#which frees her. just like with ilya she has room for something else now and that doesn’t mean the Light Side or whatever

[pinkfey]

imagining ilya cradling kinasi’s dying body and sobbing. delicious.

[crowsnests]

taste of certainty - part four

Fandom: The Arcana  Pairing: Julian Devorak x OC Apprentice (Syran Elkas) Tags: friends to lovers; modern times au; friend group dynamic; slow burn; pining; really just Julian being Julian and Syran being Oblivious Words: 8280 Warnings: mention of anxiety, migraines, insomnia, alcohol

part 1 2 3 4 5

playlist

Believing in something more than just the surface I trust that this is worth it, But my toes are hanging off the ledge

-trust, half-alive

IV. heavy storm

Everything hurts and everything seems blurry. Syran feels like she’s floating, her feet not touching the ground. She hears a mix of sounds, the clanking of metal, a voice urgently talking to someone, the shutting of a door. Something is tickling her face. She groans and opens her eyes, light disorienting her.

“Syran! Oh, god–”

She looks up towards the hurried voice and, finally, things come into focus. Ilya’s face looms above her, eyes so big and worried that she fears they might fall out of his skull. Everything is spinning. There’s someone else calling from– the floor?

“–lo? Ilya, is everything okay?”

“Just a second!” He yells at the floor, then starts moving. And Syran moves with him.

Oh, okay. He is carrying her.

He lays her down on something soft and Syran finally takes in her surroundings. She tries to sit up, but Ilya’s hand pushes her back. “Ah, ah, ah, no– stay down, okay?”

Another fit of pain to her head, Syran winces.

“Take deep breaths, you’re okay. You’re okay.” Whether Ilya is saying that to reassure her or himself, Syran doesn’t know.

“I’m going to grab my phone real quick, yeah? I’ll be back in a split second, please don’t get up.”

Syran vaguely nods and Ilya gets out of her vision. She recognises the ceiling of her apartment– how did she get here?

It slowly comes back together: the stars, Ilya, the walk, the migraine, Ilya, the person hitting her, her losing balance. Ilya. The pain in her head, a million times worse.

Ilya returns, kneeling by the couch. This time he’s got his phone lodged between his ear and shoulder, and some cloth in hand.

“Yeah, Nadia, we’re here– she’s awake–” he reaches the fabric to Syran’s forehead and she shies away at the contact. “It’s just water, don’t you worry, yeah? We’ll fix this, it’s nothing big.” Ilya reassures Syran, as the voice from the phone keeps talking underneath. “I’ll call you later, okay? Y–yes, I’ll take care of her– I’ve got a fucking medical degree, Nadia!” He hangs up, then reaches the newly free hand to cup Syran’s face.

“Can you talk?” he asks, voice now hushed, just for her.

“Y– yeah–” Syran mutters. “I think– so.”

Ilya smiles a little, relieved. “Good– that’s good.” He sighs, then looks around the room. “Do you have a first aid kit? A medical cabinet?”

Syran nods a little. Her head is about to blow up, she’s sure. “Bathroom– under the sink.”

“Okay, can you hold this here? Apply some pressure?”

Syran realises he’s still holding the cloth to her forehead, and she figures that’s why she felt something down her face. She’s bleeding. She tries not to let anxiety get the best of her and reaches up to do as told. Ilya covers her hand, fingers cool to the touch, and presses gently.

“Good, like this. I’ll be right back.”

Ilya takes care of her with delicate hands and gentle whispers, cleans her wound and bandages it, brings her water, holds some ice to her head. He reassures her all the way through, makes sure she’s okay until the end– until her head stops spinning and the pain calms down enough for her to slowly sit up.

He’s still crouched by the sofa, wide eyes looking up at her, his hands on her waist. Had she not felt like this, Syran would have overthought that touch, that contact– her heart would have made somersaults.

But right now, she can only think of one thing– sleep.

“How do you feel?” Ilya asks.

Syran huffs a laugh, “Like I hit my head.”

Ilya smirks, although worry doesn’t leave his face. “Well, yeah. But I told you before, you’ve got a strong skull there. You won’t need any stitches.”

Syran laughs a little again, reaches a hand up to where she feels the stinging pain, finding some gauze wrapped around her head instead.

“I wouldn’t touch that,” Ilya gently pulls her hand away, but doesn’t let go.

“You might have a concussion. Think you can stay up for a bit?”

“Uh– I guess.” She wants to sleep, really, but she should trust Ilya more than herself when it comes to medical advice. “What happened? There was a guy–“

“He was running and bumped into you, you hit your head on the concrete. I tried to call after him, but he was faster– I thought it better to stay with you.”

“Well, here ends my wrestling career.” She mutters, pain still making her feel dizzy.

Ilya chuckles, then gets up, sits next to her.

“I don’t want to scare you, but if you still feel bad in a bit I think we should go to the hospital.”

“Are you sure? I’m– I’m not that bad.”

“You hit your head pretty hard, Syran.”

His voice is soft, but serious. He sounds genuinely concerned, it warms her heart.

“Fuck– I have work to do tomorrow.”

“On a saturday?”

“Yeah– I can’t miss it. I need to go to bed.” She tries to get up but Ilya’s hands softly pull her from the waist and make so that she sits back down.

“No, no, no, missy, not until we’re sure you’re okay. Feeling sleepy is part of the symptoms.”

She feels frustrated. She enjoys his company, but– her bed calls.

“Ilya,” She whines. “I’m tireeed.”

“I know, but if your concussion is bad I’m not letting you hurt yourself more. How about we watch something? And drink some water.”

She pouts at him, but he doesn’t budge.

“Aight.” She resigns.

“Good, I’ll go get you water– don’t get up!”

“Yessir!” She mocks him, but it just makes him laugh.

A glass of water and an episode of The Bake Off later, Syran feels much better. Ilya made her take some painkillers too, which helped with the throbbing in her head. He sits close to her and has been asking her how she feels every now and then.

“I’m fine, Ilya. Much better, I swear.”

“Okay, okay– you sure? You don’t wanna go to the hospital? No more dizziness? Nausea?”

“No, doctor. Just the pain in the temple.”

“Good, okay– I mean, bad, I wish you weren’t hurting, but it’s good all the other stuff is gone.”

“No hospital, then?” She asks as the credits roll.

He sighs. “I’d still take you but if you’re sure you’re okay, then- some rest should do the trick.”

“Nice. Good.”

“So, ready for bed?” He asks, nonchalantly.

“I–uh–” for a second, Syran gapes at the various implications of his words. But then again, that is a perfectly normal question, given the situation. “Yeah– I need my pillows.”

Ilya lets out a small laugh, “That you do.”

He helps her get up and to her room. When they reach the door, he seems to hesitate.

Syran turns to him, small smile on her lips. “I’ll change myself, don’t you worry, Doctor.”

“I– uh– no- I was more thinking that you shouldn’t move your head much right now,” Ilya mumbles, clearly flustered.

“Can I at least wear pajama bottoms? Sleeping in jeans is a sin.”

That makes Ilya laugh and he finally lets her go. “Be careful, though.”

“Yep, yep,” Syran waves him off, closing the door behind her.

“I’ll– uh– I’ll wait here!” He exclaims from behind the door.

Syran slowly undresses, careful to her head, gently putting on her nightwear– really just some sweatpants and a hoodie. She looks at herself in the mirror: the smudged make-up, the faded lipstick, the bandages, bits of blood still sticking on her hair, the look of utter pain lingering on her face.

Well, she can’t look worse than this.

When she opens the door again, Ilya is pacing back and forth, typing aggressively on his phone.

“All done,” Syran says. Ilya’s head shoots up.

“Right, well, good, that’s good,” He takes her in, then his features soften. “You should rest now, really.”

“I guess so,” she smiles, then winces a little at another fit of pain.

Ilya immediately reaches for her. “Does it hurt again? Should I help you lay down?”

She nods and lets him help her to bed; he carefully props up a pillow for her and tucks her in under the duvet. It’s sweet, really. Syran’s heart is fluttering a little, under all the pain.

Then, a little meow fills the silence, paws pressing up into her side.

Amongst all this chaos, she had forgotten about Persephone.

“Ah, yes, it– it wouldn’t leave your side before either,” Ilya smiles at the cat. “What’s its name?”

“Persephone,” Syran reaches to pet her. The cat leans into her hand softly.

“She’s a good cat,” Ilya says.

“Yeah, can’t believe you never met her before,” Syran then moves her head slightly, looks at her nightstand. “Hey, can you– can you pass me that little plastic bag? It’s got makeup wipes in it.”

“Oh, sure–” Ilya does as told and passes her a wipe directly, then Syran slowly cleans her face off.

“I’ll get you some more water, okay?” Ilya asks, but before she can reply he’s already out the door. Syran finishes removing her makeup as best as she can, arm plopping down as soon as she’s done. She sighs, hoping for the throbbing in her head to subside soon.

Ilya comes back with water and some more pain relievers, she gulps the water down, then goes to clean her face some more. When she’s done Ilya looks at her and chuckles a little.

“What?”

“You’ve got– uh– some–uh, erm, can I?” He reaches for the wipe, still in Syran’s hand. She lets him take it. “You’ve got black smudged on your cheek”, he smiles fondly and leans down to wipe her face, hands ever so gentle.

Syran can’t help but be aware of his closeness this time. She looks at his profile, sharp and clean, his grey eyes focused on the task, hair falling down his face.

When he’s done, their eyes meet and Syran’s heart is in her throat. They’ve never been close like this.

She can see Ilya swallow, his hand still kind of hovering near her lips. Then, as if waking from a dream, he shoots back up.

“Well– I’ll– I’ll let you sleep then. Let me– let me know if you need anything. The pills will help with the pain when you wake up.” He clears his throat and turns to Persephone, pointing a finger at her, brow furrowed. “You keep guard, ‘kay?”

“She will,” Syran says, faint smile on her lips. Suddenly, exhaustion starts to take over her, as her body catches up to all the night’s efforts.

“Ilya?” She calls, as he walks towards her bedroom door.

“Mh?” He turns to her.

“Thank you– Uh. You’re– you’re really kind.”

Ilya smiles, “Just doing my job.”

Syran drifts off to sleep just as Ilya closes the bedroom door behind him, Perspephone purring beside her.

🂱

It’s still dark outside when Syran wakes up.

She slowly sits up, careful to the pain in her head. It makes her wince a little, but it’s not as bad as before. She looks around her room, soft moonlight peeking through the window, Persephone curled up and sleeping beside her.

Syran reaches for the water on her nightstand, notices the dirty makeup wipe next to it. She can’t help but smile. Stars know what would have happened to her if Ilya hadn’t helped her.

When she’s done with the water, though, she realises she’s still thirsty. Slowly, she pads out of bed, taking her time to do every little movement. Persephone looks up at her after a big yawn.

“I’m just getting water, I promise,” Syran says.

Persephone doesn’t move, but carefully follows her with her eyes as Syran exits her room.

She makes her way to the kitchen, doesn’t turn on any light– luckily the ones from outside are outlining enough of the apartment for her. A chill runs down her spine; the temperature is much colder.

She chugs down the second glass of water, then starts walking back to her room.

Just then, she hears it– a soft murmur. Someone almost– whining?

She turns to her right, where her couch is. A figure is laying on it, arm hanging from one side–

Fuck.

Ilya is still here.

She slowly makes her way to the front of the couch, notices how Ilya barely fits on the length of it, his feet hanging over the armrest. His boots are hastily thrown on the floor and his coat is loosely draped over him. His phone is on the floor too, next to his dangling hand.

His face is all scrunched up on one of the couch pillows, and now Syran is sure, he’s talking in his sleep. Not concrete enough words to make sense, just a murmur here and then. She doesn’t know what to do.

She wonders what in fresh hell made him decide to stay like this and not go home, but a voice deep at the back of her brain tells her she knows why. He clearly cares about her and wanted to make sure she’s okay.

Syran wants to half smack him, half hug him. She sighs.

She’s got a few throw blankets in her bedroom, so she quickly goes back, under Perspehone’s curious stare, and brings them to the living area.

Careful not to wake him up, she removes Ilya’s coat and drapes one of the blankets over him. His breath hitches at one point, which makes Syran freeze, but he doesn’t wake up. She slowly puts another one over him, making sure it covers enough for him to keep warm.

“–mail. Snail? Lovely– leaf eye.”

Syran stifles a chuckle at the weird mix of words coming out of Ilya’s mouth. Before she knows it, she reaches out to move some hair out of his face.

Then, he starts talking again and Syran immediately shoots away, startled. The hell was she thinking?

With the sudden movement, though, her head spins for a second, and she stumbles back. The back of her knee hits the coffee table, making the potted plants on it rattle. She almost falls on it, but she grabs ahold of herself.

“Shit–” She whispers, hand to her temple.

“—yran?”

She turns back towards Ilya, who’s looking up at her with half-lidded eyes. She crouches down to him.

“Hey– hey, Ilya, sorry– I–”

“‘re you okay?” He slurs, clearly still half asleep.

“Yes, yes I– I didn’t mean to wake you up,” She sighs, “You didn’t have to stay.”

He reaches for her cheek with his free hand. “I wanted to– you’re– I'm glad you’re safe.”

At this point Syran doesn’t know if the blood in her body spikes up because of everything that’s happening or because of how calmly Ilya does and says certain things, making her stomach turn upside down.

“I’m– I’m glad you were here to help–” She murmurs, reaching up to cup his hand.

Sleep is clearly heavy on both of them, Ilya’s lids barely holding open.

“ ‘nytime.” He smiles sweetly, as his eyes close again. “Anytime, for you.”

His hand slowly drifts back down, and Syran holds it all the way through. She doesn’t want to let go– it’s something like four in the morning and she hates to admit this to herself, but she wonders how it would feel to lay to sleep with him. How it would be to hold him through the night.

With a shake of her head, she carefully gets up, getting back to her bedroom.

It’s all in her mind. There’s nothing going on, right?

Right?

🂱

The next time Syran wakes up, is to her phone alarm. She groans and shuts it off immediately, checking the time.

7:30 am. Ugh. She’s got work.

There’s a few messages on her phone– more than a few, actually.

It all comes back to her.

All of her friends have contacted her, from Muriel to Nadia, all of them wishing her well, asking to call when she awakes, reassuring her. As she’s reading through them, a call from Asra sets the phone off.

“Mhmh?” she croaks.

“Oh god– oh god, you’re awake. Are you okay? Ilya isn’t picking up–” Asra sounds extremely worried, but there’s also relief in his words.

“I’m okay, hey, Asra– I’m fine,” Syran tries to sound as calm as possible. “I promise.”

“Right, yes, good.” He exhales, “Syran, I’m– I’m sorry. I feel like it’s my fault– if I hadn’t left you alone like that–”

“Hey, no, stop right there,” Syran reprimands him. “You have nothing to do with this. It could have happened anytime. And I wasn’t alone. It’s not your fault. Don’t you dare say that again, okay?”

Asra takes a pause, but when he speaks again he sounds more relieved, “Okay– okay.”

“How are you, anyway? With the whole– Valer–”

“I didn’t call to talk about me, S,” Asra counters. “I’m fine. We’ll talk about it when you’re better, all that matters now is that you’re okay.”

Syran can’t help but smile at his concern, “Understood. But really, I’m okay. Just a little scrape.”

“Ilya said it was a concussion–”

“Yeah, well– I guess. But I’m much better now.” She’s not lying, really. Things are not as fuzzy as last night, and definitely not as painful.

“He helped you, right? He took good care of you?” Asra sounds threatening, like the thought of Ilya not helping would be enough for Asra to send him to the gallows.

A flash of memories floods her again; the way Ilya handled things, how he reassured her, fixed everything. Made it better. The way he held her hands and cupped her cheek, tended to her with the utmost care. Her face grows warm for the millionth time this week.

“Yes, he–” she clears her throat. “He did. He was very kind.”

“Good, he better have been,” She can hear Asra relax again. “Is he there, still? He hasn’t come home.”

“Yeah, he’s– he’s here. I think.”

“You think?” Asra’s tone is edging on playful and she really doesn’t have the will to argue with him right now. “Or you know?”

She sighs. “Asra. He slept on the couch, last time I checked. Maybe he’s left, I don’t know.”

“Aw, he stayed to look over you, that’s cute.” Then his tone changes again. “And honestly if he hadn’t I would have killed him.”

“Stars, it was a small accident, not a car crash! I’m fine, Asra, seriously.”

“Okay, okay. I should get ready for work, I’ll come over later, okay?”

“Uh– no, I’ll see you there–”

“Don’t you dare show up to the office. Muriel’s calling there as we speak. You’re off for the day, please rest.”

Something in his voice tells her she’s better off not retaliating. “All right, all right, jeez.”

“Good. Now go check on your charming doctor, he’s probably going to eat his own hands in worry until he sees you stand up.”

“Shut up–”

“Toodles!” Asra hangs up before Syran can insult him. She shakes her head with a smile.

Persephone prances up in her lap.

“Good morning, cutie,” Syran grins at her.

Then, a gentle knock on the door.

“Uh– Syran? You awake? I– I heard you speak–” Ilya’s voice sounds hesitant.

“Yep, you can come in!” She says, letting Persephone go to slowly sit on the side of the bed.

“Oh– okay.” Ilya gingerly pokes his head into the bedroom, eyes quickly finding hers.

She smiles at him, “Goodmorning.”

“Goodmorning– I– uh– just wanted to check on you one last time.”

“You can enter, you know?” She laughs, then pats the spot beside her. “I promise I won’t bite.”

“Ha– right. Yeah. Sure.” His voice still sounds groggy, a little huskier than usual. Syran tries not to think about that.

When he sits down next to her, Persephone is quick to come around him and prance in his lap, meowing up at him.

“Ah, my assistant,” he smiles as he scratches her behind the ears.

“She was excellent,” Syran laughs.

“Good,” Ilya looks up at her, eyes soft. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. Better.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Really, Ilya. I probably would have been a lot worse if you hadn’t been there to help. I’m good.”

Ilya gapes at her for a second, then turns back to pet Persephone. She notices his ears are red, but she turns back towards her window, sunlight streaming through.

“I barely did anything, but– I'm glad,” he says. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Syran thinks back at their small exchange in the middle of the night. Does he not remember?

“Ah and– thank you for the blankets. You didn’t have to. I assume you put them?”

“No, that was the house ghost, actually.” She teases him, bumping his shoulder. “And you didn’t have to either. Stay, I mean. You should have gone home and gotten proper sleep.”

He looks up at her, something akin to shock in his eyes. “I couldn’t have, I wouldn't– I wouldn’t have been able to sleep. I hope it didn’t bother you. That I stayed.”

“It didn’t,” she sighs, “I’m just sorry you went through all the trouble.”

“Syran, no–” Ilya scowls at her, “It was no trouble. At all. And not your fault either, that’s on the asshole that pushed you.” He looks genuinely angry at the thought. “I wanted to– I want to be there for you.”

Syran’s breath hitches, she doesn’t know what to say, not when he’s looking at her like that.

So, she just nods, tries to utter a thank you.

“And hey–” he adds, smirking. “I’m pretty sure your couch is more comfortable than my own bed.”

“That’s why we got it,” she laughs. “Want some coffee?”

Syran insists she make him some breakfast, too, before he leaves. It’s the least she could do, after all that.

It’s a little weird and a little natural, the way they casually chat, the way Ilya reaches for the mugs on the top shelf, the way he helps her anyway, because she’s still his patient, after all. It’s oddly domestic, surprisingly peaceful, it feels right, how easily they work together.

It’s confusing yet simple at the same time.

Ilya shows her how to clean her wound and gives her advice even as she ushers him out the door; Syran all smiles and promises, Ilya all apprehensive and considerate.

When Syran finally takes a shower – careful, careful to the wound, careful to the movements, just like Ilya told her– all she can do is smile. It might seem a bit jarring, considering the circumstances, but. She got to see a side of Ilya that she never thought much about.

Sure, she knew he was caring, she knew he put effort into his profession and studies, she knew he was thoughtful. She’s always been able to see that, through the deflecting humour and the charming grins.

Still, seeing him so– gentle, so attentive, so concerned for her wellbeing was– something else.

And then seeing him laugh, and pad behind her to help her in the kitchen, still throwing a careful eye to her every now and then; seeing him beside her like that. It made her realise how even before that, before all of the pain, she has always admired his resolve to stand up for his friends, to protect those he loves.

Seeing him look at her with a whirlwind of emotion passing through his eyes, just as that same whirlwind passed in her chest–

Syran doesn’t want to give into it, but she feels like she might not be imagining things after all.

🂱

It takes a few days, but Syran’s pain gets better. The wound on her temple is still there, but it’s healing pretty quickly now, which calms her down a lot. She ices it every now and then, and the days of rest she gets off work really help.

Things haven’t slowed down though. When she gets back, although her friends do ask her about her wellbeing, things get hectic quite quickly.

Syran tries to take a few more breaks when she’s allowed, which helps, but really it’s like there’s not enough time to get everything ready. So, today, she ends up working overtime.

The lights in the office have dimmed, last rays of sunshine peeking through the big window. There are not many people left with her, only Varya and two other of her colleagues. After a while, Varya walks up to her as Syran is checking for the umpteenth time that the graphics for the new packaging are correct.

“Hey, we’re about to go get some drinks, do you want to come? You’ve been doing a lot today.” Varya smiles kindly and Syran ponders on her offer. She is a little hungry and her headache has slowly increased in the past hour.

“I don’t know, honestly–” She frowns. “I think I’ll just be knocked out after all this. I’ll let you know if I change my mind, though? Thank you for telling me.” She smiles, genuinely appreciating Varya’s offer.

“Sure, text me when you get home, though. Don’t stay too late!” Varya preaches teasingly, then pats her on the back and walks out of the office, the sound of her heeled boots fading along the corridor.

When she’s left alone in the room, Syran realises just how tense her shoulders are, how much she’s slouching forward towards the computer screen, how her eyes are strained and dry. Even her scar is making itself heard, slightly throbbing in pain.

Syran sighs, trying to relax back into her chair. She looks up at the ceiling and takes a few deep breaths, trying to let out a little bit of her anxiety. It’s been a while since she excessively struggled with it, but days like this are not easy on her. She really wants to do a good job and now that she is in charge of a lot of things the responsibilities heavily weigh down on her.

She slows her breathing, notices that her hands are shaking a little, so she closes her eyes and tries to focus only on the rise and fall of her stomach. Slowly but surely, it calms her down. When she opens her eyes the air doesn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

Just then, her phone vibrates with a call.

The screen reads Ilya’s name and her chest is back to feeling anxious. But this time it’s a little different. Not as stressful, but surprised, rather. Almost– excited.

“Hey,” she breathes out. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” Ilya replies, “Just. Uh– I wanted to check up on you. How’s your wound feeling?”

Syran can’t help but feel touched by his words. He’s been sending her texts now and then the past few days, even if just to remind her to take it easy, or to clean the wound at the end of the day, or to share some funny thing that happened to him. Syran soon realised just how much they helped her and how much she started looking forward to them.

“Better,” She twirls in her chair. “Honestly, the headache hurts more.”

Ilya clicks his tongue, “You really should get those checked out. You get them way too often.” He sounds positively concerned, if not a little frustrated, even.

Syran chuckles, endeared by his tone. “It’s okay, doctor. I’ve had these for a while now, I know how to deal with them.”

Ilya’s tone doesn’t change. “Still, recurring migraines are not to be taken lightly. They can really be debilitating, I’m sure you know that. Is it a chronic condition? It sounds like it might be, I can– I can get someone at the hospital to treat you, if you want, my mentor is amazing in their field–”

“Ilya,” She interrupts him, “Breathe. I’m okay. I’m used to it.”

She can almost see his frown on the other side of the line. “You shouldn’t be. I– I wish you weren’t.”

God, she wants to take her heart out of her chest because it’s just choking her a little too much now. She tries really hard not to give much meaning to his worry. He’s her friend, he’s in the medical field, of course he wants to help, of course he’s concerned. He’d be like this with everyone else, she’s sure.

“That’s–” she clears her throat. “That’s sweet of you, but trust me, I’ll be fine. All I need is some good food and peaceful sleep.”

She’s not sure she can get the latter since she’s been having even more trouble with staying asleep during the night, but she can still hope.

“Well, I actually thought– uh. Wait. Are you done with work? You’re done, right?”

“Not really,” she sighs, looking at her computer screen. “Doing overtime today. Trying to get a headstart since Thursday we launch a new line.” She scoffs, tired. “I’m the only one left in the office, but it’s oddly calming.”

“Syran,” Ilya deadpans, tone almost scary.

“Ye– yeah?” She asks, wondering where this is going.

“I strongly insist you stop,” he warns, but she can tell there’s no real intention behind it. “You have to rest.”

She laughs. “Is that a threat?”

“Yes. Don’t make me use my mean doctor voice.”

She can’t help but laugh again. “Oh, I should listen, then.”

“Yes,” He says, but then his tone suddenly gets lighter. “Please?”

His plea almost gets to her. She really appreciates his concern, and– god. Honestly, she wishes he was with her right now. There’s no point in denying it.

Maybe it is a crush.

“I will, I will. Just have to finish one more thing and then I’ll go home.”

“Good. You better.” He reprimands. Syran smiles.

“I promise, I’ll send you a picture of Persie when I get there, if that will make you believe me,” she teases.

“Well, I will accept cat pictures anytime of the day, so,” he plays along, solemnly. “But– actually, huh. Have you eaten yet?”

Syran fiddles with a pencil, thinking when’s the last time she ate. “Not really, some colleagues asked me to go for drinks, but I’m not feeling it. Might just go to bed, to be honest. Too lazy to eat.”

“Well, too bad, guess I’ll have to throw away this extra chinese food I bought.”

“Uhhh. What?”

Oh god, if he really means what she thinks he means she might just hide under her desk and never crawl out.

Ilya laughs, but sounds nervous, “I called because. Well– I was going to check up on you and then I remembered you like chinese food, so I thought– you know, I– I thought I’d bring you some, figured you needed the extra care. Uh– since you’ve been having a hard time and all.”

Syran is going to die, right now this instant, she is going to plummet into the ground, twenty floors below, and bury herself under the pavement. Her cheeks are going wild.

She genuinely doesn’t know what to say except that if she could she’d materialise next to him right now, but at the same time she wants to run away and never see anyone ever again. She’s had crushes before, sure, but with Ilya it’s like– one moment she thinks she can handle it, and the next it just bursts inside her. Curse him and his kindness, and compassion, and dorky jokes, and handsome face.

Fuck.

“Uh. That is if that’s okay. Is that okay? I don’t want to overstep, I just thought–”

She should be dead right now.

“No, that’s okay! That’s completely fine, I actually– uh. I really appreciate it.”

Stars, the amount of times this happens. The number of times Ilya does or says something nice and completely unexpected and she’s so floored she takes ages to reply. And then, being the considerate person he is, he doubts himself and Syran wants to scream even more. Fuck, if this was Asra, or Pasha, or literally anyone else, it would be okay. It would be normal. She’d appreciate it, and hang out with them, and get distracted, and be fine. And it would all be okay.

But it’s Ilya, so her brain has to speed up and go in overload and overthink everything. Of course, it does.

“Oh, okay. Uh. Nice. So, I could come and pick you up? At work, that is. If you want.”

Right, because there’s nothing healthier for her heart right now than to be in a car with Ilya, in close proximity with Ilya, go home with Ilya, and eat chinese food with Ilya. Maybe she already died. Maybe this is some twisted version of purgatory. Either way, her heart is about to stop.

“Sure– thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Good, because I’m already, like, ten minutes away,” he chuckles.

Yeah, no, she’s done for.

🂱

Surprisingly, the car ride is a lot easier on her heart than Syran thought it was going to be.

After the initial awkwardness and small talk, she and Ilya just find themselves humming along to a song on the radio, which soon turns into a full-blown karaoke session. And just like that, it’s fine. Syran munches on a few spring rolls on the way because her stomach rumbled so loud that Ilya practically threatened to stop the car and wait unless she ate something right away.

Ilya pulls into her apartment complex’s driveway as they’re still laughing about some dumb joke he made about oranges. They’re still happily chatting in the elevator as they hold way too much chinese food in their hands. They’re still smiling when they walk into Syran’s apartment and Persephone welcomes them with insistent meows, demanding pets and attention. They share simple words and comfortable silence as they set everything on the table, stomachs ready to eat.

It’s all okay. It’s all fine.

It’s nice and smooth, and yes her chest is pounding and she can’t stop thinking about every little thing he does, but it’s fine. Spending time with Ilya feels like the world has stopped, she decides. Ilya and his deep, throaty laugh that goes five pitches higher whenever he finds something really funny for too long. Ilya and his hands, slender and careful, sure like death and taxes, he said once. Ilya and his eyes, always picking up on everything, but never revealing much. Ilya and his awkwardness whenever he feels too shy, Ilya and the way he recovers from that even though everyone can read through his bravado. Ilya and his all-encompassing hugs, Ilya and his thoughtful words, Ilya and his jokes, Ilya and his smile. Just– Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.

His name sounds like a song.

Everything is him and her sitting at the table, eating after a long day, soft music in the background, sun long gone, and nothing else matters.

Nothing else matters.

“That’s ridiculous! How can anyone say that?” Syran laughs before biting into the last of her dumplings. “Seriously, you’d think in this time and age people would know better than to make a sexist joke.”

Ilya joins her in the laugh, “I know, right? Like, the whole class went dead silent and didn’t laugh, then when I asked to explain it he was all like. Oh, I mean– I guess– I uh, well– maybe it was a little insensitive.” Ilya lowers his pitch and tries on a creaky voice, clearly imitating his professor.

It makes Syran snort and she has to cover her mouth in fear of spitting her food out.

“That’s where it got hilarious though, he just got all red either from anger or embarrassment, I’m not sure.” Ilya shakes his head, smile lingering on his face as he searches for a piece of meat in his noodles.

When the food is all done and cleaned up, leftovers neatly packed on the counter, Syran makes some tea for the both of them. It’s getting a little late and she stifles a yawn as she brings the mug to Ilya, back to sitting at the table.

Ilya notices, because of course he does.

“Maybe I should go, it was a long day for you.”

Syran shakes her head, maybe a little too vehemently. “I don’t mind! At least finish the tea. I sleep badly anyway.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, “That doesn’t convince me more, Elkas.”

“Seriously, it’s fine.” Syran laughs once more, then takes a sip from her mug. She’s grateful he doesn’t ask about her insomnia, though, she’s not sure she wants to think about that right now. When she glances back at Ilya, he’s looking at her with an odd glint in his eyes.

“What?” Syran asks.

He opens and closes his mouth, like he’s pondering whether to say something or not.

“Nothing, I just–” He frowns a little at her, like he’s trying to decipher her features. “Ah, it’s stupid, nevermind.” He shakes his head. But Syran won’t let go that easily.

“Ok, now you have to tell me,” she teases.

Ilya looks down at his mug like if he stares at it long enough he will be able to hide in it.

“I just– I haven’t felt this calm in a while,” He smiles, still without meeting her eyes. For a second, she feels like he read her mind. “Truth is, I’ve been struggling to keep up in university, mostly whenever we do sessions in the hospital. I always feel like I need to go faster, do more, be more. Like– like I’m never achieving enough. ” His brows knit and Syran’s heart aches a little.

She knows that feeling too well. While her life isn’t at its worst at all right now, she’d be lying if she said there aren’t many moments like that still. That there haven’t been any moments like that ever. She’s experienced most of them back in her university years, getting her degree was so stressful that she can’t even remember how many times she found herself in her room, panicking, crying, trying to make sense of it all. Trying to figure out where she was going wrong. Where she was going wrong with her relationship, where she was going wrong with her life. Never enough.

Sometimes work feels like that too and it brings back ugly feelings.

“But right now I don’t feel that, it’s like I can breathe a little, like–” Ilya continues, finally looking at her– she can tell he’s blushing. Fuck, god, she’s definitely blushing too. He chuckles nervously. “It’s nice. To be here, like this. With you.”

She’s going to die. She’s definitely about to die. She’s dead and this is nowhere in hell or heaven or in-between, this is just Ilya sitting in the kitchen with her, like frozen in a picture.

She can only hear the thrum of her heart, she can only see Ilya’s eyes, she can only feel the warmth of his body on the other chair, so close to her, yet so far apart. She manages to come to her senses enough to gather a reply.

“Yeah,” she swallows, nodding, as if that will bring her back to the ground. It doesn’t. “Me too. I– I get how you feel. It’s frustrating when the world makes you feel– so small.” She looks at the table, the smooth texture of what coated it once now long gone, leaving rough wood behind, unpolished, consumed in different spots. She feels like that, sometimes. Rough at the edges, full of splinters, and been through so much all she is now is exposed skin. Doing her best to hold it together.

She looks up at Ilya, ribcage too small for everything she’s feeling. “But. Yeah, this is nice. To be here. With you.”

“Good to know,” Ilya smiles. It’s small, but slowly gets bigger. She can’t look away from him, she probably has to, or else she will explode. It’s like he’s inching closer. Is he inching closer? Is it a trick of the light?

No, it isn’t because he definitely is. This is happening. It’s happening and Syran is going to let it happen. She doesn’t know what else to do, she doesn’t want to do anything else.

There’s only Ilya, Ilya and his lips, Ilya and his hand crawling up the back of her chair, Ilya getting so, so close. There’s only him, and her, and nothing else.

It’s just Ilya, beautiful, smart, charming Ilya.

His name sounds like the waves.

They’re about to kiss. And Syran is going to let it happen.

Or maybe not.

The sound of the door unlocking open breaks whatever spell they were under. Ilya shoots back, sitting upright in his chair, eyes wide and downcast like he wants to crawl under the table from the scare. Syran stares at him for a second more, dazed.

“Honey, I’m home!” Ran’s voice echoes through the room. Syran turns towards the entrance, her friend’s eyes tired but an unmistakable grin on her face. “Oh– hello!” She gapes for a second when she notices Ilya sitting next to Syran.

“Hello, Ran,” he waves. Ran’s eyes dart between the two of them, but before she can say anything else, Syran shoots up and runs to hug her.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I forgot you were coming back earlier!” Syran pulls away, holding her shoulders, genuinely happy to see her friend again. “How was the journey? Your parents okay? Are you hungry? There’s some leftovers–”

“Hey, hey, calm down!” Ran laughs. “Let me take my jacket off first!”

It’s weird, but the air diffuses a little when they talk a bit about Ran’s trip, just small, idle chatter. Ilya asks some questions, genuinely interested as he finishes his tea– almost chugs it, really. Then Ran excuses herself to go take a shower because she’s beat.

Syran knows she did that mostly to leave the two of them alone to say goodbye; Syran dreads the conversation she knows will follow later with her. In the meantime, though, all she can think of is how awkwardly Ilya stands next to her, all nerves, shoulders hunched. She can’t help but notice how much further apart they are now, how different the air feels. Something stings in Syran’s chest. She wonders if that split moment between them was even real. Maybe she imagined it.

Maybe they were never going to kiss.

God, the thought of that. Of kissing Ilya. She’s had it before, but. Now it feels so incredibly real and so incredibly farfetched at the same time.

“I– uh. Thank you for having me over,” he mutters, polite smile on his face.

“Sure, no problem. Thank you for rescuing me from work.” She tries, her mouth running before her brain can. That’s a stupid thing to say.

Ilya laughs, it’s still nervous, but not as much as before, “Anytime.”

Her brain can’t help but remember.

Anytime, for you.

Ilya leaves her with a wave, his distinct perfume made of musk and clean linen whooshing after him.

Syran feels like he took something of hers with him, too.

🂱

She is on her laptop when Ran knocks on her bedroom door. When Syran allows her in, Ran is wearing her cosiest pyjama and her hair is still damp from the shower.

“Feeling better?” Syran smiles, putting aside her laptop as Ran sits on the side of the bed. Persephone makes her way to her with a small meow.

“Much better, I was sore all over,” She sighs. “Man, a week helping my parents with the farm and my body is already done with it. I don’t know how they do it.”

“Remember that one summer we tried to trim your horses’ hooves?” Syran laughs.

Ran joins her, wide eyes in realisation. “Oh my god, yeah! What were we, fifteen? What a mess.”

“Yeah, I still have nightmares about that.”

“Oh, come on, Babette was just scared.”

“Yeah, and she scared me in return.”

Ran laughs again, Syran smiles with a shake of her head, remembering their time as unruly teenagers. When the mood calms down, Ran turns to her with raised eyebrows.

“So?”

“So?” Syran echoes.

“Well. Ilya was here.”

Oh fuck.

Okay, Syran should have seen this coming, really, given how and when she came in, but. Ugh. She tries not to give herself away. “Yes, and?”

“Well, you tell me.” Ran smirks.

“Oh god, not you too.” Syran buries her face in her hands.

Ran huffs a laugh, clearly way too amused. “What do you mean not me too?”

“I already have Asra and Pasha on my case, so before you ask– no, there’s nothing between us, no, there won’t be anything, no, I do want to kiss him.” Syran looks up from her hands and almost yells, eyes wide and blood rushing up to her cheeks. “I MEAN I DON’T. I DON’T WANT TO KISS HIM.”

“Hm.”

She groans, resigned to Ran’s enquiring stare. “It’s just– ugh, fuck. I just. I don’t know. You know? ”

“Oh boy, you're really gone huh?”

“Please don’t tell the others.” Syran sighs.

“From what you tell me I don’t really have to.”

“Yeah, but– ugh.” Syran shakes her head. “I feel so pathetic, he’s– he’s got so much going on for him, and like, it’s weird, right? Isn’t it weird?”

“Why would it be?” Ran asks, brow knotted.

“I don’t know– like. He’s part of the group and all. We’re all friends and I feel– I feel like this shouldn’t happen.” She groans again, head thrown back to her headboard.

“Syran.” Ran’s tone is a lot more serious now.

“Mh?” Syran asks without moving her head.

“Stop blaming yourself for having feelings. Not everyone is like Diana. Ilya has done nothing but care for you. He literally took care of you when you got hurt.”

At that, Syran’s eyes go wide. She didn’t think Ran was going to bring her up. Diana was– in a lot of ways, she was a mistake. They started dating halfway through her second year of university, and it was all fine at first. They really liked each other. Then, Syran’s insecurities (courtesy of her mother) started to show themselves more and more and Diana– didn’t take that so well. She started making Syran feel bad for everything, started blaming her for not being able to leave the house sometimes, started demanding more and more. Syran couldn’t give that to her. Not in the state she was.

Syran hasn’t been able to open up to someone in that way since. To trust her gut in the same way when it comes to romantic feelings. And although she knows Ilya is nothing like that– what if she screws it all up anyway?

Anxiety is starting to well up inside her, threatening to burst out. “Yeah, but. But what if– I don’t know. What if he’s just, you know. Acting like a friend. Because, I mean, he is, we’re friends and– that’s what friends do, right? And what if I open up like that again and. You know.” She looks back at her friend and she’s sure that Ran knows exactly what’s going through her head right now.

“Syran, I get it. And yes, you’re friends, but– you’re friends with everyone else too, right? And everyone has been lovely and understanding and they’ve known you for years, longer than Diana ever has. We all love you and understand you because we’re mature and not needy assholes.”

Syran laughs at that, then finds herself sniffing. God, was she about to cry over this?

Ran continues. “Listen, sometimes he looks at you like– I don’t know, like you’re the only person in the room. I’ve never seen Diana look at you like that. Or anyone else you’ve dated.” Ran smiles fondly. “The only reason everyone’s on your case is because you’ve been too blind to see it all this time.”

Syran’s blood suddenly rushes up, everywhere, head to toe. “Wh– all this time? What do you mean? Ran, I genuinely think he’s just being nice. And– and my feelings. I don’t want to do anything about them– I’m not even sure I understand them, I–”

“Babe, I love you, but–” Ran reaches out to put a hand on Syran’s leg, covered by the duvet. “You’re either incredibly dense, or incredibly in denial. You guys were literally about to kiss before I came in.”

“We–we weren’t!” Syran’s eyes get even wider, heart racing just at the thought of everything that could have happened. “Okay, maybe we were. I’m honestly not sure. It felt like– like everything was in slow motion.”

Ran smiles, but this time it’s understanding. “I say you shouldn’t hold yourself back anymore.”

Yeah, like that’s easy. Just before she falls asleep that night, her phone vibrates with a text. Ilya’s name lights up the screen and Syran’s heart swells in return.

From: dr. devowreck

hey, just wanted to thank you for tonight. I enjoyed it. I hope you’re doing well. I mean, like, with your headache and all. And work And in general i guess Uh, okay, goodnight, take care

Syran starts smirking at his words, but then embarrassment flushes her and she finds herself staring at the screen, brain empty of an answer, with no idea how to take that in.

To: dr. devowreck

Ah, it’s no biggie, the food was good And the company too i guess ahah Anyway, yeah, thank you. goodnight!

No one mentions anything. It ends there. Maybe they weren’t about to kiss. Or maybe he realised that it shouldn’t have happened at all and it’s sparing her the embarrassment of turning her down by pretending nothing happened.

Maybe– maybe she’s a fucking mess.

[arofili]

For the prompts: 41 with kidnap dads?

(Also requested by @ilya-boltagon!)

41. Meeting the Family of Origin

Elrond wanted to plan for this. He wanted to have several days to spend with each of his parents, talking them through this meeting, reassuring them that it would be alright, that they weren’t monstrous or uncaring, that he had put just as much work into his relationship with that one parent as he did all the others, that he loved all of them. It would be tense, and he didn’t expect them to become one big happy family, even after all these long ages, but...he hoped it would be the beginning of some understanding. Some softening of hearts, some hope for the future.

Unfortunately, it seemed that was not going to be the case.

Maedhros’ return from the Halls of Mandos, last of all his brothers to be free in Aman, was a quiet affair. Well, as quiet an affair as it could be with six brothers, his mother, Huan, his husband and father-in-law, and lastly Elrond himself in attendance. But it was no grand event like Fingon had described his own release to be, and the celebrations were mostly kept to a minimum when Maedhros himself expressed a fervent desire to be alone with Fingon for a few days. Or years.

Elrond, who had wanted much the same thing when he had at last reunited with Celebrían, could hardly blame him. And even when Maedhros and Fingon were at last open to receiving visitors, he waited awhile to call on them.

But though the readjustment was slow—nearly as slow as Maglor’s reintroduction to society, in fact—it did at last happen. Except, just when Elrond was beginning to entertain the notion of reconciling his foster fathers with his birth parents (which would, hopefully, be made easier since Fingon had made every effort to befriend his great-nephew Eärendil), those two separate parts of his life crashed together unexpectedly.

Elrond and Celebrían were having Maedhros, Fingon, Maglor, and Maglor’s wife Ezellë over for dinner when a knock came at the door. Elladan, not knowing any better (or, not knowing how to turn his grandparents away), let the surprise visitors in—and Elrond’s heart sank as he watched the smile freeze on Eärendil’s face and morph into a scowl on Elwing’s.

“Please,” Elrond said, rising to his feet and ushering this third set of parents into his dining room before he could panic, “come in! You are more than welcome to join us.”

“Are they,” Maedhros said stiffly. Fingon grasped his arm. Maglor looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. Ezellë smiled winningly to Elwing, the only other elleth in the room (Celebrían had vanished with Elladan and Elrohir, her irritation prickling across their marriage bond, though Elrond knew she was more anxious than truly upset).

“We can come back another time,” Eärendil said, still smiling, though his eyes were cold.

“I insist,” Elrond insisted against his better judgement.

Celebrían reappeared, embracing her mother-in-law (whom she knew much better than Elrond did) and pulling up new chairs for the new guests. The frosty mood thawed a bit, and Elrond allowed himself to relax, just a little.

Too soon.

“So,” Fingon said, valiantly attempting to begin an amiable conversation, “who’s sailing Gil-Estel tonight?”

“I do get some nights off,” Eärendil said, pointedly not looking at Fingon’s board-stiff husband. “And more of them, these days, now that my son is returned to me.”

Maglor flinched at the word “returned.” Elrond did not blame him.

“More of them now that there are less elves in Middle-earth,” Elrond offered. “Not many Men recognize the star for what it is, anymore.”

There was an awkward silence.

Celebrían asked Ezellë to pass the bowl of cantaloupe, and offered some to Elwing. She accepted, glaring at Maglor all the while.

“So,” attempted Maedhros, staring into his half-eaten chicken. “Elrond. Has your brother written to you recently?” He grimaced, immediately realizing that was a bad question to ask.

“His brother?” Elwing snapped, turning her icy stare from Maglor to Maedhros. “The one who passed beyond Arda, without visiting his mother first?” Her eyes darted furiously between Maglor and Maedhros, as if Elros’ Choice had somehow been their fault.

“Ereinion sent me a letter a fortnight ago, before he went hunting with Uncle Tyelkormo,” Elrond said, trying and failing to get back to safer waters.

“Uncle...” Eärendil muttered.

“Ereinion is his brother through Russandol and I,” Fingon said lightly. “They were there for each other after...the rest of us were all...lost.”

“The herald position was mostly for formality,” Celebrían added.

Another silence. Then:

“Are we really going to do this?” demanded Elwing. “Sit here and pretend everything is fine, that we don’t all hate each other?”

“Naneth,” Elrond said weakly, but she ignored him.

“I don’t hate you,” Maglor mumbled.

“I do,” Maedhros growled, eyes sparking, and Elrond’s heart broke a little. “Certainly I will admit our wrongdoings at Sirion, but that was Ages ago, and Maglor and I have paid dearly for those crimes—but you have not, for abandoning your sons to us you view as ‘monsters’—”

The table erupted into chaos. Ezellë excused herself as everyone else argued, Elrond and Celebrían trying in vain to calm them down. Somehow Maedhros and Maglor turned on each other while Fingon pleaded for understanding with Eärendil and Elwing insulted everyone including her husband.

Elrond came near to tears trying to settle things between before it turned into a food fight or a Fifth Kinslaying, and he was about to call the whole disastrous dinner off when—

An ear-splitting horn blast caused everyone to jump and turn toward the noise. Ezellë lowered the trumpet, handing it back to Elrohir with a murmur of thanks, and she raised her eyebrows.

“I believe I am the eldest here, surpassing even Maitimo by a year, not counting the complications of rebirth which I was not subjected to,” she said smoothly, “which gives me every right to call the lot of you children.”

They all bowed their heads in shame.

“Not you, Elrond, Celebrían,” she added as an afterthought. “But the rest of you...please. This is like Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë at their...not their worst, but only because that was nearly as bad as the incident that started this whole feud.” She turned to Elrond. “Elerondo. Yonya. Let now the child scold his parents! I am sure you have much to say.”

He shook his head. “Well, yes and no. This is...not the family dinner with my many parents that I had hoped for, but I cannot say I am surprised.” He smiled with no small amount of resignation. “But I love you all, and I know you argue because you love me also.”

“I would say ‘from the mouths of babes,’ but you have been alive much longer than I,” Fingon said wryly. “I apologize, Elrond; we truly have been childish.”

You weren’t the problem, Elrond thought, but Fingon’s apology spurred Maedhros’, and by the end even Elwing sighed and admitted she shouldn’t have shouted— “Though I still think we should not ignore all that has passed.”

“Next time let’s plan an evening like this,” Celebrían said firmly as their guests filed out. “Because there will be a next time.”

“I look forward to it?” Eärendil said, a little nervously.

At last they were all gone, and Elrond sighed, letting himself lean into his wife’s arms.

“That could’ve been better,” he murmured.

Celebrían opened his mouth, but he kissed her before she could speak.

“It could have been a lot worse, too, I know,” Elrond added. “Thank you for taking this all in stride, melindë.”

She smiled into their kiss. “I knew things were complicated when I married you—and to be honest, meleth-nîn, I’ve been preparing for something like this since I recovered and met Elwing and Nerdanel.” She giggled. “At least my parents weren’t here, or the Second Kinslaying and the hair incident might’ve come up, not to mention—”

Elrond laughed. “Your mother is as intimidating as half my fathers combined,” he joked. “Just be grateful that you did not have to ask any of them for my hand!”

[juliandev0rak]

Freebie- Cam’s Birthday 🌈🎂

Fifteen: Freebie! – anything you want! Want to repeat one of the prompts for a different OC? Have a different idea? Go ahead!

It’s Camellia’s birthday! I decided to use the freebie early to celebrate, so have some fun birthday shenanigans with Cam and Asra (and Pumpkin) set just before the arcana!

+ a tiny bit of angst

echoes of the past event

@arcana-echoes​

Camellia Giardini, they/ them 

Center City, Vesuvia

1 month before the events of The Arcana, Cam is 24 / 25

Words: ~1830

Warnings: this photo 

Asra’s been preparing for this day for a week. Normally he spends this time of year travelling, it’s too difficult to be reminded of the past around Cam’s birthday, a day they nearly didn’t get to see again. 

This year, he’s determined to make it a special day. Cam has no friends or family aside from him, and he knows that they love holidays and celebrations despite their claims to the contrary. He and Faust have been busy trying to put up decorations, counting on the fact that Cam always sleeps in so they’ll have plenty of time to get things ready.

Asra puts up crepe paper streamers and Faust tells him if they look good. By the time the apartment living area has been decorated Asra can just hear the sounds of Cam stumbling around in their room. 

“Good morning!” They say sleepily as they emerge from their room a few minutes later, still clad in pajamas. 

“Happy birthday, Cam!” Asra says, shocking Cam out of their morning stupor. 

“You remembered!” Cam squeals excitedly, now wide awake as they take in the brightly colored decorations tied to the ceiling and strewn across the tables and chairs. 

“Of course.” Asra smiles. Faust pops her head out of his scarf where she’d been taking a decoration break nap and sticks her tongue out in greeting. 

“Faust, did you help!” Cam says, reaching out to scritch her under the chin.

“Help friend!” 

“I’ve got a full day planned.” Asra smiles, “Get dressed and let's go!” 

“What about the shop?” Cam asks.

“We can take a day off, it’s your birthday!” Asra responds, already busy packing his bag to leave. Cam emerges a few minutes later dressed for the day and looking supremely excited.

“I don’t think I’ve celebrated my birthday before!” They smile, “Or at least not one I remember.” 

“That’s why it’s extra important to celebrate today.” Asra says, trying to hide his sudden sadness at the thought of Cam’s past birthdays spent in mourning or far away so he wouldn’t have to face them. 

“Let’s go!” Cam grabs Asra’s arm to pull him down the stairs. 

Cam’s enthusiasm is infectious and Asra finds himself genuinely happy as they go about their day. They stop in the market to get breakfast, and Asra picks up a surprise box from the baker for later. They make a quick stop back at the shop to drop off the box before heading to the next location. Cam has always wanted to see the Floating Market, but they’ve never bothered to venture that far out of Center City. 

Asra is their tour guide, showing them places around the city that they’ve never seen before. It’s hard for Asra to keep his spirits up as he shows Cam places that were once familiar to them for the “first time”, but Cam is having too much fun to dampen the mood. They walk arm in arm with him, pointing out fancy buildings and little parks they’d like to visit. 

Cam has been close to Asra for as long as they remember, the line between master and apprentice blurring away after so many weeks spent dependent on his help. Cam likes to think of Asra as their best friend, rather than their teacher- though he is that too. They only wish he didn’t go away so much, especially around their birthday. Part of their excitement for the day is having Asra there with them. Everything is more fun with him around. 

When they reach the Floating Market Asra promises to get Cam whatever they want as a present, and Cam picks out a royal blue scarf made of soft woven silk. It’s something Asra would’ve picked out for them and he’s glad that despite whatever else has changed, he still knows Cam. They wear the scarf from then on and Faust decides to ride in their scarf for a change, poking her head out to watch the sights as they continue their tour of the city. 

Cam is in high spirits, asking Asra about his favorite places in Vesuvia and all of the places he’s visited. They’re very excited to be celebrating their birthday, and although they can’t really remember any others, Cam is pretty sure this is the best one they’ve had. After they stop at a stall for a late lunch Asra suggests they head home for the surprise he’d promised.

When they open the door to the apartment they’re shocked to find the place a mess. The streamers are torn to shreds but only right by the window in the kitchen that they usually leave open a crack. The furniture is all in the same place except for a singular chair that's been knocked over. Asra puts a hand out to stop Cam from taking a step further into the room.

“Someone might have broken in.” He whispers. Faust slithers out from Cam’s scarf to inspect the room and Asra follows close behind. “Ilya if you broke in again I swear-” he mutters. Cam wonders who “Ilya” is but decides to save the questions for later when they’ve figured out whether there’s an intruder in the house. Cam creeps towards the hallway to check the bedrooms and doesn’t see a sign of anyone, or anything missing or out of place. 

They wait outside their bedroom door, too afraid to open the door to check. Asra is busy inspecting the kitchen window, so it’s up to them. Cam takes a deep breath and yanks the door open, slipping into a defensive position and yelling “LOOK OUT BURGLAR!” 

When nobody comes rushing towards them, Cam lowers their arms and relaxes. Asra stands laughing in the doorway behind them.

“Were you planning to fight an intruder?” He asks, “You wouldn’t do much damage like that.” 

“Hey, you’re the one who won’t let me handle any weapons or practice defensive magic.” Cam grumbles, joining Asra back in the living room.

“There’s nobody in here but us, I don’t know what could’ve caused the mess.” Asra sighs, taking a seat at the now upright chair. 

“Who’s Ilya?” Cam asks, taking the other chair. 

“Nobody you need to worry about.” He mutters, his dark tone takes Cam aback and they decide to drop the subject. Faust breaks the moment as she slithers up the table leg and inspects the box from the bakery that they’d brought up earlier. Cam had completely forgotten about the box from the baker but now they’re excited again, they love surprises.

“Asra can I open the box now!” They grin, already reaching towards it. 

“Yes! Open it!.” Asra smiles, remembering that he’d vowed to be in a good mood today. 

“You got me a... rat thing?” Cam says as they lift the lid off the box to find some sort of sleeping creature.

“A what?” Asra leans forward to inspect the box and immediately rears back, “That’s an opossum, not a rat.” 

The creature, an opossum, opens his eyes and blinks lazily at the two magicians, not seeming startled in the least. 

“Uh, Asra? Why did you get me this?” Cam asks, confused.

“I didn’t! I got you a box of pumpkin pastries, which it seems the opossum enjoyed as well.” He sighs, noticing that half of the box is missing and that the opossum has frosting on his face. The opossum suddenly launches itself out of the box and into Cam’s lap who yelps in surprise.

“Ah! I think he likes me!” Cam says, picking the animal up without fear. The opossum goes limp in their arms and looks like he’s about to fall asleep.

“Looks like we found our burglar.” Asra laughs, pointing to the hole that’s been chewed into the side of the box. 

“Well aren’t you a scary little intruder.” Cam smiles, giving the animal chin scritches just like they do for Faust.

“Friend?” Faust questions, appearing from inside the box where she’d crawled to inspect. 

“I hope so! Asra can we keep him?” Cam says, turning on their begging eyes. 

“He seems harmless enough.” Asra grins, tentatively reaching out to pet the opossum who still sits comfortably in Cam’s arms. 

“You just wanted a treat didn’t you?” Cam coos, “I love pumpkin pastries, I’d break in through a window and chew through a box to get to them too.” 

“You’re perfect for each other.” Asra jokes, leaning into the box to see if any of the pastries are salvageable. “Maybe we’d better get a new box, and give Pumpkin Pastry here a bath.” 

“Pumpkin’s a good name for an opossum.” Cam says sagely, nodding their head in agreement.

“You didn’t know what an opossum was five minutes ago.” Asra laughs.

“Yes, but I think it’s a perfect name.” Cam looks down at the now fully passed out animal with a warm smile, “My little pumpkin pastry!”

“You are aware that’s a wild animal that wandered in here, yes?” Asra says, starting to pick up the bits of tattered decorations. 

“Yes but he’s our wild animal.” Cam grins, “I’ll do some research in the books we have downstairs, maybe he’s a magical opossum.” 

“Maybe so, now help me clean this up so we can go get more pastries, I was really looking forward to those.” Asra pouts and Cam laughs, placing Pumpkin on their chair gently so they can help.

Later that night Asra and Cam sit at the table eating their way through a new box of pumpkin pastries that Selasi had been kind enough to give them free of charge. He’d thought the story was hilarious, but he’d been quite surprised when Cam pulled the sleeping opossum out of their scarf to show him. 

“Hey Asra?” Cam says, “This was the best birthday surprise, I’m glad you were here to celebrate with me.” 

“I’m glad I was here too.” Asra says sincerely, giving Cam a smile. He can’t remember the last time he’s been so genuinely happy in their presence, he’s not thinking about the past for once. Their dynamic is different now than it was before, but he knows that in any time or place, in any body, Cam would have had the same excited reaction to finding an opossum in their house. 

Cam is good, and curious, and always willing to try new things. They trust easily and leap before they look. Asra finds himself, as he often does, so thankful to have them here. If anyone deserves a second chance, it’s Cam. 

“Happy birthday, Cam.” Asra says again, reveling in the meaning of those words. They mean another year of life, another year with Cam here, alive and happy. 

“Birthday!” Faust adds. 

“Aww I love you both, thanks for today! I'll have to figure out a way to top it for your birthday.” Cam smiles, already thinking about magical decorations they can create and what foods Asra likes best. 

“Just don't get me an opossum, I already have my familiar.” Asra laughs.

“No promises!”

[moth-and-raven]

CHAPTER EIGHT

I’m proud of myself for finding the Raven again. It’s much easier during the day, though I must’ve gotten turned around at some point because I’m approaching it from a different direction this time. Regardless, I slip in the front door and see Julian immediately, pacing the length of the bar and chatting distractedly with the bartender in Neviv.

“Reyja!” He rushes over as soon as he notices me. “Thank god!”

The bartender rolls his eyes and puts down the stein he’d been cleaning. “You’ve a strong stomach, my friend, if you can stand our Ilya’s nerves.”

“I don’t mind,” I say softly. These words are for Julian’s benefit, not his. “It’s worth it.”

Julian blushes as we’re waved out the door.

“You’re alright?” he asks once we get outside, pausing on the steps to tuck my hair behind my ear.

I take his hand and mesh our fingers. “I’m good.”

He checks the area almost automatically, but there are very few people around at this time of day. Relieved, he lets out a breath and crosses the street, keeping to the shadows despite the lack of foot traffic. “I don’t know what I expected, but I couldn’t stop imagining all these horrible things...”

“It’s okay.”

Julian laughs bashfully and raises my hand to his lips. “It’s okay,” he repeats, marvelling over the words. “Hm. I haven’t said that in a very long time.”

“Nadia told me you’ll get a trial.”

“She’s a good woman, the Countess.”

I hear the heartache in his words. “You deserve it, Julian. I mean it.”

He cups my cheek, the leather of his glove cool against my skin. “I know you do,” he says softly. “It’s, well… yes, I know you do.”

He shakes his head like he can clear the gloom that’s fallen over us and nods towards the end of the street. “I thought we could go to my favorite tea shop. Barth makes a mean drink but it’s a bit early to start downing the Bitters, even for me.”

I’ll let him change the subject for now. I don’t want to upset him. “You’re not going to believe this, but I don’t drink tea either.”

He laughs. “No coffee, no tea, no alcohol. Next you'll tell me you don't like seafood.”

"Um."

"Ha! Mazelinka will be so pleased. She's been trying to keep me kosher for years."

"Is seafood not kosher?"

"Some of it is. But I developed a fondness for lobster after I left Nevivon and shellfish is assuredly not." He points down a side-street.

We turn the corner and I smile at him, latching on to his elbow. "I'll keep all your urges in check."

"Oh, I'm sure you will. I can't wait to see how."

He's so easy to talk to. Actually, this might be flirting. Maybe I'm better at it than I thought, when I have someone so eager to volley it back. "Does the tea shop serve anything else?"

"Mm, I think they have hot cocoa. A bit unusual for summer, perhaps, but I'm sure they'll make it if we ask."

"That’s the only hot drink I like."

Julian chuckles to himself. "You know, a good friend of mine prefers hot cocoa too. I hope you’ll meet him someday."

"I hope so too." I want to meet all of his friends, learn which foods he likes and which he doesn't, hear stories from his childhood in Nevivon and his apprenticeship in Prakra. I want to know him inside and out.

I want to love him.

Maybe I already do.

We walk for a while in companionable silence. My thoughts careen away into a bright future, full of peaceful nights and laughter. For once, it seems attainable, not a dream but a memory yet to be made. I don't have to dream when reality is so kind.

I catch Julian staring at me several times. He smiles when I meet his gaze, but he can't quite hide the sadness in the set of his brows. I understand: we're not safe yet.

Still, I've never felt more free.

"This is it." Julian stops after several blocks and gestures to a nondescript storefront patterned with abstract marigolds. We duck inside to cool shadows slanting across the floor, the shop mostly empty aside from a pair of young women giggling in a corner and an older man buried in a newspaper at the counter.

None of them even look up as we weave around rickety tables until we reach the back of the room. Julian pulls out a chair for me and hangs his coat on the back of the other, settling down where he can see the door.

“Will you be alright here?” I ask. I should’ve thought of that earlier.

But he nods. “This shop’s been good to me. Well, I should say its former owner has.”

“Former?”

“She sold years ago, after her wife died.”

“Oh.”

“Mm.” His gaze drifts to the counter, as if looking for a familiar face. "Aida was one of the first victims of the Plague. Poor Nura. It broke something in her, I think, to see the love of her life fade away like that."

"I can't even imagine."

"I wish I would've been here to support her."

"I'm sure you did what you could." I reach over to rest my hand on his.

He smiles wryly. "You think so highly of me."

"Yeah, I do." I watch him search me, like he expects to find the lie in my eyes. “I do,” I repeat more softly.

It almost seems like he wants to argue, but he shakes his head and redirects his attention to the mahogany tabletop, stroking the back of my hand with his thumb.

“Tell me something, my dear— that is, if you can. But I’ve always wondered: how do those cards of yours work?”

I feel the tingle of the tarot deck Asra made for me from my bag, like it’s been waiting for him to ask. I wasn’t even going to bring them, but I stopped by my room at the palace on the way out to pack some essentials in case I happen to find alternate lodgings again tonight, and when I was changing clothes, the black velvet pouch caught my eye. I can’t believe it’s only been a few days since I got them. I feel like a different person now.

I lean away from Julian to grab the cards. I don’t think he was expecting me to actually have them, but he smothers his surprise quickly. I tip them out of the pouch and start to shuffle as I talk.

“So the deck is seventy-eight cards: the Major Arcana, which has twenty-one cards plus the Fool, and four suits of fourteen cards each. Those are the Minor Arcana. We go to them for advice on everyday things, like money and emotions.” I pluck a card at random. “Like this, the King of Wands. He’s…”

I falter, but only for a moment. If this wants to turn into a reading, I’m not going to stop it.

“He represents someone bright and charismatic, eager to help if he can. Maybe a little older, but still confident and, um. And sexy.”

Julian raises a brow but doesn’t interrupt.

“He’s one of the court cards. Four of those for each suit. And every card has two sets of meanings, depending on if I pull them upright or reversed.”

“Reversed?”

“Upside down. Like this.” I spin the King of Wands to show him.

“And what does he mean then?”

“He might be more fearful, maybe afraid of losing control or showing that he isn’t as confident as he appears to be. Sometimes it means that he’s prone to anger, but—” I swallow hard. “But usually it’s more that he’s trying to force a certain outcome and kind of doesn’t care who he steps on to get it.”

Julian touches the card’s deep black surface, skating his gloved fingertips over the inverted King’s crown and the delicate silver lines of his leafy staff. “I see,” he says quietly. “Are these outcomes set in stone?”

“What?”

He looks up at me. “The fortunes they tell. Do they always come to pass?”

“Oh, um. Actually, ‘fortune-telling’ is kind of a misnomer. I think of reading the cards more as asking for advice. Sometimes what they say helps people make a decision, or see something from a different perspective.”

“Ah.”

I put the deck down when he has nothing else to say. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, don’t mind me. I’d just wondered what sort of secrets you could learn, if there was some way to…”

To tell if he’s guilty or not. “We can ask.”

“What do you mean?”

The cards can be tricky. Their messages are usually complex, multifaceted, and depending on who chooses to speak, purposefully vague. But the voices of the Arcana can’t lie. Whatever they say, no matter how deep the meaning is buried, is worth listening to. “Well, all that back-corner-of-the-market ‘you’ll marry into a rich family and have thirteen children’ kind of fortune-telling is bullshit, but if you hear what the cards tell you, they can help.”

Julian shifts in his chair, eyeing me from behind his curtain of auburn curls. “I’ve run out on you before,” he says. “Back at your shop, I mean. When we met. I, ah, I don’t think I knew what I was asking then.”

“I pulled the Magician, didn’t I?”

He laughs harshly. “You did. I assumed it was referring to Asra, but of course I already knew I was looking for him.”

“It might’ve been, but not like that. The Magician usually means new opportunities. Success. Maybe following a logical outcome and getting what you need.”

This time, his laugh is warmer, and when I look at him, he’s smiling. “And it led me to you.”

I hadn’t made that connection. I think he’s more familiar with this process than he assumed he was. A warm flush settles into my skin as he reaches across the table and strokes my cheek, his attention following the sweep of his thumb and settling on my lips, then darting back to my eyes.

“Perhaps I need another reading,” he says softly. “One I’ll listen to this time.”

“Okay.”

It’s so much easier to reach him now; his aura is welcoming, a rich imperial purple that invites me into it like an embrace. It’s ragged around the edges, fading to rust-red, but I could lose myself in its depths and never think I was lost. The tingle of a card beneath my fingers calls me back.

I wish it hadn’t.

“The Lovers, reversed.” I wonder if the Arcana are capable of mocking. “Um, before I say anything else, the Lovers doesn’t always mean, like, actual lovers. It might be referring to any relationship.”

Julian examines the silvery figures, avoiding my eyes.

“So, um. Lovers reversed could be something like not taking responsibility for your actions, or feeling a disconnect with someone you—” I almost choke on the dismay rising in my throat. “Someone you thought you were close to. Maybe there’s something getting in the way of being together.”

He nods sadly and I regret every word I’ve said since I fished the deck out of my bag.

“Yes, that… that clears some things up.”

The finality of his tone scares me. “It does?”

He tries to smile but it reads as a grimace. “Let’s get out of here, my— Reyja. I think we need to talk.”

------

It’s getting late when we leave the tea shop; the gentle tinkle of the greeting bell as the door shuts behind us sounds like a warning. I thought my nerves had settled, but Julian’s bearing has changed so thoroughly that I almost don’t recognize him anymore. His shoulders slump, his fingers pluck at the buttons of his uniform, and he won’t look at me. After catching him staring so many times, it feels odd.

I suppose it isn’t hard to guess why. Clearly we saw the same thing in the cards: there’s a lot going against us if we want to make this work. But we knew that. From the beginning, we knew that. I thought we were going to try anyway. The idea of losing him so quickly constricts around me and I find myself reaching for him. At least he lets me, and squeezes my hand so tightly in return that it almost hurts.

It crosses my mind that we could leave. Find a ship in the harbor, set sail for distant shores where no one knew us or what we’d left behind. But almost as soon as I think it, I know he’d never agree. He did that exact thing for three years; it was because he learned it didn’t work that he came back.

I won’t help him run. And I won’t let myself run either. I’m willing to fight for him even if he isn’t. I have to tell him that.

I’m about to when a musical voice cuts through the gathering evening.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite beanpole.”

Julian flinches, drawing me to his chest. But he relaxes again as soon as he turns around and recognizes who spoke.

“Speak of the devil!” he laughs. I can almost believe there’s nothing wrong, hearing him happy again.

“Talking about me? I’m not surprised.” The woman rests her beautifully-decorated crutches against the sandstone wall behind her and fishes in the pocket of her tunic for a cigarette case.

“No, you wouldn’t be, would you?”

“Oh stop, you’ll inflate my ego.”

“Ha! You’ve never needed my help for that, Nura.”

Is this the same person who started the shop we just left? The South End must be smaller than I thought.

“Who’s your friend?” she asks, gesturing at me with her head.

I’m not going to wait for him to introduce me this time. “I’m Reyja.”

“Nurlan. Your doctor and I go way back.”

A strange sort of pleasure warms me at the idea of Julian being my doctor. I wonder if they’ve known each other long enough for her to reassure him that there are people on his side, in words he won’t accept from me. “How far back?”

Both of them look at me oddly, but Nurlan shrugs. Her single sandal, I notice, is patterned with the same sort of flowers that adorn the walls of the tea shop. “Before he skipped town,” she says.

Good. “How did you know him?”

Nurlan raises a heavily made-up brow. “Jealous type, huh?”

I flush. That isn’t what I was thinking, but it’s a possibility I hadn’t considered. And I’m ashamed of the hostility that floods through me even without proof… and even though she’d called him mine mere moments ago. “I- I just meant, um.” How can I salvage this? How much can I give away without giving anything away? If I tell her I’m looking for a witness to his character, to prove to both him and the Palace that he isn’t the man who murdered Count Lucio, will she play along or try to get away from me as fast as she can, like simply being around me will summon the guards? I wouldn’t blame her either way: it’s a weird thing to ask.

But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m running out of time.

“Uh, sorry. Honestly, I was just wondering if he was always—” Thank god I’m already blushing, because I can’t believe I’m going to say this. “—as cute as he is now.”

Julian sputters and Nurlan laughs, bold and brassy. “Ha, you think he’s the cute one? Of the two of you, you definitely have that covered,” she says, and winks at me.

It’ll be a miracle if I ever stop blushing.

Nurlan doesn’t push the point, calling a tiny flicker of flame to her fingertip and lighting her cigarette. She takes a deep drag and eyes me through the cloud of smoke she lets out. “Yeah, he’s always been that cute. And he was always willing to do the difficult thing, always there when… well, he’s one of the good ones. Fewer of those around these days.”

Julian shifts, almost like he wants to run. But instead he chuckles nervously. “That talent for flattery is what makes you so popular.”

"Oh, you’d know if I was really flattering you. I could have you on your knees before you even realized it.”

“A-ahm, yes, I’m sure you—”

Nurlan cuts him off, holding up one hand. “Does that answer your question, Reyja?”

“Yeah.” I never doubted it: the only one who seems to is Julian himself.

“Good. I’d love to stay and chat but there’s a show tonight. You two are welcome, if you want to come. I can always find a place for my friends.”

Julian shakes his head. “Thank you, Nura, but, ah, we have other plans.”

“Suit yourself.” She taps out her cigarette. “But you owe me a drink before you go galavanting off again.”

“Of course.”

Nurlan eyes him suspiciously, but waves goodbye and starts down the alley next to her, towards a door held open with a box of stage props.

Julian’s gaze lingers on me after she leaves. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Why? She seemed nice.”

“Oh, she is. I’m glad you got to meet her before…”

I can’t let him keep doing this. “What is it, Julian?”

“What is—? Ah. Yes. Erm, right. How about we… the seawall. Let’s, ah, let’s go down to the water and, and talk.”

My heart aches as we cross the street, following the sound of the waves to the southern pier. He wouldn’t keep putting off whatever he wants to say unless it was big. I should be brave and just make him say it now, but I don’t think I want to hear it either.

We walk again, this time in silence. I stew in my own thoughts until I realize that we’ve stopped under a lantern just turned on for the night, close enough to the bay to see the Lazaret’s ominous outline cluttering up the horizon. Julian stares at it for a moment, then wheels to face me. I catch just a glimpse of the pain in his expression before he wraps his arms around me and kisses me so hard, I lose my breath.

He tangles his hands in my hair, his mouth frantic on mine like he would die without me. I’m only too willing to kiss him back, anchoring my grip on the collar of his coat. His attention wanders across my throat, drawing little red bruises where he sucks instead of licks, his breath warm on the saliva he leaves behind. I hold him closer and graze my lips along the shell of his ear, wound up in him so fully that, for a moment, I’m almost able to forget about the looming conversation that brought us here.

He hisses when I take his earlobe between my teeth, pulling away just enough to pant a few words. “P-please, don’t be afraid to bite.”

I happily oblige, and his hiss becomes a moan as his knees give out, making him sag against me and the wall behind us.

“Oh, again!” he begs, tearing his collar down to reveal the side of his neck. “Here, where you’ll leave a mark!”

As I sink my teeth into his pale skin, the image of him doing the same to me, brewed in the swirl of my desperate dream the morning after we talked so long at the Raven, comes rushing back. The cry he fails to swallow sounds so familiar, so passionate, that I almost don’t notice the tears on his cheeks until he steps away and cool evening air flows in to replace him.

“I’m s-so sorry,” he says, turning away to scrub at his uncovered eye with the side of his branded hand. “I’m so sorry, Reyja. Oh, I’m so, so sorry.”

And all at once, I know why we’re here.

“I’ve done you a h-horrible disservice,” Julian continues, pulling each word from a tortured place. “I’ve hindered you, distracted you. And now if I make you fail, I’ll have put you in the bad graces of the Countess herself.”

I answer without hearing my own voice. “Make me fail?”

“I’m afraid I’ve done to you what I’ve done to the people here, people like Nurlan and Barth. Somehow, I’ve made you all believe that I’m a good man, and I’m not. I can’t be: if I haven’t done what they say I’ve done, then where does this guilt, this certainty that I’ve wronged someone so terribly I can never atone for it… where does that come from? The simplest solution is usually the right one.”

He shakes his head and takes another step towards the heartless sea. “I was so selfish, dragging you into this. Oh, I should’ve been strong enough to stay away from you, no matter how much I wanted—” His voice cracks. “All I can do now is make sure you’re safe. Please stay safe, Reyja. Please. This time we’ve stolen meant so much to me. I’ll never forget it, but I hope you can.”

I fight through my numbness enough to find outrage. “You want me to just abandon you, leave you to your fate? You want me to forget my first, my first anything? My first everything? ”

“I want you to be safe. And you won’t be safe with me. There’s a warrant with my name on it in every city from here to Dayyruz. I cannot, will not, be the blood that stains you. Believe me, if I thought I could be the man you deserve…”

“Please don’t do this,” I whisper.

But he isn’t listening anymore. “The Lazaret out there, that’s what I have to offer. A monument to my failures as a doctor and as a man. I killed hundreds. Thousands, maybe. Every life that slipped through my hands is red in my ledger. If I don’t hang for the Count’s murder, I should hang for countless others.”

“Julian, please!”

His shoulders tremble beneath his heavy coat. “I won’t ask you to forgive me. You were right, what you said: that puts far too much of a burden on you to erase the wrongs I’ve done. And you shouldn’t forgive me anyway. I’ve h-hurt you.” He does his best to swallow his tears. “The best I can do now is cauterize the wound and leave you with nothing more than a handful of pleasant memories.”

“Please—”

“I’ll apologize to you with every breath until my last, Reyja, and it still won’t be enough. I know that. C-can… can you get home from here?”

With the bay on one side, I know exactly where I am. Maybe I shouldn’t tell him that, though, if only to spend a few more moments with him. But I won't let my last word be a lie.

“Yes,” I say, so softly it’s a wonder he hears it.

“T-t-then, then this is goodbye.”

He shifts out of the circle of light.

“Julian, wait—!”

But he’s already gone.

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

Nurlan Samal belongs to @atypicalacademic​.

prev || next

[afsaneh-jaan]

What if the MC got hurt during and assassination attempt? Like if they were asleep with Nadia and they heard an assassin come in and they stopped the attempt before Nadia could react?

[imma combine these two, because they are quite similar]

🗡 Nadia Assassination Attempt 🗡

(with my apprentice Afsaneh, because I’ve imagined her in this exact situation dozens of times before. yes, I’m that kind of person.)

shoutout to @countessatrinava for giving me inspiration and also being responsible for making this way longer than i had originally planned. :*

~~~

Afsaneh wakes to the whispering of curtains in the wind. She frowns, pulling the cover tighter around herself, shivering as a chill breeze ghosts over her skin. Why would they have left the window open? She rolls around to face the balcony doors, they sky still dark beyond the open wings. She grumbles something low and incoherent in her throat, about to get up and close them, but here eyes are already falling shut again, sleep weighing heavy on her.

She drifts off, the gentle rustling of the curtains guiding her on into sleep… When suddenly, her eyes snap open. What was that…? She stays perfectly still, ears straining. There. Almost too quiet to make it out against the background of nighttime sounds. A footstep.

The hairs raise on the back of Afsaneh’s neck, her spine tingles. Is she imagining things? …No. There it is again.

Not daring to move, Afsaneh strains her eyes and scans the shadows. There is someone else in the room, someone besides her and Nadia, she is certain of it. She can feel their presence.

Something flickers at the edge of her sight and she swears she sees the shadows move.

Her chest tightens as a sense of foreboding creeps over her. This isn’t right. Why is the window open? Did… did someone climb in through the window?

Bit by bit, Afsaneh wrangles her sluggish thoughts out of the numbing grasp of sleep.

Who would climb in through the window at this time of night? What–?

She stiffens as her attention is caught by a soft shuffle. It sounds from further into the room now. Barely daring to breathe, she inches her head around, staring intently into the darkness.

Beside her, Nadia is still sleeping peacefully, breath slow and steady. Beyond her, Afsaneh can just hear the soft scratch of cloth on cloth over the hammering of her own pulse. There was someone there, no doubt about it.

Suddenly, she hears a soft scraping sound… and moments later the shadows seem to manifest as a looming shape nears the bed, nears Nadia’s sleeping form. The glint of metal catches a beam of moonlight and Afsaneh’s blood runs cold.

No.

“No–!”

Afsaneh’s cry startles the other person and she used that opportunity to fling a blast of magic them. They stumble back and Afsaneh follows moments later, launching herself over Nadia and tackling the attacker to the ground.

They give a low grunt and struggle against her with surprising strength. Afsaneh grits her teeth, shaking as adrenaline pumps through her body. She tries for a punch, but she misses in the dark. All too soon she finds herself pressed against the floor by the weight of the attacker.

“Oof.”

“Afsaneh…?”

Nadia’s sleepy voice snaps her to attention. And the attacker too, apparently. She feels their weight lift off of her, catches another glint of metal, of the dagger.

No!

Snarling, she scrambles to her feet and throws her full weight against the attacker, pushing them against a wall. She claws at their face, nails digging into soft flesh and the attacker yelps in pain. Furious, she funnels magic into her palms, feels them grow unbearably hot against the attackers skin. No one dare hurt Nadia!

They yell and shove her away from them with a punch to the gut before turning tail and running towards the balcony. Afsaneh stumbles to her knees, but launches another blast of magic after them. She misses, the shot flying just past the attacker’s head as they vault over the balcony railing and vanish into the night.

Panting, Afsaneh drops on all fours. Her pulse hammers in her head and she doesn’t hear Nadia approaching until she feels a hand on her shoulder.

“Afsaneh! What happened? Are you all right?!”

The lights are one now, Nadia must have lit a lamp. Her worried face comes into view, her hands holding Afsaneh’s face.

“I’m okay… I’m okay…” Afsaneh says between heavy breaths. “But you should call the guards. That was an assassin if I ever saw one.”

Afsaneh leans back, ready to stand up. But instead, she flinches and sucks a sharp gasp through her teeth as pain suddenly flares out from her midsection.

“Afsaneh!”

Nadia’s arms catch her as she slumps sideways. Afsaneh grasps at her side, but that only makes it hurt more. When she pulls her hand back it’s slick and red with blood and suddenly the room seems to spin around her.

“Oh.”

The pain is blazing. White hot. Afsaneh gasps and she feels her breath quicken as panic settles into her. She’s been stabbed.

She looks up to meet Nadia’s gaze and sees the same mix of horror and fear she feels, reflected back at her. Tears prick in her eyes.

“Nadi…”

“Shh, shh, it’s all right.”

Nadia’s voice is steady, but only just. Her face is tight with worry. She eases Afsaneh down onto the floor and rushes towards the door, calling out for a doctor into the hallway. Then she hurries back to Afsaneh’s side, grabbing some piece of cloth on her way, a robe, which she presses to the wound. Quickly, the thin fabric soaks with blood, staining Nadia’s hands.

“Stay still, you’ll be all right.”

She runs her free hand through Afsaneh’s hair, fingers trembling.

“You’ll be all right.”

She repeats it under her breath, like a mantra, an effort to stay as calm as she can manage. One hand keeps caressing Afsaneh’s hair, her cheek, her forehead. Shaking fingers stroking sweaty skin.

Afsaneh looks up at her, breathing against the pain. It’s unlike anything she has felt before. She tries to focus on Nadia’s touch instead, but it doesn’t work very well. Not when her midriff feels like it’s on fire. She closes her eyes, a soft groan escaping her lips. Her eyes open again when Nadia’s grip on her tightens.

“What were you thinking?”

The exasperation in her tone can’t hide any of the worry behind it. Afsaneh snorts weakly, wincing when it sharpens the pain.

“Not much. It was either you or me. And you were sleeping.”

Nadia frowns, obviously not pleased with the answer. But in all fairness, Afsaneh isn’t sure there is any answer she can give right now that would please her. Afsaneh reaches out with her hand, biting down a pained gasp as the motion pulls at her side. Nevertheless, she cups Nadia’s cheek in her trembling, clammy hand.

“I’ll be fine.”

Nadia gazes down at her intensely, a storm of emotions behind her eyes. She opens her mouth to say something when the door is pushed open and a team of palace doctors rush into the door.

They move quickly, one of them kneeling down beside Afsaneh as the other ushers Nadia out of the door despite her protest.

“Please, You Excellency, if you could just wait outsi–”

“But I can’t leave her now!”

She attempts to push past the man and is stopped by a gentle but firm hand to her shoulder. She turns a hard stare on the doctor and he swallows visibly under the force of it.

“W-we promise, we will take the best of care. But we require some privacy.”

Before Nadia can answer, Portia appears at her side. She puts a hand on Nadia’s elbow, giving a gentle smile.

“Come, M’lady. I’m sure the doctors will be glad not to have you breathing down their necks.”

Nadia shoots her a sharp gaze and Portia reddens slightly, but stands her ground, waiting until Nadia relents with a sigh. She lets herself be guided away, eyes lingering on her bedroom door.

Portia leads her to an adjacent sitting room and Nadia collapses onto one of the seats, her face in her hands. Worry gnaws at her, winding a tight coil around her chest. She keeps seeing Afsaneh before her, hair tussled, skin paling, a pool of red growing slowly beneath her. She swallows hard against the fear that rises within her. She’ll be alright.

And yet. What if.

Her stomach twists with a sickening feeling of dread. How could she have ever let this happen? Where were the guards when she needed them, for goodness sake! An assassin! How could they have let an assassin onto the palace grounds, into the palace!

But she supposes that was on her for not stationing the guards well enough. Or for under-staffing. Or not providing them with enough training. Or not locking the window. Or not hearing the intruder. Or not waking up in time. Or not fighting the assassin herself. Or–

Nadia gasps. The worry, the blame. She feels like it’s choking her.

“M’lady…”

Portia’s hand is on her arm. A warm, anchoring pressure.

“She’ll be all right. We have the best doctors. And besides, a stab wound like that won’t just do you in. Ilya said so once.”

Why Julian was talking to his sister about stab wounds is beyond Nadia, not to mention the fact that she isn’t sure the doctor’s facts are quite accurate, but she appreciates Portia’s efforts at reassurance.

“Thank you, Portia.”

Her voice is soft and a little hoarse. She clears her throat and sits up straighter, clasping her hands tightly together.

The wait seems endless. Portia’s attempts at conversation soon secede and they are left in silence. Nadia worries her lips between her teeth, the hem of her robe between her fingers. Her gaze is fixed somewhere into the distance, unseeing. The image of bloodied Afsaneh unwilling to leave her mind. Absentmindedly, she rubs at the red stains on her own hands.

Finally, the door to the room creaks open and a servant informs them that the Countess is welcome to return to her room now. Nadia jerks to her feet, posture stiff, and rushes past the servant before they can say another word.

*

Through heavy eyelids, Afsaneh watches the doctors pack up their utensils. They have given her something and now the world seems a little fuzzy. She doesn’t mind, the bed is soft beneath her and the pain in her side has dulled. A quite welcome sensation. She leans deeper into the pillows and closes her eyes.

She hears the door open and urgent steps approaching the bed. When she opens her eyes again, Nadia is looking down at her, her expression a mix of worry and relief.

“You’re all right.” A confirmation to herself. 

Her fingers graze Afsaneh’s cheek, then run gingerly along the white bandage that is wrapped around her middle.

“Mhm. All good.”

The words feel thick and awkward in her mouth. But Nadia’s hands on her arms, her face, in her hair, they feel good. She sighs softly and leans into the touch.

“How could you put yourself in danger like that?”

Afsaneh frowns. What sort of question was that? The answer was obvious.

“For you.”

She blinks up at Nadia and sees tears glistening in her eyes. Her heart clenches.

“Oh, no no, don’t cry.”

She raises her hand to Nadia’s face, brushing a stray tear away with her thumb.

“I’m all right. I’ll be good as new.” She crooks her lips into a small smile. “Plus, I’ll have a cool battle scar now.”

Nadia’s breath hitches in her throat. A laugh, a sob, or both.

“You reckless fool.” It would be reprimanding if there wasn’t a tremble in her voice. She grasps Afsaneh’s hand, holding it tighter against her cheek, turning her head and grazing her lips against the palm.

“Hm, The Fool.” Afsaneh waggles her eyebrows a little, which earns her another sob or laugh. “You’re fool.” That earns her an exasperated huff, though it can’t compete with the worried fondness in Nadia’s eyes.

Afsaneh pulls Nadia closer to her so she ends up with her head resting in the crook of Afsaneh’s neck. Nadia shifts and is soon lying beside her, on arm slung carefully around her. She presses a kiss to Afsaneh’s cheek. Then another. Her fingers trace gently over her chest, her arms, as if confirming that nothing else is out of place, that Afsaneh is still here, with her.

Afsaneh closes her eyes and hums softly. Whatever the doctors gave her is pulling more and more at her consciousness. She feels Nadia’s lips grazing her temple, then her breath against her ear as Nadia whispers.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“Hm, no promises.” She struggling to form the words in her mouth now, sleep almost pulling her under completely. Sluggish, she turns her head and kisses Nadia’s hair. “Not when you’re in danger... Not when I can protect you...”

[aion-rsa]

Shadow and Bone Ending Explained: The Stag, Sun Summoner, and Black Heretic

https://ift.tt/3gA4blg

This Shadow and Bone article contains MAJOR spoilers for Season 1.

Netflix’s Shadow and Bone is a fantasy epic that has it all: A complex heroine, great supporting characters, and a sweeping plot that is based on a magical system that both empowers and isolates those who wield it. The back half of the season builds to a thrilling climax that’s both intensely satisfying and leaves plenty of room for the story to go in new directions in Season 2. (Which we better be getting, is all I’m saying.)

Let’s break down what happened in the Shadow and Bone finale and what it all might mean for the series going forward.

Alina Fully Claims Her Power

So much of the story of Shadow and Bone is about Alina’s journey to real agency, so it’s especially satisfying that Season 1 reaches its climax as she forcefully reclaims her power—both literally and figuratively speaking—from a manipulative man who only wants to use her for his own ends. Throughout the series’ eight episodes, we’ve seen her repeatedly shirk from a magical ability she never asked for and all the responsibility that comes with it, but here in the face of danger and death, she rejects the Darkling’s claim over her both physically and emotionally, fully accepting not just her own strength, but her right to wield it as she sees fit.

“You may have needed me,” she tells the Darkling, just before she stabs him through the hand and frees herself from his control.  “But I never needed you.” Striking a power pose and glowing with light, she is every inch a hero of legend as she pushes back the monstrous Volcra and saves her friends. It is an utterly triumphant moment, for a lost girl come into her own at last.

Does the Darkling Survive?

Yes, the Darkling lives to smolder another day.

No one is probably surprised that the Darkling survives his violent encounter with a volcra, eventually dragging himself beaten and bedraggled – but still looking very stylish, natch – out of the Shadow Fold. The ragtag band of shadow zombies that slouch after him certainly seems to indicate that Aleksander has successfully leveled up his abilities in some way since he couldn’t use merzost nearly so effectively in the flashback sequence that opened “The Unsea.” 

What this all means about his immediate plans for the future is unclear. It’s obvious that the Darkling is not just furious over Alina’s rejection of him as a partner but by her decision to – as he sees it – betray their Grisha brethren by doing so. (I also suspect he also really dislikes Mal at this point. Sorry not sorry, my man. #Malina for life.) It feels pretty likely that he is or is very soon about to be on the hunt for Alina once more, with a goal of regaining control over her powers and, by extension, the Fold itself.

The Shadow Fold Remains

You didn’t think the dark and ominous evil death cloud full of monsters would get destroyed in the series’ first season, did you?

It’s true, Alina doesn’t manage to bring down the Shadow Fold, but the Darkling doesn’t get to use it as his personal world domination device to subjugate every other kingdom to Ravkan (and by extension Grisha) rule either, so it still pretty much counts as a win in the end. He also exposed himself as a murderous tyrant, leveled the West Ravkan city of Novokribirsk, and animated an army of merzost shadow zombies that are clearly both dangerous and gross. Is he headed back to the Little Palace to take the throne for himself? On the hunt for Alina? Or something else entirely?

By the end of “No Mourners,” most people seem to assume that Alina died in the Fold, so other than small group comprised of Kaz, Inej, Jesper, and Zoya, no one knows that she’s off to find a way to boost her powers enough to face the Darkling again and cleave the darkness in two for good. Will the Darkling somehow realize she’s still alive? Will she be able to sense that he is too? Stay tuned.

What’s Next for Mal and Alina in Season 2?

My new favorite romantic ship heads off on their own new journey to search for a way to bring down the Shadow Fold and, by extension, the Darkling’s dreams of bending the world to his whims.

As Shadow and Bone’s first season comes to a close, Mal and Alina seem very much together in every sense of the word, cuddled up adorably to face a new horizon both literally and figuratively speaking. Now that they’ve both realized not just what they mean to one another, but how much they’re willing to risk – literally anything – in the name of staying together, it feels like there’s nothing they can’t do. (Except kiss, apparently, but I guess the show has to leave me wanting something from next season.)

What is the Sun Summoner Prophecy?

Alina Starkov’s ability to manipulate light means that she is a Sun Summoner, an extremely rare power that doesn’t fit neatly into the existing Grisha hierarchy. (Much like the Darkling, who is technically a Shadow Summoner.)

Since the idea of Sun Summoners was basically the stuff of rumor and legend anyway, many myths grew up around their existence, including a prophecy that basically predicted the Shadow Fold would not fall until a Sun Summoner was born to destroy it. (Shadow and Bone isn’t super clear on this, but the Fold has been around for over 400 years.)  Since Alina appears to be the only Sun Summoner who has ever existed, many Ravkans who follow the old religion consider her a living saint.

Read more

TV

The World of Shadow and Bone Explained

By Kayti Burt

TV

Shadow & Bone: Ranking the Ships

By Kayti Burt and 1 other

Who is the Black Heretic?

Though General Kirigan initially tells Alina that the Black Heretic – the Grisha considered responsible for the creation of the Shadow Fold and all the subsequent years of destruction it has caused –  is his great-great-great-grandfather, he is, as in so many other facets of his life, blatantly lying. There has not been a series of Darklings with shadow powers who have existed through the centuries, but just the single one. This Darkling, who has gone by many names over the course of his life, is the only Darkling and is at least somewhere around 500 years old. 

Shadow and Bone shows us the creation of the Shadow Fold in a flashback, which attempts to cast the Darkling – then known as Aleksander – in at least a somewhat sympathetic light. After watching his beloved Healer Luda die and fleeing from an army of soldiers with orders to drag him back to the Ravkan king, Aleksander becomes determined to discover how to use the dangerous dark magic known as merzost to protect himself and the other Grisha, including his mother Baghra, in his care. But though he is able to access great power through merzost, Aleksander cannot control it and it pours out of him in an inky torrent, creating the gash in the world that is the Shadow Fold and turning everyone in its path into volcra.

What is the Deal with the Stag?

Though Shadow and Bone mentions Ilya Morozova, it doesn’t do a great job of explaining his importance to Grisha history, at least not beyond his genetic connection to the Darkling. In Bardugo’s books, Morozova was obsessed with the idea of amplifiers, which are specific objects like bones, scales, or animal teeth that boost Grisha power past a single person’s normal abilities. (He is also referred to among religious Ravkans as Sankta Ilya in Chains, because that’s how he was martyred after he performed a resurrection – thrown off a bridge wrapped in irons.)

The magical stag Alina, Mal, and the Darkling spend half the series is hunting has specific connections to Morozova that book fans will remember but TV viewers don’t actually need to care much about right now beyond simply being aware of the fact that the animal is powerful and ancient. Per the Darkling, its bones would make one of the strongest amplifiers ever crafted for a Grisha to wear. And since, technically, it’s the Darkling that kills the animal he can claim the amplifier’s power as his to control, even if someone else is physically wearing it.   

However, before he is able to kill the creature, the stag has a moment of true connection with Alina in which it essentially chooses her to be its avatar and receive its power, rather than allow the Darkling to claim it in her place. Your mileage may vary on whether this as effective as the book twist hinging on Alina’s decision to show the animal mercy instead of killing it outright, but there’s still something compelling in the idea that this semi-magical creature sees Alina’s worth so clearly.

Nina Must Betray Matthias to Save Him

While on what is essentially the cutest breakfast date of all time, Nina and Matthias are discovered by a group of Grisha soldiers ready to do kill him simply for the fact that he is a Fjerdan druskelle. (Translation: Witchhunter). To save his life, Nina claims Matthias is a slave trader who’s trying to traffic her, an accusation meant to take advantage of the Kerch law that promises a bounty for him in Ketterdam.

 Since the sailors only get paid if Matthias makes it to Kerch alive, they’re willing to keep the Heartrenders from killing him outright, and Nina, who must immediately go with them in order to testify, buys some time to save him. Unfortunately, since Matthias was knocked out by Heartrender power prior to all of this going down, he thinks Nina simply double-crossed him and is having him thrown in prison as payback for his original capture of her. 

Though she’s clearly upset about his sudden change of heart, things get worse when Nina learns she can’t just recant her statement in court immediately – Matthias might be forced to stay several years in Hellgate prison (which you know is bad simply from the name) because so many accused slavers are awaiting trial. How she will free him – and whether Matthias will ever forgive her once she does – are questions for next season. But hopefully, they’ll at least get another round of waffles at some point. 

The Kerch Crew Heads Back to Ketterdam – and Maybe the Start of Six of Crows?

With Alina and Mal heading off on a mission to train her powers, the Six of Crows characters must begin their own new journey. Technically, the group is heading back to Ketterdam, where Kaz will ostensibly pay off the rest of Inej’s debt, reclaim the deed to the Crow Club and probably get a little drunk in celebration of the fact that they’re all home and still alive. (Or, at least, Jesper will.) But their convenient run-in with a very calculating-looking Nina on board the ship back to Kerch seems to indicate that a new chapter of their story is about to begin instead.

For those who have read the books, you’ll know that this all feels very much like the start of the story that takes place in Six of Crows. Or, at the very least something very like it. 

As that book begins, Kaz also is once again on the hunt for a Heartrender – enter, Nina – to help with a very complex job. But in order for Nina to pull off that job, the rest of the crew has to help her break Matthias out of Hellgate prison. Since that’s where he’s currently headed and we’ve already seen that Nina is desperate to fix what she’s done to put him there, it feels like a very safe bet that we’re about to see some portion of that story unfold next season.

Given that Six of Crows is chronologically set two years after the events of the Shadow and Bone trilogy, the show will probably have to do some fancy fudging of the timelines to make all this work. But…wouldn’t it be worth it if it means keeping these characters around for a bit longer?

What’s the Deal with Inej and Her Knives?

One of the smallest, most satisfying moments in the Shadow and Bone finale is when Alina gives Inej – who has been sweetly starstruck by meeting a woman her faith already reveres as a living saint – one of her daggers. Basically a literal representation of the heart eyes emoji, Inej declares that she already “knows just what to name it.” But what does that mean, exactly?

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Well, since all of  Inej’s other knives are named after Saints – Sankt Petyr, Sankta Marya, Sankta Anastasia, Sankt Vladimir, and Sankta Lizabeta, to be exact – it’s a safe bet the newest addition will bear Alina’s name. And given how handy Inej is with them, it’s probably the highest compliment she could pay her new friend.

The post Shadow and Bone Ending Explained: The Stag, Sun Summoner, and Black Heretic appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3tPKIAO

[brokenjardaantech]

rk1700 december day 5, 6, 13: superior/replacement; comfort; assemble/disassemble

written for @rk1700december. day 5: superior/replacement; day 6: comfort; day 13: assemble/disassemble

female connor is called rhea. rk900 is called cronos.

summary: cronos and rhea get a new piece of furniture and get adopted by elijah kamski.

also on ao3

----

It is the facility’s quarterly large-scale acquisition day. It means new equipment, new tech, new people, and nearly everyone is excited - a welcomed change and a reminder that they are not alone in the fight (Cronos is pretty certain by this point that there is a conflict going on out there, an intense and high-stake one nonetheless from how hard Anchor pushes him during training sessions. Exactly against whom or what it is about, though, those he has no idea about, and he leaves it be for now since Anchor doesn’t seem to be making an explanation anytime soon.) Even Rhea, who doesn’t quite understand what is going on, seems happier and more excited than usual.

What surprises Cronos, though, is that the two of them also have a quota despite not being Alliance personnel formally.

‘Is Rhea still staying in your quarters?’ Anchor suddenly asks one day as she reloads the thermal clip of her rifle. She had persuaded Cronos to let Rhea have some alone time while she taught him how to shoot, and Cronos successfully convinced her to wait for him in their quarters with a new box of building blocks. They exchanged few words until then, the recoil of the rifle against his shoulder and the blast of supersonic miniature slugs hitting the targets having become familiar sensations as a result, and although he is certain that handling weapons is in his programming, coating the slugs with his biotics to increase their damage is something new.

‘Of course,’ Cronos replies. The thermal clip isn’t completely spent yet but he reloads it anyway. ‘What’s the matter?’

Anchor raises her rifle again and spells out L. W. A. on the target. Her real name’s initials, maybe? ‘So you guys have been squeezing into the same bunk this whole time?’

‘I don’t see the problem with it,’ Cronos admits as he does the same to his target, RK9c appearing in the dented metal board. ‘We are close.’

The human looks impressed. ‘You guys need more space?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I reviewed the dimensions of your quarters. You guys can have a double bed which comfortably fits the two of you without sacrificing much living space, and since we’re requisitioning some new furniture anyway, I think…’ she puts down her rifle in exchange for a pistol and shrugs. ‘Why the fuck not?’

Cronos folds up his rifle and watches Anchor bury a few larger warped slugs into the target’s head. It twists and creaks under the force of the biotic fields attached to the slugs. ‘A bed is a lot of materials.’

‘Materials which we can afford to print,’ eject, replace. ‘There are already people who’ve said that they won’t be able to use up their quota of new materials and offered them up to people who need it. My rules are as long as the total amount of material we need doesn’t exceed the total allocated amount, I don’t mind.’ She holds the pistol with only her left hand and fires a shot. ‘I don’t want to waste anything so I think it’s good to ask you first.’

‘Then I need to ask Rhea too,’ he says before picking up a pistol and emptying all the slugs he can into the target’s forehead until the thermal clip overheats. ‘The bed is hers as well.’

‘Sure,’ Anchor fires a shot just to catch it midway with a strand of her biotics. ‘Give me an answer before tomorrow dinner. I want this done as soon as possible.’

Cronos nods and aims and then realises something. ‘Does it come with a new mattress?’

‘Of course.’

‘And blankets?’

‘Just go to the storage room and grab a few. Remember to wash them twice, though. Stars know how long they’ve been there.’

A plan starts formulating in his processors, and he can feel his face splitting into a grin. ‘Will the bed come in pieces?’

‘You don’t actually think we have a printer large enough to print a whole bed in its entirety, do you?’

‘Good.’ Then returns to his target despite his mind not being able to focus on it now.

‘You’re planning something.’

‘Just something for Rhea, Anchor. Completely harmless.’

Anchor snorts. ‘We are walking mini-nukes if we want to be, Cronos, even Rhea if pushed to her wit’s end.’ A shake of her head. ‘We’re never completely harmless.’

      Rhea blinks at him after his explanation even though he has already shared his processing power with her.

A new bed, she repeats. For us?

Yes, Cronos replies. We have the space. We will have the materials. We can build the frame together.

Rhea picks at a loose thread dangling from Cronos’ shirt with her free hand. What will happen to this one?

Chugged into the recycler just like everything else, maybe, he sends back with a shrug. We might even save some material by reusing this one’s, who knows?

Can I roll across the new bed?

It’s ours. We can do whatever we want. Just don’t break it.

Hmm. Rhea wriggles until half of her body is lying on top of Cronos’, after which she tilts her head up for a kiss he gladly indulges in by slowly coating every single surface of her mouth with his own analysis fluid using his tongue. Her whines make a certain part of him fill with thirium, Rhea starts grinding against it and sending waves of pleasure through both of them, and Cronos flips both of them over so that he is covering her body with his and is looming over her. Yes please, she tells him, and they get lost in each other for a while.

       Despite telling Anchor that he is going to assemble the new bed with Rhea, he knows it is very likely that he will have to either do it alone or ask someone to assist him due to the sheer size of some of the components. It can also be turned into a practise of his biotics, but he doesn’t want to hurt Rhea accidentally in case he loses control either. Disassembling the original bed is easy enough given his raw strength and the composition of its parts, though, and he is even allowed to chop some of the smaller pieces of the original frame into smaller blocks for Rhea to play with while the others - together with the now too-small mattress - are sent for recycling. He then goes to retrieve the components of the new frame after teaching Rhea to amuse herself by throwing the blocks around and is surprised to see a man he has never seen before waiting for him.

‘You’re Cronos, aren’t you?’ his body language is tense as if he is unused to situations like this. ‘Anna - Anchor - asked me to help you build your new bed. Everything’s printed out or shipped here; help me with them, can you?’

Cronos moves to help him load a particularly long plastisteel beam onto the trolley and notes the stripes on his sleeve. A member of the Council. ‘Is Anna Anchor’s real name?’

‘You can say so.’

An affirmative, then. ‘How about you?’ Cronos asks. ‘You know who I am but I don’t know who you are except that you’re in the Council.’

The man looks at his sleeves and lets out a small ‘ah.’ ‘Call me Elijah,’ he says and loads another box with a clank from the parts within. ‘Elijah Kamski, formerly known as Ilya Kaminski. Council member, traitor to the Alliance - according to some, at least.’

Cronos decides to carry the last box himself. With a cock of his head, he and Elijah begin their way back to his quarters. ‘I doubt you would be here if you had really been a traitor.’

Elijah chuckles. ‘Can’t argue with you on that.’

They return to Cronos’ quarters to Rhea sleepily pushing her new blocks around the space between her legs as her eyelids droop and her head nods every other second. Clearing the floor by giving it a biotic sweep, Elijah brings the package in and cuts through the wrapping with a crafting knife which came out of nowhere, and the mattress starts inflating itself upon coming into contact with air. They move it to the living room and lay Rhea down there, but after tugging her in and watching her squash her cheek against the pillow, she simply lies on her side and watches, with bright eyes, Elijah and Cronos set off to work. 

They bring everything in and scatter all the parts in sorted piles on the floor but Cronos is lost. He has no idea on how to start, nor does he think he has all the tools needed, and the human looks like he’s trying not to laugh when he looks at Elijah. Then he does. 

‘The Administrator programmed you to biotically charge at your mentor as an instinct but didn’t give you built-in construction manuals?’ A sigh and he sobers up instantly, wiping non-existent sweat away from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘How typical of her.’

‘Are you implying that the Administrator is a violent individual?’

‘Not inherently,’ Elijah sighs and shakes his head. ‘Anyways, let’s get this done before bedtime, shall we?’

‘Do we even have enough tools to build it?’

‘Look at these,’ he says as he picks up a beam. ‘The welts at the end. They’re supposed to lock against each other. No nails, no tape, no glue. Just tension and good ancient engineering.’ He puts it back to its original place in the pile and calls up his omni-tool. ‘Now I swear the instructions are somewhere on the intranet…’

Cronos doesn’t have access to a lot of things due to his identity as an informal on-site personnel but he delves into the databases anyway, hitting numerous virtual walls where classified data is stored and is reasonably out of his reach. He could’ve overridden them if he wanted to, but something in his programming tells him that it is not worth it, so he merely retreats and waits for Elijah to finish the job for both of them. 

‘There,’ he announces when he finds it. ‘Level one classified, of course, because why not. Stick your hand into the hologram and it’ll transfer to you directly.’

The hologram flickers and blinks when Cronos does so, but he indeed obtains the blueprint and the construction manual in the span of no more than a few microseconds; with new information at hand, they at last start slotting pieces together into larger parts on their own before collectively deciding to put some of the bigger pieces together to complete the outer frame first, and the three of them - Cronos, Elijah, and Rhea who has climbed out of the nest of blankets and pillows and is sitting on the floor wrapped like a dumpling - stare at the hollow rectangle for a moment.

‘Are you certain it’s going to hold?’ asks Cronos. ‘It seems…’ he doesn’t know how to explain what he’s feeling.

‘It will be sturdy once the supports are added,’ the human replies in a reassuring tone. ‘Let’s get them in before it actually collapses.’

And so they hasten their effort and shoves the support beams in, Cronos nearly breaking one of them when he accidentally put too much force on it and Elijah nearly trapping himself between two beams when he very nearly places a piece which would have left him no way out, but somehow, despite their clumsiness and lack of experience, they manage to get the frame done in less than two hours in total, and they let out breathes they didn’t know they were holding in realisation.

Elijah meets Cronos’ eyes. ‘Mattress?’

‘Mattress.’

Turns out, their most difficult task is getting Rhea out of the nest she has made while they were still assembling the bed frame. No matter how much Cronos and Elijah coax, sweet-talk, or bribe with toys or food or kisses (from Cronos only), the most reaction they can get from her is a stretch of her body underneath the blankets and a few mischievous blinks that definitely does not stem from sleepiness. Time for an ultimatum.

‘If you don’t get up now, I’ll have to snatch you,’ Cronos says. ‘You know I can and I will.’

Rhea’s jaw cracks open in a yawn and then shakes her head. Very well.

��Elijah, get ready to snatch the mattress away.’

‘Sure thing,’ the human answers with an incline of his head, and on a count of three, Cronos clams his arms around Rhea - together with all the blankets around her - and hefts her squirming body up as Elijah pulls the mattress and pillows away and drags them onto the bed with quick, agile movements that can only come from years of experience. He hops off the bed and brushes his hands together to relieve them of non-existent dust, and Cronos can finally throw both himself and Rhea - playfully, of course - against the supportive material with a bounce. 

Rhea melts against the mattress and him.

‘See, Rhea? That’s what you’ve been missing out on,’ he says as he shifts to give her more space to roll around. She keeps making these happy humming noises from her throat which makes his heart swell with happiness as well. ‘There’s a reason we don’t sleep on the floor.’

Rhea hums. With a lazy stretch, she rolled over for one last time before latching onto Cronos as tight as she can - which is not very tight at all, but he can give her the illusion that he is firmly in her grasp.

Elijah laughs and ruffles Cronos’ hair. ‘You guys look comfy.’

Rhea deactivates her skin and requests for an interface which Cronos gladly accepts. Waves of drowsiness and contentment crash into his system, and he has to set up a filter just so that he doesn’t slip right into sleep at the very moment.

‘Indeed.’

[adarlingwrites]

Absolution

Summary:

noun: formal release from guilt, obligation, or punishment

The Capital Wasteland lauded the Lone Wanderer as a hero, a Messiah, a savior who's willing to give her life for the Good Fight. Beyond the legends, the propaganda, and the mythification that surrounded her legacy, there is only one person who knew her bare soul. She gave him his absolution, and now he will fight for hers.

XI

December 27, 2277.

My mistress’ peers surrounded her and they’re either hugging her or asking her how her life has been since she went out in the wastes. Something stirs in my chest. I feel… happy seeing people care about the mistress. I’m certain that there are people who care for her in the Wasteland; Gob, Nova, Simms, Moira, Three Dog, the kids in Big Town, everyone else she has helped… and me. But there are people who wanted to hurt her too. Here in this vault, she is safe. I won’t be surprised if she decides to stay here after she’s done with her father’s project.

Seeing these teenagers joke around and catch up with each other makes me wonder if I could have experienced that too.

I follow Percy as the other teens her age led her to a jail cell, where they set their former teacher free. He seems proud of them. Percy introduced me to him, Mr. Brotch, and after the initial surprise due to my appearance, he shook my hand. We gathered back in the clinic, where the old lady who gave me a sweetroll held a prayer for James.

Just when I thought the mistress could finally catch a break, Amata drops a bomb on her.

“Percy, on behalf of the vault, I thank you for everything that you’ve done,” she starts, an apologetic tone in her voice.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Percy half sighs, half laughs. “Let me guess, I can’t stay?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry. But there are a lot of people who still blame you for everything that happened.”

There’s a clamor of protest from her peers. “Wait, but Percy saved all of us!” Gomez’ kid interjected. “Yeah, we can’t just kick her out,” a girl spoke up. From her resemblance with Wally, I suppose this one is Susie. “Percy! You can’t just accept that,” another girl interrupts.

“It’s fine, Christine. I can’t say I’m surprised. I always did stir up trouble in the vault, didn’t I?”

Amata laughs, bittersweet. “You shake things up, and often for the better. But the situation is too delicate for you to stay…”

“I know, Amata. Hell, I met Wally earlier. He’s too taken in by your father’s and his father’s lies. No offense.”

“None taken, Percy.”

“Can I go around the vault, one last time?” Percy asks, her voice cracking. I stand close to her, reluctantly placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Of course.”

And so, I followed the mistress around once more as she explored her home for the last time. I’ve learned her history from the places we went through. The place where she would stash her comic books. The place where her class would sneak off to so they can drink in secret. The place where Stevie hurt her. The place where she would hide and cry. The place where she would practice shooting. I learned so much about the mistress that night.

Our last stop was her and James’ living quarters.

Everyone stopped at the doorway, save for the dog, who still followed her inside. She looks over her shoulder, gesturing for me to follow, and I did. Looking around felt like a violation of her privacy, but then the realization dawned on me. Percy’s sharing this part of herself with me.

My mistress drags her fingers through the surface of a coffee table, dust collecting at her fingertips. “This is where dad used to read his books,” she almost whispers. She moves on to her sleeping quarters, a small room with a bed, a dresser, and a few items lying about. Percy picks up a teddy bear, old and worn with use, a soft expression on her face.

“Mr. Bubbles.”

Percy gives it to Dogmeat, which he happily carries in his mouth. She jumps on the bed, landing face first. “I can’t remember the last time I slept on a soft bed.”

After spending a few minutes on the bed, she finally stood up, shaking the dust off her armor. “Time to grow up, I guess.”

We went back to the clinic and my mistress collected her father’s things, one of which was a picture frame with something written inside. I still have difficulty reading the words, despite my mistress teaching me, but I can read the numbers just fine. 21:6.

A pair of girls her age went to me with apprehension. Christine and Susie.

“Hey, Charon was it?” Susie asks me.

I give her no reply.

“Take care of our friend, won’t you?”

I nod. “It’s what I’m here for.”

The group of teenagers, the old lady, and the teacher accompanied us on the way out. Gomez gives my mistress a nod, taking his place next to his son. The vault door opens, and my mistress takes a step.

“See you on the outside?” Percy tells them.

“One day,” Amata replies. “Goodbye, Percy.”

Percy doesn’t look back. The corners of her eyes are wet.

As soon as we’re out of the trap door, she lets out a sob she’s been holding in for fuck knows how long. And I held her again. I placed a hand behind her head, pressed her to my chest, and she cried.

Dammit.

She doesn’t deserve this. I want to make her feel better. Percy deserves better.

“Percy, remember what I told you earlier?” I speak up, my voice rumbling through my chest.

“Yeah?” she sniffles. A snowflake lands on her hair. It’s getting colder and colder as each day passes.

“I mean it. Contract aside… I’ll stay by your side as long as you will have me.”

“Thank you big guy,” she mumbles, wrapping her arms around my waist.

When we broke from the embrace, the mistress looked me in the eyes. “You’re the best thing that happened to me in months, Charon.”

I swallow thickly, preparing myself for what I’m about to say to her.

“...you’re the best thing that happened to my life,” I tell her.

Percy looks at me with wide eyes, filled with… what is this feeling? Whatever it is, I liked it.

“Charon, I…” the mistress stammers, taking my hand in hers. 

We were interrupted by a damn cough.

“Uh… am I interrupting something?” It’s fucking DeLoria. God dammit all.

“Wait, Butch?! What are you doing out here?” Percy asks him, stepping away from me. Dogmeat looks up to me and whines. Even the dog is disappointed.

“I told ya I’m getting out of that hole, didn’t I? Now-”

“You can’t tag along,” my mistress interrupts.

Sometimes, I wish my mistress would be more selfish, because now, this loudmouth greaser is settling on the couch while my mistress is rubbing her face. He’s bunched up in blankets, looking uncomfortable.

“One day, Butch. I help you for one day, and you’re out on your own,” she tells him, sternly, a hand on her hip.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get outta your hair as soon as I can pick myself up. Thanks, Perce,” DeLoria tells her, propping his head up with an arm. “You sure you don’t want me next to you?”

My mistress groans. “No. Now go to sleep. Rivet City’s a long way from here.”

Dogmeat, still holding Percy’s old teddy bear in his mouth, followed us as we went upstairs. I pull Percy aside.

“Percy, are you sure about this?” I ask her. I don’t trust the greaser.

“Yeah. Helping him get to Rivet City won’t hurt. I’m heading there to trade for ammo before we look for Vault 87, anyway,” she tells me.

“But what if he’s just taking advantage of your kindness?”

“What if it works out? Ease up, big guy, Butch is harmless. Compared to what’s after me in the Wasteland, anyway.”

“I just don’t want any harm to come to you, Percy.”

“I know, big guy. But Butch is what’s left of the life I had in the vault. He’s like family now. I can’t just abandon him,” she tells me, placing a small hand on my arm.

A small twinge of guilt blooms in my chest. Right. It’s not even an hour since she was exiled from her home. Of course she’d still be attached to her previous life and the people in it.

“I understand. Good night, Percy.”

“Good night, Charon.”

As I lay on my mattress, my mind wanders to my youth. Seeing where my mistress, no, my friend grew up in made me wonder what it was like when I wasn’t groomed to be the killer that I am yet.

I try to remember what I can.

March 18, 2065.

A little boy was flying to see my aunt on her birthday. I was that boy.

Looking out an airliner window, clouds were breezing by while Mama sewed and Papa was finishing the last of his lunch. I was holding a handmade doll Mama made with me, that I was going to give to my aunt. The sky was still bright and blue, not the ruined, green-tinged one I know today. “Are we there yet?” I asked Mama, impatient. My voice was small. A child’s.

“Patience little one,” Mama tells me. “We’ll be there soon. Excited to see Auntie Katya?”

I nod at her. I can’t even remember my mother’s face and my memory is struggling to fill the gaps. All I know is she had blue eyes, like mine.

“You know, Artyom, we were visiting her when your mama had you,” said Papa. His hair is red like mine. “Your Aunt Katya was there when your mother gave birth. She chose your name, too.”

So that was my name before… before...

“I can’t believe we’re finally back in California after all those years, Ilya. Sometimes I wonder why we stay in Alaska,” Mama said.

“What does California look like, Mama?”

“Hush now, I’ll let you see for yourself when we get there. Get some sleep,” Mama tells me. I remember pouting at her.

“Lullaby, please,” I ask her.

“Oh, fine, fine. Come here, love.”

I settled in my mother’s lap. She’s warm, soft, and smells of baked goods. Like a sweetroll.

“Spi mladyenec, moi prekrasniy, bayushki bayu...”

That lullaby always made me feel better. Sadly, I cannot remember the rest of it.

I’m taken back to the present, more than 200 years later, when the dog whines outside my door. I crack it open, and see Dogmeat outside, the teddy bear still in his mouth. I let him in. I lie back down on the mattress and Dogmeat lies next to me, sniffing his new toy before drifting asleep.

Through the thin walls of Percy’s home, I can hear her soft cries and sobs.

It went on for hours.

I can’t take it anymore.

Three months ago, I would’ve scoffed at the idea. I would’ve told myself that I’m a mercenary, not a babysitter. But I want to make my friend Percy feel better.

“Do you think we should get her?” I ask the dog, who was awakened by her sobbing when it started almost two hours ago. Dogmeat licks my face and sits patiently in front of the door, waiting for me to open it.

We quietly step outside my room. I look over the balcony, and Butch was already fast asleep. Good. I knock at my mistress’ door, and after a few seconds of silence, she opens it, her eyes red and raw.

“Hm?”

“I can hear you crying through the walls,” I tell her, holding my breath.

“Oh. I’m sorry-”

“Percy, you have nothing to apologize for. Do you need company?”

“I- yes. I can’t sleep. Stay with me, please?”

Please. I will never grow tired of hearing her say that word.

I step into her bedroom. Her only bedroom now, as far as I’m concerned. There are sheets of paper neatly stacked on the desk, and a repainted tin can holds her pencils. Her bed sheets smell faintly of Abraxo detergent and a human scent, unmistakably Percy’s. I sit on the bed and she immediately huddles into my chest, face pressed against it. I gather the blankets and wrap it around Percy, stroking her hair. I felt like a depraved old man, cuddling down with a nineteen-year old in her bedroom and touching her hair, but my feelings do not matter at the moment. Percy needs all the comfort she can in this shithole world.

Her sobs slowed into soft breaths.

“Better?”

Percy nods. “Thank you.”

“Anything for a friend, Percy.”

She looks up to me. “Friend?...”

“Is that not what you call me? Don’t overthink it.”

Percy nodded and rested her head against my chest. Dogmeat comes over to give Mr. Bubbles back, and she takes the bear, while the dog lies over our legs. We’re a cozy little pile.

I try to remember my mother’s lullaby, but my brain is failing me. I still remember the melody, however.

I start to hum.

Even in her sleep, she’s crying for her father.

Only when Percy settled comfortably did I allow myself to close my eyes.

??? ??, 2070

There’s a plate of pancakes on the counter, but I can’t have some yet. I look at my fingers, thin and bony, thumbing the page of a book while I sit in the kitchen. Mama is getting frustrated at me. I’m doing my best to understand what is on the page.

Then, we heard knocking at the door.

Papa is in the living room, so he answers it. I go back to learning how to read, but Mama isn’t looking at the book anymore.

“Artyom, keep reading. I’ll just make sure your Papa’s okay.”

She stands up and leaves me in the kitchen. I didn’t stay put. I hid behind the door frame to spy on them, and I saw two men shoving a piece of paper in my father’s face.

“You have the right to remain silent, Mr. Volkov. Anything you say-” one of them tried to say, but Papa interrupts him.

“This must be a mistake. We are not Reds nor we are harboring Reds-” said my Papa. He was interrupted by the men, who attempted to put him in handcuffs, but Papa is big and strong. He didn’t let them touch him.

“Mr. Volkov, please cooperate. We must investigate all reports that go through our 1800-REPORT-RED Hotline. You’ll be tried in court, and should you be proven a Red supporter or ally, social services will take your child into custody in an attempt to rehabilitate him from any indoctrination you might have-”

Papa pushes one of them.

“Do not touch my son. I am not going. That warrant isn’t even authorized! I am not coming with you over an accusation made by some paranoid idiot who called your damn hotline. Annika, call Katya. She’ll know what to-”

I hear a loud noise and flinch, then Papa falls to the floor.

Mama screams as she falls to her knees to make sure he’s okay. He’s not breathing.

They killed my Papa.

Author’s Notes:

I was listening to Daddy Issues by The Neighbourhood as inspiration for this chapter. It'll probably be the inspiration for the next ones too.

I headcanon Charon to be of Russian descent and I'm not the first one to do so, IIRC. His grandfather was a Russian diplomat in Los Angeles, and his father and aunt moved to the USA along with him as children. I wrote this as a shoutout/homage to one of the possible pre-made player characters in the first Fallout, Natalia Dubrovhsky. Stay tuned to find out how he ended up on the East Coast!

If we were to follow traditional Russian naming convention (first name + patronymic + surname), his full name would've been Artyom Ilyich Volkov.

The lullaby Charon's mother sings to him as a boy is called Cossack Lullaby, written by Mikhail Lermontov in 1838.

Also, Auntie Katya will show up in future stories! -wink-

[stellalucem]

for @bloodlot //  i luff Sinclair

The knuckles of his fingers are starting to dig unpleasantly into his temple, inciting the beginnings of a headache that radiates slowly throughout his skull. Cephalagia, he thinks to himself idly. Tension in neck and scalp determinant, as well as poor posture and heart stress.  

Oh.

Laid upon the surface of a desk is a great tome, opened to a beautifully illustrated pirate ship set upon the high seas. Opposite the page is where the tale of the dread pirate begins, but Julian’s eyes stare at the intricately-calligraphed drop cap that begins the story. Stares at but does not see. 

He could not have known how long he was lost in that trance: a second, a kilosecond, a quarter of an hour, half the day … and he might have stayed there, ensconced in an eternal daydream of a tanned-skinned pirate with snow-white hair drawn up in a high ponytail that whips wild in the thalassic wind—until the bedeviled rapping of Mazelinka’s wooden spoon upon the jamb of his door rouses him rudely from his reverie.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” she informs him accusingly, pointing the spoon at him to punctuate her intent. 

“All day?” Julian repeats, his lips pulling into a light frown at the confusion of her statement. “Surely not, I’ve only been sat here—”

“All day!” Mazelinka cries, reiterating her point. Her spoon now points imperiously at the hallway leading to her kitchen, where the familiar scent of food wafts in like a beckon. 

“Zharkoje,” she informs him, shoving at his shoulders from behind to keep him moving through the hall. “I thought at first maybe you were drunk. I almost made soljanka. For your трус hangover. But it appears you have a heart sickness. A different sort of трусишка complication. So something to give you strength.” 

Julian laughs as he deposits himself carelessly into a chair at her dinner table, dandling a wide soup spoon between his fingers as he waits for her to serve him her famous pot roast. It comes in an earthenware bowl, steaming fiercely, smelling enticingly of garlic and sweet onions, and the fresh hint of petrichor the champignon and oyster mushrooms bring. “Are you implying I’m a coward?” Julian asks breezily, grinning as he’s poised to take a spoonful of the roast. 

Mazelinka’s mouth turns down into a frown, her shoulders rising in a slow shrug as she turns away to busy herself with the task of stirring the pot. 

Julian laughs, and a sharpness like a thousand knife blades lance through his side. He gives a strangled noise as he crumples forward, hand pressed protectively just under his ribs, where his skin remembers the serrated teeth of a vampire eel that it never knew. 

Mazelinka whirls around, rushing to his side, her hand atop his as she attempts to gauge his pain. “What?” she demands, offended by his silence. “What is it? Tell me quickly, Ilya—”

He raises a hand to quiet her. “It’s nothing,” he insists, his voice even through the grit of his teeth, adamant in spite of the immediate pallor that paints his skin. He takes a moment to relax the tense of his shoulders and straighten, a decent enough pantomime of calm composure, an achievement upon which he attempts a weak smile to complete the tableau. 

Mazelinka still seems wary, eyeing him with a doubt like daggers as she turns back to her stew. “Not your gallbladder, is it?” she asks over her shoulder, her approach a little gentler now. “трусишка You should have me look at it. It’s nothing to me, to gather something to make the pain away. You know that. Don’t be stubborn, Ilya.” 

He nods, noncommittal, allowing the mouthful of mushrooms and beef he’s chewing on to excuse his lack of any further promise. 

Back in his room, Julian presses his back against the door, letting it bolster him as he tugs his shirt free from its neat tuck within his trousers. Slowly, he gathers up the material in his hands, inching it upwards, to reveal his side: as smooth and unblemished and unmarred as the day he was born. 

The curse is generous in that fashion. Julian can remember a handful of moments in which he was conscious enough to watch the sinews of a widened wound wind together in an infernal purl, so tightly and so expertly that no trace of any harm sustained to the skin were ever seen upon his body again. There had been moments where the phantom pains of a part injury have haunted his skin in passing remembrance. But not like this. Not with this virulence. Not with this violence. 

He wonders if it’s psychosomatic. After all, it’s the first time his heart has ever lingered in such a vexing state, rent in an infinitude of fragments that feel impossible to fit together again. Or the impossibility of ridding himself of the image of Sinclair etched behind his eyes, or the way his thoughts can drift only towards the cynosure of their face, their form, the sound of their sure, steady laugh, the implausible warmth of their touch, and the preposterous desolation they leave him in, in part and plenary. 

Julian allows the fabric to fall away from his fingers, the invisible wound hidden beneath it. The pain is only a muted throbbing at his side, nearly quiet enough to be forgotten for the time being. But he doesn’t want to forget. 

He doesn’t want to forget the pain that recalls the way his heart wrenches within the cage of his mended ribs at the remembrance of their silken mouth, or the way his pulse quickens to a stuttering, staggering gallop when he thinks of the twine of their arms about his shoulders with the presumption of a vine, of their embrace that feels like liberty within the purchase of slender arms. 

Nor does he want anyone else—not even Mazelinka—to impinge upon the secret, occult redamancy of the one night shared between them. Of the ardor and ardency that’s doomed to die unresolved and undecided between them. Because the unachieved possibility of happiness is far easier to live with than the certain fortuity of tragedy. 

[potentiallymrsdevorak]

In Fields of Flowers (The Arcana)

Chapter Two: Pink Camellias (Longing for You)

Pairing: Julian x Nijah (my female apprentice)

Summary: Nijah just found out that she had slept with her new mentor. How will he react when she tries to reach out? Will an old flame she had long forgotten spark something new in the doctor?

Word Count: 6,176 (a little less bc no smut soz)

Author’s Note: finally, here is the next chapter! I’m really enjoying writing this series, even though I’m...not very consistent. Lol. I do wanna let y’all know that there is a scene in here that can be very triggering to readers. If you’re uncomfortable with a man forcing himself on a woman, then you will want to skip a certain part with Luka and Nijah about to go out and about the Lazaret (slight spoiler). But otherwise, please enjoy!

Tagging: @drunkenomnist, @juliandevoraknsfw

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

Nijah’s nerves had never been so strained.

Just the night before, she had lost her virginity, a very intimate act, to the Dr. Julian Devorak? The man that she would be training under to help cure the plague?

If she wasn’t still wearing her plague doctor’s mask, she would have covered her face in her hands by now.

But Dr. Devorak seemingly kept his composure, continuing to read off the list of names.

“Katja Kuznetsov.”

“Present.”

The voice comes from the desk next to Nijah. She glances over to see the wavy hair of the girl who spoke pinned back in a loose ponytail. She seems nice, she thinks, as Dr. Devorak’s voice pulls her back to reality.

“Luka Pavlov.”

“Present.”

Wait a moment. I know that voice, she thought, turning around her shoulder to see where the sound came from. Luka slid off his mask, sending a wink in her direction.

She remembers him well. Luka was her first crush in primary school. He was also the first boy to ever reject her.

“Well, it seems that everyone has arrived safely.” Dr. Devorak concluded. “Now, if you all get in a single file line, I will take you through the Lazaret. Leave your personal belongings behind, they will get picked up and placed in your new rooms.”

Everyone else follows his command, as if he’s put everyone under an eerie spell. Nijah follows suit, finding herself standing right behind Katja. It looks a little strange, Nijah thought, to have all of us in a line wearing the exact same thing, huh. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought it was a funeral march.

Katja turns her head a little bit and whispers just so she can hear.

“Are you nervous?”

Boy, if she really knew.

“A little bit.”

“You’re Nijah, right?”

“Mhmm.”

“Okay, we should stick with each ot-”

“I did not ask you to speak.” Dr. Devorak glares at Nijah and Katja through his mask. Silence echoes through the room as no one dares to make a sound.

“Then, follow me.” The doctor demands as he takes the lead, opening up the door to the rest of the Lazaret. The apprentices follow behind, accepting their new fate.

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

The tour through Lazaret was...frightening, to say the least.

The walls, though made of brick, seemed colorless and void of anything but darkness. The patient’s wing was rather depressing, seeing so many citizens of Vesuvia essentially sentenced to their deaths with no way of escaping. They were to die in the darkness, away from their families, their loved ones...it nearly broke Nijah’s heart, wishing that she was with her family right now.

She did get a little excited when she saw the medical lab. Various tools and tables were set out in the space, letting Nijah’s imagination run wild. She wondered what sort of tests and examinations she would be conducting in this room, and if she could potentially find a link to help cure the plague.

“My office is right next door, here.” Dr. Devorak continued, pointing to the door with his name written on a large sign. “Dr. Satrinava and Dr. Valdemar’s offices are further down, but they are not always here. If you need assistance or have any questions, please feel free to ask me.”

Oh, believe me, I have questions, Nijah thought as she rolled her eyes, thankful that they were still wearing their plague masks so her sarcasm could not be detected.

Torches lit their way up the stairwell the doctor was leading them to. “And up here is the apprentice wing. This is the only space that you are guaranteed not to catch the plague.” With that said, he unfastened his plague mask, letting his curls fall in front of his face. “You may take your masks off now.”

One by one, every apprentice began to take their mask off. Nijah felt the stale air hit her face as she blinked to adjust her eyes to the dim lighting. She began to take in the faces of her fellow comrades, and tried her best to not focus on the man she found between her legs the night prior.

Katja turns around to see everyone else around her, and Nijah is nearly struck at her natural beauty. Her skin is the color of deep honey, her eyes shining a deep hazel. Her wavy ponytail frames her face perfectly. A simple golden nose ring hung from her septum. She looks like she would be a character in a storybook.

“Strange to see the masks off, hmm?” Katja commented.

“Yeah…” Nijah trailed off, eyes lingering on Dr. Devorak for a moment too long. Her new friend notices.

“Seems you’re a little shocked with the looks of the good doctor.” Katja winks, nudging Nijah in the ribs with her elbow.

The group continues up the stairs until Dr. Devorak reaches a tall, wooden door.

“This is as far as I am taking you,” he states, “for this is the apprentice dormitory. You will all share this space together, which is why it is imperative that no one brings the plague up here. This is the end of the tour. I expect all of you to be seen in the dining hall at sundown for dinner, which is on the floor beneath you. Do not be late.”

With that, he opens the door, the apprentices filing in one by one. Nijah thought that possibly, for one second, she would catch his gaze as she walked by, or possibly a smile…

But she saw nothing, not even a passing glance.

Disappointed, she stepped into the apprentice’s wing, eyes widening at the sight of the windows streaming sunlight in the room. A smile crept over her face as she stepped towards one, the city of Vesuvia far away from her now. Even though it was terribly far, it gave her hope. Hope that she would one day return.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Katja placed a hand on Nijah’s shoulder. “I swore we would be locked in a dungeon the entire time.”

“Me too.” Nijah turned her head to see Katja’s profile, illuminated by the light. She was glad to have gained a friend today.

“Well, we don’t have much time to dwell.” Katja said, sitting on the bed next to her. “Looks like we’ll be right next to each other!”

Nijah looked at the foot of the bed, noticing her bags and violin case were placed there carefully. She sits on the mattress, immediately feeling the stiffness in her spine.

“Oof…” she mutters. “They never said it would be the most lavish way of living…”

As the two women conversed, a figure that Nijah remembered all too well approached them. He looked almost the same, except his facial hair had grown in, trimmed perfectly for a gentleman, and his hair no longer sat on his forehead, but was styled upwards. On top of that, he had definitely grown and spent some time working on his...physique.

“Nijah,” Luka chuckled, extending his hand for her to shake, “It’s been some time, huh?”

She accepted it, giving it a strong shake. “It has. I’m not the little girl with the crush on you anymore.”

“Really? Aw, that’s too bad.” He smiled playfully, sitting on the mattress next to her. Katja shot Nijah a confused look, watching over Luka skeptically.

“Katja,” Nijah explained, “Luka and I were in primary school together. He moved after we had met, so I hadn’t seen him since.”

“How old were we then...around eight? Nine?” Luke pondered, running his fingers over his beard. “That seems like forever ago.”

“Yes, so it seems,” Katja replied, rather coldly. It was clear to Nijah that she did not like him.

“So, what do you guys have planned for the next few hours?” Luka asked, running his hands along the wrinkles of his doctor’s coat. “Anyone up for a little exploration?”

“Pass.” Katja spat, pulling a book out of a bright yellow bag and burying her nose into it.

“Okay, how about you, Nijah? For old time’s sake?”

Nijah pondered his proposal. She definitely would not mind spending time with him (as a friend, of course), and reminisce on their old times. But, she knew no one would be bothering Dr. Devorak right now, and there were some questions that she desperately needed answers for.

“Sorry, Luka, I have a few medical questions to ask the doctor.”

His shoulders slumped as a small frown crossed his features. “I understand. I’ll catch you at dinner, okay?” He patted Nijah on the back as he left her alone with her thoughts.

I have to do this now, or else I never will, Nijah told herself as she stood up from the mattress, sneaking out of the apprentice’s wing without a sound.

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

Nijah approached the office of Dr. Devorak quietly, anxious to see him once again. She was worried that she wasn’t going to get the answers she wanted. She rehearsed what she wanted to say to him over and over again, but knew that it would never be perfect.

She raises her hand, allowing her knuckles to rap among the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

A disgruntled sigh.

“Enter.”

Nijah opened the door to see Dr. Devorak sitting in a chair over his desk, facing away from the door. A lone candle was the only source of light in the room, leaving a warm glow around his sihoulette. A cot laid on the side of his desk, complete with a pillow and two blankets. Does he sleep down here?

Dr. Devorak turned over his shoulder, his expression one of surprise. “Nijah. Shut the door behind you, please.”

She listened, letting the door slam with a dull thud behind her. “Ilya, I-”

“Don’t call me that here.” He interrupted her, his voice growing menacingly low. “No one ever calls me that, ever.”

“Oh, sorry…” Nijah twirled a strand of her hair in her fingers. This already isn’t going well, she thought. “Uh, Dr. Devorak, I can’t help but ask you a few things.”

“If you are going to ask of the status of our relationship, don’t even bother.” He turns back around, scribbling something rather quickly. “You are my apprentice, and I am your teacher. There is nothing else.”

Nijah’s brows furrow as she crosses her arms. “How can you just hide everything like this? It’s not natural, Dr. Devorak.”

“Not only am I a skilled doctor, but I also spent some time in the theatre,” he responded, “I can be whoever I need to be.”

His confession broke Nijah’s heart in two. “Does this mean you were acting last night? Was everything you told me a lie?”

“If that is what you need to believe to get rid of your obvious feelings for me, then yes.”

“You…” her lip was quivering, her whole body shaking, “...you’re a monster! What kind of man do you think you are?”

“You’re right,” he stood quickly from his chair, moving fast enough to corner her in the small office. His fist banged on the wall next to Nijah’s head, making her nearly jump out of her shoes. “I am a terrible man. I have done things that you will never know, that you could never comprehend. If you stay with me, there’s no guarantee that I won’t hurt you, too. So, for your sake,” he stared intensely into her baby blue eyes, watching them fill with tears, “forget everything. Forget what I may have said, what I may have done. I’ll only bring you more pain.”

He backed away from her slowly, his expression laced with pure anger. Nijah could barely breathe, she was so frightened. He was nothing like the man she thought he was.

And he saw it in her eyes that she could never trust him again.

“...you are dismissed.”

Nijah wasted no time in leaving, her hand practically on the handle before he uttered his last phrase. As the door shut behind her, she pressed her body to the wall, letting it slide down to the floor. As she crouched with her knees to her chin, she let her tears fall silently. This was the last place she wanted to be. All she wanted to do was to go home and forget that everything had ever happened.

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

Julian Devorak sighed as he sat in his chair.

What were you thinking, scaring that poor girl like that? He thought, diving back into his work. His mind went to war, going back and forth with the different possibilities of how he could have made the situation better. His quill scribbled quicker the more he fought with himself, dipping it back in the ink more frequently than earlier.

She needed to hear that from you. She has no right trying to romance you as an apprentice.

But she has no ill will towards you. She just wants to see the good in you.

There is no good in you! There are still some things you refuse to forgive yourself over.

She would find it in her heart to love you.

There’s no way she would love a monster like you.

But it seems there’s a way for a monster like you to fall in love with her.

The tip of his quill broke, and he realized just how tightly he was gripping the writing utensil. He released another heavy sigh as he ran his fingers through his hair.

“What...what am I going to do?”

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

Learning about the different procedures in the medical lab was something Nijah found to enjoy. Dr. Valdemar, Dr. Satrinava, and Dr. Devorak were extremely knowledgeable in their content, and taught the apprentices thoroughly. Even though they were a little...strange, at times, she was definitely getting better at her craft.

“Make sure the incision in the patient doesn’t get too deep, keep it in a fine, straight line.” Dr. Satrinava demonstrated, making sure everyone was paying attention.

“If you cut it too deep, bring it to me so I can...ah, clean it up for you.” Dr. Valdemar insisted, licking their lips.

The whole room went silent. Nijah could hear Dr. Devorak swallowing heavily.

Dr. Satrinava rolled their eyes. “Ignore Dr. Valdemar…”

The apprentices spent the first few days testing out their new knowledge in the lab. Since the doctors didn’t want to risk losing more patient’s lives (and to the disappointment of Dr. Valdemar), they all used cloth dummies to practice their procedures. They were also assigned to work in groups and take turns performing on the dummy. Katja and Nijah teamed up together and, of course, Luka joined them.

“All right! Let’s get going!” He said, holding the scalpel in the air. Katja took a small step away from him.

As the apprentices began to practice their incisions, the doctors walked around the groups, observing their work. Whenever they may have noticed something was going wrong, they would step in and correct their work. However, Nijah and the rest of her group noticed that Dr. Devorak was being very careful to stay as far away from them as possible.

“Is it just me,” Katja muttered, “or is Dr. Devorak watching us?” Her snarky tone was aimed right at him, as he observed her motions from across the room.

“I’m sure he means nothing by it.” Nijah said, wondering why the hell she was defending him.

“With the mask on, it just seems more creepy.” Luka added. “Don’t you think?”

Up until this moment, Nijah had even refused to give him a passing glance. Now, as she saw him for the first time since the incident, her entire body trembled in fear. Her blood ran cold as his eyes flashed on her through his plague mask, remembering how those eyes were when he had cornered her in his office. Angry, fiery, wanting nothing but to get rid of her entirely…

“Hey, you’re up, Nijah.” Luka elbowed her in the ribs, trying to snap her back in to reality.

“Oh. Thank you…” She took the scalpel, angling it just so perfectly to cut a thin line. Dr. Satrinava walked by, observing her every move.

“Not bad, apprentice! You have some really nice skills.” They sounded rather cheerful, yet Nijah wasn’t able to read their expression. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a little warm inside.

At least one of the doctors thought she was good enough.

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

A little over a week has passed since the new apprentices first came to Lazaret. None of them had died yet, and everyone was starting to get used to each other’s company. Some, like Nijah and Katja, had become fast friends, spending time together quite a bit. Others cast themselves out, labelling themselves as loners. If people don’t bother them, they won’t bother you kinda deal.

Then, there were the small group of people trying to get together with others.

As time went by, Katja could see that Luka was trying to ask Nijah to spend a night with him. She could see it in the way he looked at her, the way he was always trying to butt into their conversations, his little touches going unnoticed to those who might not suspect anything.

Katja didn’t like it one bit.

Still, she kept her mouth quiet as she watched Luka ask Nijah to spend some time with him, one on one, as they all finished up their project in the medical lab before it was time to leave. “We could walk along the beach, see what lies in the forest…” he was nervous, running his hands through his hair as he asked this of her.

“I wouldn’t mind that.” She nodded. Katja was curious to see her expression through that mask of hers.

He took a step back in shock. “Really? Uh, great! So...I’ll see you after dinner?”

“See you then.”

He walked off, a pep in his step as he left the two women alone. The doctors still lingered, cleaning up the last bits of mess. They ignored the two apprentices, busying themselves in their work.

“Nijah, you really think that hanging out with him is a good idea?” Katja questioned her.

“I don’t think he means any harm.” Nijah answered. “I mean, he was my crush over ten years ago. It’s not like I have any feelings for him now.”

Katja crossed her arms at her chest. “All right. But please do be careful. I just can’t trust him.”

“I mean, if you’re that concerned…”

“No no no, I don’t want to stop you! Just please…” Katja took Nijah’s hand in hers. “...I want you to make it back okay. Holler if you need anything, okay?”

“Of course. Thanks for being such a great friend.” Nijah knew Katja couldn’t see through her mask, but anyone could tell by the look on her face that she was telling the truth.

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

After Nijah finished her dinner, she snuck off into the main hallway of the Lazaret. Holding her plague mask close to her pounding chest, she waited for Luka to show up. I know Katja said to be cautious, but...what’s a little harm in spending time with him?

She knew he was coming from the telltale clack of his shoes. Soon, he came into her vision, a huge smile slapped onto his face. He was much taller than she remembered, probably towering over 6’0 at this point. With the shoes, she bet he was even taller.

“Hello, Nijah.” He said, wrapping his arms around her shoulder and bringing her close to his body, embracing her tightly. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment all day.”

“Hello, Luka.” She patted his shoulder blade, not expecting him to be holding her so tightly. He let her go, hands still snaking around her body.

“What would you like to do tonight?”

“I don’t know. There’s so much to do, yet so little time.”

“Ah,” he grinned, “then I guess I can lead the way?”

He opened the door, allowing Nijah to slide through to the outside. Luka looked over the foyer, making sure no one was following, then shut the door behind him.

Nijah felt much more refreshed outside, the cool breeze kissing her skin. The sun had set, and the only light to guide them was from the moon, now half present. Crickets chirped, owls hooted, and the hum of the city could still be heard on Lazaret. The city might be busy during the day, but it can really come alive at night. This seemed true of the Lazaret...at least, the wildlife on the island.

Luka led Nijah around the perimeter of the Lazaret. The further they walked from the entrance, the darker it seemed to get. The torches that decorated the front were just specks in the darkness, unable to provide any further guidance. Nijah’s fingers trailed along the wall for assistance, straining her eyes to follow Luka. Something about him really felt off, as if he had something up his sleeve. In her gut, she just knew that something terrible was going to happen. But she shook it off, thinking that the island was giving her the creeps.

As she and Luka turned the corner, he stopped dead in his tracks, turning around to face her. “You know why I wanted you to come out here?”

“Uhh...so we could hang out?” Nijah let her back press up against the wall, waiting to hear Luka’s response.

“Hmm...yes, but I want a little more than that.” Luka’s hands rested by her shoulders on the brick, fingers splayed out like the legs of spiders. He was getting a little too close for Nijah’s taste, feeling his breath on her neck as he inched closer and closer.

“Um,” she said, turning to face away from him, “what do you want?”

He grabbed her jaw with his hand, forcing her to face him. “I want you, Nijah.”

He took her lips in his own, moaning at their first contact. His other hand wrapped around her body, pulling her right up to his chest. His hand trailed from her jaw to her hair, trapping her in his clutches. It was the most uncomfortable she had ever felt, and every nerve in her body was telling her to get out.

“Ngh…” he moaned, his lips barely brushing hers, “I’m gonna make sweet, sweet love to you. Take it as an apology for denying you so many years ago.”

Nijah pushes herself off of his chest, trying her best to get away from him. “I-I would really rather you not, Luka…”

“You have no say in this.” Luka growled. “You should be thankful someone wants to stick it in you.”

Nijah gasped, surprised that Luka could be so goddamn rude. She took a fistful of his hair to steady herself, and shoved her knee right in Luka’s crotch. As he kneeled over, crying out in pain, she made a run for it.

Damn, Katja was right, she thought as her feet started to go quicker and quicker. I should never have been so stupid...

Suddenly, Nijah felt herself falling in the grass rather abruptly. No sooner had she hit the ground, she felt some force pulling her ankle, back the way she came. 

“No, stop!”

She tried to grab onto the grass blades, dig her fingers in the dirt, but it was no use. Whatever was pulling her back was much stronger than she ever could be. As she turned over her shoulder to see what was pulling her back, her face nearly went white.

Luka was using his magic to literally pull her back.

“Told you that you had no choice, Nijah.” His magic continued to pull her until she was lying at his feet, her doctor’s outfit covered in dirt. “Guess I forgot to tell you that my parents were traveling magicians?”

“You...you won’t get away with this!” She shouted, trying her best to set herself upright.

He just laughed. “Oh, but I already have.”

As he held his hand out, slowly closing it into a fist, Nijah felt him choke her out.

Her eyes went wide as she tried to pull them away, but it was no use. She had no magic powers, could never fend him off. She felt utterly helpless against him.

“If you give me your body, then I won’t have to kill you. Seems fair, Nijah?”

Either way, she would feel dead after he was done with her.

“Never,” she spat, nearly snarling at him like an animal as he shook his head.

“That’s quite a shame,” he said, “I quite enjoyed getting to know you.”

His magic propelled her to the brick wall, hanging her up as if he was pushing his hand up to her throat. Nijah struggled, fingers still clawing at her neck. Her feet were dangling over the ground, like a rag doll being carried like a child.

“Let...ack, me go!” Nijah kicked and shouted, trying to get help from someone, anyone, for her to get away from Luka.

He stepped closer to her, his face level with her own. A sinister smile grew over his face, making Nijah’s blood nearly turn to ice. He squeezed his fist even tighter, and she felt more lightheaded than before, the edges of her vision starting to grow black.

“Goodbye, Nijah. It’s not like you’ll be missed, anyway.”

Nijah shut her eyes, accepting that this would be her last moment. This is how she would remember the world - dark, cold, and unwelcoming.

But just as she thought she was about to slip under, she felt herself falling to the ground, the imaginary hand around her neck gone completely. She took a few deep breaths as she laid in the dirt, her eyes slowly opening to see how she was set free.

She couldn’t see much in front of her. A dark cloak was covering her vision.

“What business do you have here, Dr. Devorak?” Luka’s voice hit her ears, echoing against the brick walls.

Wait, that’s...Dr. Devorak?

“Mr. Pavlov, I hope you remember that apprentices using magic at the Lazaret is strictly prohibited, correct?” Her gaze trailed up the cloak to find the signature tuft of curly auburn hair. He really did come to save her.

“So? It’s not like I was harming a patient!”

“Are you saying hurting another apprentice isn’t a crime?” He scoffed at him. Nijah imagined his silver eyes piercing right through Luka’s skin. “And that’s another thing, Mr. Pavlov. I hope you feel disgusted with the way you treated Nijah. What kind of man do you think you are?”

“I…ah...” Luka started, but this was clearly not his battle to win.

“Go, pack up your things. You will leave when the first boat arrives at the Lazaret. I hope you learned your lesson. And Mr. Pavlov?”

“Y...yes, doctor?”

“I have eyes and ears all over Vesuvia. If I hear that you try to hurt another woman the same way you did to her...it’ll be more than a rock thrown at your head.”

Nijah heard Luka gasp audibly, then the scramble of his feet as he ran off.

Once he was gone, Dr. Devorak turned around and bent down on his knees. His cloak uncovered her vision, revealing that he was wearing a dark colored coat, one that she had never seen before. “Nijah…” his voice softened, the edge completely gone, “are you all right?”

She was speechless, unable to form words. He held his hand out to her, and she backed herself up on the wall, eyes spilling over with worry. When she looked in his eyes, she saw the man that threatened that he would hurt her, that he was a terrible person who did terrible things. She was afraid of him, literally cowering below him, anticipating his next move.

Julian saw this. And he was ashamed in himself.

“Nijah…” His fisted hand dropped in the dirt, knowing how much he hurt her, “I’m so sorry. I never should have yelled at you, or pushed you away.” He sighed, running a free hand through his hair. “I will hurting you for the rest of my life. I hope you will someday find it in your heart to forgive me.”

She couldn’t bear herself to look at him yet. But she knew his words were pure.

Cautiously, Nijah reached her hand out to his, eyes still gazing on the ground. Her throat hurt too much to speak, but he saw it all in the small smile tickling her lips, all in the warmth of her fingers brushing on his gloved skin. It’s okay, everything will be okay.

Julian let out a sigh of relief, thankful that she felt something, whether it was love or forgiveness, for him. He gazed over her dirty figure, only one thing on his mind:

“May...may I hold you?” Julian asked.

Nijah nodded, finally facing him as she extending her arms out to him. He accepted her willingly, pulling her to his chest as her legs splayed out on the ground. His heartbeat quickened as he felt her body against his again, this time in an act that felt even more intimate than their last. As her face nuzzled against his doctor’s coat, he felt happy. Happy that she was here, happy that he had found her before it was too late.

It was then that he realized that Luka will still be staying in the dormitory before he goes off the next morning.

“Nijah, are you comfortable sleeping in your bed tonight?”

He felt her shake her head on his chest, a solid “no.”

“Would you...want to stay in my room? It’s not the room with the cot, I promise.”

This time, it’s a frantic “yes,” a nod that makes him chuckle lightly.

“Ah, let’s go then. Upsy-daisy…”

He hooked his arms under her legs, much the same way he carried her not too long ago, and escorted her to his bed chambers. As he carried her through the Lazaret, long after everyone had fallen asleep, she was thankful that he had rescued her. She felt safer in his arms than anywhere else.

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

He carried her all the way to his office, and when the door behind them had been shut, she found her footing on the solid ground. He lifted the cot from its place to reveal a trap door. As he opened it, a staircase consumed with darkness opened itself up to them.

“Follow me,” Julian whispered, one hand holding a lit candle and the other snaking its way between Nijah’s fingers. Her head was much clearer now, and she accepted it, allowing him to lead her wherever he wanted to go.

He guided her down the dark stairwell, leading into a small room with a large bed occupying the space. The blankets and pillows smelled like they had just been cleaned. The scent relaxed Nijah as Julian guided her to sit on the edge.

“I hope you enjoy your rest.” He says before taking one of the pillows. “If you need me, I’ll be down here.” Without another word, he plopped down onto the cobblestone floor and laid his head down to rest, blowing the candle out to envelope them in complete darkness.

Um...okay, Nijah’s eyebrows twisted in confusion. He still must have some physical boundaries with me. Letting Julian off to do his own thing, she climbed to the top of the bed and snuggled herself under the covers.

She closed her eyes to sleep, but the frightening memories of Luka still haunted her mind. She could vividly remember how his lips hungered like a bloodthirsty animal on hers, how his deep voice shook her to the bone, how she felt like there was no way to escape. And his eyes, oh hells, his eyes. He stared at her like she was nothing more but prey. And how his grin turned devilish as he tightened the grip around her neck, watching her take her last few breaths before…

“Ah!” Nijah gasped as she shot up in bed. She hadn’t been sleeping for long, but she already felt a warm rush fill her cheeks and a cold sweat on her brow. She did not like the things he was doing to her. Secretly, she wondered if it was his magic still at work...

“Nijah?” A voice called out in the darkness. A flick of a wrist, and the candle was burning brightly again.

“...yes?” she squeaked timidly.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Not really.”

“How can I help you?”

Nijah looked down and realized she was still wearing her dirty doctor’s clothes. Slowly, she began unbuttoning them and discarding them to the side of the bed. As her feverish skin met the chilly air of the underground bedroom, she knew exactly what she needed.

“Julian...can you come sleep up here?”

On the floor, Julian made a startled noise.

“Ah, I don’t...are you...do you…” he cleared his throat, popping his head up so Nijah could see his gleaming eyes. “Are you sure thahhhhhhh...”

His eyes lingered over her bare skin. She was wearing the shirt that he gave to her less than a fortnight ago, the plunging neckline bringing back his memories from that night. It clung on to her womanly form, just sliding off of her left shoulder. Julian couldn’t see what was hiding underneath the covers, but he wanted to find out. If, of course, she would be willing.

“Oh! Ah…” she pulled the covers a little higher, slightly embarrassed that he had seen her in such a state. “I don’t need you to touch me that way...I just need you to hold me.”

Nijah swore he heard him sigh in relief, but she would never be able to tell. “That...that I can do.” Julian smiled as he stood up from his place, making his way next to her on the covers. He blew out the candle as he was next to her, placing it on the floor as he tucked himself in, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close to his chest.

“Is this what you wanted?” Julian whispered, his lips resting at the crown of her head as his fingers intertwined with hers, resting near her chest.

Nijah took in a deep breath, filling her senses with his presence. His musky, yet charming scent filled her lungs and relaxed her. His cooling touch made her feel like herself again. Hearing his voice comforted her when it once frightened her. Her relationship with Dr. Julian Devorak might be quite the roller coaster, but right now, she had never been happier.

“Yes. Thank you.”

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

In her dreams, she was in a much happier place. There was not a cloud in sight, only sunshine fell through the trees of the forest she was running through. A happier tune played through her head as her bare feet touched the ground. She was running towards something, but what?

Finally, she stopped in front of a field of flowers, spreading as far as the eye could see. Many colors filled her vision - pinks, purples, blues, and the many meanings of the flowers resounded through her mind. Some of them her favorites, some of them she had never seen before, that must hail from a different world. Although it was a wondrous place, a beautiful place, she couldn’t help but wonder…

Why am I here?

But soon, she knew her answer.

She was running toward a man she had grown to become quite fond of. As he turned around to see her, his auburn curls blew in the wind, making him out to be the most gorgeous man Nijah had ever seen. He was wearing his white, billowy shirt and his black pants, definitely her favorite outfit he had ever worn. He opened his arms to catch her, to hold her close to him and spin her around in his embrace. When she held him, she felt like she was home at last.

Julian set her down gently, smiling as if he had a surprise for her. She felt a wave of excitement flood her body as he reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a simple flower, blowing gently in the breeze.

A pink camellia, she whispered to him.

One by one, he began to pick off the petals, letting them take flight in the air. She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not… He sang, his eyes never leaving her own.

As he played his little game, Nijah saw the sky become dark with storm clouds, cutting off any possible light from the sun. A frosty gust of wind blew through the field, and all the flowers around her fell to the ground, brown and withered. Still, Julian pursued, even though the world was falling apart around them.

The angry clouds turned red, thunder crackling through the sky. Nijah had never felt more terrified in her life.

Julian, stop! Let’s get out of here! She screamed, but her cries fell to deaf ears.

Then, the last petal was pulled, and a creepy grin stretched over his face.

She loves me.

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

Photo Creds

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Masterlist

[nataliesewell]

the arcana masterlist

Stop reblogging this post. The masterlist is no longer being updated. Dana Rune, the artist, is an incest shipper and the devs are just generally horrible. DON’T SUPPORT THE ARCANA.

i’m dreadfully curious and hopelessly lost when it comes to the arcana’s twisting, complex plot, which we still don’t know much about, so i figured it’d be best to compile what i know about the characters and the plot intertwining them so far.

of course, different options / combos in the game reveal different things. as i haven’t gotten them all, and i’m forgetful af, there’ll be information missing. this is where you lovely people come in. feel free to message me stuff i’ve missed, or ask me for proof of something i’ve mentioned that you haven’t seen before! this way this masterlist will remain canonical and truthful.

just to be clear, there aren’t meant to be any assumptions or theories here; this post contains only what we know to be fact, whether it be confirmed in-game or by the devs on tumblr.

there are major spoilers abound under the cut, for future discoveries in the game even: read at your own discretion.

UPDATES

AUG 29: added more information, including that from the devs’ tumblr, and made some fixes as pointed out by some lovely tumblr users

SEP 24: removed and added information on asra’s memory wipe

SEP 28: made a heading for book vi + future books and added new information

BOOKS I - V

BACK STORY

the apprentice and other characters reside in a seaside city-state named vesuvia

count lucio hosted the masquerade, a festival held every year on his birthday, where all the cityfolk are invited, rich or poor (people were only turned away when the palace was at capacity)

at some point, the red plague sweeps vesuvia, killing countless people

if affected by the plague, a person’s sclera (the outer part / layer of their eyeball) will noticeably turn from white to red

in the hopes of finding a cure, various physicians, scientists, alchemists, witches, and even fortune tellers were invited by the count and countess to the palace, where they offered them resources for their research

during the last masquerade, three years ago, someone killed the count when he retired to his chambers

julian devorak is believed to be the killer, and is being hunted by countess nadia, however there aren’t any leads on his whereabouts

the palace has been barred from cityfolk since julian’s escape, and no more masquerades have been hosted... Until Now

LUCIO

“provocative count whose presence still lingers over the city”

before becoming a count, he was a mercenary

was feared yet loved by his subjects / the cityfolk

had the red plague, as in his sprite lucio has red sclera

commissioned a painting in which he appears as the central figure, a goat, surrounded by other animals; it was a favourite painting of his, and so it still hangs in the dining room

killed in his chambers during the last masquerade, at midnight, by manner of burning / fire; the entire wing has been closed down and abandoned since

portia mentions there are many people who had motive to kill lucio, as he had a lot of enemies

has two dogs, melchior and mercedes, who guard the staircase leading to the abandoned wing; they might later lead the apprentice to the wing

depending on the player’s choices, the apprentice may explore the abandoned palace wing / lucio’s chambers and come into contact with an apparition of a goat with red eyes

ASRA

“wandering magician with a wealth of secrets”

grew up in the streets of vesuvia alongside muriel, as confirmed by the devs on tumblr

has a familiar, a snake named faust

the devs disclosed that faust was given to asra when she was an egg by another, unknown magician

operated from a fortune teller’s booth in the city for an unknown amount of time before he met the apprentice

well known by cityfolk, and appears to be feared by some as well (namely the fortune teller whose booth is close to the palace)

later came to live with the apprentice in their shop-slash-home

went to the palace to find a cure for the red plague; the apprentice had no knowledge of this

left on a journey during the start of the game, though where he went is unknown to the player and apprentice

when telling his fortune, the apprentice picks the high priestess card, and says to asra, “you’ve forsaken her. you’ve pushed her away, and buried her voice. she calls out to you, but you won’t listen. if you don’t listen to her...”

was in a relationship with julian for an unknown amount of time; it also isn’t known when the relationship started or ended

in his grimoire preview, julian says that asra is a “witch that fears commitment”

gave julian a key to the apprentice’s shop during their relationship; julian reveals he made various house calls, namely to asra’s bedroom (the apprentice had no knowledge of this, nor of their relationship)

left faust behind with the apprentice, stating his instincts told him to after having his fortune read

when glimpsed from the fountain at the palace, as well as in the apprentice’s dreams, asra is in a vast desert atop a “strange beast”

if the player asks where he is, asra answers, “a place inside of me. who would have thought you’d be able to reach me here?”

if asked about his relation to julian, asra admits he was his friend and later became “more. and then something else... something that i had to get away from”

if asked about his relation to nadia, asra says that she was “a dear friend, once. we could talk about anything, everything, all night long. we trusted each other. for a time... but we’re strangers now”

if asked who the apprentice is to them, asra confesses his romantic feelings for them, and then erases the apprentice’s memory of it; the devs have explained this is not a continuous thing

JULIAN

“fugitive doctor who hungers for revenge”

while he is a doctor, he’s an unlicensed one

brother of portia (who refers to him as ilya); the two of them haven’t seen each other in years

went to the palace in order to find a cure for the red plague; nadia  says that julian was lucio’s “trusted physician” before his death

at the last masquerade, julian was implicated in lucio’s murder; the apprentice mentions he was captured (or surrendered) “on the spot”, but before he could be executed, he escaped

wrote a letter to portia while at the palace, which the player / apprentice doesn’t know the entirety of; as it was found among his things at the palace, he might not have sent it to portia

what we know was in the letter: “dear sister, i have... much to share since last i wrote. winter has come to the palace... these marble floors are so cold... each morning...”

looking for asra at the start of the game, which is why he breaks into the shop and meets the apprentice

when telling his fortune, the apprentice picks the death card, but the card doesn’t speak to them; whether it be because of how nervous they are or something else, we don’t know

julian reacts to the card by laughing  and saying “death cast her gaze on this wretch and turned away. she has no interest in an abomination like me”

was given a key to the apprentice’s shop by asra during their relationship; it appears julian didn’t know anything about the apprentice prior to meeting them at the start of the game

isn’t afraid to be seen, as evidenced by his appearance at the marketplace as well as at the rowdy raven tavern

if the player asks about this, julian explains the tavern goers won’t turn him in as they don’t like the palace guards (the apprentice is surprised, as where they live, the cityfolk treat the guards with reverence)

should the player have seen him at the marketplace, they will comment on his presence there, to which julian vaguely answers he “just has one of those faces”

of julian, asra says he’s “a hack physician with a lot to learn” and continues with “who is julian to me... who is he to anyone? whoever he needs to be, to get what he wants”

NADIA

“widowed countess whose word is law”

a foreigner to vesuvia, she lived in prakra (“a vast empire in the north”) before marrying lucio; she misses it deeply, and speaks on length about the sea there

doesn’t feel she can trust most people at the palace, as mentioned by portia

not a magician, however can see visions of the future in her dreams; she dreamt of the apprentice before the start of the game, which is why she sought them out

nadia comments the apprentice was “...different” in her dream

in the same dream, she saw a vision of a future she “will not allow to pass”

when telling her fortune, the apprentice picks the magician card, and says nadia has “a plan. one that’s long in the making. years upon years” that she hopes to put into motion

the devs have revealed that nadia doesn’t love lucio, and might not even harbour any friendly / kind feelings towards him either

regardless, she calls lucio’s death a “vicious injustice upon this house”

when revealing her plan to host another masquerade, she says it will be “more fanatical than ever. fantastical, excuse me”

the cityfolk believe her to be a tyrant, and fear her, much like they did lucio; however they do not love her as they loved lucio

is known to despise magicians and fortune tellers; nadia later explains she doesn’t hate them but is wary of them (as they may be pretending to have magical abilities)

has frequent, recurring headaches, which portia says are getting worse since nadia decided to host another masquerade and find julian

announces (through portia) to the cityfolk that another masquerade will be hosted soon, in honour of lucio --- none of the courtiers were aware of this until the announcement

she hopes the masquerade will lure julian, whom she believes to be lucio’s killer; she wishes to execute him publicly for the crime

wants help from the apprentice in catching julian, through magical means

gifts the apprentice an emerald necklace, which has asra’s magic tied to it; how she came to possess it is not explained

used to be friends with asra, though they are strangers now

of nadia, asra comments, “precious friends, precious experiences... you’d be amazed what people can forget. when they don’t want to remember...”

MURIEL

“fearsome outsider who owes an onerous debt”

muriel and asra are childhood friends, as confirmed by the devs on tumblr

also confirmed is the fact that muriel used to be a gladiator

muriel owes someone - currently unknown - an enormous monetary debt

if the player moves past him in the alley, he warns the apprentice of someone who “will return, uninvited. he will offer you a gift, when you need it most... turn it away. or you will fall into his hand... just like the rest of us” --- it is unknown who he’s referring to

if the player tells him to move in the alley, his warning changes slightly; he says “he will offer you an escape” instead

smells strongly of myrrh; the small leather pouch left on the stoop of the apprentice’s shop smelled of myrrh as well, which the apprentice notes, so it was likely left there by muriel

if the player seeks muriel out before portia’s announcement, asking him where he’s going, muriel answers, “blindly to the slaughter. just like the rest of you”

he later adds: “it doesn’t matter what i say. my words won’t last. they never do”

PORTIA

“trusted handmaiden with a penchant for snooping”

sister of julian (who refers to her as pasha); the two of them haven’t seen each other in years

handmaiden to nadia, and is faithful to her, however her loyalties are skewed due to her relation to julian, which is a secret none know

she is presumably known to be the countess’ favourite servant by the cityfolk

no one apart from her had known of nadia’s plan of hosting another masquerade prior to nadia announcing it during dinner, however she didn’t know nadia plans to capture and kill julian as well

had a tearful reunion with julian at the apprentice’s shop, as well as a conversation with him the apprentice isn’t privy to

snoops on the apprentice’s second meeting with asra at the fountain; depending on the player’s choice, she learns asra and the apprentice are secretly seeing each other via magic and there may be something romantic between them, or that they have feelings for each other and that asra has removed the apprentice’s memories (and has done so before as well)

for now, portia has decided to keep the above information to herself

MISCELLANEOUS

as explained by asra, anyone can do magic, for it is the will to make what you desire reality

the apprentice is believed by asra to be powerful and gifted; nadia comments on this as well, however the apprentice thinks she has mistaken them for asra

BOOKS VI -

ASRA’S ROUTE

the apprentice can hear faust and recalls that “limited communication is possible” between a magician and their familiar; however faust isn’t their familiar, making their sudden communication implausible

the apprentice notices their name having been carved into the tree by the fountain, made by asra; they express confusion, as they have only known each other for a few years, yet the carving looks to be years old

faust shows flashbacks of asra’s time at the palace to the apprentice

in the first flashback, asra mentions julian (whom he refers to as ilya) has begun to think he likes him, although his true affections lie with the apprentice; when faust asks where they are, he answers “a place i can’t follow, yet”

faust leads them to the library, where various books seem to have asra’s magic on them

if the apprentice touches the big tattered tome, they experience a flashback between asra and muriel; muriel pleads asra not to go to the palace, however asra argues the palace has resources he needs

muriel says “and when he rips your heart out?” to which asra replies “he’ll have to get me, first. he’s weak and dying. what could he do? throw his medicine at me? he was dangerous once, i know, but i can handle him”

if the apprentice touches the elegant purple codex, they experience a flashback between asra and nadia; she’s finishing explaining the properties of a fern to asra, and warns him that it’s poisonous before he can try to eat it

if the apprentice touches the gilded monstrosity, they experience another flashback; this time, lucio is heard yelling at julian before julian exits his room; he had attempted to get rid of his plague by using leeches, which didn’t work

if the apprentice touches the alluring volume, they experience another flashback, this one between asra and the apprentice; asra is helping them pick what to wear for the upcoming masquerade

the apprentice expresses confusion over this; they don’t remember ever going to the masquerade with asra, as they didn’t know each other at the time

after touching an oversized red tome, named composium on the stupendencies of the fabric of the human form, the apprentice experiences a flashback between asra and julian

in it, julian’s feelings for asra are clear, however asra is not interested

julian warns asra he shouldn’t keep slacking off and try to actively search for a cure to the red plague, as the count will die without it, and julian is worried “he’ll take you with him"

asra ignores his warnings and leaves, with julian resolving to “make him see reason”

the apprentice is confused about the nature of their relationship and, depending on the player’s choice, can attempt to find out more about them

if the player chooses “i need to see it”, they see a vision of the past wherein julian goes to the shop to speak to asra

when julian asks about what he’s doing in the backroom, asra says it’s “just a magic trick” that is “something from one of those ridiculous tomes”

asra asks if he wants to help, to which julian agrees eagerly; asra draws blood from julian’s hand and, when asked what he used the blood for, says “i’m not sure. i won’t know until it happens. perhaps nothing, perhaps...”

asra warns he can’t give julian what he wants, however julian assures him he’s fine with that; the two then first engage in what appears to be a purely sexual relationship

the apprentice thinks about their memory loss; their first memory is of meeting asra and beyond that there is nothing, any attempt to remember results in headaches

asra has always told them not to try and remember the past, and they have apparently not spoken much about it afterwards

when the apprentice seeks out to asra, he says “i think you’re ready now” and encourages them to reach into the fountain and take his hand

he then pulls them to where he is, which he refers to as an oasis, “a gateway, from one world into the next”

if the player has the apprentice ask why he didn’t tell them about their missing past before, he admits he tried to trigger their memories, but the apprentice would always go catatonic and would only “go back to normal” if he took the memories away again; he kept trying, in a variety of different ways

later, a shadow in the oasis calls to the apprentice, only for asra to stop them from listening to the call; when they turn back, the growing darkness and the shadow are gone

JULIAN’S ROUTE

portia admits that julian is her brother, and if asked, reveals she didn’t know he was back in vesuvia and has no idea why

the apprentice notices red in the banks and stream near a small, isolated part of the palace; the trees nearby are dying as a result

they follow the stream, which leads to one of many aqueducts that provide water for vesuvia’s citizens; “crimson poison” is in the city’s water supply, unbeknownst to anyone

when the apprentice brings this up to julian, he dismisses it and calls it “harmless” as the red plague is over

julian explains that asra cursed julian as a “parting gift”: he can now heal a person’s injuries, however he experiences their injury for a short time as a consequence

julian and the apprentice hide in the house of a person named mazelinka; we learn he often hides there when evading the palace guards

if the player asks julian why he came back, he explains he needs answers and wants to find out the truth; he adds he’d like to ask asra some questions

if the player asks julian if he killed the count, he replies that he asks himself the same thing, before admitting that he doesn’t remember if he did

NADIA’S ROUTE

nadia reveals to the apprentice that her constant headaches are because she has memory loss; whenever she tries to remember something, a headache stops her

she doesn’t remember the count whatsoever, though does know she was married to him for a long time, and the last thing she remembers is moving to vesuvia (which was years ago)

the apprentice informs her of their own memory loss, and that they had dealt with headaches themself before; they realize their shared loss of memories can’t be a coincidence

what nadia has learned so far: julian was seen escaping from count lucio’s room while it was on fire by multiple eyewitnesses; he later confessed to killing the count, only to escape from the dungeon the night before he was to be executed for the crime

nadia’s currently keeping her missing memories a secret; only portia---and now the apprentice---knows the truth

nadia and the apprentice learn from consul valerius, who was in the count’s wing on the night of lucio’s murder, that the courtiers (praetor vlastomil, pontifex vulgora, procurator volta, and quaestor valdemar) were there before him

he recounts that julian was inside the bedroom, and the courtiers were “shrieking things as they gathered around the door. at first [he] assumed they were after the doctor. some of the things they said... [he] remember[s] one. ‘he won’t get away with this.’ [he] assumed...”

the reason behind the courtiers’ presence in the wing is unknown, apart from valdemar’s as he was head physician; they were attempting to enter the count’s room when julian came outside, however the courtiers didn’t try to arrest him until valerius revealed himself

valerius confirms the count was one of the last victims of the red plague, however this was kept secret; the count invited experts to the palace as he wanted the cure for himself

if asked why he went to the count’s rooms, valerius becomes visibly uncomfortable and does not answer the question

portia informs the apprentice how some time after count lucio’s death, nadia “entered a deep sleep”; when portia began working at the palace, nadia had been asleep for almost a year

three months ago, nadia suddenly and inexplicably woke up, which coincides with her memory loss

as said earlier, if you find / know anything integral to the plot that’s not mentioned before, or if you believe i may have made a mistake somewhere, do contact me and let me know! :)

[fableweaver]

Arc of the Lonely Astronomer

Arc of the Lonely Astronomer

Zaire was scrying over Myr. The city hadn’t seemed to change much over the time she had been gone. Winter had come, but the only sign in the mage city was a dusting of snow. She unfortunately could not look into many buildings; her power was not great enough to break through the sigils and wards of other mages’. She didn’t have the power to look anywhere else either; she could only look somewhere she was familiar with so she looked home. She had gathered however that Varas Lonelove had returned from Cair Leone, as well as the princess Ileana and her son Anton. The arrival of these mages had upset power in Myr a lot.

Zaire could only watch from outside, but she could tell by the brief glimpses of Ilya that he was not pleased by the return of these mages. One time Zaire saw Ilya and Varas arguing, but could not hear anything. The argument ended quickly and they parted, leaving Zaire wondering what could have happened. She wasn’t sure what Varas would make of Ilya’s partnership with the Legion or his experiments for immortality. Varas wouldn’t have argued over the humane aspects, Zaire knew enough about him from Xavier, but he could have issue with how Ilya was going about it.

It was now nearing the end of the year, Zaire gazing into her mirror and seeing no sign of any change in the political tension in Myr. Servants began decorating for Cael’s Day and the sight of those decorations made her think of Xavier. It was a festival for families, and after the death of her father Zaire had spent it alone with little more than a fine dinner and an extra glass of wine. Bitterly her mind went to what she and Xavier could have been doing for the festival had he lived. She put the mirror down, tearing her eyes away from her old home and an older pain.

She was surprised to see one of the dwarves sitting across from her in the King’s library. It was Darin, the one Lady Iounn had knocked out with her hammer. Zaire had been able to sense his power in the Elder Magic, a presence of power about him that reminded her of nature more than the High Magic. He was a handsome man, deep blue eyes that seemed to see more than what was before him.

“What did you see?” Darin asked in the trade tongue. “Hors told me about your…” He indicated the mirror, seeming to struggle with the word for a moment.

“Mirror,” Zaire supplied and Darin nodded. “I only have the power to look back at Myr, the capital of Dridia, my old home.”

“You are homesick?” Darin asked and Zaire looked away.

“No, I am sick for what could have been,” she answered wrapping her arms around herself. She looked at him and saw the same sort of solemn look, sympathy in a minor understanding of her pain.

“Can you see anything you want in your mirror?” Darin asked.

“No, I only have the power to look to a place I have been before,” Zaire answered. “A stronger mage could direct the mirror to look anywhere, but I don’t have the power to command such a powerful sigil.”

He looked disappointed but pressed on.

“Then have you seen a woman in Myr?” Darin asked. “She is half Daunish, half Aldan. Her hair is dusty gray, her skin brown like the Daunish, and her eyes… the dark blue color…”

“Indigo?” Zaire asked and Darin nodded. He rarely fought for words; it was interesting how well he actually spoke the trade tongue. “No I haven’t seen anyone like that. An Aldan outside of Alda these days is easily spotted. Who is she?”

“The witch Pepper who wields Melanthios,” Darin answered. “She is… was my lover.”

“Why was?” Zaire asked.

“Fate brought us apart,” Darin answered. “She left me to seek the song.”

“It isn’t forever,” Zaire said bitterly. ��My lover is dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Darin said sounding genuine. “I did not know.”

Zaire only looked away, wrapping her arms around herself once more. Darin seemed to sense her pain, so cleared his throat and looked to the papers of calculations strewed about on the table.

“So how goes the stars?” Darin asked and Zaire appreciated the change in topic.

“Slow,” Zaire answered. “If I knew maybe more of what I was looking for I could determine what might be significant. Do the Phay have any mythology of the stars?”

“No, and if they do it is not through the dwarves,” Darin answered. “We are after all a… we live under the earth.”

“Subterranean,” Zaire said and Darin nodded, then he seemed to remember something.

“The Daunish have old myths though,” Darin said. “Maybe they have something that could help.”

“We’d have a long way to go to talk to the Daunish,” Zaire said, before remembering that there were now two here at court. It had been two weeks since the dwarves and Daunish had arrived at court and Zaire had paid little attention to how negotiations were going other than it had claimed most of Iounn’s time.

“Ronan could answer some things,” Darin said.

“He is not busy with the negotiations?” Zaire asked.

“Only Conor and Iounn are working with Sten and Roland,” Darin said. “Ronan is free. Come.”

Zaire gathered a few things and followed Darin out of the study and back to their rooms. There they found Donar, Hakk, Bgrim, and Ronan who was strumming a tune on his string instrument. Donar looked relieved to see them, looking bored. Ronan stopped his playing to stand and greet them.

“Greetings milady,” the minstrel said as he stood and bowed to her. “We haven’t been introduced. I be Ronan the wandering minstrel at yer service.”

“Zaire Weaver.”

“Careful of him Lady Zaire,” the dwarf called Bgrim said mildly. “He’s a bit of a flirt.”

“I cannot deny I enjoy the company of women,” Ronan said with a smile.

“We’re here to actually ask you about the mythology of stars,” Zaire said. “I’m having trouble narrowing down what to calculate when it comes to the stars.”

“I ken some myths but not a lot I’m afraid,” Ronan said seeming embarrassed. “There be only twenty n eight constellations accordin ta Daunish myth. Which stars we be talking bout?”

Zaire laid out a star map on the table to show him.

“The Golden Bow is here,” Zaire said. “I think Atarah is the other important constellation, but the Sect’s mythology of this constellation is limited. The constellations according to them are angels, this one is said to be the moon goddess’ daughter. She is called Atarah the crowned angel, but there isn’t much else about her in their texts.”

“Well that constellation be bigger in Daun,” Ronan said, pointing at the map to show how Atarah included several stars from Urs. “It was called the Broken Wheel. It was said that Fors created a wheel ta guide the mortal spirits o the Phay ta Tir Aesclinn but her first wheel broke and so she threw it inta the sky. The half of the wheel can be seen, and the shards scatter along here.”

“Poetic but Fors only made one wheel,” Donar said. “And she made it out of aether not stars. There’s a difference.”

“It be just a story,” Ronan said with a shrug.

“Well I think that shows the Daunish myths won’t shed much light on this,” Donar said.

“We baint ken less we try,” Ronan said looking at Zaire with bright eyes. Zaire felt her face heat with a slight blush and looked away.

“You said your knowledge was incomplete,” Darin said noticing Ronan’s attentions. “Perhaps we should also ask another for some tales of Nyrgard to see if their mythology could shed some light.”

“Who?” Ronan asked but Zaire already had the answer.

“Prince Soren is a bard,” Zaire said. “He was trained in all the tales of Nyrgard, he’ll know them all. He might actually know one about the song.”

“We should go ask him then,” Donar said standing. “Hakk, Bgrim stay here, we don’t want to all be out in the keep.”

Hakk nodded as Donar led the way out of the room, Darin at his side. Zaire followed feeling Ronan following her. He was silent, Zaire sensing his discontent with this plan. They walked to the main hall, but did not find the prince. Zaire remembered the children and wondered then if he was in the gardens with them. She led the way then out to the gardens where they found Modi, Lofn, and Nora playing in the snow under the watchful eye of Colm.

“Have you seen the Prince Soren?” Zaire asked Colm.

“O’er there,” Colm said pointing. Zaire saw under the shelter of a yew tree Soren sat with Ingrid talking. “I be keepin an eye on em don’t worry,” Colm said, his green eyes languid.

“Does the Lady Iounn know of this?” Zaire asked lowly, suspecting Iounn would be angry. Colm shook his head, looking like he had eaten something sour. Zaire patted his arm and walked over to the pair, the two dwarves and minstrel following her. As they approached Zaire heard Soren was reciting a poem, a battle epic, and his hand rested just a hair’s breadth from Ingrid’s. Ingrid saw them and looked both relieved and disappointed, Soren trailing off. Before Zaire could speak Ronan beat her too it.

“Lady Ingrid,” Ronan said stepping forward and taking Ingrid’s hand. “Are you alright? This man isn’t bothering you is he?”

“This man is a Prince of Nyrgard,” Soren growled as he stood up. “I would never assault a lady especially not one so fair.”

“Seemed to me you were bothering her plenty,” Ronan answered. “She has been through enough without having another man force himself on her.”

“You would slander her?” Soren said hotly.

“Enough!” Donar shouted and both men jumped. The children had stopped playing to watch the exchange, the winter air deadly silent. “Lady Zaire, please accompany the Lady Ingrid back to her mother’s rooms. We’ll continue the discussion of the stars later.”

Zaire nodded and held her hand out to Ingrid. The young woman took her hand and stood, following her back to the keep. Zaire took her back to Ingrid’s rooms and closed the door relieved.

“Thank you but that wasn’t necessary,” Ingrid said sitting in a chair. “I didn’t mind his company.”

“Your mother told me of what you suffered,” Zaire said.

“No doubt it is court gossip already,” Ingrid said lowering her head.

“Shame only rules you when you let it,” Zaire said and Ingrid looked up at her. Zaire knew she read in her the same pain she had endured.

“How did it happen?” Ingrid asked. Ingrid’s eyes were sad and hollow; Zaire didn’t need to ask what she meant.

“I was eight,” Zaire answered and Ingrid’s eyes grew wider. “A sigil was cast within me so I could not bear children, in order to cast the sigil the mage had to reach inside of me.”

“That sounds awful,” Ingrid said softly.

“It was,” Zaire said. She rarely thought of that day, but she could still remember the look in her father’s eyes as she had been returned to him weeping and bleeding. He had consented to it; it had been the only thing to save her life. “I think the worst of it was the mage that did the casting didn’t care. To him I was little more than a dog he had on his table. He had no compassion and so he was not gentle. Even a touch of kindness might have made it bearable.”

Ingrid’s eyes were haunted, no doubt thinking over her own trauma.

“I think you’re right,” she said in a small voice. “One, he gave me a blanket out of pity. Even though he had been hard and mean, that blanket made me weep.”

Zaire only nodded and a silence stretched between them.

“How… I mean my mother told me about your lover,” Ingrid said. “How did you get over the pain?”

“The sigil placed within me had an outer sigil that caused me pain anytime I even thought of a man in such a way,” Zaire said. “Or a woman for that matter, any arousal was met with pain. I had grown so used to it I had hardly been aware of it. I probably hadn’t touched another person in years, not even the brush of a finger from a stranger. To me human contact meant pain.

“Xavier removed that sigil, though not the one that prevents me from having a child since it was beyond his skill. He had to force me; he removed the sigil without my consent. The pain of that and the fear hurt me deeply. I almost didn’t forgive him for that, until he showed me his own pain. When he touched me, kissed me for that first time… I felt what could be like to be loved by another.

“So if you are wondering if you could find love I don’t know Ingrid. It depends on the person, and it depends on you.”

“I see,” Ingrid said tears falling. “If this hadn’t happened… Soren is what I had always wanted but now…”

Zaire could not answer in words; instead she went to her and held her as she wept. It was all she could do and Zaire felt powerless; she wondered how Iounn could have lived with such a pain considering this was her daughter. When Ingrid was done crying Zaire left her to rest, going to seek out the prince. She found him alone pacing before one of the fireplaces in the great hall.

“Prince Soren,” Zaire said mildly and Soren stopped his pacing. He looked at her with concern, not for Zaire but for Ingrid she knew by the way he looked at her expectantly.

“Is the Lady Ingrid alright?” Soren asked. “I hadn’t meant to argue in front of her…”

“Do you know what she has endured?” Zaire asked him and Soren stopped.

“I… There are rumors but they are all lies,” Soren said. “She isn’t… She wouldn’t have…”

“Others call women whores even if the woman was raped,” Zaire said. “It is the way the world goes. Her reputation is destroyed, though I doubt her mother cares about that, she only hurts to know her daughter suffered such an experience and still suffers from it. The fact is Ingrid survived rape, I have as well, and can tell you the pain is something that stays with you for years.”

Soren was silent, his face gray and eyes wide, yet he met her gaze which most men would have looked away from.

“I don’t care what happened to her,” Soren said at last weakly.

“You should, you need to take care and be careful around her,” Zaire said. “Patience will win her over to you, time will be the only cure as her pain is still fresh. I can tell you one thing, had she not suffered as she had she would love you without hesitation. As it is she feels soiled and afraid. Her shame and fear will keep her from you for some time.”

“What can I do to ease her pain?” Soren asked.

“I don’t know,” Zaire answered. “Each person is different.”

“What about tales then?” Soren asked. “Ingrid said she wanted to be a bard.”

Zaire thought that over and nodded.

“She is like her mother, full of pride,” Zaire said. “Let her gain her pride back in her ability of a bard and I think she will recover. But I warn you, do not touch her. Let her come to you, it may be years until she warms to it.”

“I can wait,” Soren said and Zaire glared at him. He met her gaze and Zaire at last looked away hoping he would keep to his word.

“When the negotiations are over I believe you should go to Lady Iounn and discuss her daughter’s future with her,” Zaire said and Soren winced.

“She will not be thrilled,” Soren said. “But I will.”

“And no more fighting,” Zaire said. “Ronan will be warned off again, keep away from him.”

“Yes Lady Zaire,” Soren said bowing to her. “You are surprisingly commanding right now Zaire.”

Zaire had no answer to that so she bowed and took her leave. She wondered though at what Soren had said, she had become braver. But this wasn’t new, she still remembered saving Xavier from the Legion and Ilya. She had been brave then too, and Zaire realized Xavier had been the one to change her. Before she had been too afraid to even touch another person or speak against those who oppressed her, and now she was defending others. Xavier had saved her in more ways than one.

The negotiations continued Iounn complaining often of the stubbornness of men. Though they were still arguing over the price of their aid, Sten had summoned nearby lords and they too arrived to add to the confusion. Details were being sorted out, horses and ships arranged, and a wagon trail for supplies organized. Zaire had no idea so much went into organizing an army, it seemed like going to war was more about logistics than battle. She was glad to be excluded from the discussions, focusing on her own calculations.

One day however Iounn called a council of her own of the dwarves, Hors, Ronan, and Zaire. They gathered in the dwarves’ room Iounn looking around pensively.

“I believe it is time we decide which paths we follow,” Iounn said. “Sten has agreed to send and army to Daun, we are now just arguing over numbers and price. So where will each of us go? To Daun to war or to Alda in search of the song?”

“We are going to Alda,” Donar said. “I know Daun is in danger, and that they need guidance in battle against the Orcs, but Runi charged us with the search of the song. I know there are others seeking it, but we do not know if they will find it. Ronan will be our guide. We go to Alda.”

“Hors, you said you had a plan of some sort,” Iounn said turning to the dragon child.

“Of a sort yes,” Hors answered. “And I already know where your heart lies Iounn, you want to go to Daun. Sten and Roland are riding to war with the army, it is in their natures. You know you will be needed as ambassador for them in Daun if the two are to hold together in battle. I will be needed as ambassador to the Dwarves, someone is needed who can speak the Phay language. I am going with you to Daun.”

“But Hors, what about Melanthios?” Darin asked. “Pepper is probably in Alda with the dragon blade.”

“You can carry a message from me to him,” Hors said. “While I would very much like to meet with Melanthios, we have our own paths. Once he learns I am alive and reborn he will agree to this.”

“Would you two not be more powerful together?” Donar asked and Hors sighed heavily and then answered in the Phay language. Donar went white and covered his eyes.

“What is it?” Iounn asked worried.

“Nothing Iounn,” Hors said. “I would not let it happen so there is no need for you to know.”

“Secrets,” Iounn growled. “I am not a child Hors.”

“To me you are,” Hors answered. “But I am not telling you to protect you from a hard truth Iounn, I am keeping this secret out of shame.”

Iounn looked at the dragon child puzzled, but then nodded.

“Very well, if you see it as best.”

“So it is decided each of our paths,” Hors said.

“Wait,” Zaire gasped. “What of me?”

“You will be safest here,” Iounn said as if soothing a child. “You can continue your work and send letters of your discoveries. We have plenty of time until the second resonance.”

The thought of safety was appealing; the idea of going to war with Iounn terrified her. But she looked at Darin and saw his anticipation to leave and seek out his lover. She thought of Xavier then and how he had told her once to flee to Alda. They were his people, though he had never lived there, they were his blood. She felt the desire take root, to get just a little closer to him through the Aldan.

“I want to go to Alda with Donar,” Zaire said, forging on before anyone could object. “I can keep up I swear. And we will be traveling through southern Dridia my native country. I can do my calculations anywhere, and the libraries in Alda are said to be nearly as extensive as the Tower of Balal. I will be of more use there than here. Ingrid and Lofn can continue to research here in case there is anything here.”

Iounn was frowning and Hors lashed his tail, both looking ready to object when Donar spoke first.

“Very well, your company is appreciated,” he said smoothly.

“What?” Iounn said. “She is in heartbreak and a mere scholar; she is not fit to go traveling across the kingdoms.”

“She says she can keep up and I believe she can,” Donar said. “And it is my decision who I take with me not yours. A mage in our party would be useful through Dridia as well.”

“She is in my service,” Iounn argued.

“She is not your slave, she has the right to leave when she pleases,” Donar said.

“The laws in Nyrgard are different,” Iounn said hotly.

“Iounn, would you really force her to stay?” Hors said lamely, apparently having a change of heart. “She has a right to her freedom. I know you want to protect her, but Zaire is not your daughter.”

Zaire looked to Iounn shocked and saw tears in her eyes about to spill over. Iounn turned to her as well looking furious. She stalked over and lifted Zaire off her feet in a big hug, pressing her face to her shoulder.

“You come back you hear?” Iounn said hurt and Zaire returned her embrace startled to find tears of her own. She remembered her mother, though she had been nothing like Iounn, she still felt the resemblance in the warm embrace.

“I will,” Zaire said.

“We will protect her Lady Iounn,” Darin said. “You can have faith in that.”

Iounn only nodded seeming overcome.

Days passed once more in the long steady way of winter. Zaire was used to the stable calm weather of Myr, controlled by the mages. There during the winter it hardly ever snowed, if it did it was little more than a dusting. Here the snow continued to fall until the roofs of the city were groaning under the weight of it. It was so cold even in the keep Zaire went about wrapped in a large fur cloak. Zaire now understood the Nyrgarder’s love of fur and leather.

Still she marveled at the beauty of the snow. On some days the clouds were so thick and wind so strong one could hardly see anything outside. But on clear days the sun shone so bright against the snow it was almost blinding. It was so bitterly cold on those bright days her teeth ached. But Zaire would often go up to the highest tower on clear days to look out over Thorrak Bay and the Ionnfell Mountains. The mountains looked like clouds in the sky covered in snow as they were and the bay spread out in a bright blue expanse that rivaled the sky. Zaire looked down at the beauty of the world feeling tears in her eyes, missing Xavier.

She threw herself into her calculations, not just to forget Xavier but because she loved the work. She always had found it calming and had always enjoyed the calculations. It often reminded her of her father, how he would spend long hours at his desk writing out numbers.

Cael’s Day approached and the Court of Legends was abuzz for the coming festival. Zaire knew little about politics, lords, or the court itself, but Iounn seemed to know it well. The lords of course brought their ladies with them and Iounn had taken the role of hostess though she bore no relation to the royal line. If any of the other nobles took offense to a mere Baroness acting like a queen, they wisely did not voice their complaints.

Zaire had hardly celebrated the God Day before, both because mages hardly celebrated the gods and because she had no one to spend it with. Though Xavier was not with her, Zaire was surprised to find she actually had people around her she could call friends. The God’s Day arrived and they spent the morning in the library once more. This time however Darin and Bgrim had joined them since the King’s council was busy with the festival. Soren and Ronan were not there as he was going to have a lot to do for the festival, so Hors was out on the table reading as well.

Lofn and Ingrid weren’t reading today however, but carving. They both had a bit of soap stone and were carving it into animals, Ingrid carving hers into a bear.

“What is that supposed to be Lofn?” Ingrid asked.

“A dragon,” Lofn answered holding up the lump of stone, it hardly looked like a dragon, more like a twisted cat.

“Why are you two carving those?” Darin asked.

“They’re our Cael’s day gifts for our mother,” Ingrid answered. “We give gifts on Cael’s day; usually we make ours since we don’t have any coin.”

“Should we have gotten gifts?” Darin said worried.

“Only family give gifts to each other,” Zaire answered. “Or lovers, it is a familial matter so you won’t be expected to give anything.”

“Good,” Darin said sounding relieved. “Is this a tradition that spans all the kingdoms?”

“Cael’s day is widely celebrated over the kingdoms,” Zaire answered, remembering her own Cael’s Day celebrations with her family. At first those had been wonderful memories, but after her mother died the God’s Day became a day of sadness. Zaire remembered her father drinking most of the day, even her gifts to him didn’t cheer him. Yet he still got her a gift that she wanted, a haunted look in his eyes when he gave them to her.

“What do you think mother got us this year?” Lofn asked Ingrid.

“I don’t know but I can guess where she hid them,” Ingrid said with a grin. “Let’s go!”

Lofn laughed as she followed her sister out of the library, leaving them alone.

“Those two are spoiled sometimes,” Hors said, but he said it with a smile. “Now that they’re gone though I can ask all of you something.”

“What?” Zaire asked curious.

“Bgrim, you were the one to know about the Giant’s road,” Hors said looking to the dwarf. “Do you know anything else about the mountains around here?”

“I don’t know of any more roads,” Bgrim answered. “I only know a few stories about this area. The Ionnfell Mountains are home to the giants, our people rarely lived here. The Greatlings, the Giants, roamed through both mountain ranges though. Our history goes that we once wared with the Giants, up until men started to rise up out of the mud and beasts.”

“Most of the Nyrgardic legends say that they wared with the giants so much that they became bathed in their blood. They say that is why they are so tall,” Zaire said.

“That is probably true,” Hors said. “As I recall many giants were killed in battle against the Nyrgarders, and their blood could have that affect if it was drunken enough. It would have happened over generations though.”

“Is that why they slumber?” Darin asked.

“No, those in the Weir Mountains slumber as well,” Hors said. “The giant’s fell into slumber at the death of their king. The Giants were born from the Phay Aurgelmir, one of the eldest of the Phay. Kur was the first of the Phay to arrive in Miread, but Aurgelmir was the second. The first of the Phay when they had taken their forms were colossal in size, Kur was said to be larger than mountains and maybe even the moon.

“Aurgelmir was just as large and when he arrived in Miread he created a crater so large it filled with sea water, making what is now called the Thorrak Bay. He also made the mountains, both the Ionnfell Mountains and the Weir Mountains, by shaping the earth with his hands. When he was shaping the mountains however he woke one of the fire mountains. The volcano erupted in his hands and Aurgelmir stumbled away wounded.

“As he lay in the mountains dying he dreamed the giants, they were born out of his blood and the ashes of the fire mountain. The giants had many kings after their race came to be. Not all of the Phay are ruled by those that created them, Kur was the creator of the race of dragons but she died centuries ago. I wasn’t even king after her; I had two predecessors before I took the role.

“The giants’ last king was a giant by the name of Thrym. When the Nyrgarders arrived in Miread they started a war for land with the giants, killing all they could. The giants never developed weapons and the Nyrgarders had good steel and numbers on their side. Thrym fell in battle against Arnór, a Nyrgardic king of legend. When Thrym fell the giants all fell into a slumber, I believe it was Thrym’s will that did so. In their slumber they are protected since their bodies turned to stone and they cannot be killed in this state.

“After the giants all fell many of the Phay talked of marching, it was one of the many driving factors to our march.”

“So that is why the giants sleep,” Darin said amazed. “We never knew. Can they be woken? If they got a new king would that wake them?”

“Yes, a new king would wake them but it isn’t that simple,” Hors said. “The giants usually choose their king by battle. Every hundred years or so they meet and do battle, usually in one big melee. The victor is king, often kings were overthrown in their battles.”

“They cannot chose a new king if they all are asleep,” Darin said.

“Maybe,” Hors answered. “Since the giants fell asleep before the march I fear they might not awaken until the Phay march.”

“Then why ask me about them?” Bgrim said.

“Because I hope we can find one and wake it,” Hors answered. “If someone of enough power sings the march it should be enough to wake a giant.”

“Pepper tried to wake a giant and failed,” Darin said shaking his head. “She has more power than all of us; I don’t think it can be done.”

“Why wake a giant in the first place?” Bgrim asked and then seemed to remember something a grinned. “This was the plan you stated, the way to unite the Dwarves with the Daunish isn’t it?”

“A giant can travel through the mountains faster than any of us especially in winter,” Hors answered. “With a giant we can get to the dwarves and will have a powerful warrior on our side as well. Today is auspicious day; the solstice would be a good day to wake one.”

“Then we should go now before it gets dark,” Darin said as he stood. They hurried to follow him, Hors leaping up to hide himself in Zaire’s hood. They walked from the library and to the great hall where fires and candles made the great room unbearably warm. Nobles and knights had all gathered and were already drinking and singing, tables piled high with the feast of Cael.

“Lady Zaire,” Ronan said spotting them and heading through the crowd over to them. “About time you joined us,” Ronan said with a smile.

“I’m afraid we’re not here for the feast,” Donar said. “We were just about to head out.”

“Out?” Ronan said puzzled. “Have you seen outside? A blizzard blew in about an hour ago; the streets are already knee deep in snow.”

Zaire looked around, but the great hall had no windows nor could she hear anything over the din of the crowd. Darin hurried over to the nearest exit door and cracked it open, a swirl of snow and howling wind coming in before he slammed it shut.

“It seems we are stuck here for the night,” Darin said sourly. Zaire felt Hors lash his tail against her back and she tilted her head towards him.

“Can we do this another night?” Zaire asked.

“We will have to,” Hors answered. “I’m sure you can find another night that holds power for the waking.”

Zaire nodded feeling disappointed, the idea of waking a giant had sounded exhilarating.

“Who are you talking to Lady Zaire?” Ronan asked.

“Just myself,” Zaire said. They had not told Ronan about Hors, wanting to keep the dragon child as much of a secret as they could. “It seems we are just in time for the celebration.”

“Right, come you must eat,” Ronan said happily. Zaire smiled and nodded to him, letting Ronan take her hand and lead her off. She was grateful that Donar, Darin, Bgrim, and Hakk followed however. Since she had sternly warned Ronan to leave Ingrid alone he had started flirting with her instead.

Ronan took them to one of the guest tables near the king’s table and sat them down. Zaire looked up at the king’s table looking for Iounn, but instead met eyes with Dirk. She felt the blood drain from her face as the prince saw her and stood, making his way over. He had kept his word and stayed away all this time, yet now he was walking over with intent. Zaire stood with a mumbled word about seeing Iounn and hurried to intercept Dirk.

“Lady Zaire,” Dirk said with the same crooked grin as before. “How have you been?”

“Fantastic since you’ve been leaving me alone,” Zaire said caustically and Dirk winced. “Now if you’ll excuse me I have to see Iounn.”

“Wait,” Dirk said standing between her and the king’s table. “Maybe we could share a dance together?”

“No,” Zaire answered, trying to step around him, but Dirk grabbed her wrist. Zaire saw heads turning in curiosity and worried that they were attracting attention. Before she had to worry further however someone spoke.

“Prince Dirk, I hope that is not your hand I see on my mage’s wrist,” Iounn said coolly. They both turned to see Iounn standing behind them, her blue eyes sparking with mild anger.

“No Lady Iounn,” Dirk said quickly dropping Zaire’s wrist.

“Good, because if it were I wouldn’t take this matter to your father,” Iounn said and Dirk looked at her puzzled. Iounn’s hand dropped to the hammer she still wore at her belt. “I would deal with the matter with my own power.”

“I understand Lady Iounn,” Dirk said with a quick bow. “I will not go near her again.”

“Good,” Iounn said mildly. “You are dismissed then Prince Dirk.”

Dirk bowed once more, but he glanced at Zaire as he left, his eyes regretful.

“Thank you Lady Iounn,” Zaire said relieved. “Would you really have fought him?”

“Yes, but whether or not I could hold my own would have been another matter,” Iounn answered. “My late husband taught me how to fight, though I think I learned more from wrestling with my brother when we were children. Mainly if you ever want to get away from a man all you have to do is grab his stones and crush them.”

“Your poor brother,” Zaire said as she laughed and Iounn grinned at her.

“I only did it the one time,” Iounn said. “And he suffered no lasting damage, his five children attest to that.”

Zaire laughed again and Iounn moved closer. Hors moved quickly from Zaire’s shoulders to Iounn’s, nestling in her great mane of golden hair. Zaire heard him whisper something to her and Iounn’s merriment died a little.

“The war negotiations are almost done,” Iounn said to him. “We are just working out the last of the logistics. Sten plans on marching at the beginning of the new year.”

Hors whispered something else, Zaire unable to hear him over the din of the room.

“No thank the gods,” Iounn said and saw Zaire’s attention. “Hors just asked if my sons will be marching to war, but they won’t. I know they will want to but the passes to Stóstund stay blocked well into spring. They won’t be able to march until then.”

“But the war could still be going on when spring comes,” Zaire said and wish she hadn’t. Iounn’s eyes clouded over and for the first time Zaire saw fear in her eyes.

“Let us hope they will not come,” Iounn said softly. Zaire nodded pensively and looked out into the crowded hall. Her eye fell on Soren and Ingrid, both standing in a sheltered corner. Soren appeared to be offering a gift to Ingrid, the young woman accepting it cautiously.

“Lady Iounn,” Zaire said and pointed to the pair. Iounn’s eyes melted and she sighed heavily.

“Soren came to me and told me his intentions,” Iounn said wearily. “Ingrid said she would like to get to know him so begged me to approve. I didn’t have the heart to deny her. Soren swore he would not touch her however and he has kept his word so far. We’ve kept it secret as well, no need to put pressure on Ingrid while she is still adjusting.”

“He’ll be good to her milady,” Zaire said.

“I know, and I hope with all my heart he can heal at least some of her pain,” Iounn said. Her face lost some of the tension as her daughter smiled, unwrapping the gift Soren had given her. It was a hand harp, beautifully crafted and a work of art on its own. She smiled up at Soren and he gazed down at her with his heart in his eyes. Ingrid began to play the harp, the sound lost in the noisy hall but her fingers plucked at the strings. Soren’s eyes grew brighter, and he just stood listening to her play entrapped.

An idea suddenly struck Zaire then and she turned to Iounn.

“Hors, Darin said that the witch Pepper tried to wake a giant but failed,” Zaire said. “None of us are nearly as strong as she was in the Elder Magic.”

“I’d still like to try but you’re right,” Hors said heavily. “I doubt we have the power to wake one.”

“Why?” Iounn said puzzled. “I sang to the dragon egg and you were born. Would the song not work here?”

“This is different Iounn,” Hors answered. “The giants’ spirits are inside them entombed, I was riding Fors’ Wheel. Fors spent the power directing me back to be reborn. When you sang to the song you weren’t waking my spirit, you were waking the body that I now inhabit. It is a young body and one that was already waiting for a spirit to inhabit it. It hardly took any magic to waken it; you have some power in the Elder Magic but nothing close to a witch’s. Zaire or Nora have more power than you.”

“Then why I am the one who must be your guardian?” Iounn said bitterly. “Why not a witch of great power?”

“Iounn it doesn’t have to be you,” Hors answered. “I want it to be you, I like you and Lofn. I chose you as my guardian because of who you are not because of any power.”

Iounn looked surprised and flattered, staring out into the hall with a pensive stare.

“Hors I think I know a way to wake the giant,” Zaire said and Iounn turned to her. “One of the treasures from the king’s vault was a horn.”

“A loud noise won’t work Zaire,” Hors said. “The giants’ slumber is a lot different than a normal sleep or even hibernation.”

“No I know,” Zaire said. “But our problem is playing the march with enough power to wake a giant correct? I think I can enchant the horn to play the song with enough power to wake the giant.”

“Volume isn’t power,” Hors said. “Nor do I think the High Magic will work.”

“No but if I enchant the horn to funnel Elder Magic into the sound of the song it could work,” Zaire said and Hors looked at her through Iounn’s hair.

“You can do this?” Hors asked amazed.

“I think I can,” Zaire answered nodding. “I’ll be using the High Magic to direct the Elder Magic.”

“Be careful about that,” Hors said in warning. “The Elder Magic tends to resist control.”

“No but you said it was more like a force of nature,” Zaire said. “That things often just happen in the Elder Magic. I won’t be using the High Magic to command that force, just direct it like a levy directs flood waters.”

“It could work…” Hors mused.

Before he could say more the great hall doors burst open. Everyone shouted surprised as a wave of wind and snow blew into the hall howling, a man marching into the great hall. He was cloaked and hooded, covered in a stiff layer of snow. Servants hurried to close the doors, the man marching past them and into the middle of the hall to approach the king’s table.

“Who dares burst in on our Cael’s Day celebrations!” Sten roared, Zaire noting he was red in the face with drink. Roland, at least a little more sober, motioned for his father to sit and stood to face the stranger in their mists.

“Who are you stranger?” Roland said in a commanding tone. All eyes were now on the man in the middle of the room as he shook his cloak free of snow.

“Freezing that’s what I am,” the man grumbled. “So this is the great hospitality of the Nyrgardic host?”

“State your name stranger or I’ll have you thrown back out into the blizzard,” Roland growled. “You are speaking to the Prince Regent of Nyrgard.”

“I’m speaking to the presumptive Prince Regent of Nyrgard,” the man answered blithely. The crowd muttered and Roland slammed his fist down on the table red with rage. Before more could be said however the man pulled back his hood and everyone in the room stared in shock. He was Markian, handsome and about Dirk’s age. Zaire didn’t need to know him to know this was a noble just by the arrogant way he held himself.

“Prince Orus,” Roland growled. “I’ve heard rumors calling you the wandering prince. Seems it is true if you’ve managed to find your way to Hólmsted. How did you get through the mountains?”

“It is hard for a single person but it can be done,” Orus said mildly.

“You probably killed five horses just to wander around the kingdoms,” Roland said. “Don’t you serve your father better at home rather than as some Rhodin bedmate? Especially with what happened to your brother.”

Muttered words erupted from this. Zaire had heard gossip about how the High King had mutilated the third Prince of the Mark. She was surprised Roland had been so bold. Orus was glaring openly now, his hand falling to his sword.

“Nyrgarders are all the same,” Orus growled. “All cock and no balls.”

“You’re one to talk!” Roland roared. “Markians hiding behind your wall like some coward while the Regarian prince fucks your princess.”

Orus looked ready to draw his sword when Iounn stepped forward to stand between the two arguing lords. She had drawn her hammer but kept it low, her stance every bit the ready warrior.

“Stop these childish insults both of you!” Iounn shouted. “You are Princes and lords of your kingdoms, not some drunkards slinging insults over ale!”

Roland had the grace to look ashamed, and while Orus’ hand fell from his sword he still glared up at Roland.

“I am sorry milord for the grievous welcome you have received,” Iounn said to him patiently. “I’m afraid with the coming war tension has been high within court.”

“So the High King has summoned you as well to war?” Orus said and Iounn looked puzzled.

“No, Daun has called for aid,” Iounn said motioning over to Sir Conor who stood. “A threat rises from the Weir Mountains and Daun is ill prepared to meet it. To what do you refer to?”

“War has risen to the east,” Orus said and whispers rang through the court. “King Son Rue of Lir has been killed and a man calling himself Emperor has taken the throne. He seeks dominance of the Nine Kingdoms and the High Throne. Arian Drasir has ridden to meet this threat and put his nephew on the throne. He has called on the kingdoms he can to send him aid.”

“Word reaches us slowly in the mountains,” Iounn said wearily and Orus nodded.

“The Mark will not marshal to his call,” Orus said darkly. “My father is weak; he wishes only to hide away in Warren as if he were the badger he wears. I have ridden here instead seeking your aid. While Drasir does battle in the east we can take Cair Leone and the High Throne.”

Silence met this statement, shock and fear making the air thick with tension. Then Conor walked forward, his face grim and drawn.

“You would ask Nyrgard to abandon Daun to seek the High Throne instead?” Conor asked and Orus glared at him. “The High Throne would mean nothing if you destroyed the Nine in obtaining it.”

“You do not speak for Nyrgard,” Orus said and looked at Roland. “Well Prince Regent presumptive, how would you like to become the king of not only Nyrgard, but the Nine Kingdoms?”

Roland looked contemplative, but Iounn spoke first.

“And your father would support his claim?” Iounn said. “As well as the Nine? The High Throne and alliance of the Nine Kingdoms was centered around Absalom’s blood line. Currently that line has culminated in only one line, that of the Drasirs.”

“Until now,” Orus said. “Two witches of the moors came to Warren and mended the wall there. They carry the ring of Eileen, twin daughters and the lost princesses of the Alvar house. My father exiled them, they now reside in Alda.”

Zaire noticed Darin then at the edge of the crowd, listening with a slight frown. She hurried over to him as the conversation continued.

“Where no doubt Queen Alora has already married them off and now awaits the children they will bear,” Iounn said with distain.

“Such things can always be remedied,” Orus said. “The twin’s husbands then have claim to the High Throne.”

Zaire joined Darin and looked up at Roland to see a greedy light in his eyes. Before he could speak however Sten stood.

“Whelp,” Sten said. “You are here against your father’s wishes by your own admission. Making promises for your whole kingdom when you are little more than a vagabond. You would draw us into a war that could tear the kingdoms asunder when they are already at each other’s throats. Daun has called for our aid and we have already invested ourselves in their campaign. They have promised us land and realistic profit from battle. What do you have to offer but dreams of greatness that will most likely end in only ash?”

Roland’s greed seemed to die at his father’s words and he sat back in his chair pensively. Orus seeing he was losing the battle flushed with rage.

“The Regarians stole my sister and crippled my brother and you would just sit at their feet meekly accepting their tyranny!” Orus shouted. “What have they stolen from you Sten! Your only daughter raped and torn asunder by the bastard of the Drasirs, your own son’s rightful rule over his people, and even your pride as a warrior of Nyrgard!”

“Enough!” Sten roared, throwing his drinking horn so hard it shattered against the wall. His face turned bright red and he began to gasp for breathe, clutching at his chest. Ekkehard raced forward and supported him, calling for aid and a healer. Iounn hurried to the king’s side and they helped him from the hall, leaving a troubled silence behind.

“Get out,” Roland growled to Orus. “The Mark was once ally to us, but no longer. You’ve insulted my family and honor Prince Orus. Go back to your father and brood in your walled city alone.”

“It seems the might of the Nyrgard warriors is no more,” Orus said coldly. “It seems I have found nothing here worthy of the High Throne.”

He turned on his heel and left, dark mutterings following him out.

“The celebration is over,” Roland said sourly. “Go to your beds, I have to tend to my father.”

He stood and left, along with the other princes. Lords and ladies dispersed in mournful groups, talking among themselves of the news and argument they had just witnessed. Zaire reached the dwarves, who seemed unsettled by the show.

“You’ve just witnessed kingdom politics at work it seems,” Zaire said with false humor.

“It is a wonder your kingdoms are not in a constant state of war,” Donar said mildly.

“I expect it is because the women hold it together,” Bgrim said.

“What did Iounn say about Pepper?” Darin said looking at Zaire. “She said something about marriage.”

“She said that the Queen of Alda has probably already married them to lords of Alda,” Zaire said. “Since they are heirs to the Alvar line they can bear the next High King. The Queen of Alda would have seen to them being married so they can give birth to an heir.”

“Give birth,” Darin said turning pale and shaking his head. “Pepper wouldn’t… I mean she would hate that and it would break her spirit.”

“There is no guarantee that has happened,” Donar said. Darin shook his head and stood, his hands shaking.

“I need to be alone,” Darin said walking away. Zaire watched him go with her heart like a lead weight in her chest. How much pain could it be to know that your lover was now sworn to another? Zaire wondered idly if it was worse that knowing one’s lover to be dead.

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, RED!

You have been accepted for the role of TATIANA LANTSOV. Reading this application made me legitimately laugh out loud -- in the best of ways. She is tenacious, bratty, frivolous, and conniving in the best of ways. A character to remember, a character that will leave you legitimately shook. You captured all of that and more in this single application. I don’t think I could ever see anyone more fitting to portray Tatiana than you. Parts of your application had me laughing in near tears, while others had me feeling sad for the girl that could be so much more. I cannot wait for you to reign her holy terror on the dash and I cannot wait to see how she unfolds in the world of Ravka. Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for this application! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Rita (if that gets confusing since there’s also a Rita character, I can just go by Red?)

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: she/her

AGE: 20

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: 6 – The deadline for my internship report is June 20th, and though it’s finished atm, I know I’m gonna be stressing out about it on that first deadline day or so, so I won’t be very active. After that, prepare to never get rid of me. I am halfway through an internship at a news agency, and since I no longer have classes but can’t start publishing things because I chose politics and need a lot of time to get familiar with the specifics of how parliament works until they’re sure I won’t fuck up, I’m finding myself with more free time than I’ve had in months.

TRIGGERS: OMITTED

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: scarlettduharts.tumblr.com; agirlnamedsparrow.tumblr.com; aurormoody.tumblr.com; thurstanselwyn.tumblr.com;

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Tatiana Dmitrievna Lantsov

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

I have always been fascinated by people who are completely removed from reality.

It’s only natural, then, that one of my favorite archetypes has long since become that of the bad, mad aristocrat - the guileless narcissist dripping with entitlement, oblivious to their own emotional vacancy. Tatiana, with all her envy and penchant for childish grudges, is one of such aristocrats.

But the fun is always in seeing beneath that, isn’t it? Tatiana actually reminds me of Veda Pierce, another rotten, irredeemable brat, but one whose motivations are never explained in the source material, and that I’ve always speculated about.

Tatiana may be frivolous and mean but she’s also quite pitiful. She’s never learnt how to love, how to think, how to work an honest day… Her upbringing left her so blissfully unaware of the real world, such a stranger to pain and want, that she’s forced to make up large problems out of small inconveniences and takes even the grandest things in her life for granted. The girl was denied a large part of what makes a person a person, and with the entitlement instilled into her from birth, it’s really no wonder that that she grew into a monster.

Could she still have become someone good? Sure! Plenty of people turned out a lot better after surviving a lot worse than being a poor little rich girl. It’s not about excusing her. But there are definitely reasons that make Tatiana who she is.

I’d love to get to explore the heart of Tatiana, small and cold and vacant as it may be, to get to the core of a sort of character that is often relegated to the role of minor antagonist in other people’s stories.

I won’t pretend that the Barbie Ferreira faceclaim left me totally cold either. I adore her and leapt with joy as soon as I saw you were using her for a character. Barbie has such a captivating, beautifully decadent look to her – I could honestly go on and on about how striking she is, and she’s absolutely perfect for Tatiana!

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?

-If she were to think clearly, Tatiana would find that she doesn’t want the royal family to fall. That would put her in a very bad position and she evidently does not want to be in it. But Tatiana isn’t thinking clearly. She isn’t and she won’t. A part of her will always ache to see those who fancy themselves above her knocked down from their heights and she’d go against her own self-interest to do it. So if someone were to, let’s say, approach her and bargain with her to spy on her cousin Ana or spread rumors about Anton (which she probably already does, with some discretion), she could easily be persuaded to. She probably wouldn’t even anticipate the dire, dire consequences her actions could have. I like the idea of Tatiana being an instrument to sabotage the royal family without realizing that their fall would bring her down with them.

-I also want to explore the courtship from hell™ with Ilya like crazy! I’d love to see a liaisons dangereuses type of dynamic develop between them, with Tatiana trying to destroy any girl he sleeps with and going atomic on the whole seduction aspect of the issue, eventually ending with a “if I can’t have you no one else will” kind of thing.

- I think it would be fun to explore a rivalry with Darya? Tatiana hates and envies Anastasia with every beat of her black heart, but she loves them too. The thought of being replaced in their heart probably kills her, and she must hate the warmth between her cousin and the Voronov girl.

- One of the things that I’d be the most interested in exploring with Tatiana would be a connection with someone, either grisha or not, who is actually dangerous. Maybe she pisses them off, maybe she amuses them because of how shameless she is, whatever. I just want her to get close enough for them to burst her bubble a little, to make her see that there are people capable of far worse than she is. And not necessarily because they’re worse people, you see? Only because they’ve been had a lifetime of hardship and jumping over loops that never existed in her sheltered life – because they’re better at being bad.

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: Yes! I wouldn’t want her to get killed off before I had a chance to explore the ideas I have on her, but if it eventually made sense to the plot, I wouldn’t be opposed to it at all! Let’s be honest: Tatiana, at least as she is now, is probably not well-equipped to survive much…

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S):

She wanted to gauge out its eyes and eat them.

Two red gems in a golden necklace, daring her to run her fingers through their surface – bloody and very, very red. She’d cut her teeth if she bit through it. And it only made the urge to press them against her lips all the more tempting, to kiss them before wrapping them around her neck as the other one had.

“Isn’t it lovely?”, Anastasia asked, and Tatiana was plunged back into her cousin’s bedroom, sunk on the divan while the little fool twirled away and banished the red in a fluttering haze of white silk.

“Oh, beautiful”, she spat.

But her cousin was not beautiful. In the eyes of peasants and of the new bourgeoisie, perhaps, untrained to the subtleties of it. Tatiana had finer tastes, a keener eye. Their eyes were too round, the poise in their movements too calculated to hold any grace. Theirs was the beauty of the peasant girl, gone with the first fallen leaf – she did not know how to be a proper princess and it did not belong to them.

“Tatiana”, they called, “are you upset?”

She hadn’t noticed how the hunger had seeped into her features, twisting their softness with a child’s angry pout. A stranger would have found the sight of it juvenile, even endearing. The servants would have quaked in their boots.

“I am not.” But how couldn’t she be, with such a great injustice dangling before her? All the diamonds and emeralds in the world did not matter. She might as well have been dressed in rags without the glorious necklace Anastasia had taken.

“You”, she snapped, pointing towards the nearest servant, “bring me a glass of kvas this instant.”

The mousy boy barely glanced at her before rushing out of the room, long warned of the screams that would come should he take too long to acquiesce. A tall woman entered in his stead. Sour and homely, unworthy of interest.

And yet the voice was cavernous, too proud for a woman of her station.

“The Queen requests your Highness’s presence”, she announced, not meriting Tatiana with a single glance. But oh, how she looked at Ana. Like a fire in winter, her eyes reflecting its warmth despite all the coldness of her posture. For a moment, she forgot to want the eyes in the necklace, the red jewels. She wanted the woman’s colorless ones instead.

That was no way to look at one’s betters.

“Excuse me.”

Anastasia didn’t protest, didn’t so much as ask what the servant wanted. She turned around like an obedient little dove, dropping the necklace on the nearest dresser. They were a haze of white when they left the room, flowing fabric trailing after their heavy black curls.

“Sooka.”

Curse her, she thought, curse her and her bloodline and her blasted crown and all the ugly suitors that may worship at her bland little feet.

Tatiana stretched her legs, her bare feet, scowling at the whiteness of her skin. Rita Jacos had promised to fix its pastiness, but she could still see something waxy, something unworthy of her perfection. And so was the room.

Once, in another room, Tatiana had been read tales of the old Os Alta. She had been very small, then, wrapped in fine frills and with her bare feet dangling from the lap of the old, frumpy woman she had once loved. It didn’t hurt to think of Nanny Baluskaya now – she had been dead for too long. She could hardly recall the texture of the old lady’s wrinkled hands, the frost in her voice when she spoke of the large, unforgiving land they called home and its days of sunlight.

“No mama”, she would order, “tell me more of the palace. I want to hear of the princes and the princesses, not of peasants and wheat!”

And so Mama would tell her of gold and rubies and a time where the palace walls had been draped in them and Tatiana could never understand why it was that the Lantsov’s could not live as lavishly as their ancestors had. The war and the wheat were the peasant’s to worry about, the darkness a grisha affair, none of them of any concern to the nobility.

Tatiana knew now, with her bare feet dangling from the divan and no old woman to hold her, that she would have brought Os Alta to its glory days if she’d been a princess. They’d have red drapes and golden embroidery, heads of the finest beasts mounted on the walls. It infuriated her to think of what could have been.

Until her dark eyes met the red ones across the room.

She felt a smile curl her lips, a quick flash of sharp teeth that nearly stopped the servant on his track when he came to deliver the kvas. Tatiana eyed him with contempt before taking her glass, and tried to keep him from seeing that the smile came from his hesitation as well. Was it for the beauty, she wondered, or for the fear? It didn’t much matter – and neither did he.

Tatiana rose from the divan, glass still in hand, and walked to the drawer to wrap her other greedy hand around the necklace. She marveled at the weight of the gold in her palm. The sly smile returned and then…

She threw it against a mirror in the opposite wall.

It survived, of course. Its eyes were glistening amongst the gold and shards of glass, oblivious to the devastation Tatiana had meant to cause. And the sound of the shattering mirror had nothing on the scream that left her throat. Her freckled cheeks grew red, her throat sore.

“Has something-” the servant didn’t get to finish his sentence before she turned around to throw the glass his way. It shattered against the wall behind him and the boy was left shaking, cowering at her.

“What did you do?”, she yelled, “Do you know how many of you that necklace is worth, you little pig?”

There was a tinge of perversity to it, at first, the hint of a smile in her distorted lips. But Tatiana burnt through it very quickly. At last, the fire of righteous indignation took her, and she had nothing but anger boiling in her blood.

“Please”, the boy begged, “I did nothing. I will call for my mother, she will settle it!”

“Mother?”

What a laugh, what a riot - for the little fool to think he was the son of anyone of worth! She raised her hand and delivered a swift blow across his face.

He began to sob.

“My – my- my mother is the head of the servants, you see?”

Her nose wrinkled in disgust. What did it matter that he was the son of the arrogant woman that had called for her cousin? It shouldn’t even have infuriated her as deeply as it did. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t! She struck the boy twice as hard for daring to voice his unfortunate parentage. Surely he must have known, must have seen how the woman had ignored her – the filthy ugly rat.

The scream that left her throat had nothing human to it, nothing but the full depth of madness in the world, the chaos that must have existed in the parts of Ravka the darkness had long taken. It broke through Tatiana’s body, through her chest. The grief of being made to feel nothing reminded her that she was alive.

“They should have you hung by your entrails and fed to your mama for dinner”, she pronounced every syllable with excruciating clarity, meeting the boy’s gaze for the first time.  She saw nothing but the fear in him, the pathetic subservience. And he saw something terrifying.

Her, Tatiana thought, and the word held all the triumph in the world – her saw her.

She raised her head to find a guard walking in their direction, hesitant for only a moment before he too grabbed the boy by the arm. They couldn’t hurt her – not if she screamed, mangled or killed. Her blood was purer than any part of them.

“Is this how you repay my beloved cousin for her kindness?” She was yelling again, all the self-righteousness of a judge with the shrewdness of a harpy.

Tatiana didn’t merit the guard with a glance until a few moments later, when she spoke in his direction. “I suppose the filthy little fleabag meant to break the necklace! But, as you must know, someone like him wouldn’t know the first thing about how strong the piece is. He broke the mirror instead!”

“I could have hurt myself”, she continued, her voice rising an octave higher, “I could have been blinded by the broken glass!”

The guard turned somber. And Tatiana, for all her rage, began to feel a tingle of satisfaction. She laughed when the man dragged the servant away, the taste of it far sweeter than of the bitter kvas.

“Go on little malen'kaya krysa, squeal!”

Tatiana would never know what had happened to the boy and his mother - she would never care. But she did, for the faintest moment, care to know what took the guard’s expression before he turned away to drag the boy.

She would have never have suspected it to be boredom.

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:

-Tatiana had a vast sum of pets during her childhood: a cat, a dog, a pony, a caged lark, even a wildcat. She remembers their names, their beauty and the passing interest they held, and will occasionally mention them. What she forgets is exactly why she was bored of them or what her father did to them afterwards. It’s not something she often thinks about.

-She’s a virgin. Not in the frail, cowardly way some girls are, with their dry entrails and their tiresome insecurities. No, because Tatiana would never reduce herself to that kind of thing. But she has known who will take her virginity since she was a very young girl. She’s disgusted by most men - bored by the young ones, who will avert their eyes from her chest and tremble in her presence, and furious at the old, who open their ghastly mouths and smile like she’s nothing but a piece of flesh. It’s nearly as bad as the rage when they won’t look at her, really… She would have all their heads as a queen. But not his. She’d much rather have Ilya Tsarov’s head intact. He is power, beauty, ice carved into man. Why would she want any of those beastly creatures, when she can have him? Besides, virginity can be a weapon in itself. Tatiana tells herself that she’s quite knowledgeable about the appetites of the flesh already, and that being a virgin doesn’t really put her at a disadvantage against other people. It’s a shame that there are butterflies in her stomach whenever someone comes close to touching her. She’s getting tired of waiting. There’s a good chance she’ll grow irritated soon enough, and an irritated Duchess Tatiana Lantsov is not an enemy Ilya Tsarov wants to face.

- She is plagued by the persistence of a childhood nickname. Tati – a plain, playful thing fit for a bitch or a servant, cracking on the tongues of those not fit to address her even by her proper title. The lowly ones have long learnt not to use it, lest they incur on her wrath. It’s only when those of royal blood utter it that Tatiana is forced to bite down her rage and choke on blackness and bile before she can bite back.

-[TW: Emotional abuse, arranged marriage, just a fucking horror story in general] She didn’t come from love, as some terrible things do. “I will not marry him”, Natalya had said, trembling as they wrapped the gold around her neck. But they painted her mouth, poured something fiery down her throat, and she was married by the morning. They laughed at the foolish girl in her drunken haze, the Queen’s youngest and prettiest sister. She was seventeen. Tatiana’s father was a clever man, rich in name and coin, short and stout, but nonetheless blessed with a slimy smile and an unassuming charm that helped him pull the strings of everyone around him. The truth was that Grigori wanted the Lantsov name for his children, and there was little anyone could have done to stop him. He tried to get Natalya to love him, truly. Why wouldn’t he have? She was so lovely - her stupidity was only another of her many charms. He lavished her in jewelry and ignored the way she would flinch at his touch. It wasn’t his fault he grew bored of her. Her resistance would have tattered through any man’s nerves, and young girls could be quite dull. Tatiana was born a year after they’d married, wide-eyed and even lovelier than her mother. And saints, was she adored! Of course, Natalya was never very present when her daughter was a child, off with her soldiers and the things they gave her to dream… But she more than made up for it with her gifts, with the desperate kisses she would plant on her little girl’s face. Tatiana could never quite understand what was wrong with her mother. But she soon realized that the more accusations of abandonment she made, the more fervent Natalya’s adoration would be. So she grew fluent in the language of pouts and shrieking, saving the best for when her father came to visit. Oh, how Grigori loves her beauty, her pride, the nobility that she embodies! He is, and has always been, utterly enchanted by everything about her. It doesn’t keep him from using her to control Natalya, of course, keeping his wife’s sense of worth at a manageable low by reminding her of what a terrible mother she is, how unloved she is even by her only child. But Grigori likes to think it’s one of the many things he and Tatiana share. He’s sure that there’s a strong bond between them, that he could control her if he really wanted to – the fact that she’s almost as selfish as he is has to mean something!

-Tatiana isn’t stupid - she’s only remarkable at making herself seem so. She’s a clever enough girl and even had a brain for mathematics as a child. She was good at history and geography as well. She’d develop obsessions with different lands and eras, dressing herself and decorating her room in their likeness. But they were nothing but varnish with which to cover her true interest, colorful pieces to be forgotten when the season passed. What she truly loved was her vanity, the details of a world she was sure was all hers to take. And that’s a very stupid thing to think, particularly for a sheltered girl who’s never known loss or had any sort of power that didn’t come from a name or a sore throat. It’s the sort of smug stupidity that can bleed into everything one does.

-Tatiana is an occasional reader, but doesn’t really have the mental persistence for complicated literature. She devours romance novels. The silly girls and and bland boys in their pages amuse her, and she tells herself that’s why she can’t stop reading them. She was also fond of tales of adventurers and explorers as a child, but has long abandoned them to the dust.

-She’s a marvelous dancer, a pitiful sower and an atrocious singer.

-“Make me”, she tells her, and does not say beautiful. Tatiana knows she is beautiful. She knows, and it only makes the flaws all the more glaring, the indifference with which some look at her all the more hurtful. The approval of the others is meaningless. “Make me”, she tells her, “make me perfect”.

EXTRAS:

Inspiration:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31rVmUuPErQ – Remember how I mentioned that Tatiana reminded me of Veda Pierce and that my take on her was sort of inspired on the character? Veda is middle-class turned new money rather than aristocracy but watch this video and tell me if the utterly delusional, juvenile, hurtful rant around 2:06 and the little fit at the end aren’t SO Tatiana. “But why Veda?” Because she’s a cunt, Mildred, that’s why <3 I listened to this whenever I needed inspiration for the app tbh.

Songs for Tatiana:

(not long, organized or consistent enough to be a playlist, but a valiant attempt nonetheless)

Beauty is empty, mars argo

I see you staring in your mirror

What will it take for you to see

Your pretty smile is a monster

And your beauty is empty

Red lips, Sky Ferreira

Little bitch

Growing so bored of your fits

‘Cause sooner or later, you’re done

And down with the worms

And no one remembers your name

Too bad

Primadonna, Mariana and the diamonds  -

I can’t help but I need it all

The primadonna life, the rise and fall

You say that I’m kinda difficult

But it’s always someone else’s fault

Got you wrapped around my finger, babe

You can count on me to misbehave

And I’m sad to the core, core, core

Every day is a chore, chore, chore

When you feel of a whole more more

I wanna be adored

(just the entire fucking song tbh)

Beautiful, Dirty, Rich – Lady Gaga

Bang bang, we’re beautiful and dirty rich – I know this seems hella weak, but the song is one I could see as a soundtrack while Tatiana walks down a room? XD

Gold, Guns, Girls – Metric

All the gold and the guns in the world (couldn’t get you off)

All the gold and the guns and the girls (couldn’t get you off)

All the boys, all the choices in the world

(…)

Is it ever gonna be enough?

Yellow Flicker Beat – Lorde

My blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones

It keeps my veins hot, the fires find a home in me

(…)

They used to shout my name, now they whisper it

I’m speeding up and this is the

Red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart

Pinterest Board: https://www.pinterest.pt/girlbitesback/character-tatiana/

ANYTHING ELSE? OMITTED

[shipcestuous]

(Submission)

All righty, I just finished And I Darken, and I’ve got a little bit of analysis for you!  (Sorry, this got so damn long!)

So in case you hadn’t gathered yet, Lada and Radu’s relationship is complicated.  It’s messy.  They can cover each other’s weaknesses quite well–Lada is tough and ruthless and bold, and Radu’s clever and charismatic, and when they work together, they’re a force–but there’s obviously a lot of negative feelings between them at times.  Sometimes because of their own actions, and sometimes because of misunderstandings or the actions of others around them.

But there’s also a sharp feeling of longing from both of them.  They both reflect at points in the book on how they miss each other (if they’re apart, or sometimes even if they’re together and not getting along), how at times they’re each other’s only ally in the world, how they want to protect each other (even if they’re mad at each other at the time).

But it’s also evident in their relationships with other characters.  Lada develops a sibling-like relationship with Bogdan and later Nicolae, and Radu does the same with Nazira.  Obviously they both have a longing for a sibling relationship and, when they’re distant from each other, they look for that bond in other people.

Interestingly enough, ALL of those relationships have a non-platonic component.  Of course, I already mentioned, in a previous ask, Lada and Bogdan’s fake-marriage as children.  (When he reappears years later, he also introduces himself as Lada’s husband.)  And while Lada and Nicolae have no interest in each other, she does consider kissing him to “move on” from her feelings for Mehmed (the friend she and Radu both like).  And  Radu enters into a marriage with Nazira (with the understanding that it’s purely platonic because she’s super gay for her maid; they’re really cute, btw).

And then, of course, there’s the elephant in the room… Mehmed.  Yes, they both love him.  But there’s a lot of reflection about each other in that love, too.  Radu is jealous of Mehmed and Lada’s relationship (and dwells on Lada, Lada, Lada a lot), and upon realizing his feelings for Mehmed, Lada tries to basically “break his heart to save him” from the potential repercussions. Again, there’s that obvious affection connecting them, even when they aren’t (consciously) feeling particularly positive toward each other.

But still, it’s all about Mehmed in the end, right?  Well… not exactly.  Near the end of the book, there’s an assassination attempt, and Radu bursts in to find the would-be assassin trying to kill Mehmed and having already injured Lada pretty badly.

“Radu did not know who [the assassin guy] would kill first, and he could not protect them both at once.

He chose Lada.”

This isn’t a long, thought-out decision.  This is his first gut instinct.  To protect not the person he’s in love with, but the sister he’s known (and loved, and hated, and everything in between) his entire life.  It’s telling.  Whatever may have come between them, she’s still his most important person.

Then, they basically form a Battle Couple for a moment there, he saves her again (in a big turnaround from how she always kept people from hurting him when they were little), and then we get this.

“Radu threw himself forward and grabbed her blood-slicked hands.  He tipped her up, falling backward with her on top of him.

She was shaking all over, trembling as he had never seen, delirious with blood loss and fear.  “You saved me,” she said.

“Of course I did.”

She shook her head.  “Not when I was falling.  When Ilyas had us both on the floor.  You chose me over Mehmed.”

“You are my family,” he whispered.

…He held her, stroking her hair and crying…“

In the next scene, they also hold hands while she comforts him about the friend he killed to save her.  Shortly after, when some more shit goes down (somebody let these siblings live in peace, please), Lada reflects on how her relationship with Radu has changed and how she knows him again.  He’s the same brother she saved more than once as children:

“He was no longer the man Lada did not know.  He was the boy on the ice, the boy in the forest, the boy in the thorns.  He was hers.”

This, right before she lies to Mehmed’s face in order to keep him from getting angry at Radu.  Love interest?  Which one is the love interest again?  She verbally rips apart Mehmed’s trust in her, and possibly his love for her, in order to spare her brother from being hurt as well.  It definitely shows how far their relationship has progressed since the start.

In the end, she decides she wants to go back to their original home, but she uncharacteristically begs Radu to come with her.  He declines, but it’s obviously a painful choice.  Then Mehmed asks her to marry him and she’s all “lol, nope,” and then we get another interesting bit of prose:

“Love was a weakness, a trap…. Somehow she had failed to keep herself free.  Mehmed and Radu stood before her, snaring her, keeping her here.  And even knowing it, she recoiled at the thought of losing them.”

This really is a triangle because there’s such strong feelings on all sides.  Again, the sibling relationship is portrayed as being of equal importance to the one with the love interest.

And shortly after, again!  “Radu and Mehmed had both given her something she could not give herself, had seen her in a way no one else had and no one else ever would.  They looked at her, ugly Lada, vicious Lada, and saw something precious….  One future–bleak and unknowable… unfurled before her.  Another, with her brother and the man who knew her and still loved her, shone like a beacon.”

I know that last sentence is referring to both men, but honestly, it could just as easily be referring to Radu since the narrative just went out of its way to establish that they know and love each other so much better now.

And of course, we get a snippet of Radu’s sadness once Lada leaves, where he thinks of her as “home.”

Look me in the eyes and tell me this is a 100% platonic sibling relationship.  …I mean, it’s you.  You’re too awesome to do that to me.  But still!  They’re way more shippable than I anticipated!  I can’t wait for more interactions between these two in the sequel, whenever it comes out.  When they reunite next, things are bound to get interesting. (Probably not in the way I want them to, but still.)

Hmmmm. I don’t see it. 100% platonic. 

…

…

JUST KIDDING, OBVIOUSLY. 

Thank you so much for writing all of this up. Everyone always apologizes for long asks/submits but honestly the more the better, always!

I really love how even though it wasn’t exactly, strictly speaking, a typical love triangle, Lada and Radu’s relationship was always a contender in their relationships with Mehmed, and they could never be with Mehmed or think about Mehmed without thinking of their sibling too. 

This seems like a somewhat rare and exquisite example of a brother/sister relationship. Because it’s so complicated, and has so much development, and the end actually involves Radu choosing to save Lada instead of Mehmed, and Lada wanting Radu to come with her. And just the way it’s on pretty much equal footing with the “official” love interest relationship. 

And I think it’s great how there was a romantic to component to those sibling-ike relationships that they have. 

I really love that passage you typed out after he saves her. So beautiful!

[aramkrikorian-blog]

10-9-2018

waking up. tired. rain. rain on the boots. the boots are torn. shoes. are wet. leather shoes. uncomfortable shoes. comfortable shoes. the daily walk. walking in uncomfortable shoes. ears clogged. not sick. ears jammed up. sticking fingers into ears with toilet paper when in the bathroom. library. salvation army. need to take a piss. need to take a shit. bathrooms. looking for bathrooms. embarassed. look like shit. haven’t showered in a bit. lighters are dead. no flame for cigarettes. the rain. it ruins the cigarette shorts i collect off the ground. talking to myself. not really. lots of people doing real life following. they want me to participate in interactive games with the audience. im not a star. im not taylor swift. she shouldn’t do politics yet. she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. democrats. republicans. green party. lame . parties. people. birthdays. rain. dogs. leashes. masters. slaves. negative conditioning. positive associations. flashbacks. larissa. lory. jessica. ashkhen. hasmig. who and what happened and where am i. did the babies really get aborted. are people messing with my mind. the information. is it true. not true. ears clogged. i can barely hear sarcastic remarks. god is watching over it all. proverbs. Better to live in a desert than with a quarrelsome and nagging wife. peacock in the desert. seattle. pike street. pike market. prospect park. GAR cemetary. ducks. weird tattoo store. weird tattoo aesthetic. cornish college. security guards. smoking cigarettes. asking for cigarettes. not comfortable. SEATAC. orcas. the oceans. pier 70. pier 66. starbucks. starbucks reserve. st james church. gospel mission. millinair club. tweakers. not that many. many or not. not known. know nobody. alone. thoughts. suicide. Virginia Mason hospital. lutheran church. food. food under the bridge. housing help. library on 4th street. newspapers. news. 90 minutes of internet time. homeless resource guide. backpack stolen. all work gone. no more work to look over. wanted a house on frontenac. didn’t get it. went to ferrari dealership - you say you’re a gangsta but you never popped nothing. you’re a real wanksta. songs. curses. nirvana. cause i’ve found god - rethinking what i said about kurt cobain. he is dangerously not well in Lithium. sounds llike the psychiatrists put pills in him and he blew his brains out or heroine or the pain of his wife... she breaks mirrors. weird flashbacks. lorys brother was administerered lithium wh en i was administered seroquel. psychopharma DEATH TOLL. bodies keep stacking. kurt cobain. lithium. lake washington blvd - curt cobains house. i didn’t know. i did a free navigation of the city. i felt things, bro. now i regret what i said about kurt cobain. lady was wearing a nirvana song list tshirt. bruce lee and brandon lee’s graves. crows. bible... scarecrows. 3-6 mafia lord infamous used to call me scaRECROW what is this... where am i. same motifs. same symbols. used by different people at different times. 1 big symbolic soup. trying to make sense of it. untangle it. which came first the word crow or pigeon. beautiful pigeons. appearance of pigeons in ones timeline over time. typing in the library. ‘the kind of kind guy that won’t take no for an answer’ - wanting to buy a house on frontenanc and give it to brent and tim ... tim gave me an umbrella. brent hooked it up with cigarettes - lighter. they were good guys. lyft people circling around. feel guilt and shame resentment everywhere. saved by the dell poster. PRIVATE PROPERTY everywhere - including the seattle sports stadium ... safeco field? seahawks lose to larams - kendrick lamar. lemurians of mt shasta. greyhound... buses. the animals. a great dane takes a fat piss on 700 7th ave...  the courthouse night, doing a speech. finding weed on ground smoking it. speaking at the school ... getting more weed. fed a larabar. ara. ara gets funding again in march. rosenstein is out? cohen is out? melania is in africa - visits a former slave in ghana. beautiful work. thank you mr and mrs trump. kushner? scooby dooby doo. airbnb ... valuations. memories. pains. people. upgrades and promotions. growth. new ideas. scholarships. college. essays. schools. making sure the kids are going to be safe. at least putting a line on the older ones and going to go back and ensure the road is well paved for the younger ones. newspaper room 6th floor. bathrooms on floor 7 of library also on floor 1... and maybe on 3 and 4.. .but not sure. haven’t been higher than floor 7 as far as i recall. lady in front of library - obese with lighter and cigarette - i ask her for a light she says “why are you chasing me?” - not a question. it is a question. it is something inside of a question. an accusation. a false accusation. a controversial, extremely controversial false accusation. it implies more. profile equivalent of a stalker. im not a stalker. a chaser. but i will become one if she wants me to. if the shoe fits ill wear it. or ill just wear it once and throw it away anyway. copy and paste this text and put it into a text to speech application and just listen to it ... let me know if it sounds good. borrow phrases from it. let it brainwash you. because it’s all real. really really really really real. kim and kanye. blessings. armenians. what the heck. little children in library walking around... happy looking. global warming. will it kill all the little children that look so innocent to my eye. and to my eye the world looks ok. but to the instruments... they’re reading something else. that’s how gas kills doesn’t it... it didn’t smell. it just killed. mount olympia. sculpture garden at the pier has a lot of gardners but a lot more dog shit. its impossible to sit in the grass. there was SO MUCH dog shit there. mcdonalds sued for a million dollars. dont do it. all these ridiculous articles on Medium. i joined medium but i cant even press a button to write. ridiculous. double daniels. daniel lives here. so does erin treg. ill try to not mention too many names i guess. maybe they can comment on posts and take them out. fuck ilya golub. fuck olga. fuck all those people. nikolai and m8s and ara and etc etc. let them live their lives but these are weenie people. someone should keep a permanent weenie hat on their heads. stop stuffing dicks into everyones head aram. stop it. note to self. exercise more discipline in the language that i use. lockwood... he was an author who blew his braINS OUT. but he was typing like an animal in the family garage. he released a book. i wish one day i can get back to literature reading again. i miss pynchon. i miss delillo. did they write any new books. are they still alive? im going to check google right now and trust the answer. dellilo alive. i heard roth died. 5-22-2018. wow . the number 22. number of hebrew characters in the alphabet. the number of arab league countries. 22 is a heptagonal number. which means 7 sided polygon number. who knows what that means. its just important. who knows. philip roth died on 5 - 22 - 2018. wow. i miss his work. american paradise or something or portnoy’s complaint. who was that guy. i remember being in oregon 4 years ago and digging deep into literature. is my brother dead? did shant eat a heroine shot? people on the bus were saying weird things. is my father dead? i don’t even know. i remember jolie writing things on the wall. like prophecy that turned into reality. maybe the whole thing was a joke. the name. keith. she used names. she said things. JR JR JR> what is JR.. it’s on the inside of larissa lip . who knows. maybe real or not. nick. wtf. heroine. fresno. people talking to me. gangs this that. greatful dead family. where are we. what is this. acid. meth. heroine. crack brillo pads. what is all this. what happened. where is everyone. dope shooters. not a lot of people left around - “ Cage The Elephant - Shake Me Down - YouTube “ urban dictionary. JR> some caring guy. larissa’s boyfriend. hope they’re still together. been talking out loud to her. sometimes i feel her. saw a lookalike of Lory. or i actually saw lory. maybe when larissa and i were in santa cruz.. we were being watched and played for fools. she kept saying she saw nicole. the aramark logo. the mark from seattle. the people out there. here. chris while. erin triggie. daniel ex of jessica. who knows what people do. say. where am i. what has happened to me. how am i homeless. what is this. what happened to me. i used to be an OG. lol. what am i now. can i even handle it. unlikely candidate. why do people even half respect me. what is going on. scholarships. colleges. high school kids applying for colleges. stanford early application this year is november 1... and the regular is january 2. i remember 2004 applying for fafsa and all that. scholarships. this that. getting accepted. man. SAT scores are still going. its insane how out of touch you get despite trying hardest to stay in touch. eventually the kids evict you themselves. couple library rats tried to trade me bluetooth headset for some molly in front of library and for some crystal. i said no to both. i saw mad guy tweaking dancing fuckin hard at millionair club today - i looked at him and said “brother i love you so i dont want to see you here, like this, ok?” - where is HOMIE RESCUE TEAM - what are we going to do? should we just laugh at this guy. should we just let him die off. should we kill him? what do you think? i have to read news... china and america. usa. and china. and korea. and russia. and some games and calm down and 110 billion dollar pump into USA. turkey and saudi arabia ... and pushing and shoving and ghana and america visits and angola 500 million president running to london who knows... where are we.. like flies buzzing around on The Blue Marble. what happened to sitting at home and enjoying one another in peace. where is my wife. why do i call her my wife. im forgiving people. im rescuing people. im saying im going to quit cigarettes. people look so shady. they look so protective over their assets. ive lost more than i think or know or can count or i dont know whats going on. 

i wanted a ferrari 812 a portofino i saw was pretty i like the color rosso and i wanted a 488 spider and a home on frontenac and i wanted a powerboat like 70 footer or 77′ and i wanted to go to bahamas or caribbean and have sex with my wife and procreate and have children and relax and sleep and rest and have a home on 18 acres in snoquamish and all that stuff and have a Dodge ram 2500 

just read about Satyrs for the first time. rams and satyrs and greece and dionysus and debauchery and Pan and apollo and challenging gods and losing and winning and secretive & lustful and wanting to fuck and permanent erection (piss boner) - very interesting. 

also very interesting is the PT Barnum effect ... basically .. .have you ever had a boner? have you ever wanted to have sex with many women? have you ever flirted with a woman? h ave you ever challenged someone bigger than your own size (like David?) - who knows. Ram. Aram. Random Access Memory. bighorn ram. it was in a shooting game i played on hunting game on computer a long time ago. 

gods .. shoot downs. being destroyed. FLAYED Alive. the Flaying of Tarsus. hubris. arrogance. humility. cold. hot. 

there is this fucking idiot laughing in the library. this fucking tool idiot. he is in the library and he laughs like a clown. i wish joe pesci were here so he can jam and smash on the guy. but he’s not so if i do it. in front of the cameras. it will pr;obably get me into some sort of toruble. who knows. anyway. 

iris murdoch. philip roth. thomas pynchon. all these people. time passes. pynchon delillo still alive still kicking. 

birth days were the worst days. slowly getting over the doldrums. what is it called. weighing yourself down . idioms. expressions. the power of idioms. lists of idioms. lists of ethnic slurs. lists of sociological terms. lists of profiling terms. lists of lists. endless lists of words and referrents and objects and feelings. 

Jimmy hendrix park seattle. the numbered avenues. Ballard. the draw bridges. the seaplanes. the boeing. the SAM . art museum. the fountains. the trees and parks. the lake washington. the lake union. the puget sound. the alaskan viaduct project. 4 months. all the little pieces of seattle. the 4 seasons. the goldfinch bar. the bars. the loyal inn. mark matthews park. he was a presbyterian minister. here we are. some guy still laughing so i told him to shut up bro that hes fucking annoying. then another guy joins in... he does a little goat laugh. so i fucken do a sheep laugh too. fuck these guys. play whack a mole all day. 

seattle is amazing. minus these idiots in it. can someone genocide them. or get rid of their bodies tonight and feed them to the orcas k25 and k13 ? .. k13 is dead. k25 is getting skinny. 

The latest official count is 77 orcas among the three pods. That reflects the death of K-13, a 45-year old female named Skagit.

the count of orcas is 77 orcas. i wanted a 77 or 70 foot yacht. i wanted to call it Septuagint. there are al ot of 7s in the bible. 

oh Gosh. oh man. david reigned for 7 years 6 months. 76. 67.  6s and 7s. 42s. wow. and 7 male descendants of Saul hung before the lord. 7s. the 7 times 77 forgiveness.. yesterday the sevenfold punishments in leviticus. i like stuff like this alot. 

7 for all mankind - i remember such days. the time is 12:12 Pm on 10/9/2018. 

who knows these things ... the Lord is playing on all tracks concurrently. im less annoyed. i see all these defective personas in one day. i dont know why. but its getting better. people getting chin checked. a lot of people getting tagged. 

the rats are getting smashed on worldwide. Meng. etc etc. interpol. this that. internationally. locally, domestically. the Great Awakenings. when we enter into slumbers and turn into zombies turn into psychic vampires. we need to clean the algae every once in a while or else there’s just bodies and piles of bodies of humans. we dont really care about the dead of the past. we really dont’ give a shit or dedicate any time to remembering or researching the dead of the past. a list of wars by death toll. largest natural disasters by death toll. 

to have faith. to try to pray to God. to say im not here to destroy the catholic church. people say and come up with the worst and weirdest things. if you can only see this writing post you will see i hop around so many places. 

a poison dart frog, a dog, a porcupine, a snake, a cow - i’ve been compared to such animals. after a while all the terms of endearment eventually get to me.. its annoying its not cute. people speak they did the worst things to me and im pretty done for trying to recover. maybe i will maybe i wont maybe someone will kill me or ill magically die.. it wont matter - i see that kurt cobain and bruce and brandon and jimmi hendrix theryre all dead and the stars are all dead the “stars” ... revelation says 

Revelation 6:13 and the stars of the sky fell to the earth, like unripe figs

and the woman and the dragon and the red dragon ... and ir ead revelation and imagined myself as satan last year but i dont think so. i think the others are satan becasue they twisted my brains in and out.. and i cant wait for the rest of revelation to be carried out so that i can witness the end of the world. im very tired of how twisted and disgusting things have become.. im not just angry or wrathful.. i would like to actually see the end of the world... i would like to see Jesus im going to try and be ok until that happens. .. and its so sad that people are just.. .its so sad. 

https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Revelation+12&version=NKJV

love, 

aram krikorian