#versus Chin the Conqueror

[direamuletsymphony]

According to Wong: white symbolized treachery, a sinister nature, suspicion of others, and the willingness to visit evil deeds on others, while red symbolized honor, loyalty and heroism. (Avatar fandom wiki)

[amjustagirl]

CHAPTER 1 - TAKING FLIGHT

Fic Summary:

The sky Oikawa Tooru’s heart seeks is a world away from the earth yours is buried in. You are a fool to trust him with your heart anyway.

Where Oikawa Tooru does not make it to Argentina straightaway.

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3

Icarus, Icarus, I must be blind not to see you long to touch the sun.

Updates every Monday

Pairing: Oikawa Tooru x you, Oikawa Tooru x fem! reader

Genre / Wordcount : Angst (5.6k words)

Warnings: One non-explicit bedroom scene

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“Home sweet home ”, Tooru declares grandly, throwing his hands out with the air of a conqueror bursting with pride at the sight of his domain. 

Never mind the fact that the apartment looks like it’s been hit by a tsunami of cardboard boxes and scattered bits of furniture. Or the fact that you’re covered in sweat and grime from lifting boxes and shifting furniture and you’d very much like to lie down and not get up for the next week or two, but you can’t because of the never ending list of things to be done - unpacking your belongings, filling in your enrolment paperwork, attending medical school orientation to attend. 

But his words wash away the tide of anxiety lapping at the edges of your mind. 

Tooru wept and gnashed his teeth when his parents refused to let him chase his dreams to Argentina, and not a single professional team in Japan even looked his way. Don’t be ridiculous, his parents told him with wagging fingers, especially when Chuo University sent a full scholarship his way. 

“It is the top school for volleyball” you pointed out, as he spent yet another hour lying flat on his back, eyes swollen from spent tears. “You could go there and grab everyone’s attention by being their starting setter for the next four years.”

He does not respond. You wonder if he’s waiting for the paint on the ceiling to crack. 

“Plus” you add slyly. “I’ll be at Chuo with you.” 

This catches his attention. “What d’you mean”, he mumbles, throat still sandy with salt. 

“I got into medical school there”, you tell him  ,  the smile on your face growing when he finally hurls himself bodily at you, both of you toppling off the bed and onto the floor. 

“You’ll be there with me?” he whispers in disbelief. 

You laugh wetly into the crook of his neck. “Every step of the way”, you declare, slipping your hand into his. 

You’ve both transplanted yourselves from your childhood home in Sendai to a tiny apartment in Tokyo, a veritable hole in paper thin walls. Your hearth is a pair of rusty iron hobs, and your bed is a cheap mattress on the floor, but sunshine spills in from the windows like liquid gold and Oikawa Tooru’s hand is warm in yours. 

You wonder what you’ve done in your past life for the gods to smile down on you, to bless you with a boy you love in a place you can both call  home .

You’re not usually this sentimental, but just this once, you tug him down towards you, stealing a kiss from him. “I like the sound of that”, you murmur against his lips. “Our home, Tooru”. 

He chuckles, wrapping his arms around you. “Do you love me?” he asks, with a smile that cages your beating heart in his calloused hands. 

You are young. You are eighteen. You know nothing of the world. You know nothing of life. 

So you reply - “More than life itself”. 

He kisses you with languid ease, stealing the very breath from your chest. You tell yourself you have four years to work up the courage to ask if he loves you as much in return. 

“Medical supplies are expensive, so stop coming here to ask for cold presses that you don’t need”, you tell Oikawa Tooru, Captain of the Volleyball Club and currently a veritable pain in your ass for constantly hounding you during your shifts at the school’s sickbay. 

You resist the urge to sigh when he throws himself onto the cot, groaning dramatically - “How mean! You and Iwa-chan are the same - brutes, all of you! What’s a guy gotta do to get some tender love and care, especially when he’s injured?”

You cast a doubtful eye at the bandage over his right knee. “Iwaizumi said you recovered, but I guess if you’re really still injured…”

Oikawa grins, sensing victory in sight. “So you’ll give me a cold press and let me rest here during class?” 

You drop said cold press onto his knee none too gently. “Sure - though..” your voice trails off, you tap your chin thoughtfully. “That would mean you’re not cleared for practice. I’ll send a note to your coach.”

Gotcha. 

It’s your turn to grin when alarm dawns on Oikawa’s face, his eyebrows pinching together as he waves his hands at you, pleading you not to mention a word to his coach - pretty please with a cherry on top, he forgot to do his homework cos he was staying up late to watch volleyball videos last night and needs a place to hide, and you’re the kindest, bestest, person on earth if you let it slide this time, his knee is fine, just fine - 

You glare at him, unimpressed. 

He pouts, with the largest puppy dog eyes he can muster. Even you are not immune to his charms. 

“Fine”, you say flatly. “Just once.” 

He thanks you, promising never to darken the doors of the sickbay again without cause. 

Of course, he breaks his promise the very next day when he sidles in just before practice, dropping a milk carton and a bun on your table.

“An offering to the maiden of this shrine” he answers teasingly in response to the question in your furrowed brow, trying his best to exude arrogance and saunter off, though his efforts are defeated by the pink tint to the apples of his cheek. 

Oikawa Tooru, huh. You wonder. 

You and Tooru are drawn into the ebb and flow of university life. You wake up with him by your side each morning, kiss him on the cheek before you both head your separate ways. In a fit of fancy, you imagine that your front door is the portal to different worlds - a little like the enchanted door in Howl’s Moving Castle, a movie Tooru used to make you watch with him on repeat. When you step through it, you find yourself in the humdrum world of medical school - anatomy classes, stuffy professors, scalpels and knives. Whereas when Tooru steps through it - like the titular wizard, he bursts like a fiery comet into a wholly separate, magical world of whistles and drills and volleyball practices. 

Your worlds never collide in the day, even though from time to time, you sneak into the gym to watch him practice, unbeknownst to him. Typically, you only see him at night. Dinners are prepared together, shoulders jostling over the kitchen counter to cook rice and produce sourced from the supermarket’s discount bin, before you both huddle over homework. More often than not though, Tooru prefers to spend all his time crouched over his laptop, earbuds on, watching endless streams of volleyball matches. 

“Aren’t you ever tired of volleyball?” you ask when you see him analyse yet another video - Argentina versus Japan this time. 

You already know the answer before your question leaves your tongue but you ask it anyway, amused when he squawks in indignation and knocks over your cup of tea in his hurry to exclaim -  Sick of volleyball? Him, Oikawa Tooru? Never! 

Of course, you knew that. Chuo University is the top collegiate team for volleyball, so the coaches demand nothing but the best from their players. You watch by the sidelines as Tooru grinds his body into dust at volleyball practice, coming home every night with sore tendons and aching bones. Balancing a full business course load on top of that would stretch anyone to their breaking point. 

Anyone normal that is, because Tooru revels in his hectic schedule. 

You attend his first match and you’re blown away by how much he’s grown from being transplanted from barren soil into rich earth. The unerring confidence he’s already shown in his high school days blossoms into an elegant ease. His athleticism grows by leaps and bounds, his game sense sharpens, his sets learn true grace.  

He claws his way to a starting position with bloodied fingernails, in blatant disregard of anything that might stand in his way. He builds his own wings, starts to take flight, the light in his eyes shining brighter and brighter the closer he flies towards the sun. 

He is no longer the simple school boy you fell in love with from Sendai. 

“Will you go out with me if I win our next match?” he asks suddenly, lifting his gaze from the video he’s watching from his usual corner in the sickbay. 

“Do I look like a prize for some school boy’s grudge match?” You snipe back, head bent over your homework. 

“It was worth a try”, he hrumphs. 

You hide a smile. 

“I would go out with you even if you lose”, you tell him, though you do not lift your eyes from paper and pen. 

A laugh bubbles from his chest - surprised, delighted, triumphant. 

“I better make sure I win then. So you don’t change your mind.” 

He did not win that game, losing spectacularly in the finals in his second year against his fated rival - Ushijima from Shiratorizawa, a specter that still looms unti over every match he plays in up to today. 

True to your word, you sat on his doorstep, waiting for him to return home red eyed, throat raw. You let him drop his aching head into your lap, and like a maiden comforting a weary warrior, you pressed a kiss to his forehead as a balm to his wounds. Then you dragged him by the hand to your favourite ramen stall, ordering two bowls of tonkatsu ramen, with char siu, bamboo shoots, spring onions and gyoza on the side. An inauspicious first date, but you consider yourself lucky nonetheless for having him beside you. 

Things are different now. You are blind not to see him long to touch the sun. 

No one is surprised when Chuo University wins nationals. The only surprise to the media (but certainly not to you or anyone from Miyagi for that matter), is that Chuo University brings home the trophy with Oikawa Tooru as it’s starting setter. 

The boy king finally reaches the national stage. 

Even then, he is always, always grasping for  more .

“You were amazing!” you gush, as he finally breaks through the triumphant huddle of his teammates to swing you into his arms and greet you with his customary kiss. “I’m so proud of you!” 

His eyes glitter as he laughs, giddy with delight, face flushed with pride. “It’s just college, princess. Wait til I go pro”. 

Like Ushijima, you think, though that name remains unsaid. 

Wax feathers had already started to sprout from the knobs of his spine back in high school, budding beneath your fingertips like a cancerous tumour. Back then it was easy to be wilfully blind to them, but now it's become too obvious to be ignored. Oikawa Tooru’s ambition lies spread eagled, naked beneath the blinding lights of the sports hall. He has only just tasted his first real victory, crossed the first hurdle separating him from his dreams of greatness. 

“I’m waiting for that day then”, you respond teasingly.

You only realise later that you lied. He's left the confines of your arms in his quest for the skies.

You laughed when Tooru first broached the idea of sneaking out at night to gaze at stars in the sky. ‘What nonsense’, you’d said. What are the chances of seeing stars amidst the light pollution from a city, even a relatively minor one like Sendai? 

“You’re being a meanie, just like Iwa-chan”, he pouted. He kept whining until you gave in. 

Tooru picks you up from your home past midnight, chuckling when you label his rusty bicycle ‘a contraption from hell’ and ask him archly whether he truly expects you to entrust your wellbeing to the tiny rack meant to function as the pillion’s seat. 

“Stop being a princess, it isn’t as if I can magick a seatbelt from thin air” he teases. 

“Howl could”, you point out. 

“Well, I could strap you on with my bicycle chain if you prefer”, he answers blithely. “Get on, stop complaining”. 

He pedals all the way uphill to the deserted park near school, whining all the way about the strain the extra weight (you) puts on his knees (lies, all of them). You’re torn between pointing out that he chose to drag you out in the middle of the night and kicking him off the bike and commandeering yourself home instead. You choose instead to slap the back of his head. 

“Ow!” he squeals. “Brute!” 

“Hmph”. You fold your arms in satisfaction. 

When he finally finds a spot perfect enough to commence his stargazing adventure, he stops the back, spreads a picnic mat and hands you a flask of hot tea. 

“I don’t see any stars”, you say, after fifteen minutes of sitting, stiff and cold in the dark. 

“Don’t be impatient! The clouds will clear up soon”, he says, squinting hopefully. 

The sky remains overcast. 

You sigh, the breath expelled from your nose forming your own personal cloud. You are accustomed to Tooru’s quirks, his all consuming passion for volleyball, his love for all things outer space. You decide to indulge him a little, just once. 

“Why don’t you pretend we can see the stars and tell me your favourite thing about each one?” 

He brightens up visibly. 

“You won’t be bored if I did that?”

You prod his nose, but your eyes are fond. “Have you ever bored me?”

His chest swells. “I suppose not”, he crows, and proceeds to trace the constellations with elegant fingers, spinning stories and conjuring random facts about celestial beings you cannot see. You find yourself enthralled, not by his words, but by the lilt in his voice and depth in his eyes. 

“Why d’you love the stars so much?” you ask.

“Did you not just hear anything I’ve just said?” his voice teeters dangerously close to a whine. 

You click your tongue against your teeth. “I mean – trivia and myths aside. Why are you so fascinated by what are essentially flaming balls of gas and light.”

“The shallow answer is cos they’re pretty.” He says, laughing airily, before turning his gaze to you, the stark intensity in his eyes causing goosebumps to prickle the back of your neck. “But if my lady here is searching for a deeper answer, well. Aren’t stars the ultimate embodiment of the dreams of all humankind? Even as we strive and fail towards our petty goals, the stars are always there to remind us to look up and reach for the sky”

You flick his forehead. “Pretty words, for a pretty boy”. 

“Hey!” He scowls indignantly before he perks up. “Wait - did you see that? There’s a star!” 

The sky clears just enough for a pale light to peer through a gauzy cloud. You do see it, and it is indeed beautiful, but your attention has already been captured by the boy beside you. And Tooru being Tooru, naturally notices. 

“Why’re you staring at me instead of the sky?” 

Perhaps you’re drunk on the magic of midnight skies, perhaps you want to uncover the mystery of his smile yourself. Perhaps that explains why your eyes soften and why your words fall short of a whisper. 

“Because you are my sun, my moon and all my stars”, you say. “I like you better than anything in the sky.”

His mouth slackens and for a moment, his eyes are tender before his laugh breaks your flight of whimsy, and you bury your face in your hands, hot with embarrassment. 

“Forget I ever said that”, you plead. 

“Never!” he cries. “I’m going to remind you how cheesy you can be for the rest of your life!”

You end up having to kiss him to shut him up. 

In his second year, Sakusa Kiyoomi joins his team. Tooru finally meets someone who meets his impossibly high standards to fill Iwaizumi’s place as his ace. 

He’s literally bouncing on balls of his feet when he comes home after the first practice. 

“He’s so prickly and unfriendly but his receiving his top notch, and his game sense is fantastic, and best of all the spin he gives to each spike makes me drool - especially when I see the look on the other side’s faces when they try receiving his ball for the first time - ha ha! ”, he talks at you at breakneck speed as you both prepare dinner, side by side at the cramped kitchen counter. 

“Mmhm”, you reply, head thinking of the multiple lectures you attended today, the homework and readings you must do tonight to stay abreast. 

“-it’s his wrists, they’re so flexible it nearly made me puke when I first saw him stretch them”, he continues for the rest of the night, heedless of your wavering attention. 

You meet Sakusa at one of the few team parties you actually attend. You nearly stumble over him when you try to hide in your usual corner with a plate of food in your hand, watching as Tooru flutters around like the social butterfly he is. His nose and mouth are hidden behind a face mask, but even you can tell he’s uncomfortable to be around so many people, so you tug at his jacket sleeve gently to lead him away from the crowd to a seat at the top of the stairs. 

You don’t expect him to speak much to you, if at all, but to your surprise, he initiates the conversation. 

“He doesn’t take good care of himself”, Sakusa mutters. You nearly miss his words over the pulsing beat of the music. 

“Who doesn’t?” you ask - though you already know who he’s referring to. 

“It’s unhealthy, the way you push yourself”, you tell Tooru, hands on hips, standing at the door to Aoba Johsai’s sports hall. You hardly intrude here onto Tooru’s sacred space, choosing instead to stay in the library to study until he’s done with practice and you can both walk home together. But practice has long ended, and your patience has run short - not to mention Iwaizumi popped his head into the library to shoot you a worried expression, dark eyebrows pinched into a pained frown. 

You are aware of Tooru’s predilection for working himself to the bone. Or to the shredded remnants of the tendon of his knee, to be more accurate. So you tap your feet, looking pointedly at said injury. 

“I’m fine”, he tries to dismiss you without even looking your way. 

You refuse to let him. 

“You’re not fine”, you tell him coolly, taking another step towards the inner sanctum, the volleyball courts. White lines, painted into brown wood. A single ball, six per side, each jostling for their pride and god.   

“Tooru -” 

“I need to practice so I can win”, he snarls, handsome face mangled by an angry scowl. “Don’t be like one of those whiny girlfriends, you know I can’t stand that.” 

You are not so easily hurt by the barbs in his words. “You can’t win if you’re injured”, you attempt to appeal to his reason. “You know and I know and your coach knows that that knee of yours is going to cause you problems if you don’t rest it properly. So you better listen to me, because so help me - I can tell you that you’re not going to be able to come for practice if you keep pushing yourself tonight”. 

His anger simmers into a sulk. “You’re not a doctor”, he replies, a petulant whine at the tail end of his words. 

“Not yet”, you respond, and at that, he laughs, surprised that your arrogance matches his own. 

Your attention snaps back to the present when Sakusa calls your name. “Sorry”, you breathe. “Couldn’t quite hear you - who were you referring to again?”  

“Oikawa”, Sakusa says, confirming your suspicions. “Practises even though I know his knee hurts sometimes”. 

You thank him for telling you before carefully diverting the conversation to something a little more innocuous, buying yourself time to turn this new information over in your mind. 

You hear him hiss as you open the front door- “Iwa-chan, don’t be stupid, I can’t tell her yet!” 

It’s not an uncommon sight to come home at night to find Tooru cradling his phone to his ear whilst juggling a book in his other hand. It is the only time slot that he and Iwaizumi have to catch up. 

Still, it is uncommon for him to bolt into the toilet the minute he catches sight of you. 

“Is everything alright?” you ask him over dinner. 

“Peachy”, he replies between spoonfuls of rice. “Never been better”. 

He promptly changes the topic after that. 

“Not staying home for dinner?” you ask, arms wrapped around yourself as he lets the chilly air into your apartment, sitting by the open door lacing his training shoes up. 

“Wanna work in some more practice tonight”, he murmurs, gaze still locked on his shoes. “Serves and all that. Don’t wait for me, yeah?” 

“Right. Just...promise me you’ll take care of yourself, Tooru”, you answer, unable to keep the disappointment from leaking into your voice. 

He stands up, turns to face you with a cheery smile. “Of course I will. Anyway, don’t pout, princess”, he sing songs gaily. “We’ll spend some time together after the season is over, I promise.”

“Alright”, you say, unconvinced, reluctantly tipping your chin up to let him kiss your cheek goodbye. 

“Tooru?” 

You feel the mattress dip. “Go back to sleep, princess”, he whispers, pulling the sheets back up to your chin. 

“Where are you going?” You mumble, squinting your eyes at the clock by the side of the bed. “It’s four in the morning. The earliest you wake up for practice is five.”

“I just wanted to practice my serves a little more.” You hear him rustle in the bathroom. Sakusa’s words echo in your ears, and you sit up, bleary eyed. 

“Tooru?” 

“Mm?”

“Are you taking care of your knee? And getting enough sleep?”

He stiffens. “Of course”, he replies with the tight, plastic smile he only ever gives you when he’s trying to lie. “Why’re you asking me this? Who put ideas in your pretty little head?”

For the first time in your relationship with Tooru, you take care not to accidentally tread on the faultlines of his heart.

“I worry about you”, you say, gripping your sheets as he frowns. “I don’t think you’re sleeping enough - judging from the bags under your eyes, and you shouldn’t be over practising because your knee could very act up - “

“Look - I don’t have time to deal with this” he interjects with a snap. “Just leave me alone and go back to sleep.” 

“I’m only saying this because I love you, Tooru.” You automatically tack on - “More than life itself.” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing out a sigh. “I love you too ok? Stop worrying your pretty head about my health and my knee - we agreed you only get to nag me when you’re a full fledged doctor, remember?”, he adds, with a cheeky smile that does not reach his hooded eyes. 

You let him walk out of the house without another word, cotton sheets crumpling in your clenched fists. 

You don’t get to talk about it that night because he chatters at you about Sakusa’s tantrum during practice because someone hid his towel, and you can barely get a word in before he slips off to shower and sleep. 

He starts to disappear for days at a time, even after the season ends with him not only taking home his second trophy at Nationals, but crowned the best setter in the collegiate volleyball league. 

He tells you that there are overnight practice matches and camps. That he’s staying over at his teammates’ flats. You believe him at first. There is, after all, no reason for him to lie. 

Still, it is a little funny he refuses to allow you to do his laundry from those trips. You brush away your friends’ concerns that he’s cheating on you -  Tooru wouldn’t do that, you assure them with a wide smile that hurts your cheeks. 

Tooru would never lie to you. 

Then you bump into Sakusa Kiyoomi on campus when Tooru is away again. 

It’s night time. Shadows bleed into concrete roads. You’re on your way back home from hiding up in the library all day, reluctant to return to a home without Tooru when you bump into the reticent spiker. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be away at practice camp?” you ask innocently, worried that an injury might keep him from playing, though from a quick scan he seems to be fine. 

“Practice camp?” He echoes blankly, his face an open book of confusion. 

“Tooru mentioned that he’d be away from some practice camp for a few days...” 

Your words trail off. Your heart flutters, refuses to accept the truth staring you in the face. 

Sakusa frowns. His answer is brutal, direct. “There’s no training camp - hasn’t been in a while”. 

“Oh”, you murmur. 

Realization needles its way into the space beside your beating heart, drills its way into the marrows of your bones. 

“Are you ok?” You faintly hear Sakusa say. It’s your turn to lie. 

Tooru comes home the next day, a quarter past two. You’re sitting on the threadbare couch cross legged, a textbook balanced on your lap. 

“Where have you been?” 

“Practice camp. Didn’t I tell you that?” 

You scoff. The page held between your fingers starts to crumple. Your composure frays. 

“Really?” Your voice starts to veer into hysterics, straight across the highway into your emotional stratosphere. “Sakusa Kiyoomi told me that there’s no such practice camp, Oikawa. How about you try again with the truth this time.”

He reels back. You can see him trying to formulate yet another lie. 

“Princess”, he begins pleadingly, but your temper runs hot and you short circuit at the sound of your nickname from his lips.  

You stalk towards him, grabbing the bag in his hand. Like a woman possessed, you wrench the zip open, holding the bag open above your head, emptying its contents out. Dirty clothes, a deflated volleyball, toiletries spill onto the floor. You comb through each and every item in search of a telltale sign - a lipstick mark, a woman’s floral scent, something, anything for you to confirm his infidelity. 

What you find, however, is not what you expect. 

A red jersey, lying limp in your hands. A contrast to the university’s colours of navy and white.  

You flip it around. 

The words EJP Raijin are emblazoned across the jersey in stark white. 

You look up at him. He stares back. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?’ 

He has the decency to look away. 

“Tooru”, you repeat, voice trembling. “Why didn’t you tell me?!” 

“I was afraid of what it meant. For us”, he answers, dropping to his knees in front of you. “You know I’ve always wanted to go pro - and when the Div 1 teams started holding try-outs, I had to go. I tried out for them all except the Adlers, and EJP decided to give me a shot, which was like a dream come true… But I didn’t know if you would be happy if I did take it up.”

“Take what up?” you echo. Your mind is not keeping up with this turn of events. 

“Move to Hiroshima to join the team.” He answers warily, ready to flee at the first sign of danger. “You know I’d have to, right?” 

You look at him with fresh eyes, this boy you profess to love more than life itself. Wings spread from his shoulder blades, moulded by madness and greed from fire and wax. The reflection of the sun gleams in his eyes. He has left you permanently for the skies. 

“What about me?” Your breath stuck in your throat even as you refuse to relinquish the last hold you have on him.  

“If you love me”, he begins, reaching out to cup your cheeks and it’s your turn to reel back because you know he’s about to throw back your own words in your face. 

If you love me more than life itself - won’t you do this for me?  

But you are no longer eighteen. You are twenty one, on the cusp of adulthood. You know a little more about life than you did at eighteen.  

You know that your life is here - in Tokyo, among dusty books and lectures and tutorials on anatomy and diseases and germs, and you cannot upend your life and uproot yourself to Hiroshima just to follow someone else’s dreams. You love Tooru, but you do not share his dreams of glory and gold medals, of fleeting victory, of Olympian greatness. 

“I can’t”, you say, with a firmness that surprises even yourself. 

Again, he does not meet your eyes. 

“Then what shall we do?” He asks, lips pressed into a straight line. 

For a brief and terrible moment, you are tempted to throw your dignity to the wind, to fall on your knees and ask him to stay in Tokyo with you. But you can no longer turn a blind eye to what’s been staring you in the face for the entire length of your relationship, so you bite the insides of your cheek and grit your teeth. 

“We will do what we must”, you tell him, your head held high. 

You do not know what hurts more. The lack of pause in his acceptance to your suggestion that you break up, or the painfully obvious relief in his eyes. 

He goes to sleep in your shared bed, oblivious to your pain. You do not join him, choosing instead to spend hours seeking privacy in your toilet, knees aching from the cold floor. 

You are clinical, even in your anguish.  

Wring the liquid grief from your lungs, lay it on the floor to dry. Filter the water from your windpipe, the salt from your eyes. Your organs are scattered on the floor, battered, broken, torn. Save for your heart - you will need to retrieve it, whatever’s left of it at least. You last recall seeing it beneath Tooru’s feet, dashed to pieces as he spreads his wings and takes flight. 

You will put yourself back together with steady hands tomorrow, fill the cavity in your chest with the remnants of your organs, secure them in place with stitches and staples. Given time, you think your prognosis is good. 

You are young. You will heal. 

But now, you are allowed an hour or two to grieve at the very least. To mourn the loss of a relationship you still hold dear, a relationship that you only realise has an expiry date in the short span of a night. 

You are a fool for not realising it sooner. 

Perhaps he cares for you, but you must now confront the fact that you’ve been wilfully blind to. He could never give you his heart when he’s already given his heart up to someone else - to volleyball, a far more demanding mistress. 

You cannot compete with her. You should not have tried. 

Tooru files the paperwork to drop out of university. You find another flat, this time for one. 

In the weeks before he leaves, you watch him flit about the flat, buzzing with excitement like an overgrown child. His wings nearly suffocate you with its ever increasing breadth and length, but you do not begrudge his happiness. You still love him desperately. You still want what’s best for him.  

You write him meal plans, scribble reminders on the proper care for his knee. You help him label his boxes, arrange for them to be sent to Hiroshima via post. You do not tell him how tempted you are to slip yourself whole into one of them. But you start to build a cage for the remnants of your heart, turning a deaf ear even as it pounds against the bars of your ribs. 

The time finally comes for him to get on a train bound for Hiroshima. The time finally comes for you to leave the flat. 

“Princess”, he says softly, catching your elbow as you stand on the threshold, pulling you flush against his broad chest. You do not trust yourself to speak as he gently tilts your face up to his.

“Thank you”, he breathes against your lips. There is a lingering taste of regret in his kiss.

“For what?” you manage to ask. 

 His eyes pool with affection, swirl with sadness. 

“For everything.” He takes your hands in his, presses a final kiss to your forehead. Your traitorous heart screeches at you to beg him to say. You smother it beneath reinforced walls of steel and bone. 

Icarus, Icarus. This is goodbye. 

You make him leave before you, watching as he turns his back on you. Then you steal a minute to potter through each room in the little flat that was your home. The bedroom, barely large enough for two. The bathroom, with a propensity for leaking, the shower where Tooru insists on serenading the neighbours, much to their discontent. The kitchen, full of memories of shared dinners, and quiet conversations. 

You bid farewell to two full years of happiness, press your forehead against the front door to whisper goodbye to your home. 

The lock clicks. You close the door. 

[sonicringbond]

Sonic Ring Bond - Episode of New History 07

The following is a work of fan fiction by Joshua D. Tarwater and is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS.* *SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS retains full rights over the Sonic the Hedgehog™ intellectual property and can terminate or take control of this work at any time.

~EPISODE OF NEW HISTORY 07~

★Mankind versus nature. Machines versus natural life.

It is a conflict known since humankind made their first tools. As those tools gave them power over nature humankind created greater and greater tools that gave birth to civilization. The consequences of their actions have not always been acknowledged however, and then there are those who would rebuild the world in their own image. It is little surprise that nature does not find harmony with their works and actively upends and resists it. Yet the struggles of Doctor Eggman’s battle with nature had been very different this past week.

Tiny planet built of technology Verdant life taking all as its own Machines of technology Creatures of stone A conflict raging Watched from within a tiny space Too small yet perfectly fit A work of genius A sudden distraction

“No, no, no, no, no!!” Doctor Eggman shouted and smashed his hands down on the control panel in front of him.

Flashing on the screen just inches from his nose was real time data highlighting the destruction of the Death Egg’s core. It was the latest in a line of similar casualties throughout the space station as power stations all over had been failing. The screen in front of the would-be world conqueror was more than happy to show him that path of destruction as well.

“Wait…” Eggman remarked and rubbed his chin while adjusting his glasses as he did indeed recognize it was a path of destruction. Something far more structured and organized than the clash between his machines and the ever-spreading vegetive overgrowth. “It couldn’t be… Oh but of course it is!!”

With a few masterful strokes of the controls in front of him, Eggman’s screen switched from displaying structural data to live security footage. Surely enough, standing in the now lush and partly flooded core of the Death Egg was none other than Sonic himself. The smoking remnants of the machine that served as both the main core and defense systems of the core rested in a heap before the sapient hedgehog who looked at it with a frown and crossed arms. He was obviously troubled, but not as much as when he heard Doctor Eggman’s voice come across the air from hidden speakers.

“Dah~ hahahahaha!! I should have known you’d be paying me a visit soon Sonic!”

“I was wondering when you’d make a nuisance of yourself, “ Sonic smirked as he looked around to spot any camera’s that Eggman could have been watching him from. “I was starting to think you were lost in your new gardening hobby. It’s not a bad look though, even if you’ve gone a little out of hand.”

“Delight in your jokes while you can Sonic!!” Eggman countered with a dry tone in response to Sonic’s irreverence. “I may be preoccupied with some undesirable maintenance, but I’ve still been building since our last battle, and I have a fine surprise for you that will highlight the works of my genius!!

“Dah~ hahahahaha!!”

…

“You insolent…!!” Eggman fumed even as his mustache drooped in response to the devastation that Sonic had wrought on his latest creation.

“Wow!” Tails’ voice remarked across more hidden speakers as some time later Sonic had made his way to the exterior of the space station and now stood over the sparking crumpled remains of a robot that heavily was influenced by him, even if it had stood at more than twice his height when it arrived. “You absolutely wrecked that machine, Sonic! It’s hard to imagine it looked like you when it arrived.”

“What can I say?” Sonic shrugged with a smirk. “Eggman’s taste is getting better, but you can’t just make me from a few scraps of metal.”

“Do you know how much effort I put into that!!” Eggman continued to fume as Sonic and Tails made a mockery of him. “I only had a week to perfect it and hadn’t even done any test runs of it yet!! It was going to be a delight seeing your image destroying all of this unwanted greenery!!

“Dah~ hahahahaha!!”

“I take that back, Tails,” Sonic scratched at his ear as he sighed exasperatedly. “Eggman’s taste still sucks.”

“He-he!” Tails laughed at Sonic’s wit, though failing to realize that Eggman was watching the whole scene. A scene he did not see Tails as part of.

“Oh!!” Eggman mused to himself before he started gracefully working the controls in front of him. Security feed after security feed flashed across the screen in front of him, and soon he found what he sought and screamed. “What have you done to my beautiful creations!!”

“Uh-oh!” Tails yelped. “It looks like I’ve been found, Sonic!”

“Yeah, don’t hang around if you don’t have to Tails. Grab what you need and get yourself and the Tornado out of there.”

“What about you Sonic?”

“What else, I still need to pay Eggman a visit. I mean, I just have to see the master gardener who made this mess because it is so weird standing on the surface of the Death Egg with it overgrown by grasslands and forests like this with the blue sky above. I need to give him my praise to his face. Heh!”

“Ha-ha! Gotcha Sonic! I’ll meet you topside as soon as I can.”

“Don’t think you’ll get away with this mistreatment of my beautiful works fox boy!!”

“Sorry, but your code is too much for me, so I had to make my own way in.”

“Of course it’s too much for you, fox boy!! It was made by none other than super genius scientist, Doctor Eggman!!

“Dah~ hahahahaha!!”

“You know Eggman,” Sonic interrupted the exchange between the other two, “I’m still here looking to figure out what your latest scheme is, and make sure this thing stays as a floating botanical attraction.”

“Latest scheme?”

The question left Eggman’s lips and Sonic’s heart skipped a beat. He tried to play it off casually as he challenged the doctor’s confusion accusingly. “Really Eggman? You think I don’t know that you have a scheme cooking?”

“I believe you’re mistaken Sonic,” Eggman corrected Sonic, still confused. “I’ve been so busy trying to salvage the Death Egg I haven’t had time to put together my next masterpiece stroke of genius. You’re simply being a nuisance while I deal with other problems that are far more pressing than you and your troublesome interference.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I’m amused that you feel so threatened Sonic,” Eggman chuckled and stroked his mustache as he gleefully watched the discomfort creeping into Sonic’s features. “It’s so nice to have my countenance finally respected and feared by you. I’m so delighted that it saddens me that I don’t have time to crush you beneath the heels of my latest and greatest creation. But alas Sonic, I really don’t have time for you. I’ll have to leave you and fox boy to my beautiful machines today.

“Dah~ hahahahaha!!”

Sonic’s ear flicked as he heard the intercoms cut out and was left alone by Eggman in a most disconcerting of scenarios. Troubled by the whole affair he sought some familiarity as he called out. “You still there, Tails?”

“Not for much longer,” Tails commented, his hurried actions to collect what he needed from the control room he took over lost to Sonic. He didn’t like the way Sonic asked the question though and swallowed loudly as he tried to get Sonic to get out of his own head. “But it sounds like Eggman doesn’t have the answers you’re looking for either. Whatever you experienced Sonic, I don’t think it had anything to do with Eggman.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Sonic irritably denied the possibility as he started tapping his foot and again scratched at his ear. “Eggman is always causing trouble and more than happy to pick a fight with me. Besides, what about the Chaos Emeralds?”

“Asides from the energy you’re giving off Sonic, not here,” Tails shot down Sonic’s hope to pin things on Eggman. “And even that has been siphoned off to a rather large degree now. It’s still pretty impressive, but I’m sure in a few more hours you won’t be any different from normal. There were some odd Ring signatures showing up in Eggman’s systems though, so I’m going to check those out and then catch up with you topside.”

“Just be careful,” Sonic warned. “Eggman may claim he’s busy, but he had no problem talking to us as I trashed his stuff and you just told him exactly where you’re going.”

“He-he…,” Tails laughed nervously. “ I guess I did, huh?”

“Don’t worry about it too much,” Sonic shifted his tone to comfort Tails as he started to stretch and prepared to start running again. “I have a few more power stations that I can wreck to take Eggman’s attention off of you. I’ll just make sure he has no reason to even think about you."

As Eggman fought against nature, Sonic fought against his machines and the concept that everything he knew was truly gone. More so, that it was not Eggman’s fault either. He did not want to be wrong however as almost all of his problems always began with Eggman. Fortunately, Tails’ curiosity provided him the opportunity and excuse he needed to put Eggman’s attention solely on him to find out once and for all if he was just playing into an elaborate hoax and trap of the doctor’s.★

EPISODE OF NEW HISTORY 07 - END

-----

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Sonic The Hedgehog Copyright© 1990-2022 SEGA SAMMY HOLDINGS

[rin-the-shadow]

Origin Stories and the Avatar

I know a lot of people apparently really loved the two-parter “Beginnings,” but I really would have preferred not to find out the origin of the Avatar. I guess you could say it’s a matter of scope. I would really rather not have known, and been left to speculate based on the stories that were passed around in both the Last Airbender series and the Legend of Korra. 

I personally assumed that the original Avatar had been delegated by the spirits to intercede on their behalf in the human world, to make the connections which other humans couldn’t see apparent. This was admittedly somewhat influenced by my experience viewing works like Princess Mononoke, where gods/spirits became corrupted due to the violence against them and succumbing to hatred due to the destruction of their land, and had to be appeased lest their rage curse someone else. A lot of this headcanon comes from spirits like Hei Bai, who became violent when his forest was destroyed, and was pacified when presented with proof that his forest would survive and return, and the rampaging Ocean Spirit, who bore a bit of physical resemblance to the Nightwalker, and attacked people who did not show proper respect when the Moon Spirit was killed. A lot of the conflict in Mononoke comes from the inability or refusal to find a balance between the humans’ need for survival, and the spirits’ need for their forest as part of their own survival. 

The other major influence on my interpretation was Spirited Away, where characters like Haku and the River Spirit lost things like their connection to the physical world or their original forms due to the actions of humans against their environment. This was again because of Hei Bai and the way his form physically changed when he lost his forest. Much like the spirits in Studio Ghibli works, they didn’t really operate according to the same black-and-white morality the humans did, but there were impacts when their worlds were harmed or otherwise disrespected. So the Avatar’s role exists as a means not only of maintaining balance between different human cultures, but also between humans and spirits. 

But that doesn’t have to be the only answer as to how the Avatar could have come to be. I’m sure plenty of other people had their own ideas for how it could have been which were completely different from mine. I’m sure more people will come up with their own ideas as they watch the series on Netflix for the first time. But that’s exactly my point.

The idea that we could never truly know how the Avatar came to be was a fascinating aspect of the story, and offered a lot of different possibilities. By nailing down one specific answer, those possibilities are no longer endless. They’re defined and set. There’s no more mystery, since now we’ve been told.

And I felt like the original Last Airbender series was great about not needing to provide explicit answers to everything. We don’t know how Koh came to be or why he’s the way he is. The stories about learning water-bending from the moon could just as easily have been a folktale passed down to explain the nature of water-bending, even though it is also established as very likely being a literal story as well, given Toph states she learned earth-bending from the badger-moles, and Zuko and Aang are shown learning/improving their fire-bending under the teachings of the dragons. We don’t necessarily even know if Oma and Shu were historical figures, or just a legend made up to explain the lights in the tunnels near the city of Omashu. 

While I personally wouldn’t have written the Beginnings two-parter at all, I wonder if the story of Raava and Vaatu could have worked in a similar fashion to the story of Omashu, if it was used as a story to explain the necessity of balance. The idea of needing to balance action with inaction, knowing when to mediate versus when to take decisive action (as we see with Kiyoshi killing Chin the Conqueror, if indirectly). There might have been literal spirits of chaos and order, but they might also just be a story that people tell to explain a difficult concept. It could arguably also have been a nice callback to what King Bumi was talking about when he mentioned the different kinds of jing, particularly neutral jing and the idea of waiting and listening to know what to do. But at the same time, this is just an idea in its very early brainstorming stages, and by that I mean I had it maybe thirty minutes ago.

My point is, a literal explanation over the course of two straight episodes, claiming that both are necessary but never demonstrating it, was not the only way it could have been done, and that maybe, some answers are better left to the viewers’ imaginations. I don’t dislike The Legend of Korra by any means. The Beginnings two-parter is not a favorite of mine and probably never will be, but there are still plenty of other great stories within the series which I do like. Flawed stories, sometimes rushed, sometimes not seemingly sure of what they want to say, but good stories nonetheless.

[loopy777]

While there are many reasons for how the need for crime rose, why do you think the police of republic city suddenly became so incapable of handling it post aang's death? Was the armed portion of the city's officers almost exclusively being metal benders(and thus not an enormous number of cops) a large part of it you think? After all, an elite force to handle hard stuff is well and good, but to keep law and order in a city you need quantity, not just quality.

Well, we saw Mako as part of a non-Metal police force in Books 2-4, so I don’t think that was the problem. Book Spirits offers us our best clue, I think, in the form of the two detectives who botched the investigation into the thefts of Asami’s deliveries. Those guys were senior members of the police force and had the ear of Lin herself, so I think the problem was just plain ol’ systemic incompetence.

Of course, we have to keep in mind that the police of Republic City might be the first actual police in the history of the Avatar world. The force might even be younger than the organized crime elements in the city. We only saw soldiers acting as guards against outsiders in AtLA, and our only look at a justice system was Aang’s trial for the death of Chin the Conqueror, which doesn’t leave a good impression. We could perhaps read a bit too much into that episode and say that Sokka’s playing Sherlock Holmes there indicates that the world already has the idea of formal detectives, but he was acting like a private detective, so there’s still no evidence of police.

In that case, we can bring in some of our real-life history and say that perhaps regular citizens were distrustful of the idea of career police who investigate crimes and prosecute on their own initiative, along with the police themselves figuring out their job and its most effective methods as they went along. I’ve read that the Sherlock Holmes stories directly influenced the rise of forensic investigation techniques in England, so perhaps something like that can transform the RC police into a more effective force.

I’m also rather fond of the history of the Pinkerton Detectives, and the ways that influenced policing and detectiving, so maybe the Avatar franchise could adapt something. There’s plenty the franchise can do with the whole idea of law versus crime in Republic City in Korra’s era, which is why I was so disappointed with how little it all wound up mattering in that series. The first episodes laid some nice groundwork for an ongoing subplot, and Book Spirits provided even more opportunity to build a conflict, but in the end it didn’t really matter to anything.

I still think a ‘The Departed’-style fanfic novel starring Mako is a great idea, but I’ve always thought the villains could be the Red Lotus. Answering this Ask, though, has made me realize that something really good could be done with the regular crime in Republic City as well, with part of the story being the transformation of the police in response to the criminal elements having the advantage.

No one should expect me to write that, though. Just reading Mako’s name puts me sleep.

[spideyxchelle]

love is universal. it spans time and distance. and sometimes, on the rare occasion that love doesn’t quite get it right the first, love spans for more than one lifetime. this is that story. 

in this life they are called Femi and Marcus. in their last they are called Peter and MJ. 

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4]

“Puella,” she heard the angry Roman soldier snap at her from across the road. There was an unnatural lilt to Latin words, one that sounds less like language and more like barked orders, and even though Rome has occupied Egypt for the last ten years she knows she will never grow accustomed to the accent. It’s as hard and militaristic as the men that occupy her family’s land. 

She barely remembers a time before Rome ruled Egypt so completely. She was five when Cleopatra died and with their dignified ruler went the Egyptian way of life. There was no kindness or culture to the Roman legion. Their soldiers were conquerors and villains. They burned villages to the ground, destroyed homes and families and she hated them.

The solider barred his teeth and spoke again, “Puella. Hic veni.” 

She cast her eyes up and met the cold gaze of the Roman solider. “Scientiam linguam latinam non habeo,” she mumbled. Her excuse was always that she did not speak Latin, a murky lie at best. 

The soldier seemed to glean this and drew his staff stepping toward her. The girl did not blink, she did not move, she did not breathe. She knew what happened when these soulless soldiers lost their tempers and the smartest way to avoid being beaten to death would be her silence. 

The solider raised his staff, aimed to strike, but the blow never came. A different solider, dressed in a vibrant red tunic, sidestepped her and caught the staff mid-swing. He flinched from the impact of the staff on his bare hand but he did not budge. The whole street seemed to slow and watch this moment. A Roman versus a Roman, a sight as ridiculous and unlikely as the rivers running blood. 

The solider that tried to assault her said something in a dialect of Latin she had never heard before. It sounded, if possible, more brutal and choppy than the Latin her ears had grown used to over the last ten years. The second man seemed bored at best by the first man’s outburst. He said something easily offensive, she did not need to know the words to know that tone. They went back and forth speaking in frantic Latin, each word more heated than the last. 

Until the solider in red smiled sloppily at his comrade and released his staff. The other man looked furious but inclined his head in a careless bow and stalked off. 

The man with the sloppy smile turned around and looked at her more seriously than he had taken the other man. In perfect Egyptian, he asked, “Are you alright, miss?” 

She blinked in surprise and then, suspiciously, narrowed her eyes, “Yes?” 

He did not look convinced, “I apologize. He’s a brute.” 

“All Romans are brutes,” she hissed. And he seemed as surprised to hear that as she was to have said it. Her eyes widened and she quickly tried to rectify the situation, “I mean-”

“I know what you meant,” he spoke over her but not unkindly, “I know what you Egyptians think of us. If I were in your position I’m not sure I wouldn’t feel the same.” 

“I-” she fumbled, stunned. 

“Marcus!” A Roman called out, stepping out of a silk shop, “Marcus! Ubi fuisti?”

On instinct, the girl made her shoulders drop, trying to look as small as possible, to fade into the background of these Roman murderers. But she could not help her curiosity, she turned her chin to the left to look at the man running briskly over to them. 

He was tall, lean and had the angry, sharp look of a Roman dignitary. He held himself like a man in power and was easily fifteen years Marcus’ senior. “Gaius Antonius!” The two men embraced in a familiar hug. As they were distracted, she plotted her escape, taking a few steps back. But the man, Marcus, caught her eye and unwound himself from the hug, “Gaius, please meet my Egyptian friend.” He opened his mouth to say more but faltered. “I’m sorry,” he shot her the same goofy smile he had aimed at her assailant earlier, “I don’t know your name.”

It felt like a trap, but stuck between two Romans she had no choice but to be congenial. “Femi,” the girl offered. 

“Femi,” he repeated. The way his words curled around her name gave her pause. The kept each other’s gaze a beat too long before Marcus cleared his throat and turned back to his friend, “This is Femi. Femi this is Gaius Antonius. The Primus Pilus of the Aegyptus legion.” 

Gaius looked down his nose at Femi and she felt a hot flare of embarrassment and anger. She was not like the dirt beneath his sandals. In that moment, Femi hated the Romans more, if possible. “Yes,” Gaius said in stilted Egyptian, like he had barely tried to learn her language, “I did not know you kept such pretty friends, Marcus.” The meaning was not lost on her. 

She knew what kind of friendship Roman officers extended to Egyptian girls. 

Marcus’ jaw clicked and if Femi were not so close she would have missed it. His expressions were spectacularly schooled, “On the contrary, we’ve only just met today.” 

“How quick you are,” Gaius joked, his laughter loud and bombastic. The loathsome man slid his eyes over Femi and she forced herself to straighten her spine and keep whatever dignified grace she could manage, “She is quite pretty. For an Egyptian.” 

“That is quite enough, Gaius,” Marcus smiled tightly. 

Femi felt the eyes of every Egyptian standing in the street and she wanted to bury her head in the sand and never come up for air again. She gathered some strength and asked, “Excuse me, sir, may I go?” 

Gaius snarled, “How dare you speak to a Roman Centurion without being addressed, you vile, little-”

“Gaius,” Marcus cleared his throat, “I’d ask you don’t speak to her like that. I like her pretty.” 

Femi’s eyes widened and her head snapped at Marcus. She was no fool. She did not really expect much from a Roman soldier but this Marcus had seemed slightly more human than the rest. Anger pooled in her stomach at being wrong.

She tried to meet his eyes but he would not look at her, which only served to make her angrier. Gaius seemed pleased by Marcus’ words, “Yes, well, don’t let me keep you, Marcus. You are only young once.” 

And the world slowed. She knew what was going to come next before it even came. She knew she would be dragged off, like cattle, to some Roman tent and be taken by this barbarian centurion. Marcus’ hand grabbed her wrist and tugged her close. She felt his hand lay suspiciously low on her waist and she squeaked in protest. 

“Gaius,” Marcus inclined his head in a show of respect. And then, he was dragging Femi away from the crowds and back toward the Roman barracks. He was high-ranking enough, it seemed, that she would at least be defiled in a home, in his bed, as he sidestepped the regular Roman tents. 

She felt eyes on her everywhere and she wanted to fight back but fear held her tongue. There were too many Romans around to get away safely. She would either submit or die. Neither seemed like a particularly attractive option. 

Marcus tugged her inside a small home and closed the door behind them. “Look, I-” he began and Femi panicked. She flailed her arm out and punched him square in the nose. Marcus doubled over from the pain and began to curse in that same Latin dialect that was foreign to her earlier. 

She covered her mouth, surprise shaking her down to her bones. And then, she steeled herself. She would not roll over and allow any man, especially some Roman, to take her without her consent. All she had to do was attack him again and then she could escape at nightfall with him unconscious and the cover dark. 

He snapped his head up and she aimed to strike again but he grabbed for her arms. She tried to wriggle free but he was too strong and, just like a trapped animal, she began to panic. Her eyes were wide in terror and his nose was bleeding freely. She must have broken it. 

“Gods be good,” he yelped, “I’m not going to hurt you! Calm down!” 

She did not. 

So, Marcus backed her into the wall and spat a patch of blood on the floor. “Femi,” he said her name gently, “Femi, breathe with me.” Her blood pressure spiked. “Femi,” he repeated, “You have to breathe with me. It’s okay. In and out. In and out.” 

She shuttered out a breath and then, sucked another one in. Over and over it went until she was finally calm enough that the ringing in her ears subsided. Femi looked at Marcus and, remarkably, he was looking back. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he finally said. 

With the strength she had, she pushed him off of her, “Then why drag me back here?” 

He sighed and grabbed for a white cloth to staunch the bleeding from his nose, “Gaius. He’s a superior officer. He’s the superior officer in Aegyptus.”

“Egypt,” she corrected him.

“Sorry,” he smiled, softly, “Egypt.” He tried to dampen his smile, she could tell, but it only served to make it bigger. Like she amused him. 

She scowled, “Don’t look at me like that.” 

“I’m sorry,” he grinned unabashedly, “You’re not afraid of me, are you?” 

“On the contrary,” she lifted her chin, “I’m terrified.”

“You’re very brave, then,” he hummed. 

“Don’t flatter me,” she snapped, “Why did you bring me back here?”

“Gaius likes pretty Egyptian girls,” he said bluntly. “But he respects me. Our families are old friends. If he thought you were mine...” he flushed at those words, “...you’d be safe.” 

Femi faltered, “And why do you care if I’m safe?” 

He eyes hardened, “Because nobody deserves to be beaten or raped.”

“Not even Egyptians?” she countered. 

“Nobody,” he said more fiercely. 

Femi grumbled, “I’m sorry about your nose.” 

He lightened, “It’ll heal.” 

“I should go,” she glanced at the door.

But Marcus stepped in front of it. “You have to wait until nightfall. The other soldiers won’t respect my claim as much as Gaius does.” 

“Your claim?” she shrieked, pounding on his chest for good measure.

He grabbed her wrists, trying to stop her from hurting him further, “Please. Stop hitting me. You’re taller than I am and it hurts.” 

She brushed some wild hair out of her face, “You have no claim to me.” 

“I know,” he said and his tone was peculiar and almost sad. “But I’m trying to keep you safe. You think you know the Romans. You don’t. Whatever thoughts you’ve had about us, I can guarantee, we’re ten times worse. We did not conquer half the known world by being good men.” 

And Femi believed him. She glanced at the door, considering what demons lay beyond it, and decided to stop fighting. Nightfall was only a few hours away. She could risk the night. She could wait until she was safe. Femi turned to Marcus and asked, “Are you a good man?” 

A shadow flickered across his face. He was suddenly Atlas with the world laying squarely on his shoulders. He was too young to be so burdened. He tossed the bloody rag away, “No.” 

The hours passed in silence after his admission. Femi shared a house with a bad man and waited and prayed for nightfall. But Marcus did not push her to speak to him or do anything she did not wish to do. 

Instead, he offered her food and wine and sat in a chair by the fire pouring over letters. He gave her free reign of his little house and she began to look through it like a curious child. He had so many books and so many beautiful trinkets. On the side of his bed was a small portrait of a woman. The colors from the paint were fading and the portrait was chipped from overuse. Like he had poured over it for hours and hours. 

The sun was setting in the window in his bedroom. And the room was drenched in sad, orange light. She heard Marcus’ steps before she saw him. She turned around and lifted the portrait. Sadness overwhelmed his face and she could not help but ask, “Who is she?” 

“My mother,” he crossed to her and took the portrait from her hand. His thumb caressed the worn image and he placed it back beside his bed. 

“Is she back in Rome?” Femi inquired.

Marcus shook his head, “No. She died. When I was eight.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said automatically. And they were both surprised to sense that she meant it. 

Marcus sat on the edge of his bed and Femi, awkwardly, joined him. He turned his boyish features on her and asked innocently, “Femi is a pretty name. What does it mean?”

Perhaps it was the light, the sad and orange beseeching mood that it cast over the two of them, or perhaps it was the honesty in the planes of his face that made her answer softly, “Love. It means love.” He did not seem surprised by this cosmic joke. “What does Marcus mean?” 

His lips quirked up in a sardonic smile, “War. Marcus means war. What a pair we are. Love and War.” 

Femi shook her head, “We aren’t a pair.”

His eyebrow raised in childish wonder, “Aren’t we?” 

The orange shadows of the sunset gave way to the blues of darkness on Marcus’ face. Night felt like a safety blanket. She had a vague memory of when the Romans first invaded Egypt. She remembered how there was no shelter from fire for weeks as they burned her city to the ground. All she saw was the reds of death until one day the burning was done and the darkness took over the sky again. Femi remembered how relieved she was to sit in the darkness, how it felt like magic. 

This felt like that magic but there was a snap of tension bubbling on the surface of this moment that did not exist for her as a child. Marcus swallowed thickly, “You should go.”

“What if I don’t want to?” she asked, boldly.

“I’m a bad man, Femi,” he whispered, his face drawing closer to hers with every second the darkness wrapped around them. “I’m a Roman centurion. You’re an Egyptian.” 

“I know,” she did not pull away.

His eyes flickered down to her parting lips, “We shouldn’t.” 

For all of his talk, Marcus closed the gap between them first. Their lips found each other’s like ships that pass in the night: unexpectedly. She gasped into his mouth and Marcus sighed into the fullness of her mouth. It welcomed him and she writhed at the feelings swirling around them. 

She fell back onto his strange Roman bed and blindly searched for the clips of his tunic. His own hands worked on her flimsy cloak. Between kisses and rough hands, he spoke, “We should stop.”

Femi would nod and grip at him again, dragging him back down to her. 

It happened madly and desperately and when they found each other in the shadows of night, Femi gasped. Marcus found her hand and she held it tight. Her sighs mingled with his breathing and night kept them safe. 

When sunshine peaked into his room, Femi woke with her hair cascaded lazily on his chest. There was a flood of shame at her actions until Marcus turned his sleepy eyes down on her and smiled. That same horribly sloppy smile he had fixed on her yesterday. She hid her face in his chest and rumbled a laugh there.

“Good morning,” he brushed her hair back from her face.

“I should go,” she kissed his chest.

Marcus rolled over on top of her and kissed her nose, “Stay.” 

She brushed her nose against his and ran her tired hands up and down his back, “I’ve already stayed too long.” 

He did not seem to like it but he nodded, acquiescing. He untangled himself from her and she stood to dress. Slowly. She was too distracted as he kissed easy kisses onto her spine. His voice still rough with sleep asked, “When will I see you again?”  

She turned to look at him over her shoulder and he stole a kiss. Femi shook her head, “Not again.” 

“Yes, again,” he frowned, slipping behind her to wrap his arms around her middle. She leaned back against his chest and took a deep breath. “Love, please,” he squeezed her.

“Love?” she rolled her eyes. 

“That is your name, isn’t it?” he whispered in her ear. 

She shivered, “And what should I call you, then? War?” 

He nipped at her earlobe, “If you like.” 

An echo of the future tickled in her ear, I have to go, Peter. So she said, “I have to go, Marcus.” 

Reluctantly, he let her go. They dressed together and, when they were done, Marcus pulled her into his arms for one final kiss. It edged on heat until two loud thumps sounded at his door. 

They sprang apart and Marcus adjusted his tunic before answering. Femi stood sheepishly just behind him.

Gaius stood in the doorway and seemed both pleased and surprised to see her there. Femi resisted the urge to scowl. “Marcus,” Gaius crowed, “I hate to take you away from morning pleasures.” 

“What is it, Gaius?” Marcus said almost too sharply. 

“Those stupid Germanic tribes have risen up. We’re being called.” 

“We’re leaving Egypt?” Marcus blanched. 

Femi tried to fell delight at this news. Less Roman soldiers was always better. And she had only just met Marcus. There would be other men, better men, Egyptian men to fill her time. But she could not help the plummeting feeling of panic settling in her stomach. 

Gaius preened, “Not to worry, Marcus. You can always take the girl with you.”

Marcus rubbed his eyes, pointedly ignoring that suggestion, “I have to pack. When do we leave?” 

“Immediately. Apparently the defeat has been bad.” Gaius sneered at Femi’s flimsy cloak, “And clean your girl up. I won’t have her leaving camp like that, distracting the men.” 

Marcus nodded in that tense, half-incline way she always saw the Romans do. And, as quickly as he arrived, Gaius was gone. 

“You don’t have to go,” Femi immediately said. 

Marcus tossed one of his heavier tunics to her to dress in. She began to wrap it and clip it down. He scoffed, “I’m a Roman centurion. That’s my job. To go when duty calls.” 

“Romans have no duty. No honor. You owe them nothing.” 

“I owe them everything!” Marcus looked incredulously at her. “I am Roman.” 

“You said,” she fumbled, searching for purchase, “You said yesterday that you would hate the Romans too if you were Egyptian.”

“But I’m not,” he closed his trunk, “am I?” 

Another whisper from the future surged between them:

You’re not an Avenger, Peter. You don’t owe them a damn thing. 

But I am Spider-man. And that means I have to go. 

Femi blinked, “I can’t believe I ever let you touch me.” 

He whirled on her, “What would you have me do?” 

“Not fight!” she yelled. “For once in your stupid, Roman life do the right thing.” 

“I’m a soldier. That’s who I am. That’s who I’ll always be. When the call to fight comes....I will always, ALWAYS, answer it.” Those words breathe prophecy. A strange sort-of magic pulses in the room. She knows, for some unknown reason, that he will always pick war. His name is Marcus, after all. 

She swallows, makes her heart stone and spits at his feet. His face falters and his hand twitches for her, to reach out, perhaps even hug her, but he doesn’t. So she picks her wounded ego up from off the ground and marches out of his little house. 

Femi makes it five steps before Marcus is running after her, grabbing her arm to stop her in her tracks, “Femi, please.” 

She shrugs him off, “You must go where you are needed, soldier.” 

He puts on his carefully crafted Roman warrior mask and nods. She watches him walk away and something in her screams to stop him. In that moment she knows it will be the last time she sees him (in this life). 

When he falls on the battlefield in the Germanic countryside, she feels it. She’s not sure how. But it startles her on her way home from the river. She drops the bowl of water she was carrying and the clay shatters on the ground. Women swarm to help her but she pushes them all away.

She cannot breathe. Her chest is caving in from the sheer loss that is pounding in her veins. 

A wise woman in her village, the Romans call her a witch, watches on as Femi falls to her knees and covers her ears. She can feel his pain. She can feel the last beats of Marcus’ heart in her own chest. She somehow knows the last thought he has is of her sitting on his bed drenched in moonlight. 

The wise woman picks Femi up from off of her feet and begins to guide her away from the thickening crowd. She forces water into Femi’s hand and she guzzles it down like it will help soften the blow. It does nothing. 

Only then does Femi start to cry. And the wise woman waits until she has found a hallow calm to speak, “Do not fret, my child. You will see him again.” 

Femi’s red rimmed eyes look up at the woman with the soft features, “H-how do you....?”

“It will not be for many, many years,” the old woman continues, “and you will know him by a different name, but you will see him again.” 

“Witch craft,” Femi whispers. 

“And he will die,” the old woman says bluntly, “In every life. Until you save him. Or so the cycle will repeat.” 

The wheels begin turning, then. And fate makes her wait until the next life to see him again. 

[fyeah-the-conquerors-saga]

Okay, answer if you want, but I would like to know what are your thought on Mehmed, mostly after Now I Rise, and his future in "Bright We Burn"?

Oh man.  My thoughts are complicated, to say the least.  I think attitudes toward Mehmed may be the biggest form of controversy this fandom has?  (But even then I don’t really think it’s a big fight or anything, it’s just the thing I see the most variance on.)  I’m sorry this got so long, I know you didn’t ask for an essay lol, but I think about this a lot so.  Also, if anyone else wants to add their views, I’d honestly love to hear them.  My opinion on Mehmed is in no way set in stone.

This is going to be long (I’m so sorry) so to present my thesis, if you will, I will say my emotions towards Mehmed are complicated and contradictory, but I think that that is the point.  I think Mehmed is supposed to be really controversial (so I guess the difference in opinion among fans is justified then haha).  I’m withholding finally judgement on his character until Bright We Burn.  I also don’t pretend to speak for anyone’s views but my own.

Personally, at the end of Now I Rise, if given the chance, I would totally have punched Mehmed.  I have to admit that chapter 22 of Now I Rise hit me really hard (I’m glad Lada took that chance to punch him lol).  And then Radu finding out in chapter 49 that Mehmed knew about how Radu felt was even worse (emotionally).  What Mehmed did to Radu was awful.  Mehmed even did it to Lada (to a lesser extent) in chapter 22 when he promised her troops and then brought none.  So the fact that he manipulated them, and especially Radu, makes me want to hate him.

At the same time, I was really, really fond of Mehmed in And I Darken.  It makes it a lot harder to hate him when in the back of my mind he’s a crying little kid who doesn’t want to or know how to be sultan.  And I think some parts of chapter 49 really exemplify this weird juxtaposition of who he was to who he is: 

[Radu realizes that Mehmed has known about his feelings for years. Radu feels ashamed and used.]

“But even now, as angry and hurt as he was, Radu could not look on Mehmed’s face without love.  He was still Mehmed, Radu’s Mehmed, his oldest friend.  And in spite of everything, Radu would not give him up.” (441)

[A few pages later.]

“Radu bowed to hide his expression of sorrow.  Sorrow for Halil’s family.  Sorrow for Constantine and Constantinople.  Sorrow for the person he had left behind when he crossed the wall for the first time.  Sorrow for leaving Lada to pursue her own fate, while he stayed with someone who saw it as a gift to protect Radu’s “reputation” against the truth of his actual affections.

Mehmed put his hand on Radu’s head, like a benediction.  Then with one finger under Radu’s chin, Mehmed lifted Radu’s face to look searchingly in his eyes.

“Do you still believe in me?” he asked, suddenly the boy at the fountain again.  His brown eyes were warm and alive, the cold distance of the sultan gone.”  (444).

Basically, it’s the juxtaposition of Mehmed the person versus Mehmed the sultan.

My feelings toward Mehmed are similar to Radu’s in this scene.  I’m upset, I’m angry, I hate what Mehmed did, I would gladly punch him in the face for what he did, but I still can’t entirely hate him.  I’m withholding final judgement until the third book and here’s why.

I watched an interview with Kiersten White in which she talked about how controversial a figure Mehmed II/the Conqueror is (this was back before Now I Rise came out).  She mentioned that finding historically accurate accounts of his life is really difficult because people are usually biased in two ways: if they like the Ottoman Empire, they love him and think he was great; if they hate the Ottoman Empire, then he’s the worst person ever.  

I think these two different views of Mehmed heavily influence how another historical figure is viewed: Radu.

I haven’t done any research into Radu the historical person in the interest of avoiding spoilers but I have seen two very different views of him/his relationship to Mehmed.

Someone hoping that the books included his romantic relationship with Mehmed; that anything else would be queer erasure. 

I pitched these books to my friend and while I was describing Radu, she asked, “Oh, was he the one who was sold into sex slavery?”

Remember how the idea that Mehmed had a second harem, a male harem, was used to slander him in Now I Rise?  I think that’s exactly what’s going on with these two different views.  The male harem was probably (historically) used by people who hated Mehmed to show how awful and depraved Mehmed was (because homophobia).  

Now, whether there was any truth to those rumors is up for historical debate.  Was Mehmed really in a healthy relationship with Radu that got manipulated into this “male harem” rumor?  I don’t know.  I don’t know if historians know.  And this kind of ambiguity and biased reporting is what Kiersten White is working with when she has to create the character of Mehmed.  

The way Radu and his relationship with Mehmed are viewed is, of course, only an example of the kind of bias and uncertainty there is around Mehmed II’s life.  I think Kiersten White is trying to preserve some of that uncertainty with her characterization of Mehmed.  

And I think this essentially boils down to the separation between Mehmed the sultan and Mehmed the person.  We don’t really get to know what Mehmed the person is thinking throughout most of Now I Rise.  Throughout all of Now I Rise, he’s making decisions like a sultan, not like a friend (using Radu is a politically strategic choice, refusing to aid Lada is a politically strategic choice, etc.).  He’s also selfish, definitely, and I think on some level he can’t accept that Lada or Radu might find someone or something they care about more than him (recall his reaction to Radu getting married).  I think his selfishness regarding them is also related to him being sultan though; being sultan is really lonely and they’re the only ones who are his friends.  (That’s not an excuse for being a jerk but it’s an explanation.)

Given all this, there’s still uncertainty about what he, Mehmed the person, actually feels.  He says he loves Lada.  Probably, but how much (i.e. would he respect her choices and wishes out of love)?  And what about how he feels towards Radu?  And this uncertainty is what preserves a lot of people’s hopes that he could still happily end up with Lada or Radu (depending on which one you ship), or the hope that he’s still a good person (and the friend from And I Darken).  That uncertainty is honestly what keeps me from disliking him completely.  

I think that in Bright We Burn we’re going to see more of an exploration of this dichotomy and get to know more of Mehmed’s internal state since becoming sultan.  So I’m withholding final judgement.  (I’d still punch him, but, you know, affectionately.)

And all this is really the reason why I really love Lada’s line from And I Darken when she says “Souls and thrones are irreconcilable.”  I think you see a lot of that in Mehmed.  Where is Mehmed the person behind Mehmed the sultan?  Hopefully we get to find out in Bright We Burn.