#without fundamentally changing what wraith are

[weavercobra]

Original art by Aria Wraithe, modified by Shinris Starlight

Myoticia

Mother of Vampires, Great Hunter in the Dark, The Bloody Bat

Vampirism, be it considered a curse or a blessing, is not a natural condition. It fundamentally transform those who receive it into something else, something predatory, something powerful, something ageless. And the patron of these dark beings is Myoticia.

On Myoticia

The chiropteran goddess is an ancient deity, born in the primordial past of the universe. A predator at heart, she stalked the darkness of the chaos, preying on the great monsters and other deities of the era, feeding on their blood to grow stronger. Sometimes she traded favour for favour, lending strength in exchange for the intoxicating taste of ichor. Other times, she ambushed and hunted, taking by force what would not be freely given.

As the world settled and mortal races began multiplying, they caught Myoticia's eyes. Among them were those who were hunters like her, people of strength and will, of cunning and brutality, who by varied means chased their prize,whether that chase be literal or metaphorical. Myoticia found herself fascinated by these beings, so much weaker than her, yet striving so hard none the less.

The exact story of what happened next varies. Certainly, the number of vampire families who claim direct descend from this event are far too numerous for all of it to be true. And the story has been muddled by the passage of time. But broad strokes are that Myoticia was so taken in by a hunter that she offered a drop of her own essence. Why they choose to accept is also a matter of debate. Some say it was an old hunter, longing for the power of their youth. Other an arrogant but accomplished noble, who wished for more power. And yet others suggest a dying warrior, desperate to prolong their life. Whatever the case, they accepted and was forever changed.

The first vampire had been born, but alongside their new strength, enhanced senses and magical power came also a prize. Myoticia was a deity of the dark and so her new children were also tied to it, weakened and even harmed by the sunlight. Their hunger too became as great as their progenitor's and vampires were to forever hunt and chase the lifeblood of others to sustain their immortal life.

Myoticia truly sees vampirism as a gift that elevates those who receive it and her policy on the embrace is that it is a mutual process. The vampire must embrace a mortal as much as the mortal must embrace vampirism. Forced conversion is a good way to earn her ire. Myoticia has often offered vampirism to mortals whom she's grown fond of, but has always accepted a no.

The Myotician Faith

Central to the Myotician faith is the concept of predation and the hunt. The exact tenets of these can vary depending on the local congregation and, especially, how much they deal with vampirism. But in broad strokes, the faith holds that rarely are things in life freely given and that one must be prepared to take. This can take many forms. More beneficially, its an encouragement of ambition and personal development. If you have goals you want, strive to achieve them. Figure out how to accomplish them. Don't hold yourself back. Less so, some variants of the faith encourage taking advantage of others, however you can get away with it. If you want something, take it. Their pain is not your concern.

It is however important to remember that Myoticia is a hunter, not a parasite, despite that being a common comparison. The faith heavily disapproves of those who do nothing to earn, who just take and take without actually putting in an equal amount of effort. In some areas, this puts the faith at odds with the upper classes and the powers that be. The faith is not inherently against hierarchies, as such is seen as a natural expression of power, but a leader who does nothing but eat what their underlings bring them is not a leader at all. If the church doesn't attempt to oust them, they will often back whomever will. Not even vampires are immune to this, as Myoticia takes a dim view on any of her children who'd squander her beautiful gifts by sitting back on a silken pillow and letting the blood and money just roll in.

Vampirism is an unavoidable but thorny subject. In areas where vampires are disliked or hunted down, the Myotician faith is rarely welcome and worshippers are often treated as vampire allies by default. This is not entirely unearned. In lands where vampires rule, the Myotician faith often gains power, in return supporting such rulership theologically. How well that works out for the common people depends then entirely on the nature of their vampiric rulers.

Myotician churches tend to be dark, lit by enchanted candles that glow red or, for especially important rooms, purple. Sermons are usually held at night, especially under the new moon. Facilities vary, but usually at least one room is equipped with a blood font. This basin is filled with blood which never putrefies. These a said to be direct links to Myoticia and her faithful freely give of their blood to these fonts, either as an act of worship or penance. Some churches, especially those with wealthy patrons, can be quite elaborate. Many vampire castles often include a dedicated church as part of them, though some extremely grand projects involve adding entire cathedrals to the structure as a demonstration of either faith, wealth, status or all of the above.

Worshippers

Vampires or people who aspire to be vampires are unsurprisingly common. Many even relatively faithless vampires offer at least lip-service and the occasional offering to Myoticia, just to stay on her good side. But besides them are also those who worship her in her aspects as a goddess of the hunt or the night. This can include big game hunters, adventurers, anyone on the night shift and so on.

The colours of Myoticia are red and purple, and so her priesthood tend to wear the same. Capes are popular, especially designed to mimic the wings of bats. Some worshippers, especially those following her more predatory tenets, may file their teeth if their species don't generally have sharp fangs.

Paradoxical as it may seem, some vampire hunters also worship Myoticia. All her aspects are relevant to their job, after all, and Myoticia do not consider vampires above being hunted themselves. While they are more likely to receive her blessing if she's personally annoyed with their target, she has also been known to aid those who just displays the traits she favour. Other vampire hunters find this blasphemous to say the least.

Associates

Leo Carver: Myoticia sometimes develop such a fondness for a given mortal that she elects to court them, or let them court her, depending on circumstances. By the time most mortals can even attempt to try and get her attention, however, they're usually at least middle-aged, and thus most dalliances are either short lived or end in vampirism. Not so with Leo, who during one of his adventures was cursed with immortality(Cursed in Leo's opinion, anyway). The stubborn, grumpy treasure-hunter slash shopkeeper has steadfastly refused giving up his humanity and Myoticia has fully respected his opinion, though she is delighted that she can keep him around anyway. Leo in turn finds comfort in having an intimate relationship he won't outlive yet again.

Myoticia in my Settings

Spheres: While still goddess of all vampires, she is especially considered the patron of the vampires of the sphere of Arnyekfold. Each lineage of vampire in the Spheres setting takes after a specific blood-drinking animal, bats in the case of those of Arnyekfold. The Sanders family can claim the most direct lineage from her, though all families that have splintered from them claim some descent. Her church, likewise, is most powerful in Arnyekfold and is in a state of open war with the Soarelian Compact, a powerful alliance of faiths that would see vampires eradicated.

Panepithumia: The Myotician faith is most prevalent in Überwald and it is where most vampires can be found. The land is ruled mostly by various vampire clans, houses or whatever they choose to call themselves, and the church often has to use its influence to get everyone to play nice with each other. Her most famous church is the Church of the Night in the town of Greyburgh, which has grown considerably through donations by several powerful groups, such as the vampiric Sanders family.

[w0lp3rtinger]

So… I’ve been thinking.

Shadow’s immortality has always been a subject of interest to me. There’s no one neat definition that ‘immortality’ fits into and so until otherwise given frame and limitations, it’s very ambiguous.

Is it a pristine immortality, where they will never age?

Is it a limited immortality, where they age very slowly and in a fundamentally different way than regular people?

Is it a conditional immortality, where they will live longer and age slower, but those bonuses are dictated by how often a regenerative factor is needed, or how often they are in contact with Chaos Energy?

But then, I was listening to Dawson’s Christian by Ernie Mansfield, Leslie Fish, and Vic Tyler, and I realized there is a fourth option I had not considered.

Is it an immortality of the soul, long after the corporal form has ceased to be?

In Sonic Battle, Rouge tells Shadow that Gerald gave him ‘Maria’s Soul.’ … We’ve no idea what that means. (We also don’t know how seriously to take Rouge in regards to Gerald since we don’t know what information she is privy to and as such cannot judge the quality.) You could take it literally, you could take it figuratively, you could do a lot of things, and each one has its own implications.

But for the sake of this headcanon…

I think Shadow’s soul is immortal.

No matter what happens to him, if there’s enough of a body to come back to, he’ll live. If there is no body left to come back to, or the body is no longer salvageable/viable, he will go on without it. The guy runs on Chaos Energy, and we’ve seen Chaos energy do strange, wonderful, terrible things. We also know for a fact that ghosts exist within Sonic’s world (SA1 and SA2 are the examples that come to mind).

However you think their immortality would or would not affect their body, would or would not affect their ability to physically age, the soul would continue on after and continue to do the job Shadow has taken upon themself, which is to protect the world.

What would this look like? Oh man. I can’t draw, so for those who need a visual of what is swirling around my head before I give a written description, I point you to these two very, very talented individuals who have inspired me with their art.These designs I’m linking come with their own lore, or the lore is being developed. I am not claiming them to use here, merely pointing towards them as an example of something akin to what I’m mulling over. @soloiho has an amazing design called Black Hole Shadow which is positively ghastly, whereas @redsunlight has a very interesting design for their lore called Prismatic AU which utilizes all the different colors of the chaos emeralds due to Shadow crushing them all for reasons detailed in their story.

In my mind, I see Shadow - for clarity’s sake let’s call it Wraith Shadow - as pitch black. There is no noticeable muzzle. You can’t even see his mouth. Where his hands and feet would be sort of becomes whispy and fades into nothingness unless he requires a limb to be solid (like to kick someone in the face, he’d need a foot, right?)

The only change in color you would see would be the light that emanates from where his red stripes use to be, from his eye sockets, and a swirling dark hole where his chest fur used to be. If he opens his mouth, there is light there too. When he moves his limbs with purpose, to attack or gesture or anything of that nature, there is a light trail that drifts from them. The light would be brighter when experiencing intense emotions and fainter when not. They very, very rarely speak. It requires a very special person or situation for them to be so moved as to do so. They can touch without the intention of causing harm, but it feels like running into very dense, warm air.

What color other than the darkness is there? Reds and oranges, like in the old SA2 style. Maybe even with a translucent sort of grainy texture, like looking at space dust.

And please make no mistake- Wraith Shadow is the most boiled-down components of Shadow, all of the critical best and worst parts smashed together and concentrated. You thought they were bad before, it’s about to get ten times worse. I’ve always thought that the main motivating components for Shadow were Love and Spite and they’ve been cranked up to 300% of what they were when alive.

And they’re not happy about this situation, not at all. Upon no longer being able to inhabit their physical form, which Wraith Shadow had assumed would mean that FINALLY they die, they are understandably upset because they know now there is no rest for them.

There will never be rest for them.

As such, though they fight for Justice, and Hope, and Mercy, they are not a pleasant thing. You do not WANT to run into Wraith Shadow. If they show up, it’s bad, and more likely than not, you would have died had they not shown up… but maybe that would be preferable than having to live with what you just saw.

When they are not doing their duty to protect the Earth, an unfortunate or unwise trespasser may find them haunting the halls of the ARK, or passing through the remains of a garden where the lavender bushes are massive and the roses are overgrown.

More likely than not, however, you’ll probably catch them sulking about the Master Emerald shrine and deep below the earth where the chaos emeralds sit and gather dust in their ancient chamber.

After the last protector passes away, someone has to do it after all.

[lifewouldbebetteronmars]

Okay so *cracks knuckles* sorry for the incoming spam.

Long story short, my series is an urban fantasy that takes place in a world wherein the earth has a huge cavity belowground that is a perfect geographical mirror of our actual world (ie there's a copy of Spain, the US, the oceans, etc. underground). This other world all makes up the territory of a single country, since it was artificially created (by people their mythology calls Roxia) and artificially populated by the creators' heirs --aka current mythological figures. This country is called Mirror --since it mirrors Aboveground-- but the overall society + political structure and stuff is called The Kinship. Hence the name of the series: The Kinship Chronicles.

The inhabitants of Mirror are called Saz, their language is Sazla, and they're different from humans, either because they have powers (insignias, as they're called) or because they're fundamentally a species other than human (imlia; singular: imlium). Regular humans can become Saz by establishing a symbiosis with an imlium.

Anyways.

The books are written from different POVs, but the main character is Coraline (Cal) Everitt:

Her insignia (doppelganger) allows her to split her body into two, and to make one of those split versions near invincible. Cal is Dahlia and Matthias's only daughter, and she grew up being in the dark about The Kinship because, well, her parents had forgotten all about it for Reasons. If she discovers The Kinship, it is because Simone/the Spawn (formerly introduced as Big Evil) sent my world's version of demons on her.

This is Simone:

She's an immortal imlium who doesn't really have the markings of an actual imlium. For once, she's immortal, and she's also able to establish two symbiosis: one with a regular human and one with a human that is also Saz (which Shouldn't Happen because insignias =/= symbiosis). Even though Simone is the leader of a cult that does her every bidding, she is but a pawn in the grand scheme of things. There's a reason she's called the Spawn: she has a mysterious master, one that pushes her to fight an unending war with the supreme leader of The Kinship's army (who's also immortal).

Over the centuries, Simone has dispatched everyone who started suspecting that there was Something Fishy within The Kinship. Cal's parents she couldn't truly defeat, so she eventually went after their daughter: Cal.

But you know who she also went after? The children of Dahlia and Matthias's two best friends.

On the left, Morgan Hao (oldest); on the right, Hunter Hao (middle child). Morgan is a wraith, so she can become immaterial. Hunter is a mirage, so he can create illusions. Unlike Cal, they did grow up in The Kinship, since their parents weren't there to suffer the same fate as Cal's.

In book 1 they come to London from Shanghai because their youngest sister, who's only 6, has disappeared and they could last trace her steps to the English capital. That's where they meet Cal and enlist her to helping them find their sister. But they also enlist other people without which they couldn't have found her.

This is Selvar. He's an imlium, which means he can change shape at will (think of the blue lady from XMen). He's also a descendant of one of the original founders of Mirror, those that were turned into mythological figures. His family knew the Truth about The Kinship and what was wrong with it, so Simone has been persecuting them for generations. Selvar's parents and older sister died because of Simone and they couldn't pass their knowledge onto him because they deemed him too young (he was eight).

Selvar would've died along with his family if it hadn't been for Diana:

Diana was a regular human. She lived with her parents and older brother in a small English village in the countryside, but her whole life changed when she and her brother decided to play in the house Selvar was using as a refuge from Simone. Simone ended up finding Selvar: she killed Diana's brother in the process, but she and Selvar survived because Selvar kickstarted a symbiosis that gave them just enough strength to ward Simone off.

For the next 8 years, Diana wouldn't understand why the ghost of her brother followed her; she didn't know Selvar had adopted his appearance and now followed her because they had sort of become one. When Diana, who's friends with Cal, learns of The Kinship and subsequently of what Selvar did, she sends him to the other corner of the world (actually Luxembourg) and tries to cope with her situation partly by investigating the diaries of a Victorian woman petrified (a sentence in The Kinship) for allegedly murdering a key politician.

This woman is none other than Madeleine A. Woolaham:

Born in 1848 in the heart of a very, very, *very* conservative Victorian family, her family didn't take well to her being a lesbian who kissed Jewish girls (actually Cal's ancestor HAHAHAHA). They abused her relentlessly and even forced her into a marriage to a man, but it was fine because he was gay (and another of Cal's ancestors HAHAHAHA) so they became fast friends. Through him, Madaleine met and fell in love with a Simone disguised as her fiancé's cousin.

Simone convinced Madeleine to establish a symbiosis. Madeleine, simply put, served as her disguise to successfully murder the aforementioned politician. In the end, Madeleine was found to be innocent, but since symbiosis were judged as one...

(Needless to say, Simone didn't actually suffer any repercussions).

When Madeleine's knowledge helps find Morgan and Hunter's sister, Madeleine's sentence is reversed and she finds herself not in the 19th century, but in the 21st. While Diana soon becomes her Crush, it is someone else who Madeleine confides in:

Atalanta Everitt-Melton is Cal's adoptive cousin through her mother's side (Dahlia has a twin sister). Atalanta has albinism and she's awfully mysterious. She attends the same school as Hunter and is childhood friends with him, so she helps him find his sister without having to be asked twice. She's a historian so she sees the past.

Although Atalanta is 'single' from book 2 onwards, she's dating Oliver Whitaker in book 1.

Oliver is Cal's best friend and a puppeteer, meaning he can manipulate living beings. His parents landed a job as the Everitts' spies and, by default, Oliver was entrusted with Cal. But here's the thing about the Whitakers... do you remember Simone's cult? Yeah, Oliver's family are a prominent part of it. Oliver, however, doesn't even know of its existence.

His parents thought it would be for the best, since that way he couldn't spill the secret to Cal. But when he grows old enough to be told, not only has Oliver begun a quest against Simone: he's also fallen for a guy that's everything his parents hate.

And that's because Caleb Verninac's parents died actively fighting against Simone, leaving him an orphan who didn't even know his parents' true lives.

Caleb's Troubled and he only joins the search in book 1 because he's seeking the thrill of danger, but things get personal afterwards.

By the way, he's French (mother) and Irish (father) but lived in the US at the time of his parents' passing. He was adopted by an American man and together they moved to London.

Et voilà!

sorry for the length of this

Don’t apologize, I’m super excited-

Okay so first things first, I don’t know if you know this, but I’m a big name nerd (so much so that I have a blog for it) so I am absolutely in love with some of your name choices for these characters-

Caleb is someone I feel like I’m definitely going to love because troubled thrill seekers? That’s my jam. Also because he’s paternally Irish and maternally French, just like me (though I’m American and not actually from there, it’s just my ancestry)

And everyone else is just super interesting too, like everyone’s super diverse and no one is too similar in personality wise, which is something I definitely struggle with with multi-POVs

Please feel free to spam me more with this!!!

[obscuremarvelmuses]

question was asked in a server, what do you have in common with your muses? And the only muse I play there is Shaw (answer: good relationships with our dads, love for black Percheron horses, not good at romantic relationships and resigned to living without one, love for antique aesthetic) but I was thinking about some on this blog and me

I don't like to talk about it much, but I've been diagnosed twice over as autistic, once as a child and once as an adult. I had to change a lot about myself to get where I am in life---stable, got through college, steady job where I mask all day, etc---and while it was all for the best, it was hard, and what's natural to others is not easy for me. I think that's why characters like Snowbird, Catseye, and Fantasma are super relatable to me. They're fundamentally not human on a mental level, but either want to be or are being urged to TRY to be by necessity/situation (job, school, etc) Not that autistic people aren't human, of course, but it often feels that way to me. Like I'm just some weird THING in a people suit trying to keep up. So seeing characters like this, who, again, indeed aren't human, and thus have a good reason NOT to think like humans, draws me. It's the fantasty of having a good "reason" to be like I am, like when Fantasma discovers she's actually a Dire Wraith and everything makes sense to her. Which, I know I DO have a good reason, but...it's hard to explain.

[desert-anne]

the heather dale version of sir gawain and the green knight is so so so so so so beyond frustrating to me. especially when i went in knowing the original poem and expecting basically a condensed form of that, not a fundamentally changed thing. because the poet almost gets it! the older form of chivalry that's not what people nowadays think it is, "that's fear that chills you like a wraith / and doubt you gird about your waist / it's rare the man who'll hold to faith", etc. but it all means nothing without the one truth to give it life, and it's even worse than nothing to take out the truth and try to replace it with the tattered scraps of a dead religion

[ckcker]

Stress Discovers the Wind

‘EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE’ I yelled in head. It was possible for Rob and Gail to be missing, it was also possible for them to be found. It was possible for them to both be found dead, or both found alive, or one dead and the other alive, and in the other configuration as well. Why did I have hope. It emerged from somewhere untrained and beyond my critical forecast. I ripped open a deluge of conclusive sentences in my head about a situation in which two people go missing. I was well informed by all the true crime folk tales. And so I cycled despairing scenarios through my mind with all the virtuosic grace of a forensics analyst who is later shown to also be quite neurotic yet appealingly damaged in their personal life. I couldn’t help but summon images of Rob and Gail’s heads in skull form. But sploshing far beneath the grotesque stitching of my ‘what ifs,’ and even under my long-term badass exploration of revenge, I observed a feeling, unconstrained and without footnotes, that did not make any rational assumptions on a series of events, but only lingered on all sides with a dumb imprecision. I looked to the sky and saw the clouds had advanced a new cosmetic angle, they had begun to turn green. So unused to feeling hope was I, that it scared me. No known execution to be practiced with this information. Simplicity was incredibly difficult, the clouds did seem to be entering a highly creative period.

I looked to Q.C., whose fat kestrel-snatched eyes were also on the changing sky. And Bianca, swollen with ancient agency, remarkably gargoyle-ready. Her eyes teeming with inflexible gusto for justice, for the truth, for the protection and the return of the friend she loved.  I wanted her as a spiritual advisor. Instead, I inwardly sprinted from myself with the gauche gazelle as my inspo, simply because of my fear that I could experience hope. 

Perhaps this was one of those times in which I was supposed to reassess my beliefs, to try to understand what I called my instincts, and to investigate the fundamental truths I had decided to take for granted. The cue indicated that here, I was supposed to do something like go deep into myself and confront something. But I simply didn’t want to. That did not seem conducive to being an impenetrable wraith who courageously juggles the pursuit of low stakes vengeance with a part-time job at an arts and crafts store. Still, I was getting a bit tired of using the words “revenge,” “possible” and “old,” and even a bit tired of how seriously I took the concept of “vengeance,” and I didn’t know why, and this burp of thematic intolerance gained even more traction in its timing, being simultaneous to an unconventional gust of wind that threw recycling at me. I had already begun to grow tired of the ultra-magnification of my past, and an empty container of canola oil immediately brought my attention to the present.

“Are you okay?” Bianca asked. “The sky’s very green.”

“Maybe we should go inside,” Q.C. said.

“Maybe we should even go to the basement.”

“Ok,” I agreed.

I wondered if an empty bottle of canola oil, quickly organized into my head, was capable of unlocking a third eye; yes I must be on the precipice of the sacred switch that moves despair into clarity, healing and acceptance. I “felt” internally for a new presence in my forehead that might immediately change my outlook and bring me to peace activation. Watching Q.C.’s back and the submerged suggestion of muscle in front of me as it descended the basement stairs, I waited, wondering if my irresponsible daydreaming of Q.C. was an early indicator that one fateful day, out-of-control recycling was destined to shred open my great spiritual journey and turn me away from gerontomania. However if my third eye was open, it seemed open only for the camera’s sake. ‘My third eye is open and it sees mostly lens flare’ I thought-declared and through the basement window I also saw with my original eyes that it had begun to hail.

Bianca made a loose sound of great sadness, “just what we need when the cops are on their way.”

“Will there be a tornado?” I asked in mid-slither through the deeply un-reno'ed basement, moving towards the far back left corner and away from the hanging light. I decided I did not want them to see my face.

“I don’t know, look at that sky.”

But I was still so impressed that I did not automatically expect the worst. For many years, day in and day out, I struggled to change my behavior. Then, caught in the rot of my repeated failure to do so, I discovered and developed my evil plan. Now that real calamity had come again, I saw my belief in that plan — once the spinal athame of the most dazzling meaning and ferocious truth — bent by tiny serrations of unevaluated good omen. I was lost within hope. Even my senses cracked in shock; the hail entered my visual feed almost at a different speed than normal. There were micro-tremors in the head akin to what I thought might precede a fainting episode. Without bearings, I watched in outwardly calm deadface as the diffuse light of the storm swathed the basement window in its recognizable green. The far back left corner of the basement also announced what it had been experiencing via the delicate landing of slow-rotating cobweb upon my arm. Q.C. looked at me.  I did not pull the cobweb off. I stood still and looked at the floor.

“The siren,” he low-toned, and Bianca said she heard it too. “Should we be worried?”

“When the storm is over we need to call Rob’s work I mean his internship.” Bianca was intent on moving forward.

Downpour dropped in all directions. I looked out the window, I observed its slop. Other faces from the building appeared in the basement, projecting fear, extreme fear, calm-under-the circumstances, and unbothered resignation. I watched the hail, the wind, the rain and the clouds, which were interesting and, I would say, worth watching. I wanted to access them as the cooling vector for my brand new optimism-charged confusion. The elements produced a mood, fully of the present and gab-free, radiating in open aggression and yanking repetition, with exceptional visual tricks and verifications of the grandeur of nature, which soothed me.

“Why are you standing all the way over there? Come talk to us.” My partially-soothed vision fixed on Bianca, whose face projected upset. I did not know how much they had noticed of my altered appearance when I spoke to them earlier on the apartment complex steps. Shockingly, in the context of now having two missing acquaintances, I could only feel uselessness and shame at my diabolically awkward convictions and the high-key startling debut of my makeolder. I did not want them to know about what I considered my true self. But I had no pithy-thus-acceptable response for why I was alone in the far back left corner of the basement and not next to the people I more or less knew. I had a novel idea, actually I would just not answer. “You shouldn’t be standing by the window anyway.” I did not embrace the unexpected scoot of suddenly nomadic street sign through my neck.  So I found myself in between Q.C. and Bianca, imagining how softly dispersed pea green hues would or would not highlight my stunning transformation.

Bianca did not care about my face. “Did you notice anything weird with Rob this past week?”

“He didn’t go out as much,” I said.

“Anything else?”

“I didn’t really see him enough.”

“I didn’t see him at all. He didn’t text me back this entire week.”

Silence as Bianca recalculated her questioning. Not silent outside, where the possibility of things that could happen had been greatly maximized.

“And Gail? Did you see her?”

Drifts of a far off voice from across the basement entered me. The voice had made the universally recognizable proposal, bow chicka wow wow which indicated the traditional music of American porn, “no I didn’t see her,” and I looked to know from where the voice had sprung. I observed two middle-aged men I’d never seen before, standing under a degraded watercolor depicting a gentle prairie sunset, who were in conversation and in laughter. But nothing sailed clear enough to reach me as did the sniper scope precision of one their voices beaming, bow chicka wow wow.  A reference I seemed to have always known and hoped would always be able to hear throughout my entire life, though crushingly I knew the phrase would soon fall out of use and widespread relatability, “I have been laying low this week, so…”  I concluded my explanation.

Bianca looked away. But Q.C. seemed to be looking directly at me, which I determined through peripheral vision. He was for sure gawking at the cuntiness of my cosmetic redemption. I turned to him with a smile of rodent-imbued embarrassment and genuine apology on my face, only to discover my peripheral mapping had been quite ragged and janky. In fact he was looking with at least a 45 degree angle away from my face, eyes directed at the escalating wind observable through the basement window, that I also then followed and wondered about. 

Thoughts bounced between fear of death by tornado — the novel emergence of tenderness and hope in my emotional programming — if Gail and Rob had shelter — if Gail and Rob were alive.  If Q.C. would ever become aware of all that I had secretly designated my true self.  And if he would like being aware of that. Bow chicka wow wow I considered, wondering if the middle-aged men also hiding in the basement would be the last people I’d ever hear having fun and laughing with this extremely important sound effect. Their bodies and faces indicated much use, which I still found aesthetically inspiring, despite the typical twists of my emetic desire, which brought new and confusing feelings of wanting to be desired by others, and so of wanting to eject from my carefully scheduled revenge. I watched the storm, which did not seem to be receding, it was very loud now. No one spoke. I zoomed through the window to a fat ash tree that I knew well from living in the apartment complex, it was an attention-seeker. It now showed almost everything that was possible under the concept of wind. I felt a fourth eye open wait what about the third. The bombast of nature further roiled the gabba-steeped whiplash and wobble of my belief system. I looked to the weather for guidance. To be honest there wasn’t much else to think or talk about when the storm was being sooo loud. It had extreme close up. I felt its soothe and its terror, which unloaded a wordless spiritual extension into me. Though it was closer to the feeling of discovering on the wall of a parking garage an apparent number of the occult, expressionistically scrawled in what seems to be very recent blood and accompanied by an inexplicable and amateurishly transferred neon green humanoid handprint, sowing excitement of the supernatural and the suggestion of an endless continuing world beyond, only later to determine when buying a slice of banana bread and then needing to pee that the number is actually the security code for a nearby Starbucks bathroom.

[girlscience]

i just want to read about wraith, specifically, MY idea of wraith, but no fic is getting it right, and over 80% of the fics are tagged with McKay/Sheppard and i just DON'T ship that at all... so i am struggling

[ladydaemon]

SICK DAYS

kaz brekker x female! reader

A/N: Yes, I realize how cliché and very non-Kaz this is. I tried my best guys, but I am in the mood for fluff and only fluff so yeah.

Summary: After a night in the rain, Y/N has a cold and it's up to Kaz to take care of her, a difficult task indeed.

Warnings: swearing, really horrible writing, not proofread writing, just me spitting out Words™ at three in the morning

Dangerous assassins do not need sick days.

It was an extremely hypocritical thought, and Y/N knew it. She thought the thought anyway, because at this point, there seemed to be no aspect in her life that was not fueled entirely by spite.

"Please, for the love of the Saints, go to sleep, Y/N," Inej begged, forcing the woman back onto the bed. "You are sick. You need rest."

"I do not need rest, I need caffeine and waffles," the wheezing woman replied stubbornly, trying to get past Inej, who was blocking the doorway of her room. The Slat, usually thundering with noise and chatter, was silent as the grave - it was one of the rare days in Ketterdam where it was sunny, and everyone was either out enjoying the weather or enjoying pickpocketing someone who was enjoying the weather. "I am a grown-ass woman who also happens to be very good at using the bang-bang machines we call guns so please move aside, I need fresh air."

It was arguably entirely Y/N's fault that she was stuck inside in the first place - first, she had stayed out in the rain too long, despite Kaz's numerous protests. Second, she had, in a grave act of stupidity, gone down for breakfast the next morning. Normally, this would not have been a problem. However, on this particular day, her eyes were red and swollen and itchy and her lungs hurt and it was generally very obvious that she had a cold.

These were the deciding factors which led to her ultimate demise:

House arrest.

Though the fact that she was notorious for her spontaneous, impulsive, reckless, throw-caution-to-the-wind nature (along with the fact that Kaz, from multiple bad experiences he would rather not repeat, knew that she had nearly no self-preservation skills) probably had something to with it.

Also she apparently needed a chaperone. Which was probably a good idea, but Y/N wasn't about to admit that anytime soon.

"You are seventeen and you have a window, darling," the smooth voice of one Kaz Brekker, the devil himself, interrupted Y/N's feeble excuse of an escape.

"But Kaz," Y/N whined, pouting. Inej gave the man an exasperated look as if to say, See what I've been dealing with?

"Darling, you'll only have to stay here longer if you don't try and get better."

"Still."

Kaz, lips twitching in a very non-Kaz way, turned to Inej. "You can go. I suppose I'll play nursemaid."

The Wraith chucked darkly, already stepping out Y/N's window. "Good luck with that."

As soon as she had climbed out the room and was well out of earshot, Kaz turned on his heel and walked out. Y/N, thoroughly confused, took a second to contemplate whether this act was meant that she was officially free, or that she was supposed to follow him. Her question was answered a moment later when he called out, not sparing her a backwards glance, "Are you coming?"

She sighed dejectedly, following him up the stairs to hid room. With a flamboyant and smug bow, he opened the door for her. "Ladies first."

She rolled her eyes at him but entered the room nonetheless. Kaz closed the door behind him and strode heavily to his desk, taking the time to shuffle and order some papers. Y/N stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure as to what in the hell she was supposed to do. Kaz flicked his eyes up to her and jerked his head towards the black-sheeted bed that occupied almost a fourth of the room.

She stared at it for a moment. "You want me to sleep. On your bed. While you watch." It came out more an incredulous statement than a question.

"Sorry to break it to you, but I can't devote all my time to taking care of you, and I also can't leave you alone unsupervised while ill. This is our compromise," Kaz explained somewhat impatiently.

"I am not going to get in that crusty-ass bed, that, in case you have forgotten, belongs to my boss, AKA you. For all I know you sleep nude."

One of Kaz's eyebrows twitched. "The sheets were changed this morning. And for the record, I don't."

"Still not going to do it. That takes the creepy-o-meter to like, a thousand."

"You're a criminal who spies on brothels. This is nothing."

"Still not doing it. This feels fundamentally wrong."

"I'll buy you a nice dagger if you just shut up and get in the damn bed." Saints, he was already exasperated, and he had barely been here five minutes. A new respect for Inej found its way into his being.

Y/N went quiet for a minute, considering. "One of the serrated ones with the fancy gilded handles?"

"Whatever dagger your heart desires."

"Two daggers and a gun."

"One dagger and a gun."

"Deal," Y/N decided, plopping down on the bed. It still felt wrong, but she did need a new dagger - Wylan had blown hers up in a previous job.

She carefully peeled the pristine sheets and blankets away from the mattress, half expecting a dozen poisonous things to pop out. The only thing it released was the strangely comforting smell of wood oil and ink (and a bit of gunpowder, but this was Kaz Brekker we're talking about).

Y/N slipped beneath the covers, her head resting comfortably on the cloud-like pillows.

I bet this bitch sleeps like a baby every night.

"I can still beat your ass, Brekker," she mumbled. Yeah, she was sick, but she also had a reputation to uphold.

"On a regular day, I have no doubt about it. Currently, you are prohibited from doing anything that isn't sleeping, peeing, or contemplating life. Doctor's orders."

"Well, I'm going to go pee then. More freedom." She attempted to stand up from the surprisingly soft bed but the in the second it took for her to try and stand, Kaz, moving surprisingly quickly for a man with a cane, pinned her to the bed by her shoulders with an exasperated sigh.

"Just stay still. Please," he breathed.

"Get me a sweet bun and maybe," she breathed back, but didn't move. Despite her almost child-like demeanor, she was one of the original Dregs, here as a child even before Kaz. He had been the only one her age when he had joined, so naturally, she had befriended him (well, as much as you can befriend Kaz Brekker). She knew about his phobia of touch, and how much it meant that he was touching her, even with his gloves on.

Kaz released her with a sigh and stalked over to his desk where he rummaged around for a bit until he produced a small tin that looked abut as old as he was. He tossed it at her and she grabbed it, opening it to see some biscuits that looked as hard as rocks. "That's all I have, and all you're going get. Don't break a tooth."

Y/N sighed, staring at the biscuits mournfully before taking one out of the tin and gnawing on it. It would have been easier to bite on the barrel of one of Jesper's guns. "You're mean."

"You're acting like a petulant child."

Y/N made a disgruntled noise from the back of her throat, sinking back into the silk pillows and wrapping the blankets tighter around her. She had made no visible mark on the cookie, and had only succeeded in covering it with slobber. She put it back in the tin and noticed Kaz wrinkle his nose at her.

She doubted the biscuits would ever see the light of day again.

She watched Kaz do his paperwork, a surprisingly interesting thing to do. He had taken off his hat and jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. He even took his gloves off, preferring to use a pen without the ridiculous slipperiness of the leather. The papers shuffled in a soothing rhythm, and soon, Y/N began to feel less cooped up and a bit more relaxed.

Ever since she had been taken away from her family and thrown onto the tiny slaving ship, Y/N had always had a touch of claustrophobia (well, it was a bit more than a touch, but she wasn't willing to admit that just yet). The tiny room with a mattress on the flooor was really just a decoration at this point - she slept on the roof most nights and every waking hour was in Ketterdam, simply walking if there were no pockets to be picked.

Drowsily, she watched as Kaz scratched something out on paper, his face creasing ever so slightly. The pen made a nice sound, she found, and paired with the strangely calming scent of his room and the rustling of papers, it made her feel almost like it was rainy day, the kind where you curled up by the fire and read a book or cuddled with someone.

"I doubt staring at my face will help you fall asleep, love," Kaz noted without looking up from his work.

"Your face is the most interesting thing here."

For the barest fraction of a second, Kaz looked like he had short-circuited. The moment was gone as soon as it came, however, and he simply raised an eyebrow at her. "You're very immature sometimes."

"Thanks!" Y/N said cheerfully. "It was the trauma."

"Trauma hardens people, it doesn't make them softer," Kaz dismissed.

"I agree wholeheartedly. However, there's a difference between an excellent mask and incompetence," she replied. "Now come over here and show what's bothering you, I can see it on your face."

Kaz looked up at her, noting the fact that she probably wouldn't shut up unless he did as she asked. He rolled his eyes, hobbling over to the bed. As he sat, she could feel his weight pushing the mattress down.

Before he could say a word, she snatched the paper in his hands and began scanning it. "What's wrong with it?"

"The numbers don't add up."

She stared at the document for another second, then back up at Kaz. "Who are you and what have you done with Kaz Brekker?"

He blinked at her.

"You forgot to carry the one. The numbers don't add up because you... well, added them wrong," she explained softly. She looked up at him, concern crossing her features. "Do you need a nap?"

Kaz huffed out a breath. "I'm fine. You're just distracting me, that's all."

"We're going to ignore the fact that you think I'm distracting and instead focus on the fact that you have not slept in several days."

Kaz's nostrils flared slightly in indignation. Before he could speak, however, Y/N cut him off. "Kaz, I have known you since I was eleven. I'm also not fucking blind. Yes, I know you are essentially running a mafia at age seventeen. Yes, I know you are under pressure. Yes, I know there is at any given moment a bounty on your head. Yes, I know I am sick and it is technically your job to take care of me. But can we please just make a deal or a truce or something in which you get some fucking rest?"

Kaz was quiet for a moment before the corner of his mouth twitched. "Always the mother hen for everyone except yourself."

She was startled into a laugh. "What can I saw, I was a born hypocrite."

Kaz did end up getting a couple hours of sleep, even if it was at Y/N's insistence.

However, he almost regretted it when Jesper barged in and, with a gleeful cackle, found them both sleeping in the same bed with one of his legs pressed up against hers - Kaz's version of flat-out cuddling.

Almost.

[ashley-face]

Note: For you, baby birds - an Egon Spengler x fem!reader (bordering fem!OC) multi-chapter fic that no one asked for, but I started typing out the moment Ghostbusters: Afterlife revived my hyperfixation for the first time since the 2016 film came out. 

I wanted to play around with different source material that mentioned Ray Stantz having siblings (mostly because Egon and he are god-tier comfort characters. We’ll see if I’m in a really silly goofy mood; I might do a Ray x reader one-shot, too), namely basing a lot of the reader’s backstory on Ray’s sister Jean from the novels. I mean, a polyamorous pansexual journalist? Please. So, used that as the foundation, then took a metric fuckton of artistic license for the rest. Drop me a comment if you like it. :)

Not beta’d ‘cause we’re gonna live forever - let’s goooo! (and happy holidays!)

Rating for this chapter: Teen

Warnings for this chapter: Some strong language, OCs, minor angst/mention of childhood trauma, my desperate need to pretend like I know diddly about physics and a criminal lack of our Egie himself. 

Already Dreaming | Chapter 1

Roman author Pliny the Younger claimed the specter of an old man with a long beard and rattling chains was haunting his house in Athens like a proto-Jacob Marley coming to torment Ebenezer Scrooge.

In 856 A.D. the first ever poltergeist was reported tormenting a German family in their farmhouse by throwing stones and starting fires.

Several millennia later Einstein posited that since all energy of the universe is constant and that it can neither be created nor destroyed - it can only be changed from one form to another - what happens to that energy when we die?

The energy in our bodies that releases in the form of heat goes into the wild animals that eat us, worms that digest the dirt we decompose in, and the roots of plants that absorb the nutrients we’ve left behind. During cremation energy in our bodies merely releases in the form of heat and light.

But what about those little ghosts Wolfgang Pauli theorized about? Those invisible neutrinos that once never existed in the realm of particle physics, and that he claimed could conserve energy throughout the beta decay process? Where does that energy go? How is it metered?

Why are we so reluctant to give credence to existence after death in physics?

Will we ever fully quantify the universe to its smallest components using our limited resources for testing fundamental particles at such a large scale, casting an enormous net to trap a fairyfly? 

“The poet William Blake wrote, ‘To see a World in a Grain of Sand / And Heaven in a Wild Flower / Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand / And Eternity in an Hour’,” you gasped, unable to contain yourself as your brother Ray eagerly awaited your response, 20 July 1956 issue of Scientific in his hand and a school print out of “Auguries of Innocence” in yours.

Ray laughed, elated that you were employing critical reading of a totally different material to show proof you had understood what he had been talking about, and at the tender age of 13 years old. He rested his chin in his palm, listening with rapt attention.

Carl, the oldest of you three, had thankfully departed for basic military training (to the dismay of your parents and your relief.)

It had been so long since you could talk to Ray like this without Carl’s constant snide remarks sprinkled in. You were free to wax poetic about prose and protons, wraiths and Sylvia Townsend Warner.

Ray knew you, understood your quirks better than your own mother did. You weren’t "difficult” to him, you were his sister and he would always protect you.

Especially after your father, one of Islip’s beloved general practitioners, tested you for hypoglycemia and anemia when you showed symptoms of hypotension, bouts of vertigo and arrhythmia.

The weekend that Carl temporarily moved back to your parents after graduating from boot camp he found you in your room on your knees, swaying. You were clutching Ray’s old Dopey Dog stuffed animal in a death grip.

“Pops!” Carl shouted, dropping next to you, clueless as to what to do.

You immediately snapped out of your trance-like state, a deer in headlights and only a bit worse for wear, unable to recall when or why you had gone into the attic to grab a toy you hadn't touched in ages.

Ray, having heard Cal, rushed into the bedroom and joined you on the floor, taking your wrist so he could check your pulse like dad had taught him. 

“I’m okay Sunshine," you soothed, then assured your oldest brother earnestly. "Really Carl, I just get low blood pressure sometimes."

Carl's brow furrowed, frustration mounting as he became more aware at how out of the loop he'd been, squashing a writhing resentment that festered under his ribcage. 

Soon you started to daydream and disassociate constantly. Ray ruled out low blood pressure and suspected that the incidents were brought on by remnants of forgotten dreams being triggered by outward stimuli when awake - a familiar sight, sound, smell. Déjà vu. He’d be able to sense it, recognizing a particular far-off look you’d get, and acted as a tether to bring you back to earth. If anyone gave you grief or called you “space cadet” he’d gently put them in their place.

Ray was a Stantz, after all, and that name carried a certain reputation, no matter his uncanny resemblance to a large teddy bear. Carl had been a star quarterback (as well as a bully), simultaneously adored and feared grades 7-12, but Ray had not been on any sports teams. Yet he still towered over a good portion of his peers, broad shouldered and strong from tinkering in all manner of electronics, heavy equipment and car work. He was also unfathomably kind. The sort of kind that brought to mind, “Demons run when a good man goes to war.”

To make up for his absence Carl showed you how to shoot a rifle (badly), and tried to teach you how to perform basic maintenance on pedestrian vehicles, just like he had with Ray. You watched him work underneath the chassis of your father’s old 1960 Chevy C10 while holding an oil pan, providing the correct tools as needed. It was stilted and a bit awkward, but an attempt none-the-less.

Where Carl was impatient and hated too many questions Ray explained the science that went into a modern combustion engine no differently than your father would tell you a bedtime story, drawing rough figures on paper, thrilled to have such a captive audience.

The oldest Stantz sibling didn’t stick around too much longer once he got into the U.S. Airforce Academy, and not a moment too soon. More often than not he’d stumble in late three sheets to the wind drunk, picking fights with your father.

Mom always wrapped her robe tight, shuffled on her house slippers, fixed him the blackest cup of coffee a human could consume without it becoming sludge, and would let him unload. Her side of the family, the MacMillans, did not let bad blood come between them.

Carl coldly shrugging off a hug from either you or Ray before climbing into dad’s car on his way to the airport is the last you see of him for a while, leaving a void.

You were Ray’s shadow throughout your formative years as he encouraged your rants about  Pablo Neruda’s changing writing style or cryptozoology being labeled a pseudoscience, the implications of a soul, the composition of the spirit. He’d sneak you out in the middle of the night, tromping through wet farmland in oversized wellies and carrying heavy flashlights to unveil the Great Mysteries, owing that the Great Mysteries were located in the backwoods of Long Island. 

At some point you ended up wrangling a few neighborhood kids around your age to join the cause. 

They became your best friends and Ray dubbed you the Scooby Doo gang.

Victoria Ertl, the Daphne Blake of the group, wanted for nothing. Her father worked for an up-and-coming computer sales company by the name of Apple Computer, Inc. Her mother frequently went missing or excused herself to “go take a nap”, leaving Vicky to her own devices. Those devices being extraterrestrials and witchcraft.

Christine Marcu, who shared the unofficial title of Velma Dinkley with you, bothered Ray about invention ideas and had a particular affinity for spirit photography.

Tony Bacheldor turned out to be an odd combination of Fred Jones, Shaggy Rogers and Scooby as despite being highly intelligent his fervent desire to explore the unknown was usually outweighed by the fact that he suffered from acute nyctophobia. He also had a voracious appetite and attained infamy for eating 8 Vienna hot dogs (buns included) in one sitting.

The event was entered into a shared notebook utilized for miscellaneous experiments, simply titled 8TH WONDER OF THE WORLD(?).

Ray claimed he saw himself more as an amalgamation of all five, but you weren’t convinced - he was Fred Jones.

As you reached puberty your “episodes” were less and less frequent, unofficially filed under “unsolved” to your friends’ disappointment, chomping at the bit to see you in action for themselves.

A fateful trip to Queen of All Saints Cemetery irrevocably changed that.

Ray got a tip from a fellow paranormal aficionado about a ghost sighting there. Vicky, Chrissy and Tony meet you at the Railroad Ave entrance to sneak through an unrepaired part of the dilapidated fence.

Fog obscured the pathways that wound through the grounds. Chrissy switched on a headlamp she had found while dumpster diving for parts, signally for you to do the same with yours, then she huddled with Ray to verify the exact coordinates of the sighting.

"I will excommunicate you if your 'reliable source' is Sagar," Chrissy slapped a tree branch out of her way, heading off the gravel paths to a particular cluster of headstones. "He hasn’t paid me back the money that I lent him to buy the newest issue of Captain Steel. Stupid jerk."

Ray pouted, fiddling with a contraption he’d brought to assist them.

"Damn, I'd meant to pick that up for myself today."

Tony took great joy in debating Ray about Superman being a superior hero to Captain Steel and almost butted in. You subtly motioned for him to not interfere. 

Chrissy's button nose scrunched in irritation, but Ray missed it and persevered with his lament. 

"What a cliffhanger, too! Dr. Destructor was just about to--"

"Knock your block off if you don't zip it," Chrissy bared her teeth, braces flashing. 

Vicky diffused the situation by leaning over to Ray, overexaggerating her interest. "Is that an Atari controller?"

Bloodshed successfully avoided, Ray held up the controller-esque item in question, "Good eye, Vicky! It’s a modified electron capture detector, a device for detecting atoms and molecules in gas. Tried tweaking one of the multiplayer ones for a Sears Tele-Games Super-Pong IV console ‘cause it helps make finer adjustments for picking up heat signatures or cold spots--"

He rambled and the others hung on to his every word. Soldering the reconfigured wiring was no easy task, but--

Your vision went fuzzy around the edges, a spike of panic lancing through your stomach as the fog circling everyone crawled along the dirt, through the dark, alive. Tendrils coiled up Ray’s thigh and you blinked rapidly to dispel the hallucination.

Oh my god, oh-my-god, is this real? I’ve never been lucid like this before during an episode. Je-sus, Y/N, be rational, you spaz. It’s an actual ghost and-

You struggled to warn the others, paralyzed and powerless like a waking nightmare. Run! 

A faint figure formed in the mist, ethereal and evocative; a middle-aged woman in a Gilded Age gown staring at you, and you become fully cognizant that no one else can see her as she gets closer and closer. Suddenly you could hear her, slipping into the air, into your lungs, through your consciousness, an echo chamber of noise.

"Do not be frightened, I mean you no harm. I'm here as a warning, dear girl, and I must be brief.”

"Be not afraid," said the angel that was pure eldritch terror. Absolutely passed frightened and straight into pants-pissing hysterics, but that’s fine.

Ice ran through your veins, but you pushed on. You have to.

A warning? A warning about what? You concentrated, praying she heard you. “What is your name, ma’am?”

The apparition smiled sadly in acknowledgement, “My name is Veleda. At the turn of the 20th century a selfish, wicked man and his foolish sycophants attempted to knock on Hell’s Gate. They used myself and others like us to usher in an era of gods. His insidious plans have been unfolding long since after his death, beyond the veil, and–”

She was gone - vanished without a trace. The fog dissipated as swiftly as it came.

You collapsed like an unstrung marionette, dropping limply to the grass. 

The stars sparkled blindingly without light pollution above you, but the view was obscured by Ray as he pulled you between his legs, his chest a grounding presence at your back, frantically whispering, “breathe in 1-2-3, exhale 1-2-3.” Chrissy, Vicky and Tony joined in a circle around him, gasping as if they’ve overexerted themselves.

Wait, you’d stopped breathing? So you gulp in oxygen, heaving and clutching Ray’s knee. Breathe in 1-2-3, exhale 1-2-3.

“Y/N, we strongly believe you were under some sort of possession from a free floating entity,” Ray recited from Spate’s Catalog of Nameless Horrors for his own benefit so he wouldn’t unravel, hiding in the nape of your neck to block out the terrifying image of your limbs seizing in a rictus that he could only assume was painful.

Tony leaned back, heart rate gradually returning to normal, propped against Vicky whilst Chrissy lay half-sprawled in her lap. “Shit. Goddamn it,” he shakily wiped sweat from his brow. “This is what we wanted. What I wanted...To discover what goes bump in the night. To face my fears. But I…I thought...”

"It'd be like Laurel and Hardy's A Haunting We Will Go?" Vicky barked out a laugh, then groaning at the irony. "Not that we’d have to wrangle her to the ground and make sure she didn't swallow her tongue?"

Ray stopped matching your breaths once you could confidently resume on your own and said sincerely, “Hey, don't beat yourself up. We do this for for anyone that has ever been doubted and taken for granted in what they believe in, or what they’ve been through. We want them to know that we're ready to believe them. If it's too much, you tried. That's more than I can say about…a lot of people.”

At home you plead your case to Ray as he took your vitals, dad’s medical bag at his feet. You’re convinced that your parents will keep you apart if they found out about what you dubbed “Graveyardgate”. You'd been running around playing supernatural detective of your own volition and beating himself up wouldn't solve anything. 

Ray conceded, only because you agreed to research further into your situation together. And though you both barely fit in your full size bed you asked him to stay. 

He does.

Carolyn and Daniel Stantz don’t discourage your adventures owing Ray kept his promise. Your mother readily quizzed you both in the kitchen about the differences between gray aliens and little green men as she tasked you with chopping root vegetables for her great-grandmother’s neeps and tatties recipe. And your father may have been a small town doctor, but his medical zines were a proverbial kindle to the fire, fueling your fascination with the human body.

They nurtured Ray’s natural aptitude and excitement in whatever subject he applied himself to (math was another matter entirely - pairing mathematical problems to the correct formula was his kryptonite) from infancy, and in turn they made sure you received the same.

Unfortunately, a handful of cousins labeled him and you as the black sheep of the family. Aunt Lois, a matriarchal figure on the Stantz’s side, barred each person who brought such slander up in front of her from receiving her delicious Christmas korolevsky cake and she sent Ray a detailed account of the occult called Tobin’s Spirit Guide.

As the inevitable influx of college placement tests and applications begin to take Ray away from you in his last two years of high school you face the music head-on. You had mentally prepared yourself for him leaving the nest -  he was destined to do something great for humanity.

It was cruel to be greedy.   

During your sophomore year you started a book club with you as president, Tony as vice president, plus Vicky and Chrissy as treasurer and time keeper respectively. 

This is a temporary substitute for your paranormal escapades. “R & D” as Tony called it. Better to be safe than needing an exorcist.

Miss Scarlet, who was gracious enough to allow you the use of her English room, straddled her desk chair backwards at the first meeting and asked point blank if this was a coverup for a ghost and monster hunters club. 

Vicky shook out her curls, feigning aloofness, “I can neither confirm nor deny such an accusation Miss Scarlet.”

Miss Scarlet turned into a silent benefactor and sometimes provided great research material to show her support.

Eventually the club spiraled into a Ray Stantz fan club the second Vicky and Chrissy started to see boys as not just boys, or friends, but boy-friends. You and Tony (who firmly established himself as the "no socio-sexual contact or reactions" X on the Kinsey Scale) were glad that Ray was graduating. 

Attraction and hormones were a double-edged sword. 

However, you make the most of the girls’ adolescent infatuation by…well, pitting them against each other. 

For important behavior analyses, of course. 

Vicky and Chrissy cottoned on to your scheme and refused to speak to you or Tony for 48 hours. Hour 54 they approached you, swearing you to secrecy, and pursued other romantic prospects.

—

One day, during a gathering for your Aunt Lois’s birthday in her eclectic Victorian home, the same conservative and catholic side of your relatives who did not think highly of you reprimanded your parents for Ray’s wayward thinking and its influence on you over dinner. 

No one let you interject, holier-than-thou cousin Gav suggesting Ray join a seminary to answer life’s mysteries with the most reliable source mankind could ever need.

The Bible.

Oh great, goodbye Roman Catholicism, hello full-fledged 17th century Puritanical radicalism. They would’ve burned me at the stake.

Carl turned to his fiancée (a mousey, subservient woman named Mary-Lou he’d found who-knows-where - you curbed the urge to slip her a note asking if their engagement was a result of Stockholm syndrome - blink twice for no, scream for yes) and sneered that Ray hadn’t been disciplined enough, a mistake that would bite him in the ass.

Silence followed. 

Ray calmly laid his silverware down and advised if anyone had a problem with him they could hash this out some other time. Today was meant for celebrating Aunt Lois and everybody owed her, your parents and you an apology.

I cannot imagine how cathartic that felt. You had to bite your lip to keep from losing your shit at the collective wave of shame that went around the room, you and Aunt Lois sharing a look across the table whilst she sipped her merlot, hiding a coquettish grin.

Of course Carl had to get in the last word, baiting Ray on the sidewalk as you tried to go your separate ways afterwards. Your mom sighed, coming between her sons to keep the peace.

“You don’t give a flying fuck about me or anyone else! You’re all insane and you live in a house of horrors!” Carl roared. 

The moment he stepped forward and insinuated violence toward your mother an uncharacteristic surge of raw anger overcame you, consumed you, and you sent all six and a half feet, 230 pounds of Carl stumbling.

Your dad and Ray strongarmed Carl and Mary-Lou to the curb, hailing them a cab. Daniel Stantz stated in no uncertain terms that they were not welcome in his home until Carl checked himself into anger management or rehab, trembling from residual fear of finally standing up to his own flesh and blood.

Realistically, even if he was unsteady from drinking all evening, you should not be able to exert enough force to push him, adrenaline notwithstanding. 

Ray whispered your name, cupping your tear-stained cheeks as impotent rage was replaced with remorse. 

You wanted to love him. You wanted him to love you. Why was Carl such an asshole? Why was everyone against you?

Carl and Mary-Lou got into the taxi - Carolyn Stantz watched the car set off with profound sadness, heartbroken that she had failed her firstborn.

The family did what they could to erase the events of that evening and the toxicity that surrounded it.

However, to everyone’s astonishment, Ray did apply to the Union Theological Seminary alongside the Fu Foundation School of Engineering and Applied Science at Columbia University at the same time that he applied for MIT’s School of Engineering and the California Institute of Technology.

Of course he got into all of them and chose Columbia.

On the day Ray left for university, eyes bright like a G dwarf star and full of potential, he handed you his well worn copies of Phantasms of the Living and Tobin’s Spirit Guide - you nearly refused them, likening the gesture to him breaking off a piece of his incandescence.

Incidentally, his seminary studies were cut short. Ray rang home to tell you that even if he dropped out (you suspected the seminary asked him to leave) he had learned quite a lot and found a profound intersection between science, spiritualism and religion.

Your fingers tangled in the living room phone cord, disregarding how expensive the bill was going to be as you chatted to him until your body begged for sleep.

Yup, Raymond Francis Stantz was going to be extraordinary and you couldn’t wait.

_____

1978 April

It’s spring break of your senior year and as luck would have it Ray’s spring break is over. Vicky went on vacation to the Bahamas, Chrissy would be back from visiting her bună midweek and Tony went AWOL at a convention in Texas. You convinced your parents that Ray being a train ride away, and you being a responsible 17-year-old with a part-time job to purchase a ticket for said train ride, you should be allowed to pay him a surprise (unchaperoned) visit.

Daniel sighed at his desk, knowing you would not be denied, and ruffled your hair affectionately. You were smart, generally disliked most people, and would avoid strangers. There was no reason to worry.

So you threw a few favorite books into a messenger bag alongside your amateur star charts of Long Island and dad's pocket transistor, then walked to the Central Islip train stop. You boarded with your thoughts whirring and a soft soundtrack of rock playing, making the commute downtown fly by.

Arriving at Penn Station was akin to stepping into a macrocosm totally separate from the rest of New York - you had never been there by yourself outside of trips with your parents to see a couple of Broadway shows, Christmas tree lightings and museums, so your gaze bounced around in awe as you headed to the subway for the remaining leg of the journey, everyone a swarm of intensity like vibrating molecules. Once you get off at 116th St and head upstairs you are jostled so hard by a hasty business woman you start to fall, but keep your balance and recover, freezing when you spot the building in front of you.

Whoa, there it is. Columbia University, in all its Roman classical style glory. A possible peak into your future.

You crossed the street as ELO’s Mr. Blue Sky filtered out from your transistor, somehow not drowned out by the general din of the city. A crisp wind encourages you to hurry.

The steps to where Ray claimed to have a post-lecture smoke are mostly people-free, so you hunkered down for, per your watch, about 40 minutes. The time passed uneventfully as you got lost within The Haunting of Hill House.

“Y/N!” a cheerful, welcoming voice disturbed Eleanor Vance as she reminisced on childhood memories about encountering a poltergeist.

Ray had spotted you first, elated at your unexpected presence, leaving the lecture hall with someone matching his stride. An unlit cigarette is tucked back behind his ear.

You scrambled up to throw your arms around him, melting into his powerful embrace and the smoky scent that permeated his leather jacket. You could finally, properly breathe again and you whispered, “Surprise, Sunshine.”

His smile widened as he pulled away to introduce you to his friend Peter Venkman, a psychology major.

“Sunshine, what a cute nickname,” Peter teased, hazel eyes sparkling with simultaneous blackmail fueled glee and a hint of genuine amusement, then he snapped his fingers, “Because he’s Ray! A ray of sunshine!”

Peter is the type of guy who perpetually exudes an aura of “butter wouldn't melt in his mouth”, which you find out quite early on is true, only because butter wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near it.

There’s no reason to feel embarrassed about the endearment you’ve used for Ray since you were a kid, and your brother isn’t flustered by Peter’s remark as he explained the meaning of it in correlation to your passion for astrophysics.

You still feel your cheeks flush all the same.

Peter is relatively harmless and his teasing is unlike the sort of mocking or disingenuousness you faced in the past. But your skin still feels too tight and you’re unsure how you should handle this sort of attention. 

Romance wasn’t a complete stranger to you outside of stories, but unlike Vicky and Chrissy, you had turned down admirers throughout high school (excluding a platonic date with Tony to senior prom). Thus, engaging with professional lotharios like Peter was definitely out of your wheelhouse. In a moment of panic you compare the situation to being in a debate and try to match his energy in hopes that it’ll throw him off.

“Tell me Venkman, do you want to major in psychology to have a better grasp of the conscious and unconscious phenomena, or are you going tens of thousands of dollars into debt so you can be the one to answer Freud’s most pertinent question: ‘what do women want’?”

Ray’s brows shot into his hairline as he glanced at the other young man.

Peter's posture relaxed, hands shoved further into his jean pockets and lips turned up in a satisfied expression. How was it you got the inkling that you’d passed some sort of test and now he seemed handsome without the roguish façade?

“Thank God, I was dreading you being Francis's mini me. She’s got moxie.”

Ugh. Moxie? Are you Al Capone? Referring to you in the third person made you scoff in disdain, and then annoyance, “I refuse to believe you call him Francis like I call him Sunshine.”

“To be fair I also call him Francine. Gotta switch it up a bit, lest the honeymoon phase of our budding relationship grow stale.”

The honest confusion that puckered Ray’s lips as he lit his previously abandoned cigarette was comical. The soft utterance of, “we’re in a relationship?” that succeeded it was legendary. 

—

1978 September

If your relatives were the betting type they would have put money down on your following in Ray’s footsteps - and they would've been half right, as you were accepted into Columbia University's brand new computer science undergraduate course with the intention to pursue a masters in journalism. 

You are assigned to the ancient dormitories of Furnald Hall on the 10th floor. It’s a double suite and your roommate’s name is Azucena Olvera. 

On move-in day your dad insisted on dragging your sparse luggage filled with hand-me-down clothes and texts into the shoebox-sized space, ignoring your protests. Your mom ladened you with homemade sweets. 

They can’t stay long as traffic will be abysmal getting back and your mother is forced to drag your father out before you have more vitamin supplements to your name than sense. 

It turned out your roommate was there. Her bedroom door is open and you find her black-clad form curled up on a twin sized bed, buried in a novel you'd learned about a year or so ago called Interview with a Vampire. After introducing yourself you inquired about the premise, to which she regarded you blankly for a beat, mumbling it was pretty self-explanatory by the title.

Undeterred by her sarcasm you admit to being fascinated by the concept of some no name reporter taking a chance on such a strange tip, offering to lend her Carmilla as a trade when she was done. Azucena smirked as you started to unpack, initiating light conversation about how general classes will go, somehow segueing to the West Virginia Mothman, telling her about your friends back home and where they’ve gone to study or work.

You looked down at your watch - 7:46PM. Ray called before mom and dad dropped you off, saying he was touching base with a professor and would meet you in front of the dorms to treat you to "the best Chinese on the northeast coast" at 7:30PM. You tossed on a windbreaker, snagged An Elementary Treatise on the Differential and Integral Calculus, mom’s snacks, nearly forgot your keys (priorities), bounded down a set of precarious stairs and burst outside in record time. 

Ray just about spit his cigarette out at your grand entrance (or exit, really), coughing and chuckling. "Did you think we were gonna leave without you?"

You beamed at him, noticing that Peter was there and not out with his flavor of the week. 

This goofball. He'd be so smug if he knew how much he'd grown on you. 

Peter winked your way. "You're the lady of the hour, kid, and we would've just sent Spengs here to fetch ya. He's all about the history of some sketchy secret tunnels in the basement of this place. Which are dime a dozen in the city, but what do I know? I’m just a pretty face."

The aforementioned "Spengs” was what some may describe as an elongated version of Poindexter from Felix the Cat; the epitome of an academic or caricature of a genius scientist. Tall, lean, sensibly dressed, his eyes obscured by a nearby street light reflecting off his glasses. You easily imagined him in a pristine white lab coat, holding a beaker overflowing with some dubious concoction.

But as he approached you, posture stiff and hand outstretched to perform the globally widespread greeting of introducing oneself via handshake, his attention shifted downwards. 

More specifically, to your jacket pocket, where An Elementary Treatise on the Differential and Integral Calculus poked out. 

He remembered himself, large hand engulfing yours, fingers warm, chemical rough, but a nice weight as his severe mouth softened and the streetlights finally allowed you a glimpse of umber irises with a bilateral hint of evergreen.

"Dr. Egon Spengler. A pleasure. If you do not mind, after we’ve eaten, I would appreciate hearing your opinion on Babbage's calculations. Are you familiar with Ada Lovelace?"

An effervescent sensation spread from your stomach to your throat, and you know logically that you're not actually turning into bubbling liquid, but your brain has trebuchet logic into a blackhole. The pitch of his voice is so low you wondered if he’s ever used an oscilloscope to measure the Hertz.

You couldn’t help but stare, and it's your turn to remember yourself. The moment lasted a span of minutes, but seemed so much longer, stretched into decades as you replied, star-struck, “Y/N Stantz. The pleasure is all mine. But uh, yes, Ada Lovelace translated parts of Luigi Menabrea’s work on the Analytical Engine and collaborated with Charles Babbage. I apologize, Sun-” you caught Peter and Ray observing the entire interaction with varying degrees of curiosity, “Raymond said he’d met someone else he deeply admired in his field of study, but you’re–prodigious to already have a PhD or a doctorate of some kind. You can’t be much older than us.”

Peter took that as his cue to insert himself back into the conversation, pulling you into a one-armed hug, “Ah yes, our very own savant. Met him in a women and gender studies class he signed up for by mistake ’cause Dr. Spengler left us plebs in the dust testing out of every core curriculum and taking his ‘accelerated sequences’. Degrees are old hat to this guy. Also, kid, did you know they started a new parapsychology program this semester as well?”

No, you didn’t, but you’re pretty sure the question was rhetorical.

“Introducing a parapsychology class is a golden opportunity to capitalize on a niche as hell field. Imagine the funding for graduate research, the accolades. Naturally I thought, ‘I’ll introduce my favorite eggheads to one another so a: my ears stop bleeding, and b: they’ll go feral at the chance of getting in on this, too.’ Bless their nerdy lil’ hearts, they’ve been attached at the hip, to my everlasting regret.”

“That’s only because together we’re on our way to convincing you that the existence of manifestations and apparitions is scientifically viable–” Ray remarked in a sing-song lilt, coming around to your other side.

You snort, well acquainted with the fact that if your brother found anyone that showed a modicum of inquisitiveness in not only anything involving engineering, biology, physics, chemistry, etc, if they ever had a passing thought about the Fermi Paradox, the Arrow of Time, the location of the Ark of the Covenant or how the Nazca Lines were formed, he was in their life like an Alabama tick. 

Peter showed genuine interest in psychological phenomena, but his hard stop was Casper the friendly phantom. 

Egon headed down 115th St toward this infamous Chinese restaurant Ray recommended, and as the other two men continued to banter he glanced over his shoulder at you.

What the hell happened? Had he experienced the same subtle full-body shiver as you touched? The same sort of pins and needles caused by the compression of nerves, or static generated when cathode ray tubes bathed the inside of a TV with electrons, triggering the front glass to fluoresce and emit an electrical charge?

Out of your peripheral you noticed him flexing the hand you just shook.

You’d accidentally (other times purposefully) shocked plenty of inanimate objects and people, but–

“Ray, you gotta convince Y/N to let me do a full interview about Graveyardgate. She would be the best person to start as a control variable for–”

“Vex-man, I told you that in confidence,” you chastised Peter, introspection put on the backburner. Vex-man was a derogatory moniker you only used when he crossed a line. 

Peter squirmed away, ensuring he was no longer within punching distance.

Too late, you groaned internally as Egon fell back to take Peter’s place, his laser focus once again on you.

Despite not enjoying having to discuss it, and despite having just met Egon...these guys might be the best people to talk to about it.

My first day on campus and we’re dabbling in unauthorized behavioral experiments. You turned around and started to walk backwards, gesturing wildly and hamming it up, “Well doc, it was summer of ‘76–”

Peter clucked his tongue at you in mock exasperation for your brattish snark that he was solely responsible for. 

Ray rolled his eyes, but internally he was happy you were ready to exorcise a figurative demon - a part of him hated remembering too, even if it had solidified his motivation and purpose to keep doing what he was doing, skeptics and critics be damned.

And Egon.

Egon deadpanned, “I know where Venkman lives. And I work as a coroner part-time.”

“Alright H. H. Holmes, we’re gonna need to unpack that before I end up as a statistic.”

You tripped on uneven concrete, cackling.

[morsking]

yan qing in shinjuku was a phantom servant with no true identity, he was a yan qing lost and lashing out at the cruel and unjust world that killed his lord. the death of yan qing's lord was such a devastating and traumatic moment for yan qing that it destroyed his entire identity. throughout his life he was already a person who defined himself by his servitude to others, staying loyal or betraying several lords depending on what the situation called for. it was never anything personal, it was just the times. every service and betrayal yan qing held in his hands was simply a matter of surviving, there was no option but to prioritize his own life during times of strife.

however, killing that many people, changing your allegiance, and therefore changing who you are and your ideals does nothing but create an unstable sense of self. when yan qing finally found a master who yan qing didn't want to betray or abandon he found a brand new identity, but with it he was forced to face a fundamental flaw within himself: he never learned how to commit himself to a cause and to another person completely from the bottom of his heart, and therefore all his attempts to save his master were not just insufficient, but they were also pointless. his master gave himself up, died, and the 108 stars were scattered and slaughtered. yan qing was brutally shocked that a person could simply give up his own life so easily as if it meant nothing, as if leaving behind all that you knew, all that you stood for, all that you ever were, and all who ever loved you was something you could do on a whim. in that instance, yan qing realized that because he never had an identity, because he never was anyone, because he never stood for anything, and because he never knew he could be anything, he never had the pride a person would need to stand up for one's own way of life and protect all that one holds dear. so in shinjuku, when he kills cursed arm hassan, he is once again faced with that same horror of watching a person happily throw his life away for a larger, thankless cause and a master who did not acknowledge him. hassan had destroyed his own heart so he would not be properly copied by yan qing, giving chaldea a chance at victory. yan qing spends shinjuku spiteful and distraught, disguised as hassan for most of the time because he was jealous of hassan's pride and devotion to you. yan qing as a phantom spirit of shinjuku would've rather been a nameless wraith who died in service to someone dear than a renowned failure with a disconnect with his identity who would be remembered by no one. when you defeat him, he can no longer hide behind the mask of someone with an identity, so he is forced to acknowledge he is nothing and no one, and that all he yearned for was the pride of serving someone again and giving his entire life to them.

we fast forward to his interlude, and we learn chaldea's yan qing has gone rogue and rayshifted to shinjuku. hassan and geronimo accompany you, and yan qing tells you he needs to make amends and he cannot move on without making them. when you catch up to him a final time, hassan reveals himself as the real yan qing who disguised himself as hassan to let the rogue yan qing realize by himself what he really is is a remnant of the phantom of shinjuku, a doppleganger. the doppleganger, via his connection to the chaldean yan qing, copied yan qing's desire to apologize to hassan for his death, and sought to destroy himself in self-punishment and atonement.because he is phantom who is no one, serves no one, and has no one, all he could ever think of doing is becoming nothing in a pursuit to die and redeem his failure towards his lord. yan qing, however, offers the doppleganger with the chance to truly atone for his sins and his lack of pride by becoming one with him. this is yan qing making peace with and accepting his grief as a part of him to truly recover his pride and his identity, rather than abandoning it to wander lost and scarred like yan qing had spent the rest of his life. this is the reason why yan qing managed to copy hassan without losing his identity this time. yan qing has grown as a person enough that he can always stay himself no matter how many people he turns into, because he can no longer lose sight of himself so long as you are there to witness him, and trust that yan qing will always be himself.

in short, love is stored in the bandit

[thecagedsong]

Forgotten Light: Chapter 9: Leads

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11

Chapter 9: Leads

“Caretaker, I present Ruta, Hollea, and Mizelle, Dryads of the South and East forests, to present their case to the caretaker,” Henrick bowed and the ladies stepped forward. Official business must be what let them walk on the road.

Agad whispered behind Seth, “Ask them the nature of their visit.”

“Ah, welcome,” Seth said, feeling a little silly, “Um, what is the nature of your visit?” His mouth quirked up at the pun. They all looked a little familiar, they must have crashed the Zzyzx opening and closing party.

“That information is private,” a blue haired one, Ruta, said. “It regards the recent adjustments of leadership and a possible danger to the fae of this preserve.”

Seth glanced at the sun, he’d guess it was a little past 10 AM, “Uh, how long is this going to take? Because if we could meet up tomorrow, that would work so much better for us.”

“I believe you will want to hear us now, Caretaker Sorenson,” the middle one said, standing a bit behind the other two. Pure black hair was tied up in a bun, rounded narrow black eyes demanded respect over high cheekbones. She was the only one armed.

“Alrighty then,” Seth said, turning to Agad, “Uh, where’s the best place to talk with…our friends?”

“Ladies, please follow me,” Agad said with a bow.

When the four of them were a little ways away, Seth stepped up to Henrick, “Hey, you missed some important stuff,” Seth whispered, “Grandma and Grandpa are in the winter study, they need your help and can catch you up. I’ll check on you guys after this, but you can go on without me.”

Henrick nodded, then reported at normal volume, “My rounds on the preserve show that everyone is restless. Far more restless than they usually are, so soon after the solstice when they tend to be tired. Repairs to the roads are happening on schedule, the Taurans have settled back into their domain, and many creatures are awaiting news of the next confrontation between you, your sister, and Celebrant.”

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint my adoring fans,” Seth joked, “I’ll make sure it’s a good one. I got to go.”

Agad had just turned a corner around the outer wall, and Seth ran to catch up. Sitting there was a room like the safe huts along the road. They weren’t restricted to mortals, however, and Mizelle was seated at a round table with seven chairs, while the other two waited outside.

Seth walked in, took a seat opposite the dryad and said, “Okay, what can I do for you?” he wished the other two dryads were here, Mizelle scared him a little.

From a pouch at her waist, Mizelle produced an hourglass, and turned it over. The number four was embossed in gold at the top. Mizelle glanced at him.

“Ah, nipsie. You are welcome at this table, if the caretaker gives you all his confidence,” Mizelle said graciously.

Once again, Seth had completely forgotten about his friend. A slight jerk in the corner of his eye where Agad was standing suggested that the wizard had too. Whoops, sorry about all those secrets.

Seth took Calvin from his pocket and placed him on table. He bowed, “My lady.”

Mizelle smiled, “Rise, small sword. Know that while the four of us talk, none can overhear us. This trinket thought up and enchanted by my sister Nika ensures that.”

“Marvelous,” Agad said, examining the item.

“Yes, but we are here for business,” Mizelle said, “Specifically, your sister, where she is, and what she is doing.”

“Do you know where she is?” Seth asked, “Ronodin and the Sphinx captured her after she lost her memory. We’re looking, but haven’t found anything yet.”

Mizelle slammed a hand on the table, “How could you let that happen!”

“Hey, Ronodin got the drop on Bracken,” Seth shot back, trying to cover up that she had made him jump, “I don’t see why Kendra is any more at fault than him.”

“Oh don’t worry, my brother won’t be spared my ire either. The fool just barely got out of captivity, and he so quickly jumps back in.” Mizelle spat. “When will that fool learn to keep his horns where he can see them!”

Seth pulled back, “Wait, brother?”

Agad blinked, “Excuse me for not recognizing you earlier. You are a unicorn?”

Mizelle nodded, “I am the eldest child of their royal majesties, and the leader of the warrior fairies of our realm.

“You’re… more intense, than I expected a unicorn to be,” Seth admitted. He’d met Bracken, the Fairy Queen, and the Fairy King, and he’d never seen a look as intense as the one that Mizelle was shooting him right now.

“Yes,” was all she said. “I take it Kendra did not explain the full nature of her abilities?”

“I am familiar with the abilities of Fairy Kind,” Agad said. “But I fear their nature is a closely held secret. I assumed it functioned similar to how fairies share their power with the fairy struck.”

Mizelle nodded, “Kendra had permission to inform her brother and grandparents. It appears she did not take it. Kenda is literally a receptacle for the Fairy Queen’s power in the mortal world. It is similar to the relationship between the Fairies and their fairy struck, but instead of a gift of shared magic, it is an open spring. She is a direct connection to Mother and the magic that fuels Fairy Realm, and therefore, is a direct weakness. This is the secret, and of the few people that understand this magic, Ronodin does.”

Seth paled, “Ronodin is hurting Kendra?”

Mizelle shook her head, “Worse. It appears he is taking advantage of her memory loss, and teaching her to poison her magic and my mother by proxy. He is leading Kendra quickly down the path he used so many years ago to corrupt his own horns.”

“Kendra would never do that.”

“That is obviously what my Mother thought,” Mizelle said drily, “With effort and training, Kendra is able to use the wellspring of fairy magic inside her and craft magic. Not as a wizard or a unicorn crafts, but as mortal does. Should she tend to a herb garden, those plants will take on magical properties. Should she weave thread with intent to protect, the cloth will become armor. When trained, her abilities are a fairy’s creation magic inspired by human emotions and ingenuity, a power Mother should not have released on the world so easily or in one so young, but here we are. Ronodin is teaching her to craft curses and items to harm and poison. It will pervert her magic, and the effects will reach straight into my mother’s heart.”

“Oh dear,” Agad said, head sinking into his hands. “I am getting too old for this. How is the Fairy Queen?”

“She is attentive and well-attuned to her magic. She noticed the change immediately, and analyzed it as much as she could before cutting her connection with Kendra completely. An unfortunate necessity, especially since my mother can’t undo the changes she wrought in Kendra and is merely cutting the girl loose, but it is the only solution that slows down the taint.” Mizelle said, “Kendra is much farther from aid than we feared.”

“What do you know about where she is?” Seth asked.

“Kendra was in the realm opposite my mother,” Mizelle explained, and held up a hand at Seth’s outraged look, “Not the demon prison. The realm of the Underking. Demons can survive surrounded by light, and as my father has shown, beings of light can survive surrounded by demons. The denizens of the Underking are fundamentally incompatible with my kind. Their darkness will extinguish our light, and our light will extinguish their darkness. Many fairies have died, trying to light up the darkness for even a moment. Mortals refer to the Underking’s domain as the Phantom Isle.”

“How does the Queen know that’s where Kendra is being kept? Does she know where the Phantom Isle is currently located?” Agad asked.

“It is part of the connection Mother shares with Kendra, is it unequal to even what she shares with her family.” Mizelle said, massaging her temples, “The magic flow remained strong, but that is the only place on earth where her senses are truly dulled. Ronodin is somehow protecting Kendra’s light from going out, but he is only preserving it in order to mutate it. If he corrupts Kendra to a level near his own corruption, the source that Kendra and Mothers draw from will become poisoned, and the realm of light falls.”

“Okay, Phantom Isle, how do we get there?” Seth asked.

Agad shook his head, “It moves around. It has connections to our world all over the place, but very few beings are able to utilize them. The Underking’s realm is the home of phantoms, zombies, liches, wraiths, and every other possible thing that made a deal to give up living for longer life.”

“Okay,” Seth said, “Not a popular vacation spot. Is it an actual island? Cause that explains the barrel underwater bit.”

They both nodded. Mizelle didn’t consider any information about barrels to be important, and didn’t ask.

“Do you know anything else about Kendra?” Seth asked.

Mizelle shook her head, “I can tell you that it will take time to turn her. Mother felt shadows passing over the soul, but that is the first step to a long descent that Ronodin has taken over the course of his life to replace all his light with darkness. However, Ronodin is cunning, he is skilled. It will be that much easier if Kendra has no memories of goodness. Unfortunately, Mother will not be able to continually check on her.

“Think of the source that Kendra and Mother draw from as a well with a pipe directly to the Fairy Queen. From the Fairy Queen, magic flows to all creatures of light. When making Kendra Fairy Kind, Mother expanded the width of the pipe, and created a secondary pull from the Source before the magic reaches her to reach Kendra instead. An offshoot pipe before my mother’s reservoir. Kendra’s poison is travelling back up the pipe towards the source, and to prevent immediate contamination, Mother had to build a wall separating the streams of magic. Because of her actions, it will take the corruption much longer to reach Mother. Kendra will have to poison the source first before it reaches the Fairy Kingdom.”

“That’s fascinating, is that really how fairy magic works?” Agad asked.

Mizelle shot him a deadpan, “No. It is incredibly more complicated. I am describing astrophysics to someone who hasn’t figured out how to make fire yet. But it is a sufficient metaphor for what you need to know.”

“Could you give us a timeframe?” Agad asked.

“That depends on Kendra’s resistance,” Mizelle said. “With the circumstances as they are…find her before the fall equinox. That is the soonest Kendra could reach that level of corruption. Find her as soon as you can, but that is your deadline. We are unable to help you more without declaring another war that we are sorely ill prepared to handle. As a mortal, Kendra does not belong there, but nor is she banned from it.”

“I’m going to get her back much sooner,” Seth swore, meeting the intimidating gaze full on.

Mizelle met his gaze, and when he didn’t waver, she gave him a small nod, “I don’t doubt your courage or will, and I pray for your success. Of all the beings to reach the heart of the Underking’s realm, a shadow charmer has a better chance than most. Not a good one, but you have proven yourself before.”

Mizelle stood up, “Hurry, but do not go unprepared. I will be busy managing the affairs of the Fairy Realm, let no one know of its weakness. You have been a good ally to us before, Seth Sorenson and Agad the Young. Unfortunately, we must rely on you once more.”

There was still a little bit of sand left in the hourglass, and Seth stood up too. “It’s my sister. I’ll dig a hole there myself if I have to.”

“Mortals,” Mizelle said, somewhere between scoffing and amusement, “I did not inherit Mother’s love of mortals, nor did any of my sisters. Only Bracken claims that. In addition to most of her looks, it’s why he is her favorite. I, personally, am still struggling to see the appeal.”

“Wait until we…er,” the sand in the hourglass ran out, “Wait until we manage your request, and you will see what mortals can do when people we care about are at stake. I think you’ll figure out why we’re pretty cool.”

“I await proof, Caretaker,” Mizelle said, offering a hand. Seth shook it. Agad stood up and shook her hand as well.

After seeing the envoy of “dryads” off, Seth didn’t move. He was hoping that any spy had left him for more fruitful pastures after seeing they couldn’t overhear what the dryads wanted.

“Send Marat to the stables,” Seth said, quietly, waving at the departing figures from the archway. “See which mounts are interested in another adventure. Then go to Grandma and Grandpa, if their plans look good, approve it.”

“Where will you be?”

“Shadow hunting. I’ll take a late lunch.”

He turned back towards the Keep, speaking at a normal volume, “Their issue wasn’t that big, right? Henrick can help them.”

“If you tell him to,” Agad agreed. “First we should weather tonight.”

Seth started walking towards the winter study, but sidetracked into a…music room? They had a music room? The map was going to be useful all on its own.

He turned off the lights, drew his sword, and started walking. He tried to turn off all the lights around him, but it was hard when only some of the rooms has electricity. Most were gas lamps, and for about the hundredth time he wished he was a fully trained shadow charmer. According to the Sphinx, a shadow charmer can dim flames, bring cold, and a bunch of other cool stuff that would be really useful for figuring out if there was a spy in the Keep.

He decided to start at the top and make his way down, following Tess’s group wasn’t going to be any good if the spy was doing that already.

Luckily, the Keep was meant to be a fortress, and there no windows on the ground floor. When he approached the winter study, he listened carefully, looking for another spy, but didn’t find anything. Agad was talking about the best way to inform the staff, so Seth moved on.

Seth made his way to the dungeons next, checking various rooms as he followed the strained whispers of the undead. Unable to see in the dark, he stuck close to the walls. He approached the room with the barrel in it, hidden amongst the empty cells. One of the minotaur’s, not Brunwin, was guarding it along with a dwarf.

Seth imagined himself as part of the darkness, and tested how close he could get.

Seth could have stabbed the Minotaur through the chest. He was within the torchlight hanging near the entrance, but with the sword helping him, still the guards hadn’t noticed. Then Seth was actually standing behind the minotaur, reaching for the gate, when the dwarf saw him, cursing in dwarvish, as he pulled his shortsword free.

The Minotaur spun around, and Seth held up his hands without letting go of his sword, “Don’t attack! It’s only me,” Seth said. “Sorry, I was just trying to see how far my shadewalking and this sword could get me without being noticed.

The Minotaur lowered his axe, shaking his head, “I didn’t see you at all. I didn’t smell or hear you either.”

“And you can do all that now?” Seth asked.

They both nodded.

“Okay, good to know,” Seth said, “I’m going to go in the cell, check up on the barrel. Is there anyone in there right now?”

“Agatha,” the dwarf said, “She’s keeping watch over your note.” The dwarf handed him the key.

“We got a believable threat to Blackwell that’s supposed to come tonight,” Seth said, “My grandparents will fill you in soon, but be as vigilant as you can. Okay?”

They both nodded and Seth walked in. Agatha was apparently one of the old women, she was knitting an enormous sock, and smiled pleasantly when she saw him.

“Ahh, Young Master. The letter remains untouched and unmoved,” she said.

“Err, awesome. Good job,” Seth said. He felt a little uncomfortable having the old woman be the last or first line of defense should something happen with the barrel, but something about the click of her needles made him think she wasn’t as harmless as she appeared. There was no one else hiding in the cell with her, so he walked back out and continued towards the Blackwell.

As he wound closer to the Blackwell, he heard Doren, “Look, it’s really not necessary to go closer. Seth even told us not to touch this place.”

“He isn’t the boss of me,” Knox said, a slight tremor in his voice. He wondered how bad it was this close to the Blackwell for people without magical fear immunity, “We should look in, figure out the shape for the map, then we can go.”

“I don’t want to go any closer,” Tess said, almost crying.

“You don’t have to,” Knox said, sounding braver. “I’ll just crack open the door.”  

Seth waited, pulling himself into a little nook around the corner of the prison door. It was round indent, about three feet deep, and he pressed himself to the wall, focusing on listening.

“Well, it won’t open. And if it’s locked for us, its probably locked for everyone one else. Move along now, we still need to get through the first floor before lunch. I for one, don’t plan on missing a meal because we stared at a door too long,” Newel said, “Off we go.”

Seth watched, holding his sword ready. Any tails the group had would have to back track, if Seth remembered right. He kept his eyes peeled for movement, ears alert for the sound of shoes separate from the others. Surprisingly, the ghostly wailing wasn’t overwhelming like he remembered the first time. Seth could firmly place it within his head, and it quieted while he focused on his non-shadow hearing.

His friends passed without a sound. Newel was holding the torch, the rest their papers and clipboards.

Seth waited for Tess to point to him and ask to talk, but her eyes slid right past his hiding spot. He felt the light touch him, but a single torch wasn’t enough to take away his advantage in this area. That meant that while she could see through distractor spells, shadow magic eluded her. It all depended on what the spy was using.

The group continued forward, and Seth waited.

And waited.

He made himself wait longer, just because time flew when you were waiting for something to happen. A trained spy would know that, even though the group was out of earshot.

Nothing happened.

It didn’t make sense. If the spy was tailing this group, which he thought any reasonable spy would be, he or Tess should have seen the person. This was a dead end! The spy wasn’t tailing his grandparents, he didn’t think. Any plan of the Sphinx’s and Ronodin’s wouldn’t be thwarted by increased security. Did the person stick to Agad, knowing the old wizard was the most powerful of their group? That didn’t seem right either, Agad had been as clueless as the rest of them in the meeting, and Seth had put him on magic defenses, which were already confirmed to be holding strong. Tailing Seth? The Dryads and Mizelle’s item would have found the spy if they were using distractor spells, and Seth would have found them using shadow disguise magic.

Sending two children and the satyrs through the nooks of the lower levels clearly presented the most unassuming group, and therefore the most suspicious. Considering they hadn’t even considered a spy until mid-morning, the spy wouldn’t have assumed Seth to be a good enough strategist to do what he did. Seth hadn’t been banking on the spy following this group, but even if the spy wasn’t listening in on the War Room meeting, the four of them tromping through the underground should have caught the spy’s attention.

Seth was looking at this wrong. Or maybe it was crazy, thinking there was a spy already here. Maybe the spy had known about the dead end and hadn’t bothered to follow them towards the Blackwell already, and instead stopped before —

Seth froze, then immediately forced himself to relax. He stood up straight, as though getting ready to leave and stepped from the nook.

 Seth spun with all his strength, sword extended. Steel sparked against stone wall. A dark figure crouched, sparks landing on their hat. Seth had put too much force into the swing, and had trouble pulling back. The figure used that millisecond to run. An arm shot out, shoving him.

“Hey!” Seth yelled, scrambling to his feet. “Intruder!”

Seth ran, eyes darting everywhere, looking for the figure, catching the barest flicker of movement turning corners. He hit the main hallway, and there was nothing. No doors swinging, no locks rattling, no flickers of coat. Seth hurried forward and reached the cell with the barrel, and found the minotaur and the dwarf, braced and ready for action.

“Did you see anyone?” Seth asked as he rushed closer.

They jumped, only spotting him as he spoke.

“Right, new plan,” Seth said, putting a hand on his head, trying to think through this.

He was planning on taking the barrel with him out of Wyrmroost in the late afternoon. It had seemed so much more likely that they were going to attack at night. Now that the spy had been spotted, would their enemies try to move up the plan? What did Seth want the spy to think? If Seth did nothing, the spy would know that something was going to happen.

If Seth saw the intruder, and Tess didn’t, that meant shadow magic. Being unable to see in the dark meant that even if he could see past the shadow magic, he wouldn’t be able to find the intruder easily. That was a dumb trait. There had to be some aspect of being a shadow charmer that let him sense others in the dark.

But it was reality, and it meant that keeping their biggest weakness at the bottom of the dungeon, near the Blackwell, was a mistake.

“Okay, uh, remind me of your names?” Seth asked apologetically.

“Borum,” the dwarf said.

“Romnus,” grunted the minotaur.

“Right, Borum, you’re on guard duty with me. We’re moving the barrel, Romnus is going to carry it. I know this is one of the most protected areas, but we’re dealing with someone even better at shadow stuff than me. This is going too the High Judgement Court,” Seth said.

“Where?” Borum asked.

Seth opened the door to the cell, “Oh, uh, the center thing at the top. It doesn’t have any walls?”

“He means the pavilion,” Romnus said. Seth put his back to the cell door as Romnus explained the situation to Agatha.

“You lead, I’ll bring up the rear,” Seth said. Borum nodded, and they made their way out of the dungeons. Seth’s eyes were starting to hurt from spending so long trying to decipher the darkness, but he didn’t stop looking until they made it all the way to the top.

They attracted a trail of people, running into Tess’s group on the first floor, then Marat and Agad as they made their way to the kitchens.

They all asked Romnus, Agatha, and Borum questions, but they were directed to Seth who shook his head, motioning for everyone to follow quietly.

With everyone gathered at the pavilion, the harsh sunlight let Seth finally lower his sword. He sheathed it and looked in the barrel. The note remained, having shifted only a little bit during the trip.

“Okay,” Seth said, “I found the spy. Didn’t get a good look at them, but they are definitely using concealment shadow magic to hide themselves. Something I can sort of see through anyway. Which means its definitely going to be weaker up here.”

“Until nightfall,” Romnus said. “New moon tonight.”

Seth nodded, “Yes. This will still need to be guarded, but I already feel a lot better with it away from the Blackwell. Any conversations you have from now on, we should probably assume we’re being spied on. With the barrel up here, assuming they still go forward with their plan, the spy will have to wait until nightfall. If their plans involved the Blackwell, they’re going to have a lot farther to go, giving us a chance to stop them.”

“Is there anything else we can do? Tess didn’t find anyone,” Knox said.

“Oi, Tess was looking for people?” Doren said, “I thought we were making a map!”

“I thought the point was to get the spy to follow us,” Newel said.

Doren looked betrayed, “You knew it wasn’t about my map making skills!”

“Guys, it was all those things,” Seth said. He crouched and put a hand on Tess’s shoulder, who looked scared, “Hey, you did great. I never would have found the spy without you.”

He waited until she nodded and gave him a smile.

Seth stood up, “I want your map in the War room, because there’s always the chance that we missed a weakness down there. Agad, I want you to go over it with Marat after lunch, see if everything looks like you remember. I’m pretty sure the spy was following you guys the whole time, which means the rest of our conversations were probably private. Let’s head down to lunch, see if we can think of anything else. I’m starving.”

The Satrys whooped and hurried down, Tess and Knox following after.

“I have been giving some thought to where you need to go,” Agad said. “And I am starting to believe it was a mistake to think you didn’t need to be trained in your Shadow Charmer abilities. A fully trained shadow charmer would have been able to sense the shadow and concealment magic, and would be able to sense it now.”

“I’ve had plenty of people offer,” Seth admitted, “No one I felt like I could trust. Kendra told me that a demon she knew vouched for other demons that hate the dragons a lot more than they hated humans, but I already forgot their names. She didn’t want me learning from demons anyway.”

“But still she told you,” Agad said gently, “She would have let the information die with her memory if she didn’t trust your judgement. Demons are different among the denizens of the magical world, they are not always bound to their word as Fairies and Underbeings are. In order to deal with demons successfully, you must always have your goals aligned. Is there anywhere she would have written it down?”

“The journal of secrets,” Seth admitted, “But she writes that by umite candle and in fairy languages.”

Agad hummed, “There is a surprising store of Umite candles in the stockroom, and I believe that with Tess, fairy languages aren’t the bar Kendra trusted them to be.”

Seth grinned, changing direction at a hallway, “It looks like Tess has some homework. Do you think being a Shadow Charmer would help me rescue Kendra?”

“Having your abilities fully trained would indeed let you walk among the denizens of the Phantom Isle. From what I understand, you could no more walk on the Phantom Isle unseen than you could walk in the Fairy Realm without the Queen’s knowledge.” Agad said, “But if there is a way to take back what belongs in the light, a trained shadow charmer has a much better chance than many others.”

Agad stopped Agatha, who they had caught up to in the halls, and requested a set of Umite candles be brought to the kitchen. She nodded, and went to do it.

“The staff has been put on alert, watch and rotations set, for your information,” Agad said.

“Great,” Seth replied opening the door to his sister’s room. He immediately went to the desk in the corner and looked at the underside. It was much lower to the ground, and the journal wasn’t there. He checked Kendra’s other hiding spots, and in her desk for good measure. Agad watched.

“I have the feeling this isn’t your first time snooping on your sister,” Agad said.

Seth pulled the Journal of Secrets from the inside pocket of her duffle bag, which had been folded to fit inside the bottom of her laundry basket.

“Sisters, you know?” he said, grinning and tucking the book under his arm. “I wonder if Patton finished writing in it before or after the stingbulb was made? The first half is his journal, the rest of it is Kendra’s.”

Patton. The stingbulb had only a day left, how could they make sure Patton was used to the fullest extent?

Seth once again changed course.

“The kitchen is this way,” Agad said, amused, “It seems you really do need a map.”

“We want to go somewhere no has ever been, that constantly moves locations, and survive to tell about it?” Seth asked, smiling again, “Ten bucks says Patton knows where he left the t-shirt.”

 Patton’s eyes lit up, but the rest of his features had only a hint of amusement, “Seth, I hope you aren’t suggesting that you think I rang the Underking’s doorbell for the fun of it? There isn’t a fairy shrine there.”

“Patton,” Seth said, cracking his own smile, “I’m obligated to let you know that if you haven’t ding-dong-ditched the Underking, it’s going to be a crushing letdown for one of your biggest fans.”

Patton laughed, “I had a good reason, I swear. But the particulars of it elude me. Stingbulbs don’t retain a perfect memory, you know. There is a ship, mildly haunted, that a shadow charmer should be able to strong arm into giving a lift.”

“Lady Luck?” Seth asked.

Patton raised his eyebrows, “You’re familiar with it?”

Seth winced, “Yeah, you left some stuff for me with Cormic, and we used her to get to the Shoreless Isle to stop Zzyxx. I think the bell and whistle ended up at Fablehaven, but I left the music box in the Presence’s cabin. I didn’t think I’d survive, much less need it again.”

“You’ll get a lot farther if you assume you will survive,” Patton said, stroking his mustache, “And if you don’t, you leave some nice pieces for the next adventurer to pick up. It is possible the music box remains in the cabin, but if not, a Shadow Charmer can summon the presence of spirits, I hear.”

Something else he’d need to be trained on. He caught Agad’s eye, and nodded. Training him had to be part of their plan before they went to the Phantom Isle.

“Can you think of another way?” Seth asked.

Patton shrugged, “The old stories suggest sailing to the end of the world and falling off it, but that has obvious issues. There are many caves that lead to the Underking’s domain, but those are also constantly shifting and extremely well hidden.

“The Underking has a clever boat he uses to ferry his servants across the water, but I don’t know of any others like it. There are also certain fairies that strive to find their way to the Phantom Isle, they were born with a need to light up the deepest darkness. Called Nova Songs, they are exceptionally rare, but they could lead a normal ship to your destination.”

“Right,” Seth said, “Could you write those down?”

“Of course, my boy,” Patton said, accepting a piece of paper from Tanu. He started writing. “I’m glad I could help this much. I get the sense Patton was hoping I’d be able to be more of an assistance than what I have been. Aside from getting the winged mounts, I fear I haven’t lived up to Patton’s hopes.”

“Those mounts are more important than you think,” Seth said, thinking of their plan for escape. Was there anything Patton could do in the next half a day? Probably not with Kendra, that was clearly going to take longer.

“Actually,” Agad said, “There is something you can do. I refrained from asking about your journey here before, but is it true you hid one of the keys to the vault in the Dragon Temple?”

“I suppose I can’t make myself any less popular with the dragons than I am right now,” Patton said, handing Seth the note detailing his ideas, “I did indeed. I had a couple of important items that let me get past the guardians, a lot of time, and an urgent need.”

“You used the Unicorn horn to get past Stilletta, didn’t you?” Seth said.

Patton arched an eyebrow, “As did you, I assume.”

“We killed her,” Seth replied, “The unicorn horn fed by Kendra’s unending power helped us purify her to a crisp. By the time she figured out to use her claws, she was dead.”

Patton grinned, “Quite clever. Though taking a dragon’s life shouldn’t be done lightly, Stiletta was a piece of work. I procured myself a set of Pegasus boots. Allows for increased speed while hovering three inches above the ground. That, along with a scarf that turned the wearer invisible while moving, allowed me to make it into the Temple and out again.”

“How would you like to revisit it?” Agad asked. “The dragons have declared war, voiding the treaty that gave them the right to certain treasures. We will be needing them back. Any information on the status of the temple guardians would be most welcome.”

“I believe I can do that,” Patton said, “How will I be able to convey the information back to you? I will likely expire before I can make the return trip.”

“I believe I have something that will do the trick,” Agad said, “Follow me to the library. Seth, I believe your stomach is still growling, why don’t you take your sister’s journal to Tess, see if you can scrounge up any secrets that might have been lost with Kendra’s memory.”

“Hey Tanu? When can you be all packed up?” Seth asked.

Tanu nodded, mixing two vials. “Patton’s help was greatly appreciated. I will be ready to go by 4 this afternoon.”

Marat came up to him as he approached the kitchen, but thankfully didn’t try to pull him in a different direction. He really was starving.

“The flying mounts have agreed. The destination?”

“Err, Fablehaven, I guess,” Seth said, looking around. “Think they can go that far?”

“It is approximately 1600 miles,” Marat said, “It would take a dragon three days, two days without rest. I do not know how fast your mounts fly, but I would plan for a week.”

“A week? I don’t have that much time to spend roadtripping,” Seth said, “After we get to human towns, think we could buy plane tickets to Fablehaven? They’re Luvians, they should be able to make it to Fablehaven without riders.”

“I will consult with them, though that plan has merit,” Marat said. They made it into the kitchen and Seth finally got a lunch of barbeque and some kind of mashed potato thing.

Seth dived in.

“When do you intend to implement the second part of your plan?”

“You’ve been up to something else?” Grandpa asked, sitting down with his own plate beside him.

Seth swallowed and grinned, “Always,” he said. To Marat he said, “It’s what, 1 o’clock? Let’s save it for 4:30-ish, have everyone gather at the High Judgement Pavilion. That’s when Tanu will be ready to go.”

“It’s only because I heard about your encounter with our spy that I’m letting you get away with your secrets Seth Sorenson,” Grandpa warned. “We will be discussing this.”

“I appreciate your input as my assistant,” Seth said, nodding.

“Mind your grandfather,” Grandma said.

“Yes Grandma.”

[cihrp]

All species at the start of Crowned in Horns have been spoiled! More information on the full lore will be available at our open, and we will continue to keep you informed of more pieces, such as abilities, bloodlines, and other key components to plotting and planning your characters. A simplified version and overview of our collection of species is below:

fae - creatures of another realm that got involved in the revolt later on as it progressed, much to the witch’s dislike, but as such, the balance they looked to keep between mortal and immortal and nature, itself, had shifted and so too did the health of their home. now, most are looking to right it by any means. they are based on the four fundamental forces: gravity, electromagnetism, binding and decay and are able to look human through glamor, but have their own unique fae form, as decided by the writer.

humans - the proverbial underdogs of the store, humans have been cast out of a society no longer tailored to them by the strong grasp of the arcane. witches have all but dismantled their spirit and pride, replacing holidays, structures, prominent figures and many more in their own image and control. some have adapted to the new normal of their lives, while others remain outraged, forming alliances of hunters and a resistance in the shadows in hopes to reclaim what was once their’s.

lycans - some would argue they’re between a werewolf and a shifter, easily able to transform into a large wolf at-will, mostly, but their shifting can also be triggered by extreme emotional responses or a blue moon. with a regular full moon, the desire to shift and run under its gaze a strong calling. if they go too long without changing, they’ll start losing focus, become disoriented or ache from tight muscles looking to bend until they are able to release that part of themselves which is why their pack will often organize a run at least once a month, if not more.

shifters - shapeshifters that go between human and one animal form native from where they’re born with no effort. oftentimes, they take the traits or characteristics of the animal they host, i.e. impeccable vision for an owl, or a certain grace for a cat. if they enter a bond with a witch, they share that witch’s power (to a lesser extent) as well as develop an emotional empathy through that connection and may be summoned to the witch. more often than not, this is a cohesive, consensual agreement where both parties benefit, but shifters being forced into a ritual by unscrupulous witches isn’t completely unheard of. it is as shameful as it is illegal and holds with it dire consequences should anyone learn of it.

vampires - as per tradition, vampires are creatures of the night who feed on the blood of others in order to survive. in this world, human blood is readily available, some even packaged and sold in bottles for ease of access. however, many prefer the chase. the hunt. the thrill of prey and fangs sunken in flesh, and their community may be partly divided in ideals and what this new world means to them. there are five different bloodlines, each with their own unique abilities and weaknesses that come with them: sol, venenum, psychicae, iratus and sentire. they are able to form blood bonds outside those of a sire/progeny with fae, humans, lycans, shifters and witches.

werewolves - monstrous bipedal creatures, werewolves are trapped somewhere between the savagery of man and beast, resembling those of legend and cinema. many dread the sight of the full moon and the repulsive aftermath, forced to shift and snap bone and sinew in painful concert to reach their new form. the curse turns them to frenzied beasts who are not themselves and cannot distinguish their loved ones from threat or prey, unfortunately often times hurting those that get in their way. over time it is possible to tame their inner beast and learn how to control themselves, but even then, the discipline can leave them taxed, lethargic and mentally drained after the moon’s effects. 

witches - the ruling class in salem and the surrounding world, this sovereignty was not achieved lightly, spanning a revolt between the supernatural and ordinary from 2007 to 2011. there are many different paths for witches and they include: the five elements (earth, air, fire, water, aether), divination, enchanting, transmutation, blood magic, industria or energy magic, and necromancy, though the latter is banned and illegal. no one can really know what type of magic will call to them, the experience personal to each wielder in how it manifests. witches with familiars are incredibly strong and exalted in society for their gifts, the spell itself to bind one extremely dangerous and difficult and should not be practiced or entered into lightly.

wraiths - the spirits of humans or witches that were unable to move on when they perished, wraiths are attached to the dominant feeling they kept when their mortality expired, circling around in an endless fantasy of a memory that warps and cracks who they once were, only a sliver of themselves remaining. depending on the individual, they may remember little or much of their previous life, though they are always consumed by one memory altogether, and with the boom of magic in the air from the revolt, some specters were able to slip through the veil of death into the world of the living as wraiths, able to go between the corporeal and incorporeal. they have an intimate connection with one of six affinities: fear, wrath, lust, greed, peace or joy, and which one is dependent upon the overall feel or energy of their coveted memory. they are able to manipulate this affinity in others, but not create it, in order to feed off the energy to sustain themselves. in order to manifest into this world, even with the boon of magic repurposing their spirits, wraiths need to be at least 50 years old.

Read more on our species here: link

[curiosity-killed]

sorrow waited

Word count: 2379

on AO3

“What’s it like?” he asks because he can’t quite help himself. “Dying and coming back again.” The night is alive around them, frogs and crickets singing up along the lake. He’s been trying to be better, trying to learn to lay his anger down for jiejie, for Jin Ling, for himself. His tone still comes out too sharp. Leaning back on his elbow, Wei Wuxian doesn’t answer immediately but takes another drink. Jiang Cheng doesn’t think he’s drunk but they’ve both had enough wine that he probably should be. For himself, the pleasant warmth is starting to dissipate into something heavy and gnawing deep in his belly. At last, Wei Wuxian rests his arm against his knee and tilts his gaze up toward the dark sky. “Easier the second time,” he says ------

No one comes back from the Burial Mounds. No body or spirit is ever recovered from that mass grave. After three months, Wei Wuxian returns to them, alive, and some painful knot in Jiang Cheng’s chest gives way in relief. All those Wen dogs who said he was thrown into the Burial Mounds were liars, were sniveling cowards trying to seize some power through fear even in death. His brother is alive and here, solid in his arms, and he could not have been thrown into the Burial Mounds at all. He returns and he’s alive and that is all that should matter. It’s all Jiang Cheng wants to matter. It’s not all that matters. The Wei Wuxian who returns to them is — different. Changed. It’s not just his cultivation, his refusal to wear his sword. Something fundamental has shifted, as if his spirit has been slid a hands-width to the left of his body — just enough that sometimes Jiang Cheng looks and doesn’t see his brother but a stranger in his skin. He moves differently, walks more quietly. His edges sometimes seem to flicker, blur, like the roiling black he summons with that cursed flute. His gaze grows distant, long-sighted, as if he isn’t looking at anything on this mortal plane at all. They all smell of sweat and grime on the battlefield, but Wei Wuxian smells of blood, of iron live under his skin. No one gets out of the Burial Mounds alive and so Wei Wuxian cannot have been in the Burial Mounds — but sometimes Jiang Cheng starts to think it might be the inverse instead. No one gets out of the Burial Mounds alive and so Wei Wuxian didn’t get out at all. Someone, something, else crawled out. Worry chews at the base of his ribs like a street dog. They are surrounded by their closest allies and there is no one here he can trust with this. He has friends — or well, he has had friends. He remembers Cloud Recesses, stumbling out of the house with Nie Huaisang to escape Lan Wangji’s fierce frown. Since becoming sect leader, though, things have…shifted. When he speaks to peers his own age, it’s no longer as equals but as pieces on a political board. He is constantly aware of his role, now, the responsibility he wears. More than ever he represents Jiang sect, has to be mindful of how his actions and his disciples’ actions affect their clan and the way other clans look at them. That they are in the midst of war only exacerbates his fears. Everyone is on edge these days, and with Lotus Pier still smoldering in memory, any sign of weakness leaves his skin crawling. If he were to express worry about his own first disciple, what would the other clans say? He’s the youngest sect leader already and his home in ruins, few disciples left to follow him. Vulnerability shared with the wrong person now could spell the end of Yunmeng Jiang. He could ask Nie Mingjue or Lan Xichen — they are young leaders, too, but enough older than him to feel wiser, more settled. He balks at the thought. Nie Mingjue is a fearsome warrior and leader, but his judgment is harsh and final. Lan Xichen is more amiable but Gusu Lan holds their righteous laws paramount. Sympathy toward Wei Wuxian would surely cross those lines. He thinks, briefly, of Lan Wangji. After their months searching for Wei Wuxian together, he should be the obvious choice. His dedication to Wei Wuxian is surprising but undeniable. But…but ever since Wei Wuxian returned, he has been cold and biting toward Lan Wangji. Jiang Cheng doesn’t understand what exactly happened, but he doesn’t think Wei Wuxian would accept his help now. Telling Lan Wangji of his worries would be taken as a betrayal. He has had friends among the clans, but his closest has always been his brother. Asking him about this is already hopeless. Every time someone tries to ask about his missing time, Wei Wuxian evades and obfuscates, redirects with jokes and brushes away concern. Jiang Cheng’s scared to press too hard to find that shell brittle and cracked. Yanli worries, he knows. He and Wei Wuxian both try to keep the darkness from reaching her, but he knows she sees the shadows, the ink-like cracks growing between them. He doesn’t want to add to that, and so he hides his fear behind familiar anger instead.       They don’t share quarters anymore, and it takes a few weeks for Jiang Cheng to realize it isn’t only because of that that he hardly sees Wei Wuxian. At first, he had excused it as part and parcel of living separately, of the burden of their duties. It takes time for him to even start to suspect that Wei Wuxian is avoiding him. It doesn’t take long after that to realize it’s not just him. Wei Wuxian doesn’t shirk his duties, and he is ever-present on the battlefield with his ghost flute, but where his duties end so does his presence. He disappears, wraith-like, and no one knows where he goes. Jiang Cheng’s hands clench, nails biting into his palms and Zidian crackling against his skin. Worry is a hunger that he cannot appease. He’s not surprised when the rumors start, the murmurs that stutter into silence too late for him not to hear. Yunmeng Jiang has been dogged by rumors for all his life, and for most of it, Yanli and Wei Wuxian have acted as his shields against them. Yanli’s quiet propriety shames anyone who acts out around her, and Wei Wuxian has always been quick to speak up and fight back for his honor. When he’s feeling most bitter, Jiang Cheng thinks this, too, is something Wei Wuxian has beaten him at. He had two sets of parents, twice the reason to mourn, and he has always treated both with all the duty and piety that could be asked. For all his recklessness, he has always been proud of his parents and dutiful to Jiang Cheng’s. This is what makes suspicion grow from fear. Wei Wuxian has always fought back against rumors, always railed against untruths. Now, when he hears cultivators whisper about his path, about a plan to supersede Jiang Cheng as sect leader, he doesn’t fight back. One corner of his lips curls up, never reaching his eyes, like he knows something they don’t. Jiang Cheng’s spine shivers with unease. “How does it work? With the flute,” he asks one night when he finds Wei Wuxian lounging with a bottle of wine. Normally, he would yell at him to behave himself, to stop slacking off and get to his own tent. Today, though… They won the battle today or, well, Wei Wuxian won the battle. Flute in hand and silhouette smudged with spirits, he had singlehandedly laid waste to hundreds of Wen soldiers. The rest of their force was left to pick off a few stragglers here and there, but otherwise, they had just been there to watch. It should’ve felt triumphant. Instead, Jiang Cheng had felt something sick and rotting in the marrow of his bones. Around him, the other cultivators had been uneasy, hands tight on sheathed swords. After, as they set up tents and patrols for the night, Wei Wuxian had disappeared again, chased by his white shadow. But there was a moment, a flicker of an instant as everyone started to turn away. Jiang Cheng had only seen it because he’d glanced back, looking for his brother. Wei Wuxian stood alone at the crest of the hill, drenched in the sunset’s bloodred, and as he lowered the flute from his lips, he’d stumbled back half a step and reached one hand to clutch at the fabric over his chest. Even in the ruddy light his face had been too sallow and gaunt, his eyes shadows smudged into the pale of his skin. Ever since, the cavity of Jiang Cheng’s chest has ached. He is tired and scared and he wants his brother. When he sees the lanky figure strewn across the rocks like a body after a great fall, he can’t summon any anger. Clearing his throat, he steps up to Wei Wuxian’s side and folds down to sit beside him. Now, Wei Wuxian lolls back on his elbow and rolls the jug of wine in his hand. “Jiang Cheng,” he says with that voice he gets, when he’s telling a story or riling someone up, “if I told you I died and came back as a resentful spirit — would you believe me?” His head rolls toward Jiang Cheng just enough that Jiang Cheng can see his eyes slant toward him, the corner of his lips curved up in a sword’s edge smile. The question unsettles something deep within him, like a bone fragment rattling between his ribs. He forces himself to shove it deep down, draw up a façade of indignation. “You — shut up,” he says, shoving Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. Wei Wuxian sways with the motion, rolling his gaze away again. He lifts his wine but pauses without bringing it to his lips. From this angle, Jiang Cheng can make out the sharp curve of his jaw, the shadowed slash of his mouth. His hair hangs black as ink between them. He breathes out a laugh, then, finally, empties the bottle. When Wei Wuxian perches before the palace with black writhing around him and turns the battle on end, Jiang Cheng knows with bone-deep surety that there is no going back. Calamity has arrived, and it wears his brother’s face. Years later, when the blood has soaked into the battlefields and his family is dead, Jiang Cheng looks for a body. The rocks at the bottom of the cliff are jagged and veined with red, like arteries without skin to shield them. He knows what he’s looking for, can picture it too-readily in his mind. He’s seen enough dead bodies to overlay Wei Wuxian’s face on a split skull, his familiar limbs broken across the rocks. He walks through the jagged end of the world and finds nothing. No body, no shoe, no sign that Wei Wuxian plummeted to his death here. Tilting his head back, he eyes the ledge above. His heart beats steady and numb in his chest. He has run out of ways to feel, he thinks. Pain and grief have become such constant company that he hardly notices them, like the golden core steady in his chest. He’s not sure, anymore, which of them is keeping him upright. They’ve become a network, interwoven, fascia that binds him together. He walks forward a little more, trying to estimate how far his body could have been pulled or swayed by the air as he fell. Casting his gaze out a little farther, he still sees nothing but toothed stone. A flutter of red shivers in his periphery. Turning, sharp, he slips on the rock and goes down hard on a hand and knee. The stone slices his palm, a ragged gash that speckles with red immediately. He shoves off the rock, propelling himself toward the movement. If he’s there, if there’s a body, if — It’s only a tassel. Vermillion, blood-soaked, it dances on a low wind. Chenqing lays on the rock like it might on a stand, supported at its center by a fork in the stone. He stares at it, stomach clenching tight and painful. Anger rises, slow and sure as a tide, up his back. He can feel it in the constriction of his throat, the clench of his jaw as his teeth grit together. He hates this flute. He hates the smooth black-and-red lacquer, the careful engravings across its surface. He hates the red tassel, the jade lotus dangling above it. He hates the energy it summons and he hates the memories it resurrects. He hates it for his brother choosing it over Suibian, over the sword he carried for years. He reaches out, jerkily, to grab the flute with the thought to break it. Maybe if he snapped it over his knee or cracked it against the rock, maybe that would help. Maybe it would release this ocean of grief and anger that laps at his lips, all saltwater-sting. Maybe if he destroyed this flute it would bring back some better version of his brother, or at least make it not hurt so fucking much to remember him. His palm connects with the flute, fingers closing tight around it and — He can’t. He draws it close and stares at it and he hates it. He hates it and all that it represents, all that it has done — and he cannot destroy it. There is no body here. There is nothing left of Wei Wuxian except this, charred-bone-black and gleaming. No resentful energy spills off of it, nothing lashes out at his touch. He’d almost expected it to react to his blood, to the open wound cut through his palm. Instead, it lies inert and cool in his hand. It’s nothing more than a flute, after all, an instrument, a weapon, useless without its master. Swallowing, he slides it into his sleeve and turns to make the long walk back. There is nothing left for him here but the dry wind and the memory of the worst day of his life. He folds his sorrow into a sea in the shape of his heart and looks away.

[booklovingturtle]

A Sweet Suli Spice (Kanej GVBB)

A/N: AH I can’t believe the time has finally come for me to share this with you all! I had so much fun working on this in the midst of the worst and most stressful semester of my life!

Shout out to my gang, Spice of Life, for making this so much fun bc they are all so talented and easy to work with! The Corporalki both understood my writing which made the revising/editing process really smooth. They made sure the fic you’re about to read is actually understandable. They read this more than once and in the midst of their own crazy lives which I will never not be thankfull for. The Materialki are ridiculously talented. You HAVE to click their links to check out their work. I know they all worked really hard on them and it totally paid off.

Also big thank you to @grishaversebigbang​ for hosting this and being a terrifying yet wonderful Master of Tides.

Please feel free to comment, reblog, or message me your reactions to this! It’s the first super long pic that I’ve ever written and I’m really proud of it. Okay enough rambling…ik y’all just want the fic!

Corporalki: @ninxszenik , @ethereal-magia

Materialki: @theartistwitch  @wavesofinkdrops @xan-drei

Masterlist: Don’t have an Ao3 but I do have a master list of all my fics.

Summary: Inej Ghafa hasn’t seen her family in four years. Not since she’s been taken. Now that it’s been so long since she’s seen them, Inej is scared and nervous to go back. One night, while sitting on the rooftop, Kaz asks her to teach him Suli. That inspires Inej to fight her nerves and finally find her family. She asks Kaz to go home with her and he takes this opportunity to learn more about her and her people. Once home, Inej is faced with a guilt of her past, the fear of family’s reactions, and the hope of finally being ghar (home).

The heart of Suli culture flowed with spice-flavored blood and beat to the sound of performance drums. It hummed through Inej’s body every time she whispered her native language to herself under Tante Heleen’s ring-clad fist. She stored the precious words so deep inside of her that she feared the garbled sounds of Kerch would drown out their melodious syllables.

Once she was under the employment of the Dregs, she would practice Suli as often as she could. Some nights she would stare into the mirror, barely recognizing the woman in front of her as she spoke in Suli to herself. She would even write letters to her family in the beautiful script they had taught her. Those letters were always burned before the ink could dry. The content didn’t matter to her. She didn’t write them for the sake of filling a paper with impossible hopes and dreams. She wrote them because she feared losing her mother tongue. It was an irrational fear that she had never been able to vocalize to anyone before. Well, at least before Kaz came into the picture. He had asked her one night if she could teach him Suli and noticed, as he always did, the change in her face at the mention of it.

“I understand if you don’t feel comfortable teaching me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Kaz reached out to place his hand on her leg.

Inej watched his pale, scarred knuckles rest on her knee. They had made their way up to the roof of the Crows Club, as they usually did when Inej was home. Whatever time wasn’t spent up there was used to carefully test the idea of being together.

“It’s not that I don’t feel comfortable. It’s that…” Inej’s words wandered away from her. She watched the way his thumb moved along the inside of her knee. It was such a small touch for someone else; for a different boy and a different girl that touch was meaningless. For them, it was everything.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“No. I want to. I’ve spent so many years away from Ravka and most of my people. I only ever get to speak Suli when I’m working with the Dregs or helping people escape a sinking slave ship. For years, I was afraid that one day, I would wake up and forget the language entirely.”

“Is that possible?” His deep voice sounded raspy but soothing against the black night. “Not to lose it in one day, but for you to just forget Suli that easily?”

Inej nodded slowly. “I already have.” It broke her heart to admit it. “When I first arrived to Ketterdam, everything came to me in Suli. Dreams, thoughts, speech. I had to learn to filter my words into Kerch. Now I find that more and more of my thoughts and dreams come in Kerch than they do in Suli.”

Kaz was silent for a few heartbeats. Inej felt as if she had stripped herself bare in front of the entire Barrel. It was odd to feel that way around Kaz now. He had seen and touched parts of her that no one else was ever given permission to. Kaz knew her like no other person could, yet this was a part of her she hadn’t accepted about herself, let alone explained to him. There was an intimacy that came with talking about her culture that made her feel exposed.

“The language is not the only thing that ties you to the culture, Inej. You will always be Suli as long as you carry it in your heart.”

Tears surprised Inej by burning the back of her eyelids. “Come home with me,” she spoke through the lump in her throat.

He looked taken aback. “Home? You mean Ravka?”

She nodded. Inej had felt confident the first time she asked the question, but the way Kaz was looking at her now made her doubt her request.

“Yes. To Ravka. To my family. I-I’ve been thinking about going back for a while now. I even asked Nina for her help in tracking my family down.”

“I didn’t know that,” Kaz’s eyebrows came together in a way that meant he was already calculating things. She recognized that look: scheming face.

“You may be Dirtyhands on this island, Brekker, but that doesn’t mean you’re privy to everything east of Kerch.”

Kaz grinned wickedly. “Maybe not east, but we all know that I was able to conquer the North quite easily.” This was also a new side of Kaz that she had gotten to know over the last few months: one that was playful without an edge of cruelty attached to it. The air around them changed and Inej no longer felt the sadness that usually came with thinking about home.

“We conquered the Ice Court together. With the help of some friends, which you had to beg for help from, if I remember correctly.”

Kaz looked appalled. “I never begged.”

“So you admit that you did need our help.”

“Need is a strong word, Inej. The only things I need in this world are food, air, and you.”

It was her turn to look speechless. Kaz was rarely ever so direct with her about his feelings for her. She knew, of course, that he cared for her as she did for him. It was one thing, however, for her to know it and another for him to be so forward about it.

“And because I need you, Inej, my answer is yes. I want to go to Ravka with you. I want to go everywhere and anywhere with you. We’ll conquer the world together if that’s what you want. I want to be wherever you need me to be.”

Kaz’s words echoed in her head. She would hear them every time she thought of home. Her real home. Thanks to Nina’s help, Inej was sailing to Ravka within months with Kaz by her side.

The Wraith soared through the water and, in what felt like one night’s rest, Inej’s crew was docking The Wraith in Os Kervo’s main dock. From the stern of her ship, Inej could hear the sound of her crew talking and moving. The water lapped against the underside of her ship, gently rocking her reflection back and forth.

Inej prayed in Suli as she strapped Sankt Petyr and Sankta Alina to her forearms. She tried to quell the anxious shake of her hands while Sankta Marya and Anastasia were readjusted on her thighs. Sankt Vladimir fit snugly into her boot, making Inej wonder what her mother would say at the sight of her in Fabrikator-made boots, not Suli slippers. Sankta Lizabeta with her rose-engraved handle sat at her belt, hidden under the folds of her black Suli wrap.

When not in front of a roaring crowd, the Suli were a reserved people. Despite Tante Heleen’s disgusting portrayal of her culture, Inej still loved the vibrant colors of Suli dupattas and embroidered kurtas. When she felt the jerk of the anchor settling into place, Inej realized how long it had been since she dressed in chiffon and silk. She didn’t recognize the Suli woman staring in the mirror staring back at her. For one, the sleeves were tailored to be much longer than she would have normally needed during Ravkan summers. However, she didn’t want anyone to see the network of scars that decorated her skin from years of violence. The second thing that threw off her reflection was the way she’d styled her hair. Though she performed with her hair in a braided coil, Inej knew her mother loved it best when it was wild and loose. Finally, the last time she had seen herself like this was when she was still an innocent girl who yearned to grow into a talented acrobat.

Inej was now so fundamentally different from that child. If anything, the dupatta she was wearing felt like a costume.

Knocking forced her to turn away from her damned reflection.

“Adara aaen,” Inej called out, already knowing who it would be before he stepped into the room.

“I assume that means ‘come in,’” Kaz’s slim figure filled her doorway. He was dressed in an inmanulate suit as usual, gloved hands resting on top of his crow’s head cane and a smirk on his face.

“What?” Inej hadn’t realized the words had come out in Suli instead of Kerch. It was rare for her to mix the languages up like that. The fact that it had even happened spoke of her nerves. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to translate everything into Suli to get some last minute practice.”

Kaz’s arrogant look slipped and he shook his head. “No need to apologize. I love hearing you speak Suli.”

Inej forced a smile to her face. “If the Saints allow it, soon that’s all you're going to hear.” She looked out the port window, watching the lazy rays of sun dance along the sky. Somehow the Ravkan sky seemed to shine brighter than the Kerch one.

“Don’t slip away from me,” Kaz prompted her gently. She realized that she had started to float off into her own thoughts, something she’d found herself doing more and more the closer they’d gotten to shore.

“Are you ready?”

“No. But I don’t think I ever will be.”

“We don’t have to do this, not if you don’t want us to. I’ll go and ask Getz to take The Wraith right back if you’ve changed your mind, or we can take a trip to Nina’s instead. Whatever you want to do, I'll be here for you.”

Inej shook her head. “I might be terrified, but I want to do this. I just feel out of place in a Suli outfit after not having worn one in so long.” Her fingers pulled at one of the tightly knitted seams.

Kaz leaned his cane against the wall, closing the door behind him. He went up to Inej and turned her to face the mirror. “I don’t think your parents will be any less happy to see you if you wore a dupatta or a kefta or a sack. They’ll be too excited to see you.” Kaz’s arms wrapped around her waist and he pulled her body into his. Inej felt his warm, solid chest against her back. She inhaled his calming smell, grateful for his presence.

“In Suli, we have a saying for people who have betrayed their kind, who have disgraced them or turned their back on them. Kadema mehim. It’s the worst sort of punishment you could receive for your actions.” She shuddered at the thought of ever hearing those words said to her. Inej herself had only ever used them once.

“I am not the same little girl who was taken from them. They might realize that and see me as forsaken. As someone who has turned away from the Saints.”

Kaz brushed her hair off to one side to rest his head on her shoulder. Kaz’s reflection towered over Inej’s own in the mirror. His sable eyes looked stubborn and unwaveringly serious. “You are many things, Inej, but a traitor is not one of them. It’s true that you are not the same girl you were when they knew you. But they will see that you grew into a brave, strong woman who will stop at nothing to do what is right for the people she loves.

“They will see that you have fought against all the odds and have become an unstoppable force that they should feel blessed to have in their lives. They will love you, Inej. It is impossible for them to not love you.”

This time she didn’t stop the tears that slid down her cheeks. She took a shuddering breath and placed a hand against his jaw. The sharp line was lined with light stubble, but that didn’t stop her from running a finger against its curve. Her fingers traced the scar beneath the right edge of jaw, thinking about the other scars that peppered his skin. Many of those scars earned alongside her.

“They will love you, too, Kaz.” Inej knew that he was almost as nervous as she was to meet her family, though he would never voice it out loud.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” He kissed her cheek and pulled away. “They might think of me as the man who corrupted their daughter.”

She shook her head. “No, they will think of you as the man who has made their daughter too happy to put into words.”

Kaz stared at his gloves, refusing to make eye contact. “Will they? Have I?”

It was her turn to reach out to him. Inej wrapped her hands around his neck. “Yes and yes. You have made their daughter happier than she ever thought possible.”

Kaz’s hands tentatively grabbed her waist. His eyes were on her lips but he didn’t move. Not until she did. Inej leaned up, catching his mouth with hers. The sounds of the crew and the ocean were replaced by the sound of her heart in her chest. Kaz was always gentle with her. His kisses were soft like the petals of spring and sweet like caramel. He held her like there was nothing that could ever separate them.

Inej sighed, melting into his every touch. It was impossible to feel anxious or scared in his arms. His fingers pressed into her silk wrap and Inej released a gasp. Kaz took that opportunity to take everything she gave him. Her skin suddenly burned. The sweetness was still there, dancing with a fiery spice that surprised her. They had rarely ever held each other this long without the waters swallowing him up.

His hands buried themselves in her long hair. Inej reached into his jacket, feeling the muscles beneath his white shirt. Kaz then broke away, breathing hard and shuddering. His face was flushed and his lips looked deliciously swollen.

Inej, realizing what they had done, began to apologize for having been too forward.

“No. It wasn’t you. Believe me, it wasn’t that.” Kaz shook his head, gloved hands holding hers against his chest.

“But if it wasn’t...why did you stop?” Inej could feel a blush spreading across her cheeks.

“I really didn’t want to,” Kaz’s gaze made goosebumps dance across her skin. “But we need to leave soon if we want to make it to Ivets before dark. And to be quite honest with you, Wraith, I’m not sure how far we would have gone this time. I really didn’t want to stop.”

Inej laughed. “Neither did I. It’s okay. We’ll have time another day. We have the rest of our lives to do that and so much more.”

“Captain,” Getz called from outside her door. “The crew’s settled and waiting for your orders.”

“Duty calls, Wraith.” Kaz’s smile was as sharp as ever. He adjusted the tie she’d crinkled.

Inej pulled her shoulders back, stepped through the doorway and told her crew that they could do as they pleased for a few hours. Within the next hour, she and Kaz were on their way to Ivets, the city where Nina had informed Inej her family would be performing for the next week. Every road they passed brought her closer and closer to her family. Inej could hardly contain her excitement and nervousness. While passing a crowded marketplace, Inej almost barreled into a group of children running across the street.

“Whoa, Inej,” Kaz called as he held her back from stepping into the walkway. “Careful. I know you’re excited to see your family, but even I think it’s a little much to trample a few children along the way.”

“Could you imagine that after getting back to Ketterdam, the Wraith and Dirtyhands voyaged all the way to some unknown city in Ravka just to run over a few children?” she joked, though her voice wavered enough for Kaz to notice.

“When you put it like that...” Kaz’s eyes had the same spark in them that always appeared right before a job. “While that does sound tempting, I think my bloodthirsty reputation will survive despite having let them live.”

By sunset, Inej could hear the pounding of Suli drums. They had passed through the heart of Ivets’ main city before reaching the boundary of an open field. A golden tent heavily embroidered with thick swirls rose high over the clearing. Inej’s breath caught in her throat at the familiar sound of Suli folk music floating outside of its flowing entrance. Sweet curling smoke filled the air with the smell of fried dough, glazed fruits, and…

The smell of her family gatherings to celebrate the Saints. She envisioned her mother, kind and beautiful, carrying baskets full of fresh vegetables for dinner. Her father, strong and brave, chopping potatoes alongside his wife. Her cousins fighting over plates of food. Her aunts handing out sticky sweets. Her uncles setting up place settings.

The music reminded her of the first time she stood on a tightrope. The bottomless drop that yawned beneath her and the open sky that blanketed her. How it felt to be covered in performance glitter and to curl her hair to fall around her round cheeks. She remembered scrapping her hands on trees, trying to beat her cousins to the top. How it felt to look over the Ravkan landscape and see nothing but endless opportunities.

After years of darkness, years of bloodshed, years of the staccato sounds of Kerch, Inej Ghafa was finally home.

Home...and rooted to her spot at the edge of the circus grounds. Ravkans stood in line, waiting to be let into the performance tent; the same tent that she had spent countless days in during the early years of her life. A bronze-skinned man stepped out of the tent, dressed in loose fitted black pants and a thick, colorful coat. His voice was deep and stern as he hollered the rules of the performance out into the crowd of people.

Inej stared in wonder, unsure about who the man was. Chaacha Jilé was the one who used to tame the crowds before they entered the performance area. The man at the entrance was not her uncle.

“Hanzi,” the name came to her with a jolt.

Inej was suddenly flying. Or at least that’s what it felt like as the grass was crushed beneath her racing feet. One minute, she was standing beside Kaz and the next, she was running straight to her cousin, pushing through the crowd of guests until she stood at the very front.

“Hanzi,” she said again, this time facing the man whom she now recognized.

Her cousin’s words died on his lips and he froze, arms limp at his sides as looked at her. “Inej?”

A sob escaped her. She could hear the sound of the crowd’s confusion but she didn’t care.

“Hanzi,” was all that she could say.

His face broke into a smile. A roaring shout came from him as he yelled in Suli. “Inej! Inej is here! Masi Calla! Chaacha Baraz! Inej is home!”

Tears streamed down her face at the sound of her parents’ names: Calla and Baraz. Mama and Papa. Inej waited anxiously as the longest few seconds of her life passed. She could see from the sliver opening in the flaps a flurry of motion. She caught her name be repeated and questions thrown. Hanzi shouted again, tears in his own eyes.

Inej’s whole world froze as Mama and Papa came through the entrance. They stepped out, first looking at her cousin with an agonizing look of hope and confusion on their faces.

“Mama. Papa.”

They turned towards Inej as she called out to them. Her mother’s face was more wrinkled than it had been when she’d been taken. Her hair was still long and elegantly braided to the side. Her father’s beard was mixed with grays where it was once solid black. He was clutching his wife’s shoulder, eyes landing on his daughter for the first time in four years.

“Inej.” He didn’t say her name like Hanzi had. He said it with such certainty and conviction that it made Inej’s knees give out from under her.

Before her body could fully hit the ground, her parents’ arms were around her. She buried her face in her mother’s shoulder and wrapped an arm around her father’s waist.

“Esfir,” her mother whispered in her ear. Inej couldn’t describe the relief and joy that flooded through her at the word.

Esfir was Suli for ‘little star.’ Late at night, they used to tuck her under her covers with a kiss. Her mother used to say that Inej was her little star and her father would explain that she was their guiding light.

Inej didn’t know how long they sat in the damp grass, crying and hugging and whispering to each other.

“I’m home,” she would say.

“You’re home.” One of them would repeat.

“I prayed to all of the Saints that you would find your way home to us.” Her father said.

“They called us fools. Said that we would never see you again. They told us that you were taken too far for us to ever reach you again,” her mother cried.

“Never,” Inej promised. “I will never be too far to come back home. The heart is an arrow. It demands aim to land true. My heart is here.”

After some time, Inej realized that the rest of her family had come outside of the tent. Night had fallen and the crowd was now gone. Her older cousins looked as if Sankt Juris had come down to blow his blue flames. Disbelief filled their faces. Some of her younger cousins looked just as shocked, though less afraid of her. Inej also noticed the soft coos of the newest editions to her family. One toddler who must have born within the first year she was at the Menagerie. Two more who looked as though they came along while she was in service with the Dregs.

The Dregs. Kaz.

Inej pulled away from her parents, realizing who else she had forgotten about for the second time that night.

“Mama. Papa. I didn’t come here alone,” her words scratched against her throat. She hadn’t realized the tears had dried out her voice until that moment.

Inej turned around, knowing that Kaz would have waited as long as she needed him to. He still stood towards the edge of the trees. Inej called out to him in Kerch.

Kaz came forward, trying his best not to look like Dirtyhands under the cover of night with his crow’s head cane and thick gloves. Though he no longer needed them with her, Inej knew that he wasn’t ready to hug every member of her teary-eyed family.

Kaz stood beside her. Inej took his hand in hers and squeezed tightly.

“This is Kaz.” Inej had practiced this speech so many times in her head. She had carefully racked her brain for the proper words in Suli to say what she needed to say.

“Kaz and I...we have been through too many things together to explain in one night. Most of the last four years have been cruel and lonely. Kaz has been one of the few good things to come into my life since I was fourteen,” her words choked off. “I ask that you be kind to him and embrace him as a part of my life. He has saved it in many ways over the years. In some ways, it is thanks to him that I am here.”

Her father stood from where he was still crouched in the grass. He approached Kaz, looking more serious than Inej had ever seen him look in her life. He stood a few inches shorter than Kaz, but still managed to look down at him.

“Do you speak Suli?” Baraz asked him.

“No-” Inej was cut off by Kaz.

“Not fluently, but I am learning.” Kaz shocked her by responding in fluid Suli instead of Kerch. He gave her side-eyed look, clearly enjoying the shocked look on her face.

Her father nodded. “Then I can thank you properly. For helping my daughter return to us.”

Kaz bowed his head. “Inej is the wisest, most determined person I have ever met. She would have found her way back to you with or without me.”

Baraz laughed, “Esfir is just like her mother in that way. Nothing stands in the way of her and what she wants.”

Inej smiled in relief. “That is true. And right now, what I want is some stuffed peppers and goulash made the proper Suli way.”

Her mother laughed, standing to embrace Inej once again. “You can have whatever you would like, Inej.”

“My turn!” Hanzi called out from the cluster of cousins closest to her. Inej turned to find him now barreling towards her.

Inej froze for a second, not feeling entirely comfortable with the tight embrace. She tried her best to laugh through the rush of panic. It hadn’t even occurred to her until that moment how her homecoming would be full of physical touching that she wasn’t entirely ready for.

Her arms didn’t move from her sides, but at least she didn’t pull away until he did. Hanzi didn’t seem to register her tight shoulders.

“I can’t believe you’re really back, Inej! What took you so long? Adja has been driving me crazy. She thinks that she’s in charge now because she can do a handstand on the highwire, but now that you’re back, you can prove to her that you’re in charge. I even reminded her that you used to be able to do an entire double front routine on the high wire without a net.” While her older cousin may have gotten older, he still rambled half made up tales as though he hadn’t aged a day.

“I don’t even have the energy to explain how wrong that is,” Inej shook her head at her cousin’s infectious joy. Hanzi had always been one of her favorites because, no matter what, he could always tell some ridiculous story to make her laugh.

“First of all,” a female voice interjected, “I’ve been able to do a handstand on the high wire for years. Second, all I said was that you weren’t in charge, Hanzi.” Adja said from behind him. She was only two years younger than Inej, but she had been terrified of the high wire. While Inej had danced around it barefoot, Adja refused to step onto one.

“Come on, Nej. Remind Adja who the real master is!”

“No,” Calla stood in between her daughter and her nephew. “Inej has only been with us for a few minutes and already you are trying to get her in trouble,” her mother chided Hanzi.

Kaz chuckled from behind her. It was clear from his expression that, while he wasn’t able to understand all of their conversation, the sound of an upset mother seemed to be universally understood.

“Come, Esfir. We’re going to have a proper welcome dinner,” her mother nodded towards the rest of her family. “Disah and Remen, go to the Ivetan market…”

Inej allowed her mother to assign everyone their tasks while she looked back at Kaz. He was smiling, looking proud of her, but she couldn’t tell why.

“What?” she asked him in quiet Kerch.

“You didn’t pull away when he hugged you,” he truly looked proud of her. Inej looked towards Hanzi worriedly.

“No. I didn’t exactly hug him back.” It would have been a lie to act as though she wasn’t disappointed in her reaction to Hanzi’s embrace. It was an unexpected reality of what she had endured all those years ago. “Do you think they noticed?”

“He was too excited to have you back to notice,” Kaz shook his head. “That’s not the point. The point is that you didn’t pull away. It wasn’t easy, but you did it, Inej. You’re home and your family couldn’t be more happy to see you.”

She took a deep breath. She hadn’t even realized that her nervousness had started to creep up on her after Hanzi’s hug until now. For a while there, she had forgotten about all of her anxieties. Now that her family had split itself into their roles to prepare for her homecoming diner, she had a quiet moment to be reminded of them.

That was when Kaz, ever supportive and aware of how she was feeling, stepped in to ease her nerves. “Kaz, do you think I should tell them the truth?”

“You don’t owe anyone any explanations. You tell them as much as you want to. It’s your story to tell.”

Inej had known long before that night on the rooftop that she was in love with Kaz. She had known for quite some time. As she stared into his honest eyes, surrounded by the sounds of her family, Inej was reminded of how deep her love for Kaz Brekker went.

“What did I ever do for the Saints to bless me with you,” she wondered out loud.

It was hard to tell with the pale moonlight as her only source of light, but for a moment, Inej thought that she saw Kaz’s face blush. His gaze left her and landed on the starry Ravkan sky.

“I ask myself the same question about you every day that we are together, Inej.”

“Nej!” Adja yelled from the performance tent. “Masi Calla asked me to help you and your...friend...find new clothes.”

Inej looked down at her Suli dupatta. “What’s wrong with what we have on now?”

Adja eyed the Wraith and Dirtyhands with pursed lips. “You both look as though you’re going to a funeral. Tonight is a party, Nej. You need to be dressed in party clothes. Now let's go, Masi might cut the wire during our next performance if I don’t get you both dressed in time.”

Inej remembered how her mother used to fuss over her dirty silks when she came back inside from an afternoon spent playing outside. “You’re right. Mama would absolutely do something like that.”

“Where are we going?” Kaz asked her, keeping up with her hurried steps with his usual ease.

Inej glanced at him. “Oh, so you suddenly don’t speak Suli anymore?” They walked around the performance tent to the line of caravans far behind it.

Kaz smirked arrogantly. “I never said I did. Just that I was learning. You didn’t think that I was going to come and meet your entire family without at least attempting to familiarize myself with the language, did you? It’s not that difficult to memorize a few phrases here and there.”

She pushed him lightly with her shoulder. “How about on the boat? Were you faking then?”

Kaz shook his head. “Technically, I wasn’t faking. I know some words and phrases, but not everything. Not yet. Give me a few weeks with your family and I’ll be fluent.”

Inej rolled her eyes. “Not a chance, Brekker. My language is too poetic for a shevrati like you to con your way in that short amount of time. Memorizing a few parables is not the same thing as being able to use all the beautiful nuances we have.”

“It would be easier if I had some help from a beautiful and smart teacher.”

“You’re right. I think Hanzi would probably be willing to sign up.”

“It’s rude to speak in another language, you know,” Adja said from in front of them. The three of them finally stopped in front of Adja’s family caravan.

Kaz shot a glance at her cousin. Inej translated and he apologized in Suli.

“Not you,” Adja nodded towards Inej. “I meant Nej. She was always a quiet one, you know. At least you got her talking.”

Kaz nodded along pleasantly thought it was clear he didn’t understand. When Inej explained, his bitter coffee eyes looked amused.

“I wasn’t quiet, Adja. Hanzi was just usually screaming over me about nothing.”

Adja giggled and unlocked the door. “That is probably true. I was thinking, you should fit in my outfit from Sankta Day last year instead of just a normal dupatta. As for Ka-s,” she stumbled on his Kerch name, “He can borrow Papa’s performance kurta.”

Kaz looked somber, but didn’t argue. “Chaacha Micta used to make some interesting fashion choices,” Inej explained to him as her cousin went in search of the outfits.

“How so?”

Inej bit her lip, holding back laughter. “Let’s just say that he probably could take a few tips from Jesper.”

His eyes widened. “Inej-”

It was too late. Adja emerged from behind a curtain carrying multiple pieces of thick fabric. For Inej, she had a neatly folded Anarkali suit of rich burgundy. Sparkling gold embroidery lined the long, slightly flared skirt and traced the cuffs of the fitted sleeves. A light, white and gold wrap also came with the outfit. On top of it sat a pair of high heels that matched the wine-colored clothes. Inej took the clothes into her hands, feeling the soft yet firm fabrics that were saved for more festive clothing in her culture.

“It might be a little long for you,” Adja eyed Inej’s smaller frame. “But it will do.”

“Thank you, Adja.”

She shrugged off her cousin’s thanks. Her other hand still held Kaz’s outfit. He was standing dangerously still beside Inej. His face was blank of any reaction, but Inej could only imagine what was going through his head. While her outfit was designed with elegance and grace in mind, Kaz’s was made for a true showman. Or at least for a color blind one.

Chaacha Micta had a performance kurta that was radiant white with orange and green gems cascading down the sleeves. Sunset colored pants were folded to match the sparkling jewels. It was both bright and sparkly, two things Kaz hated in clothing.

“Dhanyavaad,” Kaz mimicked Inej’s Suli to thank Adja. Inej was reminded of how good of a liar he was because if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought Kaz looked almost excited to wear her uncle’s kurta.

Adja beamed, looking between the two. “I don’t think Chaacha Baraz or Masi Calla would be okay with me leaving you two in here alone to change but…” Her cousin broke off and shrugged. “If you brought, Ka-s all the way here, I have to assume that it is not the first time you’ve been left alone.”

Heat flooded Inej’s cheeks. She couldn’t meet Adja’s eyes when she nodded. “It’s okay. Mama and Papa won’t know if you don’t tell.”

Adja continued to look between them. It was the same look Nina had given them before Inej had actually opened up about her relationship with Kaz. A look that said that Adja could see something they couldn’t. She was used to getting that look from her friends or other Dregs, but it was a little unnerving to see that look in the eyes of someone she hadn’t seen in years.

“Just don’t take too long. Chaacha and Masi will seriously cut the rope if they find out about this,” she pointed between Kaz and Inej. She swiftly ran out of the caravan, giggling at Inej’s eye roll.

Once she was out the door, Inej’s focus was back on Kaz. His polite smile dropped with Adja out of sight.

Kaz spoke seriously, “Inej, you know that I care for you deeply. More than anything in this world, I care for you.”

Warmth filled her heart, but her eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

“Because I care for you, I want your family to like me.”

“I already told you-”

“Yes, I know. I’m wonderful. A trickster god amongst men. But that’s not what I’m worried about.”

“Then what is it?”

Kaz looked at her in disbelief. “Do you even have to ask me that question? This,” Kaz raised the clothes in his hands to meet her eye level. “I’ve never seen anything so…”

Laughter burst out from Inej. She quickly moved to cover her mouth with her hands, but there was no concealing the way her body shook from amusement.

“That is a traditional Suli kurta, Kaz. It’s an important part of my culture.”

He shook his head. “I have seen kurtas. This does not look like that. This looks like some nightmare Jesper and Nina would have designed.”

“Poor Dirtyhands is too insecure to wear something so dazzling,” Inej placed a hand on his cheek. She ran a finger down the sharp cut of his jawline. “I’m sure you’ll look great. Not as good as Chaacha would in it, but a close second.”

Kaz’s eyes held a playful fury. His ebony eyes only ever fixed on her that way. It was a look that promised both a punishment and sweet reward for her words.

“If the Dregs ever find out about this…”

A wicked smile broke onto her face. “I can’t imagine how they would. I keep all your secrets.”

“Don’t even think about telling them, Wraith.” One of Kaz’s arms found her waist.

“Jesper, on the other hand,” her fingers moved to run through his hair. “Jesper is a bit of a big mouth. If this somehow got to him, I don’t think there is any way of stopping him.”

“I can think of at least twelve different ways I could stop him with this kurta alone.” His face moved closer to hers.

Inej turned so his lips landed on her cheek. “No time for that, Brekker. We have to get dressed.”

He sighed and gave the bedazzled shirt a weary look. “If you ever doubt how I feel about you, Inej, just remember this moment.” Before she could respond, Kaz gestured towards the room Adja had gone into to find the clothes. “I’ll change in there.”

Time and time again, Kaz reminded her of why she fell for him in the first place. He had seen every part of her and touched almost all of her, yet Kaz never made assumptions about her limits. No matter how far they had or hadn’t gone, Kaz always asked for permission. On the nights when all she could do was hold his hand, he never pushed her to go further. Even now, after what had happened on the boat and having had met her family, Kaz gave Inej the privacy she needed without hesitation.

With Kaz gone from her sight, Inej was left to unstrap her daggers and quickly dressed into Adja’s Anarkali suit. After a few minutes, Inej stopped hearing Kaz’s quiet cursing.

“I’m almost ready.” She called to him through the curtain.

He shuffled around on his side of the caravan. “This looks even worse than I imagined.”

Inej ignored him, debating whether or not to strap on her beloved blades for the feast.

“Inej?”

“I’m almost ready, you can come out.”

Kaz had been right. The kurta had looked worse than she had imagined. The shirt hung at little too loose from his slight frame, but the pants were too short for his tall stature. They stopped just above his ankles, showing a peak of his white socks.

“Oh.” Inej cringed. “You were not joking.”

Kaz looked at her intently. “You look beautiful, Inej.”

Inej had yet to see herself in the mirror, but Kaz’s reaction was all she needed to confirm what she had already suspected. Adja was slim like Inej but stood a few inches over Inej . The rest of her outfit fit as it was tailored to. The top complimented her figure while the bottom flared out into an elegant skirt that pooled around Inej’s feet more than she would have normally allowed. It wasn’t perfect, but she loved it regardless.

“Traditionally, I would have special Sankta Day earrings that have some sort of token to represent a Saint.” Inej absentmindedly tugged at her ears. “Though, I haven’t worn any earrings since leaving the Menagerie.”

His look softened. Kaz forgot all about his unfortunate attire. “Would you like to? I’m sure Adja would let you borrow hers.”

“The holes have closed by now. It’s okay. I don’t need them. I have these.” She slid Sankt Petyr, the dagger he had given her so long ago, into place. She tried to ignore the fact that it took her far less time to strap all seven of her blades into place than it had to properly dress herself in the Sankta Day skirt.

“I’ll tell Adja we’re ready.”

“Wait,” Kaz’s fingers intertwined with hers. He reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a matingkia made of expensive gold and rich-colored stones. It was simple, as far as Suli headpieces went, with one clear diamond in the middle of a small ruby flower.

“Kaz,” Inej’s breath caught in her throat. “Where did you find this?” Her fingers curved delicately around the precious metal.

“A vendor in Ketterdam had a tent full of Suli jewelry. He has a Suli wife that makes all the items to sell.”

“Do you believe him?” It was more than possible that the vendor’s story was a ruse to get more money from gullible tourists visiting the island.

“I’ve met her.”

“You did?”

“Yes. When I asked her to make this one for you.”

The matingka felt heavier in her hand than it had moments ago. “You asked her to make this for me?” Inej tried to envision Dirtyhands entering a Kerch market to meet with an ederlly Suli woman. She thought of how long he must have spent picking the design, and then jewels to place in it.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered to him. “She’s clearly very talented.”

Kaz tried not to look too smug which was a change for him. “Only the best for my Wraith.”

“Sometimes we wear them for special holidays.” Inej debated whether or not to say the next part. She didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by making any assumptions. “These are traditionally given to Suli women by their father or husbands.”

She saw him nod nervously. “I know. The woman, Gintha, explained to me the tradition. She said fathers would give them to their daughters and pray that the Saints would give them wisdom as they grew into strong women.”

“Did she tell you why husbands give them to their brides?” She couldn’t deny the fear or eagerness that she felt waiting for his answer.

“To symbolize the love and respect he promises to show her every day after they are wed. The same love and respect that I have felt for you every day for too many years to count.”

Inej’s body was frozen with emotion. Love. Kaz loved her. He didn’t just love her. He respected her. Respected her boundaries and dreams and goals.

“Nej! Are you done yet?” Adja suddenly banged against the door of the caravan.

The reality of her situation flooded back to Inej. For a few moments, she had forgotten who she was. Where she was. Inej took the head piece, not bothering to hide her flustered look as she pushed Kaz back behind the curtain.

“Get out of those clothes. Hurry!” Kaz laughed and she realized how her words sounded. “No! That’s not what I meant. I mean change back into yours! My family will just have to deal with your Kerch suit during dinner.”

She rushed back to the door and let Adja in. “I’m almost ready.”

Adja looked her up and down. “It fits better than I thought. And Ka-s?”

“The clothes didn’t fit him so he’s changing back into his. Here,” she handed Adja the matingka. “Can you help me put this on?”

“Did he give this to you?” she pointed towards the curtain.

“Yes. Now help me put it on. I’ve never put one on myself. Papa only ever put it on me once.”

Adja waved her off. “It’s easy.” She spun Inej around and took a few hair pins from her own brown hair to fasten it into place. “There! Done! Just in time.”

Kaz walked into the room, looking much less miserable now that he was dressed in his own clothes.

“Tell her that her father’s wardrobe should be burned.”

“He says that he loved the kurta and is sorry that it didn’t fit,” Inej easily lied. “Also your tie is crooked again.”

He cursed under his breath and nervously put into place as her cousin spoke.

Adja beamed at her. “I don’t believe that’s true, but it doesn’t matter. Come on! Everyone is waiting for you.”

Inej’s stomach turned over nervously. She had been so overcome with emotions when she’d first greeted her family. Those emotions were starting to settle, but in their place grew the seeds of anxiety once again.

Inej and Kaz trailed behind Adja as they made their way back from the caravan section of their carnival to the performance area. Inej looked around the cool night air, keeping track of all the things that looked familiar and different at the same time.

She pointed to a smaller performance tent made of a thick white sheet. “What’s that?” she asked Adja.

“We started to tour with a second family about two years ago. Hanzi is engaged to the daughter of their paira vaala.” A breeze opened the flap of the white tent and Inej could see the bed of coals used for the paira vaala, or fire walker.

“Hanzi’s getting married?” Inej couldn’t imagine her cousin as she had last known him having a fiancé. He was always too loud and playful when around his family, but unearthly quiet around other girls their age.

“I know! We were all just as surprised as you were. Chaacha Jilē almost fainted.”

“He didn’t tell them that he was seeing her?” Inej’s surprise only grew. While she may not have gotten her parents’ permission before choosing to be with Kaz, her situation hadn’t given the option of choosing the favored Suli traditions.

“He didn’t even tell me! And I’m his favorite bhara. At least I have been since you…” Left? Were taken? Disappeared? Inej could hear the end of Adja’s sentence even if her cousin didn’t want to fill it in.

“I remember that,” Inej awkwardly filled the silence. She pointed to a section of tents reserved for carnival games. “Kila,” one of their older cousins, “once bet me thirteen kruge that I couldn’t win every game in the tent.”

“Kroog?” It wasn’t until the word left Adja’s mouth that Inej realized that she’d forgotten the Suli word for currency or money. It was such a small thing to forget, but it made her stop in her tracks.

“I-” she started to explain. “I’m sorry. I guess I just haven’t used that word in Suli in a few years. Uhm,” Inej racked her brain, digging deep into her memories to find the right word.

“What’s wrong?” Kaz, who had been silently listening to their conversation, spoke up. He couldn’t understand them, but he could see Inej’s face change. “I think I heard you say ‘kruge.’”

She shook her head, momentarily confused as Suli and Kerch collided with each other in her head. Rupe. The word finally came to her in a blunt memory. “I forgot the Suli word for money,” she said to him in Kerch and then explained it to her cousin again.

“Oh!” Adja didn’t seem fazed by her cousin’s slip up. “Kila was such a gambler. A terrible one too. Though I guess he doesn’t need to worry about that anymore. He married a wealthy Shu family. How he wiggled his way into that, I have no idea.”

Inej nodded along as Adja rambled. She was no longer listening to her cousin’s end of the conversation. Instead, she began filing through the mental dictionary in her brain. What other words had she forgotten?

Bread? Roti. Butterfly? Titali. Bowl? Katora. Horse? Ghora. Ocean? Samudara.

Random words were tossed and turned in her head. Adja continued to talk about their uncles and aunts. She went through family gossip as quickly as Nina went through maple-drizzled waffles. Inej didn’t hear any of it. All she could hear was the sound of her Suli-Kerch dictionary flipping page after page.

Torsion wrench? What was the Suli word for the little tool she had used numerous times to pick a lock? Had she ever known the word? Had she ever needed to use that word in her native language before? Would she even need to say torsion wrench during dinner tonight?

Ketterdam isn’t all that bad. At least I learned how to pick locks using a torsion wrench.

No, there was no way she could even imagine herself saying something like that to her family. Inej realized that she had let her nerves run a little too wild. Adja hadn’t even noticed when she said “kruge” instead of “rupe”. The odds of her family being upset with her for not remembering a word here and there were small.

Kaz tugged on the fabric of her skirt, drawing her attention to him once again. His dark eyes met hers, silently asking her once again if she was okay. This time she didn’t have to force a smile on her face to reassure him.

“How did Mama put together a dinner so quickly?” Inej said the moment the smell of paprika, garlic and bell peppers hit her. They had circled back around to the performance tent. Instead of it holding a crowd of entertained Ravkans, tonight, the tent would be used to spread out a Saints-worthy feast.

Adja beamed at her. “Masi Calla asked all of our masis and chaachas that were cooking dinner for after the show to add extra coals to the fires. Some of the food had to be bought from the markets so it won’t be exactly like you’re used to, but it’s all that we could get together so quickly.”

“It’s perfect. You could have fed me rocks and I would have been just as happy to be home.”

The heavy tent flaps were pulled wide open and she could see dark-haired figures moving frantically around the tent. The round seats used for audience members were stacked on top of each other. Inej remembered how long it took to carry the iron seats from the caravans to place them in their rows. She had been too small to carry them herself, so she would hold the bottom half of a stack while Hanzi carried the brunt of the weight.

The high ropes were still strung up from their looming poles. She itched to climb up and test her technique. The chaacha who had first taught her how to balance was strict about proper posture. Though she had no real use for it when sleuthing for the Dregs, she could still hear his sharp calls to straighten her spine or keep her gaze forward.

“Make room! Inej the Great has entered the tent!” Hanzi exclaimed. His voice cut through the flurry of her family’s movement. Inej realized why her uncle had stepped down to let Hanzi handle the crowds. His deep voice was effective when it came to getting a crowd’s attention.

Toffee and hazel eyes all met hers. All of her family, almost twice as many as earlier, froze where they were to stare at her and Kaz. His gloved fingers curved in hers, but no one seemed to care at that gesture as much as they cared about the dazzling headpiece sparkling in the candlelight. Her parents had tears in their eyes as if it was the first time they were seeing her again. Inej had to hold back tears of her own. She saw the circle of food splayed out around the lush carpets dragged from Saints know where to cushion the hard ground.

Sarma, stuffed peppers, bogacha, and xaimoko were still in their metallic cooking pots, steaming as if the fire had just been dosed from under them. Pirogo and xaritsa sat in porcelain crockery that Inej suspected came from the Ivetan market her cousin had mentioned. Silver kettles of chao filled the room with a lingering sweet smell. Dark cups of kafa were already served and in the hands of some to her cousins.

The meal flooded her with too many memories to catch at once. She was swimming in a stream of random memories. Her tongue burning from spicy stuffed peppers and then from chugging a fresh cup of chao in a vain attempt to ease the sting. Mama teaching her how to prepare the sarma properly. Papa stiring a pot of goulash.

“Why are you just standing there? Come! Sit!” Papa gestured to a spot right in front of Inej’s favorite platter.

She blinked back tears. No more tears. Tonight was for celebrating all that she had come back to, not for mourning the years she had lost.

“Some of it had to be bought so it won’t taste exactly like you remember but-” Her mother rushed to her side, holding her daughter’s hand and pulling her and Kaz towards her father.

“Mama, I don’t care how the food tastes. This is already so much more than I could ask for. Just being with you and Papa and everyone else is enough for me.”

Her mother’s dark brows furrowed. She took great pride in her cooking, as a Suli should. “Yes, yes, but still...If you had sent us some sort of message so we could have been prepared, the food would have all been ready. We would have canceled the show much sooner. But no, leave it to our little Esfir to show up as if the Saints had let her fall from their very sky at random.” The novelty of Inej’s arrival was definitely wearing off if her mother was already scolding her.

She laughed despite her mother’s pointed words. Inej settled in her seat comfortably. Kaz sat beside her, looking so out of place in this bright colored tent surrounded by equally colorful kurtas. She couldn’t believe the sight in front of her. Kaz Brekker being handed a steaming cup of chao in his crisp, black suit.

Her own hands were already clutching a plate overflowing with food. Her father had served her heaping spoonfuls of every dish that sat before her. He paused, looking at Kaz curiously.

“Eh...food?” Her father surprised her with the Kerch word. She hadn’t known he spoke any Kerch.

Kaz nodded, “Krpya.”

Her father looked excited by his answer. He piled almost as much food on his plate as he had on hers. Kaz was excellent at hiding his emotions, but there was no hiding the amusement in his eyes. He took the plate with open arms. Everyone, including Inej, watched as Kaz lifted a fork to take a scoop of the rice-stuffed green pepper. He didn’t even flinch at what she could assume to be the spiciest bite of food he’d ever had. He chewed slowly, ignoring the flush that creeped up his neck. Judging from the smell, her family hadn’t held back when it came to spices that night. Finally he smiled, thanking her father for the food.

That seemed to be the cue her family had been waiting for. Everyone unfroze and went for a plate.

Kaz waited until they were no longer staring at him to reach for the tea. She had to bite back a laugh as he gulped down the entire cup.

“Spicy?” She asked, already knowing the answer.

Kaz looked at her as if she had grown an extra ear. “Spicy? Inej, I thought I was going to die.”

This time she couldn’t hold back the laugh. Everything about the night filled her with so much joy and laughter that Inej had to put down her food for a second. Her stomach burned from the giggles that shook her body. Kaz was actually blushing as her cousins closests to her looked at them.

“Kaz said the food almost killed him.” She explained to them. “The Kerch prefer their food much less seasoned. Mostly a hint of salt and pepper. It’s actually very sad.”

All of them broke out into smiles.

Her mother who was still standing behind them said, “Tell Ka-s that he’ll have to get used to real food if he’s decided to stay with you.” She placed a hand on Kaz’s shoulder affectionately.

Kaz, clearly not expecting the sudden touch, went still. His body tensed beneath the touch and his jaw tightened. Her mother noticed the change in his posture and jerked her hand back. She looked at her daughter quickly, but Inej could see the hurt and confusion in her eyes even if it was just for a second.

“It’s not you, Mama.” She rushed to explain for Kaz. His eyes had dropped to the plate resting on his lap.

“I told you that our life in Ketterdam wasn’t easy.” She tried to find a way of explaining without revealing too much of Kaz’s past. “He isn’t used to people touching him unless they’re trying to hurt him. Give him time, Mama.” That part was at least true.

Her mother nodded, looking apologetic but no less confused. This time she was looking at the visible scars along Inej’s arms. Her cousin’s outfit didn’t hide them the way her earlier outfit had.

Hanzi, who was watching the whole exchange from across the tent, spoke out. “What was it like, Nej? In Ketterdam?”

His father, Chaacha Jilé, used a serving spoon to give him a hard tap on the head. “Hanzi!”

“What? We were all thinking it!”

His father shook his head. “You know better than to ask that kind of question.”

“It’s okay.” Inej cut in before her uncle could use the spoon again. “Hanzi is right. You all want to know what happened. I don’t blame you.”

“See!” Hanzi pointed a vindicated finger towards Inej.

“Hush!” His father waved the spoon in front of his son.

She bit back a smile and continued. Inej looked at Kaz. His rigid spine loosened a bit, but he still looked a bit on edge. “I’m going to tell them.”

A small smile tugged on his mouth. “You know I support whatever decision you make.”

It was all the encouragement she needed. “Mama, Papa, you may want to sit down. It’s a long story and most of it isn’t pleasant.”

Her mother worriedly sat beside her. Her father put an arm around her shoulders, physically supporting his wife in the same way Kaz had just supported her.

“I was taken by slavers. They broke in and took me just as the sun had started to rise. They brought me to Ketterdam, where I was sold to a heartless woman who made me do unspeakable things for terrible men. Kaz worked for a group of young men trying to build a new business and went to meet with the woman at the request of his boss. I realized I could escape with his help, so I offered him my skills as an acrobat. He agreed to employ me legally and without having to do any of the things that I was doing there. He taught me how to defend myself. I worked as his spy and I was good at it.

“Ketterdam… it can be an ugly place that brings the ugliness out of even the best people. I’ve done things I pray the Saints will one day forgive me for; but I’m not the same girl I was when I was taken. If I was, I don’t think I would have made it through the first night in that city. I will never be that girl again, no matter how hard I try. And I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth.

“I was able to eventually afford a ship and a crew to run it. Now, I'm the captain of a crew of people dedicated to keeping other people from having to go through what I went through. I hope that the work I do at sea can help weaken any shadows I have created during my years in Ketterdam.”

Inej had, of course, changed a few details in her story. There was no way she was going to tell her entire family that the “business” Kaz was running was actually a deadly street gang. She was also never going to explain to them exactly how good at her job she had gotten. They would never understand the things she had done. In fact, if they could see the crimson stains on her hands, they’d probably be so repulsed that they would kick her out on the spot.

Her mother was crying again. Her father looked heartbroken as if all of his worst fears had come true.

“Inej…” Adja spoke first. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

Inej was surprised to realize that she wasn’t in tears as she feared she would have been. “It’s not your fault.” She looked at her parents, realizing that they must have carried some guilt with her disappearance just as she carried the shame of the things she had done.

“Nor is it yours. We couldn’t have known those slavers were going to break into our home. You two did everything you were supposed to. When things were at their worst, I could hear your voices teaching me how to pray to the Saints. I was able to survive so long because I always carried the hope you taught me to hold on to. The hope that I would one day return to you.”

Her father looked furiously stubborn as he said, “And you have. You are home, Inej. That’s all that matters. We don’t care what you had to do to get here. As long as you are here with us again.”

“The Saints don’t punish actions done to survive.” Her mother agreed. “You don’t need to ask them or us for forgiveness. Forgiveness is earned, Inej, and you have been through more than enough to deserve it. We know you. We know you have a good heart. We love who you are now because it brought you back to us.”

“You will always be our esfir.” Her father held his daughter's trembling hands.

Those words were like the first bite of bread after a year long fast. Inej hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear them, or how much it would mean to hear them from her parents. Her father’s touch didn’t wipe away any of the blood on her hands nor did it take away the dark memories she would always carry. But it did make her feel hopeful for the future. For so long she feared that she could never return home; she feared her family would reject the woman she was sharpened into. Her parents didn’t look like they were ready to throw her out. In fact, they looked like they were ready to hold her tighter than ever.

“Wait a second,” Hanzi once again drew all the attention in the room back to him. “You said you were a spy and now a ship captain?”

Inej wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “Yes.”

“And that Ka-s...runs a business?”

“Yes, Hanzi.”

He looked suspiciously between Kaz and Inej. Then at the leather gloves and silver crow’s head of his cane. His jaw dropped. “Inej, you’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?”

She bit her lip, unsure of how to answer.

“He knows, doesn’t he?” Kaz’s gravelly voice was full of pride at being recognized.

“Don’t look so smug. I don’t think he recognized you until I said that I was a ship captain.”

“INEJ!”

She turned back to Hanzi. He was almost buzzing with excitement to hear her answer. “Are you who I think you are? Is he who I think he is?”

Her mother narrowed her eyes at her nephew.“Inej is whoever she wants to be. As for Ka-s, he’s Inej’s...”

Inej looked to Kaz for the answer. They had never felt the need to use a word to explain their relationship. Everyone on their tiny stretch of an island knew better than to question Dirtyhands or the Wraith. Their friends didn’t need an explanation. What she shared with Kaz went deeper than anything she could describe.

“What?”

“They want to know what you are to me.”

“Then tell them.”

“What do you want me to tell them?”

“What do you want to tell them?”

“That you’re the person I love most in this world.”

His smile was blinding. “I’m more than okay with that answer.”

“Kaz is my heart.”

Adja cooed, clutching her heart. Her mother looked approvingly at Kaz. Her father looked relieved by the answer. Hanzi still looked unsatisfied by it.

“Why are you all just staring at us? Let’s eat!” She mimicked her father’s earlier remark. The silence was once again filled with her family’s celebratory cheers.

“Thank you for coming with me. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Kaz looked smug. “I love you.”

Inej smiled, looking around the circle of happiness brought together by a bond that went deeper than blood. “I love you, too.”

A/N Pt 2: Hi hello! If you happened to have read this before January 2, 2020 then you might remember that there used to be a long paragraph at the end of this fic where I acknowledged all of the cultures that I read about as inspiration to flesh out the Suli culture in this fic. Welp, because Tumblr enjoys to make life difficult, it actually decided to erase the entirety of this fic, leaving only the title. Why? I have no idea!!!! But that means I had to do everything and luckily I had all of the fic saved except for this second A/N bc I added it in right before uploading. While I’m incredibly annoyed by Tumblr glitch and am not able to fully write the original acknowledgment, I still want to give add a smaller version of the previous one.

All of cultures I drew from for this fic can be found listed here. The Suli language was a modified mixture of Hindi and Punjabi. The foods are mostly Romani in origin. The names are a mixture of Turkish, Hindi, Romani, and Slavic names. The clothing have all been specifically named. The head piece Inej wore was directly inspired by a South Asian maang tikka however out of respect for this real cultural practice, I changed the name/origin for the fic. Any parables/customs/religious beliefs explained in the fic are completely fictional that were either pulled directly from the SOC series or made up for this fic. Any connection/similarities to real cultural practices are completely coincidental unless I specifically said so. I believe that was everything important that I had in the original acknowledgment. I’m so sorry if anything was left out. If you do feel that I forgot to mention anything in this rewritten version, please let me know and I’ll do my best to fix it immediately! 

[ziracona]

What are your thoughts on all the survivors that weren't mentioned in ilm? Like bill and zarina?

Well, I’m under-informed on a few of them. If I wrote a story including Bill, Heather/Cheryl, and Ash, I would do more research first, because I only have their DbD paragraphs and a little personal knowledge to go with, but I’ll still give you my current takes haha. 

I’ve never played Left 4 Dead, but from his perks and the little I do know, Bill seems gruff and rough around the edges, but like he’s got a good heart and while his paragraph describes him as wanting someone to fight more than anything, I’d argue it reads a lot more like he wants to see people protected more than anything. (I mean, considering he’s quite literally died for his friends before, and some of his perks are based around survival alone, but he’s also got Borrowed Time, one of the most altruistic survivor perks in the game). 

Heather I feel bad for more than anything else. Poor girl goes to hell once and what do you do? Ya send her back. It ain’t fair. I’ve /seen/ Silent Hill and never played it, so again I have very incomplete information, but I liked her, and mostly I just felt bad for her that her life was super messed up. Poor kid is extremely traumatized, but I greatly admire the resilience and how powerful she is when most people would pretty understandably curl up and die.

Ash, I’ve /only/ seen the first Evil Dead film, so I only know him as baby Ash/the world’s single biggest himbo. I’m losing it. In that film, he really does see a friend turn into a demon zombie (not the first time it’s happened either), attempt to murder him and another friend, then get decapitated but still be chattering on the floor, and when he asks what they’re gonna do now and his other (kind of dying at this point) friend says they have to bury the zombie still living corpse thing, dumb hoe really does go “But we can’t bury her! She’s our friend : (”.  He’s so stupid but I loved him. The movie was kinda too grody for my personal preferences--kinda icked me out--but I really enjoyed poor stupid Ash. I am lead to believe he is much more charismatic as an older dude though, so I’d have to do more research to have an accurate opinion on DbD Ash.

Yui I really like. Actually, I try not to play against Yuis when I play killer, or to like, at least not play Legion or Myers against them (I main Wraith/Myers/Legion, although I’m also learning Huntress, Nurse, Hag, & Spirit), because this poor girl got assaulted by a nasty stalker boy with a knife & half her character is about speaking out for women who get stalked & abused and thus I like, don’t feel super comfortable knifing a character who is written as a figurehead for “don’t abuse women or stalk/kill them” down as a slasher boy in-game? (Kind of a weird choice by the devs tbh). I like her a lot though. It’s cool that she rebelled against gender stereotypes even though it made home life really hard, and did it in a society where that’s even more complicated than where I’m from, and that she carved her own path despite a lot of obstacles, defended herself against a guy who was entitled to her body because he’d seen her, beat him, and then went through PT and recovery and got back to racing and was kind of a figurehead of speaking out against violence against women and had a whole biker gang devoted to that. She’s very hardcore.

Zarina is also cool. I like her whole “search for the truth” freedom fighter thing. Her perks are really neat & I think the way she’s tied to Caleb is cool. It’s been a while since there’s really been a connection between killer and survivor (I mean, ST I guess, but the Demogorgon has no personal connection to those two, it’s just from their world, so to me it’s been since like, Jeff), and this is an interesting way for them to be connected. You’ve got Nea having trespassed in the Nurse’s workplace, Benedict went looking for answers at the MacMillan estate, and Jeff having been friends with Legion in highschool, but other than that and the licensed survivors who get taken with the monster hunting them (Quentin, Laurie, Tapp, Heather, etc), most survivors have no connection. It’s neat that she went looking for truth and trying to see if Caleb was a monster like history paints him, and that’s why she got taken. Kinda sad too, because part of what made Caleb end so violent was that the justice system was super unfair to him, and probably if he knew all of Zarina’s history, he would appreciate her and get some weird small amount of solace from it (I’m not about to suggest he’d like, reform or something, but like, it would probably matter to him, and he’d probably take it easy on her in trials, even if his life didn’t fundamentally change much), but he’ll almost certainly never know that. Her backstory is brutal but kinda real, and it sucks a lot for her that her whole life has been unfair, and then she got snatched by the Entity too. : /  I like her though. 

Nancy & Steve I like, although it’s weird to me they were the pair taken lol. It would have made more sense if it was Nancy and Jonathan, or Steve and his bff Robin. ST seems like a weird addition to me, because I don’t think of it as horror, but that said, I really feel like they missed out by adding Steve & Nancy as their survivors period, even though these are both characters I like in the show. See, almost without fail before that, the licensed characters taken were either from stories finished being told, or dead/presumed dead, and that was really cool (I mean, Halloween I guess not, but Halloween doesn’t count because it’s already got like 6 timelines going--what’s one more?). It was great to see Quentin get a second life through DbD, and Tapp just dies offscreen presumably in Saw 1, so he was a great pick for someone to develop further in a different story--same reason he’s the first protag of the Saw video games. That was a really cool way to do things, and I think they should have stuck to it. It was smart, and awesome, and a lovely idea. ST, however, isn’t even finished getting seasons. And especially with that being the case, it’s weird to just have some totally undeveloped and unmotivated AU where part way between seasons...2 & 3? Nancy calls....Steve? And just Steve? To help her look something up? And they go missing together? Like, if you wanted a ST episode, which could have been really amazing, I’d have way preferred you stick to your OG, really cool guns & drag in a dead or underutilized character and give them new life than create an unmotivated AU where some probably happy in main-stream canon character is now trapped in hell for the publicity grab. I’m not actually, like, bothered about them being in-game or smth if that sounds harsh, I just am a little bit sad they didn’t go with their old modus operandi and do something really cool! Like, ST has a terrible track record for killing off characters for no GD good reason post season-one and DbD YOU COULD HAVE UTILIZED THAT FAILING SO WELL. You could have done amazing things!!! Like, Alexi gets to have a second life in DbD? Sign me the fuck up, he was my favorite character in Season 3! I fkn DIG that. OR UH. GIVE ME FUKCING BOB. I WOULD NEVER PLAY ANYONE BUT SEAN ASTIN AGAIN. I”M JUST SAYING. WHY TF DID YOU NOT PICK THE MUCH BETTER OPTIONS AND DO WHAT YOU USED TO DEVS I HATE IT.

So anyway none of this is revolutionary but here’s my short form thoughts on the other survivors that weren’t in ILM. Thanks for the ask! ^u^

[kindness-ricochets]

Prompt: “It’s not your fault.”

Fic-a-day February, day 5 -- unpolished, unedited, unmerciful. I looked at this prompt and thought, “Maybe Jesper and Wylan were playing around and broke an antique,” and then I went with entirely not that. This one draws on view of Grisha in the Wander Isle, according to TGT, but is entirely SoC-based.

Trigger Warning: Murder (not graphic but very much present), grieving a lost parent

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

Jesper told himself things just worked out that way. Things just worked out that way – he needed to be sure Wylan was settled. (Never mind that Wylan had been saying, “I’m all right, Jes, you should visit Colm,” for months. Like the merchling knew anything about anything!) Things just worked out that way – Inej had stayed with them, briefly, then come home from her first voyage on her new ship. Of course he knew she saw Kaz first, but at the end of the day, even the Wraith liked a good meal and a soft bed. (“I’m so proud of you,” they had chorused, Jesper to the righteous pirate, Inej to the months-sober sharpshooter.) Things just worked out that way…

He let himself into the house, surprised by how different it felt. Wasn’t he returning home? Somehow Jesper was surprised to find it wholly unchanged. He felt like he had stepped back into his memories, the same place but the wrong time. It had only been two and a half years, but all that had changed was Jesper. He no longer fit the shape of the space he left behind. Jesper shook his head. What was that nonsense? Banishing the inexplicable melancholy, he set down his bag and left the little clapboard house. Briefly, Jesper glanced at the cherry tree. Then he headed out to the western field. His da would’ve spotted him, if he had looked. If he had known to look. As it was, Colm was so engaged in his work he only noticed when Jesper was nearly beside him. Then Colm about leapt a foot off the ground. “Jes!” He grinned and, like he had in the Boeksplein, hugged his son tightly. This time, there was no relief in his eyes. He was happy, surprised, but he hadn’t been worried. This time, Jesper didn’t mind having the breath hugged out of him. “I missed you, too, Da.” Jesper hadn’t been in Ketterdam a month before his sensible, well-patched farmboy clothing was long forgotten. He hadn’t worn drab colors voluntarily ever since. When he clarified precisely what he expected he’d be doing, Wylan had asked, “Are you going to get new clothes for the trip?” He did that sometimes. He said something that reminded Jesper what a privileged life he had led. Times like that, it was tough not to tease him. So Jesper had teased him. They worked together until the sun dipped low to the horizon. Jesper hadn’t done this sort of work in years, but his body remembered even as his mind began to wander. Hard work wasn’t the same is interesting work—but he was needed here. Useful. And he was better, he reminded himself. It was worth it when they stopped for the evening. The smile Colm gave Jesper was worth everything. For the best part of a week, they worked together. They didn’t talk much. Colm would offer the occasional, “All right, Jes?” or “It’s good to have you here.” Sometimes, Jesper’s attention wandered back to the cherry tree, but there was work to be done. And that was that. One morning, Jesper’s eyes drifted open, his mind scratching at the reality surrounding them. It was late—not so late at home with Wylan, but by farm standards, they were wasting daylight. Why had Colm let him sleep? Then Jesper realized it must be Sunday. Colm had gone to church. More, he had left Jesper behind. Colm Fahey was a religious man whose previous attitude was that when you lived under his roof, you showed respect to the Saints, and that didn’t just mean swearing by them. Jesper stretched, wriggled his toes, and decided he might as well get up. Might as well make himself useful—maybe he didn’t live here, but he wasn’t a guest, either. He made the bed. There was a trick he had learned, one his ma used to do. He pulled the dirt away from clothes with his gift. Everything still needed a wash, but not so desperately, enough for Jesper to have everything clean and hung out to dry in under an hour. He made biscuits without burning them. After making a few twitchy rounds of the house, resettling things, struggling to busy himself, Jesper swallowed. He left the house. It was an almost cruelly beautiful day, a breeze slicing through the blistering heat, the sky unfathomable. Laundry hung on the line, half-dry already. The fields were swiftly becoming bare. Jesper took pride in that. He took pride in how much work they had done together. Though he had no desire to stay on the farm, knew he was destined for grander things, but this place would always hold his heart. There had been a time this was all the world he thought there was to know. His childhood had been here. His da was here. Jesper stopped under the cherry tree. It was a healthy tree, its leaves glossy-green. He couldn’t remember precisely the right spot and shuffled back. He didn’t want to stand on… on the wrong place. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Then took one out to rub his neck, then his nose was itchy. He ran a hand over his hair. Bounced a Kerch penny across his knuckles. He squatted close to the ground like somehow being five feet closer would answer all his questions. Or at least tell him which ones to ask. Jesper was standing once more, staring at the ground in something like confusion, when Colm joined him. They stood together quietly for a few moments. “She’d’ve been proud.” “That’s why Wy says.” Jesper hadn’t made much mention of his boyfriend on this trip, but it was true. Whenever Jesper couldn’t help saying a word about his ma, that was what Wylan said. She would be proud. Really? She would be proud her only son went a whole six weeks without a slip-up visit to the tables? She would be proud he was so confused about his gift that he spent years hiding it, even after he became sick with the effort? Colm nodded. “Jes, I… what happened that night…” Jesper remembered the words he had sobbed out too many times. I should have known. I should have saved her. And every time, Wylan held him, stroked his hair, rubbed his back, promised that this wasn’t Jesper’s fault. Wasn’t it? Ma used her gift to save someone’s life. Jesper could barely manage the wash. His tiny spark of magic wasn’t much, but it would have been enough. If he had been trained, it would have been. Colm cleared his throat but couldn’t find the words. So Jesper found his. “I know,” he said. “I know it was my fault, Da.” “Your fault?” Colm asked, genuinely surprised. “Ma… Ma was training me. I didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t want to worry you with it, but if I had understood, if I had been more serious and not just wanted to shoot because it was fun—” “You were a child,” Colm interrupted. He sounded almost angry. “I was… you know what I was.” He nodded. “Grisha.” Jesper turned to his father in surprise. It had been Colm who banished those words from the house, Colm who insisted the only way Jesper could be safe was to be not that. Jesper remembered the day Leoni’s father offered to take him to train somewhere else. He had decided to stay to be with his father, even knowing… The words were out before Jesper could stop them: “I didn’t think I could be Grisha and still be your son.” Not resentful, just a fact. Colm’s head snapped up. “Jesper!” “I know you changed your mind since then, but you didn’t want me to be that way.” “I wanted you safe. I—” He cut himself off. Ran a hand through his graying hair. “I made mistakes, but you will always be my son. What happened to your mother was not your fault.” Jesper nodded. He wanted to say it wasn’t true, but he only wanted to say that because he heard pain in his da’s voice. He didn’t want to say it because he believed it. He didn’t believe it. It didn’t mean Jesper loved him any less, but he knew his da made mistakes. They stood for a long, quiet moment, both thinking their weighty thoughts. The truth was, Colm’s response to Grisha power—to Jesper’s and Aditi’s both—had shaped Jesper’s early adult years. It was Colm’s fear that made Jesper fear and hide. Maybe it made him more susceptible not just to the dice and the cards, but to someone like Kaz, who could draw him into a thrilling world where Jesper never truly belonged. He accepted his own responsibility, too. Another gusting breeze blew the worst of the afternoon heat off him, but it couldn’t assuage the gnawing shame. He was fundamentally at his own fault. Jesper accepted that as he stood there, looking at the patch of grass where his ma rested. For all Colm had failed, overall, he hadn’t, not overall. He had loved his son. He forgave him in Ketterdam, had come out here to stand with him beside the cherry tree. “I’m the youngest of the five of us.” Jesper turned to his father in surprise. The youngest? The five of who? “I never counted Meirion, he died too young, but my parents did. You’ve an uncle, my brother Pryderi. Still works the old farm, as far as I know.” Jesper’s eyes might as well have dropped out of his skull. He caught himself gaping and closed his mouth, but… still! He had never thought much of his father’s life Before. Before Ma, Before Novyi Zem, just in all the Before. He all but believed Colm Fahey sprung up a grown man and had no childhood at all. Colm encouraged it by never offering details about his life before. With an almost confused shake of his head, Colm said, “You must’ve known I had a reason to leave the Wandering Isle.” “I thought you killed a guy and were fleeing the authorities,” Jesper replied without thinking. When it doubt, aim for a laugh. Unable to deny his curiosity, he asked, “So one’s dead and one inherited your father’s farm. What do my other uncles do? Do I have cousins?” “Pryderi’s got two sons and a daughter. Gruff was like you. Gruffud, but we called him Gruff.” Colm ran a hand through his hair again. Jesper saw the pain in his father’s face and knew he ought to say he didn’t need to know. But… he did. And he sensed if he didn’t know now, he’d never learn. “Gruff and Glyndwr were twins. Glyn was like the rest of us, but Gruff was a healer. My brother never meant any harm to anyone. He was as kind a soul as ever lived.” Jesper suspected exaggeration, but he had a guess now where this brother was. In case he was right, he did not challenge his father’s claim. Something tingling on the edge of numbness coursed through him. “The Kaelish believe—not me. And he should’ve known better. I was a little younger than you are now. He wasn’t yet twenty. The Kaelish believe people like you are something not human, something fae. It wasn’t out of hate. They… Saints, you don’t need to hear this.” Jesper thought of what he had seen in Fjerda. He never told his da the full truth about that, this time not out of shame, but fear it would give the man a heart attack. He thought of the gruesome banner of red, blue, and purple kefta scraps; the charred corpses, and the one who hadn’t been a corpse yet; he thought of the kherguud, twisted past human. They weren’t memories he liked to carry, but he didn’t know that he could be whole without knowing the truth. “I think I do need to hear it, Da,” he said. “It’s my history.” Colm nodded. “All right. All right, then. They bled him. It’s what they do in the Wandering Isle—what some do. They believe Grisha blood can—they’re old folk with old ways, Jes. He wasn’t even twenty, my brother. Kindest man you could ever meet. Shy. When I saw what you were, I saw him again. I saw you in his place. I thought I was protecting you, you and your ma both. As though she ever needed my protection. I should’ve known the best I could do to protect you was let you be as strong as the Saints made you.” “Da.” In Ketterdam, Jesper had seen his da through different eyes. He had seen him in the Boeksplein and thought he looked like an obvious pigeon. He had seen him look so aged and so, so weary in the Ketterdam Suite. For the first time now, not only did he see his father differently, Jesper saw himself differently. Instead of cracking some dumb joke, he just stepped over and put his arms around Colm. “It’s not your fault, either,” Jesper said. “Not your brother and not Ma.” It was just uncanny, seeing that Colm felt what Jesper did, that they both looked at this tragedy and found some way to make it their own. He didn’t think he could absolve his da without absolving himself. Since he couldn’t let his da hurt, he didn’t see any choice. Anyway. It was what Ma would’ve wanted.