#two walking ghosts orbiting the life they lost and finding comfort in each other

[qunaricatnip]

at work and all I can think about it loghain swearing a knights oath to f!cousland after she spares his life

[iceeckos12]

ouch oof i am sad

remember the scene that @pitviperofdoom was talking about in this post? well this was something she mentioned in the discord server and because i am always a sucker for a good angst, i wrote an entire Thing for it. content warnings under the cut

basically: assistant archivist au where gerry did die. mentions of past character death

Jon’s quiet as Julia explains how to pull Gerard Keay from the page. This is not unusual in and of itself. Jon is not the type of person to fill spaces with endless chatter, or to make small talk for the sake of it. Martin and Jon’s friendship has been characterized by long, comfortable silences and the conversation they make between each one.

This is different, though. Martin can’t tell if it’s because of his connection with the Beholding that he knows, or if he’s just gotten better at reading Jon, but this is - wrong. The last conversation that they had, if you could call it a conversation at all, was Jon quietly asking if they could stop by Pittsburgh to visit the hospital where Gerard Keay died. Since then, he’s been mostly lost in thought.

Martin knows that Jon and Gerard worked together with Gertrude. He’s inferred that they were friends, because Martin has learned to read the quiet grief that crosses Jon’s face whenever Gerard is mentioned. Now he’s wondering if they were closer than he realized.

He doesn’t dare ask though, not in front of Julia. And he’s not even sure that Jon would tell him if he did ask. So he sets aside his worry, turns to the Hunter, and says, “Thank you, Julia.”

Her smile is full of teeth. “Give the door a knock when you’re done.”

Martin watches her go, unwilling to take his eyes off of her for more than a moment. When the door finally clicks shut, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief and looks down to find Jon holding the book in his hands, staring at it, perfectly still.

“...Jon?”

Jon jumps and looks up, his lips pressed into a thin, bitten line, his eyes slightly wild.

Martin knows how to handle Jon when he’s scared, when he’s cruel. He knows how to handle Jon when he’s simmering with anger, when he’s exhausted and frayed about the edges. This is completely new, and he shifts at the unwelcome, familiar feeling of uncertainty. “Do you...want me to do it?”

Jon immediately shakes his head, so quick it looks painful. “No. No, I should…” he takes a deep breath, scrubs his hand through his hair. He takes a few quick steps forward, then turns around, the book pressed to his stomach. “I’ll do it.”

Martin opens his mouth to question the wisdom of that idea, but then Jon is flipping open the book to the last page. He clears his throat once, twice, and then, “His consciousness faded in and out like the tide.”

Jon’s voice breaks on the last word, and he stops.

“...Jon?”

Martin watches the gentle bob of Jon’s throat as he swallows. Then he shakes his head and says in a voice much stronger and clearer than before, “His consciousness faded in and out like the tide. He tried to refuse their drugs…”

He continues talking, his voice rising and falling with every word, like he’s reading just another statement. He slows as he reaches the last few sentences.

“...And his only thought was to cry out for the one he loved. He could feel small, familiar hands gripping his, the soft rise and fall of a voice, hushed like a prayer. The name fell from his lips, but he couldn’t be sure whether or not he had been heard. He hoped that he had been heard. And so Gerard Keay ended.”

Gerard Keay stands in the center of the room. He’s wearing all black, which Martin had expected. Black trench coat, black trousers, black boots, eyes made sharp with makeup. He looks like he just raided the shelves of a Hot Topic, only he makes it work.

Gerard’s gaze flickers from Martin to Jon, and for a moment there is no recognition, no comprehension. He opens his mouth - and then he stills, his eyebrows coming together in vague confusion. His jaw slackens, and his eyes widen, and his expression is cracked open like an egg, revealing the vulnerable yolk beneath.

Jon makes a sound. Martin could not characterize that sound even if he wanted to. It sounds like - like all of Jon’s insides have been scooped out of him, like he’s surrounded by air but he can’t get a breath, like - grief. It sounds like pure, mortal grief.

Just like that, Martin understands.

“Jon,” Gerard Keay says.

And then Jon bursts into tears.

“Gerry,” Jon gasps, but when he reaches out his hand goes right through Gerry’s sleeve. “Gerry, I - “

“Jon,” Gerry steps in close, his hands framing Jon’s face, staring at him the way a drowning man stares at a life raft.

“I’m sorry,” Jon manages. “Gerry I’m so - I promise, I didn’t know, I - “

“It’s okay,” Gerry reaches for Jon’s hair reflexively, but freezes when his fingertips disappear into Jon’s forehead. His expression crumples. “It’s fine, I know. I know. Jon, Jon - ”

And then they’re both crying, tears dripping down. Jon’s face is buried in his hands, and he’s weeping, keening, and Gerry keeps reaching for him, but there’s no way to connect, no way to touch. There’s no relief. It’s just shared grief, endless and pervasive and shattering.

Martin turns away and frantically scrubs his hands across his face. Oh, God. He feels so guilty, but he doesn’t want to be here right now. There is a Shakespearean tragedy playing out before his eyes, the kind that’s brimming with heartache and things left unsaid, and he is powerless against it.

Finally, mercifully, the sound of crying dies away into exhausted silence, except for thick, heavy breathing. Martin keeps his back to them, wanting to give them some semblance of privacy for a conversation that they obviously need to have.

“...so where is she?”

Jon huffs out a quiet laugh, lacking humor, edged with hurt. “Dead. Shot to the chest.”

“Figures.” A meaningful pause. “So are you...”

“Oh, no. No, it’s...oh. Martin?”

Martin sniffs hard and drags his hands over his cheeks before turning around, forcing a smile on his face. Jon and Gerry are standing as close to each other as they can without touching, twin tracks of silver tears on their cheeks.  “Hi, sorry. Just...wanted to give you two a bit of privacy. Martin Blackwood, Head Archivist.”

Gerry dips his chin in acknowledgement, before turning his confused gaze back to Jon. “I thought…?”

“He knows,” Jon says quickly. “I’m...well. It’s complicated. Gertrude hid a lot more from us than we knew.” There’s still a raw hurt in Jon’s voice when he says that, mixed with a lingering sort of nostalgia.

Gerry grimaces. “Did she know about…”

Martin doesn’t realize what he’s asking about until he gestures toward his head, a helpless, reluctant sort of gesture.

“I - maybe?” Jon shakes his head, for the first time turning out of Gerry’s orbit, wrapping his arms around himself. “I’d like to think not, but...it doesn’t matter now. She’s gone. We’ll never know.”

There is a moment of silence. Martin bites his lip, then forces himself to stop when he realizes that he’s already chewed it bloody. It’s hard to watch Jon draw back into himself, put the pain where it can only hurt himself.

“Hey,” Gerry reaches for Jon’s chin, frowns when his hand sinks into the skin. He shakes his head and walks around so he can insert himself into Jon’s field of vision. “Stop. I can feel you blaming yourself, okay? Just...stop. It’s not your fault.”

“...but I should’ve -”

“I am not letting you use this as another stick you beat yourself with,” Gerry interrupts firmly. “You read my page, didn’t you? I didn’t die alone. I’m sorry that you had to go through that, but you don’t understand how much I -”

He breaks off. Jon’s breath rattles dangerously again.

“I always thought that I was going to die alone,” Gerry finishes.

There’s another moment of silence. Jon puts his head in his hands again, and Martin aches at the way Gerry’s face crumples with the desire to reach out, to comfort. They’re in the same room, but there’s a yawning, uncrossable distance between them.

Then Jon lowers his hands. There’s a spark in his eyes that Martin recognizes: the scarce moments before an inferno, before manic determination sets Jon’s whole being ablaze. “Gerry, I’m getting you out of here. I can - you and me, we can figure it out. We can -”

“No.”

Jon pauses. The spark jolts, catches on the cool wave of his confusion. “...what?”

“I’m dead, Jon,” Gerry reaches out for Jon again, then stops. Lets his arm fall to his side, clenches his fists. “I can’t live like this.”

Breathless hurt snatches across Jon’s face. “No, Gerry. I can’t - not when I’ve just found you, I -”

“It hurts, Jon,” Gerry interrupts, and he does not seem like the type to beg, but his voice dips at the end with a desperate plea. “It...it hurts, all the time, and...I just want to rest. Please, just let me rest.”

Jon swallows once. Twice, and his face crumples with sympathy, with empathy, with that awful exhaustion that they’ve all been wearing since what feels like forever. After a moment, he nods.

Gerry lets out a low, quiet sigh of relief, tension draining from his broad shoulders. He smiles faintly, ghosting his knuckles against Jon’s cheek. Jon leans into the touch even though he must not be able to feel it, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth drawn.

“I wish you were here,” Jon whispers.

“Yeah,” Gerry steps back, hiding his expression behind his long curtain of black hair. “Me too.”

There’s a moment of silence. A rearranging of expressions, a folding of hurt and pain back where it can no longer be seen. Jon is once again himself, his expression distant, and Gerry is wry and so very, very dead.

Gerry turns to Martin and smiles. “I wish we had met under better circumstances, Martin.”

Martin swallows, trying to unearth his voice. “Yeah. Me too.”

Then Gerry turns back to Jon. “You know what to do.”

Jon nods again, sharp and short. “I...I dismiss you.”

Gerry closes his eyes, and the whole room sighs as he dissipates into nothing.

Jon stands alone in the middle of the room, spine so straight there may as well be an iron rod put up the back of it. Martin doesn’t even know what the hell he is supposed to say. There is nothing he can do to make this better. How the hell is he supposed to make this better?

The moment passes. Jon’s shoulders slump, and when he turns back to Martin, his eyes are empty.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says monotonously.

Martin cannot do this. Martin cannot just stand there while Jon apologizes and looks at him like that, and -

“Don’t apologize,” he steps forward. “Can I hug you? Please?”

Jon thinks about that for a moment. When he eventually nods, Martin crosses the short distance between them and folds Jon into his arms, trying to ease the sharpness of the pain he surely must be feeling. He can’t make it better, but he can make sure that Jon knows that he isn’t alone. He can do this.

Jon doesn’t move for a moment, his face pressed into Martin’s shoulder, his arms loose at his sides. But just when Martin is about to pull away, he slowly reaches up, curls his hands in the fabric of Martin’s shirt. Lowers his head so he is half-buried in Martin’s embrace. He was already small, but he tries to make himself smaller, like he’s trying to hide himself in the folds of Martin’s pullover.

Eventually, he lets go. Eventually he steps back, letting his bangs hide his eyes, and goes to pick up the book. Martin watches his painful, slow movements, as though he’s filled with bruises from the inside out. He’s so distracted that Jon’s voice almost makes him jump.

“You should…you should do it.”

Martin shakes himself. “Sorry?”

“Burn his page,” Jon elaborates, holding the book out to Martin.

Martin gapes at him, stunned, because - “Um. No? Jon, why -”

“I can’t be the only person who’s ever done right by him.”

Oh. Well, when he puts it like that.

Martin swallows and takes the book gingerly, like he’s holding something precious. He flips to the last page and carefully tears it out, ignoring the way Jon’s breath catches at the soft ripping sound. Then he folds the page and puts it into his pocket, trying not to let on how nervous he is about having this precious page on his person. Trying not to let on how nervous Jon’s complete and utter trust makes him.

He is painfully aware of how many times that trust has been broken.

“Are you ready?” Martin asks.

Jon finally looks away from Martin’s pocket. “Yes. Let’s go.”

[magicflowershop]

Kenma stared at his phone for the next five seconds, until a notification of a missed call popped on the screen. he immediately realized this as a mistake and pressed the answer button when another call appeared.

he braced himself.

“kenma!”

the voice from the call reflected loud and clear through his speaker. it was sweet yet vigorous. the excited tone bounced against him and around him, to have him feel the same.

he smiled to himself.

“hey, y/n.”

he hears you panting through the phone. “are you okay?”

“yes!” he heard you answer, breathing out the vowel of the word. “i’m sorry, but where are you right now?”

squeaking noises was heard out of the speaker. the boy assumed you might be out to look for him. his suspicions died down the second you replied that you were. Kenma called you stupid from the back of his mind, and excused himself from his team to go look for you too.

“i’m going to the garden,” he told you, walking his way down the stairs.

“garde- the garden?!”

Kenma winced at your yell that you soon apologized for. “i just walked passed the garden, geez. can you go somewhere else?”

“but i want to go to the garden.”

“stay where you are! i’m trying right now!”

“well, try to go to the garden.”

the sides of his mouth rose up to his cheeks as he rushed down the stairs, heading his way to the garden as he said. his grin grew wider after hearing whines from his phone speaker. the fun part of his life has come back, it seems. he wished for it to stay.

with this, he took a different route to the garden. that is in case he bumps into you, so the two of you can go together and he can make fun of you for running in the corridor like a lunatic. it’s one of his favorite hobbies now.

“wait!” you yelled from the other side of the call. he heard you gasp the next second and whisper, “i got lost i think. oh my god.”

at that moment, the most hearty and loudest cackle escaped from Kenma’s mouth. it was a split-second laugh. so loud that Kenma surprised himself. to think he was capable of laughing like that. if Kuroo were to hear, he would probably cry, Kenma thought and contained his enthusiasm. after all, the person on the phone can let out the same amount of enthusiasm for the both of them.

“what was that? can you do that again? i couldn’t quite catch it.”

Kenma rolled his eyes, chuckling. “i laughed.”

your gasp was the sharpest one he heard so far. “do it again! shit, oh no, i can’t record it. i’m calling you.”

this time he covered his mouth to not make his giggles audible. he was surprised to actually find himself giggling at something so simple.

the lad let you playfully babble curses at him while he remained quiet. if he continued speaking, he might not be able to stop. interacting with others is a tough job, so he took the time to look for you instead before going outside the premises.

it then hit him. “you’re not lost for real, are you?” he asked, looking left and right to see which way you might come from. he figured that since you both are college seniors, you could have been exaggerating to say you were lost. as you do liked exaggerating. the smile returned.

“i’m not familiar with the main building. the east and west buildings confuse me a lot.” she explained herself, sounding a lot more audible than previous times. Kenma looked up to the window and saw you taking a seat by the fountain, visibly tired to your wits. he took a sigh of relief before moving to sit beside you.

but his presence might have startled you that you had to stand back up. “you’re here!”

the lad nodded his head, smiling, and kept his phone back in his hoodie’s pocket. “yes, i am.” he saw the paint-stained apron she wore over her clothes. “you’re working hard.”

you looked down to your clothes, “this is nothing. i’m only doing my job. i didn’t want to just sit there and watch them work, you know.” and sheepishly smiled, tucking strands hair behind your ear.

“anywa-”

“why’d you-”

the two of you laughed after speaking at the same time. you gestured for the lad to say his piece before you, but he only wanted to ask why you called him just to see him.

you felt yourself flush from realization. “well, um, the text you gave me made me really worried, and i keep forgetting to reply since everything’s been really hectic on me lately. and i apologize for that.”

“there’s no reason for you to apologize.”

“also, you’re never a bother to me. what made you think that?” you asked him, tilting a head to the side in confusion, and continued, “if anything, it’s an honor to be your friend since i started as a fan of you...”

until Kenma retracted his hand back from touching the stain of paint on your chin.

you stared at him. you just stood there, staring at him. you gathered all the events that led to that action in your mind. meanwhile, the lad covered his face and looked away out of shame. he just invaded your personal space

and touched you.

“what was that?”

“you- you had paint on your- on your chin. it w- it was distracting so... yea.”

you watched him as he stammered like crazy, as if he has violated your rights as a member of society and as a woman of Japan.

did you just do that to Bouncing Ball Corporation’s CEO?

“i’m a painter. it’s normal i had stains like this on certain parts of my body. no worries... well, anyways,” you said, trying your very best to brush off what happened just now between you two. you sure hoped you weren’t blushing as hard as he did just now. but your robotic voice did not help, “we can sit. do you want to sit? i want to sit.”

so you sat by the fountain once again, and Kenma followed suit. the both of you sat beside each other for the next few minutes, relishing the air accompanied by the scent of the plants. the warmth around you two was too comfortable and too sweet that you literally cannot stop blushing.

you are sitting beside Kenma Kozume. you hadn’t let that sink in yet. it was too good to be true. he was hanging out with you. he touched your chin. HE.

“you’re more quiet in personal, huh?”

“who, me?” you asked in a rather dumb way, as he did startle you with a question. “i’m kind of the same.” you can never admit that you’re actually so star-strucked whenever you see him in real life that you just do not function at all.

you’ll come around, you say to yourself.

it’s only a matter of ti-

“want to go to horror mansion with me some time?”

you blinked at him. “yes?” you asked him to repeat himself, to make sure you weren’t just hearing things, although your yes trailed off so far that you forgot to rise the intonation.

“great,” a soft smile matched with his soft voice so well that you find yourself instantly melting.

“you got the tickets, right?”

“uh, yea.”

“okay. i’ll just ask the team if we can make the booth up to your standards.”

“up to my standards? what’s that mean?”

“you don’t get scared easily, do you?”

so you stand there, taken-aback, that this boy had the audacity to tease you again as if you did not just go around school just to hang out with him, again.

“i’m hungry. want to get some snacks with me?”

ღ take me to orbit

― note 10 ✧ working hard

ღ in which a part-time graphic designer receives an opportunity to work with their most favorite sugar daddy gaming youtuber. or perhaps, work isn’t the only thing that’s about to happen between them.

✧ previous 「masterlist」 next ✧

behind the stars:

since it has been officially stated, Kuroo immediately deleted the Kirby meme from Kenma's tweet to avoid suspicions.

❀ //

:D I’M BACK :D

― ✿ taglist: 《STILL OPEN! send me an ask to join 🧡》

@fear-fckeverythingandrun @mirikusashes @bestboitsukki @rachelexe @icaruskenma @lilidrawz @animatedrapture @lostmarimoismyhubby @paripedia @kac-chowsballs @aikochan4859 @beanst0ck @kac-chowsballs @ghost-of-todoroki @waitforitillwritemywayout @effmigentlywithachainsaw @hugscore @basically1kuromi @yn-tingz @a-applepi @shigarakiskitten @skylarkalchemist

[sweetbutteryspacejesus]

Old Memories

Old Memories

(Originally posted for Obitine week)

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

Obi-Wan lay in his cabin watching the sand begin to seep from his escapades into the Dunes of Tatooine. With a deep breath he placed his hands on his knees, legs crossed. Now he could only turn his thoughts away and meditate. Strength filled his being, penetrating him leading the way. Like a uniform river.

The small crumbs of desert that had been carried by the slight current of the isolated planet. He could see -feel - 3  sparks of life in the distance, and beyond Owen Lars' farm, thousands of them living and changing the course of the future for every action they did.

The sand and objects around Obi-Wan rose up into orbit with the hermit. His unkempt hair began to rise in small waves. The force connected with him, and he explained his miseries, she always replied that everything would be fine. The comforting presence of the force found peace in the old Jedi.

The living lights of Tatooine gradually entered a stable rest, provided by the night that filled the entire planet with darkness. Kenobi's shoulders and upright position disappeared causing all objects - including himself - to return to the crushed force of gravity. He should rest. Try it at least. He got up from the sofa noticing how the bitter ground was already wearing him down. He walked, on his way to the room in the hut. Words weren't something on his lips lately.  He put his hand on the door frame, feeling the wall reluctant to touch. The force tugged at his mind, today he wouldn’t have rest, he could feel it in the ferocity of his own means of comfort. The force predicting the nightmares within his dreams. 

Solemnly Obi-Wan closed his eyes, pushing the thoughts of those he had lost and the others who were living this uncertain future. What was it for a Jedi to be alone?

He took the path that cruel force bound him. In a wooden trunk, preserved with his life at stake. He fingered the edge slowly, lovingly running his fingers through the opening and opening the wooden trunk, carried from his home planet Stewjon. Inside it were a few stray fibers in a small bundle. Memories of the past that he unwrapped it slowly. 

The consequences. He took the handle in his hands. The force shuddered around him and struck Kenobi. Dragging him into the darkness, he was not strong enough to hold the weight of his actions. Voices screamed at him, his system practically collapsing on the floor.

Anakin, Satine, Qui-Gon, Padmé, Ahsoka... He had lost so much for so little. On the floor of the cabin he could only find the comfort of his tears as he wandered blindly through his memories.

He remembered advice from a comforting voice. Giant hands that perched so often on his shoulder. The confidence of a teacher when he spoke to him. Of those proud eyes that gave him the task of training the last hope of someone dying. Qui-Gon. He had always been her guide through this hard path, now more than ever, she was in need of that guide.

He remembered gentle touches of loving hands. Satine. She treating his heart gently. The laughs and kisses stolen when they didn't have eyes on them. Her delicate voice saying her name, her nickname, her mask "Ben".  He remembered his heart leaping with joy as he remembered the night before and knew she could repeat the taste of her lips. Then a bitter farewell and the rancor of bad decisions. The countless nights with that feeling of incompleteness. Temptation and attraction. The peaceful attraction between the two of them, he knew he shouldn't but  he missed her presence in this galaxy, the pacifying attraction that went beyond lust.

The Jedi could not bear these thoughts. A small tear appeared making her walk down the cheek of the knight, totally helpless, huddled on the ground. Because he knew that Qui-Gon's death was decided by force, and it was not in vain, but Satine. Satine's death was his fault. The thought hit him, no Jedi was prepared for the pressure of taking an innocent life. No one should be prepared for it.

The gentle hand that remembered traversing his chin, his back, nights of fading with each other. They changed by the coldness of a body in her arms. The small presence fading and in her last breath "I love you".

He drowned in his grief for a few moments. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Sadness was re-engulfing him, being torn to pieces and delivered to this pain as just another victim of this war. In a moment of clarity he sought the firmness of the force, wrapped in the protective layer that was the force let his sadness flow through it. Like a river dragging the stones of the road the sadness disappeared, leaving in Obi-Wan a bittersweet feeling. But he wasn’t going to be that lucky today. Another wave came, more recent.

He remembered that young slave full of emotion, restless and rebellious. One of the best Jedi I had ever met. Always seeking justice by his hand, despite Jedi advice. On the contrary the code but despite that he was a good person, somewhat irascible. But a good friend and a great pilot. Also somewhere in his mind he found yellow eyes, full of hate. "I hate you".

His hands trembled, losing control, but he really wondered when he had had control. All his life he had been at work, at duty, at advice, to the force and yet  he couldn't guide Anakin when he had the chance. When he should guide him.

Something had jammed in his throat with crushing pressure. He couldn't breathe, it wasn't like being trapped in water, or in a tight grip, but in a pile of sand slipping through his clothes, on his own lungs scratching his entire body in crushing pain destroying his insides in small cuts. At what point had Anakin grown so far from him? When?

Where once there was full trust, a warm and familiar connection, now there was a loose end. A fate worse than death. He took the force around him violently. The protection was gone and he was unbalanced. He released all this emotion, this passion, this chaos, this ignorance and so much death.

- I’ve failed you Anakin.

 Returning to reality, rising from the dusty ground in silence. He noticed a presence there, someone watching. He turned in search of the viewer of this scene to find a young woman who knew even the most intimate corner of his soul.

- Satine …

He muttered. He had finally gone mad, had completely lost his mind in those bitter memories. She simply looked at him, smiling. He held his posture to that talking ghost, echoing all over his head those same words. Kenobi closed his eyes, suppressing the self-destructive spiral he was trapped in. Finally he managed to say:

- I love you, Satine, I wish I had said it before.

[ask4mynemo-blog]

Celestial Chemistry

Written by Benny Millar

Homeward Bound

My patriarchal blessing quotes a scripture that I love, “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise.” (Doctrine & Covenants 82:10)  I prefer looking at verses 8-10 together for a more complete perspective on this wonderful verse in modern scripture:

And again, I say unto you, I give unto you a new commandment, that you may know my will concerning you; or, in other words, I give unto you directions how you may act before me, that it may turn to you for your salvation.  I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise.

I’ve been thinking about this in relation to our walk on the covenant path and it made me realize how much our Heavenly Father loves us and wants to stay “bound” to us!   We individually might say, “I, Benny, am bound to the Lord when I make and keep sacred covenants in His temple; and when I do what He says, I may claim His promises.” 

I am developing a new analogy that I call “Celestial Chemistry.” It conceptually focuses on the idea of hydrogen bonds, ionic bonds, and covalent bonds in relation to faith, obedience, and priesthood covenants. I would love to share it with you. Please understand that I am not promoting these ideas as doctrine, but simply laying out my personal thoughts that emerged as I pondered and studied the doctrine of making and keeping priesthood covenants.

Hydrogen Bonding and Water

Water is the classic example of hydrogen bonding.  On the basic atomic level, there exists partial positive charges and partial negative charges which hold two hydrogens to one oxygen.  This creates an attractive polarity within each H2O molecule and an even more unique bonding association with many other H2O molecules nearby.  Water is composed of a molecular neighborhood wherein each hydrogen atom is actually bonded to two separate oxygen atoms though more strongly to one. The bonding in liquid water is such that the closest neighboring H2O molecules form a tetrahedron which is 90% electrostatic and 10% covalent.  

Perhaps this is pushing the spiritual chemistry analogy too far, but the tetrahedral bonding formation of liquid water could represent the baptismal covenant.  This covenant is like a bond requiring five separate contributing parts:

The individual making the covenant 

God the Father

Jesus Christ

The Holy Ghost

Authority of the Priesthood

Hence, there are five bonded parts in one tetrahedral structure. I find it interesting that five parts (or five words) is a common theme in our covenant relationship with deity.  When children of God desire to live through covenant obedience they must demonstrate a willingness to follow God’s directions which will show them how to “…act before [Him], that it may turn to [them] for [their] salvation.”  Nephi personified this willingness when he said, “I will go and do.”   Living by this five word mantra qualifies an individual to become connected to heaven and prepares her/him for making and keeping sacred priesthood covenants.  

Another five word symbol of advanced covenant relationships can be found when we think about the inscription on every temple built in the latter-days, “Holiness to the Lord, The House of the Lord.”  One day after a temple recommend interview with a member of our stake presidency, my sweet wife asked the counselor a question.  She asked him what he understood to be the meaning of the phrase, “Holiness to the Lord.”  His answer was profound.  He told her a story of a famous national news reporter who interviewed a prominent member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Boston, Massachusetts.  The two men sat on a bench not far from the Boston temple and the interviewer asked if he could ever go inside the temple himself. “Of course,” the brother explained, “if you qualify by meeting the standards of holiness to the Lord.” Then he reverently shared with the journalist all the temple recommend interview questions.  The reporter was astounded and replied, “You mean to tell me that every member of your church who is granted entrance into that temple answered every one of those questions?  I don’t think I could honestly answer any of them myself.  That is remarkable!”  Holiness to the Lord is a personal preparation to enter His temples.  “The House of the Lord,” (another five word mantra) stands as the designated place for Heavenly Father’s family to enter into the higher covenants of salvation.  Inside the temple, the pattern of fives is repeated in special and perhaps subtle ways that cannot be shared in this essay. Look for them on your own as you worship in The House of The Lord. Now back to some chemistry.

If hydrogen bonding in water were too strong, life could not be sustained at lower temperatures and if the bonding were too weak then life could not be sustained at higher temperatures. There exists a “Goldilocks Principle” of not too strong and not too weak which keeps water and life sustained over a wide range of temperatures.  If the bonds in liquid water break, they quickly reform as long as the tetrahedral molecules remain close and actively engaged.  This is like enduring repentance and faithful service which is life sustaining and reminds me of the two great commandments.  As we strive to love God with all of our heart, soul and mind, and strive to love our neighbor as ourself, we are able to retain a remission of our sins and maintain the unique spiritual hydrogen water bonds of our baptismal covenant.

Water is “sticky” because of the easy and abundant hydrogen bonds throughout the liquid structure which creates surface tension.  This is how a skin forms on the surface for insects to walk upon, how humans can easily drink water through a straw, and how plants can draw up a column of water through roots and channels against gravity!  Perhaps we need to appreciate the “stickiness” of our baptismal covenant, too.  Baptism is the ordinance of immersion in water being surrounded completely by hydrogen bonded water molecules and represent the first step on the covenant path.  The hydrogen bonding interactions serve as a spiritual analogy of how this baptismal covenant guides our actions and strengthens our influence on those we minister to. We must interact with others in sticky, up close, and personal ways: mourn with those that mourn, comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all places, repenting quickly and interacting through love continuously.  This spiritual bonding stays connected and true through a wide range of trials and situations sustaining spiritual life as we know it.

Remember in water, each hydrogen atom is bonded to two separate oxygen atoms one more strongly than the other.  So it is with our baptismal covenant; the bond with God is stronger than the bonds with our neighbors, but both are crucial to maintain the spiritual life giving properties of the water covenant.

In simple chemistry terms, there is a hierarchy of bond strength: hydrogen bond < ionic bond < covalent bond. This progression lends itself to further understanding in my spiritual chemistry analogy and has obvious covenant path symbolism.

Ionic Bonding and Salt

Salt (sodium chloride) is the classic example of ionic bonding.  The transfer of electrons between two atoms is called electrovalence.  Atoms that gain electrons become positive cations and atoms that give up electrons become negative anions creating electrostatic attractions between the two. This attraction leads to the formation of an ionic bond that is stronger than a hydrogen bond but weaker than a covalent bond.  Ionic compounds like salt form crystalline structures that can break neatly and can be dissolved in water dissociating ions into solution. 

Take sodium chloride for example. When this ionic compound dissociates in water, such as in food preparation, a small amount of salt will savor a large amount of the solution. In Matthew 5:13 the Savior said to his faithful followers, “Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savor, wherewith shall it be salted?”

Like the special properties of ionic bonds, various types of relationship bonds can be formed between neighbors, class and quorum members, ward families, missionaries and investigators.  Perhaps a spiritual ionic bond is established through righteous priesthood service and when faithful disciples bear humble testimony to others.  Subsequently, righteous spiritual electrons are transferred to another individual flavoring their experience and promoting the formation of a medium strength bond between the two persons — an empathetic give and take relationship of savory spiritual influence.

“Ye are the salt of the earth.” This responsibility pertains to all faithful disciples of Christ who have been baptized and confirmed—men, women, youth, and children. It also has direct implications for priesthood holders and holds them accountable to savor the earth by sharing their “ionic” personal influence with everyone they meet by virtue of the priesthood, and in the name of Jesus Christ.

Although these bonding interactions certainly strengthen relationships, congregations and communities, they are not strong enough to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children and the hearts of the children to their fathers.  Spouses, nuclear families and extended families across the generations must be bonded more strongly than this, even welded and sealed for time and all eternity.

Covalent Bonding and the Temple

Temple covenants are like celestial covalent bonds sharing electron orbitals (power in the priesthood) across both sides of the veil. They are the strongest chemical bonds and the strongest spiritual bonds, especially when linked or welded together in a generational chain.

Perfection, sanctification, pure conversion cannot happen on our own merits of obedience, but they require the grace of God to cure and finish the process. The bond must be two ways and must invoke heavenly, divine, celestial powers overlapping with our own righteous offering in order to manifest the powers of godliness now and through the eternities. Christ is symbolically represented by the temple, specifically the veil of the temple (see Hebrews 10:20). So I propose that the following phrases are mostly synonymous: “in the name of Jesus Christ” and “through the veil.” Consider covenant making and keeping as the method of forming a celestial covalent bond between God and His children through the power of Christ’s priesthood and the gift of His grace. 

I will now emphasize a play on words which is not gender specific and should be extrapolated in its entirety to women and men.  The electrons traveling around both atoms form a shared orbital which makes the strongest covalent bond between the two atoms.  Think of this as two “Adams” one seeking holiness and the other a divine “Man of Holiness;” one on each side of the veil with the electron orbital passing “through the veil.” This power transfer through the veil happens by virtue of, and in the name of Jesus Christ. Thus, the power of godliness is made manifest “through the veil” in this fashion thus binding the mortal covenant keeper to her/his God. This is the power that must rest upon us now and forever. It is the manner in which Christ not only reveals us to His Father but binds us to Him, saving us and perfecting us in the process. “We believe that through the atonement of Christ, all mankind may be saved by obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel.” (The Third Article of Faith) Please notice another five word mantra here, “through the atonement of Christ.”

In chemistry the strongest single covalent bond occurs between carbon and fluorine C-F making CF4 (carbon tetrafluoride) a very stable covalently bonded molecule. How interesting that C could stand for “covenant” and F could stand for “faith.” Molecules that bind multiple carbons in a chain with multiple fluorides are especially strong and in theory almost unbreakable.  A cross-generational family or a Zion community covalently-bonded through consecrated keeping of sacred temple covenants can and should be virtually unbreakable.

For weeks, I have been pondering the meaning of the Savior’s words found in Matthew 11:28-30:

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

His yoke represents the sum of all the covenants that we make in His name. Hence, we take upon us His yoke when we make our personal covenants and each Sunday we renew that yoke as we worthily partake of His sacrament. When we learn of Him, we actually learn about Him, learn from Him, and through faithful covenant relationships learn to be like Him. 

Rest is an interesting word.  It has etymological origins to re-stand or re-turn. His rest, the rest that He gives us and the rest that we hope to enter into one day, represents the “promise" of entering into the kingdom of God to receive eternal life and exaltation. Entering into His rest is synonymous with standing again in the presence of the Lord. 

Rest can also be a verb.  In this way “rest” refers to power placed upon mankind such as the Spirit of the Holy Ghost, Priesthood Power, and in some instances Priesthood Keys. You can’t spell Restoration without “rest.” The eternal purpose of restoration in the plan of salvation is to bring Heavenly Father’s sons and daughters back into His “rest.” This is why the Priesthood keys and sealing power had to be restored to the earth. It is no wonder that Moroni quoted Malachi’s prophecy to Joseph Smith on each of his four first visitations to the boy prophet. 

Being “bound” is a two way eternal “covalent” connection that depends upon us loving God enough to obey His commandments or follow His directions.  This includes making and keeping temple covenants. The power of the Priesthood and the Holy Spirit of Promise bring celestial power into a common orbital that surrounds the covenant (covalently) bound mortal and her/his immortal Father in the strongest known bond.  This covenant bond cannot be broken except by disobedience on the mortal side of the veil. Thus, as righteous keeping of the covenant is maintained, the covalent celestial bond permeates across the veil for time and all eternity. 

Bound is synonymous with other words like: seal, turn, weld, plant, graft, and remember.  Whenever you see such words in the scriptures, I encourage you to think about covenants.  When we do what Heavenly Father says, this represents making and keeping our covenants and enduring to the end so that the celestial covalent bond will endure forever as well. 

Being perfected is the process of complete conversion accompanied by sanctification. It happens in conjunction with a righteous combination of love, obedience, faith, repentance, covenant making and keeping, and a constant nourishment through the grace of Jesus Christ. The process must be in line with the keys of His priesthood authority which eventually “unlock the gate of heaven and let us in.” (There is a Green Hill Far Away, Hymn 194) 

Pointing Our Souls to Christ

When we are resolved to see that everything points us to Christ, we will also see that all good things point us to His holy house.  All directions, instructions, and commandments work for us to our salvation as we learn of Him, and through His grace transform our eyes, our hearts, our souls asymptotically ever to be like Him, “…then when He shall appear, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as he is...” (Doctrine & Covenants 130:1, Moroni 7:48)  The process of considering the scriptures in context of how they pertain to our temple covenants, will make our eyes to see more clearly, our hearts to feel more strongly, and our minds to understand more completely. Take Matthew 7:7-8 for one powerful illustration of this method.  The Savior said:

Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you; for every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.

We must individually desire further light and knowledge, and we must recognize our lack of wisdom then eagerly go to the true source to find it.  True asking is to converse with God in the name of His Son.  True seeking is being willing to wait for a divine message in return which surely will come through true messengers of the Father (this could be missionaries, ministering sisters or brothers, Church officers, family members, or from the Holy Ghost himself).  We must seek to hear when He speaks for the Lord declared, “…whether by my own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same.” (Doctrine & Covenants 1:38)  When we have ears to hear Him, and we strive to faithfully obey His voice, then at a certain place that will be shown to us, we shall have the opportunity to knock and it shall be opened unto us to let us enter into His rest. 

If we are to be homeward bound on our journey through mortality, we must faithfully walk the Lord’s covenant path. The bonds we make with our neighbors, our families, and with our God, will enrich our lives, enhance our joy, and bring us to our celestial home “through the veil” or “in the name of Jesus Christ,” to re-stand in the presence of the Lord, and to claim the promises associated with our covenants.  

[smutnug]

An End to Loneliness, chapter 2

Bethany's life over the past year has involved far too many tunnels. Tunnels under ruins, under mountains and beachside cliffs, under the stinking, twisted bowels of Kirkwall. Haunted tunnels, cursed tunnels, tunnels filled with smugglers and blood mages and giant, scuttling spiders. 

Over time they all begin to look the same. 

Then came the darkest tunnel of all, the one Mother begged her not to go down. Or more accurately begged Marian, over her head, because Bethany is still a child in her eyes. A precious secret to be protected at all costs, even the cost of her own agency. 

The last tunnel, she thought when the decay crept into her bloodstream. And She'll blame Marian for this; somehow she always blames Marian. 

"Nearly there."

Cheerful Alistair, how is he so cheerful even down here in the dank dark? But he's right, she sees. A grey light seeps in and the still air stirs with the promise of open sky. 

Tunnels are to be her lot in life, it seems. 

The mining tunnels leading up to Soldiers Peak are at least well-maintained, although Alistair says it wasn't always so. The Drydens have been busy boarding up the unused passages and clearing away obstacles. 

"Although Maker knows where they find the time," Alistair tells her, "between smithing and trading and cleaning up the fortress."

"Was it very run down?" 

He makes a show of shuddering. "You could say that. The previous tenants left quite the mess."

"Tenants? I thought it was abandoned?" 

"There's abandoned and there's abandoned."

He throws her a smile over his shoulder, and her stomach flips. Stop that, she chides herself. He's her commanding officer. She's known him for less than a week, and while he's attractive, and funny, and charming in a self-effacing way…she's just lost her sister, the star around which all the galaxy turns, and she's wary of getting sucked into another person's orbit so soon. 

Besides, if the men's gossip is to be believed - and Maker, can they gossip! - he's half in love with the Warden-Commander. If it's true then Bethany is hardly his type. Next to willowy Merrill she always felt she was too much: too tall, too round, too graceless. 

She's never felt comfortable taking up space. 

Bones sniffs the air. "Smells like daylight."

"Daylight doesn't have a smell." It's difficult to tell in the low light, but Alistair might be rolling his eyes in Bethany's direction. 

"Says the surfacer," Bones grumbles. He's never set foot in Orzammar, but there are surfacers and surfacers. "S'not safe to go up in the daylight."

"Why? Surely it's easier to see where you're going when you fall into the sky."

"You know well why."

It has the flavour of a well-worn conversation. "Oh, yes. We'll all be sunsick."

"Perhaps not all. You never know when it might hit, my dad said. He came up out of Orzammar round midday. Few days later he's running around up top with his trousers on his head, yodelling about the nugs swarming up from the Deep Roads."

"Remind me, Bones, had he been drinking?" 

Bones hawks and spits off to his side. "Don't see as how's that's relevant."

Alistair grins back at the dwarf, a flash of white teeth in the growing light. "You're welcome to wait in the tunnels 'til nightfall. The rest of us will be up at the Peak drinking mead and warming our toes by the fire, but at least the sunsickness won't get you."

"Fine," he sniffs. "I've done it before, I'll do it again. Don't say I didn't warn you when I'm standing up in the rookery flapping my arms like a crow."

"When that day arrives, I'll be flapping alongside you."

With each step, Bethany sees the daylight advance. Half of her wants to run ahead, leaving behind the damp, claustrophobic mine shaft. The other half hangs back, reluctant to meet the next chapter of her life. 

Whatever her preference, her feet lead her forward. Above ground the landscape is littered with patches of brilliant white, the path ahead lined with cold, clear streams of snow melt. It's an assault on the senses: the cool, bright grey of the sky, the cacophony of birdsong, the scent of new earth and pine needles, the bite of the mountain air. 

"I've never seen this place without snow before." Alistair kicks at a small drift. "With so little snow, anyway. I can hardly imagine it as anything but frozen."

"It's beautiful," says Bethany, and immediately feels foolish. Alistair is looking down at her with that grin. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he says softly. "It is."

He's looking at her face when he says it. That doesn't mean anything. 

It's no time at all before the keep's entrance comes into view, two squat towers framing the raised portcullis. 

"They were talking about putting in a pear orchard last time I was here. Not Levi…Mickael…Ethan? I swear there are more Drydens here every time I visit. Anyway, pears might be nice."

"Pears…" she says wistfully. "We had a pear tree in Lothering. Father used to make perry in the autumn, and Marian would sit in the branches and throw the spent fruit at Carver."

"Carver?" Marian he's heard of, when she told the story of the expedition, but Carver is new. 

Suddenly she's back in Gamlen's rat-hole, Mother's suffocating grief wrapping around them like a blanket. 

"My brother. He didn't make it out of Lothering." She can still hear him breaking. "He was my twin." After all this time, it still sticks in her throat like a fish bone.

"I'm sorry." Alistair's hand falls tentatively on her shoulder. "The Blight was…well, it's hard to find anyone who didn't lose someone. But a twin must be very difficult."

Difficult. Such a small word. She's heard of people missing a phantom limb, but a phantom twin? She always felt less than a whole person in Marian's shadow, and she knew Carver felt the same. Then suddenly Carver was gone and she was even less than before. 

Not her fault. Marian didn't ask to be larger than life. She's just muddling through, same as everyone. 

"Do you have any family?" she asks in an attempt to banish the ghost of Lothering. 

He hesitates long enough to show her the question is anything but straightforward. "No."

The walk up is completed in silence, but for the crunch of boots in snow. 

"Levi! Well met!" he says as they approach the trader's stall. 

"Alistair." The men exchange a friendly clasp of arms as the rest of the Wardens trudge up the stairs. Bethany hangs back, unsure of her place. 

"This is Bethany." She likes the way it sounds, her name on his lips. Levi Dryden greets her with a nod. "She's our new recruit. Which reminds me, I should send a bird to Vigil's Keep." 

"The rookery's up there now," Dryden says, indicating a tower joined to the fortress by a narrow stone bridge. "My cousin's girl sees to the birds."

"Girl? Cousin?" Alistair shakes himself. "How many of you are there now?" 

"Just the five. Or eight, counting the children." 

"Children? Oh. Well. Any Dryden is welcome at Soldiers Peak, to be sure." 

Levi looks uncomfortable. "Our name wasn't quite cleared, if you get my drift. Most are still content to be merchants, but some would rather take their chances in service to the Wardens." He clears his throat. "If the Warden-Commander doesn't mind, of course."

"I don't see how she could." The outside of the keep is immaculate; the smithy rings with the musical sound of industry, and a plot of freshly-turned earth is growing neat rows of seedlings. "It seems you're more than earning your keep." Alistair chuckles at himself. "Your keep. Haha! Sorry."

Bethany hides a smile in her shoulder. 

The ground floor is made up of entrance hall, kitchens and staff quarters ("Soon to be overrun by Drydens" Alistair says, poking his tongue out at a wide-eyed toddler). The Wardens occupy the second floor. 

"You can take this room - wait there for a second." He peers around the door. "Oh good, it's been cleaned. We'll need to put in a bed. What else? Wardrobe?" 

The room is small but serviceable. She can't remember ever having a room of her own. "Cleaned?" she asks tentatively. "What happened in here?" The Veil is thin all around the keep; she could feel it tingling on her skin as they approached. 

"Oh, nothing particular in here. At least -" He scrunches his nose. "Nothing that didn't happen everywhere else. Demons, undead…you know."

She'd like to say she doesn't, but Kirkwall…"There's a story to this place, isn't there?" 

"There is," he says, "but it's probably best told over a hot meal. And ale. Do you drink ale?" 

She did at the Hanged Man; it's safer than the water. "That sounds good."

It's a tale, to be sure. The Hero is the space around which the story is told; if she had any doubt before, now she knows he's in love. 

The stew is good, prepared by Levi's sister-in-law at short notice, and the ale is like nothing Corff ever served up: crisp and malty, the amber colour of Alistair's eyes. He's surprised too. "I don't know where Levi found this, but I think we should get more. Everyone will want to join the Wardens!" 

Bethany smiles weakly. "So what happens now?" she asks, looking around the spacious common room. "How soon do we go back into the Deep Roads?" 

Alistair moves his hand towards hers, stopping short with a twitch of his fingers. "You've been through a lot, Bethany. It's a shock, becoming…what we are. I'd like to give you time to adjust." He swallows hard. "Lyna…the Warden-Commander was thrown straight into battle after her Joining. Ostagar, and the Blight. Uniting the kingdom. I was less help than I should have been, and none of it was easy on her."

"You don't need to coddle me."

"This isn't coddling," he says, clenching his fist. "It's the same respect I've granted to every new recruit since the Blight ended. The same respect that was given to me by…by my mentor, Duncan." It's hard to find anyone who didn't lose someone. "Build up your strength, study your enemy and you'll be a better Warden for it. We go up against the darkspawn as a team. You need to learn how to work with your unit, and the best place to start isn't underground, surrounded by darkspawn. It's right here."

When he grins, his eyes crinkle. "Besides, you nearly died. We want you recovered enough to save all our arses if need be."

Bethany can't help but mirror his smile. "I'll do my best." It's an arse worth saving, Isabela would say if she was here. She blushes, hoping it doesn't show on her face. 

Alistair's fingers are still within reach of her own; he hesitates before giving her a brotherly clap on the shoulder. "I have a feeling your best will be something to see," he says, and there's a flutter behind her ribcage.

Spring marches on. Blossoms kiss the tips of the trees and the newly planted pear saplings grow stronger and taller by the day. Fennecs and hares stir in the undergrowth, rain showers appear and vanish within minutes, vegetables grow fat in the little plot in the courtyard. 

She doesn't come to terms with the crawling wrongness inside her, but she can go hours on end without thinking about it. The nightmares fade in the light. 

The mountain fortress could hardly be more removed from Kirkwall, or even the small-town bustle of Lothering, but there is plenty to occupy her days. The library is a hodge-podge of newer texts and dusty tomes from before the time of King Arland; she devours Warden history, ferreting books away in her little room. 

There's much to be absorbed from the banter of her fellow Wardens, even those who only joined since the Blight. Bones has the stories of his ancestors to draw on, despite never having set foot in Orzammar; he yearns for the dwarven underground in a way Varric would find perverse. The two Orlesians have been Wardens longer than anyone, and while Lucien is as reticent as ever, Gerod loves to expound on the Order as a whole, complete with voices and mannerisms of the higher-ups. 

Marian would like him, she thinks. They'd all like him. He'd even win Fenris over. 

Invisible threads still bind her, running north to Kirkwall. And to Lothering, tugging ever more weakly. Father isn't there, Carver isn't there; even Lothering isn't there, not really. The pear tree by the cottage is blighted and barren and dead. 

So is Bethany. 

Yet the weak mountain sunshine is still warm on her face. Her companions make her laugh, she magics little patterns of frost for the Dryden children and delights in their gurgles. Happiness can be found in the soft caws of the ravens, the greening of the land, the strange taste of freedom from the helmeted glare of templars. 

And in Alistair. 

Sunshine, Varric called her. Because you're all sweetness and light, Bethy, Marian said with a wink, but Bethany recognised the irony behind the nickname. She wore her unhappiness like a shroud, but only Varric saw it. Sweet Bethany, kind Bethany. Scared, angry Bethany with swords for hands and knives for fingers. 

Alistair, though… Alistair is sunshine. Golden and life-giving, she could bask in his presence until it burns her raw. It does, at times. She'll catch him looking at her and something in his eyes warms her all the way down to her toes. She has to look away; too much sunshine makes you blind. 

She pens a letter to Marian, full of bitterness and ingratitude, one she wishes back as soon as the wagon creaks away. Another to Mother, full of reassuring lies. She hopes they won't compare notes. 

A room of her own: no one to nail her braid to the bedpost. No one to blunder in stinking of Corff's whiskey in the middle of the night and envelop her in a fierce bear hug. No one to witness her tossing and turning in the grip of yet another darkspawn dream. 

She's fitted for armour, and it arrives: silver and blue, sleek and comfortable. 

"Mickael does good work," Alistair says, with that smile. 

Maker help her, she's sunsick. 

Summer brings clear skies, most of the time. It brings a convoy of little wagons through the tunnels, bearing fabrics and metals and another Dryden ("Our sister's boy, he'll be prentice to Mickael"), a nanny goat and a crate full of distinctly unimpressed chickens. There are sacks of grain, barrels of fruit, enough mead and ale to see them through summer if Oghren doesn't visit. 

Alistair helps sundry merchant Drydens in unloading the wagons and carrying goods up the stairs. "I don't know what we'll have more of by the next Blight," he jokes to Bethany, "Grey Wardens or Drydens." 

She gives him a wan smile. "Can I help?" 

"That's just about everything, I think." He prises the top of a barrel. "Here!" 

Bethany catches the tossed fruit in one hand. "A pear?" 

"A barrel of pears. Our trees won't bear fruit for a while, and I thought I remembered you like them, so…" Did she say that? He starts to doubt himself. "It doesn't matter if you don't. I like them, and I'm sure the Drydens like them or they wouldn't have planted all those trees. They won't go to waste."

"Thank you, Alistair." It's a proper smile now: laughing with, laughing at, he doesn't care so long as she's laughing. She takes a bite of fruit, catching the dribbling juice with the back of her wrist. "I do like them, but I'm happy to share."

There's a slim book hanging from her free hand. "Found anything interesting?" he asks. 

"Oh, this? Force Magic. Third edition, volume 24." 

"It's a good read, then?" 

She makes a face. "Dry. But nearly everything I know about magic I learnt from my father; I'm trying to broaden my horizons."

"Your father must have been an impressive mage."

"He was," she says, and the laughter is gone from her brown eyes. "He was an impressive man."

"To outwit the Chantry and raise a family in apostasy? I'll say."

"Yes, well…somehow he skipped over force magic. I have to admit it sounds appealing to be able to throw my enemies around like pebbles."

"I can think of many times I would have found that useful. Not all of them combat situations."

"That's the last of it," says a Dryden cousin, dumping a sack of rye flour by the front doors. Bannorn Ned appears without a word, hoisting up a pair of sacks and making for the kitchens. "We'll work on opening up the mountain pass before winter. Might be we can get more goods up this way if we don't need to rely on the tunnels."

"It would save us some time in travelling west as well," Alistair says. "We might be able to lend some help if we don't have business elsewhere."

The man grunts. "Levi will let you know." He nods towards the open doorway. "Nita."

"Hello, uncle." Nita Dryden is a softly-spoken, slow-moving girl of fourteen, more comfortable with ravens than with people. "Message for you, Miss Bethany." She looks at her feet as she holds out the tightly-furled vellum. 

"Thank you, Nita." Bethany looks to Alistair. "I should…"

"Yes, by all means, go read your letter. Nita, would you like to help the chickens get settled in?" 

"Chickens?" She brightens. "Yessir." 

"No sers here, Miss Dryden." He steals a glance at Bethany; she's rolling the unopened message between her fingers, a little frown marring her brow.

He hopes it's happy news. 

Later, he follows the sound of loud crashing to the practice yard. An empty crate flies apart on the far wall, closely followed by a practice dummy. Its seams burst on impact, and sawdust rains down on the flagstones. 

Alistair doesn't know if it's a side effect of his aborted templar training, or something everyone feels: every mage he sees in action has a particular feel to their magic. Emissary magic is sick and black and reeks of decay. Wynne's is blue-green, cool and soothing as a trickle of water. Morrigan's is shocking purple-red, crushed blood lotus and dragon scales. 

Bethany's magic is white. Not the crisp white of snow, but the soft white of blossoms and fresh milk. Even bent to destruction as it is now, it's white. There's a purity to it matched only by the clean lines of her movement, the spare grace with which she spins and casts, wielding her heavy staff as easily as breathing. 

He could watch her forever. 

It's not to be: she's run out of things to break, and she catches him leaning on the balustrade with a foolish smile on his face. 

"Sorry," she says, looking around at her handiwork. "I may have gotten a little carried away there."

"I'm sure they deserved it." He vaults the railing to help her clean up. "This one in particular," he says as he collects the emptied skin of a dummy from amongst the carnage. "I never liked his attitude. Shifty, you know?" 

When he looks back at her she's pensive, playing with a lock of her dark hair. 

"He died valiantly," he says. "We could build a pyre, if you like?" 

"That sounds lovely," she answers absently. 

"That's settled, then. Full Warden honours. Should we invite the Commander?" 

Bethany looks at him with a frown. "Pardon?" 

He sits on the balustrade, patting the stone beside him. "I take it you've had bad news?" 

She settles with a deep sigh. "No, not really. The opposite, if anything."

Alistair is silent, waiting for her to continue. 

"You'll think I'm the worst person ever."

"I doubt that. I've met some genuinely terrible people."

"My mother was a noble in Kirkwall before she ran away with my father. She should have inherited her family's estate, but my uncle gambled everything away. The money from the Deep Roads expedition has allowed my sister to buy it back." She looks sideways, gauging his reaction. 

"Don't mind me, I'm just waiting for the part where you're evil personified. I didn't miss it, did I?" 

She graces him with a reluctant smile. "I should be happy for them. I am. I can't even say what's wrong, really…"

"Can I try?" He waits for her nod. "You've had to deal with a big change. You've been separated from your family and friends, you're doomed to spend your life fighting darkspawn until you die an early death, probably at the hands of darkspawn. But you've been trying to look on the bright side."

Bethany closes her eyes. 

"Sorry," he says. "It sounds pretty brutal when I say it out loud."

"It's all true though, isn't it?" 

"Unfortunately, yes. And now the life you left behind has changed. And that makes the bright side look a bit less bright by comparison. Is that about it?" 

"That's it exactly," she says. "I don't feel any less petty, though."

He puts his hands on his knees, the only way he can keep from gathering her into a bone-crushing hug. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're petty. I think you're wonderful."

Her laugh is pure, white magic. "Thank you, Alistair. I don't know about wonderful, but you've made me feel much better."

"Good," he says. "That should buy us time to make more training dummies."

This time her laugh is infectious; they lean against each other, shaking, and his heart is filled with sunshine. 

[yaz-the-spaz]

dRuNk/Like I Would/Let Me/Dusk Till Dawn

[Because apparently i’m on a song-inspired fic kick lately lol but this was also mainly just an excuse to get out my headcanon for the story behind like i would and i figured why not throw in a bit of back story and a conclusion by exploring a couple of the other songs too]

[Read it on ao3 here]

Summary: “Happy birthday, I guess,” Zayn says, trying and failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice at the fact that this is his third call and Liam still hasn’t answered. At the fact that he’s with her. At a party that Zayn wasn’t invited to...

Or: A series of drabbles based on the themes of the aforementioned songs…basically my headcanons for the moments that inspired these songs (these aren’t songfics though)

Disclaimer: Before anyone gets mad at me for this i wanna make clear that this is not at all meant to make Liam off to be the bad guy even though it might come off that way at first, this is just an expression of my headcanon of how Zayn might have seen/felt about things at the time based on my interpretation of the songs and seeing as this is told from a very one-sided pov things are gonna come off skewed just like they would in real life

*Also the interlude part is not meant to be a reference to the actual song called interlude from m.o.m. it’s just a general interlude in the story, like a break to set up for the shift in the narrative while still keeping in line with the song theme by using song/music terminology

dRuNk

Zayn feels like Liam’s invaded his senses. Like all he eats, sleeps, and breathes anymore is Liam. Liam Liam Liam. He’d never known it was possible to feel so intoxicated by someone before but that’s how it feels whenever he’s in Liam’s orbit. Like he’s shifted into another plane of existence where the only thing in focus is Liam, the only thing he can smell, see, hear, taste, touch, is Liam, everything else blurring to the background like white noise.

Late summer nights stumbling into hotel rooms together, eyes red and words slurring together, hands and lips mapping out each other’s skin till they’re breathless with want and all the things they’re too afraid to say in the light of day.

Zayn feels like the summer passes in a haze and every second spent apart from Liam feels like going through withdrawal. He wants Liam to know how much he needs him, how much Zayn feels like he can’t breathe without him, but he doesn’t wanna scare Liam away. Liam has this heady kind of effect on him though, makes him want to pour out everything inside him and never stop.

But Zayn always wakes up to an empty bed because Liam never stays till the morning. Half acts like this whatever between them is just a transient thing and Zayn’s not sure how much of it is Liam convincing himself that’s how Zayn sees it or just Liam being unwilling to admit to himself that this might actually be something. Not that it really matters. Because they don’t talk about it in the light of day, the hazy memories half lost to drunken amnesia and the ones purposefully forgotten, purposefully buried to keep things from becoming too real. But when night hits and the drinks start flowing again they’re both too gone to stop. Gone on this life, gone on each other, gone on what might just be love.

 Like I Would

“Happy birthday, I guess,” Zayn says, trying and failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice at the fact that this is his third call and Liam still hasn’t answered. At the fact that he’s with her. At a party that Zayn wasn’t invited to because she’s a vindictive—Zayn stops the thought before he can finish it. He won’t call her what he’s really thinking, even if she is. He hates using that word for any woman but if there was ever a case for someone who deserved it, it would be her. The way she drags Liam around like he’s some sort of fucking prize to be won, makes him feel like shit about himself on a near-constant basis, and then flashes that sweet smile for the cameras, lapping up the attention and milking it for all she can get while Liam walks around like a ghost, forcing his way through all the photo ops of fake dates and couple’s outings. She’d hooked her claws into him from the start like a lion going for its prey and Liam—sweet, trusting Liam—had bashfully welcomed the attention like a sunflower desperately seeking the light, unaware of the insidious ulterior motives lurking behind her carefully crafted facade until she finally showed herself for what she really was.

Now that Liam knows the truth he mostly just tolerates her, but what really pisses Zayn off is that he fact he’s still choosing her. He think he needs her. In some fucked up incarnation of the storybook ending he’s likely made up for himself in his head—a wife and a white picket fence and all that other bullshit. Doesn’t want to handle what confronting the truth about whatever this is between him and Zayn might mean for him. For himself, for their careers, for their images. Zayn worries about that too. Of course he does. But he doesn’t think it’s fair to just throw away what they could be, what they could have, for the sake of all of that. Because what is love if it’s not worth a risk, even one as big as this one, for a chance at a lifetime of happiness? Liam’s clearly chosen to go the route of pretending like none of that matters though. Like none of anything that’s happened between them the last few months—hell, the last two years—matters.

So yeah Zayn’s bitter.

But if Liam wants to be selfish enough to pull a dick move like this, that’s fine. Because two can play at that game.

“Hope you’re having a good time,” he says, not even trying to hide the sarcasm in his voice this time round, even knowing how it’ll come off. Because they haven’t talked in a while—or what constitutes a while for them anyway, codependent as they’ve all become—mostly because of who Zayn knows he’s with right now. So him leaving an acid-laced voicemail like this while he’s out for a smoke is a pretty shitty thing to do, especially when the last time they talked was on such good terms.

But he also knows that he doesn’t really need to explain himself because Liam will know exactly why he’s so angry, no matter how much Liam might try to keep up the game of pretending like he doesn’t. That’s one of the things he loves about Liam, that he knows Zayn so well, knows exactly how to gauge his moods and how to respond or how not to respond, when to give him space and when to crowd him in because he’s not usually one to be very vocal about his emotions though Liam sometimes brings it out of him. But at moments like these it’s both a blessing and curse because as much as Liam brings out the good in him he’s also one of the only ones who can get Zayn riled up enough to go and do something stupid and shitty like this. No going back now though, he’s already in too deep. He might as well finish what he started and lay his bed.

“Don’t bother calling back when you get this cause I probably won’t answer. Be too busy getting smashed with Lou. Just thought I’d give the birthday boy my regards. Give Danielle a one-fingered salute for me, and enjoy your shitty birthday sex. Just remember she’ll never fuck you like I would.”

He drops the butt of his cigarette to the ground, crushes it under his boot in the same moment he pockets his phone. He knows he’ll regret it later. It was a cruel thing to say regardless and that’s on top of the fact that he and Liam haven’t even gone that far yet. But he’d come out here in a really good mood, buzzing and high on life and just wanting a moment to share it with Liam and wish him a happy birthday, only to have all his calls ignored while Liam spends the night with her. So sue him for feeling a bit vindictive and wanting to bring Liam down with him like Liam did him. He’s only human, and a pretty shitty one at that, he knows that. He’s still a thousand times better than her. But Liam’s clearly made his choice. And now Zayn’s made his.

 Interlude

Things come to a bit of a head in Vegas and the irony of the city’s tagline isn’t lost on Zayn. He’s half convinced at this point that the universe is just fucking with him for shits and giggles. And Liam’s not much better to be honest. Keeps turning those sad eyes on him like a lovesick puppy as if Zayn doesn’t have every right to be angry. He’s sick of the games. Sick of the back and forth. Sick of Liam fucking around with his heart because Liam can’t figure out—or better yet can’t admit—what he really wants.

She’ll do something shitty yet again and every time Liam comes running to him for comfort, only to go right back to her. Acts all apologetic and plays dumb like he doesn’t know what he’s doing is fucked up. But he can’t have it both ways and Zayn’s done. Or at least that’s what he tells himself. Until the moment Liam comes back to him again and then he’s right back where he started.

This time though. This time he’s truly reached his limit. And he damn well makes sure Liam knows it. Won’t speak to him, won’t look at him, won’t even acknowledge his presence, even when Liam sings right to him, and Zayn doesn’t care who notices. He’s too angry to think about anything or anyone else right now and it only goes up tenfold when, after, Liam comes to find him and has the nerve to act like he doesn’t know what he did. What he’s been doing this whole fucking time and Zayn can’t. He explodes. All the pent up rage and hurt pouring out of him at once.

Liam at least has the decency to look ashamed once everything’s out in the open. Makes all these apologies and promises and Zayn honestly doesn’t know whether to believe him after everything. But just like always when it comes to Liam, Zayn’s resolve inevitably crumbles. He’s still feeling too much that he doesn’t eve know how to process right now but Liam is so close and Zayn can’t help himself. Never could with Liam.

He’s honestly not even sure who’s actually the first to make the move. If you were to ask him later he couldn’t tell you, but it doesn’t much matter. What matters is Liam’s lips against his and the way he feels pressed skin to skin to him and the fact that he stays. For once he stays. And Zayn thinks maybe this is his way of solidifying all the promises he made. Bringing what for so long felt like a dirty little secret, something to keep hidden in hushed tones in the dark of night, into the light. Dares to hope that this thing between them might really truly finally have the chance to become something real. 

Let Me

Liam’s stayed till the morning every night together since and Zayn’s hopeful. Wants the chance to show Liam all that they can be, all that he can be for Liam if Liam will let him. Wants to show him that every second they spend together means something, that the moments they share—the conversations, the laughter, the sex, even the quiet moments spent laying together doing nothing at all—mean something. Wants to show him what real love can look like, feel like, what it means to have someone who truly cares about him. To have someone who doesn’t want him just to use him, who appreciates Liam for all that he is and would do whatever it takes to show Liam just how amazing he is until he believes it too. And Zayn thinks to himself that maybe he’ll have it, that chance.

This thing between them is still so new. Officially anyway. Vegas and iTunes and Germany still feels like only yesterday even as the weeks and months pass. But days off spent wrapped up together in the duvet and in each other, dessert for breakfast and the sun of countless nameless cities filtering in through the windows feel like the best dream he could have ever hoped to wake up to. Movie dates and balcony views and walks on the beach mixed in with stage antics and video game wars and late night dance-offs because no more are the nights relegated to secrecy and willful amnesia. Now the two of them gravitate easily to each other like planets in orbit. And Liam is still just as intoxicating as ever, but not in a way that leaves Zayn feeling heavy and hungover and regretful in the morning. More like the most pleasant and ever-constant buzz, like a fine wine instead of a too-strong cheap liquor, a feeling that Zayn thinks he’d be happy to live with for a long, long time.

And things aren’t always perfect. Zayn had still had his doubts at first, in the back of his mind—that maybe this wouldn’t last, that maybe he would do something to mess it up,  that he might show too much of himself and scare Liam away. But as the weeks turn into months and the months turn into years and the years go by those doubts fade away. Because Zayn may not know everything. But he knows now that what they have isn’t fleeting or trivial, isn’t something that can be so easily broken, no matter what anyone else might think. What they have is forever. And they’ll have the rest of their lives together to prove it.

Dusk Till Dawn

Sometimes the days get hard. Sometimes the nights are even harder. When the bed feels too big and too cold and too empty and he can’t sleep. When he’s been on his own for too long without Liam to calm him down and he snaps. Or when the stunts pile up on both ends, vile story after story that he doesn’t mean to see, hadn���t even been looking for, but does and he can’t help but get into one of his moods. Or when it feels like everything’s caving in on him at once and all the pressure gets to be too much to handle.

People see him on an off day and think he’s being aloof or rude, or misunderstand a joke that back home would’ve been no big deal and they make assumptions. They read what they read and hear what they hear and they see the way he looks and think he must see himself the same way they see him. That he must think of himself in some elevated way, like he’s above everyone else or like he’s trying too hard to be seen as different or edgy when really he’s just him. He’s just him. And all he wants is the freedom to be him in all that that entails. And the same for Liam.

Because they may be able to be more open now than they’ve ever been allowed to be before but they’re still nowhere near where want to be, where they’d hoped to be by now. It’s still like a breath of fresh air, being free of most of the madness of all the behind the scenes bullshit they’d had to put up with for so long. Being able to do more and more without having to constantly look over their shoulders or second guess themselves or worry whether they’ll be berated for just being themselves. And he knows Liam feels it too. That little pocket of relief every time they’re able to make a secret getaway or do or say something a little obvious that before would’ve been outright shut down on the spot.

But that doesn’t make the days apart any less hard. Or make it any easier to deal with the longing to touch Liam,  to feel him skin to skin or wake up to his crinkly smiling face in the morning or feel the warmth of the sun washing over them as they they make love, deep and slow and passionate. To be able to hold him when he’s upset or have Liam do the same for him.

He knows though that even in those moments when they’re an ocean apart that Liam is always with him. In the little things, like the rings and the necklaces and the bracelets and the clothes that they wear like badges of honor. But also etched into his skin in ink, as permanent as the space he fills in Zayn’s heart. Just like Zayn is for him.

[maychorian]

Weekly Voltron Fic Recs #50

I am still not caught up on all the fics I’ve read that need to be commented on and recced. You might be getting another list in a few days, if I can keep up the momentum I’m currently on.

Rules: You can find past weekly rec lists here, and non-list recs in my general fic rec tag. Also follow @maychorianrecs for individually tagged posts, the easier to search and reblog. This is stuff I like, and I have a huge bias toward Lance, hurt/comfort, and general fluff, in that order. Gen unless otherwise noted. Please comment on the fics if you read and enjoy them!

Keith Doesn’t Have Time for Ghosts by aeruh for Forest_of_bread Words: 5,309 Author’s Summary: The Castle of Lions is haunted again, for real this time. Thankfully, Keith is a witch and knows how to deal with it. Unfortunately, he’s the only one who knows how to deal with it. My Comments: Keith’s approach to witchcraft and exorcism is absolutely hilarious. This was such a fun read from start to finish.

Breaking the Barriers by wingedflower Words: 4,277 Author’s Summary: A sequel to “Break Out, Break Down”. After Lance’s claustrophobia has casued him to collapse mid-training, Shiro decides it’s time for the paladins to have a heart-to-heart talk about their fears and phobias. My Comments: Sequel to a previously recced fic that’s one of my absolute favorites. It’s actually saved in my Favorite Fics folder at work so I can break it out when I’m feeling particularly in need some good Lance h/c. Anyway, this one is more focused on everyone else rather than Lance, but it’s still really lovely to see them all talking things out and supporting each other BEFORE it hits the fan.

BLUR by limeadepeels Words: 1,209 Author’s Summary: “Allura,” Lance says, “I don’t want you to freak out, okay?” “Why would I–” “You have a hole in your tummy,” Lance says like the soft words will minimize the seriousness of the situation. “I have my hands over it and I’m trying to seal it off. I need you to help me by not moving and not freaking out until we have an extraction, all right?” Allura does her part and stays very, very still. My Comments: Hurt Allura and comforting Lance is such a fantastic dynamic. I would love to see more like this from the fandom.

Precipitous by mongoose_bite Words: 1,933 Author’s Summary: Kolivan knows orbital decay when he sees it, and knows if too much force is applied to correct it the object will be flung into space, unrecoverable. Nevertheless, he resolves to try. After the events at Naxzela someone needs to talk to Keith. My Comments: Great fic with Kolivan taking pains to ground Keith after he almost flew off the rails. I’m a big fan of this sort of father-son interaction between these two.

Identity by Revasnaslan Words: 1,034 Author’s Summary: Cubs weren’t supposed to be up in the middle of the night, but Kolivan does his best to be patient with the ones that are. — Written for Keith Birthday Day 2 (Identity) My Comments: Very cute interaction between Kolivan and wee Keith.

Not Just Another Rescue by Eastofthemoon Words: 8,568 Author’s Summary: Keith spends some time with his new human friends at the mall. However, when he finds himself whisked away by Kolivan to return home, last thing Keith expected was for his new friends to come chasing after him. My Comments: Sequel to a previously recced fic in which the other paladins run across BoM Keith in a space mall and decide to befriend. I love the misunderstanding that fuels this one, and seeing Keith comfortable enough to be a brat with Kolivan was really cute and heartwarming.

The Lost Paladin by prettyshiroic (AnalystProductions) Words: 17,991 Author’s Summary: If he doesn’t leave, all of him will be reduced to cinders. But if he leaves, all of him will be undone. A course that he will choose to chart, no matter how it breaks his heart. It’s a battle that cannot be won.- Their names burn inside him, seared onto his soul. Black coal sits in the centre of his chest, fuelling a fire that was soon to be smothered by the very people that set it ablaze. My Comments: This is painful, but very well done. After the war is done and it seems like Voltron is going to disband, Keith leaves the team before they can leave him. Years together he’s found again, but it takes quite a bit of work to reconnect.

Safe Spaces by BluePlanetTrash Words: 1,620 Author’s Summary: Whenever Lance felt sick at home, he would find a small place to curl up until he felt better. Too bad the other paladins didn’t know this when Lance suddenly goes missing. My Comments: Cute little fic with everyone panicking over Lance, aww. He’s fine.

something wicked by ashinan Words: 8,206 (2/4) Author’s Summary: It’s been weeks since Shiro went toe to toe with the white haired demon in that old house. When the next haunted excursion leads the gang to a supernatural Bed and Breakfast, a new player makes itself known. My Comments: Sequel to a previously recced fic. This AU is so good. I love Shiro’s protectiveness, as always, though it’s a bit frustrating and I just want him to TELL the others what’s going on, holy crow. The spooky descriptions and action sequences work really, really well, and it’s just all around delightful to read and immerse myself in this story.

what goes up by eugyne (AreteNike) must come down by eugyne (AreteNike) the law of gravity by eugyne (AreteNike) Words: 2,991, 3,255, 2,713 Author’s Summary: All Mark Kogane has left is his infant son and the empty sky. All Mirana Espinosa has left is her infant son and the memories of other times. All Colleen Holt has left is her teenage daughter and her husband’s collection of extraterrestrial paraphernalia. (This series can be read in any order.) My Comments: I really loved this canon-divergence AU built on the POVs of three parents who lose their partners, their foundations, and their children. The worldbuilding and character interactions were both fantastic and fascinating. Each story is satisfying alone, but reading all three really gives a sense of meat and heft to the world. I would happily read more in this ‘verse.

i used to recognise myself (it’s funny how reflections change) by watervld (helpmechildren) Words: 2,671 Author’s Summary: Everyone expects Lance to be with Hunk, because that’s the way it works; Lance and Hunk, side by side, taking down whatever bad guy stands in their path through excessive screaming and heartfelt reunions. Lance isn’t with him. Everyone starts to worry. My Comments: Lance disappears, and when he’s found again, he has amnesia and it’s years later. Bittersweet, emotional fic, kinda sticks in the brain. There’s a note of hope at the end, but it’s not a fluffy fic, just to warn you.

Two Inch Trust by SilverArson Words: 2,361 Author’s Summary: The Velqi have mastered transporting large amounts of material through small containers. When the paladins attempt to rescue victims of an illegal slave trade, Lance is trapped and they aren’t sure how to get him out. My Comments: A cracky premise treated seriously, which is the best way to do a cracky premise, sometimes. Anyway, Lance gets shrunk and stuck in a jar, and it’s more intense and scary than funny. Great protectiveness from the team.

Tastes Like Coffee by itsthevoid Words: 2,213 Author’s Summary: All Hunk has ever wanted was to live a normal life. Being a technopath who works at the most supernatural café in the word, that is all but impossible. At least Lance is still normal, even if he drinks Pumpkin Spice Lattes a bit too often. Or: AU where everyone is supernatural and works at an even more supernatural café, and neither Lance nor his coffee is what Hunk thinks it is. My Comments: The worldbuilding in this AU is fantastic, and the Hunk and Lance interaction is wonderful. I would happily read something much, much longer in this setting.

make yourself right, never mind them (don’t you know you’re not the only one suffering?) byorange_yarn Words: 3,143 Author’s Summary: Missing scenes for Reunion & Black Site. Matt feels the need to make amends. He’s not the only one.Fill for the “atonement” prompt on my hurt/comfort bingo card. My Comments: I wish we got something like this in canon, but fanfiction is great for filling in these emotional gaps.

sleep now, and dream of the ones who came before by prettyshiroic (AnalystProductions) Words: 1,746 Author’s Summary: Keith pulls his own strings, but his trembling hands can hold nothing right now. The final pieces of his composure slip, evade his reach. He trips, on the verge of his own unravelling. My Comments: Kolivan is a good dad. 4.01 missing scene.

Serenity by this_book_has_been_loved Words: 1,238 Author’s Summary: Lance has trouble sleeping, and decides to take a walk My Comments: I always love Pidge and Lance supporting each other.

Nightmares by luoup (ravenic) Words: 1,599 Author’s Summary: Day 1 Prompt 2: Nightmares Nightmare coping techniques My Comments: Cute and midlly bittersweet fic with the entire team coping together.

Icarus et Dea Tacita by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee Words: 7,356 Author’s Summary: She’s drenched in blood; she’s literally cut open, how-? Keith doesn’t know, and the closer he is to her the more certain he becomes that he’s seen her before, that this is one of Lotor’s generals, but he knows he’s going to try to save her. No soldier or civilian left behind. Shiro’s taught him so much, but he learned that one from Pidge and Lance and Hunk.While on a mission for the Blade, Keith finds a dying Narti and saves her life. Friendship ensues. My Comments: What a fantastic premise. Keith and Narti form such an interesting and natural friendship, two people who don’t quite feel like they belong anywhere. It was a pleasure to watch them slowly figuring out how to relate to each other. The worldbuilding is great, too. I would be pleased if canon was something like this.

Of Tremors, of Quake, of Rushing Landslides, of Broken Vale by twilighteve Words: 12,268 Author’s Summary: Lance’s eyes widened. “Oh man. You’re like our own Toph from Avatar.” Hunk blinked, because that was actually a pretty accurate description of what he was feeling. “I’m like Toph,” he echoed, a smile on his face. Hunk discovers his powers and beats a bunch of giant alien insects with the team. Also, he cusses alien badgers a storm. My Comments: Part of a series in which the paladins discover they have elemental powers. I love to see Hunk coming into his own in this. The worldbuilding is great and the action and adventure aspects are super fun, and protective Hunk is fantastic. Just a really, really fun read.

Number One Fan by Araloth Words: 4,255 Author’s Summary: Lance discovers a forum for fans of Voltron after one of their shows and can’t help diving into it. My Comments: Absolutely adorable. I loved how the mystery was solved in the end. Protective teammates are the best.

The Drifter by Bandity Words: 15,959 Author’s Summary: The team needs to figure out what’s wrong with Lance, before it’s too late. My Comments: Very cool fic with a great premise and fantastic execution. There are several scenes that were really memorable, and the worldbuilding is interesting and feels like a real place, if a bit spooky. Love Shiro and Hunk taking such a good care of Lance, as always. A great fic for Halloween. Going into my favorites, of course.

Previously Recced Fics That Updated:

As Color Fades Away (205120 words) Why it sucks to be a snake in space(47136 words) The Sea In Between (74253 words) Young Blood (7636 words) Road Trip to End Times (20349 words) Shadows of Stars (52425 words) Fusion Confusion (21601 words)

[asher-mir-blog]

Some lore background for the twins-- Mitrin and Sloane finding out they knew each other before their second lives. Mostly for @gildedskeleton but also wholly for myself because I’m a self-indulgent piece of shit. 

It had been some time since Mitrin had walked among so many. They numbered five in total, almost a proper fireteam-- Though Mitrin was sure that Shaxx counted as at least two Titans all on his own. 

They hovered around each other like planets in orbit, feet falling in pace until they reached the doors of the Ishtar Research building. It was settled in the side of a mountain, the same Venusian peak on which he’d been raised. Those memories still stung, his first months as a Guardian so far behind him now but still so raw. For weeks it had been like a thread tugging at his mind, a call of something lost that Mitrin wasn’t sure even belong to him. He’d talked to Asher about it, first. Asher had prodded for more information, tried to pry the cage of Mitrin’s mind open to no avail. He’d become frustrated, and the conversation had been dropped. In his peripheral he could see him, hovering just behind by three and a half steps. Usually, Mitrin allowed him to walk ahead; Asher liked the feeling of superiority, and Mitrin liked to make him happy. Today, though, he was the lead scout. They could not have made it here without his guidance, and it was a shock to him to notice that the facility was still sealed, with no signs of entry. “Three-hundred and nine years,” his Ghost informed them, “Since the last activity at this research site.” It was the first time since they’d landed that the silence between the group had been broken, and it was a floodgate. “We came all this way for an abandoned building?” Asher’s voice was terse, but there was a curiosity beneath it that Mitrin would have known anywhere. Shaxx’s reply was sharp as a knife. “You didn’t have to join us. We’re perfectly capable on our own.” There was a snort from Vera then, and Sloane let out a sigh as she came to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Mitrin. “You got us here... Can we get inside?” He almost laughed, tilting his helmeted head to her and hoping she could see the look of gracious understanding he was giving her. She was the second one he’d approached about the matter. She’d echoed the sentiment about memories from before, about how sometimes it was better to leave them buried but she’d agreed to help him look if he needed her. Mitrin had, admittedly, grown attached to her in their time together, and it would have felt... Wrong on some level to not have her with him for this. And wherever Sloane went, Vera and Shaxx tended to follow. So they’d become five, and they’d set out for Venus after a short breakfast at the Farm. “How are we getting in?” It was Vera this time. Her voice was nearer now, like they were all closing in on him and there was the threatening sensation of being trapped but Mitrin pushed it away, focused instead on the small keypad next to the door. “Monri, can you get some power to this?” The Ghost made a noise, his chassis whirring as he moved to a more favorable position. It was rare for him to break his silence for anything other than factual information, but his melodic singsong crackled in their private connection like a wave breaking shore. I could just open the door, if you’d like. Something about it made Mitrin uneasy. No, just.... Just power, please. Monri did as asked. Mitrin watched the numbers flicker to life and before he’d even thought about it he typed a code. “Where’d you learn that?” It was Asher this time, the derision gone from his voice and replaced with full interest. “Have you been keeping secrets from me, Assistant?” Mitrin stifled another laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Never, Asher. Never from you.” He didn’t miss the small noise Sloane made, or the way Shaxx stepped a bit more between them. Vera clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Their displeasure at the short exchange was palpable, and Mitrin crossed the threshold in an attempt to diffuse the tension. The lights flicked to life as they stepped inside, the door sliding quietly closed behind them. Monri must have activated the entire power structure of the building for them. He’d have to thank him later. They kept measured steps through the front hall. It looked like a reception area of sorts-- Mitrin could feel /something/ pulling at his mind but he couldn’t figure out what. The call was strong inside the walls, though, and he took a bit of comfort knowing that he’d brought them to the right place, at least. Wordlessly he moved from their group to inspect the pocket of rooms to the left. There wasn’t anything terribly special about them. Living quarters, rows of beds lined up in a neat structure. There were a couple of skeletons hiding under the metal frames, blankets pulled down like a shield to hide them from whatever had ended their lives. Mitrin could feel no Light in them. “Not guardians. Probably researchers, from before whatever killed them came around.” It was Sloane who responded, her voice startling him from the right. “Poor bastards. Didn’t stand a chance. Look at those wounds-- Vex.” “That explains why the place looks undisturbed from outside. They don’t need doors.” He wound his way around the room slowly, looking for any sign of whatever might have brought him here. They found three more bodies in the communal bath, huddled together in a shower stall. One was missing it’s skull. Staring at it made him feel dizzy. “Let’s keep looking-- There’s nothing in here.” The mirrors that lined one wall caught Mitrin’s attention when his Ghost’s light flooded over one of them, and the sensation hit him like a well-placed shoulder charge. He staggered back until he found the wall; Sloane’s voice echoed around him but he couldn’t tell what she was saying, as if she were hundreds of feet under water. His own reflection stared back, draped in a towel with wet hair and a toothbrush. The light was wrong-- too bright for their excursion-- He knew this place. He’d lived in this place. The present came back suddenly, the grimy tiles of the bathroom the first noticeable thing in his vision. Somewhere along the line he’d slid to the floor, and there were tell-tale hand smears in the built up dirt on the floor that he’d tried to crawl. Sloane was at his side, her hand on his back and the hem of her robe invading his line of sight, distracting him from the tilt of the floor as he grounded himself in the now. “Mitrin, please say something!!” One, two, three gasped breaths and he choked out “I’m fine!” It didn’t seem to dissuade Sloane’s worry, and more light fell over them, followed by the concerned voices of Vera and Shaxx. “Is everything alright?” A hesitant question, more out of courtesy than much else, and Mitrin struggled to his feet. He waved his hand at Vera, grabbing hold of Sloane’s arm when she offered it only until he didn’t feel like the ground was going to fall out from beneath him. “Yeah, let’s just keep moving.” A pause, and he looked past their shoulders back into the main hall. “Where’s Asher?” “He found some Vex contraption in the next room.” There was no missing the derision in Shaxx’s voice. “Maybe if we’re lucky, it’ll suck him in and we’ll be rid of him.” “You shouldn’t say things like that,” Sloane chided, though she didn’t sound like she believed what she was saying. “Let’s just.....” Mitrin pushed past them, and he heard them whisper something amongst themselves before Sloane caught up with him. He found Asher at a conflux, bathing the room in a white light, and he moved on without disturbing him. They found a series of cubicles in the next room. Papers were scattered across the floor, as if there had been a sudden interruption; There probably had been, if Vex were what had killed these scientists. Mitrin gingerly stepped over a pile of bones, unsure if it was a singular body or several stacked together. He turned his attention to the desks, fighting the fuzziness at the edges of his vision and bracing his hands against the sides of the desks as he looked them over. There were pictures at some, faded in their glass homes. Smiling children, a wedding photo, a group of humans tossing strangely shaped hats. He wondered what their lives here had been like, what his connection to them was. The final desk was undisturbed. A thin layer of dust had settled over the neatly stacked papers. On the small dividing wall notes were pinned-- A congratulatory card, a swatch of fabric, a photo of a cat. He followed the line of images down to a cluster of frames on the desk, and Mitrin caught his breath in his throat. In a sealed frame he smiled back at himself, his arm around a woman that looked unmistakably like Sloane. There were others: a pair of same-faced children around a cake, the same children sleeping on a pile of pastel colored blankets. It made his stomach churn, and the sudden urge to throw up washed over him with merciless fury. Mitrin took several breaths, shaking fingers reaching for a photo that had been laid on its face, and the sensation of the universe falling from around him pulled him under again. This time it was vivid color, his own body painfully arched over the desk as he was now but held down by something-- A voice, breathy in his ear. Slurs, cruel taunts flowed past his senses and he could smell blood, could smell sweat and there was something in his mouth, muffling his protests. There was a hand then, skating down his front and it wasn’t right; the nails scratched into skin, marking and claiming and it was wrong, he scrambled to get away and the picture fell forward-- Mitrin jerked his helmet from his head against Monri’s protests and Sloane’s worried shouts. It clattered to the floor with startling clarity and Mitrin felt the bile rise, couldn’t stop it when he shuddered past the edge of the desk and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the dirt covered floor. It bathed the toes of his boots, and he heaved twice before managing to right his posture and seek out where his helm had ended up. “What the hell?” It was Sloane’s voice again, her fingers digging insistently into his shoulder in an attempt to turn him but he ignored her, moved for the covering and settled it back over his head before the others made it into the room, before they could witness the tear-streaked mess of his face. “The desk,” He bit out, turning to face her and finally relenting. “Look at the photographs.” There was an unusually hollow tone in his voice. It sounded alien, not his own. Something about it must have prompted Asher to intervene-- He caught Mitrin by the shoulders, concern knit along his brow beneath the dark visor. “Where are you?” Mitrin didn’t answer him, at first. It was the same question he asked after one of his experiments, a grounding ritual of sorts to ensure he hadn’t left Mitrin somewhere along the way. “Where are you?” Asher prompted again, this time with more insistence, before he was shouldered out of the way by Shaxx. “You aren’t helping!” “He needs this!” Asher insisted, indignance flooding his tone. “And how exactly would you know what will help him? He isn’t a member of your little inner circle, you brute! It takes more careful hands to deal with his mind!” “Don’t call him a brute!” It was Vera yelling now, and Mitrin leaned himself heavily into the wall. “That’s rich coming from someone who cuts people open as his sole form of entertainment--” “Enough!!” Sloane’s voice was hoarse when it cut the air and everyone fell silent. Mitrin was grateful for the reprieve; his head was pounding. Everything seemed to swim when he took a breath. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to be anywhere other than this musty, Light-forsaken building. He managed to turn himself to face her, and he noticed that her hands were clutching the frames from the desk. He could tell she was struggling too-- Her shoulders shook, the sureness that usually accompanied her stance had fled and in it’s place was fear. But the way her hands formed around the photos... They meant something to her. Mitrin wondered briefly if they had brought back something awful for her too. Every shift of his muscles reminded him of the nails against his skin, the beast-like panting in his ear. He tried to shake it off, tried to focus on the moment. “You.... You’re my brother.” Mitrin gave a dry laugh. It cracked at his throat, raw from so much abuse. “So it seems.” The pictures were left to the floor in favor of her arms encircling his shoulders and he let himself sink into the embrace. She was crying-- He could hear the soft hiccups in her chest as she held him. It was almost funny to him now; Vera had commented on how similar they looked when Sloane had introduced him. “I hope having me as a brother isn’t a disappointment.” It was Sloane’s turn to laugh, a broken thing through a string of tears, and Mitrin noticed the hands that settled on her shoulders. He envied it, the closeness of them. “Hardly. At least now I’ll have something worth remembering.”