#too many wardens

[sulky-valkyrie]

Happy happy Fridaaay! For DADWC, how about “Trusting you was a mistake" for Nanders, maybe? 🥺

Happy Friday, Gin! 💜 have some angst for @dadrunkwriting

Anders had not been pleased when Nate insisted they bring Loghain to Kirkwall, but he couldn’t deny he’d been useful.  The city guards damn near fell over themselves for the fabled Hero of the River Dane far more than they would have for a simple pair of no-name ragged Wardens.  Nevermind that he’d almost torn Ferelden in half.  Nevermind that the refugee crisis in the Marches was partially his own fault.  Nevermind that Wardens weren’t supposed to have any ties or allegiances outside the order.  He was still Loghain mac fucking Tir, father of the bloody queen of Ferelden.  

He wanted to head straight for the Gallows, but Loghain insisted they do it the next morning.  “They won't look on us kindly if we're still covered in sea spray and road dust.”

“Besides,” Nate added, “the boats only travel to and from the city twice a day.  We’d be stuck there all night.”

Anders shuddered at the thought as he stared over the water.  Karl, please, just one more day.  “Fine.”

They found a small inn near the alienage, paid for two rooms, and took their evening meals upstairs.  To Anders’ surprise and Loghain's confusion, Nate chose to bunk with him, leaving him alone to wonder and worry instead of sleeping.  

When they reached the harbor just after dawn, the ferry to the Gallows was still docking.  They got into the blessedly short line to embark and were back on the water in less than half an hour.

The boat ride was simultaneously the one of the most boring and – hah – harrowing experiences of his life.  Anders fidgeted with his jacket, as much from nerves as the need to do something to keep himself from jumping off and swimming the rest of the way.  It would be apropos, after all.  The swim across Lake Calenhad was one of his favorite and more successful escapes; doing it again to get Karl out would have a poetic irony.  

“Stop that,” Nate hissed as he slapped his hand.  “The more nervous you look, the more they’ll worry something is wrong.”

He bit his tongue to keep himself from snarling a retort.  Something was wrong, wrong with the institution, the whole bloody world.  And he was going to fix it as soon as Karl was out of harm’s way.

Karl, I’m coming.  For him, he’d keep his damn hands still.

The strange jangling in his nerves that he’d always associated with lyrium use was thick in the air as they walked down the gangplank, and only increased as they wound their way past the Tranquil shops to the main entrance.  He'd known it would be crawling with Templars, of course, but knowing it and feeling it were two different things entirely.  He felt like he was trudging through molasses and hot coals all at once.  I'm a Warden, they can't touch me.

It was a cold comfort.  No, it was just cold, with icy fingers that squeezed his heart and made it difficult to breathe.  He followed Loghain and Nate almost blindly and prayed they'd be able to get this over with soon enough to take the afternoon ferry back to the city.

A familiar face was at the gate.  Familiar and unwelcome.  Maker, it's Cullen; I thought he died, now he's here and promoted?  Anders knelt down to adjust his boot, wishing Loghain or Nate were taller.  Hopefully he doesn't recognize me.

Loghain pressed a paper into Cullen's hands.  “We're here for the Right of Conscription; these are orders from the Warden Commander of Ferelden.”  

When had Brosca done that?  Was it forged?

“We're not in Ferelden,” Cullen sneered, then crumpled it up.

“The Wardens have authority to Conscript anywhere Thedas.” Nate waved his hand in disgust.  “Even Kirkwall.”

Cullen made a face.  “I'll have to take this to the Knight Commander.  Gallows are off limits to everyone, yes, even Wardens, without her permission.  We can't simply – wait.” He peered over Loghain's shoulder.  “Anders?”

Damn.  He tried to hide his wince as he stood up.  “Knight Captain, what a surprise to see you here.”

Cullen ignored him as he swung his gaze back to Loghain.  “Warden Constable, is there a reason you're bringing an apostate into the Gallows?”

“Call it a gesture of goodwill.”  He pointed at Anders.  “This mage has proved to be more trouble than he’s worth.  We need a different one.  I'm sure you understand.”

What?  Anders looked at Nate, who cleared his throat and fiddled with his belt pouch.  “Nate, you – was this the plan the whole time?”  He lunged for him, reckless with despair as the smite hit, stealing his voice, burning his mana away, and Maker, it hurt, but not as much as this.  Templars were suddenly at his sides, grabbing his hands, then pushing him to the ground and twisting his arms behind his back before hauling him back to his feet.

Loghain watched the whole thing impassively, but Nate, fucking Nate, Nate whom he’d slept with, who’d offered to help him, couldn’t even do him the courtesy of looking him in the eyes as he sent him to his death.

It happened so quickly he was too stunned to even fight back as they marched him past Cullen and toward the gate.  The crushing silence faded as the gate lifted, and he twisted around in their grip, ignoring the agonizing pop as his shoulder came out of his socket.  

“Trusting you was a mistake,” he spat before they dragged him away.

[littler0b1n]

Some submas doodles to show that I’m still in fact alive and that these silly train men are still invading every train of thought

[hejee]

morrigan mansplaining elvhen culture while playing as lavellan hits so close to home (ily morrigan but this is not it 😭)

[okkennymay]

Commission for @xxmischieflovesxx (aww man why wont it let me @ you??)

Listen I know the vast majority of what i post is commissions, but a mans gotta keep a roof over his head one way or another 9w9"

At least I get a lot of really fun ones!~ 💖

Ahhh Dan under house arrest by Clockwork, his "warden" a demon, and his attempts at intimidation in that last panel were most certainly futile.

[justmarrik]

I don't know what to write, I just love these characters very much and decided to dedicate this huge work to them!!!! I rarely draw complex works, but here I tried my best///

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

What can I say? They're my favorite.

[steampoweredwerehog]

Shine razor eyes✨

“Enough charades. Time for a little honesty.” Basically Warren’s been downplaying his abilities & his nature and Queen risks the humans’ sanity just to prove a point

The transformation’s supposed to happen in the middle of a city but I didn’t have the energy to draw all that

[whoisnotmyname]

when ur LI starts doing LI things

[good-beanswrites]

A little something featuring Fuuta and Es after talking about their criminal lack of interaction in fanworks with @waivyjellyfish ! You had such awesome ideas (a few of which I'm still bouncing around in my head to post at some point,) but this one ended up taking over my brain -- I hope you enjoy 😅 Attempting to answer the widely-debated question:

“Oi, why didn’t you hit me?”

Es looked up from their paperwork.

“Prisoner number three. Most people are glad when they’re not struck.”

“Well, I’m not.” 

Es usually left the door open at this hour, in case anyone had any last-minute complaints before curfew. No one usually took them up on the offer. They figured that if there was any prisoner they could count on to complain, it would be Fuuta marching through their door.

“You hit all the other guys. You even hit some of the girls that were giving you trouble. So what? You think I’m too weak? You think I can’t take it?” Fuuta spread his arms. “I can, so show me what you’ve got!”

Es sighed. They put down their pen. They folded their gloved hands together, resting their chin on top. “Fuuta, I’m not going to hit you.”

“Why not?”

“As of right now, I have no reason to. If you’re referring to the interrogations…”

They reflected on the first one they'd shared with him. To be fair, the thought had crossed their mind. It would have been satisfying to give this rowdy prisoner a taste of his own medicine – striking him after such a dramatic charge at them. But Es was always good at reading people. It didn’t take them long to understand Fuuta was the type to lash out first and ask questions later. In fact, that was likely what had landed him in Milgram in the first place. 

Although Es knew they weren’t here to do any reformation, they wanted to try to show these prisoners where they’d gone wrong. So, they resolved to act as the bigger person. They’d prove that senseless violence was just that. By keeping their composure, they’d show Fuuta just how childish he was being. 

That wasn’t my only reason. I guess that's true, my actions weren’t all purely righteous. I still spent the entire time looking for ways to make him squirm… But it wasn’t all cruelty. I really did want to understand. I wanted to help. That counts for something, right?

Es never struck the prisoners out of anger, or as a petty show of power. It was a way to force the prisoner to mind their ego. When they’d gotten a bit too full of themselves, a bit too comfortable with the awful deed they’d committed, Es’ blow encouraged them to feel a bit more humility and guilt. 

By the time the second trial arrived, Fuuta oozed guilt. 

The moment Es entered the interrogation room, it was clear that he needed no lesson in humility. He hugged his arms to his chest. His remaining eye darted around the room in thinly-veiled hysteria. His voice trembled when he spoke. It didn’t require any people-reading skills to hear the remorse that underlaid all of his accusations and threats.

Hitting the others felt like giving a dog a tap on the nose after breaking a rule. Meanwhile, Fuuta snapped and snarled like a stray who’d been kicked time and time again.

Of course, he could never know any of this. Any way Es phrased it, Fuuta would misunderstand it as pity.

Well, wasn’t it? I thought he looked like a kicked puppy – that sounds a lot like pity. No, it was out of respect. Does that mean I didn’t respect the prisoners I did hit? No. I respected them too. Then, what’s the difference?

Fuuta was still staring at them, asking the very same question. What’s the difference?

“Each of Milgram’s prisoners is unique.” 

They were met with an unimpressed glare.

Es chose their words carefully. “Each one responds best to a variety of treatments. Some need attention to be comfortable, while others need time. Some need validation in order to confess. Others, a bit of debate does the trick. Some need a show of force. You –” remind me too much of myself  “– require something else. I’ve learned to change my approach depending on the person I’m dealing with.”

Fuuta’s features flashed with confusion, then shame, then his usual mask of anger. “Tch. How pathetic.”

“Excuse me?”

“So you just change your personality when it’s convenient? You put up fake smiles and fake attitude? Have some balls and just be yourself.”

Es was caught by surprise. “... I am. Those are all pieces of myself. I choose to bring out different parts when it would be most helpful.” 

“Sounds manipulative as hell to me.” 

It makes sense he doesn’t understand. He’s a very clear-cut person, with every aspect of his personality lining up in a way that makes sense. I find that predictability fun. Or, is it something that I envy? Could it be both?

They had no time to dwell on it, as Fuuta was struck with an idea. “Though, if you can do it on command, why don’t you give me the ‘you’ that wants to hit someone?” 

He spread his arms once more, hands gesturing to his chest. Es pretended not to notice him wince. They remained in their seat. 

“What are you waiting for? Hit me!” 

“I will not.”

“You just said you can change your personality on a whim, so let’s see it!” 

“That is not what I said.”

His good eye began to look frenzied. He raised his voice. “You scared? The big bad warden of Milgram, nothing but a big coward!”

“Stop this. You’re acting childish.”

“No! You’re treating me childishly! Let me see the Es that kicked Shidou! The one that slapped Kazui! Treat me like you treated them!”

“I hit them because they said something stupid. They deserved it.”

“Are you fucking kidding? I deserve it too! I deserve it! Come on!”

At the last word, his voice broke. He stumbled to his knees. He let his head drop. He sucked in strained breath after strained breath. Shidou would surely give him a lecture about getting so worked up with his injuries. 

Es finally stood.

They made their way around the desk. They knelt on the floor in front of him. 

“Why?” he wheezed. “Tell me…”

“Fuuta.” 

Should I just go ahead and do it, just to make him happy? No, I want to talk it out. But what do even I say? I'll tell him that I care. I can’t. None of the prisoners understand that I care. Why? Why is it so hard for them to see? I’m trying my best, why can’t they see? 

Es extended their hand carefully. They didn’t know what they hoped to accomplish, but in that moment their thoughts were too loud and conflicting. They needed to do something.

Fuuta saw the gentle intention, and immediately raised his own hand to strike. It froze midair, though whether it was from Milgram’s restrictions or his own hesitation, Es would never know.

Neither of their gestures connected.

Footsteps. Then Yuno’s voice, hesitantly from the doorway. “We heard shouting, is everything alright in here?”

Es retracted their hand.  A beat. Fuuta dropped his, too. 

“Yuno. Yes, we’re fine. Fuuta was just heading to bed. I’m going to walk him to his cell.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I said, I’m going to walk him to his cell.” 

Es stood, nodding to Yuno. When she’d gone, they turned their attention back to the prisoner crumpled on the ground. They made an effort to quiet their ever-racing thoughts. 

“Listen. I know you can handle yourself. I’m not doing this because I think you’re weak. You’re strong. Don’t think for a moment that I don’t see that.”

They held out their arm to help him up. He didn’t move.

“Sometimes you are a bit too strong, if you ask me. I mean, picking fights with your prison warden, really?” They clicked their tongue. “You should be grateful for a superior that gives you second chances.”

At last, Fuuta  took their hand. He avoided meeting their eyes, but his voice had softened considerably from his rant. “The only thing you give me is a headache.”

Es offered a dry smile as they pulled him to his feet. “The feeling is mutual.”

[leggywillow]

I got the most amazing commission from @crunchyncrumbly of my OTP of all time, Adara Surana and Carver Hawke. I’m never getting over them, I will never normal about them and that is a promise. THANK YOU CRUNCHY, I LOVE IT!

[salsedinepicta]

I may have thought too much about my Surana with longer hair, maybe.

[sulky-valkyrie]

Hawke twins- cryptophasia / twin speak (a language only they understand). Perhaps a bittersweet memory of the survivor

Happy Friday, Tea! I actually restarted this 2 or 3 times until And Idea hit me like a truck, and I'm kinda playing around with what cryptophasia could mean in a world with magic, but I hope you enjoy it anyway <3 for @dadrunkwriting

Carver woke up from the worst dreams he’d had since the archdemon died, and with a terrible headache.  He sat up with a groan and pressed the heel of his hand against his temple.

“You look like you’ve been carousing with hurlocks all night,” Stroud said.

He snorted and grabbed his waterskin to splash a bit on his face.  “Give me some credit, at least I never kissed an ogre, drunk or sober.”  He rolled his shoulders to try to loosen the tension in his neck.  “You have any strange dreams last night?”

“Nothing outside of the ordinary.”  Stroud shugged.  “The song is louder, but that’s to be expected here.  You have been in the Deep Roads before, haven’t you?”

He started to snarl something back, but held his tongue.  The Commander had told him under no uncertain terms to play nice with the Orlesians, but Maker, it was hard some days.  “I was down here before and after the Thaw.  This dream wasn’t just the usual chittering, more like going through the Joining again.  It almost felt like -”  he bit his lip.  No, that would be impossible.  He’d hadn’t been pulled into Bethy’s dreams since he left Lothering over two years ago.

Stroud raised an eyebrow but didn’t press him.  “The Roads under the Vinmarks are particularly unsettling.  Hopefully you will be too tired to dream again tonight.”

Carver nodded and pushed himself to his feet.  “Couldn’t agree more.  Onwards then?”

He wasn’t too tired.  Or maybe he was so tired he couldn’t fight it.  Their father had taught them both about shielding their dreams from spirits the week after Bethany manifested, and while it had worked, it wasn’t the way he would have preferred.  Instead of closing her mind off to everyone, she’d hid in Carver’s dreams at night, or dragged him into hers.  They’d spent every night for nearly ten years fighting each other’s nightmares together.  Hers had always been more fearsome, with many tentacled creatures dragging her into a lake that was far too dark and viscous to be water, or suits of armor grabbing her by her hair and carrying her to impossibly tall towers with no doors.  His dreams had been about his teeth falling out, or getting chased by a bear through town without any trousers on. 

After Ostagar, though, he’d tried to do it properly.  Tried to shut her out so she never saw the memories of the battle that haunted his dreams.  As far as he knew, it had worked, or maybe she’d stopped trying.  Or maybe she was dead.

The dreams were even worse that night, full of red crystals and claustrophobia and talking rocks, all playing out like a shadow puppet play across torrents of blood and fire and darkspawn screams.  People were screaming Bethany’s name, and he heard Bethany screaming his.

“Carver!”  His eyes snapped open.  It was Stroud, shaking his shoulder.  “Pack of hurlocks near, we need to move.”

Normally, that would’ve sent him into a panicked flurry of activity, but this time, all he felt was relief.  It wasn’t Bethy, this is all my imagination, or maybe some new kind of Awakened.  He stuffed his gear into his pack as Stroud stamped out the fire, then they headed out, following the scent of death and the buzzing in the back of their heads.

Using torches or lanterns this close to darkspawn was never wise or safe, so their only light was the faint glow of their amulets.  The Commander gave them to all the recruits now; it was still a vial of darkspawn blood, of course, but now, they were enchanted to give off just enough light that a careful human could travel through the Deep Roads without tripping on everything.  It had been a hard-learned lesson from too many instances of running into walls or falling into holes, and Carver’s nose still throbbed with phantom pain when he thought about the number of times Morrigan had sneeringly reset it. 

The recruits were told it was 'just' a vial of darkspawn blood, but senior Wardens knew it was a little something more.  The loss of so many at Ostagar, then later at Vigil’s Keep, had made the Commander insistent on the development of contingency plans.

The discordant melody tugged at his heart as they crept onward, urging him to go faster, begging him to find them, find something, hurry, please, hurry.  It filled him with dread even as he obeyed, marching faster, then, when that wasn't enough, breaking into a jog.  Someone was down there, and they needed him.

"What are you doing?" Stroud hissed as he sped up a third time.

"Need to keep moving, need to find them," he muttered, before breaking into a reckless sprint.

Stroud tackled him from behind and rolled him over when he was still stunned. "The song has you," he said as he slapped him.  "Fight it!"

Carver caught his hand before a second blow connected.  "It's not the song!"  It was, but not in the same way.  "It's - can't you feel it?"

"You're bewitched, Hawke!"

Struggling would only waste time.  Time he didn't have.  He took a shuddering slow breath to calm himself down.  "I’m - shit.  You’re right,” he lied.  “We need to deal with whatever is causing it.  Some kind of emissary, or a demon."  It was neither; he was certain of that.  But Stroud would never believe him now.  Play along, or we'll never make it in time.

Stroud frowned, obviously wanting to argue, but knowing he couldn't.  The whole point of this trip had been to investigate the reports of strange activity under the Vinmarks, and an emissary changing the song definitely qualified.  "You will stay behind me," he ordered severely.  "And if you run again, I'll cut you down."

Hurry, please, hurry.  It wasn't a voice, so much as a feeling, a bright descant threading through the jangling darkspawn melody that thrummed in his mind.

Carver closed his eyes and nodded as much to Stroud as the plea.  I'm trying.

Stroud got up warily, and reached for his weapon as Carver stood.  When he didn't immediately bolt down the tunnel, he sighed in relief and let go of his sword hilt.  "Which way?"

They kept going.  Stroud didn't argue with Carver’s directions, and, in fact, seemed to anticipate them.  Whatever or whoever wanted Carver to come this way, it was very near the hurlocks they’d been hunting anyway.  The desperate pleading music faded away, but the darkspawn presence never wavered, only strengthened as they neared.

Carver didn't mention that it was gone.  Maybe I did imagine it.  Hopefully whatever - whoever - they found down there would be explanation enough.  Another Awakened, perhaps?  

When they heard the sound of fighting, it was Stroud who took off running first.  Bloody hypocrite.  Carver pulled out his sword and charged after him around the corner, only to almost skewer him as he clattered to a halt.  They were at an excavated section of the Deep Roads, one with real torches and magma troughs.  “Anders?” Stroud muttered incredulously.

What?  Can’t be - Karl said he died.    He peered over Stroud’s shoulder, blinking against the glare of torchlight.

A blond man kicked a screaming genlock off the ledge then spun his staff in a low circle, setting a glyph at his feet then dancing backwards as lightning surged up through it and arced into the two remaining.  “Be with you in a tic, little busy!”  

Maker preserve us, how?  That really was Anders Thekla; Carver would recognize his battle magic anywhere, even when it wasn’t being used on him directly.

As the last darkspawn disintegrated to ash, Anders turned around.  “Stroud.”  He frowned in recognition.  “Carver?”

What the void did I do?  Before he could ask, Anders ducked back into the side tunnel that must’ve been where he’d come from.

“Carver?!”  Someone shouted.  Someone who sounded like his damn brother.  

Stroud glanced back and arched an eyebrow.  “What did you do?”

He swallowed.  “Been a Warden for two years,” he mumbled.  

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yeah, it is.”  He put up his sword and walked out.  “Garrett?  What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Long story,” Anders sighed as he re-emerged, followed by a dwarf and Garrett.    

His brother stepped into the flickering light and, for once, he wasn’t smiling.  Even when he’d been in screaming matches with Mother, he’d smiled.  Even when they’d burned Father’s ashes, he’d smiled.  “Carver, I tried.”  He knelt on the ground and gently put the bundle down that he was carrying.  “I really fucking tried.  Should’ve been me.  Always should’ve been me.”  

The bundle was their sister.  Everything clicked into place.  He rushed over as he ripped his gauntlets off, then pulled her to his chest.  Her brow was sweaty, and the veins in her throat were black.  Blight sickness.  She coughed weakly as her eyes fluttered open.  “Carver?  Am I dead?”

“Not yet,” he whispered as he pulled her close.  “What are you doing down here?  What happened?” 

"Expedition," she wheezed, breath whistling like her chest was full of holes.  "Money to get back the estate."  She shuddered in his arms.  "One less mouth for her to feed, now, right?"

"No, no, no, this can't -" he stopped and glared at Garrett.  "Why did you bring her?"

Garrett's jaw clenched and he swallowed.  "I didn't fucking -"

"You did!  You were supposed to keep her safe!" Carver shouted.  "Now look at her. Look at what you did!"

Bethy’s finger pressed against his lips. "You sound like Mother.  I'm a grown woman, Carver.  This was my choice.  My screw up.  Not his."  She coughed again.  "Not yours either."

Maker, how did she always know what was the best and worst thing to say?  His fury vanished, leaving him hollow and aching.  "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Don't," she said.  "I - I didn't think it would work, after so long, but I called, and you're here.  I can at least say goodbye."  She offered a watery smile then fainted.He shook his head as he ripped the vial from his neck.  The Commander had told them all that this wasn't an option to be taken lightly, but dammit, this was Bethany.  "Stroud, get some of that blood, and the goblet.  We're doing the Joining."

[stop-breaking-my-heart-dragonage]

I'm back on my bullshit thinking about the Hawke siblings again and how much I love a "both twins live" AU... but y'know what I love just a little bit more? An AU where all three Hawke siblings are alive, but one of the twins still get attacked by the ogre in Lothering and is presumed dead when they actually survived.

I like to think that since the narrative in DA2 is framed as a story Varric's telling Cassandra, we can play around with the fact that he's an unreliable narrator. Varric wasn't there in Lothering. He only knows what Hawke told him. It makes for a better story if Leandra, Hawke, and the surviving twin get to huddle around the dead twin and say their goodbyes... especially if they didn't actually get to do that. I mean, a lot of us already have that train of thought when it comes to Leandra's death and Hawke getting some closure through her final words telling them how proud she is. Whose to say Varric didn't do that for the lost twin, as well?

All that to ask what if the ogre attack happened, but the group was so overwhelmed by darkspawn they had to flee further and couldn't check the twin who "died?" Flemeth still showed up, but it was too late to go back and say goodbye.... so Hawke made a deal with the Witch of the Wilds and they all pushed forward to Kirkwall.

Imagine Bethany, left behind with broken bones and bleeding in the sand, fading in and out of consciousness as the remaining darkspawn surround her. She knows how to heal, how to fight back, but she's weakened. Her staff lays out of reach. Air shakes in her lungs. She tries to call for help, but only wheezes come out. Where's her mother? Her siblings? Did the ogre get them, too?

At this point, we all know what happens to the women darkspawn take, and Bethany could've met that fate; she doesn't have the strength to fight back as they drag her away. But before they can bring her underground, she's saved by another group of survivors. Perhaps they're more soldiers fleeing Ostagar, or townsfolk who recognize her from Lothering. They do what they can to treat her wounds but she needs a healer, so they bring her with them to seek refuge in Redcliffe... except they eventually realize she's an apostate. Well, she doesn't seem dangerous, but they still contact the templars.

Bethany wakes in a warm but unfamiliar bed with skilled healers tending to her. Templars hover by the doorway. First Enchanter Irving greets her, gentle in explaining she's safe inside of Kinloch Hold and that she's going to survive. When Bethany asks about her family, he gives her a sympathetic smile and says they only found her.

Bethany, who never took to embracing her magic the way her older sibling did and always felt like it burdened her family... has lost that very family. Could they survive the ogre and darkspawn? Or did the ogre tear them apart, too? How did she survive... but not them? Did the Maker really have such a sense of humor? How else would she end up in the Circle, a place her family went to great lengths to keep her safe from?

She doesn't want to think about it. She hopes they made it to Kirkwall, but the prickle of dread that crawls up her spine knows how unlikely it is. Bethany finds comfort in speaking with the mages who rotate in to heal and bring her food. Some feel trapped by their magic just as she does, but others remind her of her older sibling in the way they embrace their magic, a gift from the Maker. The younger apprentices who aid the mages ask her questions about what lies beyond the walls. The templars mostly keep their distance, but one is friendlier than others. A man with curly blonde hair and a sympathetic view of the mages bothers to speak to her more than his fellows do.

She's still in recovery when Uldred and his blood mages attack the tower, but she survives. Bethany heals, even as she's haunted by nightmares of the ogre wrapping its tainted hand around her body to crush her, flinging her aside to lay among the limp bodies of her family... haunted by the horrors the blood mages unleashed on the tower. She aids in restoring the tower the best she can, and accepts her new home, her new life. When she's well enough, she lights a candle for each of them; her father, mother, her eldest sibling, her twin... she even lights a candle for the family mabari, and prays to the Maker to give them her love as they stand at His side.

The Blight ends. Years pass. Bethany settles into her new life, becoming a fine example for the younger apprentices she mentors. She witnesses wrong doings against her fellow mages, loses friends to their harrowings or tranquility. She accepts what she is, even if bitterly. The Chantry's teachings about magic scar more than enlighten; she sees it in some of her fellow mages, feels it in herself. Secret meetings. Whispers of escape, of freedom. More escape attempts. Harsher restrictions.

Around this time, back in Kirkwall, Knight-Captain Cullen stands where he always does in the Gallows courtyard. He notices Hawke appear with some of their companions. It hurts to think back to Kinloch Hold, but something occurs to him: he knew of another Hawke who was brought to the Circle while he served there. They only spoke once before... well, before. He wonders if there's any relation. When Hawke wanders over to speak to him, as they always do, Cullen brings it up.

Hawke pales. A beat of silence. Cullen recognizes heartbreak; he sees it unfold in their eyes and swell in their throat as they realize that all this time, their baby sister was alive.

Then the day comes where new whispers float among the mages in the Circle. A visit by a Grey Warden. Most, including Bethany, assume he's here to recruit... until Irving comes to her. He says this warden's requested, though more like insisted, he see her now. But then Irving smiles; the warden in question said his name is Warden Carver. He received an urgent letter that his sister is here, alive, and he demands to know if that's true.

Bethany nearly collapses when she sees him.

While the reunion can't last; she can't leave the Circle and he has his calling; the twins embrace, sobbing out apologies and exclamations that they thought the other was gone. Carver tells her of Kirkwall, the expedition that led him to the Grey Wardens, and their older sibling's status as Champion. With a gentleness she never knew her brother to have, he tells her what happened to their mother, and more tears flow freely. Their sibling learned about her from a templar, though Carver grumbles that the bastard could've said something sooner.

There's the Maker's humor again.

...Now flip the script: imagine Carver being left behind instead.

For as strong and passionate as he is, that ogre still picks him up and slams him to the ground. Bones crack. Black splotches flood his vision, agony exploding across his skin. His sword flies from his hand. The soulless bastard tosses Carver aside like he's nothing, and he's left to lay there. His mother's cries muffle in his ear as though he's stuck underwater, sinking slowly into the dark.

It figured, honestly... that he'd survive Ostagar while his fellow soldiers were cut down all around him, that he and his eldest sibling would flee the field when all hope was lost... that he'd make it home to get his family out of Lothering... only to die protecting his mother. And why not? He is a protector. A warrior. It's a honor to die saving those he loved... so why didn't it give him peace?

Carver eventually wakes in the night among the bodies of fallen darkspawn. Everything aches painfully hot and his thoughts reject coherency. He knows his family is gone; they're dead, or they've fled... either way, he's alone; left behind. Something's broken inside of him, but he has just enough will to pull himself up at the sound of approaching footsteps. A group of survivors find him- funny enough, the same group who aided Bethany in an alternate timeline. Imagine that.

That's how Carver ended up in Redcliffe's Chantry with an overworked healer tending to him. He doesn't even flinch when the mage works their magic on him, knowing all too well the sensation of healing magic seeping into his skin, mending the flesh. He tries not to think of Bethany, or what might've happened to her.

The Chantry's overwhelmed with townspeople hiding from a danger outside that he can only assume is darkspawn... except it's not. He wonders how hard he hit his head when he hears the undead have come from the castle to slaughter what they can of the town every night. But then he sees it with his own eyes when one breaks in, taken down by a templar, and never before has he ever felt so useless.

Then the last two remaining Grey Wardens arrive. They're crucial in the final fight against the undead, swearing to enter the castle to stop the attacks at the source. While Carver couldn't participate in the final fight, something he complained loudly about, he did what he could in his condition to help like sharpening swords and handing out supplies. Mostly to keep his sanity and quite his thoughts throughout his recovery.

When the time came, he took up his sword again in the name of all those he lost.

An archdemon was said to be on the horizon, and the Grey Wardens needed everyone they could get to fight. Carver fights in the battle of Denerim where the Hero of Fereldan defeated the archdemon. He cuts his way through every darkspawn he sees. Ostagar flashes red behind his eyes. Lothering clutches at his heart. So much anger and sorrow built up inside him, flooding out in his tears and screams. Blood everywhere. Fire and smoke.

Then it's over.

In the aftermath of the Blight, like so many others, Carver has no home to return to. No family. He thinks to go back to Lothering to help rebuild, only to hear the lands were too tainted. These tainted creatures took everything from him... That's what eventually brings him to Vigil's Keep, standing before the Hero of Fereldan themself, asking to be made a Grey Warden. He already dedicated nearly two years of his life to killing darkspawn, and he had nothing else. Even when faced with the Joining, holding the chalice of darkspawn blood and being told to drink, he didn't flinch.

Life as a Grey Warden isn't as simple as he assumed it would be, but Carver finds purpose in his calling. Over the years, he grows to view his fellow wardens as family. He travels all over Thedas, venturing down into the Deep Roads to help clear out hoards of the darkspawn. But then comes the day he finds himself in Kirkwall, and it doesn't take long before he hears the name Hawke on the lips of the townspeople. His eldest sibling was not only alive, but they're quite popular among the people. But what about Mother? Bethany? He doesn't have to snoop too far to learn templars took Bethany away to the Gallows, and that Leandra Hawke was the final victim in a string of murders committed by a blood mage.

Carver finds himself standing outside the estate, glaring at the door. Furious. Heartbroken. Bitter. He wants to scream. This entire time, they lived. He's torn between wanting to reunite with his older sibling again, to get the truth from them, and wanting to barge into the estate, demanding answers to how they could let the Circle take Bethany... after what Carver sacrificed, how could they let Mother die like that? Was it all pointless in the end?

He leaves without knocking. He can't bring himself to see them. Not that it mattered. Before he could leave Kirkwall, the tensions with the qunari finally overflowed, and chaos fell upon the city. He's forced face to face with his older sibling again, but he wasn't prepared to watch the recognition slowly bloom on their face, or for all his anger to turn to mush. Carver's the first to speak.

"Somehow, I knew it would be you."

.............So, yeah. I really like this idea.

[thelemonsnek]

The two legendary dragons, despite how long they've been alive and how much they've been through, have never been apart in any meaningful way. Zekrom!Ingo is not having a good time (neither is Reshiram!Emmet, but that's neither here nor there :) ) More on this under the cut!

[image id: a two page comic featuring Ingo and Melli from Pokemon Legends Arceus. The entire comic is a sketch, with guidelines still visible, and is done in black and white, aside from cyan lightning. The entire comic is set on a mountaintop cliffside, in the middle of a huge thunderstorm. Everything is very dark, and rain is visible throughout.

Ingo stands at the edge of a cliff, facing away from the viewer and looking into an intense storm. Lightning strikes off in the distance, and harsh winds are ripping at his clothes. The second panel is a closeup profile view of his face. He is leaning into the wind, eyes shut, seeming to be either looking for something within himself or trying to lose himself in the storm. The third panel is a closeup of Melli's face, shadowed.

Melli comes up behind Ingo, and asks him, "Why are you chasing storms, Ingo?" Then, gaining momentum, he seems to yell louder above the storm, "you have a life, so live it. the time before now is long gone." Ingo, still facing away from Melli and staring out at the storm, says nothing for a beat, then without turning around, asks, "Do you think that I do not know that, Warden Melli?"

The next panel looks out over the stormswept mountain. Multiple lightning strikes are visible as Ingo says, "I am well aware that my tracks are without destination. But I cannot switch over to new tracks, lest I risk derailment."

The next panel switches back to showing Ingo and Melli. Ingo has turned around now to face Melli. He has placed a hand to his chest, teeth bared as he shouts, "I know that this could be my home station, if I let it." His eyes now have lightning branching off from them, and his teeth are sharper. Black scales are visible, creeping up his hand. Melli is braced against both the storm and Ingo's sudden anger.

In the final panel, Ingo has somewhat collapsed in on himself, and half turns away. His hands are now twisted into claws, with more obvious scaling, and his teeth are sharper. "But I cannot," he says quietly, visibly defeated. Melli seems less ready for a fight now, and has drawn back, possibly out of sympathy or fear (and maybe both). End id]

Ingo and Emmet are Zekrom and Reshiram!

the gods are real and they're autistic about trains

they can "shift" in and out of their draconic forms, and have several stages in between (human, partial, mid, etc) basically it's a sliding scale of traits! Here we can see Ingo's "partial" state, where he has fangs, claws, and scales but not much else

the two of them have never really been apart. Oh sure they've been on differing sides of the continent, and sometimes one of them will work a differing shift than the other, but not in any meaningful way

not til Ingo gets eebied :)

separated for the first time with no way to reunite, they find themselves completely unable to shift fully, only barely able to get to a partial form. For Ingo this is pretty convenient! Not as much to try and hide/explain away :) for Emmet this is terrifying

there's another side effect to them being apart, and it's that their roles...don't switch, but Emmet finds himself endlessly driven by the ideal to find his brother, while Ingo is constantly seeking the truth of who he was and what he left behind. We get to see a little bit of the conflict this causes within Ingo here!

they do eventually reunite and it's cool as hell, I'd love to draw it out someday

[volostogekiss]

five moments when he realized how much he’s in love with you:

Warnings: Mention of suicide/death, very depressed Volo (with bad thoughts), suggested/mild violence.

GN!reader, strong reader ngl, hurt/comfort, the whole thing with Volo.. y’know. This got away from me (it’s long), and I really can’t say much about this besides I wanted to see what Volo was thinking when it came to the one he loves. :’)

1 | when you showed him the new plates you’d gathered

To put it mildly, you were fond of Volo.

To put it truthfully… you were terribly captivated by him.

It couldn’t be helped, you tried persuading yourself, since he was a rather lovely man. He’d been kind to you during all of your encounters, or perhaps it was that the majority of other villagers and Hisuian people had made it easy for you to commend any decently sympathetic behavior, really.

Either way, it was hard to repress your growing feelings for the beautiful, bright, silly little merchant.

You didn’t believe that he was just a trader, not with his ability to appear without warning like a swift spring downpour, drenching you before you had a chance to locate shelter. That was quite like him too, in how he could flood you with knowledge of all the history Hisui had to share, and yet, you still felt as if he knew something you didn’t.

Unfortunately, that only fascinated you even more.

He wasn’t like anyone else in Hisui who you knew.

True, you didn’t know many people here, but there was just something about him which complicated forgetting about him like all the rest.

Maybe it was because Volo treated you gently—like a friend, that dreamy mess of your mind suggested—and after months of being downtrodden and judged without reprieve, that was what you needed to feel alive again.

To feel cared for, to feel loved.

The beginning of your budding attraction had sprouted from his understanding advice, his surely unfounded concern for a stranger like you, and admittedly—although somewhat exaggerated in your opinion—his startling praise.

You liked to think the two of you were friends. To be fair, you knew a bit about him, that he enjoyed exploring ruins and historical sites and poring over ancient artifacts and manuscripts. When you decided on finding him for once, rather than the other way around, you told yourself as much.

You told yourself as much, so that you wouldn’t have to concede that there was another reason, concealed by your practical need for a translator, behind wanting to find him.

The past few weeks, you’d been searching for him between survey tasks to no avail, and you’d had a feeling that perhaps the man was just unwilling to be found.

If only you had known how true that had been, and that Volo enjoyed being the one to seek, rather than be sought.

On your way back to the village after a grueling expedition, it had crossed your mind that he might be craftier than you’d first suspected, and that the certain guile about him wasn’t just for wheedling a customer into buying his guild’s latest stock.

And of course, while you were pondering him, that was when he had found you.

Of course, it was when you weren’t out looking for him any longer, did he show up.

Though despite that, and despite how tired you were… you still felt yourself perking up when you saw him.

Volo was the same as always, carrying that massive pack and meandering about without a care in the world. And as he crested one of the slopes leading up to Aspiration Hill, he chirped your name, waved with a flourish like he typically did, and caused your heart to thud a bit more loudly in your chest.

You were glad to see him.

Yet you were oblivious to how painfully glad he was to see you.

He looked forward to finding you whenever he could, and he wasn’t sure when exactly it had happened. Maybe it was because you were the one who fell from the sky, maybe it was because you humored him, or maybe it was because you had a habit of keenly listening to his theories for hours. Cogita didn’t appreciate how he often prattled on—actually, he wasn’t sure anyone else did—but you…

You’d said you liked his voice, and Volo had paused, unable to say anything until you laughed.

From then on, Volo couldn’t fathom it, but every time he saw you, he had found it more and more difficult to lock away those feelings.

They welled up in his chest when he called your name again.

However, instead of returning his greeting, the first thing you did was to charge right over the hill and yell at him.

“HEY!”

At your unwarranted outburst, Volo was caught between utter shock and hiding his blatant amusement at how ruffled you were, a sight he didn’t often witness. As though confirming that you’d really been addressing him though, he merely aimed an index finger at himself.

“Yeah, you! Why are you so hard to find!?”

The merchant swore that you’d mumbled something else underneath your breath, but he was too absorbed in the fact that you’d been searching for him. Ah. A knowing grin was already curling onto his lips.

Despite how busy you were, you were looking for him. What did that say about what you thought of him?

Never one to miss an opportunity to tease you, Volo cocked his head to the side with a mischievous chuckle. “If I had known you were looking for me, my dearest friend, I would’ve surely shown up sooner!”

You did your best to remain unfazed by his pleasant words; with righteous indignation, you crossed your arms, attempting to keep up the act. Stupid, pretty merchant, too damn handsome for his own good.

…This was bad, and you needed to wake up.

“Might I know why you were so diligently looking for me?”

Volo now wiggled that pointer finger at you, and even as you fought against the urge, you wondered what it would be like to hold his hand in yours.

Warm, probably.

You pushed aside the thought, however, and averted your eyes to your satchel. You needed to compose yourself.

“Well, I remembered you’d wanted to see the plate I’d gotten from Lord Kleavor.” Fumbling in your bag for all the others you’d obtained since last running into Volo, you leveled your breathing and collected yourself. “You told me how excited you were about them, and that you were searching for a few yourself in the coastlands.”

You risked a sideways glance at him.

He hadn’t said anything, but his grin had widened, the dimple deepening beside the right of lips.

It was as if he’d been prompting you to go on, that he was interested, that he was raptly hanging onto each of your words.

So, even with your wobbling, smitten heart, you took a breath to ground yourself, then went on, “I figured since you really liked taking a look at them before, and I’m curious about them, why not show you the new ones I found so far…?”

While you withdrew a first pair of pink and brown plates from your bag, you trailed off, thankfully, for Volo was astounded, if only for a second.

You… remembered that about him. You’d come to him because you’d remembered he’d liked them.

When was the last time someone else had done that?

Almost instinctively, he was wading through a familiar melancholy at the realization, but it receded quickly when he saw how eager you appeared, how you really wanted to be around him.

“Oh, how generous of you!” laughed Volo, his tone lively as he tried to distract you from his temporary shock. “It seems you already know me, don’t you?”

He wasn’t prepared for your response, however.

You simply smiled at him.

But this smile was different than any of yours he’d seen before.

This one…

This one reached your eyes.

It brought a distinct joy to your face that was never present when you were around anyone else, almost private in how you’d guarded such an expression so vigilantly, and he suddenly, irrationally wished he could keep it for himself. He wished you would always turn to him with that smile, instead of wearing that unreadable, neutral look you’d been coerced into adopting everywhere you went in Hisui.

Oh. Against his prudent sense for what he would one day need to accomplish, Volo’s heart trembled at the thought, and that smile seemed to seal his fate.

It was then that he knew that things wouldn’t be as easy as he’d thought they’d be.

“Well, apparently not well enough to find you when I’ve been trying for weeks,” you confessed with a cheeky hum, “but that just means I’ll have to get to know you really well now, doesn’t it Volo?”

He blinked once, twice.

“You were looking for me for weeks?”

“Of course, I was!” That smile was still on your face. “You’re the only one who I could talk to about these things!”

When he’d taken in your words and seen your beaming face, all just for him, a blooming sensation of warmth and contentment flooded his heart—his poor, stony heart, having spent an eternity in isolation.

Volo wouldn’t let you know that, however, as he tipped the lid of his hat toward you and announced cheerily, “Then, the pleasure is all mine.”

You laughed, handed him the two plates, and winked at him.

“I think it’s all mine, actually.”

And Volo was sure, at that moment, even though he really should have tried to stop himself,

he loved you more than he should have. 

2 | when you appeared out of snow and ice

Volo knew that you were strong.

While that should’ve posed a problem for him and his future plans, the ridiculous empathy—yes, just empathy, he told himself—he had for you was overriding every clear thought he had about marching off across the snowy expanse and ignoring you.

It wasn’t as though you were fighting a colossus of ice, capable of ending your very life with just a snort of his glacial breath or a toss of his enormous head, rigid and unable to be tempered by anything other than brutal nature itself.

It wasn’t as though his heart jolted and splintered just a bit more every time he heard the thundering echo of the noble’s roar, felt its sinister tremor quaking beneath the earth.

He was as worried as anyone else was, he told himself again. That was why he was waiting like the others, albeit from a more distant and secure vantage.

Although, Volo supposed he wouldn’t be very safe if you were defeated and Lord Avalugg’s rampage turned deadly, so he thought it best you subdue it.

Yes, that was all.

He stamped his feet once, rubbed at his arms with his frozen fingers, and sighed again, a great puff of chalky mist rising into the frosty air.

…

But still, his heart betrayed his true feelings.

Regardless of how he tried to tint it, it was that ingratiating worry which gradually began to chill him more than the arctic weather, and he probably wouldn’t be able to hide how cold it had made him for long.

You were strong.

So why couldn’t he stop worrying?

No, Volo couldn’t cease his pitiful worrying. He couldn’t at all when with a somber cry, the icelands then fell silent, the snow once more lying in innocent clouds, and everything dulled to its lifeless shade of pale gray.

Despite his inability to see into the mire of white settling above him, his heart was brimming with hope before he could dampen it. He didn’t know how long it’d been since you’d gone to fight. Though with every minute he’d spent pacing tiny circles at the base of the mountain and imagining what could’ve gone horrendously wrong, he knew he couldn’t convince himself there was nothing personal about the way he was concerned for you.

No, he couldn’t. And he couldn’t hide his worry, melting away into unbridled relief, when finally, finally you emerged from the haze of snow and ice that had been leisurely walking its way down the slope, committed to concealing you from him for far too long.

Volo wasn’t sure when he had started running. He had heard the starchy snow crunching beneath his boots, but then he heard nothing else when you cried his name.

“Volo!”

“…!”

And then he was smiling. He was shouting your name. He was still running toward you.

The way you lit up and hobbled toward him as quickly as you could, despite how you were bruised and winded and exhausted, made the worry all worth it.

Volo knew everything was worth it, for you. 

3 | when no one else wanted you—

He saw you.

He saw you, crouching atop the grassy stones high above the fieldlands waterfall.

Every muscle in his body commanded him to rush forward, but he didn’t want to frighten you. It was a first, considering how often he liked to see you jump and whirl around to face him. You didn’t this time though, your hunched figure instead sluggishly rocking back and forth as your Decidueye huddled against you.

…because you were hurt.

Volo had seen you smattered with cuts, he had seen you worn from your battles, and he had seen you doubt yourself when you thought no one else was looking.

However, he had never seen you like this before.

You were devastated.

They had really hurt you more than they ever had before.

Volo almost wanted to curse aloud. Why would they do this to you? You had done nothing to them to warrant this—if he thought about it, he was the one to be indirectly guilty—and yet…!

…Was he really any better than them, though? He wasn’t supposed to love you, but here he was, his allegiances like dead branches clinging miserably to the tree, swaying whichever direction the wind decided it fancied, and waiting for the day they inevitably fell to uselessness.

Shaking his head, Volo dismissed the thought. No, he was better than those villagers, those people from the clans. He didn’t betray you like they had.

Yet, hissed that infernal voice in his head.

Volo didn’t want to think about it.

And he didn’t have to then, for Decidueye had straightened immediately, poised for an attack.

It was to be expected, wasn’t it? He hadn’t thought you the careless type to forgo cautiousness, especially after everything you’d just gone through, so it didn’t surprise him to see you abruptly still when your Pokémon growled.

Justifiably, your partner was wary of any more humans who might approach you.

Lifting his hands to show that he wanted no trouble, Volo held Decidueye’s gaze for a long, scrutinizing second.

It took another few before the Pokémon eventually dropped his wings to his sides.

Still, Decidueye seemed to be warning him as his sharp eyes flicked from Volo to the water racing under the ledge they were perched upon: I will not hesitate to remove you if you bring more harm to us.

Volo knew better than to antagonize your Pokémon. Silently, he nodded in acknowledgement, which appeared to satisfy Decidueye, and he then lowered his arms.

He looked at you again.

You still hadn’t moved, but you definitely knew he was there.

…He should say something, shouldn’t he?

His voice was hushed when he finally found something to say to you—not what he truly wished to say, but what he could manage from everything you knew of him.

Something that wouldn’t sound odd, coming from him. Something that would reassure you that he was still the same, even if everyone else you knew had changed. Even as Volo had thought it, he wasn’t sure he believed it, but he wasn’t about to question himself now.

You needed him to be the person you’d always known him as—the merchant, the historian, the friend you could rely on.

And so he would be.

“Strange events seem to follow you wherever you go, don’t they?”

You said nothing, but Volo didn’t press you. He knew you had heard him over the churning water.

Slowly, instead, he found his place beside you. He moved tentatively under Decidueye’s apprehensive supervision, reminding him of what would happen if he faltered.

Nonetheless, it was promising that you hadn’t pushed him away.

You permitted him to come closer, in fact, and as he shifted slightly so that his shoulder was practically touching yours, he swore you almost leaned into him.

He could feel how warm you were, even as a light breeze streaked past, but he remained where he was.

He would wait for as long as you needed.

While Volo had trekked up the cliffside, the ominous, crimson sun had been burning lowly, descending toward the charred horizon. Now, as he squinted at the warped and discolored sky, he could see it was nearly touching the mountains.

He didn’t mind that you hadn’t said anything, though it was worrying you had probably sequestered yourself here for quite a while. Volo knew when you had been banished—the miscreants hadn’t even allowed you to wake with the stretch of unnatural dawn—and given the supposed time of day now, it was certainly alarming.

“I think I should still be mad.”

Your voice was so muffled and tired and unlike anything Volo had ever known from you, that even as the noise of the surging waterfall rang in the air, he only heard you.

He was fixated only on you.

“Shouldn’t I be mad?” Your hands were curling over your arms; thankfully, Volo noticed no injuries on them. “I did everything—I fucking did everything for them, and then they threw me away when it was convenient for them.”

You sighed, flattened a leg against the ground, and slapped a hand down in frustration.

“If I stayed angry, it would help me forget about everything else, wouldn’t it? I could be so lost in how angry I was that I wouldn’t even know what I should be mad at anymore… But now I just feel empty. I don’t even know where I should go. Where I can go.”

Something stirred in Volo’s heart. He understood what that hollowness, that void felt like, but he didn’t want to imagine your suffering, screaming at nothing, tearing at yourself.

How pathetic that they couldn’t appreciate you.

They didn’t deserve you.

“If you’ll trust me,” Volo offered, and he was then aware of how you had finally raised your head, “I know of somewhere safe for you.”

You were staring at him now, though Volo had turned away from you.

He had asked you to trust him, but a shard of guilt was steadily wedging itself into the cracks of his heart.

Maybe he didn’t deserve you either.

“Volo…”

But when his name fell from your lips so reverently, he forgot that guilt. It was too easy to forget when it came to you, until it wasn’t. He needed to be here for you, and what that meant for his future, he would deal with then.

“I trust you.”

He turned back to you, saw your face for the first time since he’d arrived, and then he was pulling you close.

He wouldn’t ever forget that look upon your face.

“I will always appreciate you, even if they won’t.”

“…Thank you. It means a lot that you decided to look for me, even if that would put you in danger of their judgment, too.”

Their judgment means nothing when I will always love you.

He only tugged you closer.

You were fully leaning into him now, languishing for comfort in your vulnerable state, and Volo would give you exactly that.

It seemed you thought the same, for when Volo covered your hand with his, he finally felt you relax against him, enough so that you could speak again.

“You said that strange events seem to follow me wherever I go.”

“Yes.”

“But I think even stranger people seem to follow me, you know,” you said meaningfully, your fingers curling between his, “people who want me for who I am, unlike all the others.”

His heart fluttered. He squeezed your hand in his own answer.

Oh, you had no idea how much Volo wanted you, and no one else wanted you like he did. 

4 | the fated day on mount coronet

He wanted to apologize for being the reason you had such a look on your face. He was the one who had hurt you. He wanted to tell you that he had never meant it, but in some malevolent fold of his mind he had. He couldn’t stand it. He wanted to forget about everything. He wanted to start over, and if you had just let him—given him exactly what he wanted (but what had he truly wanted?)—then you could’ve begun again together, in a new world.

So he could have told you honestly that he loved you.

But he couldn’t.

Volo didn’t know what he could say, as you trapped him beneath you, your hands shackles around his wrists. Painted with fiery wrath as the setting sun outlined you in vivid gold, you were truly a sight to behold when you snarled his name and demanded why he had done this.

There had to be something else wrong in his mind for him to still think you were stunning amid your ire.

“Tell me.”

Your knees dug into his sides, the flexing of your hips on his distracting him for a disgraceful moment. He had let his guard down after Giratina had fled, and then here he was, pinned and at the mercy of your questioning. It was ironic he had intended to subject Arceus to the same, to wring answers from it as you were with him. He laughed. He laughed again when your grip tightened and your nails pinched his skin. Though as the creator always remained silent, he would say nothing you wanted to hear. Volo was sure his violent sneer said plenty, but when he forced himself to say something—anything, anything to pretend this had all been a farce—he knew he shouldn’t have said it.

“I hate you.”

He shouldn’t have said it. Not when your expression had then broken like a sheet of river ice, shattered by the unfortunate soul of his words that meant to drown your heart in the frigid water below. Yes, I should have. Volo wanted to convince himself that he was right to have said it. After all, you were the Chosen One, weren’t you?

You had stolen everything from him—his place before Arceus, his dreams, his world. And in it all, as foolish as he had known it was, for you were never once truly his, you had stolen even yourself from him.

It was unsurprising how much he had wanted you, and yet, he should have known how absurd those feelings were.

You should have stayed far from him; he should have made sure of it. But throughout the time you had spent with one another, months after months, you had somehow become a part of that everything he had worked for, yearned for, and so impossibly devoted himself to.

And then, you had almost become his everything too—his reason, his muse, threatening to change his mind about the plan he had set in motion long before your arrival in Hisui.

Why couldn’t you have just agreed with him?

He had shoved you off himself in your weakness, watched you fall back before springing to your feet and shouting words he told himself he couldn’t hear.

You could’ve made this easy, but you… Volo had snapped again. You just had to get in my way, with your infuriating heroism, your disgusting perseverance, your impeccable talent in battle, your delightful smile, your heart so full of love for—!

Perhaps that was why he had said he hated you. To blame you, even though Volo knew the fault was only in himself. Because he had allowed you to get in his way. Because he loved you too much to just let you go without hurting you, because he had known that you would never acquiesce to his ambitions, because he had been too stubborn to stop himself when the plates were so close, and you were so close.

But he had forced you away with his fury, tossed the final plate to you, and wished he would never see you again.

Volo had told you that too, when he abandoned you on the temple summit. Because I hate you. Because I’ve failed. Because I’m ashamed. Because I don’t deserve you. Because I—

…if he really hated you, why, then, as his feet took him farther and farther from you with every step, did his heart wish to wrench from his chest just to be with you?

No, it never could’ve been easy.

He knew why.

Because I love you.

And he always would, no matter how many times he lied to himself.

5 | when you’d found one another again, after everything

Volo should’ve known that despite his vicious words, spiked with poison and disdain and bitterness, you wouldn’t give up on him.

After all, your tenacity was one of the things he loved about you. He just hadn’t expected you to waste the entirety of it on him, so that you could cut away the thorns protecting his heart.

They were ugly spires of tarred anger and hatred, meant to seal the cracks in his heart, but never meant to heal the wounds inflicted upon him from all the awful things he could not easily let go.

All this time, he had hardly been living, fueled only by his warped sense of selfishness and selflessness between which he could no longer differentiate.

But every day, you snipped at another barb. Some days, you wrestled it off harshly. Other days, he tolerated your gentleness in prying it free. Even when you allowed those thorns to snag at you with no concern for your own safety, when you still stayed despite how he pushed you away, Volo didn’t want to admit that you were giving life back to him, one breath at a time.

If he did, he knew he would break.

And there would be no turning back for him.

“You just wish to see me break,” he’d spat at you, “so that it can be your retribution.”

Volo knew it wasn’t true. I was the one who wanted to see you break. You knew as well. He didn’t want to say that he was only lashing out, but you knew anyway.

On those days when you had to fight to twist the thorns from his heart, he would insist on wielding his insults, once more build his inadequate defenses in a futile effort to weather your assault of compassion, and scoff at how you wouldn’t just let him be.

“I forgive you, you know.”

That was always your response. If he offended you, you never said anything about it. You would only smile at him afterwards.

But the smile never reached your eyes.

And it was his fault.

He sometimes wished you would be angry with him instead, as you had been on Mount Coronet.

It had been months since his betrayal, or at least, that was how long Volo had thought it had been. Certain there were people hunting him for what he’d done, he had been wandering ever since, with no place to go but wherever his body next gave up on him. He knew he was disappointing his Pokémon. He had resorted to leaving them in their capsules, for he couldn’t bear to see their sorrow and claim responsibility for it. Every day had seemed too long for him. He had no purpose anymore, and he wouldn’t deny that he often considered if it would’ve been better for him to dwindle away without a trace.

He wouldn’t be missed, anyway.

…So why was he here?

Volo wasn’t sure if it had been weeks he’d spent in your secluded alcove, a series of rising caves carved over centuries by the highest tides of new moons. He didn’t ask when you had learned of this place, beyond the flats and by the West Sea, but you knew he was curious. It was obvious to you; most people knew he was curious about many things.

He was surprised you indulged him still: You told him that Wyrdeer had wanted to take you here when you’d called upon him after your exile.

You didn’t say why you hadn’t been able to reach the caves, though.

Volo knew why. Having seen you that day above the waterfall, he needed no more explanation. He didn’t deserve an explanation either, not when he had hurt you the same way.

No, he had hurt you more than they had.

So why hadn’t he left you yet?

He could’ve left whenever he had threatened to do so. When he had initially declared it with such vehemence, you had just agreed, shrugged, and moved on with your chores.

Somehow, your passive reply had only encouraged him to remain where he was. It was another challenge from you, wasn’t it?

…

Volo knew it wasn’t a challenge from you, but one from his own heart—to test himself, to tempt himself into deserting you again.

Even when he said he would, he never could leave.

He often watched you go, however. If he was awake when you departed, his eyes would follow you until he could see you no longer. It had been mortifying for him to realize that they would seek your figure the second you returned, too.

“You can leave if you’d like,” you had proposed plainly, assuming his fleeting glances were indicative of a wish for freedom. “I didn’t tell everybody about you. None of them are looking for you.”

He hadn’t been able to ask why.

Skeptical of your claim, Volo hadn’t understood why you had spared him from their judgment, until he saw the harrowing question on your face.

“Why would I want you banished like I had been?”

You ripped a handful of thorns out of his heart that day.

Despite that, sometimes he thought that eventually you would have enough of him, you would be the one to leave, and you wouldn’t come back. He never said it aloud, but he was grateful you were here. When you had disappeared for the first time, he had panicked, even with your note of courtesy—courtesy his behavior hadn’t merited—describing where you were traveling. He couldn’t help it. Volo feared losing you again. Even if he never told you, he looked forward to your return; he felt his heart leap against his ribs when he spotted your straw hat in the broad grassland below, when he heard your sandals scuff the cave floor with that familiar shuffle.

He had grown too used to your presence.

Or was it that he was giving in, reminded by how things had once been between you two?

He liked to think you cared, for why else would you still visit the caves, even after you had been toiling away without him? You didn’t need him, but he didn’t want to believe it was only haughty optimism inspiring such a vain question.

Then why had you bothered to take him in after discovering him, sprawled out in the mirelands, unconscious in a pool of mud, and on the precipice of crumbling to nothing? You hadn’t even informed the villagers or the clans about his foiled plot, grandiose in its failure, and about the danger that he could pose.

Because of you, he was free to wander. He never went far though, only down to the beach or to the grove ideal for his Pokémon’s sunlit naps, but he had one less worry because of you.  

Perhaps you felt you had a favor to repay, when he had done the same for you. You just didn’t want any debts to him.

Of course, then, it had to be when he was at his lowest that you found him for the first time, when he had always been the one to find you.

Of course, out of all people, you had to be the one who found him, too.

Arceus was a cruel god.

…Then why did its Chosen save him?

No. Volo knew it was wrong to think of you that way. Why did you save him?

It was shame that kept him from asking anything of you, rather than the abyssal rage that had for too long seeped into every fracture in his heart.

Volo didn’t know when he’d let that brand of his anger die out. Maybe it was the moment you had found him again. Maybe it was when you’d brushed the tangles from his hair, and he had let you, because it made him feel like this was how things should have been. Maybe it was with each barb you removed, a thread of his anger went, too.

In place of the fury that had devastated his heart, shame mourned every one of his mistakes instead, and he couldn’t bear to expel it, not when he really should regret how he’d treated you.

He was tired of it, too. He was tired of trying to convince himself that he hated you. He was tired of being alone, but he couldn’t find it in himself to admit that to you. His Pokémon enjoyed your company along with your companions’, and for that, he was glad, but even when they tried to urge him into accepting the happiness he could find with you, he couldn’t.

Why did he deserve your forgiveness?

Volo watched you sweep the dust from the cave, a laugh bubbling from you when your Hippowdon snorted in her sleep and sent the debris straight back inside.

His throat clenched.

He didn’t deserve it.

Whether you’d misconstrued his shame for the spite he’d harbored for you upon the Temple of Sinnoh or not, you revealed nothing to him. If not for the way you were more subdued, your words more measured than he’d remembered, he would’ve thought you were acting as if nothing was wrong.

Volo wasn’t sure he preferred it that way.

He knew, however, that things were indeed wrong, and it was up to him to mend, rather than destroy.

Though even as he knew so, another three days had passed before he gathered the courage necessary to broach the subject.

Like most other nights, as Togekiss slept in her nest beside him, Volo observed you dabbling in arranging flowers or inking notes into your journal before heading off to rest in a lower cavern. Tonight, under the moonlight, you were preening an assortment of pink wildflowers, white Oran blossoms, and yellow King’s Leaves in a stout clay pot when he finally spoke up.

“Why are you doing this?”

From the opposite side of the small cave, he thought he saw you flinch. Strange, that it was no insult he had hurled at you so far that elicited such a reaction from you.

“You must have other tasks to see to than to waste your time on me.”

You were plucking at the golden leaves now, adjusting them this way and that, but still, you were silent.

“So why… why are you still doing this?”

Volo wasn’t sure why he was talking so much.

Maybe it was that he really was healing, and his curiosity had returned, or that he didn’t want you to think he still hated you.

Your hands stopped moving. The stalks of the flowers sagged.

He saw you take a breath, then turn to him.

And for the first time since you had brought him here, your eyes met, and he couldn’t look away.

“I may have been a core member of the Galaxy Team, but I have my own life to live. And even if I lived how the villagers wanted me to, it would never be enough for them, would it?”

The implication of your question, one that neither of you had any predilection for answering, caused Volo to tense.

He didn’t miss the way that you stiffened as well.

“And,” you continued, your eyes never once leaving his, “if I decide that I want you in my life, I think that’s up to me, and up to you, but no one else.”

Why would you?

Volo couldn’t move.

He could only watch as you stood, the pearly moonlight dappling your figure with an array of stars, gleaming with every step you took toward him.

Before he could protest at how close you were, you had seated yourself before him, and Volo was humiliated by the pain in your eyes.

That was his fault.

He was shaking. He had thought he could do this. He still could, couldn’t he? He had to.

And then, before he had a chance to run, the words escaped him.

“How can you forgive me?”

A thousand ways Volo had envisioned asking you what had weighed on his conscience ever since you’d found him, and a thousand ways he’d imagined your response. He would ask you, shouting or crying or pleading, but even in his better dreams, you would only nod. You would nod, tell him you understood, and then you would leave before you could say you’d always truly meant that you’d forgiven him. He didn’t like to think of the nightmares, when you boasted that he’d fallen for your lie, and then you would echo his own words back to him: “I wish to see you suffer and agonize as I do.”

But here you were, smiling at him.

“I remember you once said something to me.”

How many sleepless nights did you have?

He didn’t know what he had told you that had kept you so at peace in front of him, but he couldn’t believe the words of a traitor had provided you the wisdom to forgive him.

Folding your hands across your lap, you stared off toward where the moonlight filtered in. He may have thought you were calm, but inside, you were struggling to continue.

I had many. Too many, without you.

“It was only a few months after I had met you,” you started quietly, “and I had helped return the Wall Fragment to Warden Calaba.”

Still, he wasn’t sure where you were going with this.

“You spoke of her faults that people often mentioned, that she was too stubborn, too old-fashioned.”

The cave was silent, save for the distant melodies of the retreating waves. Volo waited for them to return, heard their soaring notes as they rolled in, and his anticipation for what you would say next swelled along with them.

“But you didn’t think she really hated the Diamond Clan or the Galaxy Team—rather, you thought she simply loved the Pearl Clan very, very much.”

You turned back to him, and Volo saw only grief in your eyes.

He looked away.

“I think that you’re the same, in a way. You simply love what’s important to you very, very much.”

His breath caught in his throat.

“You love history, the ruins, myths, and the questions no one else could answer but you. You love your Pokémon. I know you love many things in Hisui. And when you love something, I think it’s natural you want to protect it.”

Volo felt your fingers on his. He was still looking away.

Nothing you were saying was like that of his dreams or his nightmares. He had a feeling you had been preparing for this very moment longer than he had.

“When I thought of that, I couldn’t hate you.”

His heart was quivering, just as his hand was in yours. Your palm was warm. He realized how cold he was then. You were warm. Your words were everything he needed to hear.

You were everything he needed.

“I couldn’t stay angry with you.”

Volo couldn’t hold on anymore. Was he hanging on, about to tumble into the chasm of his own folly, or was he waiting to finally be pulled to safety by his hope, by your salvation?

The lull of your comfort was too inviting to disregard. You were breathing into him that last breath he needed—

“I could forgive you, Volo, because I knew how much you could love, and how much you still love.”

—and then he let you pull him in.

He cried as you took him in your arms, embraced him like he meant the world to you, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

The guilt, the sorrow, the days he thought of ending it all—

he didn’t know if he could forget them, but with you, he wanted to try.

“I’m sorry.”

His apology was unending, perhaps worthless with how he repeated it as if you hadn’t heard him.

But you had. He knew you had, but he couldn’t stop the doubt.

“I know,” you said faintly.

“I didn’t hate you. I didn’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I know. I forgive you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Volo wasn’t sure he could stop.

Were hours passing as you held him, let his tears wet your clothes, and listened without judgment?

You were too good for him.

He didn’t know when he’d finally fallen silent, but he felt you tilt his head back, and then your lips were smoothing the wrinkle between his brows.

They touched his cheeks, his nose. His lashes fluttered over his eyes. His heart was reaching for yours, and he couldn’t fight it. He didn’t want to fight it anymore.

I love you.

You kissed his forehead, brought your warm fingers to his cheeks. Your hands smelled of flowers.

He shuddered.

“I love you, Volo,” you whispered against his lips.

And then, he knew nothing else but you.

He said your name like a word of immaculate praise, and you replied with his, a faithful murmur on the sea breeze.

I love you.

He felt your breath hitch—were you as nervous as he was?

Volo knew he was. He couldn’t go back anymore. You were his fate from the day he’d met you, and as if he had been searching his whole life for this moment, he kissed you.

A torrent of emotions crashed over him when his lips met yours completely; affection and pleasure and bliss coursed through him in wonderful harmony. It had been so long since Volo had last succumbed to such feelings that he was nearly overwhelmed. And they were because of you. You, you, you. Your lips were soft, perfect. How many times had he dreamed of kissing them? He didn’t know. His mind was fuzzy with desire, and he didn’t think he could let you go. Not when an aching heat fanned at his heart, and a pleasing tension knotted inside him, craving your touch.

I love you.

He didn’t know when his hands had found your waist, but when you gasped as he drew you closer, he was almost viscerally aware of how gravely he wanted you, needed you.

You were the same, however. Grasping fingers tugged at his hair, at his clothes. As if you couldn’t contain yourself any longer, you were pushing against him, your hips sinking into his, and when his tongue traced your lips, you moaned so splendidly.

It sent a wash of giddy ecstasy careening over him, and Volo knew he had already been hopelessly swept away by you.

Roaming across his jaw, his arms, his chest, your touch was a welcome caress, defying his qualms for as long as he held you. Subconsciously, Volo mirrored you, desperate to feel all of you against him. He tucked a leg around your waist, angled himself away for an inconvenient moment of respite, but then he dove in again, nipping at your lips between kisses, sweeping a hand over your chest—

and then he felt it.

He stopped. He drew back from you to stare at your flushed face, your brilliant eyes, as if to tell himself that yes, it was you.

Beneath his fingertips, your frantic pulse thrummed just like the intense pounding of his own heart.

Your heart. You were alive. You were here with him now.

You had shown it all to him, allowed your heart to sit in his hands, and he was blessed to feel its beat rippling with a sweet warmth through him.

And as your heart sang only for him, his heart would only ever sing for you, the one who would never let him go.

You were smiling at him, and this time, that smile reached your eyes.

He would never let you go again.

Volo would never let you go again, so that he could show you how much he still loved, without a doubt in his heart at all.

He leaned in. His lips found yours as he smiled, and finally, he could honestly tell you,

“I love you.”

[end.]

❥

[extra]

Sometime much later…

“You know, Volo, I don’t know if it was lucky or not that I found you when I did.”

“And why is that?”

“Because while it was good to at least find you, if I found you any earlier, I might have punched you.”

“…What?”

“I was really mad at you, you know.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not angry with you now, and if I was, I’d still be more inclined to do this.”

You laughed, pulled him close, and kissed him.

Grinning, Volo deepened the kiss. He was sure he could live with this instead.

[mugram]

"Justice" - Es' Trial One Voice Drama

Jackalope: You understand now, right?

Es: I believe so, yes…

Jackalope: Good! Good! Now, come with me. We have to go now. The prisoners might realize we’re not there yet. Since you prepared, MUGRAM, the first trial begins now! Or whatever! Let’s move!!

Es: Eh–??

: Go where?

Jackalope: Panopticon. It has a panoramic view of the prisoners’ rooms.

Es: Panopticon…?

Jackalope: Your head is a little foggy right? Sorry about that. I’ll explain a few things to you on the way.

Es: Okay. My memory problem won’t interfere with being the Warden.

Jackalope: …

: That’s good to know.

[footsteps]

Jackalope: Hey, Es, can you open the door?

Es: Eh? Can’t you… Right, you’re… never mind. [footsteps]

Jackalope: Look, the only door I can’t open is the one to your bedroom. Other rooms have an entrance for me.

Es: Oh, that’s… nice. Do I really have a… “rabbit” as another Warden?

Jackalope: …

: My feelings, Es… But, yes, I am technically another Warden.

[door opens, the pair walk]

Es: Eh… This hallway is long.

Jackalope: At the end of this passageway is your bedroom. There are various rooms and facilities along the way. Explaining it would take too long, so I’m skipping it, alright?

Es: What’s opposite my room?

Jackalope: My room! You can’t enter without my permission, though.

Es: Eh, I don’t plan on it. Plus, there’s no door big enough for a human anyway.

Jackalope: Oh, that’s true. [more footsteps] This is the prisoners’ shower room. Across is the storage room. Necessities are mostly here.

Es: The prisoners are allowed to go in and out of this passageway?

Jackalope: Yep, they need their necessities, correct?

Es: …

: Mhm.

Jackalope: Anyways, when they’re allowed in the passageway, whether showers should be separated by male and female and so on, the specific rules for their lives are things you decide later.

Es: …I can decide?

Jackalope: Yep! You can decide how MILGRAM is administered. So, if you want to make it heaven or hell, it’s up to you.

Es: I would ask why, but it’s probably because I’m the Warden, right? Even if I can’t remember.

Jackalope: Oh, yes.

Es: Oh, Jackalope. You might have to move faster. I might step on you.

Jackalope: I’m going as fast as I can, alright?! Hold on.

Es: …Sorry.

Jackalope: Anyways, this is the dining hall.

Es: Wait, who prepares the meals? Apart from the two of us, is there anyone else who–

Jackalope: I do.

Es: Oh. Wait– What??

Jackalope: I’m the head chef of MUGRAM. I can make anything you’d like.

Es: How can you even do that?? How do you hold a frying pan or a knife with like… your paws? Hands?

Jackalope: If I hold it firmly, I can.

Es: What…? How does your… fur not get into it??

Jackalope: If it’s molting season, then a lot of it gets in.

Es: What–

Jackalope: Alright, we’re finally at the heart of MUGRAM: the Panopticon.

[door opens]

Es: This is… Panopticon. It’s… a dome?

Jackalope: We’re at the north of the dome. The entrance is at the twelve o’clock position.

Es: So, I’m assuming each door is a prisoner’s room?

Jackalope: Yep, it’s pretty much like a clock. The prisoner number and the times match. Pretty easy to remember, right?

Es: Mhm.

Jackalope: Oh, there’s still some time left. Okay, I think I have time to introduce the prisoners. I’ve only seen their faces, though. [footsteps] So, the one o’clock room, prisoner number one, Mayumi Kubo.

: She has a… serious expression on her face. Honestly, I don’t really know if you’ll learn anything about her.

Es: Well, she’s a murderer. That’s all I need to know, isn’t it?

Jackalope: Yes… But… [sigh] Let’s just move on.

: Next, at two o’clock, prisoner number two, Masaru Iwai. He has an angry expression on his face. If I were you, I’d ensure he didn’t cause too much trouble. He looks like… a young adult. I couldn’t really tell that much, though.

Es: You don’t know the prisoners’ ages?

Jackalope: Ehh… Well, I’m not allowed to look into stuff like that. But, you are. So, figure them out the prisoners for me, will ya? [footsteps] At three o’clock, we have prisoner three, Keisuke Izumi. He looks… normal, I guess. It’s not like he seems shocked or anything; he’s just… normal.

Es: Well, he’s a murderer, isn’t he? I wouldn’t believe that if it were true…

Jackalope: Well, first impressions reveal a lot about a person, so…

Es: Huh. Anyways, the next prisoner is… Prisoner number four is Tomoko Shiratori.

Jackalope: Another serious-looking person. It’s sort of hard to understand these types of people; they never try to reveal anything about themselves unless they have to.

Es: Well, no matter, I’ll figure it out in the end and judge them according to the law–

Jackalope: Eh? According to the law? Well, if we just judged them according to the law, then there’s no point in you being here. [Es makes an annoyed noise] You should make decisions based on your own standards. Even if it's based on sex or love, I have no problem with it.

Es: …Let’s just move on.

Jackalope: Alright. The next prisoner is Shun Minami. They’re around… 25, I believe? She seems oddly happy, which I won’t question. I suppose you’ll have to find out why she seems so happy. Or it could be pretend. I don’t know.

Es: Due south. Six o’clock. We’re halfway through already?

Jackalope: Yep, this is prisoner number six, Daiki Kawaguchi. He looks pretty strong. I’d be careful around him as well. He seems like the type to tell you off if you did something bad.

Es: That sounds like a father, Jackalope.

Jackalope: …

: Okay, I wouldn’t know that, alright? Leave me alone.

: Either way, you’ll find out their true colors eventually.

Es: Sure.

Jackalope: Alright, prisoner number seven, Isamu Takao. He looks pretty kind and nice. I’d believe his expression if his hand wasn’t in a fist. I’d be careful of him as well.

Es: It seems like there are loads of prisoners I have to be careful around. What happens if I get attacked by one of them? It feels awkward to say, but I don’t think I could put up a fight with the likes of Daiki and Isamu.

Jackalope: They can’t attack us, guards. Don’t worry.

Es: Guards? So… It’s not the same for the prisoners? They can attack each other?

Jackalope: Pretty much. That could happen, but it really depends on your judgment. [footsteps] Now, this is prisoner number eight, Mia Fukuda. I believe she’s around your age, Es.

Es: Eh? Around my age?

Jackalope: Yeah. I don’t know if you two would relate because of that, but if it helps you find the truth, then I guess I don’t mind. You need to determine if they’re good people by talking to them. It’s basically your duty as the prison guard.

Es: Oh, I see. So, interrogating them is the only way to determine if I should forgive them or not, even if I don’t want to at all.

Jackalope: You got it!

Es: You sound awfully like a parent, J. [laughs]

Jackalope: Well, I am supervising you, so… [laughs] Anyways, next prisoner. Prisoner number nine, Ryuu Seki. He looks… interesting. I don’t know. He seems like one of those people who pretend to be someone else. I wouldn’t know, I guess.

Es: …Well, that is an interesting comment, isn’t it?

Jackalope: Last is prisoner ten, Sora Mochizuki. She looks exhausted. I’d say make sure she doesn’t pass out on you, but that’d be seriously out of taste. I hope whatever she committed relieved her of her exhaustion.

Es: That’s ten.

Jackalope: And, that’s the end of all of the prisoners I have to introduce. You just have to talk to them afterward and decide things for yourself.

Es: Hey, J?

Jackalope: Hm?

Es: At eleven o’clock, there’s another cell. It’s pretty old, judging by how rusty it is and its lack of a lock.

Jackalope: Ah, don’t worry about it. There’s nothing.

Es: What do you mean there’s nothi– [bell rings] What the hell was that?

Jackalope: It’s finally time for you to finally meet the prisoners face-to-face! If you have any doubts or confusions – anything! – you have to kill them all now. You’re supposed to be the Warden. Don’t hesitate. Make the prisoners respect you and your authority.

Es: Well… I guess, J. I am MUGRAM’s Warden. That’s all I have to know about myself, right? There’s nothing else I have to know. I’m looking forward to it a little… Meeting all the prisoners here and learning of their murders. [Jacklaope makes a noise of understanding.] With my own will, I’ll reveal their sins. I can put some of my feelings aside and decide if I really want to forgive these murderers. I wonder what their thoughts are… I want to know the truth.

Jackalope: …I see, Es.

[mechanical sounds]

Jackalope: Good luck, Es. I believe in you.

Es: I can do this. It’s my first job as the Warden.

[ominous footsteps]

Es: Good day, prisoners. I am Es, your Warden. This is the MUGRAM prison. It exists to judge your sins, all ten of you prisoners. I may not know much about you, but I am aware that you are all murderers – And, that’s all I know. So, from now on, I’ll have you enlighten me about yourselves. Welcome to MUGRAM. Have a nice life in prison.

MUSIC VIDEO - Judge, Jury, Executioner