet obvious, I love speculation, and if they do go this direction, it’ll probably be their justification to go completely... off the rails? Remake only has to be FF7 until it doesn’t, after all. If there’s some wilder implications youall see for like... I dunno, a Jenova more fully-regenerated from also having Cloud’s cells back, getting into proper Kaiju-on-Kaiju battles with the Weapons, or anything like that? Feed me your brain juice, etc.

And, once more, for the road: this is interpretation; subjective, opinionated, and very much in denial of any kind of author-ity. Nor is this a claim on how things should be, or an assertion that this would be good or bad. Everything ultimately rests on Square's narrative design team and, we’ve touched on them already.

((but, for your consideration: I’m smart, and right))

Here’s hoping, whatever happens, we get the game we deserve.

thanks for coming to my ted talk, have a great day

[weepylucifer]

Let’s Go in the Garden - Ch. 1

Team Folly takes a call and unearths a bit of past that everyone believed long-buried.

“Aed,” said the fae. “Please, you may call me Aed.”

It was, that much I knew from what had stuck during my leafing through the Folly’s mundane library, one of the lesser known faerie aliases, like Aisling or Myself or Nobody, something for a fae to use in a pinch, and certainly not likely to be this guy’s actual name. But it had been what he’d responded to my inquiry after his legal name - fine, A legal name for our files.

Aed looked like David Bowie and Kurt Cobain had had a lovechild, whom they then abandoned to be raised by a family of raccoons.

He was tall, pale, skinny and he gangled, and everything about him looked… dejected, is what I’m trying to bring across here. Fae have often been observed to dress according to their chosen vocation, or so one of the ancient wizards said who used to record his observations on the demi-monde within the Folly’s records. I’ve certainly also seen this here and there, like Molly’s Edwardian servant dress or Foxglove’s artist getup. This guy seemed like he was trying to play up a role of… hermit, or dumpster-diver.

Aed’s story was this: once upon a time, in some vague past, his… Nightingale says ‘tribe’, I would opt for ‘community’… of fae had had some neighbourly dispute with another one. Before they knew it, dispute became war, there had been a vicious attack, and Aed’s people had been scattered. Far as he knew, he might be the last one standing. Now, unwilling to pass back into the realm in which his type of fae actually dwelt for fear of what might await him there, Aed subsisted in a... it cannot be said any more politely, in a dank cave out on Dartmoor, far from any kind of civilisation save for a few scattered villages around and about. They barely counted, for my part; most of them could barely boast one decent pub.

Sometimes, occasionally, people from these adjoining towns would stumble upon Aed’s dwelling. Purely by accident, you understand, it wasn’t like he was luring anyone out here, or at least so he claimed. Most people, he could simply cause to forget. They would head home and not bother him out here again. But sometimes, people came to him with a wish to make. A bargain to offer. Troubled people, he said. People who, like him, longed for escape. A quiet place, to hide from something, just to get away from it all, and bliss. Oblivion. Respite.

I looked into that gaunt face framed by sad, stringy hair, those long, bony fingers fiddling nervously with the strings of his moss-green hoodie, and understood that Aed actually had thought he was helping. And the disappearances had been too few and far between as to ever rouse the suspicion of the Folly, or much of anyone for that matter. But then, about a week ago, a girl named Lucinda Blaine had gone missing and, what with her being the great-granddaughter of a bloke remotely connected to Hugh Oswald’s gossip mill, we’d gotten a call on the Folly’s ancient landline. Even ancient retired practitioners keep their eyes open, apparently, and people disappearing plus a relatively recently circulated local fairy myth about the area had warranted a call to us. So we’d headed out here because, well, obligation, missing children, all that jazz. This time, Nightingale had tagged along, possibly because he too felt an obligation towards one of his centenarian cohorts and, by extension, their families. Apparently, just after the war, he’d been asked to stand godfather to the spawn of about anyone who’d made it back to England and gotten it in their heads to start procreating. There had been guys trying to name their sons after him. These days, all the hype seemed to have died down: we didn’t often get veterans calling the Folly, and if Nightingale was otherwise in contact with any of them, I’d never noticed, and I got the feeling he preferred this.

“But she approached me with a wish,” Aed was now saying. I was taking his statement right there in the cave, seeing as he couldn’t be persuaded to leave it, and abandon his sleeping charges. “She told me her situation had become untenable. That she longed to escape the torments of her life.”

“Well, she’s eight,” I replied, maybe a bit more sharply than was strictly appropriate. “Eight-year-olds try to run away from home sometimes. Doesn’t mean adults should enable that. Yeah, her parents getting a divorce is causing her a lot of grief right now, but she’ll get better eventually. It for sure doesn’t warrant putting her into a magical sleep forever.”

I looked around the cave. Lucinda was nowhere near the only person asleep here, although we had been quick to find her. The other people resting here in their magical stasis were adults, thank god for small mercies. There were green vines everywhere, making up beds for the sleepers, growing under and above and beyond them; the ones that had evidently been here the longest were all but covered in vegetation. But they were all breathing, and none of them looked worse for wear.

“People have to go and confront their problems,” I said. “What do you think sleeping it off is going to solve? Will they really be happier when they wake up and it’s a hundred years later?”

Aed looked at me, saddened and confused. Here was a guy who had been out here on his own for too long, I thought. He had lived here in his own little world, where making people disappear was justified and good, and now he suddenly had wizards in his home demanding he stop. “Their problem would be gone,” he said softly.

“They’d have other, bigger problems instead.” I shook my head. Sometime soon, we’d have to wake up all these people and get them out of here, preferably into medical care; they would be in shock and needing to be looked at. I had no idea how the folks over in the town would cope with having everyone who disappeared here within the last couple years back at once. Mostly, though, right this moment, I was worried about getting Aed to part with his charges. He didn’t look like he had a lot of fight in him, but with the demi-monde you never know.

It was then that Nightingale tapped me on the shoulder. “Perhaps I should like to have a word with Aed here, outside,” he said. “In the meantime, you’d better start reviving the victims. Getting these plants off of them should do the trick, but try not to have them touch your skin. And see if you can call anybody at the local force, these people are going to be needing medical attention.” Then he gently, but firmly put a hand on Aed’s shoulder and steered him towards the mouth of the cave.

“Now,” I heard him say, “let me tell you, one survivor to another…”

I tried not to strain my ears to listen to what they were discussing. I had work to do, anyway. Through some minor miracle, I had a signal up here, so I called down at the station in one of those arse-end-of-the-world towns and got told that while it would be nigh-impossible to get an ambulance out here, there would at the very least be a team of first responders along soonish. I sighed to myself, already impatient to return to London and civilisation, but there was a job to do first. I put on gloves and started to unravel all the vines.

Nightingale proved to have been right, people began waking up as soon as I got the flora off them. They were fairly out of it, most of them confused, somewhat frightened, especially the eight-year-old. Apparently most of them had not come out here for a bargain with the faerie expecting to be laid to sleep in a cave. I questioned them - gently, you see. There was a group of twenty-somethings here who’d wanted to celebrate some pagan ritual (completely made up). There were some other folks who’d simply angled for a meditative moment, to honor a little local custom, to leave a wish for the faerie, expecting... well, nothing much. After all, the Good Gentlemen of the Hills weren’t real, right - until they were. Some of these people had indeed been here for years. I had my hands full, and the situation was coming precariously close to slipping from me when the first-response-team showed up, dispensing shock blankets and gently corralling everyone to where they’d parked the ambulance.

Just about then, Nightingale came back. He wasn’t terribly wordy, said he had been able to persuade Aed to return home at last, to finally check on his people. I wanted to ask what he said to him but didn’t, a slight bit afraid that he’d had to make threats of some sort or worse, give Aed the Condensed Ettersberg. I imagine suspecting you’re the last one of your people and knowing it makes a bit of a difference, and according to Nightingale, last anyone from the Folly had checked, some of Aed’s tribe had still been extant, so who knows. Maybe there was hope for that guy yet.

“You missed another one back here,” Nightingale said at last, striding deeper into the cave.

There was what remained of Aed’s camp here, a sleeping bag and futon, a portable stovetop, a few bags with odds and ends. Depressing. There was, indeed, also another buried sleeper.

The vines were thickest towards the back of the cave, a verdant green affair that didn’t look quite… real, almost stylized, like vines in a video game rather than real life plants. They were almost as thick as a man’s forearm, and the shape of the last person trapped here was suggested rather than seen. I had trouble pulling them off without potentially injuring the sleeper, so Nightingale said, “Allow me,” and disintegrated them using some at-least-fifth-order spell. I had half an eye on the other sleepers who were all slowly coming to, so I left him to it until he called my name.

“Peter,” he said, and there was a sudden tension to his voice that worried me, “I’m afraid we have another problem.”

He had unearthed the whole man - I have to assume - by now, and was looking at him with a hard-to-read expression. There was almost some disdain in it, certainly a load of dismay.

“Sir?” I asked.

“This is another sort of glamour here, some seducere variant,” he explained, “or another fae. It cannot possibly be what it looks like.”

This surprised me, seeing as I wasn’t feeling anything at all weird - no vestigia, nothing. By the looks of it, this was another ordinary bloke sleeping here, another result of a dodgy deal with the fae. But I decided to defer to Nightingale’s expertise. “How so?” I asked.

“For the sake of convenience,” Nightingale said, “Could you please describe to me what you are seeing here?” He gestured at the sleeping man and there was some undercurrent of something in his voice, something badly repressed there, and my concern and confusion mounted. Still, I obliged.

“I’m seeing a white male, early or mid-fourties by the looks of him,” I started my description. “Dark hair, sort of unkempt, sort of a gaunt look to him. He has a mole or birthmark on his neck, here.” I tapped my own thoat in the corresponding place. “He is wearing what appears to be hiking gear, pretty old, that is to say old-fashioned but well-maintained. He must’ve been laid up here for quite some time. Boots, like army boots, like the pair you have. Grey canvas jacket, or maybe it’s khaki.” Hard to tell in this light.

If anything, my description seemed to surprise Nightingale even more. “Yes, that is… that seems to correspond with what I’m seeing.” He shook his head. “I was expecting for you to be seeing… something else.”

“Like what?” I don’t get impatient with my governor often, but I have to admit I was starting to hate how tongue-tied he was being.

“Probably a woman,” he said cryptically. “Anyway, this cannot be what it appears to be, seeing as I know this person, and he’s been dead for quite awhile.”

Ah. Well, shit. And here I’d been so glad already that this situation had gone over without any fighting. I wanted to ask Nightingale who it was, but he beat me to it before I could so much as open my mouth.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s get it over with. Stand back, I’ll try to wake him.”

Before I could think to argue, or even make up my mind about what alternative action to argue for, Nightingale gripped his staff tightly, got down on one knee and used his free hand to shake the sleeper by the shoulder.

The man was slower to rouse than any of the others we’d found; he murmured something, a hand coming up to swat in the vague direction of Nightingale’s, but after a minute, his heavy eyelids fluttered open.

Voice thick with sleep, the stranger slurred, “Thomas?”

Nightingale straightened, took two steps back and huffed out through his nose. “Don’t even attempt it.”

The stranger blinked, evidently confused, and then, with surprising speed, he lunged to his feet. I admit I flinched.

The stranger’s legs were trembling, he was shaky with the effort of keeping himself upright after laying prone here for god knows how long. Hair fell into his eyes as he leveled a wild-eyed gaze at my governor.

“Get away!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “You’re that fae again. You’re a shape-changer, aren’t you? How dare you appear to me like this?”

Nightingale raised an eyebrow. “I should be asking you these questions.”

“You’re not Thomas. Thomas fell at Ettersberg.”

“What?” Nightingale crossed his arms; it was almost funny how indignant he sounded. “No, it’s you who died as a result of Ettersberg.”

Jesus Christ, I thought, Ettersberg again. It’s always fucking Ettersberg, isn’t it? Unbelievable, really, how much my life was being affected by a place I’d never been to and had no desire to visit.

“Nonsense,” the stranger ground out harshly. “We… we had no word, there was, there was no way anyone on the ground got out.”

Nightingale was drumming his fingers against the tip of his cane, as much proof of his pique as I’d ever seen him exhibit. “And yet here I am.”

“That’s… no. You’re not Thomas.”

“It is you who isn’t what you profess to be.” I was seeing just how tired Nightingale was growing of this back and forth. Whoever, whatever this was pretending to be one of his old war buddies, it had him careening towards the end of his tether.

“I am exactly what I profess to be,” the stranger claimed. He took a deep breath. “In 1930, in November, I was visiting you while you were staying at the consulate in Lahore. We sat in the gardens, under the stars, and you said to me that you wouldn’t mind if–”

Nightingale cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “You could easily pluck that from my memories.”

I had been watching the exchange, I must admit, with my mouth slightly agape. Now I saw an opportune moment to cut in. “Sir,” I said. “He claims to be someone from the old Folly, right?”

“That’s right,” Nightingale replied at the same time as the stranger asked, “Who’s that?” like he was just now noticing me for the first time.

“My apprentice,” Nightingale introduced me. “Whatever you have to say to me can be said in front of him.”

I found that a little bit of an odd thing to say in the moment, but I was also flattered at the show of trust.

“An apprentice?” The stranger snorted. “Yeah, bullshit. My Thomas doesn’t have an apprentice, and no desire to take one either.”

I ignored him for the time being. “Sir, as for proving his identity, one way or the other,” I suggested, “could you recognize his signare? Is it possible to fake that?”

Nightingale looked at me in the way he does when I hit on something he hasn’t considered before. “Not that I know of.” He beckoned towards the stranger and demanded, in one of his rare militaristic tones, “Right. Werelight, please.”

“You too,” the stranger said through clenched teeth.

“While we’re at it,” Nightingale said with a nod and they both held their palms out, and conjured a werelight each.

Now, I’d like to say I’m familiar enough with Nightingale’s signare from all this time spent around him watching him work his magic. The stranger’s was entirely new: like a gust of fresh air through a recently opened window (I thought I could even feel a hint of the curtains blowing in the sudden breeze, white and starched), a hand skimming over cool tiles, the sound of something bubbling in a beaker, and a hint of pine that weirdly seemed to correspond with a component of Nightingale’s own signare, like two pieces of something coming together.

The stranger gaped. “It’s really you. You’re really here, you… you’ve found me.”

I glanced from him to Nightingale, who seemed to have frozen solid. His staff clattered loudly as it hit the ground. And I swear, I have never ever seen this purely indescribable look on my governor’s face.

“David.”

“Hi, Thomas.”

I kind of stared. David is a common name, but somehow I knew exactly which one this was. I knew approximately two things about David Mellenby with a certainty: he’d been very into science, and he was definitely dead. No wonder Nightingale was suspicious. Apart from that… not much. Nightingale had brought him up maybe twice.

“This isn’t possible.” I barely recognized this as Nightingale’s voice, but it was coming out of his mouth, so what else could it be? “You’re… dead, they told me, Hugh Oswald found your body. It about gave his nerves the rest.”

The stranger - David, apparently - twisted his mouth into a discomfited frown. “Hugh Oswald found a body. I’m so sorry.”

“But how…” Nightingale shook his head. He looked as if a train had hit him, and it was a disquieting sight. I was used to Nightingale in control, see, I was used to him being the guy who, well, might not always know right away what to do, but will reliably find out. “What are you doing here?”

“I left… I ran. I had to get away. It got... too much, being in the Folly, with that damnable library there. I don’t know, I barely knew what I was doing. I just wanted to disappear. I had no idea you’d made it out of Ettersberg, Thomas, I would never let you believe I was dead. You must know that. I ran into this fae out here and… I’m not sure what happened then, but I must have talked myself into a right mess.” Mellenby tried for a smile. “But it can’t have been too long, can it? You look good. Did you just get home? You seem to have recovered rather splendidly. Are you… are we alright?”

Nightingale seemed to unfreeze at that. He stepped forward, and then, with unfailing precision, he punched Mellenby in the nose.

Mellenby, still unsteady on his feet, reeled back, stumbled and landed flat on his arse clutching his bloody nose. “Thomas! What on earth–”

“You…” Nightingale was breathing heavily. “You were here the whole time, alive, you ran away, is what you’re telling me? How could you do this to Oswald? How could you do this to me!”

I was seriously starting to worry for everyone’s continued safety here. Nightingale stood rooted to the spot, trembling fists white-knuckled at his sides and let’s be frank, he’s not a guy who hauls off and punches people. I’d thought I’d known what anger looked like on him but boy, did I have no idea. I’d seen him more controlled while actively in a fight with Chorley.

Mellenby stared up at him, his eyes wide. “My songbird…”

“No. You don’t get to… no. I’ve been alone with it all for - eighty years have passed, David!”

There was a dreadful little silence in which Mellenby just blinked. “I… are you saying I slept for eighteen years?”

“Eighty,” I piped up. The both of them turned towards me as if only just remembering I was there.

“Peter.” Nightingale’s voice was leaden. “Hand me my staff, will you? I seem to have dropped it.”

“Sir, may I suggest not doing anything you might regret,” I posited, because ‘my songbird’ was still kind of echoing, if not in the cave then certainly in my mind. I was closest to where his staff had rolled off to, so I did pick it up, but made no move to hand it over.

“Allow me to judge this for myself,” Nightingale said through clenched teeth. He beckoned in my direction without looking at me, his eyes still boring holes into David. “And give me my staff.”

I didn’t know if he wanted to use it for its intended purpose or just as a blunt object, but I couldn’t in good conscience enable either. “Sir, I don’t think–”

“I shan’t repeat myself.”

“Thomas, please, you know I love your little pranks, but this is not the time–” Mellenby started to say, but Nightingale waved his hand in the sharp downward motion that accompanied his more theatrical spells, and Mellenby’s mouth clicked shut.

He stared up at Nightingale in complete disbelief, eyes wide and shining with the onset of tears, unable to get his mouth open. I had seen this once before, and yet again I felt the vast and smooth click-clicking of Nightingale’s magic at work. But it felt different than the usual, disordered, the myriad little gears grinding.

“Sir,” I said, more sharply than I perhaps had intended. Nightingale finally turned to look at me, and slowly, gradually, he slipped back into the 21st century, where we have rules against using our magic on people in anger.

Mellenby crumpled to the floor when he was released from the spell, his head lowered, eyes leaking, cheeks glowing from the strain of trying to open his mouth earlier, some blood still smeared below his nose. Nightingale looked from me to him to me again.

“My apologies,” he said stiffly, to the room in general, and strode for the exit.

[littleteatimestories]

John Wick x Reader: Start of Something New (1)

A/N: New fic! 😆😆😆😭😭😭 I can’t believe I started a new one when I still have some unfinished ones. I’m sorry, guyths, I can’t help it when I just watched John Wick: Chapter 3 - Parabellum. Before I even started writing this, I read some John Wick x Reader fics first so that I could feel his character and probably get more information around his overall background. When I got confident enough, I put a lot of planning on how this story of mine should go and I’m proud to say that it turned out good (so far). You’ll probably see the ending of this fic earlier because I’m so pumped up on writing this. I was also planning to have this only in 5 parts (or lesser). I won’t make it longer than necessary because as I have said before, I still have some unfinished fics and I don’t want this to add in the pile.

I hope you like the story! Let me know what you think. LIKE, COMMENT, and REBLOG! ❤️

(FYI: I don’t own this GIF)

CHAPTER 1

“May her soul be with God and let her rest in peace. Amen.”

The priest closed the bible and waved his one hand in the air, making a sign of the cross. Anyone who knew Helen Wick visited her funeral and was now slowly dissipated one by one. Her husband, John, stayed for a few minutes, not one tear shed in his eyes. He just stared at her still open grave, probably all tears have been offered when she finally passed in the hospital. How he loved her dearly. She was the only good one he ever had and she was taken from him. He was starting to become an emotional wreck.

“John,” a woman’s voice called softly.

He slowly turned to face her and, lo and behold, Helen’s adoptive sister, (Y/n) (L/n), showed up. He could tell that you had cried and you dried the tears out.

“(Y/n)…” was the only word he could get out. Of all the words he could have said, your name was the only thing he could utter out.

You lowered your head and sniffled out quietly. “Can we… talk?”

It took him some few seconds to respond back. His brain was still railing with many things and he didn’t know how to process everything. It was a good thing that he managed to sort out your question.

“Y-Yeah… Sure…”

“There’s a café near here. We can talk there,” you suggested.

He nodded his head and followed you.

***

You and John were quiet. You glanced at him, trying to observe him. His head was bowed down, wringing his hands probably trying to calm his nerves. You could tell that he was having an emotional breakdown. You always hear from Helen that John was a good man and that he loved her so much. When you last visited her at the hospital, John wasn’t there.

Truth to be told, you never liked John. You blamed him for taking your sister away from you. You were only an adopted child so you and Helen weren’t really related biologically. But, Helen treated you like her own sister and you were so lucky to have her. When she met John Wick, though, things changed drastically to the point she had to move out of her own home. You remembered so well on how you lashed out that both your mother and Helen had to calm you down. You depended on her so much that it felt like your world was crumbling.

And now seeing him like this, you two were no different at all. With your parents gone and now, Helen, the only thought you have was that you and John only have each other; at least if one was to talk about emotional support. You also heard from Helen that John never had anyone else in his life besides her.

You cleared your throat just to catch his attention. “So, um, Helen asked me to give you a letter.” You pulled out a square-shaped envelope from your purse. “She said you should read this first before I give the other gift she has for you.”

John was a bit surprised as he carefully took the card. “When did she-“

“When I visited her last month. You weren’t there. She told me that I should be the one to give it to you. I didn’t want to, honestly, but that’s what she wanted.”

John looked at the cream-colored envelope before opening its contents. Inside was a two-fold card. The front was illustrated with a daisy flower at the center. He then unfolded it.

“John,

I’m sorry I can’t be there for you. But you still need something and someone to love. So why not start with taking care of a puppy and someone we know? I know (Y/n) doesn’t like you well, but she has no one else to go to anymore. Both Mom and Dad are gone and now that I can’t also be there for her, please be there for her instead. The two of you have only each other and maybe in time, you’ll learn to truly love one another. Because, you know, the car doesn’t count.

I love you, John. This illness has loomed over us for a long time. Even (Y/n) found this hard to believe. Just do tell her that I love her and I’ll be with her no matter where I am. I finally found my peace and I hope that the two of you will also find yours.

Until that day, your best friend,

Helen

P.S. Do convince (Y/n) to live with you. Both of you need each other right now, I just know.”

John was speechless. Unbeknownst to him, tears have fallen out of his eyes, which affected you, too. He tried to suppress his sobs by putting his one hand over his mouth. Grief has taken its toll on him again. He gently and shakily slid the card towards you, indicating that you read it. You peered at it for some time and finally pored over it. Your eyes pricked and you, too, started to cry.

Your sister’s dying wish wanted you to live with her husband along with a puppy. Naturally, you would refuse, but if there was one thing that you would do for Helen, this would be it, even if it might get all awkward considering that, again, you held a disfavor to him before.

Yet again, this may be the start of something new. At least, do it for Helen.

---

CHAPTER 2 ⟹

[dante-vergil64]

Sasuhina month: Day 2 - Vampire AU

She had never been a girl who was particularly easy to frighten.

Despite the countless strange happenings that came to pass all throughout her life, that single emotion was not in a habit of grasping her senses as effortlessly as it normally would another’s 

It was deceptive, its malevolent nature demanded it mercilessly present itself within long intervals of sobriety before it was ready to take possession of her body with the timing impeccable to destroy her.

Her mother’s death was perhaps the first time she had become aware of it, the phantom layer freezing her skin that paralyzed her digits and limbs from making a single move, the frenetic beating of her frantic heart that echoed resoundingly through her head as it degraded all other sounds into haunting white noise, the hazy lightheadedness that blurred her surroundings with foggy mist, the painful constriction of her struggling lungs preventing her from drawing breath.

It was akin to dying with no injury marring her body, helplessness and despair unlike anything that could be properly articulated spreading suffocatingly along her veins as easily as her blood did. 

Indeed, it had managed to surge deep beneath her skin imprinting the terrifying essence of its existence into the very depths of her psyche.

It was only natural then, that not many further occurrences even began to elicit an inkling of that sentiment from her. 

The stern light that constantly dominated her father’s eyes as it concealed his perpetual sorrow, the deafening silence separating her from her cousin’s glacial hatred, and the flickering glimpses of loneliness that would dim her little sister’s gaze from time to time might have as well been her only exceptions.

She acknowledged with unhidden honesty, that only they could command the apparition of a fraction of the terror she had experienced that day.

It was more amusing than it sounded, truly. The world they lived in was a dauntingly enormous place, plagued with as many dangers, tragedies, and horrors as it was graced with joys, wonder and beauty. Sanity duly dictated an appropriate response and yet that fear simply refrained itself from manifesting.

For a woman who was blessed with the supernatural gift to harness the forces of nature and impose her will onto the environment, it was most inconvenient. 

Witches, sorcerers, shamans, mages, whatever term society had fancied to label them with, did not change the intrinsic nature of their life. 

And it was in fact ‘them’ she referred to as she was not alone in that unlikely endeavor. The reality that so many human beings unwillingly ignored was that paranormal creatures populated most of their created communities on all sectors across the globe in very great numbers, easily blending in and carrying on with their lives with them being none the wiser.

She had had the fortune of being conceived within an old and powerful family of practitioners that were bestowed with the uncanny ability to summon magic, a gift granted to her people by grace of their close connection to mother nature. 

That wonderful favor had permitted them to secure a stable and safe stronghold within society, creating connections and planting their surname on the minds of young and old as their status and wealth continued growing steadily along with time. 

It was an undeniable blessing she would be eternally grateful for, and a curse that nearly brought her own demise.

Witches were but one of the many species occupying that vast portion of land they proudly called their home, other abnormal entities wandering seamlessly through their cities and towns in their own masks and disguises with their own purposes and objectives, some even inclined to inflict violence upon those they considered lesser.

Ghouls, demons, specters, phantoms, beasts, lycanthropes, there was a myriad of beings her kind had long learned to be wary of through painful and tragic experience.

The words her grandmother used to share in passing, an old poem from her youth, often rang whisperingly like a mantra through her mind as her world had slowly began to shift with the foreboding arrival of her impending destiny “beware the shadows in the night, beware the darkness in the light. In times of long and dreadful fright, beware my child, beware my child. Do not stare into its eyes, windows holding blissful lies. Turn away into the bright, beware my child, beware my child.”

An old saying that had been passed around through word of mouth in times far back, when the undead would walk the earth and feed upon their prey with no restraint.

According to her grandmother, the woeful words had been first muttered long ago on a time unremembered, one somber rainy day following the tragic death of a young girl at the merciless hands of a vampire. That terrible event had filled countless hearts with aching grief and dreadful sorrow, culminating in a grand funeral that was widely held on the town square of what was now known as Sunagakure. 

Amidst the echoing droplets splattering harshly against the grass, the figure of a woman dressed in black had stood in heartbreaking desolation before the pure white casket gently holding the child, the porcelain face resting opposite to her, utterly unblemished and beautiful, belonging to her one precious daughter, love of her life.

A silky black hat had seated above golden tresses obscuring her mourning visage as heavy tears slid softly, agonizingly along her skin, her fragile form trembling in affliction facing her nightmares finally coming to life. Her lips started moving once, moving twice, a song of melancholy flowing grievingly at last “Beware the shadows in the night, beware the darkness in the light. In times of long and dreadful fright, beware my child, beware mi child. Do not stare into its eyes, windows holding blissful lies. Turn away into the bright, beware my child, beware my child.”

It was a wish thrown to the wind, a song of apology and regret. One that was told among the witches to keep their eyes forever watchful, forever sound.

And yet, she had never been a girl who was particularly easy to frighten, having long learned to unintentionally disregard those solemn whispered words of warning.

It had not, in all honesty, been an attitude developed from rebellion or confinement as one would usually be inclined to believe, but the abrupt commencement of a strange and complicated tale that fiercely challenged those traditional conceptions.

Indeed, her life had unexpectedly been thrusted into a vortex of the unknown, a sordid journey of death and blood, of tears and laughter, of love and hatred. 

And he, he had been the catalyst of it all. The boy with the golden locks and sky blue eyes, whose smile had managed to shine brighter than the very stars and whose gentle kindness had irrevocably stolen her heart from the very first moment of their meeting. The vampire-hybrid Naruto Uzumaki. The man tasked with the protection of the human girl Sakura Haruno, her very own best friend.

It had all seemed so surreal then, his rough voice weary as he informed them of an ancient prophecy foretold, the dismal grips of a fate that had unfairly enclosed around the young maiden of the verdant eyes and rose-colored tresses.

He had spoken with conviction, his gentle gaze and expressive features brimming with tender concern and ardent resolve as he shaped a chronicle of what their lives would soon become, and of the impending danger that lurked away in the approaching darkness ready to sink its starving fangs in their pale necks without hesitation, without mercy. 

The rosette for her part, had naturally reacted with confusion and distrust of the boy.

Despite his tone and solemn bearing, the unexpected warning of an incoming invasion and impending danger arriving at their door had been in fact rather difficult to believe even for her at the time. The incident that transpired the following week, however, was more than enough corroboration that the vampire’s words were nothing but the truth.

A bloody confrontation with a cult of vampire zealots had violently seized them thoroughly unprepared, and the safe, ordinary world they had inhabited thus far, harshly crumbled to a complete collapse. 

It had been a night like any night at some pub near university when an outing to relieve stress had abruptly turned into a gory bloodbath with the arrival of the homicidal creatures, tables breaking and corpses falling as no soul was spared from their malevolent carnage. In the unsuspecting chaos they had managed to successfully kidnap sakura leaving her valiant vampiric knight ruthlessly impaled to a wall to be slowly desecrated.   

She could quite vividly recall the damp feeling permeating her stomach where a broken billiard pole had been viciously thrusted piercing though her intestines and right kidney, the consuming fatigue and drowning light-headedness pleading for eternal rest, gradually forcing her eyelids to close and her heart to stop its beating.

When she had finally come to, it had been several hours after. The first thing her sight had registered were tenebrous statues standing in a rustic victorian living room, blazing fire burning steadily on the chimney as it filled the space with its dim golden light.

Naruto had somehow managed to save her by feeding her a portion of his own blood, the scene of massacre playing starkly on the news as they observed with grim determination, unwilling to abandon the emerald-eyed girl to the undesirable outsiders.

It had been rather foolish at the time, to fight,  just the two of them facing an entire dozen of bloodthirsty monsters with neither a plan nor the luxury of time to properly design one.

In the very depths of her mind, she had thoroughly anticipated for that crippling fear to finally make its appearance and viciously strangle her anxious heart as the worry for her treasured friend grew exponentially, and yet it had not come.

It had been a life-changing ordeal for all of them, most of all the human girl who had been previously unaware of the menacing creatures aiming strictly for her life. 

That was how it had all begun, the three of them facing unimaginable dangers trying to protect each other and their town from the sinister forces that sought to bring domination upon them, encountering both trustful allies and threatening foes as their path had slowly continued to unfold.

Their once small faction had soon unintentionally began to grow. With each trial they faced and every enemy they battled, extraordinary members that were willing to trade their lives to protect the innocent from the forces of darkness easily fell into their ranks.

The loyal werewolf Kiba Inuzuka, the seductive witch Ino Yamanaka, the lethal hunter Kakashi Hatake, the genius vampire Shikamaru Nara, and the silent warlock Shino Aburame. They and many others, brave men and women who seamlessly managed to grow into something more…a sort of makeshift family…fragile…precious.

She supposed it had lied on them, the real reason her grandmother’s bittersweet words gently shrouded in melancholy were never able to fully reach her. The wonderful people she had encountered in that epic tale of hers had been the same kinds of creatures witches like her had long been warned never to befriend, never to approach.

The panoramic view of the colorful world around her had steadily crystalized into a dazzling image of immunity that even she forgot was synthetic, comfortably wrapping her with a blanket of invincibility that made her believe things would always go their way.

She had been naive.

The silky mantles of darkness had effectively hidden forces far beyond their blithe comprehension; terrible, ominous entities who wielded the power to casually grind their blissful reality into tiny fragments of perpetual horror and expose just how entirely and utterly vulnerable and insignificant they truly were.

It began with a name, an echoing whisper in the voices of the dead, a chant of terror that had long been sparingly divulged through the countless creatures of the night.

An obscure legend, a faceless phantom, a tale of nightmare too ludicrous to believe that had soon faded into the misty backgrounds of their minds, a severe mistake that almost costed them their lives.

Because that fear she was so impervious to, the chilling petrification of her very being, it had a name. One that had first revealed itself in rivers of flowing scarlet.

She would eternally remember that transcendental winter night, the flickering lights of the ceiling lamps dangling brokenly in the center of the spacious room, the shattered glass scattered violently across the maple wooden floor, the sturdy furniture harshly displayed in disregarding disarray, the pungent smell of iron in the glacial air, damp stains of crimson lining grotesquely the concrete walls. 

Her eyes watered, oxygen struggling to enter her trembling body as her lungs traitorously ceased to function and her stomach twisted painfully from the revolting nausea. 

There were bodies loitering motionlessly dispersed across the wide bloodstained room in a macabre simulation of a graveyard that nearly paralyzed her senses.

Short silky locks of golden hair stained red as a disfigured mesh of limbs and flesh rested fractured against the tarnished, fragmented wall.

A muscular brunette boy hovered viciously impaled to the brick formations of an auburn chimney with a black steel bar protruding insultingly from his chest.

An amputated arm gripped the the throat of another in a mocking gesture as his viscera spilled disgustingly from a brutal gash in his midsection.

The pale body of the fair witch rested sordidly petrified on a shallow crimson puddle spreading fluidly through the floor with no apparent injury gracing her creamy skin, yet her eyes remained wide open, teal irises somberly absent of life.

Her lavender gaze stared in unbridled horror, comprehension stumblingly escaping her processing mind and her heart beating frenziedly in painful contractions as she futilely tried to keep from hyperventilating.

Absurd. Ludicrous. The scene before her eyes could simply not be occurring under any circumstances, it was not possible. The desperate urge to cry and release her torment almost consumed her in its entirety as her fragile attention moved from body to body in a limbo of cognition; unwilling, thoroughly refusing to reconcile the images imposed onto her sight.

Only the damp periodic sound of liquid striking softly against solid ground managed to penetrate her separating bubble of distress. A haunting drip, drip, drip cut through the agonizing silence within the room with an ease that was almost ridiculing in intent, her terrified lilac eyes lifting hesitantly to capture pristine alabaster skin sharply illuminated by the abundant light of the moon.

 Amidst the center of the gory chaos, indifferent to her rapidly deteriorating mental condition and the revolting carnage painting the floors in sickening red, a pair of orbs glowing vermillion clashed contrastingly against the thick, heavy curtains of shadows casted almost mocking in its silence by the ominous night sky, latent power and excruciating pressure emanating like waves of poisonous radiation seeping burningly through her skin as if attempting to erode her body at a cellular level.

They stared in unperturbed disinterest as the dark viscous fluid descended slowly down the tips of long, slender fingers along glinting sticky red-coated skin, gradually accumulating atop bony knuckles before breaking into drops and continuing their fall.

The terse silence remained for another infinitesimal instant before the demonic scarlet gaze ascended and turned in her direction with a motion so slow it was almost agonizing, her breath leaving her lungs anew with a gasp full of dread as her eyes met with those of the devil.

Unnatural features that could have been carved out of marble by the hands of a master sculptor bathed soundly in the ocean of shadows not penetrated by the dazzling moonlight exposing his bloodied hand.

Midnight hair stretched in length down flawlessly ivory complexion messily embracing it like a dark uneven blanket, straight silky strands framing perfectly symmetrical structures of bone, and  a long thin concave nose coated in bright alabaster skin seating above a sharp slender jaw that seamlessly constructed an intimidating masculine visage.

It was a sick irony, that such ethereal beauty belonged to a creature as despicable as he.

A startled gasp coming from her side managed to break her spellbound trance filling her with stark awareness of just how dangerous the present situation was and reminding her of the unprotected presence of her currently unharmed best friend.

The evil crimson gaze followed the shallow airy sound and she could have sworn that for a breath’s moment her heart had completely ceased to function.

Before the vampire could so much as move a single digit, she hastily lifted her arms proceeding to chant as many of her most lethal spells as she could think of, her mind conjuring up a list of dozens upon dozens of hexes, curses, and incantations she had learned throughout her many years as an accomplished sorceress.

His nerves were heated to combustion as the walls lining the blood vessels running through his brain crumbled to ashen dust, allowing a massive internal bleeding to occur inside his cranium that increased the internal pressure to a point that should have left him effectively braindead.

The trachea inside his neck was violently crushed to fragmentation disabling his ability to properly breath as the alveoli sacs on his lungs seared aflame.

The density of his blood became so high it almost solidified, provoking his heart to immediately burst from the massive force applied to its contractions.

His liver and kidneys were severed and liquified as his internal organs were flattened and sent through his major arteries blocking the limited blood flow that had been previously allowed.

With complete desperation and urgency filling her muscles she unleashed her full devastating power against the demon that had dared to injure her friends.

She killed him. Once, twice, three times. She killed him so many times that by the time her ears had registered the horrified gasps of her dear friend as she observed the unconstrained violence of her magic she she had already lost count.

His body was obliterated and demolished in every single way she could imagine, lifting all the restrictions she had once imposed on her gift.

As his figure was ignited in bright consuming flames that illuminated the entire room, she swiftly turned to the petrified girl at her side before harshly ordering her to leave.

Tears had now freely started sliding down her soft cheeks as exhaustion began to seep through her softening limbs, leaving her short of breath.

Abruptly, a curse chillingly died on the tips of her lips as her jaw was involuntarily stopped mid-chant by an unseen, untouchable force, her mind filling with growing panic as she witnessed the vampire’s tissues and flesh healing and regenerating almost instantaneously. 

Try as she might, commanding a single movement from her body became an impossible feat as her control over it was completely relinquished to the being before her. Not even her eyes managed to escape his authority as she was forced to immutably observe his calm otherworldly stride now that he had fully recuperated, his naked body seemingly not able to draw an inkling of shame from him.

“Enough. Your childish attempts at retaliation have stopped being entertaining. I have no more time to spare on your little antics.” His voice was caressingly soft as it held a distinctively rich depth that seemed rather seductive in its harmony when he spoke, a thick British accent lacing his leisure address of her. 

With no further word her way, his gaze nonchalantly slid to the figure of the woman by her side.

“Now, you must be who I am looking for, if appearances are to be believed. Come, it’s time we have ourselves a little chat” he lifted his hand free of imperfections as he motioned for her to follow.

In spite of the terrified expression morphing her features, the rosette advanced as if compelled, helpless to deny the will of her supernatural assailant before placing her soft palm above his.

His gaze turned to her one last time before her eyelids started feeling heavy, darkness slowly consuming her vision as the world gradually lost focus, the softly glowing red lights whispering. 

trying to convey a message….

telling her…

telling her to sleep.

That was how the man who would soon become their worst enemy, the man dubbed by the supernatural world as the Tyrant king of all vampires, the immortal Sasuke Uchiha first arrived into their lives.

A monster so powerful and ruthless his name alone made the high council of vampires and the great order of witches, among other supernatural organizations, shudder and cower in terror.

At the time, she had completely disregarded all words of his infamous reputation, neither warnings nor lectures managing to extinguish the sheer contempt and disgust she held for the creature that had so viciously wounded her cherished family.

In that very moment, she had allowed herself to freely hate him. An emotion that, like fear, was not one she was prone to indulge in. From the very depths of her heart, she abhorred the way he had so easily managed to wake helplessness from within her, as if the strength she had cultivated through painful struggle and tribulation was but a complete mockery.

Seeing the broken bodies and the blood of her loved ones heinously spilled on the floors of their very own home had funneled uncontrollable panic into her heart, flaring the memories of her mother’s death like an open wound that was adamantly unwilling to heal. 

And so, despite her gentle and nurturing nature, she despised him.

In an ironic twist of misfortune or fate, the encounters with the prince of darkness did not cease there, with the one following their first meeting coming much too early for her liking. It was inevitable, after all, the coming mission to retrieve the captive maiden.

Fortunately, to her great surprise and relief, none of her friends had perished in the previous altercation, deep wounds and extensive damage being healed through the regenerative effects of vampiric blood.

With the whole team fully recuperated and with a new plan of engagement devised, they hastily journeyed to the far ends of the remote city of kusagakure, determined to succeed with the rescue operation.

She had used a location spell to determine the vampire’s whereabouts as they organized and prepared for the upcoming battle, his hideout discovered near the east coast away from the city on an old and grand Japanese mansion seating atop a grassy hill. 

With the arrival of dawn and the bright sunlight grazing their skin, they had surrounded the structure and taken over tactical positions according to shikamaru’s strategy, their communication and synergy significantly more attuned than it had usually been. 

She had been so sure of their victory back then. Blissfully ignorant of their dancing to his demonic tune. 

Her muscles turned rigid as her palms faced the man they’d been pursuing, his lone figure calmly seated on a wide leather chair and her eyes wide in panic as the neural commands over her body were stolen in the exact same manner as the previous time.

Ahead of her, the sturdy forms of Kiba and Naruto holding a pair of manmade machine guns involuntarily stilled as the phantasmagorical spell took possession of their muscles simultaneously.

Her heart beat frantically as disbelief rapidly coursed through her delicate features, the man’s sheer control of his mental manipulation unlike anything they had previously encountered. 

Shikamaru had planned several contingencies in case any of them were intercepted before they could carry out their plan, yet they could have never prepared for the entire assault team to be captured as hostages.

Once again, their lives were at his mercy. And that, the knowledge that she was powerless to save any of her friends, was worse than any wound or injury received through her long years fighting beside them.

The vampire remained immutably seated on his luxurious abode before them, his pale slender hand holding an old, red tome open and his serene eyes scanning leisurely through the pages  as if their violent ambush was as common as the passing of days.

It was unnerving and entirely surreal, even for individuals as highly experienced with the darker corners of the supernatural world such as themselves.

His deep dispassionate voice reclaimed their attention as he addressed them in perfect Japanese “Took you longer than I expected”, The red tome closing with a snap as a pair of bottomless obsidian orbs traveled to the hybrid leader.

“where is she!?” The blond snarled as his eyes slitted red, his body trembling in an effort to fight the unbending compulsion.

“Is that the way you address all your captors? Well, not that it matters to me anyway. Since you are insistent on skipping pleasantries, we’ll get right down to business.” He said all this hardly moving from his initial position. 

“However, I have no desire to clean any blood of yours off my walls, your pet here will have to go back and await with the others” his eyes gleamed vermillion anew and she felt her breath still momentarily.

“Do tell your allies to keep away from the premises. Should they try anything, I will not hesitate to kill the hostages, before hunting every single one of you down and ripping your heads off your bodies. Good bye now.” 

His words seeped her puppet body with dread as her heart lurched in worry for the teams surrounding the property, the vampire’s threat too dangerous to ignore.

She tried ordering her limbs to move yet it proved an impossible task. Her eyes focused on the scarlet gaze as it landed on her other companion, the werewolf’s form following his silent command as he was physically unable to refuse.

The loud shout of the blond vampire made her eyes turn in surprise.

“I said where is she, you Bastard!!?” He said as if he were a caged animal, incapable of breaking free of his binds.

The man simply observed the outburst not in the least intimidated, the red glow in his eyes dimming to a pitch black before leaning forward and calmly serving himself from a bottle of scotch into a crystal glass that stood on a ceramic table near his knees.

She narrowed her eyes in disdain as she realized the man was enjoying the emotional and mental torture he was subjecting the other into, as if the intense worry for a loved one amounted to nothing more than a twisted game to him.

Her indignation managed to momentarily outweigh her fear, but as she struggled to open her mouth and address the creature seamlessly seating ahead, his voice resounded around the room monotonously “Come girl, you have visitors”

Both her’s and Naruto’s eyes widened as the rosette’s figure entered the room through a different door located behind the vampire beside a minibar to their left.

Her steps were slow, mechanical, her figure apparently unharmed wearing a clean set of clothes that resembled her usual attire, yet the way she moved was too controlled, thoroughly unnatural. The human girl was also under his spell.

“Sakura!” Naruto exclaimed, relief flooding his voice as his eyes returned to their usual oceanic shade. Hinata felt her eyes water slightly as they rested gently on her best friend, words unable to describe how glad she was that the jade-eyed girl was safe and sound.

“You’ll have your tearful reunions some other time.” Their captor interrupted as he finally stood, his pale hand nursing the alcoholic drink before taking a long sip “This girl is now my property, and she is to serve my purposes”

The words managed to froze her to her core before righteous anger consumed her senses. it was her companion, however, the one who spoke 

“What the hell did you just say!!!?” He exclaimed in primal rage as frustration rapidly accumulated at his complete lack of mobility, his mind was thrashing wildly yet his body not moving an inch.

“As you heard, the girl is now my property. A pawn I aim to use for my own benefit. You would do well accept it quickly, lest you wish for her to see your rotting corpse decaying on my land.” His words were ice as he stepped up to the captive hybrid, his scarlet gaze absolute in its dominion. “The only reason I am allowing you all to keep your lives is because she pleaded to me before accepting her own role. You should be grateful” 

Her breathing stopped as her eyes and ears worriedly absorbed the conversation, the image of the one she loved most being viciously slaughtered flashing instantly across her mind, summoning the now familiar terror she had come to associate with the murderous monster in front of them.

Her mind screamed to her frozen tissues to move in an attempt to temper down the blond, yet her body remained unresponsive, a watery mumble being released from her lips instead “Please”

The hybrid’s trembling halted before a heavy defeated sigh abandoned his lungs as his eyes narrowed conflicted, the demon’s gaze landing on her form briefly before he stepped back and turned to walk and past the petrified sakura.

“Fortunately for you, she is of no use to me at the current time. Therefore, I intend to leave her under your care while I attend to more pressing matters.” He drawled in fluent English, his earlier accent coming naturally as he stood facing a wide balcony.

As if per work of an incantation, their bodies abruptly recovered their ability to move, their legs stumbling slightly to regain their balance.

Free of her captivity, sakura rushed to the arms of her guardian embracing him tightly as she trembled in distress, the fatigue of all events since her capture finally taking their toll on her. Naruto for his part, circled her in his strong arms in an effort to comfort her.

Regaining her senses, almost as if out of sheer instinct, Hinata hastily lifted her arms anew facing the unprotected back of the vampire before opening her mouth ready to release a paralysis curse his way, the strategies and tactics they’d planned with Shikamaru and Kakashi still fresh on her mind.

 A gelid whisper reaching her right ear from her back managed to  freeze her instantly, her entire body filling with dread at the unmistakable voice of their antagonist “Quite the reflexes you’ve got there, love. Though I would advise you not to underestimate me. See, I’m rather not fond of childish tantrums”

She hadn’t seen him move at all. The space his form had previously been occupying facing the open balcony was now empty, her vision insufficient to detect even the slightest hint of motion. 

The silent threat had been relayed ‘i can kill you whenever I please. Do not mistake your position’

She bit her lip until it drew blood as she tried to calm herself, her mind reminding her that the priority was to rescue Sakura. If they accomplished that single objective, the failure to assassinate the man behind her would be bearable.

The other pair had turned in alarm when the vampire’s words resonated from the witch’s position, Naruto preparing to charge forward in an attempt to separate the him from her. Sakura noticing this, grabbed him tightly by the arm knowing fully well any reckless action would result in all their deaths. 

“I have no further desire to keep wasting my breath speaking to you people. I’m returning the girl on the condition that you, hybrid, bring this little amulet to me” the man said as he took a small picture out of his breast pocket before throwing it to Naruto who caught it in mid-air.

The blond gazed at the picture before turning to the enigmatic vampire, a deep frown marring his features as confusion inundated his senses “A stone? What do you want this thing for anyway? And why do I have to follow your ridiculous conditions!! I have the place surrounded and this room is warded to keep you locked. I’m going to take my friends and get out of here, and you are gonna let me, if you know what’s good for you!!”

“No, Naruto!” Sakura spoke surprising her two companions as she directed a frustrated frown at the impassive vampire still standing behind the witch “it’s too risky, not even you are able to take this monster head on. It’s okay, I won’t ask you to follow his orders so just take Hinata and go. I’ll be fine, I promise” she said as she offered the blond a small tired smile.

Hinata was about to object and make her disagreement public when she felt the vampire's form brush against her side as he returned to his initial position seating calmly near the middle of the room, his glass empty on his hand.

“Like hell I’m going to let you stay here. We came to rescue you, we’re not leaving without you, you hear?” The blond said, his gaze turning angrily to the man who seemed mildly amused witnessing their torment before glancing once more at the image on his hand. He grit his teeth in frustration before speaking aloud “Where do I find this?”

The corner of the vampire’s lips lifted in satisfaction momentarily before leisurely serving himself another glass of scotch “You are part of the association, are you not, hybrid? Your superiors stored this particular object on the Madrid headquarters, took me quite some time to locate it. You are to steal it and bring it to me. The witch will remain here as a collateral in the meantime” he uncaringly said as he once more stunned his uninvited guests.

Hinata’s eyes widened in surprise at the man’s words, not at all expecting for the events to transpire that way. She bit her lip while gripping her fists tightly in frustration, knowing full well they were powerless against the vampire’s demands. 

The other man in the room did not seem to think so, however. He crossed the room towards her while holding the hand of the human girl before stopping with his back facing them in a protective gesture “I’m not gonna leave her here with you!! I’ll bring your damn stone, so leave them out of it” he said angrily as he glared daggers at their impassive foe.

Hinata observed as the vampire’s gaze centered uncaringly on the speaker before turning to her in facetious expectancy, reminding her of just how precarious their current situation really was. 

She gripped the blond’s arm comfortingly before stepping forward as she gifted him a reassuring smile “Naruto, it’s okay. He won’t do anything to me. Don’t forget what we came here for”

“Hinata!” Sakura exclaimed as she embraced the other girl, her lithe form trembling with frustration at her own powerlessness and her eyes watering slightly. 

“It’s going to be okay, Sakura” she said returning the hug as a genuine smile took over her features “I’m glad I was able to do something to protect you. Go home, get some rest. I’ll be waiting so, please don’t worry”

Naruto grit his teeth helpless, his gaze traveling to the source of their troubles in resentment. There was nothing he could do, and he hated himself for it. His weakness.

“If you touch one hair on her head, I promise I’ll come back and kill you myself. No matter how long it takes me, I’ll find a way!” He growled taking the hand of the rosette before facing the beautiful witch, his blue eyes burning with remorse and guilt as he silently asked for her forgiveness “Take care, alright? I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise”

She gulped forcefully before steeling her expression, all the while ignoring the desire to embrace him one more time before his departure.

“If you are done with your pitiful attempts at comforting your friend, it is time to take your leave. Off you go now” the man said before standing and directing his attention to Hinata “little witch, come. I’ll show you to your temporary quarters”

Offering the vampire one last growl in warning, Naruto swiftly draped the rosette over his muscular arms as his form vanished in a wild blur that left gusts of wind flowing in its wake.

Inside the silent luxurious room, only she and that man remained. The light of dawn traversed gently across the horizon past the window facing the ocean as it illuminated the pristine floors and walls in a warm, vibrant orange. 

His form, every bit the intimidating figure she had come to know in such a short amount of time stood expectantly, his sharp gaze staring as his rumpled leather jacket and black denim trousers belied his nefarious true nature in a deceiving mask of simplicity 

Her ivory eyes faced the specter anew, strength coursing through her delicate arms as the knowledge of her friend’s safety tore through the fear and anxiety she had been experiencing just moments prior with unexpected ease. Now, not even death held that power over her.

“Welcome, witch of the Hyuuga. My name is Sasuke Uchiha, the original vampire, and you are hereby deemed my prisoner”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

forgive my procrastinating ass for the delay, I'm so sorry guys.

I'm not really satisfied with this either but I wanted to contribute still. wanted to try my hand at writing a more villain-like sasuke, anyway hope you guys enjoy.

[kenshi-vakarian7]

MERweek2019 - Day 5 - Extreme Emotions

Event hosted by @cactuarkitty with fanfic prompts by @vorchagirl

Prompt - Write about a moment when emotions between your characters became a little extreme. Did their relationship become stressed? Did things get hot? Did loves almost break up? Drama, angst, smut, fluff - everything is on the table!

I can’t believe it took me over two years to FINALLY write my version of the High Noon mission.  After seeing this particular prompt, I figured now was the time to get it out there.  Honestly, I don’t think it really holds a candle to all the other amazing versions I’ve read, but I do hope you enjoy it regardless!

Also, please note that I DO NOT hate Sloane... it’s just how the story is since it’s written in the perspective of my Pathfinder, Kira Ryder.

---

“Untimely Grief”

“Ready, princess?”

Pathfinder Kira Ryder didn't usually let things get under her skin, especially things that would be considered petty and low.  Sloane Kelly's condescending tone with those words should've been one of them... and yet the words struck her as though those she was stabbed with a knife right through the gut.

Kira knew exactly why.  Had it been any other noun, it would've been so much easier to deal with.  Hell, even being called a bitch would've sufficed.

But no... it just had to be 'Princess.'  It had been years since called anyone ever called her that... more specifically, her late father.  

The noun jogged old memories Kira hadn't thought about since before leaving the Milky Way for the Andromeda galaxy – memories of simpler times of her childhood where Alec Ryder was an attache on the Citadel; how she looked up to him as her hero, who was proud of even her smallest achievements, and who wasn't as distant as he would become the older she got.  He was the reason she wanted to join the military.

She couldn't remember when he stopped calling her Princess, but she did remember realizing that he hadn't called her that for a long time at around thirteen-years-old.  And somehow, at that moment, the realization hurt more than it should've.  Between that, and the emotional distance he created, Kira eventually grew to resent her father.  It was easy to deal with while she attended Arcturus Academy in her high school years and, later, as an Alliance soldier since it meant not being around him all that much.  When she and the rest of the family were together, the most common companion at the dinner table was awkward silence.

It also didn't help when she and her brother Luke were discharged from the Alliance due to Alec's illegal AI research, nor the fact that neither of them could find a decent job in the aftermath.

After her mom died, it seemed to serve as a wake-up call of sorts for Alec.  It was only then, despite everything, that she and her father began to slowly mend the wounds that were left behind, and close the distance that was between them.  By the time they left for Andromeda, things still weren't perfect, but the mending process was still heading in the right direction.

They were barely in Andromeda when bad luck hit the family.  Not only was Luke in a coma due to a malfunction in his cryo pod after they hit the scourge, but Alec sacrificed himself to save Kira's and, for whatever reason, entrusted her his role as Pathfinder.  Since then, she had been constantly on the go with establishing outposts, dealing with the crummy half of Nexus leadership, maintaining morale for her crew, forming a trusting alliance with the angara, and trying everything possible to make sure that everyone who came to Andromeda didn't starve.

As she followed Sloane, the leader of the Outcasts, into one of the many hidden caves of Kadara, Kira realized that she never had the chance to mourn the loss of her father... and now she was forced to fight the floodgates that threatened to open and spill forth all the emotions she held in for months since his passing.

Of course this has to happen at the worst time, Kira thought as she struggled to get control of herself.  The last thing she needed was to break down right then and there, especially in front of Sloane.

She did manage to finally get a grip as soon as they reached an open space within the cave.  Kira focused on her surroundings... they were here because they were supposed to meet with the Charlatan, the leader of the Outcasts' rival gang, the Collective, to settle things once and for all.

Kira would be lying if she wasn't curious about who the Charlatan was.  After all, whoever they were, they seemed to have an interest in the Pathfinder despite never approaching her directly.  With the exception of her first day out in the Badlands, none of the Collective have tried to attack.  She later found out that they had orders not to harm her or her crew from one member with no reason given other than they were under the Charlatan’s orders.

Five seconds later, she figured out why...

“You look like you're waiting for someone,” a voice – a very familiar voice – spoke within the cave's shadows.

Kira turned her head to where the voice came from just as Reyes Vidal – a man she was slowly growing attached to since they met, with him introducing himself with the very same words he uttered moments ago - stepped out of the shadows and into the light. Seeing him standing there, a subtle frown on his face as he stared back at her, everything she knew about the Charlatan, the Collective, all the missions she and Reyes went on together suddenly fell together and made much more sense.

“Reyes?” Kira whispered, unable to hide the shock in her voice.

Sloane spoke up with disinterest, “I'm here for the Charlatan, not some third-rate smuggler.”

Kira glared at Sloane, who had her back turned to her, with a raised eyebrow.  She’s in denial.  She can’t be that stupid...  “They're one in the same,” Kira said.

“Surprise?” Reyes spoke up, his arms spread out at his sides as though he was emphasizing his reveal.

Between her whirlwind emotions from moments before, and now the shock of finding out who Reyes really was, Kira couldn't help but shake her head as, once more, she fought to get control of her emotions.  “So, did you really lie to me this whole time?”

Reyes didn't hesitate to reply.  “Not about everything.  You know who I really am.”

“Do I?” Kira couldn't help but ask with some contempt.

Sloane decided to get down to business, clearly not interested in their exchange .  “You said you wanted to settle things.  How?”

Reyes jumped down from the rock he was standing up before he faced Sloane.  “It's simple; a duel.  You and me, right now.  Winner takes Kadara Port.”

Kira's eyes widened in horror at his suggest.  A duel?!  She screamed in her head.  Reyes, what the hell are you thinking?!  Sloane's former Alliance military for crying out loud!

She wanted to shout these words to Reyes as panic began to set in.  Once more, she was forced to clamp down her emotions before she managed to calmly say to him, “You want to avoid war by shooting each other?”

“Two people shooting each other is better than a lot of people shooting each other,” Reyes reasoned.

Kira drew a quiet breath at that... knowing he was right.  This really was the best way to settle things between the two factions.  The rival between them was bloody enough as it was; worse for the innocent people who were caught in the middle of this gang war they wanted no part of.

“I'll take those terms,” Sloane accepted.

And then, they began to slowly circle each other, their hands close to their pistols.  Neither of them once took their eye off the other as they waited to see who would make the first move.  Kira stood in her spot, only able to watch what was unfolding in front of her.

Don’t die, Kira suddenly thought as she stared at Reyes.  Despite being mad about him keeping his secret from her, she knew he likely had his reasons.  It was irrational, she knew, but she didn’t care at this point.  All she cared about right now is that he survived the duel somehow.  I lost my Dad, and my brother is in a coma, and now I might lose y-

Her running thoughts suddenly stopped as she caught a glint within the cave's darkness.  Kira turned her attention to where it came from.  Despite the shadows, she was able to spot someone lying on their stomach watching what was unfolding in front of her.  She knew right away why they were there even before SAM mentioned it barely a second later.

Sniper, the AI alerted her through their private channel.  His sights are set on Sloane.

There was a split moment of relief; he wasn't there to kill Reyes... but she then realized that it was Reyes who brought the sniper here without Sloane's knowledge.  Instinctively, and for a couple of seconds, Kira thought about how wrong it was, how she can stop this duel right now.  She nearly took a step forward...

But then she stopped herself.  Looking at Sloane, Kira was reminded of all the horrible things she let happen here on Kadara.  The innocents who suffered under her rule, forcing them to pay protection before kicking them off into the unforgiving Badlands, not considering the needs of the angara who were here long before they arrived, among other things.

The Charlatan was not much better, but at the end of the day, they, no – he - her own feelings for him aside, was the lesser of two evils.

Kira also realized why a sniper was there to begin with. Sloane was former military.  Reyes was not.  It was a smart backup strategy on his part, as sneaky as it was...

With all that in mind, Kira didn't make another move...

The shot rang out and echoed against the cave walls. Sloane leaned forward as blood began to seep from her chest – right where her heart was – and she let out a pained gasped as she collapsed onto her knees.  Her eyes looked to Reyes, and then to the Pathfinder.  Kira read the single question in her shocked eyes – Why?

Kira, with her face neutral as she stared at Sloane, couldn't help her next thoughts.  I guess I'm not the 'princess' you thought I was...

And then, Sloane collapsed completely on her right side, her eyes closing as her life seeped from her.  As this happened, Kira was, once more, flooded with memories of her father and how he died to save her; memories of her brother who was currently in a coma on the Nexus with no way of knowing when he would wake up... if ever...

...And how she came close to losing Reyes today.

Kira didn't pay any attention as Reyes spoke to his sniper, who began to carry Sloane's body out of the cave to who knows where.  She didn't even realize that she fell to her knees and, suddenly, it was hard to breathe.  Barely grasping for her throat, she struggled to fully get air in her lungs.  She vaguely heard SAM say something, but she didn't catch what was said...

And then, someone pulled her to them and held her close...

Kira knew it was Reyes.  She should've been angry with him.  She should've been screaming and pushing him away, shouting to him about how he lied to her... but instead, she was tired. She was tired of the pressure that was on her shoulders, she was tired of fighting with the crummy side of Nexus leadership, she was tired of feeling alone in her struggle.  She nearly lost Reyes today, she wanted Luke to wake up already, and Dad, why did you have to die?!

The tears finally began to pour down her cheeks as she collapsed into Reyes's arms and sobbed into his shoulder.  Months of being on-the-go with no time to mourn her father, being worried about whether or not Luke would ever wake up, and now nearly losing the one person in Andromeda she come to deeply care for – it was too much to take, so much so that the vulnerability she dreaded to show to anyone was now out on the surface.

Kira wasn't sure how long she cried in Reyes's shoulder, venting out the mix of grief, pain, anger, and fear from her system. Eventually, the sobs subsided and she pulled back, though she didn't look at him right away.  A part of her wanted to bolt up and run away simply because she didn't want him to see her like this...

But she was tired... so damn tired...

Kira soon managed to pull away slightly to look Reyes in the eyes, despite knowing hers likely didn't look so great.  Looking at him, she was taken aback by what she saw – his lips were frowning, his eyes were dilated, and his eyebrows were furrowed.  It was all subtle, but she was able to read loud and clear that, whatever was running through his mind right now, he was frightened.

“Why didn't you trust me?” she ended up asking, her voice sounding more pitiful than she meant to.

Reyes reached a hand out to her face to wipe away the tears that stained her cheeks.  The features on his face seemed to turn less subtle and more clear.  Momentarily, he looked at the space that laid between them before he drew in a breath and gazed back up at her.

“I... wasn't sure what you would think,” Reyes finally said.  “I... liked the way you looked at me.  I was afraid that would change.”

It was Kira's turn to look between them.  She thought about the time they spent together ever since they met at Kralla's Song at the port.  It started out as them being nothing more than business partners, but the more time they were around each other, the more Kira... liked him, more than she had ever expected.  In fact, Reyes Vidal was the first person in Andromeda who made her feel normal and not just the Pathfinder.

“The thing about Reyes is that he always has a good reason.”  That was what Reyes's friend, Keema Dohrgun, said to her when they attended Sloane's party just a few weeks ago.  It was at the same party where they kissed for the first time – and where he let out a little of his own vulnerability over why he came to Andromeda in the first place.  To be someone...

She hadn't forgotten how soft his eyes would get when he thought she wasn't looking.  She hadn't forgotten the hopeful gaze he gave her after she kissed him in the storage room as a 'distraction.' And she certainly hadn't forgotten the way his voice growled in defense when his ex tried to involve her in their professional/personal dispute.  Even now, as she cried in his shoulder, he gently caressed her back and whispered in her ear in comfort despite her not catching what he was saying due to her not paying attention.

Kira wasn't thrilled about Reyes lying about who he was  she would’ve preferred being told the truth in the first place... but there was no denying that his actions, and the way he looked at her, told the truth about how he felt about her...

Thinking of all this, and with some caution about the future in mind, Kira made a decision... one that she knew she wouldn't hear the end of from her crew once they knew what happened here today.  But truthfully, she didn't care, because for one thing, she deeply cared for Reyes even before all this, and, well...

“Nothing's changed,” she finally said as she gazed back up at him.

His reaction was something to see, and it was almost like watching his mind process what she declared to him; there was a momentary shock in his eyes before he began to smile, almost in relief.  Then that same smile subtly transformed into something more... playful.

“You have bad taste in men,” he said, low and husky. He quickly closed the space between and pressed his lips to her, deep and yearning.  She returned the kiss with equal fervor just as they both held each other close, neither of them moving from the ground they sat on.

The kiss lasted a while until they were forced to stop in order to catch their breathes.  Kira moved to hug him closer, her face next to his.  “The worst,” she teased, her words whispered in his ear.

In response, Reyes kissed her once more, and she welcomed it.

[macmorrighan]

Celebrating a Future-Centered Samhain

Despite the fact that Samhain is quite far from the mind of most Witches and Pagans, since we are currently embroiled by the oppressive summer heat.  My mind has been turning to Samhain, and how we Witches seem to celebrate it with cavalier abandoned as Climate Change is encroaching upon us as it threatens to cause another Great Extinction-level event with homo-sapiens directly in its cross hairs.  At this rate, according to leading experts, only the wealthy will survive what is coming as those without their extravagant wealth will suffer under their boot strap and perish from these unbearable environmental conditions! It might, therefore, astonish most Pagans when they realize precisely what an Egocentric Sabbat Samhain truly is for most Witches and Pagans.  Considering the chilly autumnal season it is no great surprise that Samhain has largely become a festival of inward reflection during which we have allowed our loved ones to become our “creature comforts”, rather than acknowledging their lives and the gift f life they have bestowed onto us as a call to arms to ensure a a brighter future than what awaits!

Perhaps that is because we still retain a spark of our child-like fear of the unknown.  If you were to tell a young child that death is inevitable, and that all things die--including us--their face would be innately grief-stricken, followed by wails of anguish at the thought of forever losing a loved one.  I still experience this very human emotion to this day when I think that one day, I will no longer have my parents to turn to.  The very thought brings tears to my eyes.

Yet we Pagans, for all the good we espouse with our Earth-centered beliefs often have a problem following through.  Considering how short our lives are, I believe that we should pack as much meaning into the days that are allotted to us as we are capable of doing.  Therefore, our goal at Samhain should not be to look into the past and honoring our own grief or loss; instead, we should make a promise we intent to follow through as to how we will work to ensure that our planet is a better place for we having living in and been a part of it.  After all, I cannot tell you how many Pagans seldom practice what they preach because it is not cost effective to do so.  Following a public gathering of Pagans waste is accumulated that inevitably adds to the loss of land due to the ever growing land fills, which, due to the plastic utensils and bags (and even so-called “biodegradable” flatware, plates and cups) simply linger for generations afterward.  How active are you in politics?  Do you regularly engage with your elected representative; or, do you simply vote for the Lesser of Two Evils out of habit and fear of “the other guy” in the hopes that they will handle the situation so that you may thoughtlessly live your life unencumbered by the consequences of their decisions?  This lazy and umnrevolutionary attitude is part of the problem that has brought us to the precipice of our ultimate Fate.  I still recall seeing a sign upheld by a Gay man that said, “If Hillary had won we’d be at brunch by now!”  That is the wrong message to have!  It is your duty as a Steward of the Earth to hold their feet to the fire!  And this is what brings me to my final thesis of this brief opinion.... Each Samhain I want you to ask yourself a question: What have I done to limit my carbon footprint and other waste disposal in a meaningful way?  What have I done to ensure that wealth is distributed more equally; or, that future generations will not have to work as hard.  When the machines come for our jobs, we should benefit from this with leisure time enough to pursue our passions, rather than be displaced by our Oligarch Overlords!  How far does your foresight extend at Samhain?  Bear in mind that after we are gone--and little more than a memory for maybe a generation or two--this planet is all that we have left to pass on to those who will come after.  Otherwise, we will not have a planet worth living on.  What legacy worthy of our descendants will we be remembered for?

[dialux]

a tempest, a cyclone, a goddamned hurricane, v

And this is the end of the road for this fic! I hope y’all like it!

[Also, just as a reminder:  Brandon Builder built the Wall. Thirteen generations later, the Night's King came, and Brandon Breaker broke the Long Night with the help of Joramun, who was the first King-Beyond-the-Wall. These are three different people, y'all. Let's get together and egg GRRM's house for naming 'em all the same thing!]

As always, previous chapters can be found here!

Chapter 5: women made of terrible tempests, savage storms, and the untamed unwanted

...

“You plan to leave soon.”

“Yes,” says Sansa. She folds her arms behind her back and stands straighter, not so much stiff as coiled. Ready, she thinks, though Sansa isn’t certain at all what she’s readying herself for. “A fortnight, I think, when the tuber crops come in- the supplies ought to help us on the trip back.”

“Indeed,” says Brynden Waters neutrally. “A good plan.” She steps back, ready to return to her rooms, when he continues: “A pity it will not work.”

Years of training have taught her- panic is not good. Not even when it threatens to swamp you whole. Sansa is stronger than the waves, than the turn of the world beneath her feet. She has to be.

“What do you mean?” she asks, forcing out the words.

“I mean,” says Brynden, easily, like he hasn’t just upended all of her plans- “that there is an army coming, and if you are here when they arrive- the consequences will be... unpleasant.”

“An army of the dead?” asks Sansa.

He inclines his head. “They should arrive before next dawn.”

“Bran,” she whispers. “If you’d told us earlier- have you realized what you’ve done? He will- he cannot move- I must- you’ve killed him!”

“Your brother will understand that there is more to life than integrity of the flesh,” says Brynden slowly. Sansa draws herself up to hiss, rage melding with fear and grief, the depths of which Brynden Waters and Visenya Targaryen and every dead ghost she’s ever met could not ever imagine. But Brynden continues: “And anyhow, it does not matter. He will leave with the Children as soon as they are ready.” Amusement brightens his red eye. “They are quite accomplished in evading the dead, Lady Sansa, after millennia of practice.”

“Bran will leave?” Sansa asks flatly. “And go where? Why?”

“To Skagos, because he will be safe there.”

Because the dead cannot pass over running water. Because if Sansa fails, then there will be nothing left in all of Westeros, and they need someone to carry their traditions onward. Because the Targaryens have always survived, and Brynden Waters is nothing if not a Targaryen.

“What do you want?” she asks tightly. Brynden lifts an eyebrow, and she continues: “For saving him. I know how this works; a debt for a debt.” Sometimes the world is made of gifts, Sansa knows, but not often. Not with people like this. She doesn’t grit her teeth, because that would be visible; only widens her stance, gazes up at Brynden and doesn’t flinch. “So tell me, what do you want?”

“A formidable opponent,” says Brynden, soft as a feather’s fall. “A formidable death. You understand, of course, that I was never a Targaryen. Life as one was- impossible. But death? That is what left to me, now. And it is what I will have.”

“You want a Targaryen’s death.”

“When Rhaella died, her funeral pyre burned so high and so fierce that it masked her children’s escape from Dragonstone.” Brynden reaches out and grips the arm of his throne, face blazing with more life than Sansa’s ever seen it. “Death can serve two objectives, and I intend for mine to be one such. My conscious can disappear into the weirwoods of this cave and delay the army for long enough to let you escape.”

“I won’t kill you,” warns Sansa.

Brynden smiles, slow and flickering. “I would not ask it of you. But your brother would be more than glad to see me die, would he not?”

She stiffens. “You cannot ask this of him.”

“Oh, I can. I will.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Would you prefer I call him cousin?”

“He is a Stark,” bites Sansa. “And that is all that is there to it. What happened- what was done to him- doesn’t matter. Never mattered. My father raised him, and we all loved him. There’s nothing more to it.”

“All of you?” asks Brynden softly.

Sansa flushes, deep and dark. She feels- something terrible, surge up from the watery depths of her guts. 

“He will not kill you,” she whispers fiercely. “I will not- I will not- I will not- have him become a kinslayer. Not for all the advantages in all the world.”

Brynden draws back, before he says, “Then he will light the funeral pyre. I will no longer be in this body, by then, and so he will be no kinslayer; but only an heir.”

“An heir to you?” asks Sansa suspiciously.

“You cannot protect all those you love from harm,” says Brynden, as if that could have ever been an answer. “That is my price, Lady Sansa, and no more bargaining. You have come to my home and you have learned what you wished, and in return for your lives I ask for one pyre. And this, this, you shall give.”

A man who dreams only of death. Sansa closes her eyes, then opens them, and the world has not changed at all; it’s just as large, just as cold. She thinks- she could weep for him, for this man who’s kindnesses are measured in drops, as if they would be snatched away if present in larger quantity. She thinks that there is a hole in these people who have lived for too long to forget everything but to hold on, or to let go. I pity you, I who have lived a piteous life myself.

Only not, because Sansa’s known love. She’s feared one thing, for all the years that she has ever lived: to see her family become ghosts, all while she lives on and on and on-

“Very well,” she says quietly. Then she straightens her spine. “And when shall you tell me where Rhaenys lies?”

“Ah.” Brynden relaxes onto his throne. “That was- quite the tale, once I’d pieced it together. But in the end, this is what you must know: Rhaenys lies in the house of traitors and oathbreakers and thieves, and it is not her bones that you must set flame to- that has been done, many times over. By me, and by Daeron, and by half a hundred others, I’d wager.”

“Then-”

“Visenya swore a vow to remain until the one she loved the most could move on.” Brynden smiles, ghastly as moonlight on blood. “Rhaenys was never lesser than her. Oh, everyone forgets that part, but if you ever speak to her you’ll know it. Stubborn, and prideful, and stupid beyond measure.”

“So what should I burn?”

“Meraxes,” says Brynden. “That which she loved above all others, in a life full of love. That which set her apart from any other queen to come before her. For Rhaenys had all the beauty of previous queens; but she also had a dragon. And there have never been any who could gainsay that single fact.”

Sansa remembers the dragon skulls hidden in the dungeons of the Red Keep. She feels a flare of- something, probably something approaching perhaps-I-can-do-this- 

And then Brynden says, warningly: “It will not be an easy task. There is only one known bone left of Meraxes.”

“Which is?”

“The carved goblet of Lord Wyl. One of their most cherished objects.”

“A goblet?” Sansa demands sharply. “A goblet? Of all the things in the world a-”

Brynden inclines his head. “Stupid beyond measure, yes?”

Slowly, Sansa bows back. Starts to turn to leave, when Brynden calls to her back, surprisingly mocking: “Let us hope you are not so bad!”

Sansa flees, as quickly as she can manage without bursting into a run. 

...

Their goodbyes are swift; Sansa wishes for more time, but she doesn’t tell Bran any of that. Instead, she watches the Children stack the wood high around Brynden Waters’ slender body. She has her belongings- scarce though they are- wrapped in a knapsack at her feet. Jon stands beside her, fingers white on Bran’s chair.

“It is finished,” says one of the Children, with white dots spreading across its features like freckles and eyes larger than Sansa’s fists. “The Crow assures me you know what to do.”

Sansa closes her eyes. “I do,” she whispers. Bran’s hand wraps around her own, cold but comforting. She turns to Jon. “You’ll have to light the fire,” Sansa tells him quietly. “Just- follow my lead.”

It had been Alysanne who’d told Sansa the ancient Valyrian traditions. Now, she recalls the words. She feels the sickness in her belly, low, twisting. The secrets of her father, of too many people to name- it will come out now, and there is nothing Sansa can do to silence it, not with all that rests on the truth.

Bran’s other hand rests on the weirwood roots spiralling around them. He makes a rattling sound, like a smothered cough, and slumps in his chair. Sansa bows her head and waits for the signal. The other Children, all around them, are silent. The only sound is that of wind, howling above them.

Then Bran rocks backward, inhaling. 

“He’s gone,” he says bleakly.

Oh, Bran. Sansa tightens her hand on his, fingers lacing together. I’m so sorry.

She hands Jon an oak branch instead, and two pieces of flint. 

“Hold it steady with your feet,” Sansa tells him, nodding to the branch. “And aim your sparks to the branch.”

“You- want me to light it?” Jon asks slowly. “It won’t work.”

It shouldn’t. To light a fire, one needs shavings and small pieces of wood; even if Jon had dipped the branch in oil, it might have been difficult to set it. But there are things at work here beyond what Jon knows. 

“It will,” she says. “Just keep doing it, and repeat after me.”

He looks at her dubiously, but starts striking the flint together anyhow. As he’d predicted, the first sparks peter out on the wood. Sansa waits for him to get into a rhythm before speaking.

“An inheritance of flame,” Sansa says softly, “a lifetime of duty, an eternity of peace.”

“An inheritance of flame, a lifetime of duty, an eternity of peace,” repeats Jon.

“Such was given, and such was taken, and such is wished.”

“Such was given, and such was taken, and such is wished.”

“Of Targaryen was he born. Of Targaryen did he live. Of Targaryen he shall die.”

“Of Targaryen was he born. Of Targaryen did he live. Of Targaryen he shall die.”

And so it goes- Sansa speaks, and Jon repeats.

“His blade was of Valyrian steel, and dearly did he use it. His cloak was black as his family’s colors, and long did he wear it. His eyes were red as the stone of his birth, and far did he see with them. From flame was he born, and to flame shall he return.

“From dragonfire was he born,” she says, breathing forced steady. “And to dragonfire does he return.”

“From dragonfire was he born, and to dragonfire does he return.” Jon rubs the flint together to produce one last spark. But this time, when it lands on the oak, it doesn’t fizzle out. Jon doesn’t react too terribly, Sansa thinks, especially considering she hasn’t warned him; but he does back away from the branch rapidly. “Fucking hells!”

The fire is black, as Alysanne had warned Sansa it would be.

Red wreaths it, dancing and scarlet, but the heart of this flame is Targaryen black. As black as the cloak Brynden once wore. As red as the rubies of Aegon the Conqueror’s crown.

“Pick up the branch, Jon,” says Sansa softly.

He jerks his head up to her. His pupils are blown wide. “What is that?”

“Targaryen fire,” says one of the Children impatiently. “Targaryen flame, as lit by Targaryen hands. Now get on with it, boy! We haven’t the time!”

Jon bristles. He hasn’t had a good relationship with any of the Children- they treat Bran with care, and Sansa with neutrality as well as a wary sort of respect; but they’ve constantly acted like Jon’s done some unforgivable crime. It irritates Jon to no end. But now, at the end of it all- Sansa just barely holds in a sigh. She steps forwards to catch Jon’s shoulder before he can retort. But then Bran speaks, almost conciliatory in his tone. 

“That’s how the Targaryens were laid to rest, in Valyria. Brynden asked it of Sansa, in exchange for information.” He pauses, then lifts a bony shoulder. “Now, Jon: we don’t have time.”

Thank the Stranger someone understands that, thinks Sansa grimly. If we move fast enough...

They just might survive.

“Quickly,” she says, and her voice sounds far calmer than she truly feels. “Take it to the pyre. Burn it. And say these words, when you do: from Targaryen have you come, son of Aegon, son of Melissa; and as a Targaryen do I release you.”

Jon’s face furrows mightily, but he’s far too much a soldier to question Sansa now. He only nods and turns, and sets the torch to light on the edge of the pyre. Whatever he says is swallowed by the roar of the eldritch flames. 

Even as the flames rise, they lick at the weirwood roots and start eating through them. Sansa feels Bran’s hand clench down on hers, bruisingly tight, before he lets go. Meera stands behind him- Sansa hasn’t spoken to her at all, really, not with everything else going on, but she does nod to her. Take care of him, she would say, if she could be heard.

But she cannot.

She takes Jon’s hand instead, and slides her knapsack over her shoulder, and runs.

...

“As a Targaryen?” Jon demands, when they finally take a short break in the hollow of a mound of snow. He’s not angry, though he doesn’t know enough to be angry; he’s puzzled more than anything.

But that means little.

Jon’s rages are quick to flare, like an ember lying in wait for the perfect breeze. But when they flare- they are indeed a sight to see.

“Yes,” says Sansa, blowing on her fingers. “As a Targaryen.” Breathing in air that feels like knives shredding her lungs, Sansa goes on recklessly. “Did you never wonder why Father refused to tell you your mother’s name?”

Jon stills. “My mother?”

“Father, who is honorable and just beyond reason, being responsible for a bastard? There are some lies which beggar belief, but this- this was always one that left me surprised.” Sansa quirks a smile at Jon. “People see what they wish to see, and in you they saw Ned Stark reborn. And that was all that mattered.”

“You’re not making sense,” says Jon, settling back on his heels. His voice is perfectly reasonable, but his eyes betray him- they flick, side to side, too fast to be calm. 

Sansa considers: quickly, or slowly? Then she sees the brewing storm on the horizon- the cold wind that already shears through her bundled layers of fur; the promise of snow and sleet and hail- and Sansa knows that she could not break this news gently to him, not even if she wished it. 

“Your mother’s Lyanna Stark,” she says, overloud into the silent forest around them. “And your father’s Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Jon’s face goes white as the snow around them. Sansa realizes, abruptly: he’s but a boy, not yet tipped over into the cusp of manhood. His beard and broad shoulders don’t mean that he’s grown. And under that beard lie eyes that shine like dull stones, in two parts horror and one part grief.

���Rhaegar,” he whispers. “That fire was Targaryen- black, and red. Because I’m a-”

Sansa rises to press her hand to his shoulder. Jon pulls away explosively, falling backward onto the snow. Ghost yelps behind him, startled. Jon’s eyes, when they lift to meet hers, are brilliant as any star. 

“Don’t touch me!” he snarls, and turns away.

Jon paces, to the edge of their camp and back. Sansa retreats to let him; she tangles her fingers in Lady’s fur and leans into the warmth. An interminable amount of time later, he asks, voice thick, “When’d you find out?”

“Jon.”

“When?”

“You don’t-”

“When?”

“A long time ago.”

“And you couldn’t tell me?” he demands, voice spinning from challenging to ugly is quick as the turn of a copper. “Oh, you thought it would be easy- a jape, perhaps?- to do this, to pull the wool over my eyes, to know more than all others around you! You stood there and called me a bastard and only half your brother when you knew- you knew!”

“Yes,” says Sansa quietly, folding her hands together. “I knew.”

“Did I not merit your trust, then?” Jon asks bitterly. “Or was it that I simply did not matter at all to you?”

“Neither.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me!”

It’s not a question. Jon punctuates it with a well-aimed kick at a stone half-buried in the ground- too well-aimed, thinks Sansa, even as she ducks the stone. But had she not been looking, she knows- and so does Jon- where that would have struck. Lady’s growl only serves to further the point.

“I didn’t tell you because you wouldn’t have believed me,” she says, striving to keep her voice even. “Because the truth would have gotten out, and Father would have asked me how I knew, and I knew- know- well how the North treats those with other powers.”

“None of us have ever known anyone with anything like this!”

“And I was a child,” Sansa replies, and her voice is unsteady despite all her efforts. “I was a child, and those I trusted told me to be wary, and I was. There are half a hundred other truths and secrets I know, that I cannot speak to anyone- that I will not speak to anyone.” She rises to her feet and braces the knapsack on her shoulders. “I once told you: I don’t know if I can trust anyone, any longer. I don’t know if I ever could, or if it was trained out of me, or if it withered away as a muscle disused. Do you remember how you responded?”

“If I’d known then what I know now,” says Jon darkly, “I don’t know what I would’ve said.”

Sansa goes cold. You are a child, she thinks, but doesn’t say aloud. She wonders at Jon’s reaction- surely he must have experienced betrayal before, and surely he must have learned to brace himself for the impact of a blade between his back. To do otherwise would be foolish in a normal man, but folly of the highest magnitude in one of their stature. But even now, there’s no regret on Jon’s face. Only hurt and fury like twin blades, scored into his eyes, and just as ugly for it. 

“Very well,” says Sansa, and her voice flows out of her like a stream in the midst of winter- bordered with ice, terribly cold, and still flowing. The hurt is there; but it flows, smoothly, and what is left behind is weariness, and even deeper: resolve. “We must continue on. There’s a storm coming. I’ve no wish to be caught in it- we need shelter.”

Jon’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t speak. He too picks up his bag and clicks his tongue for Ghost. They set off silently, heads bowed against the wind, and don’t speak.

...

They have to stop in a small hollow, and wait out the storm. At first, Sansa tries to match Jon’s sullen silence; she’s patient, and they’ve enough worry sitting in their bellies already, but the stinging tension that surrounds Jon just makes her- so angry. So tiredly, wearily furious.

Finally, Sansa pauses, one night- she’s cold to the bone and impatient with it, and says, hoarsely, “You said you would try to understand.”

Jon’s eyes flick up to her, then settle back on the fire. He too looks stripped and exhausted; the pace they’ve both set for the past day has been high, but also necessary. They must cross the Wall quickly- before the Walkers catch them. Already they’ve been delayed too long; they can little afford such setbacks. And the cold digs into their bones. There’s little enough food to replace what they’re expending. Sansa can only hope-

“I did,” he says, voice catching and rough. But the anger is damped, at least. “I thought- I thought it would be easier. But no matter how I try to think on it- it doesn’t make sense. How could you?”

“It is easy not to speak of such things,” says Sansa. “To think of other things- happier things. You’ve done it yourself, or else you’d have gone mad. Or do you place all such blame on myself, and none on our father, who was the perpetrator of the lie?”

“I think there’s enough blame to go around.”

“And I think you’re foolish,” she says tiredly. “But I’m not putting it on you, am I? A king’s son is what you are, Jon, and a Stark besides. Targaryen and Stark- there hasn’t been another like you in all of history, not one that has ever been known. Born to flame and born to ice, with death a-wing on both sides. It is dangerous. Why do you think the Children did not like you? They are loathe to change; and you hold that change in your very blood.” 

Sansa leans forwards and catches Jon’s forearm in her own. Grips it tight. “And if we are to speak of another aspect- had you known, Father would’ve had such a hard time protecting you. What mattered to Robert Baratheon was Targaryens- if you ever heard him speak of them- it was terrifying. He hated them. You. Do you think you’d have survived his warhammer? His armies?”

“No,” says Jon after a long pause. He laughs, low and bitter. “One bastard against six kingdoms? You’d be mad to ask it of me.”

“And yet you’re a Targaryen. A Stark. We have stood before worse odds and survived. It would’ve been cruel to ask it of you- but if they had, you’d have lived. I’m certain of it.” Sansa catches it, then- a subtle stiffening of Jon’s shoulderblade; the knotted tension in his palms. “Oh,” she says softly. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“What?”

“You’re-” she lets her eyes half-close, so she can only see a blur of Jon’s face. The white oval of his skull; the slant and set of his neck; the splay of his boots over the rough ground. Studies it, as Berena had once shown her: to see the things which of themselves mean nothing, but all add up to a larger picture. “-afraid. Why?”

Jon stares at her. “What?”

“No, not why,” says Sansa slowly. “That isn’t the right question, is it- no, it’s... what you’re afraid of that’s important. So what are you afraid of? Yourself? Father? The King?” A pause; and then, deliberately steady: “Our family?”

For a long moment, Jon doesn’t speak, only stares at the fire and stirs it like soup. “Your family,” he says, almost soundless.

Oh, Jon. Her heart cramps in on itself. I’m so sorry.

“Our family,” she says firmly. “For while you are yet Targaryen- half of you is Stark, and it is that half that matters. Targaryen blood runs in your veins but it is the Stark look that you bear, and the Stark honor, and the Stark history as well. Don’t you dare think that any of us will feel otherwise. Don’t insult us in such a manner.”

Jon’s head drops onto her arm, and Sansa tips forwards so she’s braced comfortably near him, so they can lean on each other. 

Sansa’s almost asleep- the fire has dwindled to faint embers, but she’s too stiff to add some more fuel to it, and too tired as well. Then, in a low, rough voice, Jon says, “Thank you.”

For telling you? she thinks distantly, behind the film of sleep. Or for promising you? Or for being here, beside you, and offering you this silence and the knowledge of who we Starks are, who your family is?

“Of course,” says Sansa instead, and closes her eyes, and surrenders to sleep.

...

The next morning, Jon thinks the storm has lessened.

“It should break soon,” he tells her, checking the straps on his bag compulsively. “We ought to be ready to go by then.”

“Yes,” Sansa replies. Then, unable to help herself: “How much have the Others gained?”

“We’ve been delayed three days,” says Jon thoughtfully. “And they would have been as well- less because of the cold and more because there are things even the dead can’t get through. The wind and ice would’ve buried them whole if they tried to bear through it.” He frowns. “But still. I’d say- they’ve gained a day. Perhaps a day and a half.”

“Enough for us to reach the Wall?”

Jon looks up at Sansa, and his eyes are level and unflinching. “Let’s hope so,” he says grimly.

...

The storm does lessen. They head out as soon as they can; they sleep for short hours; they rise; they walk. The direwolves tend to forage ahead. There’s little enough food, though more than enough kindling; at least when they stop in the night, they’re warm. 

...

It’s when Ghost starts yipping low in his throat that Jon sways to a halt.

“Listen,” he breathes, holding up a hand.

Sansa cocks her head to the side. She hears only wind. But then- like a thin, reedy flute: something that catches in her throat. Something that makes the skin across her arms shiver and prickle. 

“That’s the sound of Others,” says Jon quietly, looking as if he’s scarcely breathing. “It’s possible this is an advance scout troop, but if they’ve found us- if we’re surrounded-”

And why would the dead send scouts ahead? They have nothing to be wary of. They aren’t human. They will not act as humans act, as human armies act. She and Jon cannot rely on such tenuous hope. Remember that, Sansa commands herself, and breathes, in and out, steady as she can control.

“There’s a river,” says Sansa, eyes closing to remember the map that Brynden had shown her, that Jon had opened and read just that morning. “Due east. Should only take a few minutes to reach.”

They’ve used the river as a marker of their own passage. It’s not much of a river, all told; in summer it’d likely be more of a stream than anything else. But it’s been widened and deepened by winter snows, and there’s not a person that can cross it now without being swept away by the flow of the water, no matter whether they’re alive or not. 

“If you’re wrong...”

“I’m not.”

Eyes bright, Jon nods. His hand is still up- he lets each finger curl downward and Sansa takes the time to tighten the straps of her knapsack and grip Lady’s ruff with numb, mittened fingers. 

Then he drops his hand, and they sprint.

Almost immediately, there’s a stitch in her side. Sansa can feel herself falling behind Jon- she’s not as fast as him, nor so naturally light on her feet. But she holds to the pace she’s set at the start, and even manages to speed a little when she hears some large beast crashing through the undergrowth behind her.

She bursts through the bushes onto the icy banks of the river, Lady snarling beside her, and manages to slip to a halt before slipping into the water. Hands shaking, Sansa unsheathes her sword.

Jon nods to her. “Back to back,” he says lowly. “Let the direwolves flank us. Chin up. We’ll get through this.”

“Oh,” chatters Sansa. She’s furious with herself, but can’t quite will that emotion into her hands or jaw. She just feels cold and terrified. “Will we?”

“We have so far,” murmurs Jon, but he’s not really paying attention to her- he’s focused on the trees, trying to find some portent of what’s to come. 

It’s very different to rolling and stabbing and leaning away from bruises in King’s Landing. Sansa hiccups, a little, before she closes her eyes. Thinks: I am not ready to die yet. Thinks: If I will not die today, I must ensure it myself. I must fight for my life today, and that means-

Standing tall, and fierce, and relying on what her forebears have taught her so well. She has Dark Sister in her hand. Visenya- for all her other faults- never once hinted that Sansa wasn’t worthy of it, and she wouldn’t have had any compunctions about doing so if given half a chance. She has Lady, who’s got teeth and claws and viciousness like a true predator. She has Jon and Ghost and a river at her back, and she is alive, and she will not let that be taken from her without making the Others pay dearly for it.

One breath.

Two breaths.

Three breaths.

Three corpses fling themselves out of the brush on Sansa’s left, and she steps forwards into the motion-

Never let your opponent dictate the speed of the match.

-cuts up, ducks the first wight’s fist-

Act. Don’t react.

-slices across a dark-haired corpse’s chest-

You always have more than the edge of a blade.

-and uses her elbow to shove the second wight headfirst into the rushing river behind her. 

“Keep that up!” shouts Jon, before he lops another wight’s head clean off his shoulders. “Don’t let ‘em through!”

Confidence surges through her. 

These aren’t Others, not proper ones; these are just wights, who are faster and stronger than Sansa can ever be, but they’re also just plain stupid. She’s smarter than them.

With that confidence, the battle becomes less thought, and more instinct. Chaos. There are flashes of remembrance: Lady ripping one wight limb from limb. Jon’s hisses and grunts. The shine of light off the snow and the wights’ pale, unnatural skin. The glitter of silver, irritating in the corners of her eyes. The roar of the river as Sansa keeps going, even when she tires, even when the flood of the dead seems unending.

Then one of them breaks through- smashes into her chest, a battering ram that, even as it impales itself on her blade, throws her backward.

Sansa has just enough thought to twist her body so she doesn’t throw Jon down as well- if she does, they’re both surely dead- and instead lands, floundering, into the river. 

She yanks the sharp little dagger she’d stolen from an apple farmer in the Riverlands out of its sheath on her thigh and turns with the current to stab into the ice and provide a hold. The water’s so cold it hurts. 

But Sansa must rise- 

Jon is there, and he’ll die if- 

She’s brought him here and she’s killed him and-

Color flickers across her vision. Not the white and blue and black of the world around them- something red. Something like sunset, or flame, or the blood now dribbling down her left arm from a shallow slice across her shoulder. Sansa focuses through the life-draining cold, eyes narrowing. She must pay attention.

It’s fire.

It’s fire, but not any fire of the normal realm. Spirit fire, singing around Longclaw in black and red. All the wights it touches reel away, dying with a rapidity that makes hope rise in Sansa’s throat like a hawk surging through the skies. 

Sansa closes her eyes.

I am not ready to die, she thinks fiercely, and kicks out so the wight attached to Dark Sister flows away. She’s now exactly behind Jon, and that’s why she hasn’t had to fight off more wight attacks. But now there’s silver gleaming again at the corner of her eyes, and it’s so annoying-

Not annoying. 

Sansa looks, again, widens her focus to everything in their surroundings, and almost inhales the river-water with her shock.

There’s a man next to Jon, hovering oppressively over his shoulder, shining like silver beaten thin enough to be translucent. He’s tall and slender; he wears a thick coat of a style that Sansa hasn’t seen ever before. 

“Help,” she cries out, and sees him turn, sees his eyes widen when he realizes who Sansa’s speaking to. “Please, help us!”

“You can see me,” he whispers, swooping over to her.

Sansa grits her teeth against the renewed chill in her fingers. She’s holding on with everything she can, but her grip on the hilt of the knife is slipping.

“Can you help us?” she asks.

“Oh, sweetling,” says the man, a smile transforming his face from lean and sallow to a shining beacon, “I might be the only man to be able to. You get out of the river, and I’ll get you out of this mess.”

Sansa watches Jon take a blow across his face and stumble backwards, before growling and returning with even more strength. She hisses out and uses that expulsion of energy to throw herself out of the water.

She drives Dark Sister into the snow a foot beyond her dagger.

Uses that leverage to remove the dagger, and stab that into the ice a foot above the sword.

So on, until she’s out of the water and able to breathe. Sansa takes a moment to catch her breath, and then she swings herself up and shouts, through gasping lungs: “Jon!”

“What!” he retorts, cleaving one wight in half before turning to her.

“Follow me,” Sansa says, and, wincing, whistles for Lady and Ghost before plunging on and following the ghost.

...

Her clothes are waterlogged and heavy. There’s a shallow cut on her left shoulder, and she’d hit her head when she fell into the river so she keeps feeling intermittent bouts of dizziness. Sansa doesn’t dare look away from the ghost in front of her- he’s looks too similar to the snow, and she’s certain that if she lets her focus slip even a little, she won’t be able to see him again.

Jon’s limping right behind her; he’s keeping the pace, though she thinks he looks faintly mutinous as well. To him it must look as if she’s following thin air. 

But the wights are dropping away behind them.

There’s fewer and fewer following Sansa and Jon. And the further they go, the fainter that chilling sound gets. As the fear fades, her aches make themselves known: bruises, and sprains, and a wrenching pain in her neck from where she’d had to yank her hair from a wight’s grip. She exchanges a weary glance with Jon- Sansa weary, Jon glaring- before she calls to the ghost: “Wait!” 

He pauses and floats back to her, looking impatient. “Is something the matter?”

“How much further?” asks Sansa, and she sounds so desperate to even herself that she winces. “I don’t know how much further I can- we can- go. Those wights... there were so many of them.”

Jon steps forward and braces her, his shoulder holding her up where she hasn’t even realized she’s been swaying. Longclaw, still unsheathed in his free hand, gleams in even the fading afternoon light. 

“You’re bleeding,” he says lowly. “And you look like- you don’t look good.”

“If you stop now, you will not get up again,” says the ghost. “It won’t be the wights that get you. It will be the cold. You must keep moving until you reach safety.”

“And where is safety?” Sansa asks.

“Not much further.” The ghost looks up, then around, before nodding again, even firmer. “We shall reach before sundown.”

Sundown! Sansa wants to cry, but she swallows hard instead and nods. 

“We’d better,” says Jon, when Sansa tells him what the ghost has said, so quietly that Sansa knows it to be a promise and not a threat. “Or I’ll make him regret becoming a ghost.”

...

There’s such exhaustion in Sansa’s eyes that it feels like she’s grinding ice into them- once, she actually does it, in an attempt to keep herself awake. It leaves her face damp and shivering, and she doesn’t try it again. Her steps become so heavy they jar her knees as she walks; the pain keeps her awake even as the rest of the world starts to fade away.

...

Finally, they reach a cave that’s nothing more than a tree trunk expanded and hollowed out until it provides a decent shelter. Sansa’s so tired she can scarcely keep her eyes open- she just staggers in and slumps against the dirt-packed floor.

“Where is this?” she asks, eyes still closed, head tipped back.

“Questions later,” Jon bites out, before shoving a roll of bandages into her hands. “We need to fix you up first. Take that coat off.” Then he sees how absolutely soaked and dirty it’s become, and his face tightens. “Take it all off. There’s a blanket- everything but your smallclothes, yes. Quickly! Sansa, if you catch a chill-”

“You’ll die,” says the ghost, looking at Jon with a definite light of approval. “The boy’s got the right idea. Set up your camp before anything else. I swear to you, lass, you’re safe here.”

Groaning, Sansa levers herself up and starts to tug the clothes off. The blanket Jon gives her is scratchy but thick, and the fire he starts is even more welcome. Her fingers and toes tingle unpleasantly as blood starts to rush back into them. By the time they’re settled with snow melting in a makeshift pot of leaves balanced ingeniously over the fire and strips of rabbit hide, Sansa almost feels normal once more.

“Tea?” she murmurs to Jon, waving a sprig of pine needles that had gotten caught in the weave of her damp cloak. 

Jon tips a shoulder indifferently, before offering, “I’ll make some cups if you want.”

“Tea it is then.”

It turns out very faintly bitter and mostly tasteless, though it does leave her feeling scoured and clean. Huddling further into the blanket, Sansa turns to the ghost.

“May we speak now?”

The ghost lifts an eyebrow. “Certainly.”

“There’s no way for me to be a part of this conversation?” asks Jon, looking sulky. 

Sansa frowns. Remembers Brandon, in King’s Landing; the chill of death swallowing her whole. Remembers seeing the dead through her father’s eyes when she dreamed him out of the Red Keep.

“There might be a way,” she says slowly. “Come here.”

Jon approaches her and settles so he’s close enough to touch. Takes her hand. Sansa lets her eyes close and reaches out with those muscles that Rickard had made her flex until she cried tears of blood. Theon Stark had used these abilities to make his enemies scream. She won’t ever be so cruel. And it’s so easy here, with only Jon in front of her; his mind is like a flame in a dark room. 

See, she commands him, holding onto what she knows and forcing him to see the same. See this, my world, wreathed in the life after death.

Jon’s eyes widen. His entire face tips upward and he stares, barely breathing, at the ghost. He looks suffused with something so hot it blazes from his skin- something greedy and so desperately ravenous that it makes Sansa throb with pity.

“I can’t hold it for too long,” she warns him, but Jon doesn’t seem to hear her. 

“Do you know who I am?” asks the ghost, ignoring Jon.

Sansa shakes her head.

The ghost quirks a smile. “I was once a King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

“There were many such kings,” says Sansa neutrally.

“Forgive me- I was once a King-Beyond-the-Wall, yes.” The ghost folds his hands together. “I was, once, the first King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

Jon makes a noise in his throat like something’s scratched it. “Joramun?” He whirls on Sansa. “You trusted Joramun to get us to safety?”

“It wasn’t like I’d a choice,” Sansa reminds him. She turns to Joramun. “And I didn’t know who you were. But... you know who we are.”

“Starks,” says Joramun simply. “How could I not? Your very blood- it sings through. Your eyes say even more.”

“Joramun hates Starks- he- it’s so known-”

“I am not a monster,” says Joramun sharply, rising a foot into the air as if held upright by his outrage. “I have never raised a hand to children, and I would not start now even if I’d had a blood feud with your family. I am many things, boy- a fool is not one of them.”

Sansa inhales slowly, through a chest that aches and aches. “You don’t have a blood feud with the Starks?”

“I’ve every right to bear one,” says Joramun, before twitching a hand. “But no. I never had any desire to kill anyone, Lady Stark, not for all the years of my life. The only man I might have wished to slay killed me, and my death served to keep my lands safe. I’ve few regrets.”

“But you have them,” challenges Jon, eyes over-bright in the dim light of the fire. “Don’t you?”

Sansa sighs. “Jon,” she says, just as sharp back, “if he’s willing to help us, perhaps you might fare better in not trying to provoke him into

not

helping us.”

Joramun crooks a wry smile- he doesn’t look angry or offended. “I lived for a very long time, in a time when no one expected it of me. I have many regrets; of course I do. But I won’t hurt you because I have been here for far too long. Because I would’ve given my life to save my people, and I did. Because if you can save them- there is no debt more profoundly given than mine.”

A gift, thinks Sansa, shivering. And not a deal.

“Your people?” she asks aloud.

Joramun stills. “Yes,” he says finally. “My people. The freefolk. Wildlings. What I gave ensured they remained free and kingless, and there is nothing I have ever regretted less.”

“And what of those beneath the Wall?” demands Jon. 

“Brandon Breaker- have you met him, lass?” 

“No,” admits Sansa reluctantly.

“Ah. Well, if you had, you might’ve known: he was a man unrivaled in blade and speed, but also a man unrivaled in viciousness. Once his temper took him... there was none that could sway him from his course. A man made for war, and not peace.” He lifts one shoulder easily. “I worked beside with him for long years to destroy the Night’s King. I then had to bear his greed when he turned his eyes onto us, beyond the Wall. All that I lost to that battle- it was almost more than against the Night’s King. And still it went on, and on, and on, until the end.”

Sansa feels something catch in her chest like a thorned branch. “And what was that end?”

“We were so old by then,” murmurs Joramun. “So old and so tired. He placed his blade between my ribs one morning, but not before I’d poisoned him. We fell together.”

Joramun closes his eyes. He looks old, now; old and weary and shrunken. “The things you Starks do, to save the world. You never know the full consequences; you are never ready to accept them once made aware. Brandon Builder raised the Wall against the Others and didn’t care when he trapped half his own people on the wrong side of it. Brandon Breaker gave me the tools to break the Wall and swore to me that if I, or any of my line, used it, our souls would be shredded into oblivion.”

“To break the Wall?” asked Jon, sounding stunned.

“Aye, lad. Joramun’s horn.” Joramun nods to a knotted hollow behind them. “Crafted with my hands and Brandon’s magic. I’ve never known another man who could craft things so queer and lovely and dangerous, all at once. Southerners always used to say the Builder’s blood ran true in him.” He pauses for a brief moment. “It’s there, behind you, if you’d like to see it.”

Jon chokes on air. “It’s here?”

“It was lost,” interposes Sansa.

“Lost?” Joramun laughs. “No, lass, it was stolen. By me. Why do you think Brandon Builder followed me all the way past the Wall? I stole something he had- the Horn. I taunted him with that which he feared the most, and for his terror and fear he lost his life.”

Jon turns away, moving to the corner that Joramun had indicated. He digs through the loose dirt and roots- seven thousand years is a long time- and unearths a leather bag that’s rotted through. Jon hisses through his teeth and shakes it until the leather flakes off; a neat package of leaves all bundled together is revealed.

“Blessed by Children,” says Joramun satisfiedly. “Those leaves’ll protect anything you put in ‘em for longer than you can imagine.”

Slowly, Jon slides his knife into the slender ropes binding it together and saws outward. The wrappings fall away to reveal a small, dark horn banded with obsidian stamped with strange symbols.

“Don’t you dare put your mouth on that, lad,” Joramun orders loudly, when Jon leans forward. Then, slightly calmer: “Not if you don’t wish for the Wall to fall, that is.”

Sansa tightens her fist until she can feel her bones creak. 

“No,” says Jon, quiet as a panther. “I don’t.” His eyes flick, briefly, to Sansa, before he says, “Not yet, at least.”

“Well,” says Joramun, before he twists his lips in a curve that looks so- so sad. His eyes trace over the horn slowly, reverently, but he doesn’t move from where he’s seated himself. “Now you see: what I gave my life for. What Brandon lost his life to. Everything I’ve lost is there, in that little horn.”

Sansa imagines it, all these histories laid over the legends she knows: Brandon Breaker, young and lost, fleeing Winterfell once the Long Night began. Joramun, uniting a people that had been lost and shattered since Brandon Builder abandoned them to the Others. Two leaders of two desperate peoples, uniting for long years and crafting a tool that would finally break the hold of darkness. 

But not well enough, for Brandon returned to Winterfell and saw it broken. Saw his entire family coming for his blood. Saw betrayal. 

Winter fell at Winterfell, and what was left was a man with absolutely nothing.

So Brandon turned on the wildlings, tried to conquer those who had grown used to being leaderless; and Sansa knows, now, how furiously people will fight against such yokes. How some will rather die than bend. And Joramun must have had to fight back- must have tried, and failed, over and over again. Until he stole a horn that Brandon hid away, and in the ensuing battle, gave his life to ensure Brandon Breaker could not break his people.

Those muscles of dreamspeaking are twitching, over-stretched and pulled taut, but Sansa holds on. Jon must be able to see Joramun for what she’s going to say.

“You have said it is not a debt that we are expected to pay,” she says carefully. “But an injustice was committed, and if there is anything I can do- tell me.” She lifts her eyes to Joramun’s slanted ones, dark and unending. “I will try.”

“It was seven thousand years before your time, lass,” says Joramun gently.

Sansa lifts her head proudly. 

Her father, warping his life to fit around a lie for a baby. Her brother, accepting the crown of ancient kings because war calls him to do so. Her uncle, curling around her and defying the edicts of his father, a man he loves and fears in equal quantity. Her grandfather, standing before Visenya, just as strong, just as proud. Willam, broad and glittering and kind beyond measure. Brandon Snow, youthful, grieving. And back and back and back, until Brandon Breaker, who’d broken the Long Night but also broken himself in the same moment.

Hers is not a blood of honor or love or kindness. 

But even if honor and love and kindness is not running in her veins, Sansa chooses those things, chooses them with the indelible greed of Brandon Breaker, who would not sway from a path he chose. 

“Nevertheless,” she says. “What do you wish for, Joramun King?”

She feels Jon rise and come to stand right behind her, one hand warm on her shoulder. He doesn’t speak, but his face is fierce and his eyes are like storms beginning to blot out the sun.

“When the time comes,” says Joramun, creakingly ancient, hope like seeds under ten feet of snow in his voice, those seeds that never die and wait, endlessly, for land to grow from, “blow that horn. Bring down the Wall. Let my people have more, for once, than what they scrabble for amid stone and ice and dust.”

Jon’s hand spasms, almost makes her flinch, but Sansa feels like a bird- light, free, falling with the knowledge of wings to make her fly when she wishes it. 

“The Others will come,” she says softly. “There are so many people there, beneath the Wall.”

“And to save them, you would sacrifice mine?” Joramun asks. “You are not Brandon to be so callous, I think.”

“You know something else.”

“I do,” he says, and the fire Jon set has faded; all that lights the cavern is Joramun’s body, opalescent, shimmering. “For there is what Brandon did, in his fury against the Night’s Queen, at Winterfell- where he slayed her physical form, but not what made her as she was; and there is another, which we had planned for before we heard that Others had crept through the Wall- to end her as one, entirely, so the darkness shall never again return to our world.”

Sansa bows her head. “And you think us capable of doing the latter?”

“I think,” says Joramun ponderously, “you are capable of more than any of us can imagine. Yes, Lady Stark: you are capable. But it will not be so easy as you think, for it must be done at a very specific place. You must let the Night Queen be there, where it all began.”

“And where is that?” asks Jon.

Joramun doesn’t look away from Sansa. “You know,” he says.

She does. The place where it began; the oldest place she knows. Sansa has lost so much else, but this knowledge sits in her like a flower in the moments before unfurling.

“Winter fell at Winterfell,” she says. “And the place where it began would be the oldest place in all of Winterfell.” One breath, to push air into her muscles, to survive. “The crypts.”

Jon sinks down on himself like a black-edged shadow. “To let the Others in- to break down the Wall- we’d risk losing-”

“Everything,” says Sansa. Her heart aches, twists, curdles. “To gain everything, we must chance everything, isn’t it? To ensure darkness is gone, we must allow darkness the chance to have it all.”

“Even if we accept such a prospect,” says Jon, slowly, “it would be impossible. How could we reach Winterfell? The dead will be swarming the Wall far before we ever manage it. And even if we reached Winterfell, the Greyjoys hold it. They won’t be happy to see me or Sansa.”

“The latter won’t be an issue to a dreamspeaker of the strength of lady Sansa,” says Joramun. “And for the first- did you not wonder how I could say you were safe here? There is a path that will let you bypass the Wall without need of a boat, lad; that will keep you safe.”

“How?”

“Look around you,” Joramun orders. 

Sansa does, and thinks: white. What she’d assumed to be simply a reflection of Joramun’s glow is white, like bleached bone. But the tree is alive. Which means...

“A weirwood,” she breathes.

“Weirwood roots,” says Joramun, nodding once. “Sown with dragonglass where we could get it, and Valyrian steel when we could not, and the charmed blood of Children when even that was impossible. We called it the Bloodpath. It’s a path that we carved, Brandon and I, as a way to escape the Others when all else seemed lost.” He smiles thinly. “It runs through the land, straight to the Bay of Seals, and through that marshy ground between Skagos and Westeros, all the way to the Wall.”

Jon’s brows pull together. “Those swamps are why we can’t run ships between Skagos- we always have to go around, if we’re trying to reach Hardholm.”

“Aye,” says Joramun. “Not an easy path, no, but Brandon Builder ran it in less than three days when he heard Winterfell was in danger. We lured the Night’s King past the Wall, see, and it was Brandon who slayed him; but then Brandon learned that it was not the king we ought to have feared- it was his wife, the Night’s Queen. He took a horse and ran this path, and didn’t sleep for days on end- just went on, and on, and on, until he reached Winterfell and had to kill his very own blood.” Joramun breathes in slowly. “He was a broken man ever after.”

Sansa closes her eyes. How grievous, she thinks, and remembers Brynden, red-eyed and weary. Visenya, pale-haired, bitter. A thousand stars whirling above Elia, cold and cruel and caring all at once. How would it feel to lose everything you’ve ever cared about? How would you fill the hollow parts of your soul after that?

There are things that cannot be undone, she thinks, and it hurts like the sting of a blade across her skin.

But this is a war, and Sansa shall have time for mourning once it’s over. The tragedy of Brandon Breaker’s life is not something she can contemplate now.

“A path past the Wall?” she asks, loud in the cold silence around them.

Joramun spreads his fingers. “The swamps between Skagos and true land are treacherous, but not so terrible if you know them well. And the charms Brandon laid... they have ensured the path remains, even seven thousand years later. I will take you there, Lady Stark, if that is your wish.”

Sansa thinks: can she do this? Can she? Does she dare? Brandon Builder did not manage it, and surely she is not greater than him, he of the Age of Heroes. Joramun did not manage it, and not a one of the other Stark Lords, all of whom have had thousands more horses and men and abilities. 

But what are the consequences if she does not?

For how long can the Wall hold?

Sansa looks up, searches for Jon, and catches his wrist. Presses her fingers until she feels his pulse, slow and weighty and even as the tides. She does not know what she is doing; she does not know if she can.

But this Sansa knows: she must, at least, try.

“Yes,” says Sansa, before she lets the dreamspeaking she’d shrouded around Jon collapse in on itself. “It is my wish.”

There is no other, she thinks, and so I must; and so I shall.

...

They set out the next day. The path that Joramun leads them through is disgusting: swampy, shallow waters that are freezing and muddy in equal amounts. Sansa aches and aches and aches, and she doesn’t let a single word of complaint pass her lips.

...

“You know what you’re doing?” asks Jon, so quiet as to be soundless.

“No,” whispers Sansa.

“Ah,” he says, and then he chucks his chin over her scalp. “You do. Don’t go being modest now.”

There are ghosts, but none that Sansa knows; none that Sansa does not fear. They stare at her with hollow eyes and carved cheeks and look terrifying. She closes her eyes, weaves her hand in Jon’s, and trusts in Lady’s balance to lead her forward.

...

In the shadow of Eastwatch, Sansa pulls at her knapsack before turning to Joramun.

“Thank you,” she pronounces deliberately, bowing. “For what was taken- for what was stolen from you- I shall do my best to repay it.”

Joramun presses a cold hand to her shoulder. The cloth’s been cut away by a slash of the wight’s nails; she hasn’t gotten around to sewing it yet. Right now, her skin feels like it might just chip off if turned any colder. It aches, but she does not turn away from it.

“There are things that cannot be repaid, nor undone,” he says quietly, but his eyes are burning, blazing, searing. Joramun’s a tall man, lean like a shadow; but not small. Not any smaller than any other king Sansa has ever met in her life. “That you would even try is a grander gift than any other, Lady Stark. You have my gratitude, and my loyalty.”

And Joramun- first King-Beyond-the-Wall, leader, legend, hero- bows to Sansa.

“If ever you meet Brandon,” he says, rising with a grace that’s not often found in such long limbs, “tell him- tell him that he made mistakes, and I did as well, and seven thousand years is too long a time for grief to grip us.”

“Very well,” whispers Sansa, backing away, watching him slowly fade into nothing more than the sunlight on moving water.

She feels like crying. She doesn’t know why, but she does.

...

“You can leave.”

Jon lifts an eyebrow at Sansa. “What?”

“You can return to the Wall, if you want,” Sansa tells him. “If you think you’ll be of more use in ensuring the Night’s Watch survive this- then go. I’ll make sure Ghost and Lady don’t stop you.”

“Those people who wanted to kill me’ll still be there,” says Jon, not even faltering in his stride. “And I left my post, Sansa. I walk back, and they’ll string me up before I can tell ‘em anything.” 

He nudges her with one shoulder, lightly, before swinging back with a stronger shove. Sansa squeaks as she tries to balance- but Ghost is there, too close, and she tumbles over his back onto the snow. 

“Jon,” she growls, sitting up and spitting slush out of her mouth.

Jon grins at her, hands up. “Not my fault,” he says. “It’s not like I told Ghost to be there.”

“I’m going to drown you alive,” hisses Sansa, getting to her feet and sprinting after him.

...

They pass the Wall, but Sansa doesn’t attempt to speak to any ghosts along the way. She only curls tighten into herself, breathes, tries to forget what she must do and also pay attention to what she cannot let go. Her heart feels swollen to burst, as a river in winter; it feels shattered, like the ice floes that begin to melt. The people Jon speaks to and receives clothing and food from- they treat them both with wariness and fear in equal measure. Sansa barely lets go of Lady’s fur after they pass Last Hearth.

She knows that Jon worries about her, though he doesn’t say anything.

It’s only that she must take this decision upon her shoulders- slender shoulders, fit for slipping into gowns and weaving flower crowns, not for wielding Valyrian steel. Who is she to decide to tear down the Wall? She is only the second daughter of the Lord of Winterfell, and even that has been stripped from her. She is only a girl who speaks to the dead. And now she must decide if she can end the risk of darkness. Now, she must decide if she will beat the darkness back, or if she will kill the darkness.

It makes her shudder straight down to her bones.

I am only a girl, she thinks, and I have Visenya’s steel sword, and Torrhen Stark’s blessing, and the gratitude of Joramun King. I am only a girl who is not ready to die, and who is not ready to lose.

Hers is not a blood of honor or love or kindness.

Hers is a blood of pride. Hers is a blood of ferocity. Hers is a blood of triumph.

Triumph against all the odds, triumph against everyone’s belief. Had any ghost in the Red Keep ever truly thought she could return to the North? Hope is one thing, but trust is another. 

Brandon, perhaps, and Elia; but not many. Certainly not Rickard. Not Visenya. They sent her off and said goodbye and that was the limit of their concern, because girls like her don’t live for very long in their world. Girls like Sansa shatter. 

But that is your mistake, she thinks, watching as Winterfell’s walls swim into view like a heat haze. You taught me to bend before I broke, and to cry instead of relying on others, and to wield a sword with skill and fierceness.

It is not my fault that I learned it.

She is home now. Sansa has walked away from the Red Keep and Riverrun, has walked away from her family and from her reputation. She has walked past Winterfell as well, all to save the world, but now there is no larger world to save: there is only this, Winterfell, char-walled and still impressive; grey stoned and shining. Her home.

I learned all your tricks. I learned all your faults. I learned, and I learned, and I learned.

And now, I will save it all.

...

She and Jon walk around Winterfell four times.

“Once for those who taught us- our teachers,” says Sansa, voice melodic and dancing. “Once for those who guide us from above- our gods. Once for those who bore us- our parents. And once, finally, for ourselves.”

Dreamspeaking is difficult. 

But Sansa does not need to hold the people within Winterfell to any half-sleep, half-wake state. She must only send them so deep that the arrival of the dead will not wake them. There are ghosts that watch her, ghosts that she’d once adored, but Sansa doesn’t call out to them. She does not need guidance now. All she needs is peace and silence and the thread of a tale so grand none will wish to leave.

It will work, of course. Sansa knows many grand tales. Knows many grand tales that are true, and so will ring with the pulse of the world beneath her feet, and increase the strength of the spell.

...

“It’s different from what I did with you,” she explains to Jon, one night in the wolfswood, back against a rough-barked tree and hood pushed back to catch late afternoon sunlight. Their lunch sits, devoured, before them. “With you, it was like trying to pull an unconscious man up a hill, and the hill lasted the entire time you could see the ghosts. But now- I plan to do it so I push a stone up the hill instead. Let the stone sit at the top, and sing praises to all below it; I will have done all the work already.”

“This is going to work, Sansa,” says Jon. 

His voice soothes parts of her that feel jagged; it calms the part of her that leaves her voice high and rambling.

“Yes,” says Sansa. “It is.”

She will not let herself think on the consequences of what will happen if she’s wrong.

...

It is a beautiful dream that Sansa weaves into being: it has bits of Brandon Builder’s story, and bits of Joramun’s, and bits of Lyanna’s as well. Heroes and tragedies and romance, with sprinkles of battles and triumph and the fury of grief as well. There are songs; dances; glittering cups of wine that sits on the tongue long past the swallowing. If she could let herself live in such a dream, Sansa thinks ruefully, she would. 

Instead, she ties off the edges of the spell onto moonflowers- those that blossom only once a moon’s turn, when the moon turns bright and round as the curve of an apple. The spell will last, then, for long enough to blow the Horn and let the Others ride down to Winterfell. Just long enough for Sansa to defeat them, before the Greyjoys waken.

And if you fail? whispers the wind into her ear.

I will not, Sansa returns, and walks into the forest unafraid.

...

Dawn touches the tops of the trees, and Sansa pulls on Jon’s sleeve, goes to stand at the crest of the hill. She can feel her dream plucking at her mind, impatient and itchy, but holds it. For the dream to work, there must be one emotion singing through the minds of the people inside Winterfell, and Sansa’s chosen terror. Only the horn can inspire that kind of bone-deep terror, and Joramun’s told Jon how to get it to work- how to breathe; when to use it; what to expect.

Red spills down until finally it alights on the mussed curls atop Jon’s head.

“Now,” whispers Sansa.

Jon inhales, inhales, inhales. Sansa thinks his lungs must be ten times- a hundred times- larger than hers, because his breath seems unending. Then he pushes it out into the horn, obsidian glittering devil-black, and a noise erupts from it.

If asked to describe it, Sansa would say it was low. But she doesn’t have words for it then: it’s so deep it vibrates in her gut, and inspires a terror in her that feels nameless and bone-deep. The fear of the dark, the fear of death, the fear of falling; the fear of starvation and cold and flame and war and heights and creatures and steel and-

It is the fear of everything that anyone could ever have felt fear of, turned into a sound, made into a call.

Sansa realizes, distantly, that Jon looks far taller than he should. Then she realizes that she’s dropped to her knees, and she’s shivering. Through the miasma, there are faint sounds coming from Winterfell- shouts, alarms, people readying to ride out.

She feels a hand brush against her neck. 

Jon, whose face looks grim and determined. “Your turn,” he says.

My turn. Sansa closes her eyes. Slowly, she clambers to her feet. Inhales. Opens her eyes. My turn.

Dawn sweeps its crimson rays over Winterfell, hiding all the destruction dealt to it by the Greyjoys. Sansa can almost imagine it’s her home once more, with her father in the godswood and her mother in her study, Robb and Jon in the training grounds, Bran and Arya listening to Old Nan’s tales.

Tales.

“Once upon a time,” whispers Sansa, letting the dream spring into reality, singing it forth like a waltz made of words, “there was a hero, who was so afraid it hurt.”

The shouts inside of Winterfell slowly, slowly- go silent. The movement stills. Sansa closes her eyes and leaps forth, flits from mind to mind so she can see if there’s anyone left out of her trap. There is one mind- in the dungeons- but she only needs to push a little, exert muscles that he’s never used in his life, and he, too, folds.

“It’s safe,” says Sansa, lifting out of it. Her eyes meet Jon’s, and she blinks, wipes at it. Her palm comes back stained red. “They’re all asleep.”

...

Halfway to Winterfell, Lyarra comes swirling out of the castle to meet them. There are others behind her, but she’s moving faster than them all. Before she can speak, there’s a sound that comes from the north: a cracking sound, like bone, but deeper. It goes on and on and on, groaning, endless.

And then it’s silenced.

“The Wall,” breathes Lyarra, horrified, before turning on Sansa. “Oh, Sansa, what have you done?”

...

Sansa enters Winterfell, grips Jon’s wrist, and tips her chin up. Flexes her muscles. Wills him to see.

“This is our grandmother,” she says levelly, not looking away from Lyarra. “Grandmother, this is your grandson through your daughter- Jon Snow, of House Targaryen.”

“Sansa,” both of them say at once, warning in both voices that sounds like an echo through time.

She turns her shoulders to meet them both. “Enough secrets,” says Sansa, letting all pretense of calm drip away from her voice to leave it bare-faced stone. “Enough lies. It matters not if it was for protection or for love or for a hatred so deep you cannot imagine your life without it. The world is changing, Grandmother, and I am bringing that change.”

Anger runs hot in her veins, but it runs beneath layers of hurt and betrayal and grief. What did you hope I could do beyond the Wall, with nobody beside me and no idea of where to go? Sansa would ask, if not for the stone sitting in her throat. Instead, she forces out other words.

“The Wall has fallen,” she says. “The Night’s Queen comes. I need help, Grandmother, and not guidance. Will you give it?”

There is a long pause, in which no leaf rustles, no ghost cries out, nobody even dares breathe. Lyarra stares at Sansa, and her eyes are wide with equal parts rage and grief, and she looks like ice made into the likeness of a woman. But then she softens, melts, crumples in on herself, and she says, soft as a summer breeze: “Sansa, Sansa- yes, yes, of course, I shall give it.”

...

“I don’t know if I do the right thing,” Sansa whispers to the weirwood tree. Her trousers are stained at the knees and have ripped entirely near one calf, but Sansa doesn’t have time to darn it. She has less than half a week before the Night’s Queen shall come; she must be ready for it. And still she finds herself kneeling before the hearttree, fear thick in her throat. “I don’t know. I’m so afraid. If I fail, what shall we lose? Am I being too prideful? I’m just a girl. Just a girl. How can I do this?”

“When I did it, I was just a boy.”

Sansa whirls around, knife leaping to her fingers almost by itself. Her eyes make out a silver figure- something gleaming, something soft. It coalesces into a man, of average height and a long face, with hair cut raggedly around him and eyes that could belong to Jon.

“Ah, lass, no dagger can cut me now,” he says, sinking to sit on a stone beside her. 

“When you did what?” asks Sansa, but she thinks she knows.

A Stark face. That particular style of coat. The soft blur of silver at the edges, that must have come from seven thousand years of death.

“When I slayed the Night’s King,” says Brandon Breaker quietly. “And later, when I killed the Night’s Queen. I was but a boy, and one who’d spent half his life knowing only the Long Night. As you are a girl, and still- so often, the world sits on such young shoulders.”

Sansa curls in on herself. She can scarcely breathe. 

“You call me a hero. But ah, lass- hope is so difficult to hold in the darkness. And without hope, we do terrible things.” He shakes his head, and the air in the godswood stills as if forced calm. “Grand things, great things, but terrible as well. And there I was, but a boy with a world to save.”

“It must have been difficult,” whispers Sansa.

“The most difficult thing I ever did.” He doesn’t smile like Joramun did- Sansa thinks he’s more solemn, perhaps more likely to feel the weight of his sins. “There were nights after, when I wished I died with it- so I would be remembered as a hero, and nothing more. But even that, I did not finish! Thirteen generations since Brandon Builder did the Long Night fall, did the Night’s Queen rise once more, and I could have ended her for all eternity. And all I did was bind her so deep to winter that it took a winter the likes of which the world hasn’t experienced in seven thousand years to waken. Had I not been blinded with grief... the world would be a very different place.”

“But you survived,” Sansa points out. “You lived. You taught your sons, and they taught theirs, enough for the stories to survive seven thousand years.”

“Is that what they told you? I did not teach my sons, lass- I erased it all. Books, bindings, magic. For magic stole from me my mother and my sisters and my brothers, and from magic did I steal its practice, its knowledge, its art.” Brandon says it calmly enough, but Sansa can see- there is fury there, old, tired rage. “And before I burned the book that could have saved you now, I bound us to death, for I did not think I could bear seeing those that I had failed so grievously.”

Sansa tips her head up, looks at the bark, the scraping growth of the trees around her; the red face carved into the weirwood in front of her, the stone before it, worn smooth from thousands of years of supplicants.

“There is always another way,” she says.

Or so do I hope. So do I hope, until that, too, is stricken from me.

“Ah,” says Brandon, blurring further until Sansa can’t make out any parts of his face. “Hope. ‘Tis easy to forget, when you exist for as long as I have. You’ll have to make sure you don’t rely on that alone, lass, if you wish to survive.”

Sansa swallows. Gathers her courage, and her voice. “But, my lord,” she dares, soft as a falling feather, “what would survival mean, if hope did not matter?”

Brandon stares at her. “Nothing,” he says, after a pause. “Nothing at all. Remember that, then, if you would rather your heart be broken than your life colorless: remember that you are not alone. Remember that, because death makes us all feel so empty and lonely, but it is not true. You are surrounded, always, by those who love you. A Stark in Winterfell is never alone. That is truth.”

Never alone. 

What do I have? 

I have myself, and Jon, and a sword of Valyrian steel, and seven thousand years of ghosts. And the Night’s Queen is of Stark blood, borne of Brandon the Builder, who is my ancestor a thousand generations back.

“So you think I can do it?” Sansa asks.

Something flickers in Brandon’s eyes. What would have been a smile in another man lightens his face. 

“Close your eyes,” he says. “Imagine a world where the Others win. Imagine your mother bloodless and blue-skinned, your father with rotten holes in his hands. Your sister sobbing. The sky black as pitch, and no sun to lighten it. An army of shattered men and women, cold to the bone, ragged and held together with nothing more than a dream of dawn. Could you live in such a world, Sansa Stark?”

You know my name, Sansa thinks, wondering. You know my name, you who have been known for millennia. 

“Could you live in such a world, knowing you did not do all that you could to stop it?”

“No,” whispers Sansa.

“Would you fight against all reason, beyond all desire, to ensure such a world does not arise?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe you can win?”

Sansa bows her head. “Yes.”

“How fiercely do you want it?”

“Terribly.” Sansa lifts her chin, meets Brandon Breaker’s gaze, and doesn’t look away. “Endlessly. Infinitely.”

“Then it matters not what I think,” Brandon tells her, a twist to his lips like a bird’s sweeping wing on his face, “for you shall be triumphant.”

...

Hidden deep in Sansa knapsack is a slink of flowers that has been there since she threatened her grandfather. Dried sword lily, tied together with white wool stained red from Sansa’s own blood. It’s the matter of only a few minutes to unwind the wool and crush the dried flowers to a powder. 

Sansa lights a pile of kindling and balances a pot of snow from it. She tosses the powdered lily into the pot, then retreats to the entrance to see the sun. It might very well be her last time seeing it- she’s released Ghost and Lady to go south and meet up with Bran and the Children in Skagos, and it’s only Jon awake, alive, now, sitting on Winterfell’s highest tower and sharpening his sword.

A cold wind touches Sansa’s cheeks, stirs the short ends of her hairs against her forehead, and she closes her eyes.

“Do you know what you are doing?” asks Lyarra.

“I think so,” murmurs Sansa. “I hope so.”

“The Night’s Queen shall be here by dawn,” says Lyarra calmly. She isn’t looking at Sansa- she, too, is looking up at the sky bruised purple. “But there are no rumors of the dead ruining Last Hearth. Perhaps you were right, when you said you knew what you were doing.”

“And perhaps I was wrong,” says Sansa. “A slender hope, that is what you think. Too slender to carry the fate of the world.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No.” Sansa breathes in. Godswood, dust, horses. And under it all, the clean scent of winter. She is Winterfell’s daughter, and winter has come, and she will not let morning fall. “But fear has never won wars either, Grandmother.”

Lyarra turns and runs her fingers over Sansa’s jaw, light, shivering-cold. “I don’t like this,” she whispers, face drawn tight and shadowed. “But I have always loved you, Sansa, and I will continue to love you long past any measure of time. That you believed me to wish harm to you- for any reason at all- there can be no greater pain. I don’t like this, my darling, my dearest, but I will stand by you. Remember that. Fear the Night’s Queen, and the dead, and what your failure might mean. But never doubt, not for a single breath, that I will not stand beside you.

“You are my granddaughter,” she says, so blisteringly forceful that Sansa cannot help but break out into goose-bumps. “And we ghosts of Winterfell, we ghosts of House Stark, have loved you for longer than you can know. When you have need of us, call. Call, and we shall answer.”

“I cannot control you,” Sansa says, almost soundless. “All I can do is-”

“Love us,” says Lyarra. “All you can do is love us. Did you think your love unreturned? We have loved you, and that love means trust, and that trust means that when you call, we shall answer. You cannot control us, Sansa, sweetling girl: but oh, love, you can ask.”

Gifts. Sansa wants to shake out of her skin. Not debts. How do you survive death? You craft a legacy longer than anything you could do yourself. How do you gain allies? You open your heart, and allow those that don’t plunge knives into the depths to take shelter.

“I love you,” whispers Sansa, bending forward, wishing desperately for something to embrace, something solid to hold onto. “I love you, Grandmother. I- thank you.”

“You are a Stark,” says Lyarra.

She looks glorious. Cut diamond, stars on white snow, silk draped over flawless skin- nothing could match how Lyarra looks now, as glorious as Elia had ever looked on the beach. Lyarra has no need to call for her family from above for guidance: she holds that glory within herself.

“You are a Stark,” Lyarra says again. “You will do what must be done, Stark-daughter, wolf-girl, death-speaker. And you will be triumphant. I know it, and I would swear on it, if blood remained in my veins. Do you understand me?”

Sansa looks up at her, where Lyarra’s risen to catch the moonlight shining down on them. The last silver light she might ever see in her life, perhaps her last night on earth. Maybe tomorrow, she will be another wight in the Night’s Queen’s army, blue-skinned and rotting through. But she has tonight.

She has tonight.

“Yes,” says Sansa. Then louder, and louder, and louder still: “Yes. Yes. Yes!”

For all that she has lost, and all that she might yet lose, but still: for all that she yet has, all these innumerable gifts given to her for the simple sake of love by silent ghosts. People long dead, who believe in her, the last in their long line. The last scion of an ancient house, with a duty and the ability to act.

Yes, thinks Sansa, face tipped back, tears blurring all the colors of the night sky so all she sees is blackness and silver, the stars above her and her grandmother, dead for decades but right next to her nevertheless. Yes, I can do this.

...

Jon comes to her a few hours later, almost midnight, and says, in a voice strained tight, “I can see them.”

Sansa inhales sharply. “It’s time, then,” she says, and walks into the crypts.

Within, the kindling has turned to ash. Jon stands at the entrance. The water has stained a dull red, and Sansa lifts the pot with a hand carefully covered in two layers of cloth before pouring the hot liquid over Dark Sister. 

Faith, thinks Sansa, moving as easily as she knows to. Remembrance. Family. Integrity. I will never give up, and that is what this means.

“I am Sansa of House Stark,” she says, voice breaking a little before she inhales, before she remembers the touch of Lyarra’s fingers, cold and soft against her cheeks. She lifts the sword. Grips it tight. “Eldest daughter of the Lord of Winterfell. I am a dreamspeaker and a wolfsinger. I am as what you see: your daughter, your heir. You know me. You have known me since I was a child, and you have protected me for all those long years. And now there is a darkness coming, a darkness that shall end us all, birthed from Stark blood, crafted on this very soil. I ask you, all of you who share my blood, all of you who desire it, all of you who can: will you aid me?”

There is such silence for so long that Sansa starts to quail. 

Perhaps Lyarra lied. 

But no, no, because Sansa knows her grandmother, and she knows Lyarra would not lie to her. Not about this. Not with that look in her eyes, hot love and hotter pride.

Then silver light speeds from the entrance, small and compact, and wraps around Dark Sister. Sansa, holding onto the hilt, nearly drops the sword- memories come to her, the taste of sun, dry sand, sweet rose. Lyanna, thinks Sansa, distantly, stunned. Lyanna has come from Dorne. Sansa’s call has pierced so far as to-

Another blur of light comes, seals over Lyanna’s, and Sansa has less than a heartbeat to recognize Brandon before Rickard overlays him. Lyarra wraps over Rickard’s ghost, and it becomes a haze after that: seven thousand years of ghosts, weighting the sword but remaining weightless; one after the other, until all Sansa knows is silver light, faint impressions, warmth like open flame in that part of her that feels like she can swallow the world whole with the love she holds for her family now.

“I hope you’re ready,” Jon calls back to her. 

Sansa jerks her head up to see him rotate Longclaw and sink into a battle stance. But there’s more ghosts coming, an almost endless surge, and Sansa feels her heart start to race. 

If I’m not ready-

I will be. 

She sees the Night’s King enter- just the sight of him, Sansa’s first sight- leaves her feeling as weak as a newborn lamb. He’s tall, skin flawless, with eyes that blaze blue as a cloudless sky. Atop his brow sits a crown of ice, formed into nine jagged swords. Sansa hisses out through her teeth before she can stop herself. It’s a mockery of the crowns of ancient Stark kings. 

How dare you, she thinks, and it sits in her breast like a clawing beast.

But then: behind the Night’s King comes the Night’s Queen.

She’s not taller than the King; but she is slender, and her skin might have just been any human’s- it’s very faintly blue, but only enough to highlight the cracking blue of her eyes. Her face looks like how Arya might look in ten years’ time: beautiful, untouchable, sharp as a hatchet.

Into the silence of her approach, Jon gives a cry and charges the Night’s King, but he cannot keep the Queen at bay; once he’s occupied, the Queen starts forwards with such implacable force that it seems impossible to stop her.

Sansa grits her teeth. There are still ghosts coming, though she doesn’t know how many more are to come- but when they do, all she can think of is them, her family, this Stark family that both she and the Night’s Queen are daughters of. She wants to bow against the terrible weight of that knowledge. She straightens instead and meets the Queen, eye to eye, height to height.

“I died here,” she says.

For a moment, Sansa isn’t certain who spoke. She’d expected silence- in her wildest dreams, she’d imagined an old, croaking voice. But the Night’s Queen sounds more like a young woman than anything; like Jeyne, before she’d died; like Arya, like Sansa herself.

It is the stuff of nightmares.

“The dead are here,” the child-Queen continues, turning terrible eyes upon Sansa, the color of silver and steel and death. “I can feel them. My father. My brothers.”

“Their sons,” whispers Sansa. “And all the rest, for eight thousand years.”

“Will you stop me?” the Queen cocks her head to the side, studying Sansa closely. “I have been here before. But I was driven back before I could touch my father and brothers. That man wielded steel better than even the man behind me does.”

Sansa bites her lip. Deflect, she thinks. Until this is over. Until you know. Until you can act.

“Why do you want to touch your father and brothers?” she asks.

“Because I am hungry, and whenever I am hungry I go to my father,” says the Queen serenely. “He is-” her brow furrows a little, before clearing. “-it matters not. I know he is here. Shall you stop me?”

A child, thinks Sansa, horrified. The Night’s Queen is beautiful and lovely and dangerous beyond all doubt; but she is also a child: young, and she wants her father to save her, and instead of attempting to help her, all those who have come before Sansa have simply hurt her, banished her, killed her.

She feels the hilt of Dark Sister go cold as ice under her fingers. White fire springs into being around the blade, and Sansa swallows hard. Do what must be done, for there is none else who can do it. 

I am so sorry, thinks Sansa.

“You are a daughter of my family,” she says, flexing her wrist and lifting the sword, sinking into the opening stance for a duel. “And it is my duty to save the world from you. Yes. I shall stop you.”

The Night’s Queen flicks her wrist and snow coalesces into a sword around her hand. Sansa spins to meet the Queen’s terrible strength with her own. 

She’s much stronger than Sansa, and in a fair battle, Sansa would’ve died easily. But this is Winterfell, and Sansa bears a sword that needs only stab the Queen a little, and Sansa has spent long months being trained by a woman who tamed dragons and entire kingdoms. 

Remember, thinks Sansa, cutting against one of the Queen’s blows and deflecting another, you always have more than the edge of a blade.

The Queen throws her across the cavern, and Sansa crashes into the crypt of some king. She rises, blinking white spots out of her eyes, and comes forward to meet the Queen once more. One breath, and Sansa feels her ankle snap as the Queen turns into a blur of blue and white and cutting snow. She has to concentrate to even hold onto Dark Sister. 

Beyond the Queen’s shoulder she can see Jon pushing the King backwards. Blood flows freely from Jon’s side, but he’s not flinching.

She is not faster than the Queen. She is not stronger than the Queen. She might very well not be smarter than the Queen.

But Sansa has her family beside her. 

And she has never wanted anything more. 

The desire subsumes her, turns all of her skin to ash, makes her a creature of little more than flame and steel and want.

Sansa breathes deep and steps forward, into one of the Queen’s furious movements. Sometimes, the only way to beat people is not to be smarter than them. Sometimes, the only way is to be stupid enough to trust in a blade of fire and family and seven thousand years of ghosts. 

I am a Stark. I am a wolfsinger and a dreamspeaker and a hopebringer, and triumph runs in my veins as red as blood.

The trusty dagger that she’d stolen from an apple farmer, that had let her drag herself out of a river, that remained sharp and unrusted, meets the Queen’s blade of ice and holds briefly before shattering.

For just long enough for Sansa to thrust Dark Sister between the Night’s Queen’s ribs.

She always has more than the edge of a blade.

She always has the point, as well.

“A blade of integrity and remembrance,” whispers Sansa, dragging the words out of herself. “A blade of family and death. Your death comes from Valyrian steel and Stark flame. May you feel peace in the afterlife.”

The Queen holds onto Dark Sister, mouth open. Her eyes, blue and beautiful, are wide. She looks impossibly young. Regret sits, sour-sweet, on Sansa’s tongue. Slowly, she drops to her knees, and even slower, her body starts to turn to- not dust, but flakes of snow. 

Before all of her fades, she reaches up. Grips Sansa’s forearm, and yanks her forward, and holds onto her face.

“I am death,” she whispers, breath like fresh wind on Sansa’s face. “I know death. And- your eyes are dead.” 

One hand claws up, painful, so powerful, and Sansa couldn’t move even if she wished it. A single one of the Queen’s fingers touches her eye, and a pain the likes of which Sansa’s never known sweeps through her body.

And then: darkness.

...

Through the darkness, Sansa sees silver.

Then color. There are ghosts around her, ghosts that brush against her and touch her wrists, her throat. For the first time in her life, they feel solid.

“Oh, Sansa,” breathes a voice Sansa’s known for almost her whole life. “Oh, my sweetling, what have you done to yourself?” Lyarra’s arms are so warm around her that Sansa wants to shiver apart. Wants to weep. Wants to never emerge.

“Am I dead?” Sansa asks, trembling.

“No,” says one man- Torrhen Stark, watching Sansa with eyes of lightest brown, that she’d always imagined grey before. “You are alive. But you have not much time to do what must be done.”

“Let her be,” snaps Lyarra, backing away just enough to glare at Torrhen and still remain warm around Sansa’s body. “She’s just been through the battle of her life.”

“If we’d the time I would,” says Jocelyn quietly. “But she must act before the Queen returns to the world of the living. A blade of familial responsibility and regret and our lives killed her- I’ve no idea how long it will chain her here.”

Aching, Sansa levers herself upright. “And where is here?”

“The in-between,” says another woman, with a hawk-like nose and a severe expression. “Starks have not passed beyond for seven thousand years.” Her face is pale, drawn tight, and she speaks like she’s spitting the words out. “The world has forgotten, I think, the natural state of things.”

“Not the world,” disputes Brandon Builder, stepping out of the throng and nodding lazily to the blade that Sansa hadn’t noticed still sits in her hand. He bears, in his arms, a shrunken Queen- some blue-edged bundle that looks too sharp to be cradled so easily. “That blade. We anchored ourselves to it; so long as Sansa holds us to our task, we shall be held here. If she lets us go, it becomes a choice- to stay, as I bound you, or to leave, as she allows.”

Sansa shakes her head, trying to get the fuzziness out. “Go?” she says, frowning. “Go where?”

“To the beyond,” says Lyarra, brushing over Sansa’s hair, face averted. “Where other families go. Where people of peace go.”

Elia, thinks Sansa, remembering how she had opened the veil of life and death to see her blood, to ask for advice, to rescind an oath of vengeance. But we are not Martells. We are Starks, and-

And it is unfair.

“I don’t want to,” whispers Sansa.

Lyarra closes her eyes. “I know,” she says sadly. “I know, my love. But you must, if you are to survive. If any of the world is to survive.”

Aching, bruised, ankle a mass of screaming pain, Sansa rises to her feet. Turns. Searches for one specific person- and sees her. 

Lyanna.

She’s so small, and so slender; her hair is a thick fall of lustrous of darkness behind her. She looks like Arya and the Queen and Lyarra and still- like herself, unique, smaller and slier and with an upturn to her lips that leaves her looking amused at the entire world. 

“Do you want to go?” Sansa asks, hands clenching.

Lyanna blinks. “It's going to be an adventure,” she says. “And it will be better than living in a desert in the middle of Dorne, I’m sure.”

“Jon would want to see you,” Sansa tells her, trying not to let her voice shake.

“I know.” Something softens in her face, and she looks older for it. “I love him. Please tell him that. I’m so proud of him, and I love him, and he is my life’s dearest achievement. I have never loved anyone so well as I loved him for those three days before I died. Tell him that.”

“But- are you afraid?”

“I am,” agrees Lyanna, and her eyes look like Jon’s- unafraid, terrifying, beautiful. “But fear has never won anything.”

Sansa expels a breath that feels like a sob. Letting go of all of these people- everyone that has ever made her feel less lonely, all of these people that have loved her as she hasn’t been loved by her own brothers and sisters- how can Sansa live in a world like that? How can Sansa be so alone?

I will do what must be done. 

Her heart breaks as she drops the sword.

It clatters against the floor. As the blade hits the floor, a doorway appears: glowing white and silver and the grey of Stark banners. 

Lyanna gives Sansa a faint, quicksilver smile, and steps into the doorway.

Brandon hugs her, claps a hand to Lyarra’s shoulder, and strolls through the door like he’s off on a hunt. Rickard goes next, after a sad quirk of his lips to Sansa. 

Lyarra closes her eyes. She embraces Sansa, so tightly that Sansa cries out, then pulls away. She is crying for the first time that Sansa has seen, and she is not beautiful with it- her face is blotchy, her nose running, her hair in disarray. But Lyarra doesn’t flinch or try to fix her appearance; she just stares, stares, stares at Sansa, hands warm and solid for the first time that Sansa’s ever felt, as if she is trying to memorize what Sansa is, how she looks.

“Remember this,” she whispers, pressing her hand over Sansa’s breast, over her heart. “Remember who you are, Sansa, now that I am not there. You will have to carry our memories within you, now, and I-” she falters, before picking up again. “And I could not do such a thing, but you- oh, dear heart, you can manage whatever you put your mind to.” She brushes away the first of Sansa’s tears. “I have loved you with a depth deeper than the bowels of the earth, and a light steadier than any star. You hold a strength within you that can conquer mountains, my sweetling girl. Don’t ever forget that. Don’t ever let anyone take that from you.”

She walks backwards, straight into the doorway, and disappears into a shower of silver. The last thing to disappear of Lyarra are her eyes- those Stark eyes, which are mournful and brilliant and beautiful, all at once.

Sansa stands there, hands outstretched, as if she could feel Lyarra once more. As if someone of cold wind and warm words will emerge again, and hold her, and promise her: it will be alright.

But no one appears.

Her hand aches, and Sansa lets it drop. She stares, blankly, and watches as the others go through- she doesn’t look away. Scarcely blinks, or breathes. Just watches her family fade away before her eyes.

Finally, it is only Brandon Builder before her, bearing the shriveled bundle of the Night’s Queen, tall and handsome and still sad.

“You might follow us, you know,” he says, eyes sharp on Sansa. 

Sansa shakes her head. Scrabbles for words. “I’m not dead.”

“That is easily fixed.” Brandon hefts the Queen. “It is the dead that cannot return to life, but the living turning to death? What is that but the turn of time?” He shakes his head a little. “Tell me, what do you have in the world now, Sansa?”

“My family,” she says, a little wildly. “My parents. My brothers. My sister. I can still lead a-”

“-a normal life? I think not. What man can understand you, who has held the power of thousands of people in your hand, who has defeated the very dead? Who will you tell these tales to? Who would believe you? None, surely.”

Sansa remembers how she ran from Riverrun: the shame, the hot anger, the fear. Her parents would disapprove of everything she’s done. Her brothers, her sister- she wonders how she’ll survive it, being this proud of her blood now and having to hide it all when she meets them.

Once I’d been easy to love, thinks Sansa, and her chest aches with a pain far deeper than her ankle. They hadn’t loved me much then. Now, it will be so much more difficult.

“I can step through that door?” she asks softly.

Brandon nods. “If you wish it. The door will forever be open, now, with the Queen gone. Any of Stark blood can walk through it.”

Slowly, shambling, Sansa makes her way to the door. She grips the outside and sways, and turns back to Brandon. Before she can forget, before she can lose all her nerve, she says, “Joramun wished for me to tell you- seven thousand years is too long to hold a grudge.”

For the first time, a smile leavens Brandon’s face, like bread slowly rising. “It is,” he says. “It is too long indeed.”

Then Sansa throws herself forward.

Silver light, white light, spins past her. Sansa chokes. Tries to breathe. Thinks- it shouldn’t hurt this much. Something catches in her chest, and she cries out. She twists and sees- something’s holding her to the door, tethered, a rope wound around her chest in that hollow that comes when she wishes to weep. 

Not a rope, realizes Sansa. A vine.

Tears.

Minisa, who taught her to weep, who carved that hollow into Sansa’s body. Who attached a vine there, and what had she said?

If you ever find yourself on the verge of breaking- promise me that you will follow the flowers. Promise me that you shall return, if ever you find yourself too worn to go on.

And had not Sansa promised to return? But, oh, she is so tired; she wishes for nothing more than to rest. Perhaps this is a promise that ought to be broken. She closes her eyes and readies herself to cut the vine, but then a flower blossoms around her wrists, large and bright as her hair had once been. 

With it comes a memory: Jon, sitting on a log, cold wind all around them. We would have tried our best, he says, and means it.

And there’s a bloom right above it- so pretty, all brilliant blue like a shining sky- and Sansa pulls herself up, just a little, to run her fingers over it, to see Arya on a boat, sobbing like she can’t breathe, as she watches Sansa get captured by the Lannister soldiers in King’s Landing’s harbor.

Then a purple one, small, made of ten tiny flowers all clustered together, just a few inches further, so all Sansa must do is lift her hand, stretch, and see it, wonder. Her father stumbling, dreaming of Sansa, moving swifter than any man with a lame leg should be able to, spurred on by memories of a daughter who saved him.

More memories, one after the other, luring Sansa higher. 

Her mother lighting candles in the sept of Riverrun and the dead godswood at Raventree Hall despite not believing in the old gods. Robb’s face twisting to a fury darker than any thunderstorm when he hears of Joffrey’s crimes against her. Arya again, wearing a gown softer than baby skin and remembering Sansa for the full night. Her mother promising vengeance on all Lannisters when her father tells her how he escaped. Robb huddled in his rooms, crown discarded, a boy of sixteen years and weeping because he can’t save Sansa.

More. More. More.

Higher.

Higher.

Higher.

Until Sansa feels swollen with it, raw with it. 

She hadn’t realized she was crying until wind tugs at her face, and all she knows is the bursting love she holds for her family, whom she has doubted for too long, whom she has loved for so, so much longer. The vine ends, and Sansa feels hard stone under her fingers. She clutches onto the doorway. But she must pull herself up, now, and she is tired, so tired. 

Rickon, she remembers. Three years old, curled over Shaggydog, cold and hungry in Skagos, chanting their names to keep warm. He remembers them. He remembers her.

Creakingly slowly, aching in parts of her that Sansa’s never known to ache before, she drags herself through the doorway.

“You’re... back?” she hears Brandon ask, looking taken aback.

Sansa searches for her voice. How to explain what she’s learned? How to explain the love of her family, which is enough to sustain her for the rest of her days?

“I changed my mind,” she says slowly.

Brandon smiles, swift, there and gone, and he nods. “A word of advice,” he tells her. “When you go back, make sure you keep an escape route handy.”

“I want-”

“Just advice,” he says, and backs away to the doorway. “From a man who once had to return to normalcy, when the world ought to have felt changed.”

Then, in a voice deeper and kinder than any he’d ever spoken to her before, he says, “It was an honor to meet you, Lady Sansa. May you have wings at your feet, and the wind at your back, and may the wolves sing songs of your triumphs.” He steps closer to the door and lifts his head. “Until we meet again. I expect you shall have many grander stories to tell by then.”

He disappears then, falling backward, easy, and Sansa inhales to speak. But between one blink and the next, the in-between room disappears to reveal the crypts of Winterfell once more. It’s so much darker, and her head hurts where the Queen had held onto it, and Jon is hovering over her, pale-faced and frightened.

“You’re alive,” he breathes, and slumps backward.

“I- yes,” says Sansa. She can feel the dried tracks of tears on her face, and there are aches all over her body. Her left shoulder is a bleeding mass from the shattered blade; her ankle is just a mess; her fingers can’t actually work right. “I’m- alright.” She lifts a hand, just to see the movement, and can’t believe it works. “I thought- but- I wasn’t, for a minute.”

“I know,” says Jon, pressing a hand to his face. “You weren’t breathing.”

“Oh.”

“Can you walk?”

Sansa thinks about it. But the world is starting to spin around her, and she really is so tired now; she doesn’t know. She starts to say that, then changes her mind. “No,” she says, in a small voice. “I don’t think so.”

But no annoyance shades Jon’s face. He lifts her, and it is relief painting his features, making him look nothing like a Stark- or at least, not like Brandon or Torrhen or Rickard. Perhaps this shall be her legacy: relief and love and kindness, and not fear. Not grief. Not pain.

Let this end with me, thinks Sansa. Please, let this pain end with me. Let none of my children and none of my children’s children know anything like this. That is all that I ask for. She thinks there ought to be a word for a girl like her, a girl with a broken heart and a steady beat and eyes that only ever see brightness, in even the darkest places. Fool, she thinks, eyes drifting shut, exhaustion almost swallowing her. I am a fool. 

But then, as she sees sunrise from within Winterfell, a Winterfell slowly waking from her dream, Sansa thinks: No. I am a protector.

A protector of what? she’d wondered, once, ages previous, bruised and weary in front of Visenya.

Now she knows the answer: Life itself.

...

Sansa sleeps, for the days after.

One day, then two, then three. She doesn’t know when she wakes and when she sleeps, but she also cannot find it in herself to care. She’s mourning all that she has lost and loving all that she has learned, and her heart is a mess from the contradictions. She’s so tired that her only response is to sleep.

But on the third day, she rises from the rushes Jon had scattered over the cave’s floor and heads for the entrance. Her throat is parched and her head feels dizzy, slightly, as if she’s drunk so much wine there’s an effect even the morning after. It takes some effort. Sansa’s body has weakened over the past days.

Jon’s seated not far from the entrance- in plain sight, sharpening his sword with the slow, steady movements that come from years of practice. Sansa picks her way over to him, gritting her teeth when the world sways.

“You’re up,” he says, without looking up.

Sansa sinks down to the moss. Here in the mountains, it feels softer; the world, the ground, the clouds. Perhaps in winter it will become worse, but for now it feels like those weeks before spring fully come in: chilly, but softened by the promise of warmth. It is a strange thought when she compares this world to Lyarra, who’d been born here, who’d loved this land with everything inside of her, who’d always seemed so hardened.

“Yes,” she replies through the rasp in her throat. “I’m not sure if I’m happy about that yet.”

“The Greyjoys will come looking here, too, soon enough.” One hand balances the sword hilt. The other uses a whetstone to sharpen the edges. At his feet are Dark Sister and three other knives, each having been sharpened already. “If you don’t tell me where to go, I’ll take you further into the mountains. But it will be harder to return to the lowlands, the further we go.”

I don’t want to leave.

And on the heels of that thought, biting like a stray dog: I don’t want to stay here.

I want to go home, to see everyone. To hold them. To tell them that I love them.

“South, I think,” says Sansa, clearing her throat. “To Father, and Robb, and the others.”

“You want to tell them what you’ve done?” asks Jon, eyes widening fractionally.

Sansa leans backward. “No,” she admits. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea. But I think we should tell them- that we're alive. Alright.”

Very carefully, Jon sets aside his sword. “I won’t be able to do that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sansa tells him. “What’ll they say to you? That you ought to return to the Wall? That you ought to take up the mantle of Lord Commander once more? The Wall doesn’t exist any longer.” She reaches out, nudges his shoulder. “The world’s changed, Jon, and it’s changed in ways we probably don’t know ourselves. The Wall is gone. We’re here, and the Others won’t ever rise again. I think it’s time we accepted that change.”

“That’ll only work if they realize the Wall’s fallen,” mutters Jon.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Oh, I see the issue now. You’re thinking the lot of them are idiots, and you’re worried they’ll kill you before you can open your mouth.” She tangles her fingers in his hair and yanks hard at it until Jon bats her hand away, cursing. “You’re thinking Robb’s going to stab you before you say a single word- you think he’s that good at swords, is it, that you’ll just roll over and die?”

Jon pauses. “No,” he says, sighing. “But. You’re certain? This’s what you want?”

“Yes,” says Sansa, eyes drifting shut, letting the air settle on her skin. “Yes, I’m certain.”

...

Epilogue:

Three weeks after she’s returned to Riverrun, to her parents, to Arya and Robb, and Sansa is ready to scratch her skin off. She is tired of people whispering about her hair- a tragedy, they say, all of them; and Sansa had agreed with the first few to say it, but now she feels a perverse sort of joy in the short, shining strands. She is impatient with her parents, who believe her deepest desire is to leave behind her travels and return to life as their daughter. She is furious at Robb and his stupid betrothals, which he’s already been talking about arranging between her and some Frey.

She’d enjoyed the soft bed and the clean clothes and how it felt to take a bath after months of grime- but those creature comforts are now outweighed by other things. 

“It isn’t easy,” she tells Arya, leaning back against the tree trunk. “To know the world, to see it- the good and the bad- and then to have it taken from you. As if we aren’t old enough!”

“They’re worried about you,” says Arya, pelting some far-off target with acorns. “You and Jon, to be fair. At least they can marry you off. They have no idea what to do with him.”

“And if I don’t want to marry the eightieth Frey named Walder?” Sansa grouses, hefting one acorn in her hand, then flicking it out to rap against a knot on a nearby trunk. “If all I want to do is go to King’s Landing and watch as Jaime Lannister dies slowly, for hurting Bran, and Joffrey even slower, for all his crimes?” She pauses, then continues without letting Arya speak. “What if I’ve no wish to wed, Arya? What if I cannot see myself married to a man who cannot understand me, who will not understand me- how can I do it? It would be a shackle. It would be a prison!”

Arya’s not listening to her. She’s staring at the knot that Sansa’d struck with the acorn. Sansa can’t think of why. When she finally turns to Sansa, her eyes are shining like twin suns.

“Oh,” she breathes, a wicked smile curving her lips. “You’ve changed.”

Yes, thinks Sansa, and remembers her promise to Lyarra. It feels like something broken, but also- something growing. A bone healing right, this time. I have changed. Maybe that means...

A germ of an idea takes root in her mind, and no matter how she knocks at it, it won’t go away.

...

Jon is halfway to drinking away one more evening of absolute shit when something clangs against his arm. He tips his head up and stares, and sees a tall figure wearing a thick cloak, hair bright as the candles lighting the inn.

“What,” he grumps.

“Get up,” hisses Robb, dragging him upright and lurching with him awkwardly to the door. 

He dumps Jon on his arse right after they step outside, flicking his cloak out of the way, and Jon makes the connection.

“Sansa?” he demands, surging to his feet. The world spins, and Jon glares at her through it. “What’re you doing out here alone?”

“Getting you sober,” she says crisply. Then she smiles, and it looks like- the sun rising, or the goddess of mischief, or perhaps just Sansa, young and impish and frightening in her joy. “I’ve got some things to do, and you don’t have any places to be, so I thought... why not?”

“Why not what?”

“Why not go on an adventure,” she says. 

Jon looks down and sees- Dark Sister, belted at her waist again, in a black scabbard. Good quality boots. A neat cloak. Sansa’s not skimping on the travel costs this time. He swallows hard. 

“Your parents-”

“Our family.”

“Fine.” Jon clears his throat. “Do they know?”

“What do you think?”

He closes his eyes. “They’ll kill me. What do you have to do?”

“I swore a vow to Visenya,” says Sansa easily. “I think- I think it’s past time I held it.”

“Sansa,” says Jon, acutely aware that he’s being herded into shrubbery tall enough to conceal some horses, “what, exactly, does that vow entail?”

She grins at him. Hands him some reins. 

“Burning some bones,” she says. “Making some enemies. At least it’ll be warm in Dorne!”

No, says one part of Jon’s gut.

But he’s already mounting the horse, and he’s already slipping Longclaw’s scabbard onto his waist, and he’s already thinking about how fucked he’s going to be when they do get to the desert and he has to deal with the heat.

Ah, Dorne, he thinks, watching lamps flicker off Sansa’s hair, turning it to liquid light for the briefest of moments, I hope you’re ready for us.

I hope you’re ready for her.

[khadorek]

WENT DOWN IN HISTORY-

(at long last I am posting this! This is my first major piece in a while, so it might be a little flimsy at parts haha. This was also asked by @safrona-shadowsun, enjoy!)

The Hinterlands, ~37years after the current date

“C’mon grandma, I want to Uncle Og!” The little boy, who wasbarely older than eight exclaimed as the grey-haired woman in question hurryingalong behind holding the hand of a much smaller girl who staggered along inthat curious way toddlers do.

“Slow down, Michael, Angela and I can only go so fast.”Katherena laughed softly, though deep down she couldn’t shake the feeling ofmelancholy that was always with her when she came to this place; so manymemories in this quiet little tavern for that was what the Blue Raven mostlyserved as these days. Though the Brotherhood had not disbanded by any means, inthe days following the final battles against the shadow, and the beginning ofan age of peace between nearly ever faction of Azeroth and beyond, the demandfor mercenaries had fallen dramatically. As such, the Brotherhood of Valor hadmostly become a gathering hall for veterans and their families the world over,and General Ogrimskar, or ‘Uncle Oggy’ as a small army of children had taken tocalling him, spent much of his time regaling these children with stories of thegreat battles of the Brotherhood, much to their continued delight, andoccasional chagrin of their elders, as for better or for worse, Og rarelyskimped on the details and personal opinions. Kath had bore witness to her fairshare of these stories as they happened, so they didn’t have much appeal toher, but she promised the young ones that she’d take them out to the Raven forthe first time today; she couldn’t bear to let them down, despite her ownpersonal reservations. Still, as they passed along the Walk of Valor, the stonewalkway that lead up to the front doors of the inn, her feelings only grew moreintense in the shadows of the heroes of the Brotherhood, many of which had castoff their mortal bonds in the long years of conflict prior, now foreverimmortalized in the stone and metal figureheads that now towered above themalong the walkway. She felt small under their unflinching gaze, and she washesitant to meet it or read the names at their bases, though by now she knewthem well; Cyrus Bain, Dare Cogspanner, Field Medic Arexzia, Kurt…

“Hey who’s this guy?” Michael calls out, and Kath turned tothe direction of his voice, and her heart sank; of all the statues of allthe heroes, he had to notice the one that was closest to her heart. Wrought ingleaming metal and ageless stone, this statue stood head and shoulders overmany of the other human statues on the walk, blade extended on an angle towardsthe sky, helmet held in his shield hand letting his sharp features and longhair be exposed for all to see. Kath shuddered softly as she approached,reading the dais at the base of the statue to herself as she did so.

(Mood music, enjoy the feels)

Knight CaptainKhadorek Perceval Blackbyrne, the Unyielding, Champion of the Valarjar and ofthe Brotherhood. Disappeared in the Battle of Blackheart’s Rift.

“That” Kath began, trying to keep her words steady, “is Khadorek,he was a knight, like one pulled straight from the story books.”

“A knight? Was he strong? Where did he get that fancy sword?Was it magic? What happened to him?” Michael asked, excited to hear about thisnew figure.

“One of the strongest,” Kath replies, placing a hand at thebase of the statue, “and yet… also one of the gentlest; he was brave and kind,and utterly loyal to those he cared for…” She went on, starting to get a littlechoked up. “I’m not sure you want me to tell you that, ‘Uncle Og’ can likely doit better.” She suggests half-heartedly, and Michael, his excitement preventinghim from entirely noticing his grandmother’sinternal strife, nods eagerly. Kath looked down to the little girl, letting goof her hand. “Go on ahead with your brother, Angela, I’ll catch up with yousoon.” She tells the little girl, who nods and moves to follow him.

“Ok!” Michael exclaims as he runs down the path, Angeladoing her best to keep up, and soon Kath was alone with the statues. She smilessadly, running her hand along the base.

“Oh Khadorek…” She whispers, a single tear rolling down hercheek as she looked up to the statue’s face, a face she remembered so painfullywell. It was so full of life back then, and now this was all that remained; a coldimitation of the proud, grinning visage he wore in life, as grey as the hairthat fell from her scalp. She closed her eyes, thinking back to those halcyondays. “If only you could see what you’ve become.” She remembers it like it wasyesterday, their last night together before that final battle; he went off tospearhead the charge, while she elected to stay behind to aid the wounded, ofwhich there were many. By the end, they had won, but at great cost, and she hadto say goodbye to many friends as the reports and remains flowed in. She nevereven considered that he would be among their number, though none could becertain of his final fate, he seemed to have just vanished, and all that couldbe recovered was his spear, found planted in the neck of a massive aberration.Those who saw him before he vanished said he fought with courage worthy ofThoradin himself, saving the lives of many others through his actions; someeven say he saved the life of the King himself, though the questionable sourcesmake this heavily disputed. Either way, his deeds drew much attention to himand his life, and people desired to know more about the life and history ofthis largely unknown man. The following weeks were a blur, as someone who wasvery close to him, she had to put up with people asking many questions aboutthe fallen hero, and while the accompanying deals she had gotten to write abouthim and the other lesser known heroes she knew from those days made her apretty penny, it made grieving somewhat of a challenge in the days leading upto the collective memorial ceremony. She remembered little of the ceremonyitself, as she had some rather shocking news revealed to her just prior to theproceedings; though she did know that it took place in Dalaran, and was fundedby all the major powers as a sign of international goodwill before peace talkscould properly begin. Something that stuck with her, however, was the strangewoman who stood in the shadows off to the side, staying away from the maincrowd, as if ashamed to approach in public. ‘Serves her right…’ she’d thoughtto herself in a moment of uncharacteristic coldness, assuming she was who shethought she was. After that, things had quieted down considerably, leaving herto her grief, and to her thoughts about what she was to do alone now,especially with…

“Ahaha, hullo there, ye two!” Kath’s eyes popped open as shewas snapped out of her reflections by the jovial greeting of the familiardwarf. She looked over to see Angela moving as fast as her tiny legs can carryher, burbling happily all the way, while Michael full on runs to meet him. “By meancestors, you’re both getting big, aren’t ye?” He remarks with a chuckle, andKatharena can’t help but smile at the sight of her old friend. Ever since themiracle of psychosurgery that allowed Death Knights to shed their sadistic conditioning,many Death Knights had succumbed to the melancholy and ennui that spawned fromthe accompanying loss of drive that came as an unexpected result, though thegood General was not one of them, in large part due to the hordes of youths whowant to hear all stories of war and glory they assumed he’s accumulated over hislong life. Ogrimskar had more than enough to share, and having such a largegroup not just listening to what he had to say, but actively seeking him out tohear more, awoke something in him like a sign from the gods. He’d found a newcalling in this humble role as storyteller, and the fact that many of the childrenwere born of the people who he so struggled to impart his hard-earned wisdom uponmade it all that much sweeter. He felt happiness like he hadn’t felt for years,and seeing these children show up to listen to him, and leave wiser, and a bit moredwarf-like in mannerism never ceased to make him smile.

“Hello Uncle Og! I’m so happy to see you!” Michael cheers ashe jumps up to hug the former general. Ogrimskar laughs again, giving him a paton the back, allowing him to hop down so he can pick up his little sister withpracticed care.

“It’s good to see ya both too, lad.” Og replies. “You gothere just in time, I was just about to start me tale; I was thinking aboutstarting with tha one about Lyanelle and Kurt. That was always yer favourite,wasn’t it?” He goes on, even now chuckling at the thought of Kurt. Katharenajust shakes her head with a soft giggle.

“Same old Og…” she muses, about to go join them, but notbefore looking up to the statue one last time. Her mind dwells on him again,and the news she received so long ago. “They don’t know…” She thought. “Theirparents would have let me if they told them the truth; Hell, he would have told me, he’d have been soexcited.” She assured herself this was all a coincidence. She never had achance to remarry after her first husband, and had kept the Graeson nameever since, so they never would have had the chance to find out about who theirgrandfather was. She wanted to be the one who told them, but to this day, shejust hadn’t found the heart to talk about it. They would have to find outsooner or later, it was inevitable. She took a deep breath. “Soon…” She toldherself. “I’ll tell them everything as soon as…” Her reverie was cut short by achild’s voice from near the door.

“I want to hear about him!” Michael calls out, and Katharena’shead snaps over to see little Michael doing exactly what she was afraid she wasgoing to do. Ogrimskar follows the way he was pointing, and seeing the statuethat he was pointing at, gives him a confused look.

“’im?” He asks, prompting a vigorous nod from Michael. “Yamean yer Gran ain’t talked your ear off about him already?”

“Nope, just noticed him for the first time today! Did GrandmaKath know him or something?” Michael asks. Og looks over at Katharena, who waslooking at them wide-eyed, giving him the universal expression for ‘please no,’and just grins, gives a half-hearted shrug as if to say ‘sorry, but now I haveto’ and looks back to Michael, turning to take them both the children in tojoin the group.

“Ohoho, laddy… ye and ye sister are in for a treat!” Ogrimskar declares, trying tocontain his excitement at what was about to come. Katharena was about to speakup, but stops herself, remembering that she brought this on herself withoutthinking.

“I suppose this might be for the best…” She thinks, lettingout a gentle sigh as she looks back to the statue. She smiles sadly, and wipesaway her errant tear before putting on a braver face. “He deserves to know,they both do,” she says aloud to the statue, “Angela will probably not rememberthis, but Michael… he has your fire, I just know it; if he learns his legacynow, it’ll encourage him to put it towards great things, like you did…” shereaches out to touch the dais once more, her smile growing broader and morehappy at the thought, closing her eyes as she embraces this rare moment ofsilence. “I know you’re out there somewhere, Khadorek, watching over us likeyou always did for me; I just hope you know how happy you’ve made me, and howproud I am of all you’ve given me. I hope you are proud too, dear, because youshould be; your actions made the world a better place, just like you wanted towhen you were young.” She steps away, opening her eyes to gaze upon his face. “Farewell,my love, until we meet again.” She whispers, before turning to fully face theinn and walking towards the door. Og might be telling the story before shewanted it told, but that wasn’t going to stop her from making sure he told it right.

(Mentions: @quipsbykath @ogrimskar and soft mentions to @lofaspack)