#witnessing her best friend being torn and then discarded without care

[artsycooky13]

for just a moment, only two were left in that head

[chaos-burst]

questions and answers

He had meant to be rude. And it had not worked even a little bit. Eodwulf is sure that anyone else would have been offended. Hell, he’s even sure that the other members of this weird group were absolutely offended on behalf of their friend. But Eodwulf can’t say he has ever met a person like this.

There was no malice, no ill intent, no anger.

When you work with Trent you have to be aware of every little shift in the mood. The slightest twitch of an eyebrow can mean the weather is about to turn foul. Eodwulf knows what to look out for. It had been his intent to rev this weirdo up and it had backfired spectacularly.

Damn.

No meat. No booze. And balls of steel, apparently. Eodwulf had never seen anyone talk to Trent like that. And while Bren‘s—Caleb‘s—words of wanting to kill Trent outright had been more than Eodwulf would ever admit to his mentor, it somehow felt less crazily reckless than to call Trent Ikithon, Archmage of Civil Influence for the Cerberus Assembly and one of the most powerful mages in the Empire, a fucking fool.

To his face. With a smile. In a complete sincere manner.

Eodwulf doesn’t want to replay the words in his head over and over again but his dumb brain has latched onto them and he can’t stop. Only this time it’s not one of Trent’s lessons that forces him to obsessively repeat something until you have internalized it to the point where you can cite it in your sleep.

No.

“Pain doesn’t make people. It’s love that makes people.“

Eodwulf has it on repeat in his head the whole way back to the tower and it is still going when he lies down hours later to sleep.

“What are you“ had not been meant as a serious question when Eodwulf had asked it. But by the time he finally falls asleep he feels like it has become a very vital question indeed, because who or what would dare to speak to Master Trent Ikithon in a way like this with an honest smile on their face.

*

Because for some reason his thoughts have decided to betray him, Eodwulf’s brain makes his tongue and lips form the words again when they see the Mighty Nein the next time. This time, Astrid and Eodwulf have been invited to dinner—Trent has very specifically not been invited, you could say he was uninvited with quite a few flowery words in a strange accent.

And as soon as Eodwulf sees Caduceus he remembers the weirdly polite scratching of a chair, the wide smile that indicates that this is a person Eodwulf possibly can not force to lose their composure through careful placed rudeness. And his mouth betrays him.

“So. What are you, really?“

Caduceus blinks mildly surprised before his unfamiliar features shift into a warm smile that has Eodwulf feel quite a lot of inappropriate things he didn’t expect to find in a place like this.

“Gardener. Maker of fine tea. A decent cook. Keeper of graves“, Caduceus lists of and he uses his long fingers to count the things that are important to him about himself.

“Very powerful cleric“, Jester chimes in from the right. She has Astrid next to her in a chair and Eodwulf is pretty sure that Jester has started to put flowers in Astrid’s hair. But surely he must be mistaken. Who in the Nine Hells are these crazy people?

“Oh, yeah. Well, that too, I suppose“, Caduceus says, his smile still warm like honeyed wine.

“Huh“, Eodwulf says because he can’t for the life of him think of something else to say. But Caduceus is yet again pulling out a chair for him so Eodwulf straightens his shoulders and sits down next to Caduceus. Across the table from him the angry one throws herself into a chair and stares at him.

There’s no fear there either, but she can be easily angered, something Eodwulf is good at. He gives her a canine smile and she holds up her middle finger.

This group is full of people with an enormous lack of self preservation.

And they are so loud.

Eodwulf almost doesn’t hear it when Caduceus turns to him to ask him a question.

“Huh?“, he says again, like a fool.

“And what are you, was what I wanted to know“, Caduceus says, his lazy grin open and honest. There is no malice in his words. He actually wants to know.

Eodwulf thinks “Murderer, wizard, protégé, spy“ but he doesn’t say any of these things. “Maker of graves“ comes to mind, but it seems like too dark of a joke to make.

“Enthusiastic about both meat and booze“, he says in the end and Caduceus laughs.

“Yeah, as are most of my friends.“

The implication these words bring is probably only in Eodwulf’s mind but it makes him swallow and look away to find Astrid’s eyes. But Astrid now has pink flowers in her hair and a look of absolute confusion on her face as Jester rattles of compliment after compliment about various of Astrid’s features.

Eodwulf can’t help but look at Bre—Caleb. And he sees that there is a soft, barely noticeable smile on his old friend’s face as he watches the scene unfold.

What am I, indeed, he thinks.

*

Trent’s orders have been clear. Get close to the group called the Mighty Nein to find out what they are working on with Lady Vess DeRogna.

Eodwulf allows himself to think that Caduceus might have been right. Maybe Master Ikithon is indeed a fool.

Because being in the presence of these people is like nothing Eodwulf has ever experienced and it makes him think, wonder, question—

“Here we are again“, Caduceus says after, yet again, Astrid and Eodwulf have been invited for dinner. Eodwulf wonders if this group just wants to make it very easy to spy on them, or if they have an agenda of their own—but it’s hard to believe that there might be any coherent agenda behind anything these people do.

He has watched the buff one called Yasha try and play what looked like a harp made of bone and when the angry one, Beau, told her that she looked hot playing the harp Yasha had torn two of the strings which had led to a whole scene of apologies and various tries to fix the harp.

Jester has drawn dicks on pretty much every surface this magical mansion has and she delights in the fact that Caleb brings the dicks to life in various colors. At some point he made glowing sparkles shoot out of one of the dicks Jester had drawn and Jester had laughed as if this was the best joke she had ever witnessed.

Eodwulf notices Astrid’s eyes on Jester.

Eodwulf also notices that while there seems to be no agenda or efficiency behind anything, they are still being watched.

Beau and Fjord look at them. And Eodwulf is pretty sure Caduceus watches everything as well, but he does it without crossing his arms and glaring so much.

“Looks like it”, he answers. Caduceus offers him tea and Eodwulf’s first instinct is to decline, but then he remembers that “maker of fine tea” had been very high on the list of descriptors so he takes the cup he is offered while somewhere in the background people start screaming something that sounds like “FLUFFERNUTTER”.

Eodwulf tries the tea. He’s not a fan of tea, but this tea is absolutely delicious and he finds himself impressed.

“I believe this one comes from the Hollburns’ graves. Those remains made the tea grow quite fast, it was impressive.”

Eodwulf blinks at his tea and then at Caduceus. For a second his brain wonders if this statement should register as a threat, but it had been delivered with such honest delight and a sense of pride that Eodwulf discards that feeling.

“What?”, he asks. Caduceus points at the tea.

“Oh, well, my family grows tea on those graves we’re keeping. In case you wanted to ask me again what I am. Or—hm, I think I already mentioned that I am a keeper of graves?”

Caduceus trails off and looks thoughtful and Eodwulf stares at him.

“Keeper of Graves. That make you a follower of the Matron?”, he asks.

Caduceus looks at him and smiles.

“Not quite. My family serves Melora. But we are descended from a champion of the Raven Queen.”

Eodwulf can’t help but wonder if this was some kind of weird joke. But his goddess usually isn’t one for joking.

Eodwulf considers for a second, then he pulls out the raven feather pendant from under his cloak.

Caduceus nods. “So”, he says and smiles widely. “What are you?”

Eodwulf snorts.

“For real?”, he says.

Caduceus’ smile widens.

“For real.”

*

It feels like this has become a sort of game.

“What are you?”

“Moral compass. Middle sibling. Eccentric. Amateur flute player.”

Eodwulf finds that through this question he himself posed the first time, he’s been forced to think more about himself than he feels comfortable with.

“What are you?”

“Decent chess player. Dog person. Sportsman. Only child.”, are the things he says out loud.

“Self-made orphan. Patriot. Volstrucker. Torturer.”, are the things he thinks to himself.

Eodwulf has the impression that Caduceus is somehow aware of the things he doesn’t say.

*

“So. This is the crew you’re running with now?”, Eodwulf asks Bre—Caleb one night before the Mighty Nein will leave with Vess DeRogna to who-knows-where. Neither Astrid nor Eodwulf did get very far with their planned infiltration work. Eodwulf is not even sure how hard they even tried.

It’s very easy to get swept away by the chaos and the weirdness and the complete lack of fear that the group displays when it comes to him and Astrid. They are dangerous people in a lot of ways.

The Mighty Nein are also dangerous people in a very different way. A way that Eodwulf doesn’t know anything about.

“This is my family, ja.”

He says it, just like that, without looking at Eodwulf.

Family.

The word tastes bitter in Eodwulf’s mouth as he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.

“Weird people”, he says. Caleb huffs.

“You can say that, yes. But they grow on you very quickly”, he answers quietly and with a small, fond smile that makes something inside Eodwulf ache. For a long time Eodwulf pitied Bren for breaking, for not making it, for failing, for being locked away and discarded. Now he realizes that maybe, in a very macabre sort of way, Bren becoming Caleb through failure was the better end of the bargain.

It feels blasphemous to think that.

“The pink one is especially weird”, Eodwulf finds himself saying and he takes a big swig of whiskey from his flask before handing it to Caleb.

“Ja, I noticed that you seem to have a... uh... particular kind of interest in him. And, if I may add, he in you.”

Eodwulf takes the flask back after Caleb drinks. He contemplates the different sorts of feelings inside his gut as the words sink in. Then he tucks it all away very carefully, just as he learned through many years of being in Trent’s presence.

“Still don’t know what he is”, Eodwulf says. Caleb snorts and shakes his head.

“His people are called Firbolg”, he provides.

“Not sure that’s what I mean. Not anymore, at least.”

It seems dangerous to admit that. Caleb turns his head and looks at Eodwulf with a shimmer in his eyes that Eodwulf can’t read. Many years ago he was able to read Bren like an open book, but Caleb is another book entirely.

“You deserve to have some nice things, you know. You deserve friends. A chance of—hm. A chance of peace. A chance for redemption, if you want it.”

Eodwulf gets up and tugs away his flask.

“Pain doesn’t make people. It’s love that makes people. Pain is inconsequential, it’s love that saves them.”

Eodwulf understands the truth in these words now. Bren was broken, Caleb is being healed. Eodwulf doesn’t think that there’s anything left in him that can be saved. Or should be saved.

“Good luck on your journey tomorrow. Don’t die”, Eodwulf says and he leaves Caleb behind.

What are you, he thinks. A sentimental fool.

*

Astrid sits next to him on one of the balconies of her house and looks up at the stars above them. The Mighty Nein have been gone for six days and it has been very quiet.

They sit in silence and share a bottle of whiskey, passing it back and forth instead of words. It’s been like this for many many years that they’ve allowed themselves to just be. Today though, Astrid breaks the silence.

“I’m going to be the one who kills him.”

She says it quietly, without remorse, without indicating that this is a scandalous statement. She says it just how other people would say “I’ll go to bed soon.”.

Eodwulf stops breathing for just a moment. Then he inhales the cool night air and turns his head to look at her.

“Could kill you for treason”, he says. She looks at him and cocks her head slightly, the analyzing gaze of a murderous spy meets its equal in silence.

“I’d love to see you try”, she says. Eodwulf grins. It feels reckless.

“Don’t die”, he says, the same thing he’s said to Caleb before. Astrid regards him for a long moment and Eodwulf takes another sip. “Will you help me or try to stop me?”

Eodwulf considers this for a moment. Would he try to stop Astrid should she try to kill Trent? No. Would he help her? He doesn’t know that either.

“Can’t you just wait for Bren to do it for you?”

“I won’t lose to him again.”

Eodwulf snorts.

Always so competitive.

“That’s some fucked up shit, Astrid.”

“Shut up, Arschloch.”

Eodwulf grins before getting up to stretch. He puts his hands on the railing of Astrid’s balcony and wonders what Caleb’s new family is up to.

Making a new family never came to mind before. It sounds like something out of a fairy tale. While he contemplates the question whether he would help Astrid kill Trent Ikithon, a slow, familiar voice pops up in his head.

“Hey. Uh—Jester told me to send you an update. We’re still alive. Hope you’re good. Got  a new question for you. What will you become?”

The rustling of Astrid’s clothes as she stands up as well somehow tells him that she received a message in her head as well. She steps beside him and puts her hands on the railing next to his.

“They’re persistent”, she says quietly.

Eodwulf nods and inhales.

He doesn’t know what he will become. He didn’t even know that was a question to be asked. The path is clear. It always was.

Pain doesn’t make people.

“Not going to answer?”, she wants to know.

“Don’t have an answer yet.”

It’s unclear to him whether she means her own question or the message Caduceus just sent him.

He answers the sending spell with a simple “I don’t know.”. It takes a few minutes before another message comes in.

“That’s good. Uncertainty is good. It’s the first step in a better direction. I’m going to kill a dragon now. Wish me luck. Good night.”

“I’ll keep you posted on the answer to that question of yours. I’ll see you tomorrow”, he says and leaves Astrid behind on the balcony. Eodwulf thinks about something he hasn’t thought about in a very long time. A priestess in his Matron’s temple once told him: “Death is the only certainty in life.”.

He thinks that Caduceus would agree.

And Eodwulf hopes that the next time he sees that weird, reckless man, he’ll have an answer for him.

[gadgetgirl71]

Top Ten Tuesday 16 March 2021

Welcome to this weeks Top Ten Tuesday. Originally created by The Broke & The Bookish, which is now hosted by Jana @ That Artsy Reader Girl. Each week it features a book or literary themed category. This weeks prompt is:

Books On My Spring 2021 TBR

Girl in the Walls (ARC)

Synopsis: Girl in the Walls is a story of overcoming grief, of unconventional friendships and learning that we shouldn’t always fear what we don’t understand. It is about understanding the difference between a house and a home and what it means to lose both. She doesn’t exist. She can’t exist. Elise knows every inch of the house. She knows which boards will creak. She knows where the gaps are in the walls. She knows which parts can take her in, hide her away. It’s home, after all. The home her parents made for her. And home is where you stay, no matter what. Eddie is a teenager now, almost a grown-up. He must no longer believe in the girl he sometimes sees our of the corner of his eye. He needs her to disappear. But when his fierce older brother senses her, too, they are faced with the question of how to get rid of someone they aren’t sure even exists. And, if they cast her out, what other threats might they invite into their home?

Pages: 323, Publication Date: 18 March 2021

The Best Things (ARC)

Synopsis: Warm, funny, life-affirming and true, The Best Things is the joyous debut novel from much-loved comedian, writer, actor and presenter Mel Giedroyc.

It’s the story of a family who lose everything, only to find themselves, and each other, along the way.

Sally and Frank Parker have it all.

Then one day, because of Frank, they don’t.

As the bailiffs move in and the money runs out, Sally realises that she and her children don’t have a clue about how to survive.

Or do they?

The Parkers are about to discover that the best things in life aren’t things at all.

Pages: 432, Publication Date: 1 April 2021

The Dictionary of Lost Words (ARC)

Synopsis: In 1901, the word ‘Bondmaid’ was discovered missing from the Oxford English Dictionary. This is the story of the girl who stole it.

Esme is born into a world of words. Motherless and irrepressibly curious, she spends her childhood in the ‘Scriptorium’, a garden shed in Oxford where her father and a team of dedicated lexicographers are collecting words for the very first Oxford English Dictionary. Esme’s place is beneath the sorting table, unseen and unheard. One day a slip of paper containing the word ‘bondmaid’ flutters to the floor. Esme rescues the slip and stashes it in an old wooden case that belongs to her friend, Lizzie, a young servant in the big house. Esme begins to collect other words from the Scriptorium that are misplaced, discarded or have been neglected by the dictionary men. They help her make sense of the world.

Over time, Esme realises that some words are considered more important than others, and that words and meanings relating to women’s experiences often go unrecorded. While she dedicates her life to the Oxford English Dictionary, secretly, she begins to collect words for another dictionary: The Dictionary of Lost Words.

Set when the women’s suffrage movement was at its height and the Great War loomed, The Dictionary of Lost Words reveals a lost narrative, hidden between the lines of a history written by men. It’s a delightful, lyrical and deeply thought-provoking celebration of words, and the power of language to shape the world and our experience of it.

Pages: 384, Publication Date: 8 April 2021

The Summer Job (ARC)

Synopsis: Have you ever imagined running away from your life?

Well Birdy Finch didn’t just imagine it. She did it. Which might’ve been an error. And the life she’s run into? Her best friend, Heather’s.

The only problem is, she hasn’t told Heather. Actually there are a few other problems…

Can Birdy carry off a summer at a luxury Scottish hotel pretending to be her best friend (who incidentally is a world-class wine expert)?

And can she stop herself from falling for the first man she’s ever actually liked (but who thinks she’s someone else)?

A snort-out-loud romcom for fans of The Flatshare.

Pages: 352, Publication Date: 15 April 2021

Cunning Woman (ARC)

Synopsis: Lee is a magnetic new voice in historical fiction and CUNNING WOMEN is sure to be loved by fans of The Essex Serpent and The Mercies.

Spring of 1620 in a Lancashire fishing community and the memory of the slaughter at Pendle is tight around the neck of Sarah Haworth. A birthmark reveals that Sarah, like her mother, is a witch. Torn between yearning for an ordinary life and desire to discover what dark power she might possess, Sarah’s one hope is that her young sister Annie will be spared this fate.

The Haworth family eke out a meagre existence in the old plague village adjoining a God-fearing community presided over by a seedy magistrate. A society built upon looking the other way, the villagers’ godliness is merely a veneer. But the Haworth women, with their salves and poultices, are judged the real threat to morality.

When Sarah meets lonely farmer’s son Daniel, she begins to dream of a better future. Daniel is in thrall to the wild girl with storms in her eyes, but their bond is tested when a zealous new magistrate vows to root out sins and sinners. In a frenzy of fear and fury, the community begins to turn on one another, and it’s not long before they direct their gaze towards the old plague village … and does Daniel trust that the power Sarah wields over him is truly love, or could it be mere sorcery?

Pages: 332, Publication Date: 22 April 2021

Lost Property (ARC)

Synopsis: Dot Watson has lost her way. Twelve years ago her life veered off course, and the guilt over what happened still haunts her. Before then she was living in Paris, forging an exciting career; now her time is spent visiting her mother’s care home, fielding interfering calls from her sister and working at the London Transport Lost Property office, diligently cataloguing items as misplaced as herself. But when elderly Mr Appleby arrives in search of his late wife’s purse, his grief stirs something in Dot. Determined to help, she sets off on a mission – one that could start to heal Dot’s own loss and let her find where she belongs once more…

The Perfect Life (ARC)

Synopsis: HAVE YOU EVER WANTED TO BE SOMEONE ELSE? Vanessa has always found it easy to pretend to be somebody different, somebody better. When things get tough in her real life, all she has to do is throw on some nicer clothes, adopt a new accent and she can escape. That’s how it started: looking round houses she couldn’t possibly afford. Harmless fun really. Until it wasn’t. Because a man who lived in one of those houses is dead. And everyone thinks Vanessa killed him…

Pages: 400, Publication Date: 5 August 2021

The Summer Villa (ARC)

Synopsis: Three women. One summer reunion. Secrets will be revealed…

Villa Dolce Vita, a rambling stone house on the Amalfi Coast, sits high above the Gulf of Naples amid dappled lemon groves and fragrant, tumbling bougainvillea. Kim, Colette and Annie all came to the villa in need of escape and in the process forged an unlikely friendship.

Now, years later, Kim has transformed the crumbling house into a luxury retreat and has invited her friends back for the summer to celebrate.

But as friendships are rekindled under the Italian sun, secrets buried in the past will come to light, and not everyone is happy that the three friends are reuniting… Each woman will have things to face up to if they are all to find true happiness and fully embrace the sweet life.

Pages: 384, Publication Date: 8 August 2019

Trusting Taylor (Silverstone #2)

Synopsis: Former military man turned government assassin Kellan “Eagle” Trowbridge isn’t looking for love. He’d rather keep his head down at his cover job as an employee of Silverstone Towing. That all changes, however, when he meets Taylor Cardin.

Beautiful, smart, and witty Taylor instantly falls for the mysterious tow truck driver, who comforts her both in the aftermath of the car crash she sees firsthand and when the police dismiss her as a credible witness because of her prosopagnosia, or face blindness. Eagle, on the other hand, can remember every person he’s ever met—and the two counterparts forge an immediate connection. But someone else is just as intrigued by Taylor’s unique condition as Eagle is…and his intentions are downright deadly.

Soon, Eagle and Taylor are too caught up in each other to see the danger that’s approaching. But as time runs out, they’ll discover their love isn’t the only thing fighting to survive.

Pages: 278, Publication Date: 2 March 2021

Ransom (Laurel Springs Emergency Response Team)

Synopsis: A new series from the author of the Moonshine Task Force Series! Laurel Springs, AL is about to be hotter than a mid-August thunderstorm. When the Moonshine Task Force is absorbed into a new entity, Laurel Springs Emergency Response Team (LSERT) new faces come to town, new love is born, old love is found again, and there’s a plethora of drama and romance happening all over the tri-county area. LSERT puts police, firefighters, nurses, doctors, K-9 handlers, and EMT’s all in harm’s way as they work to keep the area safe from any threat. Emotions run high, passions ignite. Come with me, back to Laurel Springs, in what’s sure to be a wild ride! Ransom Thompson For years I’ve wanted two things – to be a member of the Moonshine Task Force and to be the man Stella Kepler can’t live without. One out of two isn’t bad, or so I tell myself. Being the only K-9 handler for The MTF presents its own share of obstacles, but me and Rambo? We make it work. Life is status quo, until I’m called in to help with what appears to be a hostage situation and Stella is right in the middle of it. This is my one chance, and I’m not going to blow it. Stella Kepler When I’m stuck in an examination room holding a hurt woman and a man with a gun, I do the only thing I can. I sneak out, call 911 and hope help comes quickly. It does. In the form of Ransom Thompson. He and I have known each other since we were babies. Our mother’s are friends, our dad’s work together, and we’ve always been friends. Only, the last few months I’ve started to notice things. How mature he is, how alpha he can be, the chiseled six-pack, and the abundance of ink spreading across his body. When I offer to cook him dinner for saving me, neither one of us know how that one moment will change the course of the rest of our lives.

Pages: 227, Publication Date: 5 January 2019

Until next week.

[katsukiboom]

Hello!! Hope you have been taking care and resting!! If it’s ok, could I ask a scenario with Sero (male reader if possible or gn!). Reader and Sero works together as pro heroes, and one day Sero isnt feeling his best and collapse in the middle of a fight, reader goes apeshit because he is seriously injured. All the drama, all the stress, all the laughs when sero and reader realize he just have the flu, maybe a love confession at the end?? Thank you so much for sharing your write with us!

Thank you so much for reading my dude! It took me longer than I thought since I went back and forth between writing, discarding then writing again lol but here it is! I hope you enjoy it my dude! I kept the reader gn but if something slipped pls let me know!

Ko-Fi || Commissions

———————————————————————————————————–

ThatWednesday morning the streets were quite busy, everyone going side to side toget their Easter decorations and presents in due time for the upcoming weekend.With a little bit of struggling, you made your way through the crowd as youwaved hello to some of the civilians that recognized you and even took somepictures of you in your new outfit. You were beyond excited to live your lifeas one of Japan’s most popular heroes, and being with your best friend only madethings even more interesting.

Sero hadbeen with you ever since high school and quickly became your metaphorical otherhalf; you did everything together to the point where people were alwaysconfused when you were without the other, and whenever you brought up the factthat it could do so much as annoy your friend, he was quick to shot thosethoughts down to remind you how much he enjoyed your company. You figured youhad fallen for him somewhere between graduation and landing your first job as asidekick, as he had never let go of your hand throughout the tough times and alwaysmade you feel like there was a positive side to every little bad thing.

But thatday something was off – Sero was always the one to keep his trademark smilewhen faced with stress, fear or any other emotion people could describe as‘negative’, so you wondered why he was looking so gloomy as he joined yourpatrol, the bags under his eyes almost reaching his cheekbones. He lookedterrible yet he always managed to awaken a spark within you, and that day thatsame spark told you to keep an eye on him in case things happened to get dirtyquickly.

- So, Cellophane, - you teased after greetinghim; he only nodded in response. Taking note of the slight red that tinted hischeeks, you assumed he was not up for joking around. – You look like a trainran you over twice, is everything okay?

- Yeah,don’t worry about me, - Sero’s voice was more like a whisper and you almost hadto lean in and ask him to repeat himself, but he made sure to give you alittle, weak smile after that to let you know that everything was… sort of okay, but you knew better thanto believe it. Before you could even reply to that, he cut you off, his bodymoving faster than anything else. – Has anyone given you the daily report forthis part of the city? – He asked, and you could see his hands tremble just alittle bit.

You had towalk faster than usual whenever you went out patrolling with him, but that dayit felt more like you needed to. –They’ll be sending it shortly from the office, - you replied with littleenthusiasm. – Are you sure you’re okay? We can go back if you want, I’ll comeback later. You don’t look so bright today.

- Yeah, youtold me, - he retorted, his smile disappearing only for a moment.

And beforeyou could say something else, a strange smell appeared in the air, one that youwere all too familiar with – ashes and smoke. You looked at your partner with aworried look and gave him a simple nod before running off, activating yourjumping quirk to be able to get there much faster. You managed to get to thetop of a building and got to see a big black cloud covering half of a block afew streets away, and you texted Sero the location, not before hesitating asyou pressed the ‘send’ button. Whatever it was he was dealing with would haveto wait, although you hoped he wouldn’t overexert himself if it came down to afight.

You gotthere just a minute after him and witnessed a bunch of police officers on thefront lines trying to control the crowd of civilians gathered around theentrance of a building, murmurs and whispers going around about some fewhostages that had been taken by the villain. The flames engulfed threedifferent places yet they seemed like they were dying out, and you took just alittle second to assess the situation and figure out what the best course ofaction would be.

Your planswere cut off however by an explosion coming from the farthest building, amuscular body walking out of it with smoke covering his form and keeping ithidden from everyone’s view – some people didn’t doubt to scream and run forcover yet most stayed in place, frightened looks on their faces as the villaincalmly made his way towards the crowd.

- Finally aworthy opponent, - the deep voice spoke through the smoke. You recognized it immediately;it was Cinder, the one new villain that had been threatening most of that partof the city. Clenching your fists, you gave Sero a side glance and saw hiseyelids closing just for a second. – I was waiting for some goddamn heroes tofinally show up. Didn’t imagine it would be… you two, - he added with disdain,and it only worked to anger you further, even if you knew that was the idea.

You werethe first one to attack, using your quirk to jump at him and kick his chest,although his strength greatly bested yours – you barely managed to make himtake back a few steps before he grabbed one of your ankles and threw you away,but just as your back was about to crash against a tall column something wrapped around our body andpulled you back. Strong arms caught you midair and you looked up to see aflustered Sero above you, holding you close to him until he realized yourposition. He gently placed you down before confronting the villain himself,shooting tape at him yet it was easily deflected. – We have to work togetherfor this, - he mumbled to you, and you understood what he meant.

You jumpedback and forth between the buildings as Cinder threw balls of ash and smoke yourway, your quirk barely helping you to avoid them as you distracted him enoughfor Sero to make his move. The first few tries were unsuccessful to say theleast, but the fourth time was the charm; Sero got a hold on his right arm andyou took the chance to activate your best ability, Jumping Jax, to kick thevillain right on the jaw and then once more on the sternum.

You thoughtyou had him that time, you really did – but when he gained his composure and lookedat you with rage-filled eyes, you knew you had jinxed it. Cinder let out ascream as his body started emanating more and more smoke, turning thetemperature up before he let out an explosion much like the one from earlier. Thewave caused by it threw you back to the crowd, who managed to move away just intime to avoid you hitting them and causing someone else to get hurt.

- S-Sero, -you grumbled as you shakily got on your knees, but as you scanned he area allyou could see was the debris and small flames. – Where are you? – You couldhear the crowd get louder and louder as heels clicked beside you, and youlooked up to see a woman with long blue hair and a cheery smile with a red,small whip on her right hand and her left clenched in a fist. – Midnight, - youwhispered, and she only looked at you and smile.

- Long timeno see, kiddo, - she said before walking forward. – Are you working on thisalone?

You didn’t havethe time to reply as Cinder let out a loud roar and charged towards thecivilians, but the more experienced pro-hero was able to meet him halfway andblow her aroma right on the villain’s face. It took little over three secondsfor it to have the desired effect but even in his dazed state he kept onrunning, and you put yourself in front of the crowd ready to jump on him again.

What you didn’texpect were the many tape strands wrapping around his body and holding him backuntil the substance in him finally made him surrender.

Following thedirection the tapes came from, you were able to finally locate Sero inside oneof the buildings across the street – it seemed as if he had hit a shop window,which explained his current state: his forehead was bleeding as well as hisleft arm, his uniform torn apart on the chest area and stained red as well. He lookedeven redder than before and, as soon as your gaze fell on him, he gave you aweak smile before completely collapsing down inside the store while all youcould do was watch in anger and sadness.

Screaming hisname, you ran to him without thinking twice.

-

The soundof beeping filled the room and the smell of medicine was strong, even forsomeone in his state. Sero wasn’t really sure what woke him up but it certainly wasn’tbecause he was feeling better already – his body felt heavy and his eyelidswere still droopy, the blinding white lights above him preventing him fromfully understanding where he was. It hurt to look sideways but he tried anywaysuntil he saw a figure to his left, a black blur that became clearer and cleareras he focused his sight.

It was you sitting on one of the twoarmchairs next to the big window, your head slightly to the side as you slept seamlesslyeven in that position. He was confused for a moment until he tried to reach outto you and noticed his bandaged arm and the many tubes connected to him, andwhat had happened came back to him as he let out a pained sigh. Had you takenthe villain on alone? No, he remembered seeing Midnight there as well. Were youhurt from the attacks? You didn’t seem like it, although there were a fewscratches on your skin but those were only superficial.

He’d never speak about his feelings withanyone, as it made him feel a bit weird to say he was in love with his bestfriend. Your face looked peaceful and he wondered what could be going throughyour mind; he couldn’t help but feel guilty for all he put on you. Sero regrettednot informing you about his condition and making you worry, but above all heregretted not being able to comfort you and tell you that everything would beokay. His heartbeat started picking up at the blurry memory of you running tohim before he passed out due to the high fever he had been suffering that day,and the beeping of the machines rose as well, making you open your eyes in theprocess.

- W-what is going… - you mumbled, stilllooking sleepy, but as soon as he looked at you with a small grin you openedyour eyes wide and jumped off the chair, going to his side faster than he could’veimagined. – You’re awake! You’re finally awake, you asshole! – You exclaimed asyour hands cupped his face carefully. Your eyes were red and he wondered if youhad been crying. – You could’ve told me you weren’t feeling well! I would’ve sentyour ass home without a single doubt, you put yourself in danger!

- (Y/N)…

- Don’t get me started on what happened toyou! Do you think it’s nice to see you all covered in blood and with brokenbones? The doctors told me you had two broken ribs, your left arm wasfractured and you got the nastiest concussion on your head that luckily barelygrazed your skull so don’t give me that crap and tell me to ‘be calm’ – hey saidyou’d need at least four weeks to recover. How do you think I felt? How doyou think I’d feel if something worse had happened?

- (Y/N)!

- No, shut it! – He tried talking but everytime you cut him off and raised your voice a little more, to the point whereyou were almost screaming. Every word you spoke felt like a knife going intohis body, stinging like salt on a wound, and he knew it was all because of hisown stupid decision. He deserved it. – I’m always going around worried aboutyou, trying to get you to be okay, and you pull this shit off! You’d be just asmad as I am right now if it were me. Had you thought about it? Had you thoughtabout me being in your position? – Sero noticed your eyes had started to water,and before he knew it your whole expression went from furious to sad. – I just…I can’t afford to lose you.

The sudden confession was the last straw asyou broke down crying, carefully placing your face on top of his chest andletting everything out. For a moment he was frozen, your words sinking inslowly, but once he understood what you meant he smiled and softly raised onehand until he was able to put it on top of your head, caressing your hair asyou cried. He dared not to say anything that could break the mood anddefinitely didn’t want you to feel he’d be mocking you in any way, so all hedid was hold you the best he could until you finally rose up, wiping your faceand wincing a little bit.

- Does anything hurt? – He asked, worriedthat you might have some hidden injuries. You just shook your head as you satnext to him on the bed but kept your sight away, instead looking out the windowto the afternoon sun. – I understand what you’re saying, and I won’t deny it. Ideserve all of it; I didn’t think I was also putting you at risk here. Had yougone to get me and had Midnight not been there… - he shuddered at the thoughtand decided it would be better not to finish that line. Instead, he reached outand took your hand as tightly as he could, your warmth making him feel betteralready. – I’m just glad it was all over and that you’re here with me. I… can’tafford to lose you either, I can’t think of anyone better to look at when Iwake up.

Giving you his usual smile, he witnessedthe most incredulous look appear on your face as you turned around, your facealready flushed. – W-what did you say? – You asked with a small voice, and hecould tell he was about to cross a line that couldn’t be rebuilt if broken, buthe decided to take the chance anyway.

- I think you heard me right the firsttime, - he added without hesitating. He moved a little to look at you better,supressing the pain his sides felt whenever his body did anything. – I’m gladyou’re always here for me and I’m here, just being a mess. Am I a bad personfor wishing you always to be with me? Am I selfish if I want you all to myself?– No response came from you but he saw your eyes watering again, the exactopposite thing he had expected. – I’m sorry, I’m speaking nonsense now, - helet out a sigh and tried to pull his hand away from yours but you stopped himby holding onto it.

It was his turn to look dumbfounded. – Do…do you mean it? – You whispered, another few tears slowly falling down yourcheeks.

- Have I ever lied to you?

You looked down at your feet, then at thewindow and then back at him, this time with a big smile on your lips to mirror his.– If you’re selfish for wanting that, then I guess we’re both selfish, - youreplied, removing your hand from his and placing it on his face. – I just neverthought we’d be doing this… especially in a hospital room. - You both laughedas the whole situation dawned on you, but there were still things runningaround his mind to ask you, things he wanted to know before anything else. –The doctors told me you had the flu that day, and it’s been two days and you’resupposed to still be recovering; if I also get sick, you’ll have to take careof me.

- I’d gladly do so any day, - he retortedwith a teasing tone, although it was cut short by his body already feeling nearits limits for the time being. Letting out a groan, he leaned back onto thepillows and closed his eyes, hoping that would help with the headache that wasbuilding up.

- You’d better get to rest, love, - you said,and it was enough for him to turn red again with the new nickname you used forhim; he had waited a long time to confess to you, and it had all happened soquickly he still hadn’t had the time to even realize it. His heartrate monitorwent up just enough to make you giggle, and you placed a soft kiss against histemple. – Don’t you worry now; I’ll be right here when you wake up.

[chroniclackofselfpreservation]

Creatures of the Night

Chapter 30 - the afterburn of childhood wounds

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(TW: mild panic, memories of past abuse, pain, verbal abuse)

(The title of the chapter comes from "Often I Pray" by Michael Sowder.)

Daveigh didn’t waste any time the next morning, practically shaking Patton awake at the first signs of light on the horizon—much to Patton’s displeasure.

“What is it?” he asked, sitting up, immediately awake and concerned.

“I know it’s early, but I couldn’t wait,” Daveigh said, unable to hide her unabashed grin as she rummaged around in the dark. Patton heard the rustle of stiff fabric as Daveigh retied her skirt around her waist, and out of pure instinct, Patton fixed his gaze on the doorway. It seemed everyone on the island had little sense of a need for privacy. Daveigh and Mikhail wore simple skirts made of a durable, off-white fabric—Daveigh wearing a wrapping of similar material around her chest, but nothing more. It wasn’t that Patton thought they were being unseemly, it was just… a bit of an adjustment for him when Daveigh had announced it was time for bed, discarded her skirt, and walked casually across the hut to her woven mat, plopping down and promptly falling asleep.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. Living on a deserted island for as long has they probably had, privacy was likely a luxury they’d learned to live without. He’d just have to learn as well, it seemed. He still wore the clothing he’d shown up in—jeans, a t-shirt reading “famILY" across the front, and his favorite cardigan. The fabric was worn from the harsh salt water and was incredibly dirty, but he couldn’t bring himself to discard them. Not yet.

Patton looked over at Logan, sleeping on his side, curled tightly in on himself. He looked uncomfortable, and perhaps a bit cold. He certainly wasn’t as used to sleeping on the ground as Patton was. He still wore his old clothes as well, jeans and the deep blue polo shirt he usually wore to work. His glasses were gone—which Patton was still getting used to. He didn’t mind, of course... but he’d liked Logan’s glasses. They framed his face in such a nice way…

“Come on,” Daveigh said, dressed and stepping out into the cool morning. “You want to learn how to astral project, don’t you?”

Patton joined her, pulling his cardigan sleeves down over his hands and bunching the fraying fabric in his fists. “Lead the way.”

* * * * * * * * * *

The sun didn’t take long to rise and warm Patton’s back comfortingly. Daveigh had taken him to a section of the beach far from Eudora’s cave and with much softer sand. They sat across from each other, Patton fidgeting his fingers through the sand at his feet.

“Okay, first of all: this event in the past you projected into. You knew someone there? Personally?”

“Yeah, his name is Virgil.”

“And you’re in love with him, yes?”

Patton choked. “I—what? Why would—I mean…”

“I’m in love with Amaryllis, so there’s a chance your powers could have picked up on that, but then why that event?” she said casually, as if she were solving a math problem and not ousting Patton’s deepest feelings. “If it had only been my influence, you likely would have seen something from our time together—but you saw Virgil. Am I right?”

Patton flushed so hard he was surprised he didn’t start giving off steam. “Yes.”

Daveigh clapped her hands together, “Great, that solves that mystery for us. Oracles can do more than just witness the future, like sibyls do. We have a connection to time and space itself. When we form emotional connections with people, especially strong ones, our powers react to that and can become directionalized if you aren’t paying enough attention to what you’re doing,” she explained.

Patton’s brow knit. “What?”

“Your abilities are directly affected by your emotions, and therefore your connection to others. Have you ever had a dream about someone you didn’t know?”

Patton thought back. The only dreams he’d had that weren’t about himself were Merri and Roman—not counting the time-travel escapade last night, of course. “No, I don’t think so.”

“That’s because you don’t know how to control them,” she explained, lifting a finger. “Our powers are designed as self-preservation tools. Whenever an emotionally charged event in the future looms closer, your powers kick in to warn you about it—but they only pertain to yourself or those you care about because, according to your powers, anything else happening in the world doesn’t matter. You have to learn to broaden your perspective.”

“And that will help me stop the dreams?” Patton asked.

Daveigh hesitated. “Stop them? Why would you want to stop them?”

“I mean, not right now, but… eventually, yeah.” Patton wrapped his arms around his knees, the morning sunlight making the left half of his face prickle with warmth. “I don’t like seeing the horrible things that are going to happen to my friends,” he whispered. He glanced over at her. “Do you?”

Daveigh looked absolutely heartbroken. She turned away from him, facing the ocean. “When I opened your mind the first day I met you,” she began, voice soft with shame, “I’d never felt so many mental barriers in my life. I didn’t see anything—that isn’t how our powers work—but watching what reliving those memories did to you…”

Patton tensed. He remembered the feeling of liquid fire coursing through him, every wall he’d ever constructed torn asunder. Memories let loose to wreak havoc as they pleased. He shivered. “That wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”

“It was my fault, Patton. I should have asked, and I know I’ve apologized about a hundred times already, but I’ll do it again. Excitement isn’t an excuse.”

Patton swallowed. “Thank you.”

Daveigh took a breath. “Your powers will always be a part of you, Patton. Repressing them will only make them more unruly and unpredictable, but… you’ve really never had a happy prediction before?”

“Not that I can remember,” he admitted.

Daveigh ran a hand across her smooth scalp. “I wish my mentor were here. She’d know how to help you without hurting you so much.”

Patton shifted, unfurling himself from his semi-fetal position. His powers weren’t going away. The sooner he could accept that and learn to control them, the sooner he’d be able to help his friends. “I want your help, Daveigh. I don’t care if it hurts.”

“But—”

“I’m going to help save my friends. All of them. I can’t do that as I am right now,” he said, his resolve building as he spoke, slowly but surely. “I’ve lived with pain before. I will gladly do it for the people I love.”

Daveigh smiled at him. “Okay, but you have to promise to let me know when you need a break, okay? We don’t want another panic attack.”

“Right,” Patton said, smiling back.

“Okay, first we’re going to just have you astral project out of your body, right here on the beach. Sit with you legs crossed,” she instructed, “and place your hands—yes, like that. Okay, now close your eyes and concentrate.”

“On what?” Patton asked, feeling slightly foolish sitting there with his eyes closed.

“You can start with your breathing. Feel your environment around you. Eventually, you’ll feel yourself disconnect from your body.”

Patton opened his eyes. “What?”

Daveigh raised a placating hand. “It’s okay. You’ll be perfectly safe. I promise.”

Patton chewed the inside of his cheek skeptically as he closed his eyes again. “So basically you want me to force myself to dissociate?”

“No. The opposite, actually.” Daveigh said. “Focus on your breathing, and I’ll explain.”

Patton nodded.

“Dissociation is a result of panic and anxiety. It forces the self to retreat deep inside the mind to escape what is happening around it. Astral projection is sending the self outside the mind to perceive things that the body cannot. The two are mutually exclusive. If you begin to feel too much fear while projecting, your body will drag you back in an effort to protect you. In extreme cases, you can rebound in the opposite direction and end up dissociated.”

This is going to be harder than I thought, then, Patton thought, dutifully focusing on his breathing. Daveigh stopped talking, but he could still hear her breathing softly beside him.

Patton wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d been sitting there when suddenly, something shifted. Sounds became clearer and more precise. Instead of just waves washing up and down the beach, he heard the rustle of sand against the push and pull, the trickle of every droplet as waves crested and tumbled over themselves; the wind as it brushed across the beach, picking up an entourage of minuscule particles, parading after it joyously. The sun warming him. Vibrating through him.

Patton felt himself tip forward, as if falling asleep, and he jerked up, blinking in the light.

Daveigh looked over at him, smiling. “Well done.”

“What?” Patton looked down and saw himself sitting where he had a moment ago, but his body was slumped forward, completely limp. He was overlapping his own body in a strange, almost terrifying way. Patton bit down on the fear, remembering Daveigh’s warning. Slowly, he stood and stepped away from his body. Daveigh repositioned it—him?—so that his body lay on its back on the beach. It was odd, still feeling the sun on his face, the warm sand beneath his back, while standing a few paces away.

Looking down at his current state, Patton found himself similar to how he’d appeared with Amaryllis. Shimmering. Angel-like. A little transparent, but not enough that he felt like a ghost.

“I did it!” he breathed, feeling his own voice vibrate through his new astral body like he stood inside an enormous church bell. “Whoa, that’s weird. Helloooo?” he said, testing it out. Daveigh watched him gleefully. “This didn’t happen last time,” he noted.

Daveigh nodded. “You weren’t in control last time, and your mind did its best to keep you feeling safe.”

Patton started. He could hear her twice, from both his own ears and those of his body. He shook his head and Daveigh laughed. That, too, freaked his brain out. “We never completely detach from our bodies, no matter how far we go. You’ll always be able to hear, feel, and smell if you concentrate hard enough.”

Patton held a hand out, studying it. He could still touch his own skin, though it felt smoother; he didn’t pass through his palm like he was made of mist, but looking down, he found he wasn’t making an imprint in the sand beneath his feet.

“Can I touch you when I’m like this?” he asked, reaching out tentatively. Daveigh obliged and swiped her hand right through his arm.

“Unfortunately, no. There are very few things we can interact with while in the astral plane,” she said, standing.

But her body remained where it was, sitting calmly on the sand.

Patton smirked. “How come you get to sit all nicely while I look like someone hit me over the head?”

Daveigh winked. “Core muscles.”

“Really?”

She laughed. “No. When you’ve done this for a while, you’ll be able to astral project and control your physical body at the same time. See?” she said, and Patton jumped when Daveigh’s body turned, opened its eyes, and waved at him before returning to its meditative seat.

“That’s kinda creepy,” he chuckled, looking at his own body warily, waiting for it to spring up and do something ridiculous. “So, it’s like you’re in two places at once?”

Daveigh shook her head, gesturing for him to follow her down the beach, away from their bodies. Patton followed, smothering his nerves in his trust of her.

“It’s more like aiming a crossbow with both eyes open,” she said. Patton gave her a confused look. “No? Let’s see… it’s like reading while you walk. You aren’t putting all of your focus on where you’re going, but just enough not to run into anything. Does that make sense? Typically, you can’t speak or make too complex of facial expressions without really concentrating, but I could get up and do simple tasks while my astral self was elsewhere. That’s a little advanced, though. Let’s just start with putting some distance between you and your body.”

They strode down the beach calmly, Patton simply trying to get used to the sensation of it all. He could feel the ground beneath his feet, but he didn’t sink into the sand or leave footprints. He saw a breeze pulling on the palm trees, and could feel it faintly across his body behind him, but his astral form didn’t react to it, his hair lying still.

Curious, he wandered over to the water and let the tide rush over his feet and ankles. The water went right through him, undisturbed. He did feel the temperature difference though, his feet going cold, but remaining dry. Daveigh stepped up next to him.

“We don’t need to breathe in this form,” she said. “We don’t float, either.”

Patton stopped, realizing that he was, in fact, not breathing. He could feel his body breathing of course, but his shimmering, translucent chest didn’t rise or fall with breath. He started. “You mean we could walk underwater?”

She nodded, smiling. “It's quite the experience. Maybe another time. I think it might prove a little too overwhelming for you to handle on your first time. It can be quite disconcerting.”

“My feet are cold,” he mentioned, wiggling his incorporeal toes.

“We can feel temperature, to an extent,” she said, continuing down the beach.

He followed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we can’t be injured, we don’t have physical bodies right now, but that doesn’t mean extreme heat or cold wouldn’t be painful,” she explained.

Patton opened his mouth to ask another question, but something flickered in his periphery and he stopped, turning. Daveigh slowed to a stop ahead of him, watchful but unsurprised.

“What was—” Patton started, when something else flashed just out of his field of view and he whirled again.

“Remember what I said about the difference between projection and dissociation?”

“Yeah, but I don’t—”

“Patton,” Merri whispered so close to his ear he could practically feel her breath. Patton yelped and stumbled back a few steps, but nothing was there. Just him and Daveigh standing on the beach.

Daveigh watched him carefully. “I said that astral projection makes the self aware of things that the body is not, that includes being aware of your own mindscape.”

Patton’s breath came quicker now. He felt like he was being watched on all sides. “You mean my memories,” he said. “They’re all here?”

“To an extent,” she said. “You will not relive them as vividly as you would a flashback, but fleeting glimpses of them will appear. Smells, sounds, people, objects. They aren’t real, Patton,” she admonished. “You must remember that.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, unable to keep from glancing around the beach. Patton lifted a hand to the ear he’d heard Merri in. He could have sworn she was right there. More images tugged on his attention from the corner of his eye, and it took a significant effort not to turn and look. Daveigh put a hand on his shoulder, and he relished the solid contact.

“Patton-cake, are you ready to go?” Dot called from only a little ways away, her voice several years younger than he’d last heard her. Patton felt his eyes misting and took a shaking breath. He could hear her closing a sandwich baggie and folding down the top of the brown paper sack his lunches were always in for school. Now, it seemed, it wasn’t only the bad memories that would be hard for him to handle.

“Is it… will it always be like this?” he asked, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You’ll never completely get rid of them, but you can muffle them. It takes a lot of training, though,” she said. “There are many factors at play. How far you are from your body, how emotional you are, what emotions you’re feeling exactly, how concentrated you are. Your mental state affects how you experience the astral plane.”

Patton stiffened as his own broken screams pierced the air from behind him, but before he could even think about turning around, he flew away from Daveigh, like someone had yanked him backward on a leash. The world went black for a split second and Patton gasped, sitting up in his body once more.

He felt heavy, like he’d donned a lead-filled track suit. Patton had only projected for a couple of minutes, but feeling his lungs expanding in his chest, the blood pumping through his entire body… it all felt brand new and a bit foreign.

His screams were seared into his mind.

Patton felt nauseous and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

Daveigh rubbed his back gently. “The feeling will pass after a few moments.”

He stiffened. “Can you not touch me right now, please?” he breathed, fighting for calm. She retracted her hand immediately.

“Of course. I should have asked. Forgive me.”

“It’s fine, just�� give me a minute.”

Daveigh sat silently next to him while he collected himself, carefully organizing his mind back to where it had been. He realized he couldn’t live like this forever, not dealing with his past. Of course, he knew. But not right now. Not on an island in the middle of nowhere, not knowing if Roman or Virgil were still alive. That would have to wait.

* * * * * * * * * *

Virgil stared in disbelief at the cluster of trees where the portal to Wakeby had once been. Behind him, Dorian corralled Remus from accosting a tree nymph with that strange expression that could have been fondness but surely wasn’t because immortal snake-demons weren’t fond of anything, and Roman watched in slack-jawed amazement as a swarm of multicolored pixies passed by overhead.

“This place is amazing!” Roman said. “Hey, Dorian, is it always this warm?”

“Yes,” the demon replied. “Though there is a rainy season that lasts about a month.”

“I don’t understand,” Virgil breathed. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

Roman approached from behind. “Virgil, what’s wro—”

Pain erupted behind Virgil’s eyes and he gasped, swaying. His ears rang and his head swam. Virgil knew that pain. Ursula was trying to enter his mind. No doubt she could sense that he’d returned to their homeland. Through watering eyes, Virgil saw Roman about to reach out and steady him.

“No!” he cried, scrambling away from Roman, careful to keep Ursula from hearing his words. he fell back to a seat on the ground, backing up against a tree. “Don’t touch me. She’ll know.”

“What?”

“It’s Ursula,” he managed, forcing controlled breaths in through his nose and out through clenched teeth She was breaking through. “She’ll sense your powers if—if you touch—”

You are getting harder and harder to contact, kitty, she tutted inside his mind. Care to explain—

“Virgil, let me help—”

—what you’re doing in the Witchlands? I don’t—

“—what do you need me to do?”

—remember giving you permission to abandon the prince.

“Shut up! Just stop talking!” Virgil cried, clutching his head. He couldn’t focus on both of them at once, especially when they were talking over one another. Roman shut his mouth immediately, stepping back. Dorian watched curiously from afar, then leaned over and muttered something in Roman’s ear.

How dare you speak to me like that, Ursula snapped, her presence pressing down even harder. Still it wasn’t the worst Virgil had experienced from her. It didn’t make sense for her to be holding back, and she’d said it was getting harder for her to reach him… it was probably just the Witchlands itself. Ursula being banished must be affecting their connection.

If you’ve brought the prince there to cultivate his powers, there won’t be a single corner on in the universe where you can hide from me, she hissed. Virgil could feel her attempting to see through his eyes. He panicked. If she saw Roman—if she knew Dorian was working with them… it would all be over. You’ll wish I killed you, you worthless—

I ran away! Virgil thought back frantically.

The throbbing lessened somewhat. What?

Virgil stopped bridling his fear, letting it wash through him, making sure Ursula could sense it. They didn’t want me anymore, so I ran away. I figured coming here, I’d be less of a burden to you.

How’d you  get inside?

I kept the charm.

All these years? Ursula snorted. You always were a coward. I should have known.

He saw Roman begin to argue under his breath with Dorian, gesturing at Virgil. He probably wanted the demon to aide him in dealing with the dragon witch. Thankfully, Dorian understood what was going on far better than Roman did, and Virgil didn’t have to convince him not to. He shook his head, staring at Virgil, and for once Virgil didn’t feel pinned to the floor by it. It was almost comforting, knowing that someone that powerful was on his side.

Fine, if you’re too much of a child to do your job, stay in the Witchlands. Less of a chance you’ll get in my way, she sighed. How’s the curse holding up? Our prince is still in one piece?

Yes, he’s fine, last I saw, Virgil reported, replacing the fear with defeat, hopefully feeding into Ursula’s sense of still having control.

You know, she said carefully, I remember the prince mentioning a promise he had with Bloodwyrm to kill me in exchange for his freedom last we met. Any idea what that’s about?

Virgil’s mind raced. She was testing him—prodding at his story to see if it held together under pressure. It was unlikely that he wouldn’t have known about it, but he couldn’t let her get too suspicious. There was a contract Roman convinced the demon to enter into, but it expired when you defeated him. The curse is still intact.

Very well, she conceded, and it took an immense effort just to keep relief from flooding his mind. Enjoy your little vacation, coward. However, if Bloodwyrm disposes of my prince sooner than later, I’ll expect you back here. I’m going to need something to keep him occupied.

Dread trickled down Virgil’s throat at the thought. Of course.

And with that, the dragon witch withdrew.

[firesign23]

Per your prompting, I hereby prompt a Brienne/Addam wedding (or a nice pre- or post-wedding scene. Or all of the above.)

Well, one of each so I can finally get these fuckers married. It was supposed to happen in the second chapter, not the fifth. A little bit longer than the 1500 word cutoff, but I’m counting this as three prompts so it’s fine. Can also be found on ao3.

It was… odd. The hours after Brienne’s declaration. It was very easy to say that they should marry, and much more difficult to grasp what this would mean; the conversation stretched out, neither of them completely certain what it was that needed to be asked, but some shape of their marriage-to-be began to emerge from the winding thoughts. Their respective commitments and how to balance them, how they would dissuade doubt of the child’s parentage when she was three moons gone and only been in King’s Landing for six weeks. Around and around, tentatively feeling out the terrain before them. She assured him that his place in the Kingsguard would not be earned or lost due to their connection; he assured her that his father was in robust health and he did not expect to inherit Ashemark in the foreseeable future, and that when he did there were plenty of competent family members to manage the day-to-day runnings.

“Do you have any bastards I should be aware of?” she asked. It would not change her decision, but it would be good to know of potential claimants that might benefit from exposing the truth of her child’s parentage.

“No.”

“Are there any likely to emerge?”

“Ahh, no. Not—” He gave a small shrug. “I can account for everyone I’ve lain with long enough to know it impossible.”

Were there many? she might have asked, under other circumstances. Instead she nodded. “And you will tell me if that changes?”

“It won’t be a concern.”

“You cannot—” Oh. “Men?”

“On occasion. It is more…” He shrugged again, as if it was unimportant. “I would tell you, if there was someone else. As a matter of respect. I don’t think it likely.”

Else, as if… Trepidation niggled at her as she wondered whether she’d misunderstood his offer, of asking nothing. She twisted her fingers, the pressure grounding her.

“I won’t—I cannot… I know it is a duty, but I do not think I could bear… that. Not yet.”

He blinked, then reached out as if to lay a hand on her knee before thinking better of it. “I told you I would expect nothing, save cooperation and an honest attempt at friendship if you could bear it.”

She studied him for a long moment, trying to find answers in unfamiliar features.

“You are an odd man,” she finally said, startled when he smiled.

“And you’re an odd woman,” he replied. “A remarkable one, but odd.”

She waited for the sting to come, but whether it was the lack of judgment in his words or her having grown into her skin, all she felt was amusement. She was odd, but it was not as if she could be anyone else, and she didn’t particularly wish to be; if she’d been someone else… if she’d married Ser Humphrey and set aside her sword she would not have saved Sansa, if she’d married Ser Ronnet she would not have served Renly. If she had not done both, she would not have—

Grief was a funny thing, the way it would gently lap at your feet in one moment and crash down upon you like a wave in a storm in another. If she had not served Renly, served Catelyn… if she had not saved Sansa, fought the undead… if she’d not done those things, if she’d not fallen in love with Jaime, if she’d—

“Brienne,” Addam said, a gentle command. It was the first time he’d called her by her name, some distant part of her realised. She turned to look at him fully, and saw his understanding expression. “Perhaps we can discuss this more tomorrow,” he said. “The Seven know there is much still to do.”

***

A sennight and as many discussions later, they were to wed in the Godswood. The King had, in one of his queer moods, insisted that it be there and not a sept—Brienne was grateful, uncertain she could speak her vows before the Seven, given everything, and it was not as if any in attendance cared where the words were said. She wished her father could be present, but given the already difficult nature of events, they did not have time to wait for his arrival from Tarth. Instead she would walk unaccompanied, the wedding witnessed by a handful of people she knew in King’s Landing—she hadn’t had the heart to keep Tyrion from the event, aware he was Addam’s only family near enough to make the journey, and Podrick and a few men from Winterfell who had chosen to remain in the south.

The irony of such a small wedding did not escape her; Jaime would have wed her, after that first night or any other, but they had both been so certain there was an after the war, and… she’d wanted, they both had, something more than hastily exchanged words in the midst of preparations and repair, a chance to be publicly loved and celebrated with those they loved best. Not ostentatious, neither of them had wanted a spectacle, but a chance for those flung far away to be there too. No secrecy, no shame. And now…

Addam was seated on a bench near the path that led into the garden; he didn’t see her at first, his head tilted back to catch the first warmth of spring sun. He was freshly-shaven and dressed in a richly woven doublet in his house colours, dark grey with burnt orange details, a sense of control in his lanky body even as he was at ease. This far away she could not see the slight lopsidedness of his smile or the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed, but she knew them to be there. She moved closer; he must have heard her coming, dressed as she was, but it was not until she was close enough to cast a shadow across his face that he opened one eye.

“Ser,” he drawled, “I wondered when you would arrive.”

“Second thoughts?” she asked, torn between standing tall and hunching away; she knew she hardly looked like a bride, fripperies set aside in favour of looking like herself, but she wondered whether it was the right decision.

He shook his head and reached up, knocking his knuckle against her breast plate. “A bold choice.”

He was dressed far more in the spirit of a wedding, but there was no hint of derision in his comment.

“Blue,” she explained, then lifted her arm to where her rose-coloured undershirt was peeking out, “and pink, for Tarth. A Maiden’s cloak felt rather…”

“Of course.”

“I won’t have many chances to wear it, after today.” She had considered and discarded so many options, but none of them had meant as much as the armour she’d worn for years, so much of her history wrapped in its metal. “I can—”

“No, no,” Addam said, rising from the bench. “It suits you.” Then he gave her a small, knowing smile and leaned in as he dropped his voice, “The lions are a particularly nice touch. My cousin was not a subtle man.”

Brienne laughed, truly laughed, for what felt like the first time in moons, and took her betrothed’s arm as they headed into the Godswood. The guests were assembled, the septon was disgruntled, and the king smiled at her as they took their positions. Thank you, she mouthed; whatever came of this, she had not been able to forget Bran’s words, their subtle reminder that no matter her grief she need not isolate herself from those who cared for her.

The ceremony began, the septon’s prayers drowned out by her own thoughts—the sunlight on the trees, and the water in the distance, and the subtle reassurance of the man beside her—until it came time to bind their hands. She recognised the shape of the calluses that brushed her own, felt a strange sort of peacefulness at the commonality. He squeezed her hand lightly, and she met his eyes; the secret smile he gave was enough for her to find her voice.

“Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone…”

***

There was a small feast, after the wedding, and she changed into a tunic and breeches for comfort before joining. The event was more informal than Brienne would expect from a noble marriage, which was—absurdly—what this was, but there was laughter, and music, and a demonstration of fighting styles from each of the seven kingdoms and several places further afield—it was different than seeing the styles in battle, and Brienne found herself making notes for the training of the Kingsguard as she watched.

She grew tired earlier than she might have once, one of the few signs of being with child that she’d experienced, and the flowing drink began to remind Brienne of another feast. The memories had not… they were there, of course, she would not want them not to be, but they had not been so omnipresent as to taint the day. But whatever small part of that crossed her face was noticed; Addam placed his hand on her arm, gave her a small smile, thanked the guests and made their excuses to retire. Under other circumstances she would have chafed under his attentiveness, but as she dragged herself from the hall she was simply thankful for his presence of mind.

Very little was said as they made their way through the corridors, but it was not an uncomfortable silence, not the way she’d once imagined any wedding night of hers would be; they were friends, or on their way to becoming friends, and that was enough.

With so much of the castle still destroyed, they were to share chambers, a bed. It was a matter of practicality, and more convenient than him keeping his quarters in the city, but not without questions.

“I can put a roll on the floor,” he said, when they had made their way to what had been Brienne’s rooms. “It’s better sleeping arrangements than many I’ve made.”

She looked at him, then the stone floor. They were both soldiers, first and foremost, knew the value of a night in a real bed.

“Do you snore? Kick?” she asked bluntly, unwilling to allow sentiment to colour her words. Sentiment here was… dangerous. Exposing in a way that other things had not been.

He shook his head.

“I’ll take the side nearer the door,” was all she said, unlacing her tunic.

He undressed behind a changing screen, emerging in sleepwear remarkably similar to her own, and ensured the door was locked before he slipped into bed beside her.

[halcyondigger]

So, the lore for Mega Man Legends is hella deep and pretty much all contained within the sequel -- which is the game less people know about for some reason. 

In the interest of that, for anybody curious and wanting a better understanding of just what I go on about, I’ve created a handy chonological bulletpoint sequence of events! Read on, if you’re so inclined! 

Elysium is Born

Following one of Mega Man X5′s endings, Mega Man X, last creation of Dr. Light, chooses to finally ensure the safety of the surviving humanity after the fall of Eurasia by beginning work on the space colony “Elysium”, meant to be an artificial paradise where people could live in safety. 

This project is eventually completed, and all remaining human life is migrated from the devastated planet’s surface into the care of the units housed on Elysium. 

Centuries pass, with life support systems allowing humans to live well beyond their projected life expectancy, technology advances to the point where reploids end up phased out in favor of biomechanical units with biology similar to carbon-based lifeforms hybridized seamlessly with cybernetic components.

The new units become part of Elysium’s Master System, a colony-housed society with hierarchy amidst the units there, all centered around the ideal of caring for their human wards. 

The Master System becomes headed by two sister “Mother Units”, Sera and Yuna, who produce and oversee further others to serve the Master System, upon which all subsequent units emerging after are as their subordinate offspring. At the same time, the Purifier Unit line to succeed the Maverick Hunters from olden days is formed, in order to deal with “Aberrant” units who malfunction or otherwise become a threat. Amongst this number is the First-Class Purifier Unit, Mega Man Trigger. 

Over time, the human life aboard Elysium begins to naturally dwindle and die out. In order to combat this threat, Sera and Yuna take DNA samples of all that remain to be stored in a genetic Library in the heart of Elysium, a chamber charged to Sera personally to ensure that no existing force could threaten them. 

In an attempt to ensure human life will flourish once more, Sera and Yuna coordinate with the oldest-living human, the Master, in creating a fodder race in the image of humans using the Master System units’ design as a foundation. They mass-seed the Earth, now referred to by codename of “Terra”, with with these life forms, thus creating the Carbon race. 

The Carbon race eventually leads to unsatisfactory results in proving mankind can once again live on Terra. In order to reset the process and try again, Sera creates the Carbon Reinitialization System -- a process by which all Carbon life is erased from the planet to create a clean slate. 

The Master, Trigger, and the Mother Units

As the Master loses all other human companions and becomes a revered existence within Elysium that no one dares to regard personally, he seeks out another in the form of Mega Man Trigger, chosen personally to be his attendant functionally while in reality for the purpose of becoming his close companion. 

As Sera and Yuna repeatedly attempt to see if Terra is suitable for life periodically, the repeated extinctions cause the remnants of each Carbon line’s budding civilizations to coalesce with the lingering traces of the ancient human race, resulting in countless ruins becoming strewn across Terra.

As the Master and Mega Man Trigger spend greater time together, becoming inseparable over the years, the Mother Units’ behavior begins to alter. Yuna comes to adopt an affectionate, personally-invested attitude between Trigger, the Master and her sister, acting as the group’s compass and mediator. Sera, however, grows frustrated, as the Master never seems to regard her efforts the same way he does Trigger’s company. This causes her to develop a jealous rivalry of Trigger, while at the same time growing more complicated feelings towards him.

Three thousand years after the Mother Units were created, the Master has finally grown tired of his forcibly-extended life. Without the other two noticing, the Master charges Mega Man Trigger to take him in a pod down to Terra’s surface, so he can behold the forming of early Carbon society with his own eyes -- not disclosing to Trigger that he would be unable to survive outside Elysium without its life support systems. 

Making landfall on what would in the future become Calbania Island, the Master is humbled seeing how the early people coming together, finding simple pleasures in life, and comes to realize the cold, sterile luxury of immortality he’d been sheltered by was fundamentally wrong. Coming to accept the Carbon race as humankind’s true successors, the Master gives Trigger a “good luck charm” containing his genetic code-- the key to managing the Library’s computer, to either begin the mass-cloning of humanity on Terra, or to erase it all. He makes a final request of Trigger to do the latter, to put an end to the Master System so that the Carbon race would be free of Elysium’s godlike control over them. Then, peacefully, the last human passes away. 

As Mega Man Trigger returns to Elysium in order to fulfill the Master’s last wish and put an end to the system, Sera reacts violently upon discovering what has come to pass. Unable to accept what she believes to be the Master discarding her, she decrees Trigger the highest-priority Aberrant for aiding in the Master’s death, declaring open war on him with all of Elysium.

The End of Elysium

Untold years of battle between the endless forces of Elysium and Trigger alone begin. Yuna, for her part, finds herself conflicted in holding love for both her friend and her sister equally, on top of being torn between siding with family and siding with the one she knows would know best the Master’s wishes. Unable to take side with either, she removes herself to be a neutral overseer -- taking with her the keys Sera would need for clearance to activate the Carbon Reinitialization Program for the planet. 

Trigger and Elysium’s battle eventually makes its way to Terra. On a locale called Kattelox Island, Bureaucratic Unit Third-Class Mega Man Juno decides to activate the Carbon Reinitialization Program for his territory specifically, calling down the tower of Eden from orbit to rain fire on the island. Mega Man Trigger makes to stop this, facing Juno in single combat and dispatching him handily, sealing him back in the Main Gate and closing off all paths to it. 

Sera finally loses all patience with Yuna as well as her own failing forces, and ventures to Terra herself to eliminate Trigger with her own hands. Trigger and Sera have their final battle on the unnamed landmass in the polar north, largely destroying the island in their clash before mutually striking each other down, both mortally wounded. 

In order to preserve himself, Mega Man Trigger backs up all his personal data into a small, monkey-like storage unit named “Data”, before an automatic restoration function kicks in. With most of his body destroyed, what remains undergoes a total biological regression, self-reincarnating as an infant. 

Sera manages to remain conscious in her condition, as Yuna arrives in the aftermath of their battle. Once more, she demands Yuna give her the keys for the Library so she could fulfill her purpose to erase all Carbon life and restore humankind, but Yuna refuses. Having accepted the Master’s will, Yuna seals Sera into a prismatic stasis field, doing the same with the resetting Trigger and Data. Trigger and Data are then sent away, transported deep into the aquatic ruin of Nino Island. Yuna then chooses to remain with Sera on the polar island for all time, manipulating the weather to create a blizzard too harsh for any living thing or transportation to pass through. The island would eventually come to be known as “Forbidden Island”. 

Unbeknownst to either, early Carbons had been in the area. They had missed the final battle with Trigger and Sera, but arrived in time to witness what transpired between Sera and Yuna. The two would become regarded as goddesses, with Sera known as the “Goddess of the Sky”, who “guards the record of ages”, while Yuna became known as the “Goddess of the Earth”, who “guards the keys”. 

Pre-Legends

Centuries later, famed Digger couple Banner and Matilda Caskett chose to be the ones to penetrate the barrier of Forbidden Island and uncover its secrets. Leaving their infant daughter Roll with Matilda’s father, Digger legend Barrel Caskett, the two embark on a dropship meant to penetrate the very epicenter of the perpetual storm, where one can successfully break through. 

The expedition turns for the worst, as the pair are unprepared for the Reaverbots guarding the island. Matilda ends up fatally wounded, while Banner loses an arm and vanishes, eventually turning up on the Calinca continent with all memory lost from physical trauma. 

Yuna discovers the dying Matilda in her territory. Feeling responsible for what has befallen her, Yuna decided to save her by means of nanotechnology and portions of her own being to heal her wounds. However, the procedure ends up compromising Yuna’s own body. With no other recourse, she transmits herself in her entirety into Matilda, becoming one with her and putting Matilda’s consciousness into dormancy while she lives on within her. Yuna’s body is then put into the dropship the Casketts arrived in, sealed within a barrier for safekeeping.

Upon hearing what has befallen his daughter and her husband, Barrel Caskett resolves himself to retire from active Digging to raise his granddaughter. However, he decides to embark on one final digout before being done for good -- one within the Nino Ruins. 

At the bottom of the Nino Ruins, Barrel discovers the stasis prism that had been buried there ages before. Touching it, the prism disappears, revealing a brown-haired infant and a small, robotic monkey. Unsure what to think, Barrel decides to take the boy home with him for the time being. 

Upon bringing the boy home, the unknown baby comes into contact with the infant Roll, who immediately displays favor towards him. On seeing this, Barrel decides to take in the boy just as well. However, recognizing the child is clearly abnormal and bizarre circumstances may arise in the future, he opts not to adopt the boy into their family, but to raise him alongside Roll as his apprentice. The infant boy is given his own name: Rock Volnutt.

[witchingrey]

‘ and you say you are broken, but broken mirrors like you create the most beautiful patterns of light. ’ (from Lelouch)

sentence prompts ➝  poetry starters

Pure silence. Pregnant and laden with death. Purple rims the lower lids of her eyes; still half-open even in her temporary lull; even as trembling fingers that are not hers, hers are limp and slack and rampant rivers with blood, move to close them, she will not move. She, the portrait of suffering. She, the portrait of tragedy. She, the lonely one. She, who will not move, who has once again offered her body as a shield at the beginning primarily for the sake of ambition..now, the purpose convoluted, conflicting.

She will not hear him race to give her privacy. Her body laden with bullet holes and shrapnel sticking like spears out of her chest, her arms, her legs, she will not hear them clamoring down the hall. She will not hear Lelouch and his hitched breathing at the actions taken to save him once more. 

After all they are selfish reasons, right? From the witch who was never given an option or taste of happiness in the first place…for the witch who has only known suffering, trauma and ruin….for the witch who wavers between her wish and the strange resurgence of emotions brought about by this accumulation of time and ‘contract’.

Blood smears her entire mouth; gloved hands which surely prided themselves on being clean on the outside dotting them away yet not without tremors. Her immortality is generally a secret. The only person who knows otherwise is an enemy,  a lost piece that was once a friend. The presence trods on, and in death she almost looks peaceful, as if the woman does not quite want to leave. There is a faint half-smile of relief on her bloodied mouth; her darkening eyelids. Foolish boy turned man, you are safe, I will protect you – foolish, selfish boy for some reason I’ll —…….I’ll…..yo—–

bang,

bang,

bang.

The white pallor of death covers her as if in a snowy shroud. The colorless snow, the silenced screams, the weight of all things and all deaths, all rebirths, all fruitless at best. There is no death, only the death of her heart, the death of any hope of joy…has been all she’s ever known.

So her body is easy to discard. For each time the vain hope that this death will be her ‘last’ becomes fainter; and even as the drumming in her dead ears begins to pulse with the sound of mixed messages. Her true name and her alias, both in tandem. Desperately, desperately, a plead from the world she does not and has never belonged to –

– yet one man demands her return.

The only thing that belongs to her is silence, the penultimate suffering without end. The future that surely will be without happiness…the attachments that will leave her.

It is futile.

It is meaningless.

Her consciousness begs as if from a distance, she hears the faint pump of her heart as trembling hands tend to the largest piece of shrapnel which pierced the lifeless, faded organ in her breast. The bullet in her forehead; the holes in her legs..the caked and congealing blood in her beautiful, beautiful hair. I have died far worse, you know, she almost wishes to comfort him, the lost prince, the boy turned man who could become a King if he truly doesn’t stop.. and what will she do, knowing that beneath it he is still just a boy, and all the while a man grown?

When she coughs, it is an upheaval of blood and phlegm; her dull eyes flitting everywhere and nowhere unaware of hands grasping her scratched and bruised face to keep her to him. “Lel…..”

Hoarse, her throat was not spared. It is perhaps one of the more violent deaths she has paid to save him, hence why she is taking so long. Those proud eyes are not proud now. They are frightened, and there is a pain in them she has never seen in anyone before…for herself? Or is that an illusion? A mirage of witnessing pity? Would Lelouch pity her? Why is there no disgust in his face?

You ought to be disgusted. I am not human. For almost a thousand years I have not been human, and I will never be human. I am every bad thing you have said about me, and every bad thing the world has condemned me for long before you will if ever, know the story of that name only you in this world will know —-

Dizzily, and with blood spilling from the corners of her lips as she struggles to speak; C.C. remarks dazedly, “But…am….already dead…. long ago….too long….much………….where…. where…this…are….you?” For once her eyes are not bright when she finally sees his face in blurred contrasts. They are dull and almost lifeless; there is no hidden tenderness or fondness, or teasing, or coldness, the capacity for mercy and cruelty in the unfathomably complicated woman named C.C.

As he steadily removes the shrapnel; the bullets are slowly, painfully closing, and each little beat of regeneration sounds like a scream she has long been robbed of. After all, it was never in her fate to know the word ‘happy’ or ‘peace’. Much less even be at peace, the former cadaver feels the acute pain of death and cannot keep her eyes open, the undead, the living corpse….yes, all names she would hurt herself with. She has been an open, gushing wound ever since she was born…hasn’t she? Hasn’t she?

He talks about something, and with blurred hearing, the pain is so much, oh, Father, you who have abandoned me! Oh world, you who never let me live!

“….?”

Her voice was sleepy and tight with pain that she couldn’t properly articulate the words,a dead, hollow rasp, for as her body resurrects, her soul must find a way to resurrect itself back into the body.

“ You……yes….” She begins, a napkin dabs at her steadily decreasing flow of blood in her mouth; still sticky in her throat.

 “ I …not…..hear you Lel…ouch……but you’re fine so..? Ah….I s-suppose  if I’m dead then you live…that’s the way of it…..but you’re a fo-fool….been dead…long t-time…..ugly isn’t it?” 

Her eyes shutter in slurred vulnerability, so vulnerable she does not caution her words; the pain borderline making her delirious as she hears his words again and her bloodied head sags into his lap, lolling backwards if not for his hands to steady it. Another tremor, the back was still damp with blood…

“….You say….str…strange things to-to m-m-me…you …d-don’t know h-how to ch-charm wo-women….” A hitched series of gasps, his hand behind her back as she struggled to breathe.

The heartbreaking words escape with a smile on her half-conscious features, contradictory to her words, she looked oddly lovely in a halo of blood.

“But….I’d like to hear m…y name………..aga…in……….you sound like….lik….” Her eyes shutter; gripping his hand hard to cope with the painfully slow regeneration.

Like you care about me, you who lies to everyone but me…

This death would take time to recover from, he’d think, or try to compartmentalize the sheer trauma of her dying on him again. It was how he worked through the sheer strength of his mind.

For C.C. however, she had died long before she had ever met the exiled Prince. So why….would he say such a thing….. why would he delude himself into humanizing and personalizing nothing more than a ghost? Was it loneliness? Or did he truly cherish her?

And if he did cherish her in the tender, almost aching way he’d pleaded her name as she had died…..then how should she proceed…how frustrating…..

“How….very….strange…..Lel………..you say strange thi………ngs………” A cough as she tries to laugh; lime hair spilling around the floor in a reddened sheet, coughing more as he demands her not to speak.

The Grey Witch falls once again into the cradle of silence; eyes peacefully closed despite the horror of the hallway she had created with her death. Her face, which was still caked in bloodied hair and dried crimson was torn between a faintly broken smile and a wistful longing to hear the cherishing way a person had said her name…at last it was something true.

All the while the halls were silent, as far as she smiled like one who was dead; covered in wounds; the items and bullets which caused her demise pooling in bloodied gaps around their closely knit bodies…and all the while, she was unaware that he had not let her go. But C.C. would never know this, would she…?

Unaware that one man trembled all the while he held her, perhaps recalling the girlish, hopeful voice of Narita, echoing enough to fill a graveyard…haunting in how it had come full circle..

“ Can you say it? Say it again…like you treasure it in your heart…? “

[cat-at-dawn]

IN DEFENSE OF THE DEATH OF  ████████ , AND AN ARGUMENT AGAINST SUICIDE

This one’s for the manga readers! Post-volume 19 meta, spoilers aplenty! read at your own risk

Though the literal iteration of the death of Ash Lynx can be viewed as a purposeful shuffle from this mortal coil, a specific decision made with weight to return to the New york Public Library to live out his last moments dwelling on Eiji’s letter only to intentionally fade away, here stands a lonely argument; out of the entire cast, no one person deserves death in the same capacity more than Ash Lynx does, and his death is not a suicide. Let’s break it down.

Out of all of the MANY problematic elements of Banana Fish, not even trying to hazard which offense is worse than the next, we can all simultaneously agree that one of the most heartbreaking twists of the series comes at the end of volume 19, when after receiving Eiji’s goodbye letter, which essentially amounts to an incredibly pure love declaration, Ash allows himself to be mentally distracted long enough for Sing’s brother Lao to deliver a killing stab to his intestines. Though Lao dies shortly after Ash’s retaliation, Ash continues to linger in a liminal place. The question hangs in the mind of the reader, if Ash approached a happy ending, why would he not seek hospitalization? Why would he allow himself to bleed out? The manga strikes back hard at the reader with a quite prolonged death sequence, in which Ash retreats to his favorite place to be alone, the New York Public Library, where, with a smile on his face, he falls into a peaceful sleep and dies at a reading table while clutching Eiji’s now bloody love letter. What is the nature of his mindset which dictates this course of action? Why, with Eiji hale and hearty, would Ash choose death instead of medical treatment and a possibly much happier ending to this tale of woe? At this point, I can only wonder if we, the readership, have read the same story. The ending of Banana Fish is hotly debated, and even though as a queer storyteller myself I fundamentally have trouble with gay death as a narrative element, I can’t help but question why people can’t empathize more with Ash’s decision. When judging the manga as a standing piece, I can’t think of a more satisfying, or simply more correct turn of events.

Directly out of the gate, Ash’s death is foreshadowed in the title of the series. A Perfect Day For Banana Fish is a short story by J.D. Salinger which follows the last day in the life of mentally ill World War 2 veteran Seymour Glass, who befriends a little girl while on vacation at the beach. He invites her to catch bananafish with him, and explains that the greedy fish enter holes to gorge themselves on bananas, but become too large to escape again and instead perish in the hole. Later, Seymour returns to his room where his wife is sleeping, and he kills himself. Salinger relates this as a metaphor for his own personal experience in the war, specifically to his time at the Battle of the Bulge and in Nazi concentration camps. He is quoted saying Seymour is an iteration of himself, and has gone so far as to say that he “found it impossible to fit into a society that ignored the truth that he now knew.”  The point of the story has always been to examine the irreversible damage done to the human psyche by war. The Perfect Day referenced in the title is exactly that; the quest of a broken man lacking the power to overcome his trauma to find exactly the perfect day to die. So it also is with Ash, we understand from the very beginning that making this direct analogy to Salinger means the manga will be the slow disclosure of someone who is irrevocably damaged by their circumstance as they come to terms with the moment of their own death. From the very first panel you see him, Ash’s death is already fated, and truly the most heart-rending struggle of the series is watching him grapple with this identity, up to nearly the very last second. As a reader, we continuously keep hoping and praying that he might, against all odds, find salvation despite literally every piece of contrary evidence suggesting otherwise. We have violent affection for Ash as a hero, and we want him so badly to live on, to make it to the other side. He both finds salvation and doesn’t find it, because like everything else about this manga, Ash operates thematically on contradictory levels all the way through the story and on to the bitter end. Let’s break it down even further, by considering exactly just how fucked Ash really is.

Ash is born Aslan Jade Callenrese, and then quickly discarded. He briefly experiences a short period of normalcy with the love of his brother and distant father before Griffin is drafted. Almost immediately after, Ash is raped by the Bluebeard of Cape Cod and then blamed for it, and from then on, his life is a progression of non-stop horror. He is kidnapped by Marvin who repeatedly rapes him over a period of years. He is sold into sexual servitude at Club Cod. He somehow  manages to avoid getting addicted to the opioids that all the child prostitutes were fed to keep them tame, and when Ash escapes, it is only because he is instead personally taken under Papa Dino’s wing, who specifically sexually abuses him while simultaneously not knowing or caring that Marvin continues to rape Ash, among presumably a handful of other people. Blanca is a small, bright focal point for Ash at age 13 when Ash lets himself briefly believe he has autonomy, and he is released to start his own gang. Ash’s fundamental humanity and inherent leadership magnetically draw people to him, and for the first time in his life, Ash briefly entertains the idea of having a private romantic relationship of his own. He is attracted to a girl he likes very much, but she is murdered almost immediately due to her association with him. He afterward throws himself into the business of his gang without ever fully extracting himself from Papa Dino’s hold. It is only with the discovery of the capsule containing Banana Fish that Ash for the first time in his short life discovers a bit of real leverage he can actually use against Dino. The subsequent drug war sees him beaten, sent to jail, raped many more times, and sent on a cross-country mission on the lam from the law, as well as from Dino’s goons, both Corsican and Chinese. Yut-Lung proves to be a worthy adversary in LA, and his teaming up with Arthur sees Ash murdering his best friend Shorter in cold blood who is forcibly high on banana fish in order to save Eiji from an especially savage disembowelment. Ash is later declared legally dead, sent to a private insane asylum to be experimented on, tortured with the mangled bits of Shorter’s brain, and then after escaping yet again, still forced into a corner when Dino tricks and threatens him into becoming officially adopted, once more in order to prevent Eiji’s death. Ash is drugged, literally blinded, beaten, and emotionally and physically torn down. He nearly dies from intentionally wasting away, and is hospitalized. When he eventually once again manages to escape, it is only to regroup long enough to prepare to engage with his men in actual guerrilla warfare. The mercenary Foxx kills nearly all of Ash’s remaining gang, and once AGAIN, Ash is raped.  Ash is ultimately deprived of his revenge when he then has to witness Papa Dino’s death by the hand of someone other than himself. These are the major plot points, and don’t even touch on the myriad of lesser cruelties Ash has dealt with over the course of his short life, of which there are many, many more.  (See: The death of most of his friends, that fucklord Arthur, everything about Cape Cod, the pain of using his sexual wiles as a weapon, the pain of knowing if he opens up to others that the lives of his friends will be in danger, the pain of being unable to give his loved ones proper burials, his one hundred issues with classism, his complete inability to trust others with important tasks, the list goes on.)

Around volume 10, I started, in a serious way, feeling like Ash deserved death. Not in the way that a dog is put out of it’s misery when it is sick, but more in the way that when the path is this hard, the reward at the end should be equivalent to the struggle. Being a CSA survivor all on its own demands a certain level of understanding, especially when approaching volatile, sensitive subjects like suicide. The act of taking one’s own life is so deeply personal and hotly debated that there is no true narrative argument legitimate enough to address it’s purpose. All of it is too subjective. However, in the case of Ash Lynx as the thematic hero, the case stands that he never, except for perhaps the small corridor between the ages of 0-7, lived a life anywhere remotely near average, so his many brushes with near-suicide are chillingly understandable. At one point, when forced to either shoot himself in the head or watch Eiji die, Ash even goes so far as to grab the gun and immediately try to blow his brains out. When the gun is proven empty, instead of breathing a secret sigh of relief, Ash only demands that Yut Lung give him a bullet. 

Though this emphasizes Ash’s near fanatical devotion to protecting Eiji, whose innocence he both disdains and canonizes, it also represents his constant readiness to die. This flirtation with the reaper is emphasized over and over in the official art, where a sexual element is often present in his interactions with death. Ash wishes for death to embrace him, he literally desires it. This is mostly on a subtextual level, but other times his desire is stiflingly surface-level.

 The extent of Ash’s damage is so severe and was inflicted on him so early that his ability to live a normal life was only ever subject to his situation. An argument can be made that his unusually high IQ kept him from the brink of emotional destruction for the majority of his life, but in spite of his incredible virility and strength of character, Ash’s prospects as he aged were always bleak at best. Ash the adult is almost unfathomable. He was literally never allowed to be a child during a key developmental period, and even the manga infers that Eiji’s presence as a romantic element is strongly tied to Ash’s desire to return to a time of innocence. Ash is permanently trapped in a never-neverland of sorts, sexually defiled to the point where his own sexual awakening has been completely obscured beyond his own recognition. His relationship with Eiji is painfully asexual, one, because literally everything about Banana Fish is painful, but also because it is unclear if Ash may have been naturally asexual in the first place or if he was made into an asexual as the result of his childhood trauma. Either way, he certainly doesn’t have a lot of choice about the way that he is, and that way is, fundamentally, morally, and spiritually exhausted. It is only his tenacious spark, his survivors grip to life, and his affection for others in his life whom he loves that are weaker than him, that keeps him stubbornly clung to his own mortal vessel until the very end.

Eiji’s presence as a guiding light is, in THE definitively heartbreaking turn, the permission Ash needs to allow himself to finally die. He has always known that he would die, probably even thought that he should have already died, many, many times over. He is permanently and irreversibly damaged by the course of his life, and though we scream and cry and pray in the hope that Ash can make it, that he can still pull through and come out on the other side living and thriving in love, he was ultimately just never meant to make it that far. Even when Eiji tries to convince Ash that he is not the leopard, that he can come back down from the mountain, we are distantly still aware that this is not true, despite how difficult it is to accept. This difference of character is most clearly seen in Ash’s foil with Yut-Lung; both boys are the savant products of rape-and-murder-riddled childhoods. However, where Yut-Lung lacked anyone to give him acceptance and affection as he grew, Ash ended his time knowing love. Where Yut-Lung survives to the end and goes on to an even higher position of strength, he still has an emotional arc to complete. Yut Lung must discover for himself the value of human life. Ash already knew this value from the beginning, because his moral compass, which sometimes admittedly became scrambled, more or less always pointed true by the end of things.

The argument can be made that as the embodiment of the concept of Salinger’s short story, Ash is fated to die. Eiji, who in many ways is the window through which we experience this world, refuses to bend to fate. He insists in innocence again and again that Ash can change his fate, and for a moment, when Ash finds the plane ticket to Japan in Eiji’s letter, we really, really want to believe him. So, of course, because this manga is singularly cruel, it is here that Ash is stabbed. Of ffffucking course, after everything, death comes for Ash in a fashion which is completely mundane against the grandiose, bombastic scale of the story. An old grudge settled by someone Ash didn’t even have the time to hate in the first place. Ash let himself believe in a real life with Eiji for a single moment, and that proved to be his downfall. When he let his guard down, he let death in. He realizes his destiny immediately, because he is not stupid. His death is not a suicide, it is an understanding. 

 According to Akimi Yoshida, fate always wins out, but what the manga adds to this sad experience is this; despite everything, unlike Salinger’s broken Seymour, Ash’s heart in the end is full of love. His perfect day to die is the day he reads Eiji’s letter, the letter that declares them permanently bonded. Falling in love allows Ash to let go of himself gently, instead of the infinitely more brutal end he would have met at a villain’s hand otherwise, if he hadn’t fought tooth and nail for his very last scrap of autonomy up until that moment. Eiji’s love as an act of compassion is most perfectly realized; because Ash’s Perfect Day is one of is own making. All the circumstances together form a perfect conclusion. He didn’t see the knife coming, and he didn’t need to. After Papa Dino’s death, after Eiji is gone, Ash can finally stop. He can accept that his trauma is greater than even him. In a life spent being forced back and forth according to the violent winds of his circumstance, he chooses to, (and that’s important, he chooses to,) retreat like a cat to a quiet place of safety to live out his last moments. In this way, Ash’s death is merely a setting down of something unbearably heavy. Because he is loved, because Eiji is safe and far away, Ash is at last released from the prison of his life.

Other Banana Fish Meta: CAPE COD AS PURGATORY AND ASH’S BREAK FROM INNOCENCE

[scriptaed]

Ink Nemesis | 04

Genre: Angst/Fluff || paparazzi!au; fake dating!au;

Pairing: Reader x Yoongi;

Length: 6.7k;

Synopsis: As an aspiring writer drowning under the public’s radar, a click of the pen is all you need to accept your supervisor’s offer to co-write an article for the SS - Secrets Spilled, a regular section of your company’s weekly tabloid; but fabricated stories and invasive details aren’t all that you write when you discover Min Yoongi’s dirty little secret. 

The naive like to believe themselves, one amongst billions, are exceptions to the laws of the universe, but in the ironic ways of reality, exceptions and oddities are just the regularities of life in which all must abide by. The false authorities like you, prideful in what they claim to be logic and control in such regular oddities, however, are often struck to the lowest of lows. Having suffered prejudice against the social hierarchy against men and women and against the needed and needless, you had thought you understood what the life of a journalist, an artist of literature, would entail—a lover of phonics, a diver in the world of stringed words, a lonesome misanthrope confiding in the touch of ink; but as you are soon to discover, even you, both the false authority and the naive, are no exception to the contradictions of life.

For when you find yourself scowling at the glaring screen of a blank document splattered by blocks of incomprehensible black, an epiphany dawns upon you: ink, your one companion amidst the darkest of times, has grown to be your greatest nemesis.

The next thing you know, your subconscious takes action on its irking fears when your laptop is slammed closed. Without the distraction of a story long due for an update, your attention turns to the incessant buzzing of your phone by your desk.

[Blog Notification: user 1830 commented, “Wow! I didn't know Yoongi was this great at the piano!”]

[Blog Notification: user 2048 commented, “Yoongi has me so weak…”]

[Blog Notification: user 4859 commented, “When is the next scoop coming? Are you going to be posting another audio soon? By the way, you're so talented.”]

[Blog Notification: user 1203 commented, “OMG I love you for posting this!! Thanks!!”]

... and the scowl returns.

With a sarcastic scoff, your thumb proceeds to hastily swipe clear the notifications off your screen, but even then, the stains remain shrouded in your eyes. Your writing has never garnered this much traffic. Your hours upon hours of works have never seen the light of day at the apex of these summits.

Still, still, still, yet still, this isn't the feedback you've been vying for all along.

Two out of four mentions Yoongi. Oh, right, this is an audio of him, after all. Why are you expecting your own practically nonexistent presence in the SS?

A plea for the next “inside scoop.” Of course, this is a tabloid. When will you be posting again? Can you even pick up a pen after witnessing the mess of blots you had just carelessly spilled?

One word of thanks. Thanks? For what? For snitching, for reluctantly uploading an intimate moment made of dreams meant to be just between him and you?

...and talented? It's a compliment, but why does it tug at your heartstrings to the point of being plucked apart like the torn scraps of paper you had scribbled and crumpled in a vain attempt to revive your fallen comrade.

The worst of it all, though, is the reality that all of this stems for your own fault. You decided to delve into this business. You edited that audio to trick both Yoongi and perhaps even yourself from recognizing its origins. Because at the end of the day, it's you who posted that audio.  

You don't deserve the spotlight. You don't deserve the thanks. You don't deserve attention. You don't deserve a pen. Perhaps that's why your ink has long stopped responding to your cried for help.

Riddled with guilt, your frustration channels into the grip of your phone as the palms of your hand turn white along with the drain of blood from your fingers until, finally, a shriek pierces through your throat and your phone is hurled at the wall. The collision elicits a wince from you, even with the death glare you're shooting at the phone collapsed face down.

Where do you go from here? A cracked phone doesn't solve the ongoing problem just waiting to ignite from within you. At this point, if nothing is done, you're practically a living ticking bomb about to explode at any moment now. Sanity no longer exists in your dictionary.

That's it. You'll stop posting. You'll quit as soon as Solji returns. All of these toxins, feelings of jealousy and self-deprecation, originated from this grotesque blog in the first place. Once you take a step back and breathe a deep breath, everything will return to normal. It should return to normal. It must return.

Fingers tangled in the roots of your hair, the world in your room blacks out and all you can sense are the pulls of your locks. Life has taken a deep plunge for you since that one memorable night of bright lights focused on the star upstage. The hate you've received on your own works has evidently taken a toll on your writing. None of the sentences hold even a penny to the eloquence of your past works, none of them even make sense anymore. Akin staffs of notes flowing gracefully across Yoongi’s scores, you, too, vividly recall the days when your own words held a sense of pride and freedom you only aspired to bear. Instead, all you see now are blocks of black ink across the page, as if it's some code you must decipher. The last thing you want to do now is write, and it's bringing your wit's end.

Luckily, Yoongi hasn't noticed the audio you've posted of his little performance for you… or at least he hasn't cared enough to inquire you about it. To your best predictions, he's probably too busy being successful to even notice someone as significant as you, not to mention a coward posting under the mask of a pseudonym. And as if things could not be more miscalculated in timing, Yoongi is all that has filled your mind in the past days since that fateful night. His cologne, his soft albeit smug grin, his nonchalant shrugs, everything from reality to your dreams takes you back to that very night in the auditorium.

As if life has taken pity on you with mercy, Solji hasn't contacted you either regarding the news of your supposed relationship with Yoongi nor the methods you're utilizing to acquire such private material for the SS.

Again and alas, life surprises you just when you thought the storm after the calm had cleared. Phone ringing the familiar tunes you had set for his contact, the gentle melodic touch to the keys of white and black, you crouch close towards the floor and approach the phone with reluctance more than caution…

... your instincts never cease to fail you, for the text plastered across your screen elicits even more rightful caution from within your already constricted chest.

Yoongi [5:10 PM] Hey, Y/N. I've nearly finished my mixtape and I've shown the boys already. Wanna come over for a listen, too? Your perspective is important to me. I think it'll be helpful. If not, I just wanted to let you know.

Yoongi [5:11 PM] And we can grab dinner afterwards while we're at it.

The latter message incites a skip of a beat and flutters a clutter of butterflies throughout your stomach. Everything, his invitation and your response, they all spell for trouble.

Knees deep, you just know you're treading in deep waters.

-

“Oh, it's you, Y/N!” you recall Hoseok’s voice blending into the background from the front gates of their studio when all of your attention is asserted on someone much less familiar and definitely less invited… or at least to you. Because catching sight of a familiar woman with disheveled hair and runny makeup is enough to set your mood to an all time low.

What could she have been doing at Yoongi’s studio? And why did he invite you after inviting her?

Maybe you’re just imagining things. Maybe it’s just someone else, especially since none of the boys seem to be mentioning her nor do they seem perplexed to have a second visitor.

Skimming through the members one by one, your chest becomes heavy with disappointment at the absence of the one you're really dropping by for. Why were his friends here and not him? Are you not worthy of his time? Are you so forgettable? Or are you being discarded of after someone else had replaced you?

Irrational thoughts plague your mind, even if the more cogent side of you knew the right answer; because like you and unlike most others, the key of passion to unlock the zone can both drown and oxygenate its beholder from the world outside.

You don't know why, but something about the last few days has really skewed your sense of reasoning.

“Are you looking for Yoongi?” Namjoon inquires with raised brows.

“Oh, yeah,” you mumble, glancing around the room nervously, “is it… that obvious?”

“I kind of figured after the whole ordeal Bang PD put you two in—” Namjoon quickly adds “—which I'm sorry about, again.”

Right. That's the only relation between you and him. It's all for the money and fame, like always… but why does it hurt you so?

“Oh, Y/N, you're here?”

Everyone in the room turns to face Yoongi, who nonchalantly enters the room from his studio with an equivocal look tipping toward anticipation.

“Yes, you invited me,” you remind him with a frown, “but here you are, fashionably late, not to mention having your friends invite me in instead of yourself.”

Yoongi blinks blankly for a few seconds, the reason for your attitude unbeknownst to both yourself and him. “Sorry. You could've called me at least.”

“I don't have your number,” you quickly rebuttal.

“Yes… you do, otherwise you wouldn't have known to drop by in the first place,” Yoongi frowns and arches a brow before deadpanning, “did you not sleep last night or are you not right in the head right now?”

Well, he's not wrong—in fact, you're the one who's wrong. Maybe you really aren't right in the head.

A nervously feigned laugh cascades from Hoseok as he parts from the couch and glides across the lobby to throw his arms over Yoongi’s shoulders. “Don't worry, Y/N, that's just his dumb way of joking around. He doesn't mean any offence, right?”

“No, how is my question offence anyways? It was a legitimate question,” Yoongi scrunches his nose, reusing to succumb to Jimin, whom had made his way beside him, and his elbow jabs.

“C'mon, it's your fault you kept your lady waiting. You invited her over, which, by the way, can we ask why or rather what you two are planning to do?” Jimin chimes suggestively, the bright smile of his eliciting a suppressed albeit undeniably gummy grin from Yoongi—how does he do that with such ease?

“Get off me,” Yoongi mutters but takes no action, “I don't know what you're suggesting because I was just asking her to listen to some of my tracks, you dirty scum.”

“Don't you have a meeting to go to?” you interject after a collective fit of laughs from the boys.

“Oh, right, thanks for the reminder,” Yoongi hastily grabs a navy blue coat from the couch and shuffles his way to the door before turning around to call to you, “sorry, I'll be back soon. I swear. Just wait for me here, alright?”

Ignoring the whistles from the boys, the door slams closed behind him without another word, leaving you with the quiet chattering of the boys and your own incessant worries.

How and why do Jimin and Hoseok seem to always reside on Yoongi’s better side, regardless of their antics and remarks. To you, and surely for the boys, too, Yoongi leans toward the more curt, unconforming side of the spectrum. You wouldn't exactly say you want to hold the same effects or at least garner better responses than whatever you had just witnessed, but a part of you does wonder why you, unlike Jimin or Hoseok or any of the boys, really, seem to lie on Yoongi’s colder side of the spectrum.

“...I was just wondering,” the words slip from your lips before you can retract them and the boys look up at you with inquisitive looks, “...um, I don't know how to say this, but why does Yoongi always seem to be more—I guess—lenient around you guys?”

“Lenient?” they repeat, as if they've heard you wrong.

“Well, more like, how do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“That, you know,” you tiptoe around the topic before cutting to the chase, “how do you make him smile like that?”

“Oh,” they collectively utter with a laugh when Hoseok answers, “we actually get that question a lot. He seems cold on the outside, but really, he sometimes acts more like a kid than any of us, including our youngest, Jungkook.”

“It's pretty easy to get him to smile, but you might get a few scowls from him beforehand,” Jimin adds with a chortle.

“Just be yourself,” Jin shrugs, “he might dislike the real you even more, but at least he'll respect you for being honest.”

“Say whatever is on your mind,” the youngest one says on their own dime.

“Oh,” Taehyung’s voice rises in volume, as if a lightbulb had just flickered on in his head, “you have to be upfront with him. He doesn't initiate things. It's hard to get close to him, but he's welcoming if you try, at least that's what worked for me.”

“Yeah… I can't blame him, though,” you shrug. “It's only been a few weeks and it's not like he has a reason to further our friendship or whatnot other than for the cameras anyways…”

“No, actually,” Jimin muses, “you two actually seem pretty close and get along quite well for how long he's known you. He's not the best with strangers, not to mention trusting someone enough to invite them to his studio.”

“Oh…?” you quirk a brow, hesitating further. “Is there a reason why he's so… wary of others?”

Does it have to do with his past relationships?

Or perhaps that woman you had seen him on the balcony with on that fateful night?

Why are you even asking such a silly, invasive question?

It's not like it's your business.

But you want to know.

“Um…” Jimin mumbles and glances at the boys, shaking his head, “we don't actually know… we always thought it was just a part of his personality.”

“But Y/N,” Hoseok chimes with the wiggle of his brows, “is there a reason why you're asking this? Is it something cheesy like being the source of his happiness? I can't believe Yoongi has finally found the—”

“—no!” you realize you cut him off along with your curiosity for the following words too short. “I was just curious…”

But whatever. He has a girlfriend anyways. It would hurt all too much to hear the truth… even if you didn't like him in that way. You just admire him as a fellow artist…

...right?

-

“...right?”

A puff of air sifts from his parted soft lips when your head snaps up in alert and he realizes your lack of attention.

“Right, wait,” you pause and widen your eyes quizzically, “right about what?”

Yoongi takes a deep breath and repeats calmly as his fingers tap rhythmically atop his ice-blue-lit-keyboard, “you’re hungry, right?”

“I’m fine,” you blurt, ignoring the growl in your stomach, “I’m totally fine. Let’s finish what I came here for and listen to your mixtape.”

“No,” Yoongi shakes his head, wagging his finger in the air at you disapprovingly, “I want quality feedback, and the fact that you can’t even continue a simple conversation makes me feel like I’m talking to a brick when it’s usually the other way around with the boys.”

“I’m telling you I’m fine, well, at least now I am. I was just… thinking about other stuff. Worrying.”

“Worrying?” he cocks a brow, eyes darting at your firm grip of the buzzing phone in your hand.

“Just… about my writing. It’s nothing much,” you press your lips into a forced grin, for whether it’s the stirring flutters of unnamed anxiety in your stomach or the incoming comments of hate from your blog or instigating hate from within you on the S.S., neither you nor Yoongi could afford to know the truth.

“Alright—” he doesn’t press further when he notices the discomfort in your eyes “—but I’m here if you ever need me. Anyways, pack your things and do whatever girls like to do before a night out ‘cause we’re getting dinner.”

“Wait, now? Dinner?” a sharp intake of breath refuses to untangle the knot in your throat elicited by the thought of dinner with Yoongi and you just don’t know why. “We can just eat some cup noodles here or something while listening to your tracks…”

“We can listen to them here,” he pans, raising his sleek black phone paired with an equally plainly colored earbuds, “I know it’s hard to believe, but technology is quite convenient nowadays.”

His remark elicits a roll of your eyes, “I get it, but I didn’t bring enough money for a dinner… or at least not for a restaurant fancy enough for A-lists like you.”

Yoongi scoffs at your typical comment with a snort, “yes, well, I figured I’ve asked too many favors from you tonight and even made you wait after it all, so I’ll lower myself to the level of you peasants for just one day over a plate of burger. In fact, I’ll treat you tonight.”

“Do you…” hesitantly, you peer up at Yoongi whom now stands over the blinding light of his studio lamp looming over you, “...always treat the boys or any girl—anyone, I mean—out for dinner?”

“Rarely. Usually, I prefer to work and cook up a quick bowl of ramen, but I can't exactly do that with my guest over, can I?” Yoongi smirks at you from the corner of his lips as a lock of his hair dips over his eyes. Nonchalantly, he reaches his hand out, aloft in the air between him and you. “So are you to taking this deal or not, Ms. Y/L/N?”

And before you could stop yourself, a grin stretches from ear to ear as your hand softly grazes atop his before being swallowed by the closing, firm grip of his rough ones bedazzled by a couple of rings and branches of veins.

“I’ll take it.”

-

Unbeknownst to you, your innate yet irrational desired entails for a journey to the closest restaurant tenfold less grand than you had imagined. Instead of calling his manager for a ride, claiming his interests lie in priorities other than buying a car, Yoongi suggests taking a brief stroll through the rather sparse neighborhood and enjoying the night breeze. To him, this might just be another day of unnecessary labor, but what he doesn't know is the incessant pumps of electrically charged blood coursing through your veins at this very moment—and you plan to keep it that way.

Buzz, buzz, your phone vibrates twice followed by a loud groan from the back of your throat as you pull it out from your back pocket out of habit.

[Blog Notification, user 26748 commented, “So when is the next update??????”]

[Blog Notification, user 31038 commented, “Update was great. Thanks!”]

Thumb hovering the power button of your phone, you roll your eyes with a deep breath before—

“—oh, is that your writing blog?”

“Oh my God,” his sudden presence you had someone forgotten in the midst of your own zone takes you by surprise as you jump back and glare at him with wide eyes, “did you really have to say that so close to my ear?”

“Boo,” he equivocates, despite the tint of a smug grin at the corner of his lips, “so? What's with that frown? Isn't it feedback to be proud of?”

His fingertips graze against your cheeks to poke at the left corner of your supposedly down-turned lips, marking a trail of fire with the icicles of his digits.

“No,” you rebuke, peering up to glare at him but failing to retract yourself from his all too soothing touch, “one is rudely demanding an update without any form of appreciation and the other hardly provided any feedback at all! As far as I know, they could be the same person just trying to lather me with mediocre comments so I feel more obliged to update.”

Yoongi raises a brow, “and why do you hypothesize so?”

“Because they're sent right after each other. A minute apart.”

“They're different accounts.”

“Some people have several accounts for different uses.”

Your quick rebuttals elicits a chuckle from Yoongi as his eyes flicker to the side before returning to lock with your hardened ones— broken for a hot second under his enchanting gaze—and cocks his head, “don't you think you're reaching just a tiny bit? Scratch that, you're about to pull a damn muscle from that leap.”

“I know,” you grumble and cross your arms, “but it's still not a great feeling after getting your hopes up for some feedback other than hate.”

“Hate?” Yoongi inquires with an arched brow before shaking his head and fidgeting with something in his pockets. “Ignore them. They're not worth your time anyways. If you think about it, those two—or one, if your theory is correct— are interested in your story enough to comment, right?”

“I don't need just ‘enough,’ it won't keep me going. I get it, I appreciate them for even commenting, but sometimes I need real feedback…” your voice trails, “... especially now, when I'm questioning my skills in the profession I've dedicates my whole life to.”

A momentary silence marking the recognition of your sentiments ensues until his fidgeting hands finally reach out from his pocket and across you from behind to pat firmly onto your right shoulders.

“I understand. It might be hard for you to believe me, but I do understand and I promise you'll get through this. Someone will recognize your talents, you just have to endure long enough,” he utters, pulling you closer to his side as the road narrows between two buildings. “Quite frankly, I find it intriguing how I'm the one looking for the silver lining when you're the one who's been preaching it all this time to me. Are you sure you're the Y/N I invited over tonight?”

From this proximity, you catch a whiff of his cleanly crisp cologne and the rumbles of the low registers of his chuclle. It's impossible for you deny how your heart nearly jumps right out;and just like that, you've forgotten the snide remark he had just made. Is this all on purpose? Is it a swift move done at the right place and time or is it all a coincidence? Is this how he treats all ladies…? Even the women you had caught him in the balcony with?

The questions persist in a consistent, overly congested flow when his hands swiftly grab ahold of yours, rough to the touch yet gentle with the tug as he takes control, and leads you into the relatively dim setting of a rather fancy restaurant. He might not know the pace at which your heart races, and he certainly doesn't know the unreasonable effect he has on you because even you don't know; unbeknownst to you, the swelling of your heart had already begun long ago with the first key of his piano.

“So… how are you doing?”

A frown with the arch of a brow resides on his features.

“You just listened to my tracks and that's the first thing you have to say? I was expecting some harsh criticism from the likes of you, to be honest.”

“Likes of me?” you articulate with narrowed eyes, eliciting a chuckle from him.

“With the likes of you,” he repeats, and the smug grin on his lips flutter something within your chest, “and your expertise in lyricism and all aspects of this cruel, cruel industry.”

The sarcasm in his voice draws the roll of your eye, but in his own little way—the way he leans into the table with his gaze glued to you and the way his eyes sparkle and his anticipation dances on the tip of his pressed, slightly upturned lips—you know he's serious. For once, someone is listening, and not just listening, but listening to you, as if you're worth their time and what you have to say is significant.

Finally, as you lose grip of your beloved pen, the beholder of ink, you gain the grant of his power.

“Instead of asking you what you're doing or what you could improve on, I was asking how you're doing, because as hard as it is to believe, I do actually care about your wellbeing,” your hands instinctively lie upon his own cold ones before quickly withdrawing when he casts his eyes upon your gentle touch; but when his equivocal gaze returns to the shake of your's, you find yourself uttering the last of your worries without hesitation. “Forgive me if I'm misinterpreting, but from what I've heard in your works, there's been a time when your own works have put you through an impossibly dark time.”

A soft chortle purrs from his lopsided grin as he nods in recognition, “it’s amazing how you've managed to put it all into words so exactly yet poignantly, it's almost as if you've experienced it yourself…”

...are you speaking to your own reflection?

“Don't we all go through such times? Especially us,” you can't help but laugh to ease the tension, “us creators.”

“Yeah. Funny, though,” he pauses to recline in his seat with a smirk plastered across his face and it takes you off guard—you almost have to remind yourself to breathe; you've always known somewhere in the back of your head just how charming Yoongi could be, but now, for some reason, all of your attention and soul has been enraptured by the phenomenon bestowed before you. “I recall you claiming that it's impossible for people like you and I to understand each other. But as it turns out, celebrities like me and upcoming writers like you, are more similar than anyone else.”

“Hm,” you press your lips into a thin, curved line, “I guess so, like two stars of two universes yet all but with one identical purpose to fulfill.”

“How hasn't the entire world heard of you, Writer Y/N?” Yoongi remarks, tilting his head with an adorable gummy smile. He begins playing with the cup on the table, “well, that's exactly why I decided to share this side of me. It's important to spark discussion, isn't it? No matter how dark or unpleasant, it's real, we all deal with it, and it's me.”

“And…” you add on, evoking a nervous raise of the brow from the boy across from you, “...if they don't like this real side of you or even acknowledge him, then can you really call them friends? Fans, even?”

“Thanks, my number one fan,” he chortles and you can only scoff as he clears his throat; but when he swiftly lays his hands atop yours, your scoff is cut in half by the lack of air being knocked out of your lungs. “My studio, my music, they all give me a place of solace, a temporary haven from the burdens of life, and I never thought this was possible, but talking to you like this, talking to someone who seems to understand me for me, I don't feel so alone anymore. So, thanks, Y/N.”

His words leave you lost for your own words.

“...ditto,” you return a sheepish smile at his equally bashful pressed grin, “I couldn't have said it better.”

There. That's the genuine smile you've been searching for all this time.

“To be honest, it's hard for me to find someone to talk to, not to mention a place to talk in without having to hide in the corner of a restaurant like this or being bombarded by paparazzis and fans.”

“Ironic,” the both of you cackle when you point at yourself. “But why is that so? Don't you have the boys? Your family? A girlfriend…?”

His eyes dart to you at your latter question.

Please forget I asked. Please forgive me for prying. I swear I don't want to know. I don't want to hear the truth behind her.

“No, I try not to talk about things like this to them—” who exactly are they, you find yourself straying instead of listening “—and it's not that I don't think they wouldn't understand or that I don't want to burden them, but it's hard for me to trust everyone with things like this.”

“Because you're scared people will see you differently, see you as a coward.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” he laughs a bittersweet melody before settling to uncertain silence. Hesitantly, his line of sight trails along the table, across to you, and gradually to meet your own gaze. “But you don't see me differently, do you?”

“You're still the resilient local resident making a living off of passion to me,” your laugh echoes in harmony with his until you find the courage to utter, “who could’ve broken your trust like this?”

He shrugs. “Just life. Work. People of my past.”

Does he trust her?

“Do you trust me?”

Even if you knew all the things I’ve been doing behind your back? Even if you knew I took such a private moment and uploaded it for the whole world to see?

“Yes, but, don't get ahead of yourself, Miss Y/N,” Yoongi wags his finger at you but not without a raspy chuckle. “I can't believe I'm telling a paparazzi of all people my deepest and darkest secrets. If you break my trust after this, you're never getting it back. Ever. Got it?”

Gulp—you don't know why, but the move just tangles the knot in your already constricted further.

“And same goes for you to me? I can trust you with my writing blog?”

His phone rings. You can just barely make out the name of the incoming text, looking somewhat like that belonging to a woman. Could it be her? Is she looking for him? Is he going to leave you for her?

Yoongi checks his phone, frowns, and turns the screen back off.

It only takes him a few seconds to completely shatter your confidence.

“Of course.”

But it only takes him two words to complete your trust. It takes Yoongi two words to build the bridge between separate universes. Hundreds of words, sentences, paragraphs, and pages and above, it takes you to convince yourself your works are worthy; and yet, he needs a mere couple of words to provide you worth.

Is there something wrong with you? In your approach? Have you just not been working hard enough? Or have you not been producing the right works? Maybe you should've stuck to your original approach and shrug off his, producing cheesy rom-coms more likely to strike gold.

Or maybe you should've been more true to yourself.

You trust him, holding his hand like this as he guides you through the back alley of the restaurant, and yet, your confidence is in shambles, incessantly reminding yourself none of this means more than acquaintances, because you don’t know if you can even proclaim you two as friends.

Come to think of it, what are you to him?

The question never really occurred to you, but lately, after removing yourself from work and distracting yourself with other matters, there hasn’t been a single moment where he wasn’t involved. What was he doing? Has he eaten yet? When would he text you? When would you two meet up again? What excuse do you have to see him?

Because in moments like this, where he squeezes your hands with his own rough ones, melting you in his embrace, where he guides you through the empty, barely illuminated streets, where you watch him and the rise of his sturdy shoulders from behind, where he mumbles some poor joke before switching places with you to ensure your safety within the sidewalk and away from the streets, where the silence is thin like walking on ice but the air is filled with unspoken words befalling on two pairs of intent percipients and neither of you must speak nor act to fully know the other is listening, where cricket chirps and chilly breezes fill the moonlit night, where your heart twirls and leaps until it beats against the skin of your hand and you begin to wonder if he notices, where you finally find someone on this sparse universe who understands you and accepts you even in moments of diversion, you begin to freefall.

This wasn’t the plan, but you truly are in too deep.

And when you finally accept it, you come to an epiphany: you, a pessimist of both work and above, are, irrevocably and hopelessly, in love; and this love, if not for the beholder of your own ink, spells the death of you.

“Sorry again about having to walk you all the way back instead of calling my manager,” Yoongi mutters to break the silence, right hand reaching to scratch the back of his neck with a sheepish smile hinting at his gums. “I didn’t want to bother him… and plus... at least we got a good conversation going on there.”

“Yeah,” it’s impossible for neither of you to notice the grin stretching from one of your ears to the next, “and at least you got a breath of fresh air outside of the studio for once.”

“Right,” he chuckles, shaking his head before leaning against the doorframe of your apartment with lips pressed into a thin upcurve. “Hey, I know I’m terrible expressing myself, but really, thank you for today, for hearing me out.”

“You do,” you laugh a his scowl, “but of course… I’m expecting the same in return…?”

“Sure,” his lopsided, effortless grin has your heart pounding painfully against your chest, “I guess I’ll see you… tomorrow? Maybe? Sometime soon?”

Ah, you really can’t help the flutters in your system; just how deeply have you fallen?

“Tomorrow sounds...,” your voice practically sings, “...good.”

You don’t realize it until now, but there, he stands just a foot away from you; slowly and oh-so-dreadfully slowly, two stars begin to inch forward in an attempt to fabricate a bridge between two universes forbidden of contact. With the golden light of your house striking upon the warmth of his skin, highlighting the dewiness of his lips and what you only now come to notice the well tamed hair and white collared shirt, your insides swell and you nearly become numb to the oversensitivity as a reaction to the endless butterflies in your stomach.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

You know he belongs to someone else.

And yet, this is all too tempting to pass.

If he had someone, he would stop you, right? You deserve this after all you’ve given up for him and his little publicity stunt, right? You’ve given up your job and your dreams just for him, so this is the least you deserve, right…?

Gradually, your eyes flutter shut along with his until—

—buzz.

“Sorry,” the both of you blurt, eyes darting open and widening as you two jump back and grab for the vibrating phones in your pocket.

Solji [1:37 A.M.] Y/N, I just got back from my trip. Sorry for going MIA for the last week but…

Solji [1:37 A.M.] WHAT THE HELL AM I SEEING ON THE NEWS?!

Solji [1:37 A.M.] YOU’RE DATING MIN YOONGI? FROM BTS?

Solji [1:38 A.M] I THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU DIDN’T KNOW HIM? THAT HE WASN’T YOUR TYPE? DO YOU ACTUALLY LIKE HIM?

Solji [1:38 A.M.] This is fake, right? These photos just happen to be taken and you bumped into him at the wrong time while working on the SS?

Solji [1:38 A.M.] Answer me asap because I have to know what to do with you and the SS. I’ll be taking it over again in the meantime.

Groaning, you clear the notifications from your screen before taking a deep breath and sighing in sync with the boy standing across from you. What are you supposed to tell Solji? Can you really tell her the truth? You are being paid to keep this a secret, and as terrible as you are for admitting this, but who knows what she’ll do with the newfound info? Maybe she’ll use it for the next tea of the SS. Maybe she’ll threaten you and force you to officially quit your line of work. What would she even think of you, selling yourself out for easy money instead of pursuing your career?

But all that aside, the thought which startles you the most is the realization that none of those questions matters to you the most when it should be your utmost concern. In reality, your sole attention belongs to the boy staring at the ground as he buries his phone deep into his back pocket once again and begins shifting in place.

“Sorry, I have to go now—” your heart drops “—someone needs me. It’s an emergency,” he mumbles between barely parted lips and glimpses up to lock eyes with you, soft, sincere, vulnerable. “I’m really sorry. Seriously.”

“It’s fine,” you press your lips into a thin line to suppress any form of emotion from spilling, shaking your head and feigning a smile. “Go.”

Go and have fun with her, prancing around from girl to girl, because at the end of the day, he’s choosing her instead of you anyways.

Why did you let your guard down in the first place?

“Alright…” he utters, hands reaching for the nape of his neck before reaching out to grab your hand to give it a quick squeeze, “goodnight then.”

And when his hands loosen, warmth drifting from your touch to return to his side, you realize the parting came all too soon and you’re met with the cold, deafening silence of the night air once again.

Do you even like him?

Solji has a point. Do you even like him? Or is this some sort of rebound after losing the only companion you had ever known and trusted? Writing has wronged you and left you astray, but with Yoongi, you’re like a broken yet rehabilitating train wreck returning to its tracks where it rightfully belongs.

You’ve never found someone who understands you in and out, who welcomes debate and invites perspectives directly counteracting his.

You two come from polar sides of the universe, two extremes of the world, and yet that’s exactly what lies similar between you and him; so who says attraction is a term unknown to such opposites?

“Wait, Yoongi!” you call out but you know he’s long gone.

Scrambling for the stairs is the first move your heart sets out to do. Wasting no time on the elevator, your feet struggle to keep up with your mind as you nearly stumble down the flight of steps, shoes pounding against the concrete until, finally, spotting him pacing slowly in front of your building. With large strides, the distance between you and your star become extinguished as you grab ahold of his hand and whirl him around.

“Y/N?” Yoongi raises a brow, but the serenity in his eyes tell you neither of you are surprised by this scene and are, rather, relieved. “What are you doing—”

“—shut up,” you manage to say in between breaths, cupping his face in your hands, “you and I both know we need to confirm something.”

And even when the corner of your eyes takes note of a camera flashing and a dreadfully familiar woman watching from afar, you dive into the drowning waves of his touch when his coarse hands firmly hold the back of your head to guide your lips onto his.

75% too enraptured to care, 25% too guilt-plagued to confess.

[endeavorsreward]

The Nail

[This story is dedicated to everyone who follows or followed me here as I’ve worked on this project, and to everyone harmed by the changes to Tumblr policy, but is especially dedicated to @ipsens-castle, @lioncid, @adalheidis and @livvyplaysfinalfantasy who have been kind, generous, entertaining, and enriched my life on this site and let me know that despite being overbearing, self-satisfied, and at times too-clever by half, I had a home here amongst people who cared about these characters, and the others who fall adjacent, just as much as I do -- but moreover the authors and their themes, which is what make those characters what they are.

This story is also inspired by user @ink-splotch, who doesn’t know me from Adam, but whose fiction surrounding a property that I don’t even like has been endlessly engaging and a constant reminder of the power of fan writing.]

What if it had gone the other way?

***

Gragoroth had been many things in his day; a veteran of countless campaigns in the final years of the war with Ordallia, an adequate campside cook and a miserable painter, a younger brother and a son. He didn’t know that his bloodline was one of few that stretched back centuries, to before the Cataclysm, to other lives and worlds. Gragoroth was an incurious man, and that had mostly suited him, because his was a life that had focused on survival. It was for this reason that the Templars had sought him out, had used him to play the Corpse Brigade against the White Lion’s forces. “Survival above all,” in the long-ago days of Archades, had been writ on his family’s crest, though to a man none in his line had ever been good at it in the long term.

So it was that when he and his comrades stormed the Beoulve manse and made off with a girl, it was only a twist of fate that they got the correct one.

The twist was this: in the kitchens, one of the staff had placed a loaf on the countertop, yet steaming from the oven, and they were so immersed in their gossip that its angle was precarious. In another life, another world, it stayed – here, it fell. A mouse darted for the treat the gods had bestowed, and Tietra Heiral, who was always assisting, who knew that she earned also kindnesses from the family’s new head by being of use and out from underfoot, let out a shriek.

Tietra hadn’t much experience in being brave in the way her brother was, but she was brave in other ways, in attending classes with girls who were cruel, in enduring and believing there would be a place for her. None of these braveries came with a tolerance for mice, and one shouldn’t judge her for it; certainly Alma Beoulve did not, when she came running at the sound. Alma scooped the mouse up in her hands and made to let it outside, unharmed. She reached the hall only to find a pair of men with dirty arms and darting eyes. Alma didn’t shriek here, either – in another life, and other world, this was where Tietra cried out, this was when Alma came running, not because these men were poor or where they didn’t belong, but because Tietra knew to sense malice when it stood before her. Alma, instead, didn’t react in time.

Gragoroth was incurious; he always saw a girl, and he always punched upward into her stomach. He hadn’t the mind to judge the state of the girl’s tailoring, and anyway, Alma was always lending her dresses to Tietra, who wasn’t too proud to wear them. It was sheer... luck... when they grabbed a hostage who was actually valuable.

***

Once, Ramza Beoulve had stood and watched men revolting for the cause of a better life bleed out into a gutter and wished they’d chosen instead “honest work,” unaware of the face his friend, his brother, made to his back.

Here, now, Ramza Beoulve stood in the pouring rain, as a woman with ten times his strength bled out amongst fallen stone, in a place long dead, and listened to her dying curses.

“It may well be you've done no wrong...” said Milleuda Folles with a mouthful of shattered teeth, “It is your place in the world that drives my hatred on. You bear the name Beoulve, and that name is my enemy.”

“That name is my sister’s, whose kindnesses are returned with this!” Ramza raised his blade. “That you’d scar the innocent is no justice, but vengeance! You’re naught but cowards, seeking cause to blame, that the world did not provide for you!”

“You’d call me coward?” Milleuda spit blood in his face. “A babe yet in his blanket? I regret only I won’t be there to see when that blanket’s torn away! If you believe this world is the right of things, you’d better learn to kill for it, because we know we must kill to repair it.”

She made it easy for him by lifting her sword, but not a man on that plateau believed she was yet a threat to them. When Delita Heiral watched Ramza’s sword come down, he recognized the look in Ramza’s eyes, because it was Argath’s.

***

Would Zalbaag have given the order to spare Alma Beoulve? We’d never know. He certainly hesitated, and yes, indeed, he did so for longer than he would have for Tietra, whose songs in the church choir could move him tears. But Alma was the perfect gemstone in the Beoulve display case; even with her regrettable origins, even with the embarrassment that he and Dycedarg would whisper about in the latest of hours over Romandan brandy, Alma was always too perfect to pity, too perfect to hate, for anyone who beheld her for more than a moment.

It was why Delita had never fallen in love, you know? Oh, certainly, there was a year as boyhoods began to shed in the Beoulve manse, it would be impossible for children whose lack of relation was so heavily enforced, there was a time when Delita the boy was infatuated, but it passed quickly, and not even for reasons of class which would have been self-evident – though it would be hard to find a group of children who’d have more reason to ignore them. No, it was because Alma was ethereal, because she radiated saintliness, because she could never belong to anyone. Not her beauty or her virginity or any chivalric ideal, but her kindness. No, Ramza and Delita knew her yet as the girl with muddy knees, the one who’d begged Dycedarg to allow her to plant a garden with flowers like any member of the help. No, it was her equanimity and her righteousness.

She was as if Ajora walked amongst them as a teenaged girl; as unlikely as that sounded.

Perhaps that was what Zalbaag was thinking of when he hesitated, the Alma who read to ailing elderly in Eagrose town, who took to scripture as Zalbaag had; Gustav knew none of that, Gustav knew only that the arm that held his knife grew heavy, that the cold winds that scraped against Ziekden felt as though they’d pick him up and toss him halfway back to Ordallia, where he’d lost an ear and most of his soul.

Would Zalbaag have given the order to spare Alma Beoulve? We’d never know, because only a single sound had escaped his lips when the bolt fired. It’s not clear what happened – if Argath had made the choice without him, if Argath’s frozen hands had slipped on the bolt’s catch, if that single syllable had sounded like the beginning of the order. In the long run, it didn’t matter. In the shorter, it mattered little, either, because what followed was solely violence, fire, and chaos.

***

But let’s pause this tale here to look in on another girl who had known nothing but unfairness, a girl upon whom things happened; some time earlier, in a time when things had gone the same. Ovelia Akatscha was delivered to Orbonne with a small wooden chest clutched carefully in her lap, and within was a bright blue stone shaped like a teardrop – because in Ivalice, Virgo is the sign of sorrow, of loss, of the sacrifice of women in worlds that venal men had made. Even Ultima was a victim, once, but like so many in Ivalice, she had made of her victimhood a weapon with which to pay that hurt forward – it had been twelve hundred years since Ashelia had broken the chain, but Ashelia was an Aries – the house of Folles were her failed children, not Ovelia, not Alma, not Tietra.

If Ovelia had ever heard whispers from the Virgo stone, they would have been indistinguishable from her own doubts, her own fears. And Elder Simon locked the stone away deep in the vaults – what better metaphor than to bury Ultima beneath mountains of tomes, volumes and volumes of lies about the Rozarrian spy that they’d made a man, made a martyr, made a god. Ivalice will make of women what it will, and Ovelia could be forgiven for thinking she’d had the worst of it, because she would not be there to witness her only friend sag downward off the fortress battlements, echoing a Tarot card for brief moments before vanishing into the flames of an explosion.

To Ovelia, the worst of the world was to be discarded, forgotten; but in a world without Alma Beoulve, she could be afforded no such luxury. Hashmal had despaired of ever finding the anima that would best resonate with Virgo, but he’d kept one eye long on his best option at hand, and in this version of events, the spare would have to do.

***

What if it had gone the other way? You ask, because you wonder if Delita could be the hero; you wonder if Ramza could be the villain. You wonder if Barbaneth was right about his sons – you don’t wonder about his daughters. You don’t consider the girls, when you ask if what happened had gone the other way, as if they were lambs upon an altar.

In Ivalice, the lamb is the spirit of rage; the virgin is the woman harmed. In Ivalice, they say “In sword etched he his fading memories, in stone, his tempered skill” but they forget – they always forget – that the tale is penned by the men who benefit. In sword etched she her dreams, in stone, her tears.

***

Here’s the truth of it: Tietra Heiral had believed her whole life was borrowed time. The part of her that was a girl believed truly that one day a prince would come riding from the woods to take her away to some other place – a dream that, in another life, would be rudely, cruelly parodied – and for a time, yes, she’d hoped it would be beautiful, fearless Ramza Beoulve, but not long enough, she was no fool, and Alma’s inability to see why not felt more often like she was trying to make their sisterhood “real,” which meant it wasn’t real enough. But the adult in her, growing by the day, knew instead what Delita had always known, which was that the charade would one day cease, and cease so painfully that it would be easier to await it every day than be surprised by it.

When Alma was taken, she prayed to Ajora every minute for her return, for her safety, but she’d packed her few things into the tattered bundle that had once held everything she’d brought from the stables when she came to this large house on the hill. There was still no overflow, as so few things were truly hers.

Tietra was always the unnoticed; when word came to Dycedarg, she was there in the hall, though she might as well have been a vase upon a pedestal. She grabbed her bag and ran that day, through the tears, and this was a kind of bravery, too. That she made it only so far as the stables before she broke down, before she collapsed in on herself like a falling house, that was no fault of hers – this world taught few women to be Agrias Oaks, and only those who learned they must teach themselves made it that far.

The stables didn’t feel like home. Only Delita had that echo within him, only he grasped at his father���s memory in that way. Tietra better remembered her mother, and there was nothing left of her to reach for. No, at the stables she fell to her knees and the tears finally came, the ones she’d not allowed herself since that first day Alma was taken, tears that knew she was gone, that Tietra’s parents were gone and maybe Delita, too, and she was alone in a world not meant for shielding girls like her. Hadn’t Alma been the clever one, the brave one?  Oh, would that she was born a man!

She knew nothing of what was going on beyond the grounds; she did not know that Delita had been caught up in the explosion at Ziekden, that he was recovering in fits and starts, oft-interrupted by attempts to flee, to return to his sister. Some of their company had survived, and it was they, huddling in a tavern’s back room in Fovoham, who ministered to Delita. They’d all become fugitives from the Northern Sky, and soon they would scatter, go their separate ways; but in this moment, they were healing their fellow, a man whom they’d scorned, some had hated. Delita’s feverish visions were of Tietra taking the bolt instead, of her body slumping across the Ziekden battlements. He was glimpsing another world not through augury, but through love’s nightmare, and so he missed this bravery from his beloved sister: that Tietra gathered up her skirts, stood, and returned to the manse.

She knew it was no longer home, if it ever was – knew she could no longer use the room where she’d once slept, once gossiped with Alma, but if she’d been all but servant before, she could hide amongst them again. In a real way they were, in fact, her people – and they would always make time for one who’d shoulder their share of the work.

Let this be in contrast with Ramza Beoulve, who nearly bled to death in the small chapel he’d dragged himself towards in the snow; who, in his lucid moments, realized that with no home, no true birthright any longer, and no Alma, he had nothing left to rely upon but “honest work,” as he’d so chastised those men in Gariland. But he had no skills, no aptitude for honest work, nothing but a head full of military history and tactics, nothing but hands that knew killing but not farming or trade, not crafting or service. Damned by his own words, damned by the actions of his kin, he thrashed under the hands of the sister who’d taken to wiping his brow.

He’d no idea she was a witch.

***

Come with us now forward in time, to the Clockwork City of Goug, where slavers of the Baert Trading Company, in pursuit of a Zodiac stone, run Mustadio Bunansa from his home, his father captive. He hides on a rooftop, painstakingly crafting a glass fake of the stone – not in possession of a plan, but because working with his hands is a thing he knows, and perhaps a plan could be found.

His roost is found, however, and he flees again. He considers going to the church, but knows his story will not be believed. His only hope, he thinks, is to escape northward, out of Baert’s range. In one version of the tale, he makes it as far as Zaland before they corner him. Here, however, sprinting down an alleyway and into a thoroughfare, something different occurs. A dancer, swirling her skirts over a cracked bowl at her feet full of coins, looks up and sees his panic. She turns to her brother, and the man, who stands to one side with his arms crossed, looks down and sighs, assuming trouble but never guessing the scale.

Here’s the truth of it: Delita’s eventual rescue of Tietra from Gallione is tense, heartwarming, and fraught one after the other, but it’s not interesting. What’s interesting is what followed. They boarded a ferry, and as it sailed closer to Mullonde, Delita spoke of leaving Tietra there.

“You will not,” she said, with her jaw set so firm that she was able to hide her trembling.

“This world is not safe...” Delita took her shoulders, gently, and pleaded. “I’d not lose you, as I lost...” Alma. Ramza. Their parents. Everyone, everything.

“If you leave me to be alone, I may as well have lost you!” She cried into his shoulder. “And you may as well have lost me.”

The reality of things is that in a world where both girls had lived, a world without Ultima and without the Templarate and Dycedarg’s schemes and all the rest, Tietra likely would have found her fate with a sister’s habit and cold, lonely stone. The plague had unmoored the Heirals, and both would have reached an age where Barbaneth’s double-edge kindness would have found its end in one form or another, and the truth of Ivalice is that a convent would be a better end than most. But here, now, these were two children who had each other and little else, and they would hold on to the end.

Tietra saw her first dancer in her youngest days, in a festival, before her parents had died. She’d looked like a princess, with her many-colored dress and her long, graceful movements, and she’d been too young to correct. Tietra danced alone in giant rooms, she danced with Alma, and exactly twice she was allowed to a ballroom where she danced with Ramza Beoulve amidst a crowd. The second time, he’d learned enough not to step on her feet. She’d always been allowed to sing – had been prized in the church choir – but dancing was like a secret kept.

When Delita promised not to leave her in Mullonde, the next time she was alone in her cabin – for Delita had used the last of his coin to purchase an actual room, rather than stowaway, thinking he’d be disembarking on the island – she began to practice.

People who believe in fate and the interconnectedness of things, the weight of centuries of history and the recurrence of ideals, might believe a Dalmascan street urchin was dancing alongside her in that cabin, but the thing that matters most is that dance has always been freedom, and for none more than the woman downtrodden. And for Tietra, who had lost so much, who had toiled without pause for months, who now had no station to pretend to and the looming church outside the cabin’s single window, had no shame to lose.

Delita had visions of becoming a mercenary, but she wouldn’t let him kill for coin. His hands were already too stained, to say nothing of his heart. When they reached Goug, he resisted her dancing for gil, but the look on her face when she was in motion silenced him – though whether it was awe or fear is for you to judge.

She learned other things, too, and these were by her brother’s insistence. He taught her how to hold a knife, and how to use it. It took time, but for as much as she abhorred violence, she knew Alma had been taught only the healing arts, the shielding arts, and she’d died in the cold. So she learned. And once, when Delita had to step away, a brusque man with arms like gnarled oak thought she was defenseless. Tietra scarred his inner thigh with the blade she’d been given, and he fled. She’d had to vomit into the gutter, then, but she knew now that she could do it. Fear never went away, and never went away at once, but moments like these built up like callused flesh.

When Delita ran to save the boy with the large-barreled fusil, she followed behind. She did not fight alongside them, but the spare few spells that Alma had been able to impart to her helped keep the two boys alive. And in the cobwebbed shadows of an abandoned workshop, Mustadio told them about the Auracite. Tietra knew the story of the Braves better than her own body, and something in the way the stone gleamed told her the truth of it. Delita was more skeptical, but they’d been in Goug long enough to know Baert and the coin he’d earned from making chattel of people. He protested, but only so much, when Tietra told Mustadio that they’d help.

***

Ramza, for his part, healed his body much faster than his mind. A man came to him, introduced himself as Loffrey, and offered revenge. And Ramza considered it, long and hard. Considered the hate in his heart, the chunk of ice that had wrapped ‘round his anima candleflame and seemed to breathe through his skin. But the difference between Delita and Ramza was always, is always, that Ramza had options that Delita hadn’t.

When he set out for Fort Besselat, he had only the intention of meeting with the last man in Ivalice who might hold a place for him – his father’s best friend, the most honorable knight in Ivalice, the Thunder God Cid Orlandeau. To cross a whole nation, though, was a task out of scale with anything he’d attempted.

In the end, he chose to fall in with a band of mercenaries. He’d hold up his end, only so long as they headed eastward, towards the Southern Sky. Their leader, Goffard Gaffgarion, agreed to the terms casually.

It was not a good deal: food, weapon upkeep, inn fare, all sorts of ways to be in debt to a man like Gaffgarion, who also turned out to be a fair shade crueler than he first appeared. And the further in debt that Ramza sunk, the less east that they seemed to travel. One night, nursing at the awful welts around his face from a beating, Ramza vowed to break off and bolt – the best time would be the night before a job, when Gaffgarion would be drunk, his guard down the furthest, and so after this one last mission, he’d flee into the woods.

Until then, he’d play the good soldier; and so he marched with his band south, to Orbonne Monastery.

***

Not everyone was afraid for their sister in Ivalice. Isilud Tengille never feared for his older sister, because she was twice the Templar that he was. That should have been an indicator to him, when his father entrusted him with such an important mission – should have been a sign that a once-loving man now viewed him as disposable. But he saddled up and rode to Orbonne anyway, flush with pride that he’d been chosen.

The plan went much as it once had, a world away. Men falsely flying the banner of Goltanna made a move on the princess. As they did battle with the guards that had been assigned to her, Isilud as the church’s agent crept in and knocked Ovelia out, with the intention of slinging her across his chocobo’s back. But this Ramza Beoulve was different. When he and Agrias heard the scream, they both ran inside, but Ramza was not confronted with a dear friend believed dead – he saw a stranger capturing a girl.

Like Alma.

He dove over the balcony, crashing through pews in a reckless, near-suicidal roll, and upon seeing it Agrias went out to cut around the back.

Isilud got away, but not with the princess. Ovelia clutched at Agrias in terror. Ramza remembered the grave face of Loffrey Wodring offering a path out of his personal Hellscape that was coated in the blood of those who’d wronged him. He sheathed his sword, and offered Agrias his hand. They would take Ovelia to Besselat themselves, in cognito – and Ramza would learn the truth of it from “Uncle Cid” himself.

It was a good plan – Besselat was safe, Orlandeau was honorable, and most had not seen Ovelia’s face. But they were ambushed at the falls.

***

Valmafra Lenande was a witch of the Dark, and a pawn of the church. You don’t even know her story. A woman adept at turning sides against one another, we know the tale where she is outfoxed, but not the why of it, the how. Valmafra’s reasons are her own.

Look, here: She’s sitting primly in a wagon, in a dress with frills, and faking polite conversation with the wagoneer, who is taking his milk to market. Valmafra knew what Tietra knew, how easy it was to be overlooked, underestimated. For Valmafra, it was a tool to wield. For Agrias Oaks, pride prevented that; neither is correct, or wrong. We all do what we must to survive, in the world after the Cataclysm. Valmafra, if anyone had asked her, would have told you that Ajora was a woman. Her people had whispered it from one to another for centuries. Ajora was the lesson taught, what happened when men understood a woman’s true power.

Valmafra often wondered what woman had stood behind the Hero-King Mesa, had set him on his course.

She did not dance, but she knew all about dancing; she knew all about Müllenkamp. One day soon, she would tell that tale to Tietra Heiral. But today, she folded her hands atop her knees, and acted impressed when the man spoke.

Ramza Beoulve had proven to hold less potential than she’d thought – or rather, less potential to the church. She suspected he’d find his use in time. But in the eyes of her keepers, it was a failure. To those who believed they held her strings, her usefulness might be running out.

They sent her towards Lionel, to meet with one of their agents; to assess his progress. She suspected she was being sent as little better than food for someone hungry.

What stories do you think she told Orran, in the days before the Gallows? What stories suited, with feelings so new, and already a suckling babe in one arm? Do you think she spoke of pretending to be a blushing maid, and do you think he’d believe? Do you think she let slip the dark tales of her childhood? Or was it like the rest of her, calmly professional, reciting horrors as one might a shopping list, as she’d once read troop movements to demons in human skin?

Would she tell, here, the story of when she came to Lionel, and found two men and one shivering, brave girl standing against one of the most powerful men in Ivalice? Or what he became in the moments after?

Would she be able to tell him, if she did, why she stepped in to aid them?

***

In Fearful Symmetry’s name, where once Delita entered low as Ramza battled high, now the opposite transpired, for they were not alone in Lionel that day – they were never alone in Lionel; call it Faram’s blessing, call it the blessing of a woman’s love, who’d once taken death for a lover, only to find instead she’d changed into something grand and terrifying. Reis’s Wind blowed through Lionel, and yearning hearts were always lifted on its currents.

They’d taken Ovelia at the falls, and Ramza and Agrias came to liberate her, with two knights at their backs. Above them, three of the common stock battled their fallen, corrupt church for the sake of all the kingdom, as these noble-born quested for a royal. In Ivalice, these tales always repeat, always reflect.

You see, for how much changes, so little truly does. The wheel turns, and those above are below, but the stations themselves never dissolve.

Did Delita become a better man? Consider his mind as he wedged a blade in the gaping maw of Cuchulainn: that this was inevitable, was his thinking, that corruption would prey on the weak no matter where he took Tietra in all of the world. As always, he had room in his thinking for both the thing, and the symbol, where Ramza could only grasp the real that was in front of him. The Lucavi’s voracious hunger was everything that Delita had always hated... and always believed himself above.

Did Ramza become a worse one? Consider his mind as he took Ovelia’s hand as they fled northeast, Agrias to one side; this girl who had known Alma, had once been of a piece with her, another sacrificial lamb, that he’d abide no one else die as she had.

Things did change, they did: this was no Ramza who would return to Zalbaag, not after Ziekden. It was Delita the church framed for the Horror of Lionel.

Things did not change, in so many ways that mattered. Delita and Ovelia, separated here by a distance in geography where it was once a distance of the mind and heart, each lifted a blade of grass to their lips.

***

Ramza and Agrias kneel before Cidolfus Orlandeau, but he bids them stand. Ovelia’s face is masked, but the Thunder God has the truth of it before they’ve even entered the room. He is a brilliant man, but he did not have to be, for his son’s ears were turned to the whispers of all Ivalice.

“I am proud of you, as your father would have been,” he says gravely, “But you should not have come.”

Beneath his cloak, Libra throbbed.

“My father knew you as a man of honor,” Ramza said, tired. “He knew you as a man who sought justice and freedom for all.”

“Even were I so, he knew me also as a man who honored his vows.” Orlandeau stood, arms crossed, looking out the window at the men amassed at Fort Besselat. Preparing. “My loyalty to my liege lord is not discarded so easily.”

“You’d hand us to Goltanna?” Agrias moved her hand to her hilt.

“We needn’t bother!” Orran Durai emerged from the shadows, clasping a thick book between his hands. “Your arrival had provided rumor enough for pretext. Even if your companion were not the princess, ‘tis enough for Larg to claim that she is!”

“It will be war betwixt the Lions,” the Thunder God intoned, “And it would have been so on some other claim if you hadn’t come. But that you have, your choices are few. I’ll not detain you if you choose to flee. I owe your father that much if nothing else. But I’d advise you instead to consider the good that you could do instead from my lord’s side. If war must come, if Larg is as treacherous as you claim, you might best serve to rally the people.”

“The Fort is not yet taken...” Ramza started, but Agrias shook her head.

“The Queen is hated. To many, the princess would hold the more righteous claim. But I’ll not see her used further.”

Ovelia was silent. Silent out of inertia, out of doubt, out of the fear of unfathomable consequences were she to speak on her own behalf. Orran Durai was staring at her, also, in a way that chilled her.

Orlandeau sighed, and sagged, ever so slightly, and for a moment looked all the years of his age, as he never had. “The people would rally to the rescued princess, were she to stand and speak of her own will.” And with a glance to Ramza, “Even further, were she at the hand of a noble bastard who’d broken oath to deliver her to freedom.”

Ramza sputtered. “Surely you jest!”

“I would give my lands and title to be only jesting now.” He braced himself against his desk. “For there is something further. Something only those in this room must know. And it will be... hard.”

A vice tightened around Ovelia’s heart... and then the Thunder God’s words ended her life.

***

Tietra had seen Virgo.

She’d studied at Orbonne, at Alma’s side; Elder Simon had always been so very kind to her, though the other girls were cruel. She’d never met the princess, as Alma had, but in the storeroom – just once – she’d seen it, gleaming in a single ray of candlelight.

You know this story. You know it like breathing.

What do you think was Delita’s reaction, seeing Wiegraf emerge from the stacks? Was it anger, blame? No, more likely this: that Delita, who damned himself seeing Milleuda Folles bleed out in the muck and storm, grasps the whole of Wiegraf better than near any other. Imagine another world yet, one where Barbaneth hadn’t had the whim, and the Heiral children had taken to the streets and forests. Delita knew Wiegraf’s face from within the walls of the Beoulve manse, from outside of them he’d be the man’s sure right hand. But here, now, with Milleuda dead – and Milleuda always dies, her flame burned brightest of them all – there could be no understanding between these two men who’d understand each other so very well.

Wiegraf never learned from Ramza that the girl that Isilud carried away was his sister, or Wiegraf would surely have demanded blood for blood, lost to the Ram’s Rage as he was even before forming the covenant; this time, there was no Isilud, there was only a poorly-timed shout in a darkened hall, and Wiegraf took Tietra and fled.

History is fated to repeat, in Ivalice. Ask the sky pirate, if you can find him – this isn’t his tale.

***

Isilud fell from the bridge at Germonique’s Crossing, over Zeirchele Falls, in the middle of a pitched three-way battle. Isilud was a strong fighter, but he hadn’t Delita’s head for machinations – he’d expected everyone to be in on the plan. Then again, maybe Gaffgarion was, and Dycedarg had merely made a better offer. It didn’t matter, anyroad. It was weeks before Meliadoul Tengille found the body, and it looked horrible. She didn’t know Ramza by name, but Lady Agrias of the Lionsguard was easy enough to identify, and the rest followed.

Ramza knew none of this; he was meeting Ovelia in the ruins of a church. He didn’t have a grand speech prepared, as Delita might.

“All this suffering and solitude,” she sobbed, “And for what?”

“It was the same for my sister,” Ramza said, and watched the birds. Her dearest friend – all pretenses were long past, by now – and the thought of it still shuddered through her. “This world does not suffer innocence, which it finds callow. But it needn’t be so.” And to her. “It needn’t ever be so again. We could build a better world, Ovelia. Together, you and I, and Agrias, and others.”

“A house built upon lie’s foundation can’t bear the wind.” Ovelia clutched at her arms. Nobody had ever offered her anything before, and you’d be hard pressed to determine for which she hungered more, the agency to enact a will she’d never known she possessed, or the suggestion of an end to loneliness.

“I believe that truth may have died with my sister.” He sat down beside her. “It was that day I understood that all I’d known as true were ideals handed to me by others. That even the truth of my own lineage was mutable, shaped in the eyes of whom it would benefit or harm. That my friendships were not equal. When I lost Alma, I became unmoored. I’d not let another suffer the same.”

An author less kind than Orran might note that the removal of falsehoods only casts light upon truth; that when what one holds as truth collapses to ash in that light, it was no truth at all. But Ramza hadn’t the perspective of viewing his tragedy from the outside, only the scar tissue from living through it. But his words were what Ovelia longed to hear – that Ivalice was parchment, not stone. And that solipsism was survivable. She saw in Ramza not a savior, but herself, stronger and willing to act.

***

Tietra and Rapha became such fast friends that you’d believe they’d known each other all their lives. They understood each other, truly and completely. In the dead of night, in camp, they’d dance together, each of them less scared than they’d ever been, knowing the other kindred soul was right beside.

Delita was having a harder time of it. In his hands was a book that dismantled the religion of his parents, in his ears were the whispers of a woman who’d had one foot in Hell since she could walk, and when his eyes were open he could see Marach skulking about, watching his sister, and Delita had seen him rise from the dead in a miracle. Delita Heiral had only ever believed in himself, and now there were so many things to believe in that he was having trouble choosing.

Between Marach and Valmafra, Delita had at his disposal the remains of the Loar Khamja, who had lost their figurehead in the vile but manageable Gerrith Barrington. They had Zodiac Stones; they had the Scriptures. Delita finally had the power he’d wished for all his life, and he was at a loss what to do with it.

The war continued on without them; Fort Besselat fell and was retaken thrice. Meliadoul traveled north, and in Gollund battled a man for the life of a dragon. The battle was a draw; she left with more questions than answers, though she found in the mineshaft a Zodiac Stone which she held in keeping until she could be reunited with her father. Barich ordered his men to slave over their stewpots, brewing poison. Loffrey traveled west for a meeting with Dycedarg.

And Folmarv Tengille waited for a sign from his mistress.

***

The sign came when the High Confessor was felled, and not by his hand.

A puppet-state, with Marcel Funebris at the strings; this was the grand plan, as Ramza understood it; Delita knew of the Lucavi, but his view was little different. Corruption, aided by the power of auracite. They sought to conquer or destroy, and that was what all powerful men sought, because to hold power was to exercise control. So he gave the order that he thought would do the most good, with the least cost.

It was an understandable stratagem. Sometimes after meals, he and Mustadio would play chess. The machinist had carved the pieces himself, one at a time, slowly, over the months and months that they’d journeyed together. They were not friends, not exactly, but they understood each other, and they both sought the destruction of the Stones, and to a man like Delita, trusting a motive was better than trusting a person. Delita usually won these games, though Mustadio was just unpredictable enough to keep it engaging. But as he grew more and more adept at thinking three, four, six, ten moves ahead, he found things slipping into the abstract, just lines and patterns and little of the pieces’ value. He realized it, one day, when Tietra stopped to watch, and reacted sadly at what she believed was a mistake on his part, but was instead a casual sacrifice to set up mate in eight moves.

He didn’t want to be that man, to have another Alma happen because of his actions, but he also was who he was.

In the end, the true error was that Delita, the cynic, could not imagine his opponent not claiming all the power that could be at his disposal. What he could not understand was that Folmarv Tengille had all the power he needed at the High Confessor’s side – the title would afford him nothing he did not already possess. He did not know Folmarv was the opponent, because Folmarv had not come to Riovanes, because without Isilud to follow, Barrington’s entreaties were easier to ignore. Cletienne had gone in his stead, and only just escaped with his life – and the Virgo stone.

Neither had Elmdore gone to Riovanes, but for a different reason – he was taking meetings with the future queen of Ivalice and her consort. Outside of locked chamber doors, Alicia and Lavian stood opposite Celia and Lettie, each sizing the others up, hands upon hilts, as the most charming man in Ivalice kissed Ovelia’s ring.

But then the Khamja came to Mullonde. Funebris was an old man with no real power, and as a target proved even easier than expected, though in the aftermath Folmarv slayed what assassins he could to keep up appearances. And when he lowered his blade, he allowed himself the faintest smile, as an opportunity presented itself.

***

What if it had gone the other way?

This is a story of two men, who traveled the opposite paths, yes; but it is also the story, always the story, of the women. Of Tietra and Rapha dancing in the dark, of Ovelia standing on a balcony looking over Zeltennia, of Meliadoul singing lullabies to a brother who was no longer there. Of a dragon nursing her wounds in frozen cave, of a queen going hungry in a frozen cell. And of Milleuda Folles, always, always dying in the name of freedom and rage and grief.

Ivalice isn’t kind to its women, but it is rarely kind to its men. The difference is what’s asked of them, that their victimhood be noble. Valmafra knew. What stories do you think she told Orran, in the days before the Gallows? None that made the page. To her, Ajora’s martyrdom might be the original sin; but there were centuries previous, even before the Dynast-Queen, before Müllenkamp, since at least the High Seraph herself.

For another thing Ramza never learned of “Truth” was its relative value. When Orran stood with the noose ‘round his neck, like Ajora before him, and spoke of the War’s “truth,” what use was that Truth to Rapha? What of that narrative spoke to the Miracle at Riovanes?

Do you think she told Orran, Valmafra, that even revealing Ajora’s truth would only confirm for men what they feared, stories of women with power, with light, or even Dark, who the world could not abide?

Did Ovelia think on any of this, as men began marching in her name? As Goltanna sat beside her at the dining table, chewing with his mouth open and laughing at casualty reports? Did she think on any of this, when the Marquis Elmdore de Limberry began calling upon her? Elmdore had many things to say on the plight of the common man which Ramza took in with careful interest, but which seemed so distant to her, so unreal. All she dreamt of were trenches filled with armored corpses, bodies filling rivers and lakes.

At times, she dreamt of blood overflowing out of a well.

As for her great fairy tale romance... it was unobjectionable. Ovelia did not love Ramza, and he did not love her. But she’d believed herself a princess for all her life, and the future she’d always assumed for herself was a man not her choosing; and Ramza Beoulve was at the least kind, attentive, and someone whom Agrias trusted. No part of these circumstances were what she’d prayed for at Orbonne, but they weren’t without their merit, as long as she could keep believing they were in her people’s best interest.

She told herself this again and again, waking in the night, cold, alone. Ramza slept in an adjoining suite. He didn’t know about the dreams. Later, she’d wish she told him, though it would hardly have changed anything.

One day, the Marquis brought with him a letter from the head of the Templars himself, Folmarv Tengille, that Elmdore might make introductions. The bells had been ringing for the late High Confessor for days, and Tengille’s subtext was such that he feared a similar attack would befall the princess. Goltanna was overjoyed, believing it to be a sign that the church had agreed to back the Black Lion in the wake of its lost power. But Ramza and Orran began exchanging furtive whispers.

Agrias laid her hand upon the back of Ovelia’s chair. “Let us return you to your room.”

She looked down. “Am I to again be sequestered, Agrias? I’d thought those days had passed.”

“Only until the Thunder God returns from his ride, princess. I promise you.”

She sighed and collected herself, casting one last glance towards Ramza, who offered a weak smile and gestured that he’d soon follow her. “To where has he gone in such hurry?”

Agrias led her from the room, where men were discussing again her fate without her audience. “Only to Sal Ghidos.”

***

In Sal Ghidos, where the ravages of two wars had left the people destitute and desperate, a collection of young men with a desire to force order upon anyone or anything, even at the cost of their souls, began harassing a lone flower girl in a cracked and turd-laden alleyway. Some things don’t ever change.

But Aerith never dies in Ivalice, actually – other people live to fill that role here, be it for weal or for woe.

So it was, that a figure in a green cloak erupted from the shadows, shattering knives in cutpurses’ hands and in at least one case separating arms from body – that one, the man who’d suggested Aerith sell her “tinderbox” for loose gil-farthings. Meliadoul accepted no thanks from the flower girl, only continued her relentless march northward, but the action bought her an hour’s reprieve, as her unnoticed pursuer was given pause to contemplate before making his move.

Move he did, however, in the end. Cidolfus Orlandeau appeared at the other end of a long street, giving Meliadoul warning enough before placing his hand on his hilt.

“What quarrel have we?” she asked, shifting into a similar stance.

“I come to capture you, Lady Tengille.” Orlandeau sounded old, tired, as he felt; but his muscles, his speed, were as sure as they’d ever been. “I’d not do so as a blackguard, assaulting you unawares. If you can defeat me in combat, your freedom is well-earned.”

“What reason have you to take me?” She drew her weapon slowly, and watched him do the same.

“I come in the name of the future Queen of Ivalice, princess Ovelia Akatscha, and though I take no joy in it, I believe my cause righteous. If you’d come of your own will, we need not draw blood.”

She bared her teeth. “Then you come in the names of those who slayed my brother, and I’d draw blood regardless.”

“As you will, then.” And Orlandeau charged.

She couldn’t win. She didn’t win. But reader, to describe that battle...  to attempt to find the words for the ferocity, the tenacity... Orlandeau had rarely seen such in all his days of battle, and as he lifted her from the ground, he swelled with pride for a daughter that wasn’t his, a daughter we might agree should have been.

***

In our Ivalice, there are certain things we know, and certain things we suspect. So know this: without Alma Beoulve, Folmarv – Hashmal – had to choose the second-best option for his mistress’s host, and it was the one he’d once chosen as most advantageous.

Virgo did not respond to Ovelia in the way it would have to the woman who was all but Ajora reborn, but it did stir, however faintly, and that was enough. He’d despaired at ever finding a host, and so he took the opportunity granted him.

He came in the night, and some were ready for him. If he’d been only a man, their gambit would have worked. But Folmarv hadn’t a thought to spare for his captured daughter, and she watched as his attention remained focused on Ovelia.

Delita had much to say on how, to the church, women were only bodies – and had said it again and again, as priests of Glabados accosted his sister for dancing; but this was far too terrifyingly literal.

Imagine Meliadoul’s shattered heart as she realized what “Truth” was, and its value. Imagine Ovelia’s terror.

The battle was hard, but Folmarv escaped with the princess in hand. History repeats, in Ivalice. And when Agrias limped over to the door and threw it open, they were met with a nation in panic and grief, as poison clouds had laid waste to two armies. The world was ending, again, as it had ended again and again and again. And Hashmal, somewhere, was laughing, knowing that the time of humes was ending as it had once ended for the Viera, the Moogles, the Nu Mou, and all the rest.

***

Valmafra Lenande had, one late night, translated the portions of the Scriptures of Germonique pertaining to the sealing spell that barred the way into the Necrohol of Mullonde.

It was strange for her, traveling with others for so long. It was... good, to know comradeship again, but also set her on edge. She and Delita fell in and out of bed a spare few times, and then hadn’t ever again, and they’d not spoken of it since. Otherwise, she found the whole group tolerable enough, and the two women, Tietra and Rapha, she felt an urge to protect. It wasn’t hard to see why: Rapha’s hurts were all too common, all too understandable to another woman, and Tietra... Tietra, if she’d grown up in another life, been granted another context and the tools to seize a life of her own, she could well have been Ajora born again, the real Ajora, and as it stood the way the people in camp looked to her as its heart, as Delita’s conscience, she oft reminded Valmafra of a woman even older, a woman who had kept to the shadows, slipping away into history with her followers.

Valmafra tried to teach Tietra when she could. Tietra had limits on to what extent she’d consort with the Dark, limits borne from a lifetime of dogmatic Glabados priests and their propaganda, but she was an eager study on more basic magickal arts, though she always spoke of protecting her brother, rather than herself.

But some nights were like this one, where she was up a tree branch, reading by moonlight, this text old mothers had told her of as one might the miracles of the Zodiac Braves, and it renewed connections in her heart she’d feared severed by years of forced service to the Templars and their machinations. And so she solved it, the encoded riddle of this spell, and closed the book to think for the rest of the long night and into the morning without sleep.

In the daylight, they all set out. Delita did not know the full extent of the Lucavi plan, but control over the passage was quite obviously the fulcrum point. They marched, and rode, and told themselves that they held the advantage, being in sole possession of the spell’s text.

By the time they reached Dorter, the war had ended. Delita Heiral stepped once more onto the street which had once erupted in ambush around him just out of cadethood, the first time he’d known war’s true horror, only for the whole city surrounding him now to wail with the unfathomable grief of two armies lost to full-scale genocide. And at the street’s other end stood Ramza Beoulve.

***

In the final accounting, did Ramza become a worse man, and Delita a better one? Perhaps. But they were both also who they had always been. Delita ordered assassinations and saved souls, believing often he knew best, sometimes telling himself so to cover his fears. Ramza fell into ruin and rose into power, causing death and inspiring hope, dogged in his belief in whatever “Truth” of which he’d last been convinced. These two men were always on opposite sides, and only one story could be told.

Orran is wrong, in a way, for these stories are inseparable from one another.

But this is not just their story. It’s Tietra’s newfound strength, it’s Meliadoul’s newfound resolve, it’s Agrias’s determination, Rapha’s unseen bravery, a pair of knights flirting with Mustadio as they all descended into lowest subbasements of Orbonne, as two groups joined together to plumb the darkness and save the princess, that way you do in faerie tales.

And you ask me, dear reader, how does it end? Is the tragedy at the story’s close repeated, or is its reprieve bought with the blood of two armies? Has it not all been a little too perfect, too mirrored, have we nothing to learn from this turn, from this impossibility caused by a single precarious loaf of bread, a darting mouse?

I say to you, instead:

Show a little more respect for faerie tales.

[mythicalbelle]

Sins of Trust

Diagon Alley had been the introduction to the world of magic and all that it entailed. Every shop held a memory to me and I had kept a record of them all within the confines of leather- bound journals. Even upsetting memories such as those that involved a younger Draco and myself. Lucius Malfoy had manipulated Draco into being the arrogant brattish boy I had first known at Hogwarts and I was so happy to find out that the man Draco had become during our eighth year was one whom it was all too easy to love. Now, as I lay on the vast bed listening to the clientele of The Leaky Cauldron as they went about their evening; I wished I could go back to that last year of school and tell Draco the truth of how I had fallen in love with the man he was... I remembered lying in his arms as we hid away in his bed the morning of our final NEWT exam just as I lay now, and I'd been so close to uttering those words that would have set me.. us free. Of course, I now knew that I was merely a distraction for Draco - and Ron's taunting words came back to haunt me. He had warned me that I would be used and thrown aside, and the bastard had been right. Draco Malfoy had lulled me into a false sense of security in his home and perhaps I had been foolish in me feeling that the Malfoy estate was my home. I had stayed far longer than I should have done and gotten too comfortable in a place that had been warded to keep Muggle-borns like myself away. Cursing my foolish and vulnerable heart for allowing myself to feel something for Draco, I felt tears slip down my cheeks and soak into my pillows. I had something sad that I would write into my diary - a first for me in regards to Draco and I. Draco Malfoy had made me cry. Curling up under the covers clutching hold of my blankets I thought about both Ron and Draco. Both men had sworn to protect me, and then left me hurting. In Ron's case; both physically and emotionally to the degree I really should have been admitted into St Mungo's on several occasions. Draco had broken my heart once and for all. Astoria Greengrass was originally supposed to marry Draco, it had been front-page of the Prophet when we'd been in Hogwarts. He had succeeded in challenging the betrothal in a private meeting with the Wizengamort and succeeded in having the agreement annulled and like a fool, I had thought then he would choose me to be become the newest Lady Malfoy. When we'd left school without becoming the couple I had naïvely hoped us to be and I'd begun to build a relationship with Ron. It had lacked the fire and passion Draco had experienced. I became trapped and felt that somehow, I deserved to assaults that Ron inflicted on me and the cruelty of his words were down to him grieving for his brother. Every excuse I could think of, I used to survive every day. Crying till I was nothing but a trembling wreck in a blanket fort, I barely heard the pop of the house elf as it apparated into my room, and was unaware as to who she was, although I could guess by the small dress she was wearing that she had come from Malfoy Manor. Surely the Draco I knew now wouldn't rub salt into my wounds and have a house elf follow me no doubt to return my meagre belonging to me. "I can see you elf. Tell me your name and then I must ask you a second question and I need you to be honest." The small creature froze and began fidgeting with the hem of her dress whilst avoiding looking at me. Clearly, she was torn between what I had asked of her and the orders she had received from Draco. Sighing softly, I pulled myself up to sit in the bed, fingers moving automatically to run through my curls and guide them away from my tear-streaked face. "Melly. Missy Hermy, my name is Melly and I tend the vegetable gardens that the late Lady Malfoy created. Master Draco was going to have me aide Missy Hermy in whatever she wishes in the walled gardens Master Draco took Missy Hermy on Hallows Eve." This Melly looked like she had witnessed such horrors as Nagini eating a victim whole. (Although there was a good chance she had given that the Dark Lord had punished Lucius by having the Manor be his main settlement for all those loyal to him...) Nodding softly, I pointedly ignored the sound of an argument taking place further down the hall between Hannah Longbottom and someone who sounded suspiciously like Ron. Whomever it was, sounded just like Ron when he had drunk too many Ogden's finest and become a vicious drunk. Ronald was at work selling jokes and tricks to a flurry of customers down the road at Weasley Wizarding Wheezes... Melly did as I did and looked towards the locked bedroom door and bit her lip thoughtfully. Without a shadow of doubt, the elf was frightened by the disturbance as well as breaking a vow between herself and her Master, because I was sure Draco wouldn't want me to know he was maintaining a watchful eye on me. Or, perhaps I was wrong and Draco was wishing to see where I was so that he could move on with a clear conscious with Astoria. That thought, had me shiver and a feeling of misery consume me.. I loved Draco Malfoy - I knew that now and I felt lost. Returning my attention to the the window, I kept my eyes off Melly so that whatever request she had to follow out could be done without her feeling fear of punishment from a man I knew to be kind to all now... "Melly. I shall return to my book and I won't say a word for I fear my acknowledgement of you has you fearing what Master Draco shall do. Please however, know that I am grateful for your kindness and those of your friends and family at the Manor. I shall miss you all." Those final five words were uttered through a new fit of tears as I wept for something that had never been and never would. I didn't belong really, not here in the hubbub of Diagon Alley, or the tranquillity of Wiltshire with Draco. The pop of Melly's departure had me think of the future, intertwined with the recollections of the visions I had experienced with Draco - none of it now seemed to make sense. I had seen myself with a babe in my arms... I had for the briefest moment thought it meant a family - a child born of love perhaps with Draco though that notion seemed insane now I thought of it. He'd no more permit a child of his to be born a half-blood than Ron suddenly turn his back on the Cannons. Maybe it had been something different indeed; like a new beginning away from magic. Muggle England wasn't completely alien to me and I could survive. No - I would survive after all, I had survived far worse at the hands of enemies and friends alike. Retrieving my favourite quill from my bag along with some parchment and began letters to Harry and Ginny, Ron and Draco. Each one short but to the point - that I would trouble them no more and wished them to let me go and live their lives to the full. The letter to my best friend and his wife was smudged only once where I told them both that they were my kin despite no blood between us. After all, it had been Harry who never strayed on the hardest of days when on the run unlike Ron whom had broken my heart and mind repeatedly with his temper tantrums. I moved from them to Draco. A man whose loyalty and morality had been questionable during the war; but I had kept up my vow to clear Draco’s name and I'd done so although the official notice from the Ministry wouldn't be sent to the Malfoy estate till the following morning; Kingsley had sent a note to me to give me the good news. so that I could leave with my conscience clear. My Mother had always told me that one should be honest with things that mattered to me and those I cared for. I ensured that the note from Shacklebolt was sealed so that it may be enclosed within my own of which I had confessed my heart when I went to my Maker, I would know that Draco would know that he had been loved truly by one who saw him as something more than his name or fortune. Not that it would matter much now, a marriage between Draco and Astoria would have many pure-blooded families believe there to be hope of the 'Lord's ways' returning. His letter was filled with smudges and I was half-tempted to begin again so that my sorrow be disguised from Draco.. As I reached for fresh parchment, I heard the sound of one man approaching whom I had thought not to encounter alone again... The fury in Ron’s voice was one I was accustomed too when he was drunk, something I feared him to be now and I froze with my fresh parchment discarded to the table in a mess as ink from the well spilt over the wood leaving parts of the important notes impossible to read. Nonetheless, I thrust the two letters to the young owl I had been loaned by Hannah and Neville. "Forgive me for not having treats or time to bind these well.. One to Harry Potter and the other, Draco Malfoy. Hurry please." The letters slid into the holsters on each leg and the owl was gone through the window as Ron’s voice echoed through the doorway and I wondered just what had brought him here when I had hoped to find Ginny instead. "WEASLEY! Get the Hell away from that door and leave Ms Granger alone!" Pulling the door open with a bang, I stared at the scene before me - Ron was restrained by an irate Minister. Snood... I should have felt relieved but the same chill I had felt in the moments before the three of us were captured and brought before Bellatrix. Something was wrong - I just had no idea what. Arcturus Snood wasn't one to frequent the Leaky, and yet? When I had fled to here, here I found him. The Minister who had clearly not believed Ron had been the source of my injuries weeks before was the one to come my rescue now. Yet, I felt truly afraid as Arcturus and mine eyes met, and longed for the sanctuary of Wiltshire..