#which cannot choose but weep

[poppiesforthirteen]

which cannot choose but weep (02)

what remains when the doctor's place is taken?

read chapter one first (link in notes)

tags: 13 fobwatches herself, the doctorification of yasmin khan, pain pain pain, lots of tardis interaction because i'm obsessed with her, themes from flux/the timeless children/specials, another 6k chapter enjoy

—

Something still isn't adding up.

Thira sits on the steps inside the grounded time machine—TARDIS—and tries to put everything in place, like arranging note cards in her mind. It won't fit; something is missing.

Her head hurts.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Yaz startles when she breaks the silence. "We've known each other for six years—why didn't you tell me you're an alien?"

Yaz stares at the device in her hands. A sonic screwdriver, Thira was told. Alien technology, a multi-tool powered by sound. The TARDIS whirrs and beeps around them; it feels alive, like it's trying to talk to her. If she stretches her mind a little, she can almost hear words at the back of her brain.

"Something happened," Yaz says. "You chose to have your memory rewritten." The sonic screwdriver lights up and she holds her hand over the tip, orange light escaping between her fingers. "I couldn't stop you."

Thira's hands are cold. She's cold all over, like everything she's learning is making all the warmth seep out of her into that hole in her chest—it's not filling. It's just as present as before. 

"How much did I forget?"

Yaz hesitates. "I think you remember most of it. It's all still there, just different."

Thira feels sick. This is familiar; why is this familiar? Has Yaz—the Doctor—done this before? The world is spinning around her—she can feel it turning, feel it calling out to her from the centre of the TARDIS, from the world outside, the gravitational pull of the earth and the sun, and something's missing; she's feeling more at once than she ever has in her life and something still isn't where it's supposed to be.

She doesn't want to think about it.

"Tell me the rest." Thira looks at Yaz and sees a stranger; there's no one in the world she knows better and there's no one she's more distant from. "I want to know all of it—I need to know everything."

—

Yaz is in too deep.

She surprised herself when she said it, but the Doctor looked at her like she was the universe and it was so familiar it hurt, and Yaz can't take it back now. No matter how much she plays the Time Lord, she can't actually control time. Can't start over when she messes up.

The Doctor can; she did; and Yaz is the Doctor now.

"I'm from a planet called Gallifrey," she starts. Her voice shakes. "It's a desert planet, red sand, tall cities. Not much left of it now."

Yaz tries, tries to think of anything more, anything she can remember. Tries to know what Gallifrey was like before the Master destroyed it. The TARDIS isn't helping; Yaz understands. She doesn't deserve it.

Yaz betrayed her. Brought the Doctor back and took her place in one go, and the TARDIS is upset. Yaz is upset with herself too. She'd like to forget herself sometimes.

"Do you miss it?" the Doctor asks. "Your home."

She's a stranger right now. But Yaz knows her perfectly: There's the worried crease between her eyebrows. There's the fidgeting she can't seem to stop. There's the scar on her chin she got from smacking it on the console during a rough landing and kept forgetting to regeneration-energy-heal away until it was too late. There she is; she's not herself; she's never been herself so unashamedly.

"I do."

The Doctor talked in her sleep.

Yaz had never noticed it before; how would she? She wasn't entirely sure the Doctor slept at all until now; hadn't seen her sleep between her regeneration and biodata modification.

She'd always been a light sleeper, even more so with the Doctor's arms around her (Yaz never thought she'd be the little spoon), so it was no surprise that she'd wake up to the Doctor muttering into her shoulder.

Yaz couldn't make out any of the words at first—could barely hear the Doctor over the pounding of her own heart; she'd already forgotten they were together now. Softly, the Doctor twitched, arms closing around Yaz's waist as she buried her face further into Yaz's shoulder. Yaz huffed a laugh. Just like the Doctor to be so active even while sleeping.

She turned on her side and pulled the duvet over both of them when through her muttering, the Doctor whispered, "Gallifrey."

—

Time feels different here.

There's so much to take in; Thira wants to explore the controls in the centre of the TARDIS already; it's so big (bigger on the inside!) and she's caught a glimpse of corridors upstairs—she's bubbling like a shaken fizzy drink; Yaz knows this place; knows how to use it, could show her. Thira could spend hours just exploring this room, testing the sonic screwdriver, finding the gadgets, and the prospect of more makes her—

She can't say. Time feels different here and she's not used to time feeling like anything. It's messing with her, niggling at her senses. Hasn't quite reached her head yet.

Yaz has gone quiet. Thira wants to ask her for more; doesn't know where to start—everything has changed.

Something's still missing.

"Yaz?"

Yaz looks up, all worry and expectation.

Why did I send you that hologram? How can I remember meeting your family if you weren't born on earth? Why did we end up here? Why can't I remember travelling with Dan?

Thira swallows all the questions on the tip of her tongue. "I'm tired. Can we go home?"

The TARDIS dims down. Sorry, Thira thinks, at the same time as Yaz nods; swallows. "Sure."

Yaz pockets the sonic screwdriver; walks around the controls, her hand running along the buttons and switches and knobs of the TARDIS.

"Can you wait outside?" she asks. "I won't be a minute."

Thira means to press, and surprises herself when she leaves the TARDIS instead, softly closing the door behind herself.

The air is cool, heavy with humidity, the clouds dark and grey and blocking out any moonlight they would have gotten. The streets are bright enough without it; they'll stay illuminated long after the park has gone quiet and shut its gates. It's about to rain—Thira sits on a bench underneath the branches of the huge oak tree on the other side of the fence and waits for Yaz; waits for the first droplets to fall.

By the time Yaz joins her, it's drizzling—she locks the TARDIS, adjusts the out of order sign, then the clouds break over the dark sky and it's pouring.

The few people still on the streets open umbrellas; pull their hoods on and hurry towards shelter. Yaz tugs off her coat, pulling Thira close to her and draping it over them both—Thira yelps a little, but this is exciting; the rolling thunder strikes some joy into her that was stuck behind the same blockage as everything else.

She grabs Yaz's hand and holds onto the coat and her eyes sparkle as Yaz beams back at her. "Ready?" Thira asks.

Yaz nods, and no one's paying attention to them, so Thira drops a quick kiss onto her cheek. "Run."

—

The Doctor shuts the door behind herself and Yaz is alone with the TARDIS. She pulls the fob watch from her pocket; she managed to hide it while the Doctor wasn't looking. But she couldn't hide the other things; she can't keep this secret forever.

"Do me a favour?" she asks towards the ceiling. The TARDIS is dark; feels empty. Sulking. "Just the one. I won't ask you for anything else."

The fob watch is whispering, louder now. Like it's pleading with her. It's warm; it pulses like a second heart in her grip. A shiver crawls down Yaz's spine. "Keep this safe for me—somewhere she can't find it."

Reluctantly, a hatch opens, just big enough for Yaz to drop the watch in. Yaz hesitates. "Not unless she really asks for it."

The fob watch drops into the depths of the TARDIS and Yaz sighs in relief—the knot in her chest loosens; she can breathe freely again. The guilt lingers, whispering like the fob watch begging for a life at Yaz's side, reproachfully hissing, how could you take her place how could you drop it how could you give it away how could you lie why would you lie

Yaz ignores it. She leaves the TARDIS without saying goodbye.

—

Drenched and out of breath, they arrive at the front door, both giggling wildly. The coat did nothing to keep them dry, but the gesture was still so cute that Thira has to kiss Yaz for it, cupping her face in her hands.

Yaz melts into her, blindly fumbling with the keys—they drop and she breaks the kiss to pick them up. Thira leans against the wall, bunching Yaz's coat up against her drenched shirt, the back of her head pressed to the stone as she smiles up into the rain.

It's still pouring down like anything; Thira is freezing, her heart pounding in her ears. She hasn't had much exercise recently—it feels good to get some energy out of her system. An opening, a resolution.

"My Doctor—you are a wonder."

Yaz tenses and Thira's face falls.

"I like it when you call me Yaz." Yaz doesn't look at her, staring down at the lock while she opens the door.

"Yaz then." Thira takes her hand—Yaz doesn't go along so much as let it happen; she still returns Thira's smile.

Her eyes dart to the side.

"What?" Thira follows her gaze, searching the gloomy street. All the same as usual.

Frowning, Yaz stares over Thira's shoulder. "Thought I saw something."

"Probably nothing, right?"

"Probably nothing." Yaz pushes the door open—she looks past Thira again as she enters their building, pulling her behind herself by their joint hands.

—

The Doctor's head is pillowed on Yaz's chest; she lazily traces shapes into Yaz's palm while Yaz peppers the part of her hair with little kisses. The guilty voice has faded to the back of her mind—if she focuses on the dark room, the duvet over them, the Doctor's weight on her, it disappears entirely.

"Tell me a story," the Doctor says, breaking the silence Yaz has just started to find comfortable, "something from our travels. Something I don't remember."

Yaz leans her head back and stares at the ceiling. She sorts through years of memories, some with, most without the Doctor. Ten months in the TARDIS trying to find her. Three years in the 1900s doing as she said.

Randomly, the Doctor traces shapes into her palm, letters; Yaz's heart skips as she recognises them.

W W T D D

"We were in Mexico, 1904," she says to shut up the frantic voice in her mind. "Trying to stop the end of the universe—but we didn't know when it would happen."

"Was that when I sent the hologram?" Yaz can almost hear the thoughtful frown in the Doctor's voice, the furrowed brow as she tries to piece it all together.

"Around then."

"It said two weeks after we've not had contact"—she shifts slightly, as if sitting up—"how long were we—"

"Not long," says Yaz, and drops a soothing kiss on the Doctor's crown. The Doctor lets herself be placated, melting back into her arms. "I found you again, right?"

"Fair point."

Yaz finds her arm, running her nails from her shoulder to her elbow and back in slow strokes. "1904, and we were in a Mexican temple, trying to find an offering pot, something with a date for the apocalypse."

"Well, you must have found your date," the Doctor says, her voice brimming with the glee of having found a pun she likes, "seeing as she sent you a hologram and all."

Yaz gives the Doctor an exasperated look she can't see in the darkness—maybe she can guess Yaz's expression and that's why she's giggling—so she tickles her sides instead. The Doctor shrieks and pushes her away, grabbing Yaz's wrists, only releasing them when Yaz lets up. Yaz laughs and kisses her forehead in a peace offering, and the Doctor reluctantly settles by her side again, cheek squished against Yaz's chest.

Yaz shifts a little so the Doctor is resting on her shoulder instead.

"We had to break into a chamber underground to get to the pot," she continues, "so we—Dan, Jericho and me—had a rope pulley system, one of us would stay up top, and if someone at the bottom tugged on it, they'd pull them up."

"Clever," says the Doctor. "Sounds like something I'd come up with."

"Alright, big head," Yaz teases, squeezing her arm affectionately—she lets up when the Doctor tenses in her embrace.

"I went down with Dan first, Jericho up top, and those two"—Yaz huffs out a laugh; it feels good; she's forgotten how much she misses them—"they couldn't figure out how to counterbalance the pulley system, so they kept crashing down, over and over, while I tried to work."

The Doctor hums. "Who's Jericho?"

"Professor Eustacius Jericho, got stuck with us in the sixties—parapsychologist. No clue how a man so educated could be so daft." The thought of him warms Yaz from the inside; the memory is sad but... calm. She likes remembering him.

She carries him with her.

"Eustacius Jericho," the Doctor repeats. "Think I remember him. His name. Wish I had that in Scrabble—no, wouldn't be allowed. Proper noun." She's quiet for a moment. "Where is he now?"

Then again, forgetting has its benefits.

"Dead," says Yaz shortly. "Caught the tail end of the apocalypse."

"I'm sorry," the Doctor says, stricken, and Yaz is twenty-one again, pushing her away after she left them for months, not even realising what she did until they tell her. Yaz is twenty-two and travelling with the Doctor, called a co-pilot but subjected to whichever whims she wants to follow. Yaz is herself, watching the Doctor abandon the TARDIS for a life she never asked Yaz before choosing.

"Well, you can't choose when people leave you," she says coldly, not quite a snap but unmistakably angry.

The Doctor shrinks back in guilt—Yaz isn't sure she knows what she did wrong.

She softens her tone. "Sorry. Long day."

The Doctor shifts under the covers.

"We should get some rest," says Yaz.

"Yeah." The Doctor takes Yaz's hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, then says something in Gallifreyan that Yaz only understands enough to tell which language she's speaking (the TARDIS still refuses to translate it).

She feels like she's been punched. "What?"

"'Sleep well, dear'," the Doctor repeats in English. "Did you lose your hearing in 1904?"

"No, no, it's nothing." Yaz lies down properly, turning her pillow over. "Good night."

"Night, Yaz." The Doctor turns around.

They go to sleep on opposite sides of the bed. Yaz doesn't fall asleep for ages—without the Doctor's arms around her, something's missing.

—

The Doctor flies around the console—she's so familiar with the controls she doesn't have to look at them to set the course, or maybe the TARDIS just does what she wants her to without any of the correct settings. The distinction doesn't matter much.

Yaz is by her side, working along with her. She's more thorough, double-checking coordinates and stabilisers; landings have been much smoother since she started learning to pilot. The Doctor guides her hand to the correct button, then sets off to the other side to switch off whatever's making them go all sideways.

Then something beeps. The lights flicker on and off; the TARDIS wails; she's lit up red.

"Doctor?" Yaz calls, her voice high with panic.

"Just hold on, Yaz," the Doctor calls back; she's trying to hold a lever steady, but all the buttons around it are gone. There's nothing around her but the lever and Yaz; Yaz needs her; the TARDIS is in distress and needs her, and the Doctor is running away; she ran away; she—

Thira blinks awake, her head swimming. "Wh—"

"Sorry, did I wake you?" Yaz beside her, shifting into focus. She's already dressed. It's six in the morning; the sun hasn't risen yet. She's looking through the drawer on Thira's side of the bed, pulling out a tea bag. "Knew this was here—go back to sleep, yeah?"

Thira settles down again. She's holding Yaz's pillow in her arms (it smells like her; Thira buries her face in it), the covers wrapped around her. "You were in my dream just now."

"Was I?" Yaz shuts the drawer again, properly closing the curtains.

"We were in the TARDIS, flying it together." Thira leans into Yaz's kiss to her temple. "You called me Doctor."

Yaz freezes.

"We just started crashing when you woke me up—it was a weird one. Why are you taking my tea bag?"

"Why do you have tea bags by the bed?"

Thira turns around. "Good night, Yaz."

She laughs. "G'night, weirdo."

This wasn't the first time Thira had that dream, certainly wasn't the first time she dreamed of flying. It also, now that she thinks about it, wasn't the first dream she had as the Doctor.

There's something Yaz still isn't telling her. There's something left missing, something so nearly tangible when she's in the TARDIS, like she should be able to reach out and grab it, like a pill on the tip of her tongue.

She needs to see it again.

—

"Can the biodata module leak?" Yaz asks into the TARDIS. It's still mardy, dimmed and ignoring her.

"Come on, please," says Yaz. "I know you're in my head. I just want to know if something's wrong."

A flicker goes through the TARDIS, a light travelling from the console to the door and back. At the back of her mind, the TARDIS speaks to her, clearer than it ever has before.

Figure it out yourself, Doctor.

"Give it back, then," Yaz snaps.

No. And it's gone again.

"I don't have time for this!"

It echoes, mocking her, time time time for this time for this—

"Enough! If I bring her, will you cooperate?"

Darkness. Silence. A flicker, then the TARDIS is lit again.

"Fine."

Fine.

Yaz leaves the TARDIS. She means to slam the door shut, but it doesn't grant her the satisfaction, closing slowly, the door squealing in its hinges as it goes. Outside, Yaz has to wait for the TARDIS to shut so she can lock it—since when is it this irritating? 

Something blinks into her peripheral vision. Yaz whips her head around—determined not to miss it this time—and catches the far away silhouette of an angel.

Her blood turns to ice.

Maybe it hasn't seen her. Maybe it's stalking someone else—London is a city of nearly seven million people. Yaz can't be the only possible victim. Maybe she's confusing it with something—but that's definitely a stone angel and it definitely wasn't there before.

Yaz takes a slow step back, then another, and for the second time, she sets off running from the TARDIS, sprinting home.

—

Thira is just waking up when Yaz bursts into the flat like she's being chased—she sets down her coffee, trying to take her girlfriend's frantic hands, trying to figure out what's going on by more than the fear in her eyes.

"We need to get to the TARDIS," Yaz breathes, grabbing onto the counter instead of Thira's outstretched arms. "There's something here—I can't keep us safe if it's chasing us, but the TARDIS can."

"What is it? What do you mean, you can't keep us safe?"

"No time—I'll explain on the way." Finally, Yaz takes her hand, pulling her towards her shoes. Thira tugs on boots, sloppily tying them, no time to lace them up all the way, and follows her.

It's cold outside—Yaz doesn't seem to notice. Her eyes are everywhere; she pulls off her coat and drapes it over Thira when she shivers; she scans their surroundings, holding the sonic at her side.

"What are we looking for?" Thira's nerves are lit up; she's on high alert faster than any coffee could get her. She's worried, sure, but there's something wonderful about the adrenaline rush, something addictive.

It doesn't surprise her as much as it probably should to hear that she's travelled through time with an alien—looking past the absurdity of it all, she's the exact type of person to end up in a time machine.

"Weeping angel. They look like statues—they are, as long as you're looking at them—with their hands in front of their eyes. Can only move if nothing sees them. They kill you by sending you back in time and feeding off the energy of your unlived life."

The people walking past give them curious looks. Yaz ignores them, so Thira follows suit—is this what the Doctor is like?

Yaz is different. She's focused, in control, and trusting her feels like a muscle unclenching. When she sets off for the TARDIS, Thira follows her, Yaz's coat over her shoulders.

"If you see it," says Yaz, eyes trained on the path before them, looking everywhere but at her, "keep looking at it—it'll stay locked in place."

Thira tries to follow her gaze; tries to cover the ground she can't—something catches her eye, but when she looks back, it's gone. She shudders.

Yaz doesn't seem to notice. She's speaking to herself; Thira might as well be anywhere else, but she's here, at Yaz's side, following in her tracks.

"Whatever you do—don't look away, don't run and don't blink."

—

The TARDIS is still mad at her but Yaz couldn't care less—seeing it again is euphoric; it won't let anything happen to them. Yaz isn't the Doctor, but she's the closest thing to her right now; she can be the Doctor for now, and the TARDIS can be hers to keep them safe.

My ghost monument.

The Doctor is holding her hand—Yaz can't remember who took whose hand first, but she's been walking ahead, pulling the Doctor behind her.

I really need you right now—

She's almost at the door—they're almost at the door; they're almost safe; the TARDIS will keep them safe; when the Doctor tugs at her hand.

"Yaz?"

Yaz turns and—there it is. The angel. Hands before its eyes, at the other end of the street. It all catches up to her, the November chill, the Doctor's warm hand in hers, safety so close and so far away; what if the TARDIS doesn't let her in after all? 

She swears she didn't blink but she must have, because the angel is at the corner; another slip and it'll reach them. Blindly, Yaz points the sonic at the door and the TARDIS clicks open.

"When I say 'run', run."

"But you said not to—"

"Change of plans." Yaz presses the sonic into the Doctor's hand, the one gripping her own so firmly she could make the universe revolve around it. "You trust me, right?"

Yaz can't see the Doctor's face—they're both looking at the angel—and it feels wrong to be glad about it. "Of course."

"I'll hold it off. Go to the TARDIS and wait it out. You're safe there."

"No—Yaz, I won't let you do that—"

"Just let me do this for you!" Yaz snaps.

The Doctor goes rigid beside her.

"On three."

Peggy is by Yaz's side, a young girl displaced a half century before she'll be born, and watches calmly as her guardians die before her.

"One—"

The angel stands before them. Yaz is nauseous with fear and prays the Doctor can't tell. She squeezes her hand and the Doctor squeezes back.

"—two—"

Nobody survives it twice. Yaz fights the urge to close her eyes, to brace for the impact. All the time she spent before the Doctor, wondering what dying would feel like, all the times she barely avoided it and all the times she's wondered if she'll ever feel so alive again swirl inside her, building into a time storm the Doctor dragged her from. The Doctor has died before; she can't remember it right now; Yaz doesn't know if she remembers it when her mind is in one place.

"I'll find you," the Doctor breathes. "I promise."

Yaz ignores her.

"—three."

Yaz lets go. A last brush of their hands and the Doctor is gone, Yaz left holding onto nothing, and she can't turn her head to say goodbye. If she loses sight of the angel, it'll all be for nothing.

Her eyes water; she blinks and the angel is before her, so close Yaz can feel the breeze as it halts in its movement; can smell the old stone.

A click as the Doctor falls inside and the door shuts, then a whooshing noise Yaz has feared she'd never hear again as the TARDIS takes off by itself, its Doctor safe, Yaz doomed no matter what it does.

Yaz shuts her eyes. The Doctor is safe. She was going to outlive her anyway.

—

"Yaz!" Thira cries as the door shuts behind her, pushing her inside. The TARDIS lights up around her, moving loudly and Thira can't stop it; can't make it wait.

It throws her to the ground as they lift off, London disappearing before her. Thira rattles the door and it doesn't budge. It won't move.

She's lost Yaz.

"Where is she?" she demands and the TARDIS doesn't answer. "Send me back to wherever she is; we can save her!"

The TARDIS sings, slow and mournful. Anger rises from Thira's stomach and grips her throat; her fist clenches around the sonic.

"Don't do that! She's out there; I know it—she's your Doctor; you can't just leave her like that!"

She stumbles as another flashback hits her; every time it feels like the first again; only now can she remember all the ones before. Her voice, her TARDIS; herself over space and time.

—'cause I'm good at doing stuff like that—the one who stops the Daleks—not who I thought I was—just had it—I'm looking for—I'm the Doctor I'm the Doctor I'm the Doctor

"Stop that!" It hurts, pressure in her skull, throbbing like a migraine, and it's wrong, and she can hear her past self whispering around her, calling for her; she's trapped here somewhere. "You're distracting me; I need to find Yaz; I need to find the Doctor!"

—I'm the Doctor I'm the Doctor I'm the Doctor—

"I'm not the Doctor!"

The aching and groaning of the TARDIS, the chaos of her mind stops. Her voice echoes through the room: not the Doctor, the Doctor, Doctor,

Thira slumps against the door, head leaning against the wood. There's a bit of give to it; there's no way this could keep her safe. How could she trust it?

Why does she trust it?

"Please," she says. "Bring her back to me."

Something deep inside the TARDIS clicks, a mechanism being set off, and Thira gets up to find the place in the console it's coming from. The grinding of gears, the clicking of a contraption falling into place and a tiny drawer pushes open, holding a dull fob watch.

Thira wouldn't have seen it if the TARDIS hadn't made such a production out of showing it to her. It's warm in her hand, like it's been sitting out in the sun, engraved with a pattern of circles and dots and curved lines, and the TARDIS lights up when she flips it over.

"All this over an old watch?" she mumbles and clicks it open.

—

She isn't dead, and that's the only thing Yaz can grasp when she opens her eyes to blinding sunlight. Not dead.

Relief floods her from her stomach through her whole body to her fingers and toes, and she inhales deeply, taking in the feeling of being alive subhanallah, then wrinkles her nose in immediate regret. Still London, before pollution laws.

When is she? It looks like summer; she hasn't changed location and the buildings around Hyde Park are centuries old. No luck.

The people around her don't take notice of her sudden appearance—Yaz has gotten good at judging the year by clothing, by women's clothing at least (the suits all look similar from a certain decade on). Not many women about, until... there.

"Thirties," she mumbles to herself. The woman in the navy dress gives her an odd look and Yaz averts her eyes.

About sixty years in the past, then. Yaz is used to dealing with the early twentieth century—she can make it work again. The Doctor is safe somewhere; the TARDIS took off with her and is probably in the vortex.

Good. She's alive; Yaz is alive; she can do 1930s. The angel didn't follow her here. It's day; it's summer; it's safe.

She needs new clothes. A place to stay. Money. No Jericho at her side this time, but she can make do without him. No Dan either.

No hologram.

Yaz takes a step forward and with that familiar whooshing noise, the TARDIS materialises before her.

Yaz still hasn't quite grasped its presence when the door swings open, the Doctor at the console, her back turned. She steps inside, closing the door behind her.

It goes silently this time.

"Enjoy yourself?" the Doctor asks flatly and Yaz shrinks back.

"I shouldn't have taken your place—"

"No, you shouldn't have." The Doctor flips the hourglass, turning a dial, then flips it back. She doesn't turn around; doesn't pay attention to Yaz, like she's not talking to the person she gave up her entire life for just weeks ago.

Yaz is still buzzing with the relief of being alive, the courage of sacrificing herself and surviving it, and it's like the Doctor doesn't care what she did. She's not apologising again. This time, the Doctor will hear her.

"But I could have told you this wouldn't work. Hiding from yourself—"

"Then why didn't you?"

The Doctor looks up and she's been frustrated, but never angry with Yaz. She's furious now, disappointed, her voice shaking. Yaz steps back; the weight of the Doctor's feelings wraps around her chest and squeezes her heart and she can't stand close because she feels like she might cry.

"Why didn't you tell me instead of just going along? You don't get to say 'I told you so' when you let me try to find a little bit of time together—"

Yaz hates crying in arguments. "Because you don't listen! You never tell me what's going on with you; you're always hiding and covering your plans up so no one can tell you it's a daft idea, then giving speeches about time running out as if I have any way of knowing what you mean."

"Why do you stay with me, then, if I'm so hard to deal with?" The Doctor meant for it to come out sharp, but it's too vulnerable to be cutting, too close to her hearts. Her attempt to make up for it in punishing glares fails too, her lip quivering, eyes wet. She stands her ground anyway.

Yaz wants to pity her. But all that regret—everything she's been pushing down twists her sympathy, and the Doctor is about to cry and it looks pathetic and Yaz is so angry she wants to let it burst out of her.

She doesn't.

"I ask myself the same thing sometimes."

Yaz doesn't storm away; doesn't run for the bedroom corridor like she's fifteen and being told off. But she can't help her clenched fists, her tense jaw, her quick pace as she passes the Doctor on her way out of the control room. She pauses on the steps and turns to face the Doctor again—she's still staring at the space Yaz just occupied, leaning against the console, shoulders hunched, hands bunching up her coat.

Yaz hears her voice like it's not quite hers, like she's speaking from off screen. Still, it feels genuine; it feels right to say.

"I really liked being with you. I just wish you could find a way to bear being with me without pretending you're someone else."

Then she leaves the Doctor behind, alone in the console room—Yaz can't help looking over her shoulder to see if the Doctor is watching her leave.

She isn't.

—

Wrench in hand, laid out under the console, the Doctor tightens bolt after bolt as the TARDIS groans in protest. She doesn't pay it any mind, jamming in a screw until it's forcibly ejected—it's not even maintenance; maintenance is done with love, with more care than the Doctor can devote in this moment; this is just a way to keep her hands busy.

The TARDIS is trying to comfort her. Sweet Doctor, silly Doctor, don't hide yourself. You're whole again.

The Doctor ignores her. When the TARDIS is gentle like this she sounds too much like Grace.

Besides, she has no room to preach about hiding—she's mad at Yaz too. Yaz took the Doctor's place; she went back to the TARDIS and put them both in danger and made the Doctor return to being a Time Lord. Yaz—

I just wish you could find a way to bear being with me without pretending you're someone else.

The Doctor doesn't want to think about it.

Her time is coming to an end and she's terrified by what that means—regeneration; she's eternal; she can't truly end unless she decides not to regenerate (doesn't know if she can make that decision). She'll regenerate with Yaz by her side or with Yaz separated from her and the Doctor doesn't know which is worse.

Though the thought of regenerating alone makes her sick. The Doctor pulls a nut tighter and the TARDIS flickers in complaint.

"Don't get all delicate on me now; I hit you with a hammer to make you start."

Hit your poor TARDIS, Thief, so callous—

"Well, if you would start normally, we wouldn't have to go through all that."

Yes, so merciful, Doctor; don't you try?

The TARDIS is teasing, fond—still, the Doctor bristles. She doesn't answer, closing off her mind with a firm yank at a wire that needs replacing.

This isn't working.

The Doctor can't stay away from Yaz; she can't do anything to keep her safe. Easier to run from an ending by herself—the Doctor can flee; hide in the TARDIS for another few centuries; figure out what the Master is up to and how she can keep this body alive.

But Yaz—Yaz is too precious, too delicate, too human. The Doctor wants her here. Wants her at her side.

She can't let Yaz end with her.

—

There's a knock at her door and Yaz startles, wiping her tears away. "Come in?"

The Doctor toes her shoes off, then sits cross-legged at the opposite corner of Yaz's bed, staring into her lap. Yaz waits—the Doctor chews on her lip, hands clenching around the fabric of her trousers.

There she is again, the worried crease between her eyebrows, the dark stubble on her legs, the striped socks. The nervous hands, eyes dark with emotion, hiding grief so great Yaz will never understand half of it.

"You were right," she says. "About me pretending to be someone else. I'm sorry."

Yaz sighs. "I'm sorry too."

"I've set the course for 2022—going to visit Dan, if you want."

Something's off—there's something the Doctor is still hiding, but she's trying and Yaz won't discourage her. She reaches for the Doctor's hand; sadly, the Doctor smiles at her and Yaz tries to turn it warm with a smile of her own. "I'd like that."

—

"Sheffield!" Dan beams at her before wrapping her in a hug that has Yaz standing on her toes to reach; smiles at the Doctor just as brightly. (She's hiding a step behind Yaz like a kid anxious to visit family friends, but returns a hint of Dan's smile.)

"Hey, Dan. How long's it been?" He stands aside and they go in; Yaz puts up her jacket by the door.

"Few months. Been nice to be back; missed you though." Dan puts an arm around her shoulders, and the Doctor takes Yaz's hand, intertwining their fingers. He raises an eyebrow and Yaz elbows him in the side affectionately. "Was just about to put the kettle on; Di's on her way over. Are you staying?"

Yaz glances at the Doctor. "Are we?"

The Doctor nods and buries herself in the crook of Yaz's neck. "Little while."

She's missed Dan—seeing him again makes Yaz feel warm, a hole in her chest closing up. She grins. "We'd love to."

—

It's time.

The Doctor leaves the rest of her tea—she's barely been able to stomach it; holding onto Yaz is the only thing that can stop her hands from shaking so heavily she can't hold the cup and her mouth is too dry to eat any of the scone before her. She squeezes Yaz's hand and lets go—Yaz barely notices, giving her a smile, then going back to bullying Dan over whichever Scouse term he just used.

She slips outside; she's unnoticed; the TARDIS is parked across from his house. Di hasn't arrived yet—good, she might notice that something's up. The Doctor can’t do this with resistance; she's trembling enough and might crumble if anyone questions her leaving.

The TARDIS opens with a touch of her hand, closing behind the Doctor silently, questioning the absence beside her.

"I know. I have to," the Doctor says, and wishes she didn't believe herself.

She doesn't set coordinates; she doesn't know where she's going—the vortex, for now. Away. Where Yaz can't follow, and quick.

The Doctor shuts her eyes through the familiar whooshing of her TARDIS taking off.

I'm sorry, she thinks. Yasmin Khan, be great without me.

She doesn't hear Yaz's mug shatter as she jumps up, running after her, screaming her name, a moment too late—the Doctor is already gone. Left with an empty space in the TARDIS. Left with her TARDIS and her coat and her sonic, left with a hologram projector less.

It's better this way.

This is her role in the universe; she can't hide from herself any longer.

She has to do this alone.

���

does it help if i say i'm sorry?

please let me know your thoughts! my ask box, ao3 comments, and reblogs are open - feel free to scream at me i promise i'm just as hurt as you are lol

links to ao3 and chapter 1 are in the notes

[odyssiaca]

odysseus is generally seen as 'morally ambiguous' due to his not always being seen as the best of people- but this is a very modern and feminist take, and whilst nothing is inherently wrong with the idea of feminist takes and retellings, it skews what we have and already know of the myths, and this can be seen most predominantly in the character of odysseus. odysseus is two things:

- not meant to a hero

- not meant to be good

he is written as a man faced with impossible odds, and who loses some- if not all- of his morality in doing so. BUT where does the idea of him being 'bad' come from? the penelopiad by margaret atwood, a woman known for being quite vitriolic towards men of any kind. in recent years, people have picked up on three major things from the odyssey:

- the hanging of the maids

- odysseus cheating on his wife

- odysseus going mad at the end

NOW, to break it into points:

the hanging of the maids is so often seen in a feminist light due to margaret atwood, where odysseus is painted as some cruel, vile, disgusting predator who loathes women. this isn't true to the odyssey AT ALL. in the odyssey it is explicitly stated by the nurse that raised telemachus: 'i shall single out those who betrayed you, my lord' and by one of the maids herself- melantho: 'if we sleep with the suitors, when they become king we will be in favour with him.' and THIS is why he killed the maids. not because he was insane, not because he was bad, but because they had betrayed not just him- but his wife. not all the maids were killed, only those who slept with the suitors. the argument most often used for this is that the women couldn't say no, but this goes against what the maids themselves say in the odyssey when they believe no one to be watching.

odysseus cheating on his wife HE DIDN'T. but he is a man, and as a man, he cannot be raped. he is a terrible man for sleeping with circe and calypso when he could have- as epic decides to say- say no. which is untrue!! these are goddesses. titanesses. circe is the daughter of helios, and calypso is daughter of atlas. they could overpower him simply by looking at him. circe turned his men to pigs, even with the moly she could have easily done the same- or worse- to him. the idea of him choosing to and being unfaithful stems from madeline miller's, Circe which whilst not inherently bad, goes out of its way to put all men in a terrible light, because the heroes deserves no rights in feminist retellings. odysseus wanted to say no, but could not as hermes explicitly told him he couldn't. on the flip side, calypso threatens, ensnares him and only releases him when told to by hermes and the council of the gods. in the odyssey it is literally stated: 'and odysseus stayed on the shores weeping for home before joining the nymph in her bed.' he did not WANT to sleep with calypso, but was left with no other choice but to do so. this is a recurring theme for calypso.

but he is blamed due to his gender, and the idea of 'feminism' and 'patriarchy'.

and now, the real reason for odysseus being seen badly:

the telegony the telegony is a myth written after the odyssey with telegonus- son of circe and odysseus- as the main character. in this he travels to find his father and meet him, but accidentally kills him on the shore. (peneleope marries telegonus, and circe marries telemachus) but this is where the idea of odysseus' insanity comes from. in the telegony, it is stated he went mad after the war, and couldn't survive without bloodshed, and so he went out seeking war, and women, and battle, and went mad in this.

the statement: 'generous to odysseus' is wholly unfair, because he is a man forced to lose everything, assaulted, violated, tortured and imprisoned with no hope of survival. he goes to war knowing he won't return for 20 years, won't see his wife, and won't watch his son grow. he is a man not a god, or a demigod. he's just some dude doing his best.

[yoonivy]

my house of stone, your ivy grows (and now i’m covered in you); part 5.

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

genre. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, drama, angst, fluff, smut. it’s a y/n fic but no use of y/n. heavily inspired by taylor swift’s ‘ivy’.

When a fierce blizzard ravages the North, a certain dragon rider gets caught up in it and crashes onto Bear Island.

And right to you, the youngest daughter of House Mormont.

warnings. angst!!! uh... major character (for this fic anyway) death ahead... you've been warned... 01| 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09

---

The people are calling it the Dance of the Dragons. 

A pretty song-like title for a tale that they will tell in future years to come of the triumph of the one who had sat victorious on the throne made of a thousand swords, the imagery of falling flying beasts, and the rise and fall of two families who share the same name. 

The winners will be lionized as heroes. They will have songs written about them and their pictures in the history books will be one of them looking tall and gallant. People will say their victory was selfless — all for the good of the realm and its people, and not for anything else. 

The losing side will be the villains and the cravens who gave up everything they had – their dignity, their moral compass, the ones they care about the most, and their lives. When people speak of their name, it will be said like it is a curse and as if they taste trash on their tongue. Or perhaps worse — there will be some who will not be remembered at all. 

But in reality, despite its pretty song-like title, this “Dance of the Dragons” is a brutal and cruel civil war that has already taken the lives of many and forever changed the trajectory of others. 

Aemond Targaryen thinks about his younger brother, Prince Daeron, no longer the young, carefree man with the easy-going smile for he has hardened by the horrors he has seen and caused himself, and for the dark liquor he drinks to forget it all.

He thinks about his sister, Queen Helaena, stuck in the prison of her bedchamber under her own volition; refusing to eat and sleep, over encumbered with grief and depression due to witnessing the brutal murder of her oldest son. Forever haunted by the fact that when the assassins gave the false illusion of choice to choose between which of her children to die, she had said her youngest’s name instead.

He thinks about his mother, the Dowager Queen Alicent, who has seen the suffering her beloved children have been going through this past year and a half and weeps on their behalf every single night. Who tells Aemond that she is proud of him, and yet still cannot look him in the eye. 

Then, Prince Aemond thinks about himself, and the crown he wears now, as Prince Regent for his older brother, King Aegon, who is bedridden and unfit to rule with his severe injuries and burns due to the battle at Rook’s Rest, where they — Aemond, himself, and Aegon — took the lives of their aunt, Princess Rhaenys, The Queen Who Never Was and her dragon, Meleys. And though it is his older brother who bears the same name as their Targaryen ancestor who first sat on the Iron Throne as King and thus beginning the Targaryen dynasty in the Seven Kingdoms, Aemond thinks it is on his head that Aegon the Conqueror’s crown fits better. 

But he can’t— no, Aemond won’t think about the little cub so far from her forested island to inhabit the hollow and cold halls of Harrenhal. 

Though it seems that the Sevens are not the most benevolent of Gods; and when they give Aemond something that he wants, they always have a habit of taking something away. 

This time in exchange for the crown, they want his already crumbling peace of mind. 

“Harrenhal has been conquered,” Ser Criston announces as he storms furiously inside the pitched tent that Aemond and Daeron are using as a war council room at their base camp just by the southwest border of the Reach. “That filthy whore fucker captured it with his dragon and army.”

Daeron shrugs, kicking his feet up on the war table as he indulges on another gulp of wine. “Well, after tonight, we take full control of the whole Reach so who really cares about Harrenhal. Our dear uncle can have that cursed castle.”   

Clearly he is already in his cups and not thinking clearly if he thinks what he said has any sense to it. 

Aemond scowls at his youngest brother, pushing his feet off the table so suddenly that Daeron almost falls off the chair if he had not managed to catch his balance at the last second. Aemond then braces his hands on the edge of the table, glaring first at his brother then turning to the map laid out in front of him. “We’re not letting Daemon have anything, especially not Harrenhal — not when the Tullys, the Freys, and the Arryns are also for the Blacks.”

Daeron stands now and looks over the map with the Prince Regent, sighing when he realizes Aemond is right. If the Blacks get a hold of a Harrenhal as well, they can kiss goodbye to their already a sliver of an opportunity to invade the North. 

“How did Daemon manage to take hold of Harrenhal so quickly?” Aemond asks Ser Criston, looking wildly incredulous. It was only a few weeks ago that they got word from the castellan, Ser Simon Strong, that they have enough troops in Harrenhal to rally towards the other Riverlands Houses who supported Rhaenyra. “Was it really an incredible feat or are the Strongs as traitorous as they are in the penchant for producing lowly bastards?” 

The Lord Commander of the King’s Guard — and also now, the Hand of the King after King Aegon deemed his grandfather, Otto Hightower, unfit to guide him — shakes his head, unsure. “I would not put it past them, your Grace… With Harwin who sired three of that whore Queen’s sons, and the Clubfoot — fuck, that guy gives me the creeps…” Ser Criston shivers, thinking of Larys Strong, the master of whisperers. 

Aemond lets out a hmm in agreement. He never trusted Larys, and the way the man leered at his mother disturbed the prince and made his blood boil with rage.

“So I say we take no chances and just be done with the whole House,” the Lord Commander advises.

Aemond hums again, this time in contemplation at his suggestion. Ser Criston has a point. House Strong’s so-called loyalty to their side has not been beneficial to their cause in any way – the only thing they’ve truly given is their hold on Harrenhal, and now they don’t even have that. 

“Wait…” Daeron frowns, deep in thought. “Are you saying we should execute the Strongs?”

Ser Criston grins maniacally at the youngest prince. “Every. Single. Last. One. Of those traitorous fucks.”

Daeron finds himself grinning back, suddenly bloodthirsty. Although unfortunate, Lucerys’ death was all in all an accident. But the retaliation from Daemon – hiring two assassins to savagely murder Daeron’s nephew in front of his two younger siblings and their mother, Queen Helaena – was anything but an accident. It was a cruel act, made to break the Greens. Helaena has never been the same since that night, and Daeron is not sure if he is either. 

And if the Strongs are secretly aiding Daemon behind their backs, then they deserve to rot through all Seven Hells.

Despite his dark thoughts, Daeron casts his glance sideways at Aemond and cheekily says, “What say you, brother? Honestly… I’m all up for it!”

With his eye trained on where Harrenhal lays on the map, Aemond sucks in a short intake of air. 

Executing each and every member of the Strong family? But that also means…

There are two voices warring in his head, both loud and overbearing.

(You can’t. She’s there. And as much as you loathe it, she has taken the Strong name now as her own.)

And –

(Why does it matter? She abandoned you first. And if she chose to lay with traitorous men, then she shall lie in that bed and take it.)

Aemond shakes both the thoughts away, nostrils flaring as he takes another sharp breath before he looks from his brother to Ser Criston as he tells them his final plan, “Tomorrow, we’ll start our march for Harrenhal. If the Strongs aren’t already dead by the time we recapture the castle, then we’ll see which punishment fits. If it’s certain they betrayed us then I have no problem eradicating the Strong bloodline, for none of the Strongs hold any importance to anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms…” The words taste all kinds of wrong in his mouth and there are voices in his head telling him to take it back. But he shuts them out, stomps on their attempt to make him the villain in the story.

“But for tonight, let us focus on capturing Horn Hill.”

Daeron chugs back the rest of his drink, then tips the cup towards Aemond with a wine-stained smirk. “Then let’s get to it.”

---

When it comes to the battlefield, Daeron is a formidable force despite the three goblets of wine he had earlier – hence why he had been dubbed Ser Daeron the Daring. 

The Daring Prince slashes through the Tarly soldiers and villagers of Horn Hill as if they are merely practice dummies. The Prince Regent follows behind him, hacking down men from the opposing side left and right in his wake as well.

The little Horn Hill village they are in just a few ways away from the castle where the Tarlys sit is already in a chaos of their doing. Homes demolished and the screams of villagers loud in every direction. Above them, Vhagar and Daeron’s blue she-dragon, Tessarion, circle the night sky – burning down their flames wherever they see fit.

Aemond has grown used to these sights and sounds — many different villages, many different people, so many lives and livelihoods destroyed in a single day – so is it callous to say it does not even phase him anymore? 

At least he can say that he finds no joy in it – unlike his younger brother whose laughter grows more wicked with each body that falls limp on the ground as if they were nothing at all.

“It’s nice fighting alongside of you again, brother,” Daeron grins over his shoulder at Aemond as he pulls his bloody sword out of a man wearing the Tarly colors of olive green and red. “I wish I could have been there at Rook’s Rest with you and Aegon.”

“I don’t,” Aemond bites out, snarling when the man he is facing manages to parry his attack. But Aemond is quick to elbow him, causing the man to stagger back, and that is when Aemond drives his blade into his chest without mercy. Once the man falls, Aemond turns to Daeron to finish what he wanted to say, “I don’t need another incapacitated brother.”

Daeron sniffs, pretending to wipe away a tear with his finger. “So you do love me.”

Head shaking in disbelief, Aemond rolls his eye. Then he grabs Daeron on the nape of his neck, affectionately — like he used to do when they were younger. But this time, instead of the two of them laughing as they follow behind a miserable Aegon leave a feast overstuffed with a tummy ache, Aemond is now leading his younger brother through a battlefield that could lead to his death in any given second. 

“Come on,” he smirks at Daeron, before turning to where he sees Ser Criston ahead of them. “They’re advancing to the castle.”

With a determined nod, Daeron slaps the Prince Regent’s shoulder blade. An unspoken promise that he has his back.

Aemond is suddenly blinking back unshed tears. Him and Daeron have never been close – with Daeron’s distance when he was sent to Oldtown at age 12, it was impossible to be — but this war definitely brought them closer. Same with Aegon. It is true that Aemond still hates his older brother’s character and what he chooses to stand for in many ways, but he cannot deny the bond that formed between them when they fought and won so many battles side by side. Then with the tragedy that befell Helaena, Aemond became more fiercely loyal and protective of all his kin.

They may not be the most picture perfect set of siblings, and yet, his family… They are the only precious thing left in this world that he has. 

It is hard to explain fully. Maybe it is just the Targaryen way.

Together, Aemond and Daeron round a corner on the path leading to the castle, and that is when a poor, unfortunate soul bumps squarely against Daeron in his rush. But when Daeron grabs him – an arm around the man’s throat – it is Aemond’s gaze the man’s terrified and bewildered eyes finds. 

“Ae…” The man breathes out, a light of hopefulness softening his once distressed feature. Aemond stares at him wide-eyed, shocked and at a standstill. This can’t be real, right? It is just his mind playing tricks on him. It has to be. 

Daeron then presses the sharp edge of his sword against the man’s throat and he is once again in a panic, begging now, “Ae, please… I have a–”

“You know him, brother?” Daeron cuts him off, clearly confused as his sword starts to cut shallowly enough for blood to seep from the man’s throat. The man’s face started to crumble, silent tears streaking down his cheeks, petrified beyond belief. That look on his face, Aemond thinks as starts to breathe shallowly, that expression. Aemond can so clearly see it on someone else— 

The two youngest bear cubs did have the most similarities – even more so than the twins.

“No,” Aemond says in finality, face blank and impassive. He begins to walk past the man and his brother, without as much as a single glance. “Do as you will, Daeron.”

“With pleasure,” was the last thing Aemond sees Daeron say with that crazed smirk on his face. Behind his back, he hears Daeron state venomously with a spit afterwards, “You think you can just call him ‘Ae’? That’s the Prince Regent, you scum.”

Aemond freezes suddenly when it dawns on him what he had just done.

Wait, he thinks in a panic. Wait…!

But when he turns back around in an attempt to stop his brother, it is already too late.

There is blood. 

Blood everywhere.

Perhaps the most blood Aemond has ever seen in his life. It stains his hand, and yet, he is not even close enough for it to. But he is drenched in it. His shame is drowning in it. 

Though it is Daeron who slashed open his throat; Aemond feels as if he is one who held the sword, forcing his little brother to do it.

You did this! The voices in his head weep. This is your fault!

Daeron pushes the lifeless body down into the dirt, carelessly and with a shrug. There is blood on Daeron’s face, it is on his mouth like his wine. And when he beams at Aemond, the older Targaryen Prince cannot help but wonder if he tastes her blood on his tongue. For it is the same one that runs through her veins. 

“Shall we?” Daeron asks, cocking his head towards the castle. So nonchalant, like he had not just taken the life of—

Aemond stares at the body on the ground, still shellshocked. 

Daeron wraps his arm around Aemond’s neck, laughing joyously in his older brother’s ear as he drags him towards their destination. “Come on. We have a castle to ransack.”

---

With most of their men dead beyond the castle walls, it did not take long for Lord Alan Tarly, the Lord of Horn Hill, to surrender to Prince Regent Aemond once they breach the front gates. 

The Greens celebrate their victory in the grand hall of the castle, the scent of fresh blood still in the air. Daeron is still covered in it — covered in his — that Aemond finds his stomach turning unpleasantly whenever Daeron gets too near him. And so when both Daeron and Ser Criston tease Aemond to stop looking so surly and glum when they have won, Aemond shrugs off Daeron’s arm around his shoulder and stands up stiffly, announcing he needs air.

So Aemond walks and walks and walks. He knows where his feet are taking him to — to whom his feet are taking him to — and every step he takes he dreads. Yet, he cannot seem to stop himself. 

The village is eerily quiet when he reaches it at the bottom of the hill. There are villagers still alive, but they must be cowering in fear inside their homes, trying not to make a sound. 

He is close to the corner of the path where it happened, he knows it. 

He is ready, he thinks, he is ready to see again the irreparable damage he has caused.

But when the lump on the ground comes into his view, he almost hurls out the dinner he barely ate.  

There are soldiers from the Greens side milling around, collecting their fallen companions. Aemond grabs for one wearing Hightower colors.

“Bring me a shovel,” Aemond demands through clenched teeth, and the soldier is quick to say ‘yes, Your Grace’ as he rushes to do as he was told.  

As Aemond stumbles closer, he notices that another body lies on top of the one he had left earlier. A beautiful woman with bright copper hair holds onto the man underneath her, the back of her light yellow dress pooled with red.

So, you got the girl afterall, huh, Jorah? Aemond thinks sadly.

And as dreadful as it is, they oddly look at peace...

Aemond almost laughs out loud, because that can't be right. It was probably just his mind trying to make this into some sort of tragic love story to make himself feel better.

While he stares at Jorah Mormont, Aemond begins to think about their shared interest in history and philosophy. How they would talk Jorah’s younger sister’s ear off until she pressed her hands over ears to hear no more, and then they both would attack her with tickles until she was laughing and crying at the same time. 

Aemond cannot help but smile at the memory — his heart suddenly hurting while he does, in disbelief at what he has done. And when the tears begin falling, he chokes back the sobs by biting down on his wrist. 

While he mourns them in this fucked up way of his, that is when he notices two things.

One, Jorah did not have a weapon with him. Perhaps maybe if he had something to defend himself… Aemond shakes his head bitterly. No, that would have not done anything. Jorah was not a fighter like Forrest or Braeden; even if he did have a sword with him, he would not have stood a chance to defeat Daeron.

And two, the bear patch on Jorah’s leather jerkin. A work of embroidery that Aemond has not seen for a long time, but he knows who exactly made it just by the fine detailing alone. He bends down, unsheathing the small dagger from his belt and begins to cut it off. 

As a prize? A remembrance?  

He does not know why, but he just wants to… Take it. 

After shoving it into his pocket, he glances over at Renee just as he hears someone approaching behind him – the soldier, letting him know he has a shovel for him.

Aemond nods back minutely. Then he takes a hold of Renee’s body, turning her over —

But what he sees cradled in her arm has him backing away in shock.

Aemond turns away from the sight and keels over on his knees, finally emptying his stomach like he had wanted to all night.

[frostbitebakery]

Love the goo!Obi-Wan au. How did the 501st react when they had to work with Obi-Wan for the first time? Seeing their brothers from the 212th being unaffected by the creepiness

Thank you, Nonny!! 💜💜💜 Sorry this took a bit but I had to pick and choose how I wanted the 501st represented by Rex to react. Enjoy!

“Uhm.”

“Basically,” Boil says. “The rhymes are catchy though.”

Cody nods, lifts his shoulder in Boil’s direction. “They are.”

“Uhm.”

“You get used to it,” Waxer chimes in.

Rex holds up a hand. “No. No, we are going to backtrack a bit. What do you mean I’m standing in General Kenobi.”

“Only technically,” Waxer assures and smiles at the black smoke curling around his foot before wafting off.

“Well then!” Rex hisses out and rounds on Cody. “You stop laughing your ass off!”

Cody’s blank face doesn’t change under the accusing finger. Instead his eyes catch on something down the hallway. “Hm.”

The very last thing Rex wants to do is turn around. Unfortunately, being brave to the point of stupidity is anchored into his bones, so he turns around.

And is almost bowled over by a scream shattering down the hallway, a rush of dense, cold air freezing the blood in his veins. It’s too fast to duck, too consuming to not want to curl into a ball and weep. A clock is ticking down somewhere, taking every second backwards of Rex’s life and leaving him in the unforgiving grave.

“Must’ve dripped in the pudding again,” Cody comments just as his comm goes off.

A small blue version of the General pops up in the holo field, bowing deeply. “I apologize for what just occurred and for any inconveniences my lack of control may have caused.”

The comm cuts off and Rex has trouble blinking the afterimage from his eyes.

“So, anyway,” Waxer says as if this is all just another Taungsday and Rex’s hair didn’t just turn even blonder from shock. “You get used to it, really—“

The pad of a finger slowly strokes down the back of Rex’s neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Under the blacks. He slaps a hand against the sensation.

“Ha, yeah, and one time he made it seem like he was on fire and was intimidating the enemy but then he forgot how to turn it off again—“

Whispers in his ear. Loud and louder and standing right there behind him.

“So Commander Cody just got the fire suppression foam and was like, stop that! It was so funny—“

Hands tugging at his. At his wrists. Arms. Grabbing his jaw and prying his mouth open but nothing moves it’s all in his head.

“Rex,” Cody says and Rex is standing with the others at a T-section on the Negotiator.

He looks up, sees the understanding there in Cody’s eyes, the half-smile. “Don’t be afraid. He’s still General Kenobi.”

.

The General is red with shame and chagrin. “I cannot possibly apologize enough, Captain Rex.”

Which does a lot to alleviate Rex’s fears. Multiple. He’s been walking awake through every nightmare he’s ever had since boarding the Negotiator.

“My control is becoming stronger, overall, though it is certainly lacking in other aspects. I’m very sorry. Especially for the incident with the mouse droid—“

“We’re not talking about that,” Rex rushes out before remembering himself. “Sir.”

“Of course.”

And after that, it’s… easy. Don’t be afraid and there’ll be no loop feeding itself on his fear until he has a heart attack.

[princess-ibri]

King Magnifico Backstory Part 3

Part 2

On the Princesses 18th birthday, a strange messenger came to the castle, with a desperate plea.

"Princess Maroula, my mistress, the Keeper of the Wishing Stars, who granted both you and your father life, needs your aid. There is a quest that only one such as you can fulfill. A dangerous quest but a necessary one for the good of all people within this world and the EverRealm. She has done what she can herself, but her gaze is stretched thin by her obligations. We ask that you leave as soon as possible, if you are willing to come and aid us.”

And the princess, always kind of heart, and remembering the conversation in the garden all those years ago was willing

But her father was not.

“How dare your mistress ask this dangerous task of my daughter! She knows the perils that exist in that realm, that befell me. She did nothing to aid me in my troubles, why should she ask to place my daughter in peril now?”

“The Blue Lady is young, in the way of her people, she had only recently taken over this charge when your misfortunes befell you, and she has sorrowed over them ever since. She granted you your daughter in part as penance for that failure. But still she has her duties, and she has foreseen a threat that only as deeply linked to Wishes as Maroula is can combat. Would you see an entire realm suffer for what was done to you?”

Maroula knew the anger born from his past heartache, which her father usually tried to keep under control, beginning to rise, and tried to sooth him

“Father, I am willing to go. You and Mother have taught me well in both the use of magic and the need to be generous in helping others. Please, let me go and help the Lady. How can I call myself a princess of Rosas and not do so?”

“No Maroula!” The King cried, his fear for his daughter and anger getting the best of him. “I won’t allow it! What right has this fairy to grant my greatest wish, give our happiness tangibility and then take it away!”

“She’s not taking me away Father, she’s only asking that I—“

“Enough!”

The king turned and dismissed the messenger coldly from his sight, demanding that it never return, for his daughter would not be going to the other realm, now or ever.

“That choice is the Princess Maroula’s.” The messenger said as it left, unfazed by the king’s anger. “She is a woman grown now, able to make her own choices, even if they are not what you would choose for her. If she wishes to go, then she may go”

“Then I shall insure she cannot!”

And with that, the king used his magics to open up a room, deep deep beneath the castle, a room he had discovered upon taking claim of the castle, (a room where he had found a dangerous and deceptive tome of magic). Here he wove about with his spells and enchantments so that he was sure no star’s light could find his daughter.

“I don’t wish to leave you here Maroula, but I must keep you safe, at all costs. Let that other place deal with its own problems. You will stay here until you’ve learned to see sense”

And so the king left his daughter crying in the dark, as his gentle queen cried in the palace above, torn between supporting her husband in keeping their daughter safe from unknown danger, and supporting her daughter’s generous wish to help

What neither realized, is that there was one small opening within the dungeon, a keyhole that the king had failed to account for, a keyhole through which a single thin strain of starlight came through and found the weeping princess. The princess beheld the light, and taking the power within her, she wished upon the star

And the star answered

But what came after for Princess Maroula is a story for another time…

The king and queen sought day and night for their daughter, but even with all his powers, either the power of the Lady of the Wishing Stars was greater, or Maroula was using her own to avoid her father’s search. Even his wishing her back did nothing. And so the king and queen fell into despair, knowing their daughter was lost forever.

Is this the thanks I get for granting everyone else’s wishes all these years? To have my own daughter run from me? I’ve cared for her from the day she was born, given her everything and and she still decides to defy and disrespect me with this rebellion?!”

At last, the king, letting his anger over this perceived betrayal overcome his grief, decided that they could no longer go on as they had, and so he crafted a spell that would enable them to move forward

He asked his wife to give to him her wish for their daughter’s return, gifting it to him to hold onto until it could be granted. And as Amaya gave him her wish, trusting that one day it would come true—the memory of her daughter left her entirely, along with the grief of her loss. Letting her forget without the weight of regret…

From then on, the king utilized this spell whenever it came time to grant his people’s wishes, holding on to them in perpetuity, instead of granting them on sight. Having lost the love of his daughter, he tried to substitute it with the love he felt imbibed in each wish as he guarded them, keeping them safe as he couldn’t protect her. Each person who gave him their wish forgot it, and so Magnifico intended to ensure that not only would no unworthy wish be granted, but no wish would lead to the heartbreak he had suffered

Despite his anger at his daughter, over the years he took many other apprentices, seeking to fill the void she had left, even granting their and their families wishes when he usually would have declined to—but none of them ever filled the place of his beloved Maroula.

And as the years passed, his anger over her loss, the heartbreak of his past, and his frustration over watching everyone’s wishes be granted but his own began to harden the king’s heart, and a darkness grew beneath his pristine exterior, waiting for the day until he felt threatened enough in his power and control to break loose…

[vasiliquemort]

When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay; Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

A second gasp, a sigh that is demure and unobtrusive, next, for same and just as lovely - @wrathfulmaiden!<зз

[birdmitosis]

💔 for the chapter 3 princesses?

💔 An angsty headcanon

Like Tower before Her, Apotheosis cannot really emotionally connect to individual people, but while Tower would be unhappy and lonely if She never had people around Her at all, Apotheosis has trouble with that. Individuals are just so small, even if they wanted to get near Her. The Protagonist would be the only one who could ease that for Her; without him, Apotheosis really is a supremely lonely god.

Den can still hear the cabin and the basement -- Her cage, Her pit -- talks to Her. It's why She's starving, malnourished. It tells Her that She deserves it after what She did.

Eye of the Needle, if Adversary progresses to that point, is far less capable of being able to readjust to a more normal life. She has gotten to a point where She constantly feels unsatisfied by never having the fight She was denied. She might not be forever doomed to that, but She may fall into the trap of eternally searching for it.

Fury's rage is stoked by a severe self-loathing. She hates what She has become and hates the Protagonist for turning Her into it. Without the Protagonist around, that rage is still there, but Her self-loathing eats at Her more. She is less than what She was, She thinks, and She can never get it back. She was denied that. She takes this to mean She can never be better, so She embraces being worse even though She doesn't want to. (As a less angsty headcanon, this makes me think She might get along with Witch/Thorn/that version of Wild.)

Burned Grey remembers trying so hard to accept the Protagonist destroying what few small desires She had: to leave the cabin with him, and to not die. She tried to accept his decision, even with tears in Her eyes, but now She accepts Her desires fully even if they hurt both Her and him. She would, I think, be the vessel most upset about never being allowed Her wish in the end if not for the full understanding that seems to come with reuniting with the Shifting Mound.

Drowned Grey cannot emote and cannot quite access Her own emotions in Her death. Unlike the Burned Grey, where the dry heat that consumes the entire Construct is an expression of Her desire to burn it all down and destroy it all -- which She fully feels and is aware of -- the constant rain in the Drowned Grey's route is Her sorrow fully externalized. She can't cry and She can't even quite feel like She wants to cry anymore, but the Construct itself weeps. She thinks that drowning the Protagonist is making him feel how She choked on Her own blood... It isn't, but She does want him to feel and understand Her: the emotions She can no longer access, She needs him to be fully faced with Her sorrow at being betrayed, at not being trusted, at not being understood.

Moment of Clarity is as broken down as the Protagonist and any of his voices. They are not the only ones who have done all of this over and over and over and over and over again, after all. And they have all exhausted every other option before finally freeing Her solely because they can no longer avoid it. They can no longer do anything else. The tender moment She shares with the Protagonist is almost despite Herself... He is finally, finally letting Her out and it almost looks like he made the choice to do so. She can almost pretend he made the choice to do so. But he tried so hard to put it off until choices just didn't exist for either of them anymore, didn't he?

Thorn still has so much Witch in Her. This isn't the headcanon; it's obvious if you choose literally any of the options other than finally freeing Her. My headcanon is that if She would, of course, sometimes continue to backslide into being more like Witch in negative situations. And She would hate it. There'd be a lot of uncertainty in Her still if She could actually be better, if She wasn't still the worst.

Networked Wild, if She could actually escape like that -- even with the Protagonist and the voices -- would still always feel incomplete and too afraid to ever risk looking at and facing what She'd done, what they had done, and what it might mean for all of them. They would probably always be doomed to fall apart at some point.

Wounded Wild feels incomplete, even if She will always feel grateful for the kindness, empathy, and companionship She receives "despite" being incomplete. Maybe She can work past that eventually, but it will take her a long time, and also a long time to really feel okay facing who and what She had been and done. (Again, a slightly less angsty headcanon, but I think this means Wounded Wild-from-Beast would get along well with Thorn.)

Wraith wants so, so badly to be able to heal Her relationship with the Protagonist and to forgive him and the voices. She wants it so badly She can't let herself realize it. The one moment She allows herself to is when, if they toss themselves and Her into the abyss, She asks "WHY DO YOU HATE ME?" Her laughter that follows is at Herself for Her folly.

SPECIAL CASES:

Arms Race/No Way Out doesn't know how to be anything other than a weapon, doesn't know how to do anything other than hurt the Protagonist. Doesn't know how to want anything else. She is joy in Her purpose, but She is nothing outside of it. She likes him, yes, but She doesn't know what to do with it. She is -- ironically, given the name of the alternate Chapter IV -- empty, maybe even more so than the Deconstructed Damsel.

Mutually Assured Destruction/Empty Cup panics because She does not know how to be anything other than what She is. If She steps out into the unknown -- if She changes -- what is She? Is She nothing if She is not the one who hurts the Protagonist? All She can do when Her armor and sharp edges crumple and strip away is to put Her heart in his hand and trust that he will be able to lead Her to what comes next.

Stranger doesn't have a Chapter III at all, but so They aren't left out entirely: what happened shook Them all up really badly at first. It wasn't just Harsh, Neutral, and Soft all pleading with the Protagonist at the end of their chapter, but Emo and even Monster as well.

[findekano]

namiað

AO3 gen, no warnings. Maedhros discusses his abdication.

“What do you suppose my name should be?” Maedhros says, facedown. His back is still red and raw and hot under Maglor’s hands, cooling where the salve is rubbed into his skin. He hisses between his teeth when Maglor reaches his upper back, rubbing into the muscles around where his shoulder separated.

“Nelyo,” Maglor says, on the verge of exasperation.

“You know Nelui lacks dignity. Imagine Grandfather’s despair if I were to go by Nelui! I shudder at the thought.” Maedhros fake shudders, which ends in a bitten-off groan. Maglor tuts, and keeps rubbing Maedhros’ back, though with a lighter hand.

“Why this preoccupation with names? Two weeks ago, you could hardly recall your own,” Maglor says, uncertain. Maedhros’ grief is difficult to discern from his humour, and often they come twined together like fine yarn.

“I wonder if Ñolofinwë will keep the title,” Maedhros answers.

“What would that be?” Maglor hums. “Fingolfin? Finwë Ñolofinwë? Though he does not bear any right to that anymore, now that he has joined the host of the fleeing Noldor. And besides, the sound of Fingolfin is—” Maglor makes a face.

Maedhros turns his head to look at Maglor. His eyes are bright and clear and certain.

“Do you suppose Finelfin is any better?”

Maglor makes the same face.

“It is a burden to be borne,” he says, in that silly, affected way when he performs among well-mannered Eldar.

“Makalaurë,” Maedhros intones. Maglor ceases his ministrations and becomes that brother that Maedhros loves so well.

“I do not mean to take up Finelfin as my title. I know— Nelyafinwë is my birthright—"

Maglor interrupts with a sharp ai! on the inhale, breathy and quiet. Maedhros lifts his finger, and Maglor is silent.

“I bear Finwë’s lineage, though little good it does me in Beleriand, with Ñolofinwë’s people and ours on the verge of bloodshed. Nor would it be fit for the High King to be pulled from his people the way I must be. We did not come to Beleriand to rule, only to reclaim. We burned the boats, Káno, and a third of Ñolofinwë’s host was lost to the Helcaraxë.”

“You did not burn—”

“I stood aside only. I took no action against you. Would they see it any differently?”

“Would you not be a king renowned? Fëanor would have been a poor king, but you have a mind for it, and a care and talent. Do you not desire it?”

“I do,” says Maedhros, and his voice breaks. He pauses, pressing his hand to his eyes. “But any king with sense would see that he cannot rule a people so divided when he caused the division.”

Maglor begins to weep, then, great tears landing on Maedhros’ cheeks. “Do you still despair? Do you have so little faith in yourself?”

“I have hope,” says Maedhros simply. “Findekáno’s rescue has already begun to repair the wound between our kin. If I abdicate, and pass the crown to Fingolfin, we may yet build a power strong enough to repel Morgoth. We may yet look upon the Silmarils.”

Maglor searches Maedhros’ face with his dark eyes and relents, wiping his eyes with his sleeves, straightening. If his brother is of sound enough mind to work abdication to his advantage, then there must be merit to his words.

“If you choose to abdicate, you cannot use your father-name, and neither can the rest of us, though I expect Curvo will do it in spite of you.”

“Perhaps that is for the best,” Maedhros says with a wicked glint in his eye. “Findekáno is choosing Fingon as his Sindarin name, and Kanafinwë would follow the same pattern into Sindarin. You are a preening bird with all your vanity, and I do not think your pride could withstand sharing a name. Not to mention how confusing the histories would be! Would you be Fingon I or would Findekáno? Perhaps Mingonfin and Tadgonfin? It all seems rather—”

Maedhros yelps as Maglor grasps a modest handful of Maedhros’ hair and tugs.

[cosmerelists]

How Cosmere Characters would cook a turkey

It is possible that you or your loved ones are cooking a turkey today. But how would Cosmere characters approach such a task, assuming they had turkeys and a desire to cook them and also modern appliances?

Rock: Low and slow, with plenty of basting. It will be delicious, and after smelling it for hours, his guests will definitely appreciate it.

Tress: In a pinch, after she finds the host weeping on the floor after some sort of dinner-related disaster: maybe the veggies are all moldy or something. Tress takes charge and somehow puts together a delicious dinner in like three hours. But how?

Kaladin: Tests out many different turkey-cooking methods in an attempt to survive dinner, including the "side cook" (a horrible failure) and "going out at night to gather herbs" (works better) and "getting all his friends to help" (works the best)

Amarem: Just steals Kaladin's turkey and claims he made it.

Yumi: Makes turducken. Only, the birds are stacked on top of each other rather than inside one another. Also, there are way more than three birds. It's an intimidating Tower of Fowl and everybody is half scared, half in awe.

Painter: Orders KFC. You cannot deny that it's delicious and effective.

Breeze: Cooks it in wine.

Wax: Decides to deep fry it. Goggles on. There is an explosion. Luckily Steris had a backup turkey (or three).

Aesudan: Buys enough turkeys for the WHOLE CITY. (Leaves most of them outside to rot, though.)

Dalinar: Leaves the turkey too long in the oven until it is very, very burned.

MeLaan: Proudly serves just the bones. It is unclear whether she is joking.

Zellion: Turns Aux into a bungee cord and tosses the turkey out into Canticle's sun for just a single second. It's burned. But nobody wants to say anything mean about the Sunlit Turkey.

Stormfather: Uses his storm powers to pressure cook the turkey. I'm pretty sure that works.

Lightsong: Chooses herbs and spices on a whim without any thoughts. It is nevertheless very delicious.

Taravangian: Has a 478-step plan for cooking the world's most perfect turkey that is immediately spoiled when Renarin inadvertently buys the last 7.5 pound turkey, which is what Taravangian's entire plan hinged on. Taravangian didn't see THAT coming.

[poppiesforthirteen]

you HIT the tardis? you hit her body like the baseball? oh! oh! jail for doctor! jail for doctor for One Thousand Years!!

[todderwodders]

Hmmm, maybe… Jaheira to Wyll, or vice-versa, post-game? (If they’re both still alive, lol)

I'm writing Letter Fic! Received on the tenth day of the tenth month of the year 1493. Duke Ravengard, I have known men who do not know the meaning of the word courage, though they speak of it often. I know men who speak of the world love, though they speak of it often. I know men who grow into young men. They talk as men, and walk as men, but they do not know the meaning of manhood. They do not know what it is to be a true friend, nor companion, nor lover, and certainly, they do not know what it is to be husband, a bond and duty which encapsulates all of these things. My daughter writes to me of this day, of your engagement to the Bhaalsdaughter. She speaks of your kind words, of your growing hair, of your future bride's changing body in response to a much kinder life than she has ever known before. She speaks of it in less glowing terms, but she has not been in love, and forgets that in her younger days, she too ate and drank as much as she so desired, freed from the burden of strife. I do not know how to say it well, so I do not reference this at all in my response. But to you, I speak frankly. I am grateful for the love you share. I am grateful that it exists and that you have it. it is one of life's greatest pleasures. However, I beseech you now: do not rush your marriage. I was married to my Khalid on a cart. It was sparse and cold and perhaps I was not kitted out to be what many imagine a bride to be, but we did not care. My time together with my husband was so short, even by the standards of shorter lived peoples. When I heard of your marriage, I was happy for you, yes, but I was sad, too. Sad for myself, if this self pitying old woman is allowed a moment of honesty. I reflected on this for many days and nights. I lost some bit of sleep. It is silly, how much I deliberated on these feelings, and how simple the answer I arrived to truly is. I loved my husband, and I wish I had more memories of our marriage. I wish we had not married so quickly. How strange that is to say, when it has been so long, and I had thought I had ruminated all i could on my husband. Life does not take to it's work so easily, so cleanly. Grief is ever lasting. It will follow you forever, and closely, if you let it. The insight of grief is also ever lasting, and in some strange way, I feel so very close to the time that I had with every beloved person I have ever known and lost. So do not rush. Do not weep, for death and loss is also apart of life. It cannot be slain. It can be accepted. Understand, my friend, exactly what you have in your possession, and what you stand to lose, and hold it loosely anyways. There is no dragon to slay in the home in which a marriage resides. One day you will part from one another, be it for another or in the slipping from this mortal coil. This fragility makes things so sweet. Speak plainly, and gently. Make your words known. Understand that she will ask much. and you will ask much, and perhaps neither of you understand each other at all, some days. You make no error by these events - it simply is. Love is not a man being put aside, for he has made some silly mistake. You are no longer in your father's house, nor are you hunting the Coast for beasts and strange, evil men. You are your own man now, Wyll, and you choose the home you build. Make something you are proud of. Hold your beloved's hand gently. Be as your best traits allow, and forgive when you are not always your best. It will happen. Savor the cake, and the cloth, and the fine fruit of your table. Love is strong, and full of trust, and it is about being the bravest companion, the truest friend, the most loyal of men. This I know you will be, and much more. Know that your friend has faith in you. P.S. I expect a wedding invitation post haste.

J

[vickyvicarious]

(In order to not derail op's thread, and jic they've not finished reading the books, hope this is ok) The madness/mental illness discussion between Laura and Jonathan made me think about the in-between of Jonathan leaving the hospital and then being validated!

One thing is, pre-Hawkins death, Mina states to Lucy that Jonathan has been working hard, but that he is weak still and placid, and also that he has nightmares. It tells on them both, because Mina cannot get a full night's sleep due to him waking up screaming and she needs to soothe him. Journal aside, Mina says she is so worried about his nerves that she doesn't communicate with him about how tired she is herself. It reminds me of Walter wanting to protect Laura from distress.

Post-Hawkins death, Jonathan gets worse. "He says the amount of responsibility which it puts upon him makes him nervous. He begins to doubt himself. I try to cheer him up, and my belief in him helps him to have a belief in himself. But it is here that the grave shock that he experienced tells upon him the most. Oh, it is too hard that a sweet, simple, noble, strong nature such as his—a nature which enabled him by our dear, good friend’s aid to rise from clerk to master in a few years—should be so injured that the very essence of its strength is gone."

Not a very traditionally ''manful'' picture, but Mina never goes there. Still, he throws himself into work. Mina says her belief in him helps Jonathan believe in himself. Maybe Laura would have benefited from being believed in.

What prompts Walter to do something drastic is when Laura weeps in her sleep. What prompts Mina to break the seal later is when Jonathan faints in public and loses the memory of it.

The way Mina treats Lucy and Jonathan in illness seems equal. She keeps their secrets upon their request too. Walter and Mina take similar active roles for their spouses, though Mina isn't necessarily masculine for it.

An interesting imho comparison could also be when Mina chooses to consult Van Helsing while Jonathan is away for his first work trip and how they communicate throughout it, and Walter with the sisters.

Aside, when she asks Van Helsing to help Jonathan, he says, "I promise you that I will gladly do all for him that I can—all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy one." Van Helsing promises to make his life manly, though Mina had asked to make him "well again". So he kind of made it about gender, though it wasn't for Mina.

(I also wonder if we can call Jonathan ''cured'' really, as he doesn't actually return to his former self, but it'd get too long!)

(Tagging @animate-mush because the WIW substack has ended now, hopefully you're all caught up... but regardless no spoilers past where we were last week.)

Anon, you sum up my thoughts incredibly well: "Maybe Laura would have benefited from being believed in."

I think that is perhaps the most major difference between the recovery period for the two of them. Because while they both have remarkably similar symptoms, and both their spouses hide stuff from them for a while... when things come to a head Mina chooses to believe in Jonathan. Not just in supporting him as he goes back to work (which you're right, he has little choice about doing - an external gendered element there, where societal pressures/norms mean Jonathan kind of has to get to work and Laura is never expected to at all); Mina trusts Jonathan with information, with an important role in what follows.

There's obvious contextual differences. Jonathan knew he could access his lost memories and explicitly didn't want to unless it was necessary. He put the power to decide that in Mina's hands (and it was his request but still her choice to share in his ignorance until she needed more information). When she reads his journal, she's trying to better help him within parameters they have both agreed to. When she eventually tells him everything is true, she's trusting that this will be validating for him and help him heal, help him be more "well again" (though you're right both that he never returns to his former self, and that Van Helsing is the only one who brings gender into it with his assumption that Mina's looking to make Jonathan more manly).

Laura never had an equivalent - both in terms of a discussion with the ones leaving her out for the sake of her mental health, and in the sense of some record she knows she can fall back on. She didn't have a hidden journal when she was being drugged or in the asylum. Most of the information Walter and Marian gather is from other people.

I think there is a period where both Jonathan and Laura have information hidden from them for their own sake. And I don't think that was inherently wrong or anything; in fact I think it was somewhat needed. Jonathan got the chance to explicitly ask for that period of ignorance. We don't quite have any such dialogue from Laura, but the narration still tells us that there were certain topics that were very confusing to her or which she didn't like to linger on (and her experience with Mr. Fairlie even after getting out of the asylum can't have helped), and there's that scene where she says she will "try to get better", showing recognition of how unwell she currently is. I think they both need this time to focus on recovering, and their spouses/loved ones want to support them so they can do so. Again, the societal gender role divides them here: Jonathan has to work and in fact has to take on new/more challenging work, while Laura doesn't and can devote more time to rest and recovery. There's benefits and drawbacks to both of those, in my mind. Jonathan got support from Mina and reassurance that she (and Mr. Hawkins) believed in him, which was helpful. On the other hand, it stressed him out more and he was still suffering from his nightmares, etc. Laura got more time to take it easy without having other stress added on, which was helpful. But on the other hand, she didn't get the same level of trust and belief in her ability to, if not 'return to normal,' at least to be productive and helpful in some way.

Yeah, I'm talking about her drawings. I think that is where the big divide comes. Because when she wants to contribute and help with the household, Walter decides to lie to her and play-act that she is bringing in money. I get that he's trying to avoid letting her stress over money, but it feels so condescending. He's treating her like a child rather than being honest with her - right after she asks him not to treat her like a child. Maybe being honest would just be telling her that she's not well enough to work/that it wouldn't be safe, and that he has the money handled. Maybe they'd come up with some other way she could chip in. At least she'd be involved in the discussion as she clearly wanted to be. And while I don't think she would be involved in the hunting down different accounts or confrontations that follow at the end of the book any more than Marian was, I think they should have told her what was going on. That doesn't necessarily mean giving her all the nitty gritties especially if they're triggering to her; but giving her the chance to speak for herself, to add her thoughts, even to ask to be left out if she thinks she can't handle it. She never gets that. There's no reevaluation later on.

Both Jonathan and Laura were denied validation in a way that made them doubt their sanity. Jonathan's experiences were supernatural and he fears he lost his mind. Laura was lied to and gaslit about her own identity, outright told she was suffering from delusions. Revealing that the supernatural things he remember are real was validating for Jonathan in itself, even as he still had all the accompanying trauma. Laura's (official/public) validation isn't possible until after the villains are defeated and everything is over, which in a sense stretches out that middle period. Similarly, Jonathan getting the information leads right into him getting a change to assuage his feelings of guilt and seek revenge, which could be cathartic for him. Laura probably wouldn't have the same opportunities or even desire to do so, and so maybe looping her in wouldn't have been as helpful. But it feels cruel to me never to give her the option. After a certain point, it's no longer just trying to spare her from distress, but it feels like believing she isn't capable of handling any at all.

I guess that's what feels most gendered to me. Walter, and to an extent Marian too, don't treat Laura like an adult or an equal after her experience. This does happen throughout the book, but it gets so much more egregious after she's rescued from the asylum. Marian talks about women/is kind of treated like an exception to women in general, and Walter is leaving both women out in key moments. So given how women were typically seen as less capable, to me it feels somewhat bound up in that rather than just being about her specifically (I think she handles/is capable of a lot more than she's given credit for). Mina doesn't do really that, she doesn't really bring gender into her treatment of either Jonathan or Lucy in the same way. And while others in Dracula do, it's shown to be more of a mistake.

[the-grand-gemini]

Wyll Ravengard thoughts/writing prompt:

Wyll's identity is so heavily focused on his father, which absolutely makes sense given his upbringing with only the one parent, but that doesn't mean sometimes Wyll never wonders what his life would be like if she'd been there. He doesn't necessarily miss his mother as he never had her, but there are moments of "what if". What would father be like, would his expectations have been the same, would his mother have stopped him from being sent away, would she have come with him if Ulder would not let him remain in Baldur's Gate, would she too have cast him out, would she have written to him after he left the Gate, would she make father stay in touch too? Wyll carries a sense of loss and nostalgia he has no means of placing. His mother is an empty shadow in his mind.

Which brings me to this: I can't get the idea out of my head that after Wyll is transformed he feels he's lost part of the gift that his mother gave him. Specifically his eyes. Are Ulder Ravengard's eyes also brown like Wyll's? Probably, but maybe Wyll's eyes were the same shade of brown his mother's were... He had already lost one during battle, and now his remaining eye has been touched by the Hells.

The scene that made me think of this is when Karlach is mourning the loss of the heart that her mother gave her. I feel like Wyll is still probably in relative shock over his changed form and is experiencing body dysmorphia. He would hear Karlach's words and suddenly have another moment of heart break. A thought that had not sat with him yet while too busy trying to adjust to his new form and survive their adventure. The gift that his mother gave him has been corrupted and it's his fault.

(Not that it's actually his fault given that he was a teenager when forced to take Mizora's deal, but you can't tell me Wyll doesn't feel guilty at times for "failing" to meet his father's expectations and internalized that sense of shame)

Even though he's never really met his mother as she passed before he could know her, he feels another level of loss. The body she died giving to him has been altered, the eye(s) in the mirror watching him are no longer his mother's. Maybe one day there will be some relief. His changed body is a means of stepping out of the shadow of who his father expected him to be. But for now there is loss and mourning a gift given by someone he never knew.

I just feel like Wyll doesn't get as much writing and we don't really get to deeply explore the horror of having your body altered without your consent! Which thematically everyone in the party is desperately trying to avoid having their body altered via the illithid tadpol! What we do get are a few brief lines saying that we are sorry and that he's still himself (as well as very handsome if not more so because... horns 👀💦).

I need to read about Wyll mourning himself and accepting his new body. Confronting his father for abandoning him in a time of need. Remembering his father choosing his duty to the city over his duty to him as his child. I mean he could have retired! He and Wyll could have moved to the country OR travelled the coast together fighting for others! However that didn't happen and I feel like a bigger discussion is needed before healing that bond.

You can't tell my young Wyll Ravengard, who loves his father so much he already forgave him the moment he was cast out, didn't cry his heart out alone under the night sky the first time he was on his own. That he doesn't suppress those emotions constantly, because yes he doesn't regret sacrificing himself to protect the people of Baldur's Gate, but that doesn't mean he doesn't weep knowing his father's love was conditional.

I need a discussion where he worries that Tav may choose to leave him someday if he cannot meet their expectations. He knows its unfounded, but the hurt inside himself remains.

I want to see Wyll struggle with his changed body and rediscover himself. Either with the support of a romanced Tav or just the entire team as a supportive found family there to help him.

If anyone wants to use this as a writing prompt please go ahead and tag me if you do so I can read it!

[faerytreealtars]

~ ✾ Comforting Messages from Departed Pets ✾ ~

Hello, Saplings! 🌱 A new PAC today that I hope you enjoy, take a deep breath, and choose whatever images resonate with your soul and heart, Happy reading! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚  

Today a reading I absolutely adored doing, apart from ancestral and inner-child work my favourite beings to connect with are animal frequencies, probably because they’re just so pure and joyful! It also may be their wild connection with nature, Which I’m sure if you’ve been here awhile know I’m am very fond of!

I would love to hear if the message you received resonated with you, so don’t feel afraid to comment, for it makes me so happy to connect with you all! 💕  

[ My Instagram ♡ ︳ Personal Readings ♤ ︳Faery Masterlist ☆  ]

Pile 1

[ Cards: Knight of cups, three of wands, King of cups, The Moon ]

We are always here within your heart when you need a friend. Just sit in stillness and let your mind clear to hear us once again. We love you lots - this you already know! and cannot wait to meet again when the time is right until then my dearest friend I thought you ought to know you're doing so well though in the dark yet you still prevail keep loving life & being light to all others in your sphere until we talk again know that you dear.

- Love, your precious pet

I saw the images of a white cat, a black cat, a Brown + White/Black + White Jack Russel terrier, an American paint horse & a fancy rat when channelling so this must be a vast group!

Oracle: Wolf - Path Finder

Wolf is the teacher, sage, and pathfinder. Wolf is revered as one of the great totems in Native American culture specifically the Pueblo tribes because wolves by their example instruct us about leadership, survival, and social order. They teach that power comes from the cooperative efforts of the pack. Wolves know their place and know what to do. They are loyal mates. Their parenting instincts are strong and the entire pack helps raise the young. The wolf is loving but also very firm. Wolf has extraordinary strength and endurance.

Pile 2

[ Cards: Five of Cups, Eight of swords, Knight of Swords, The Wheel Of Fortune]

We have seen how you have grieved and suffered through this period of your life and it makes our little hearts weep to see our dear one so sad but as you walk away know that brighter days are ahead. The wheel it turns as does our fate and it will only move up. Know that we will watch and protect you always and you can find another friend for we will guide them to serve you best.

-Love, Your dearest companion

When channelling I saw the images of a guinea pig, a black and white Scottish fold (cat), a beagle, a budgie, a dove/pigeon, an appaloosa horse

Oracle: Bee - Community

Bees are honoured as a good omen of success and a powerful symbol for royal families throughout the world. Life in the hive represents a harmonious kingdom. Bees characterize meaningful communal activity, hard work, and diligence. Bee can be a great friend but misfortune will come to those who harm the hive. Their stingers are always ready to protect. All bees are pollinators and they are considered to be the most useful insect in nature. They are productive, focused, and do not get side-tracked from their goals. Bee reminds us that joy, purpose, and "the sweetness in life" can be found in cooperative work for bettering the world.

Pile 3

[ Cards: The Magician, The Devil, Page of Wands, Eight of Wands ]

Don't feel you have to rush, that which belongs to you will always come to you. The power within you is greater than those who wish you harm, don't fall into their traps as try to manipulate your mind - express yourself freely & without care. Know that those who match you will always stick by you and continue to feel connected & give you energy when you feel lack.

-Yours ----

(they wanted to write their name but this is a general reading and so it just resulted in a huge chaos inside my mind!) While channelling I saw the images of a Bearded-Dragon, Tarantula, Hamster, Border-collie, Labrador, and a Siamese cat.

Oracle: Coyote - Revealer of Truth

Among Native American cultures the coyote has been called the trickster or the "wise and foolish one" We have all been the fool and we have all been tricked, but it's all part of life. We make mistakes, fall down, and suffer bad choices yet we learn from them all. 

The person that can learn will survive and thrive. The Coyote teaches us to play and celebrate life daily. Coyote asks us to laugh, especially at ourselves, and not take life too seriously. Coyote medicine is associated with youthful energy, childlike wisdom, and lifelong learning. Coyote people are asked to be students of life, always curious and always willing to learn.

I hope this reading was able to offer some comfort and peace to your heart, and even perhaps ignited fire within to live the life best for you. It’s sorrowful to lose a dear innocent one like your companion but know they are cared for by the angels and having the best time! They will be there to greet you when you move along too, who knows they may even follow you along onto the next adventure too!

-Love Fae🍀🧚🏻‍♀

[captainofthetidesbreath]

for Midst: 💜 (😌) and also 📖 specifically cuz I wanna know which episode of this incredibly economical show you think is least load-bearing

unpopular opinion ask game

💜: Which character is way hotter than everyone else seems to think?

To quote Sara: Imogen Loxlee is a CATCH.

Now, because I know you sent this on purpose after our exchange on the post where I said Imogen CritRole is NOT as hot as everyone seems to think, I'll also say that the women in purple and yellow in Imelda's brunch group, presumably Desiree (fancy shoes) and Lucille (process of elimination) are also hot.

📖: If you had to remove one book episode from the series, which would you choose?

I'm taking this as wholesale removal, cannot transfer or shift any of its contents into another episode, but subsequent episodes are altered slightly to account for stuff like "so it's been mentioned before that—" to properly accommodate that the information is NOW brand new. This is tough because the series is still ongoing, and things are being continuously revisited and paid off all the time.

I'd go with 1.09: Convert. The episode establishes Concord confirming the cabaret is the center of the Breach via the arrival of the stealth ship, how Valor accounts work, and Imelda REALLY pressuring Weepe to open an account. I do think that losing Concord and Imelda here would fuck the pacing a little bit, but I don't think it'll fuck things TOO much because Concord recaps everything in 1.12: Coda only a couple of episodes later (after a brief appearance in 1.10: Trust) and we do see Imelda in 1.05: Missions and 1.15: Accounting (Convert being the halfway point between there to remind us that this subplot is ongoing) and she's already laying it on THICK and Weepe is very much considering it already in Missions. The pacing and tension will be a little uneven if you remove Convert, but I think it's manageable and not as much of a hurdle compared to taking out other episodes. We'd very much lose something in terms of pacing and rhythm and tension and you'd definitely feel it missing, but I don't think it's insurmountable.

I did also almost consider 1.04: Fold, but we lose the Lark and Fuze tension and the Fuze and Tzila relationship, and those are much bigger hits to the pacing and emotional continuity.

[whochromatic]

STOP IT

STOP MENTIONING THE 'BOOP' YOU IMBECILES

All because I missed one day of scrolling Tumblr... just ONE day!! And that specific day so happened be APRIL FOOLS.

Mark my words, once I discover the ways of time travel, I will make it so that just like me, NONE of you will ever be able to experience the boop EVER AGAIN. No, my neighbors cannot tell me to lower the sounds of weeping and sobs. They cannot silence this unbearable pain that I relive and worsens at every reminder of my fatal mistake. No. I have tried. I have tried many times to forget, but there is simply no way of- SHUT YER GODDAMN TRAP I'M FEELING IT RIGHT NOW. AND LOWER THE VOLUME OF THE TELEVISION WHICH SCREEN DOESN'T EVEN WORK!! LET ME CRY.

If I had to choose between ending up in the deepest corners, concealing the worst of horrors ever possible to exist and slowly yet deeply suffering, feeling every agonizing sensation as where a millisecond is like a year of this terror, however his life and soul lasting till the end of time swallows me, leaving myself and my distraught thoughts alone in eternal nothingness or missing the b0øp day, it is clear that I would choose the former, only the former and never the latter, may you present to me these choices a million times over.

But alas, I did. I missed it. For the life of me, I missed it. The world is cruel, but I did this to myself. Perhaps the only cruel one here is me, for wishing for this disgustingly horrid fate to befall upon every single person to be able to enjoy the bliss that happened, on the day of April first. Was that a punishment? For every single wrong thing they and I have done? I apologize for my impudence, but I have never done anything that matches the weight of this torturous practice. Maybe that guy, but I hate to admit, they may have not either.

I truly cannot accept this. However there is nothing I can do. Nothing... nothing at all.