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whenthesnowfelloverwinterfell · 11 months

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Vatic - Chapter XIII " A Gamepiece "

Series Description : The youngest daughter of King Viserys and Queen Alicent grows up split between the two sides of her family. With dreams plaguing her sleep of people she does not know, and a war looming ahead of her. She will be forced to choose between the two sides of her family, between the love for her brother, and the loyalty for her sister.

Chapter Description : Y/n makes her distaste for her father and for her duty as a woman known to her mother.

Warnings : Mentions of very young pregnancies, I'm pretty sure that's it? let me know if I'm wrong :)

Pairing : Eventual Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader ( cannon typical targcest idk what to tell you )

Word Count : 2.8 K

Jaeherys and Jaehera were perfectly content babes. Willing to rest in their wet nurse’s arms for hours at a time, just sleeping. Helaena did not like to hold them. Though, that wasn’t an issue. The eldest princess was four and ten years old, unprepared to be a mother to even one babe, let alone two. It had been seen as joyful news when Helaena’s maids and the maester said she was carrying a child, and although it seemed everyone else celebrated the matter, Y/n had not. Helaena had not been prepared for motherhood. It had snuck up on her not long after her wedding night. Y/n could clearly see how Helaena loved her son and daughter, she would hold them even though she did not like to. She would let them touch her though she did not like being touched and she would not react poorly.

Was that motherhood?

Y/n did not wish to know. But as the people of court become even more apparent to her now, she looked to Aemond for some sense of keeping herself grounded. Aegon was gone. Likely drunk in his chambers or out in flea bottom, far away from his newborn son and daughter. He had scarcely looked at them since their birth not long before Y/n’s nameday. He did not seem to hold love for the lives he had whelped upon his wife without Helaena’s say so. If he did hold any love for them, he did not show it.

Was that fatherhood?

She did not enjoy the new dresses she wore as of late. She did not enjoy the looks she received from the men at court. The dresses were always gorgeous, but she despised what they stood for. Her eligibility.

The sapphire blue gown had been fitted to her over a dozen times to ensure the fit was right. The dress had been in the works for months leading up to her actually wearing it. And her growing chest kept changing the needed measurements for the gown. But they’d finally gotten it down, and she’d finally worn it to court. It caught the light of the sun shining through the windows of the throne room perfectly. Shining as though it were actually made of sapphires. The jewels around her neck, and hanging from her ears were. Her mother wanted everything to be cohesive, and hadn’t given Y/n the option in anything for the outfits she wore now. She wasn’t able to sometimes sneak a gown in anymore. Now that Helaena was married off, Alicent’s attention was purely on Y/n.

The only thing Y/n found comfort in was the waist chain her mother had given her. It had once been Alicent’s mother’s. A gold waist chain with sapphires, and medallions in the shape of the seven pointed star. She would frequently find herself playing with the star on the part that hung down the front of her skirts when she had her hands clasped in front of her.

Yesterday, she’d been gallivanting through the kingswood with Theobrand, bow in hand, hunting. Practicing. She’d been able to be at peace. Away from the Red Keep. The only peace she ever found now, was when she received letters from Rhaenyra, when she was with Aemond, or when she was at prayer with her mother. She had grown accustomed to the feeling of the stone digging into her knees when she prayed, she had grown used to the smell of strong incense, and the wax from candles.

Y/n knew that Otto had told many people of the court that she was now eligible for marriage, and courting, but she did not expect some of the suitors that came her way. Lord Adrian Sunglass had been married twice before, and had nine children already. He was in his forties when he approached her. His eldest son had also approached her.

Lord Lychester was closer to Y/n’s age, but she did not care for him. She did not find his ‘love’ for Targaryen history to be an endearing quality. Not when all he ever spoke of was dragons. He likely only saw her as an opportunity to gain more power and status. The wish for potential for any children to have a dragon.

Aemond was preoccupied with Helaena and the babes. He had been curious about their new niece and nephew since they had been brought into Helaena’s chambers to see them. He often commented that they were smaller than he had expected them to be. Both of them had been too young to remember Daeron’s birth, and the birth of baby Joffrey had been so long ago that she could not recall how large or small the Velaryon babe had been when Rhaenyra had carefully placed him in Y/n’s arms as she sat beside Luke and Jace on a loveseat, looking down at him curiously.

She had not held Jaehaera or Jaehaerys since their birth. She had gazed upon them and made note of their existence, but she did not wish to hold them. She could still hardly look at Helaena or Aegon since their wedding night.

As Lord Lychester continued to drone on about Y/n’s own house, and their dragons, she began to pick at her fingers. Her eyes nervously looked around the room, watching the lords and ladies converse with one another. She could see Lady Ceira Lannister in the corner, gossiping away with Lady Genna Yarwyck. She watched as Maris peacefully chatted with other young maidens of the court, and as Aegon took a glass of wine from a tray a serving girl was carrying, saying something that caused her to scurry away from him.

She wanted so desperately to escape. To find solitude, away from prying eyes, alone with her thoughts, dreams, and the tune she could not seem to escape from in her dreams.

“I met your sister, Princess Rhaenyra not long ago. My brother and I went to Dragonstone. She spoke of you frequently.” Lord Lychester informed her, finally saying something interesting for once in their interactions.

“Rhaenyra?” Y/n asked, her eyes now on him, her head craned to look up at him. He nodded with a small hum that sounded more like a chuckle.

“Yes. She seems to be quite fond of you.” He added. Looking out at the hall as well. “You seem to be more alike to her than the ladies at court.” He then peered at her from the corner of his eyes, as if to gauge her reaction.

“I do not know what you mean.” She tested.

“Oh, Princess. . .” He began, looking around them before looking back down at her. “I see the way you look at them all. You wish to get away. . . I could assist you in that. If you wished to spend most of your days at Dragonstone with Princess Rhaenyra, I would allow it. I would not force you to stay confined to Lychester Castle.”

Y/n blinked up at him for a second, before she opened her mouth to speak. “Pardon me, my lord.” And as she ended her sentence, she did not wait for a response, and instead turned away from him and began in quick strides towards her mother, who had now also joined Aemond, Helaena, the babes, and their nurse maids.

As Y/n reached her mother, Alicent noticed her, and her face changed from that of joy surrounding the twins, to one of concern for her youngest daughter.

But she did not say anything as she arrived, instead only standing beside her mother, watching as Aemond spoke to the twins in High Valyrian. They looked up at him without any thoughts behind their eyes. Only curiosity to do with the one eyed prince.

She could not help but look at them as well. Silver hair like the moon, and pale lilac eyes following his every movement. She could see a hint of Aegon’s nose in Jaehaerys. She could not help but stare. Is that what her and her siblings had all looked like when they were fresh from their mother’s womb? Pale, and completely innocent of any sin or wrong doings, awaiting for the day when their innocence would be ruined?

Was that childhood?

Were all babes so innocent? So unaware of the truths around them? Was that the truth of coming of age? Finally understanding the cruel truth of the world they were born into without choice? How could anyone knowingly bring a child into the world with the knowledge of cruelty? Every potential terrible fate that could befall their child? How could a woman possibly bear the idea of carrying a babe of someone they did not like? Y/n did not understand how Alicent had done it. Or how Helaena could have done it at an even younger age than their mother.

Y/n knew she would not be able to do it. Was that why her mother insisted that Y/n choose her own husband? Was it so clear who she would become, to those around her? Or was it a hope they had for her, that she would be unable to fulfill?

Y/n felt a pain in her chest at the very idea. Looking at Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, she could not imagine looking down at her own child and not feeling guilt. Guilt for her child at who their father was, and who they would inevitably become.

She did not trust any of the men at court. She did not truly trust the kingsguard nor did she truly trust the men in her family. Aegon was to never be trusted, Viserys could not be trusted to bring any justice, Otto was willing to marry her off to a stranger for his own gain, Daemon had not seemed worth trusting from the little she remembered of him at Driftmark.

She only trusted her mother, Maris and Aemond. And what would Aemond become when those around them considered him to be a man? She did not know if he would still be kind and gentle to her, or if the tendencies to be cruel in the training yard would consume him. She loved Aemond, He was her beloved brother, and yet, she did not know if she’d be able to trust him once he was a man.

“Let’s see you to bed, darling.” Alicent beckoned, guiding Y/n by her shoulder away from the crowds. And as Y/n sat in her nightgown on the floor, holding a seven pointed star pendant, staring out the window as Alicent brushed her hair free of knots and tangles.

They had not spoken a word to one another when Alicent helped her undress, and undid her hair. They had been comfortable in their silence. The sound of the hearth cracking, and the brush running through Y/n’s hair was all that could be heard.

“Do you hate Viserys, Mother?” She suddenly asked, not moving a muscle in her body as she continued looking out the window, her eyes darting from each bright dot in the dark night sky.

Her mother’s movements halted, and she could practically see her expression. “Your father-”

“Viserys.” Y/n interrupted, running her thumb along the medal star in her hands. “He may have been the one who sired me, but he is no true father. I wish for you to speak your mind on the King.” She heard her mother exhale quickly through her nose, and when she turned her head to look at her mother, she saw a bittersweet smile on her face.

“Mother?”

“He is our king, darling. I respect him as such.”

Y/n shook her head. “You still respect him? Do you even hold love for him? After his negligence on Driftmark? He made you out to seem crazed over Aemond’s loss, he did nothing to defend his own son.”

It was not something that Y/n had attempted to keep secret, her distaste for King Viserys since Driftmark. She did not trust not respect him since his disregard of Aemond being mauled by their nephew. She did not wish for Luke to lose his eye in exchange, but she wished for him to be held accountable for his actions.

“Y/n. . . I do not need to love him. He is my husband and king, he has my respect and loyalty.” Alicent spoke, reaching down to cup the side of Y/n’s face so gently that she could barely feel her mother’s touch, just the heat of her hand.

“He does not respect you.” Y/n’s voice cut deep as she mostly turned to face her mother.

Alicent’s lips went into a thin line as she and Y/n held eyecontact. Y/n had not intended to say it, but it had forced itself out from her mouth. Yet it was true. Viserys disregarded Alicent as though she were just another lady at court and not his wife and mother of five of his children.

“It’s not fair. You and Helaena are expected to respect your husbands, and yet neither of them respect their wives. Viserys does not respect you even as the mother of his children, he does not even hold love for the children you gave to him, Mother. And if you were to pass Helaena’s chambers after Aegon has gotten drunk, you can hear her crying. He makes jokes at her expense, makes her out to be a fool to everyone else at court. Why is it only expected for ladies to respect their husbands but not for the lords or kings to respect their wives?”

Alicent sighed, shifting herself in her heat to lower herself down to the ground to sit eye to eye with Y/n. “Men do to not frequently care for the feelings of women. Most matches are made politically between strangers. I understand your fears.” Alicent grabbed Y/n’s hands in her own. “I wish for you to be happy. . . that is why I have allowed you to make your own match.”

Y/n’s brows furrowed as she looked down to where their hands met. Alicent’s thumb stroking the back of her hand in small circles.

“It is Targaryen custom for a brother and sister to be wed to one another. . . I have two unbetrothed brothers, who you could marry me to. Why would you not just marry to Aemond or Daeron?” Y/n questioned, looking back up at her mother, who now looked rigid.

Y/n remembered the conversation she’d had with Aemond. He’d once asked Alicent something similar, and their mother had shut it down quicker than he could even ask.

“Yes. It is Targaryen custom. But you are not just Targaryen. You have my blood as well, you are also Hightower. Aegon and Helaena were married to keep Aegon. . . safe. I did not want to have them married, but it was the only option. I do not agree with the customs of house Targaryen, and I do not want you married to Aemond or Daeron because they are your brothers, and they should remain as that. I do not want you to be forced to follow the path of almost every other Targaryen because it is considered to be custom.”

Y/n slowly nodded in understanding, though she did not understand. Yes, she had Hightower blood in her viens, just as Rhaenyra had Arryn in her’s, but she was just as much a Targaryen. But she supposed it was different in some ways.

“What if you did not force me? Mother I am not comfortable with the men at court. I would much rather be married to someone I know and am comfortable with.” She tried to explain, but Alicent’s expression did not change. She would not waver on this matter, that was becoming clear to Y/n.

“It is a sin in the eyes of the gods. You pray to them everynight, you go to the sept on Maiden’s Day every year, you carry the symbol of the faith. You know it is wrong. Please, Y/n, please tell me you know that?”

Y/n did know. She’d known since she was young, the way the septa would always teach about the faith to her and Helaena. She knew it was wrong because everyone else in the seven kingdoms would not dare to marry their brother or sister. It was an ancient tradition from Old Valyria that the Targaryens received special dispensation to continue, because everyone knew it was wrong. But it did not stop her from asking. In the hopes that perhaps her status as a Targaryen princess would allow her to marry someone she knew she could trust rather than a man who would likely always be a stranger to her.

“Yes.” Y/n replied quietly.

She felt as though her fate had been chosen for her. She had no choice in the matter. She was just a piece in a game, being moved about the board at her grandfather’s will, and her mother was doing her best to keep her hidden from it. But it was not working. Y/n was well aware of the truth. Otto Hightower would advise the King to only accept a match that Otto had deemed acceptable, and then would manipulate the King to agree to it.

She was utterly useless in the matter.

Add yourself to the taglist !!

@disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @winxschester @blissfulbluenights @ghostlypineappl @dreaming-of-the-reality @strangersunghoon @shesjustanothergeek @floralsightings

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fic #aemond imagine #aemond x you #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon fic #game of thrones fic

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rjmartin11 · 1 year

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RJ's Masterlist

I'm Aaron

Summary: You're a workaholic who decides to take a private mini vacation in Las Vegas. While there, you stumble into and befriend a handsome stranger at a bar. This handsome stranger is more than meets the eye. He wants to show you a great time... privately. It's an experience that you've never had before. You soon realize that you're in over your head, and your heart is falling fast.

✧❁❁✧✿✿✧❁❁✧❁❁✧✿✿✧❁❁✧

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Just One Kiss

Summary: Once upon a Memphis time, you and Elvis were very close friends who turned lovers. After he went into the Army, you both drifted apart, leaving you heartbroken. Time passes, and you go on a Vegas business trip with your long-term boyfriend, Edward, and find out that your old lover is performing at The International Hotel. Old feelings surface once again, and you plan on making this a trip neither of you will soon forget.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ💋✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ

Sneak Peak

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Epilogue

Finding Love in the Deadliest Ways

Part I: Chance Encounter

Part II: First Date

Part III: Second Date

Part IV: Night Cap

Part V: Breakfast

Part VI: The Fountain

Part VII: Love Bites

Part VIII: The Movie Date

Part IX: Vows

Part X: Love Making

Part XI: Boudoir Session

Part XII: Dancing

Part XIII: Traveling

Part XIV: Vermont Dreaming

Part XV: Fun in Vermont

Part XVI: Lover's Confession

Part XVII: Lover's Final Confession

Part XVIII: Beach Day Tales

Part XIX: Bianca

Part XX: Kidnapped

Part XXI: The Hunt

Part XXII: The Rescue

Part XXIII: The Bitter Goodbye

Part XXIV: Reunited

Earth Angel, Heavenly Boy

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Faded Love

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Epilogue

Headcannons & One Shots

What's In a Name

Elvis & The Oracle

You Wanna Bet

Remember to Not Forget Me

Kiss Me, Thrill Me

Sweet Kisses - A Prequel

Hide and Go Seek

Elvis & Echo

#elvispresley #elvis fans #elvis x reader #romance #elvis #vegas #elvis x y/n #70s elvis #elvis presely smut #I'm Aaron #JustOneKiss #vampires #vampireelvis #FindingLoveintheDeadliestWays #ElvisPresleySeries

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ineffably-poetic · 1 year

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an angel and a demon (poetry)

i. an angel and a demon stand on top of a wall. they are enemies yet each is reaching for the other before they know it, black and white feathers mixing as the sky eclipses into rain. the garden of eden is dark for the first time.

ii. they have not met again since the first rain, but have each watched innocence and purity fall upon the blunt sword of rock until the red blood paints the sky the color of hell. this time the rain comes heavy and thrumming as humanity wages guerrilla warfare with heaven.

iii. this time blood is painting the wooden oak of trees upon barren ground that has seen no life for years. hammers sound through the air, disordered and the people are rancorous. the angel finds no comfort now in the feathers of the demon.

iv. palatial temples march along the streets, horse-driven dust and heavy liquor air guide the angel to a popina of worn ivory stone. there is the demon, smug like a daylily’s bloom, glowing in an angelic light that shouldn’t have reached him. he is the original sin, the vice that the angel can’t seem to hate, the center of his gravity. a temptation that never truly fades.

v. fog and hazy forest bark enclose them, the black knight and the angel, the demon and the angel, the friend and the friend, swords never drawn, defenses never up. the angel knows this is a direct defiance, he is stepping into a pentagram, he is dancing so close to the line yet never crossing it, and perhaps he never will until it’s too late for him to walk.

vi. they are romeo and juliet, always push-and-pull, like the moon over tidewaters that it can’t control. coiffed hair and collars meet. temptations too convincing to resist, and yet the angel knows it was no temptation it was himself and his own tempting.

vii. a falling out, a falling demon, a falling piece of paper in St. James’ Park, too far to reach out and touch but burning nonetheless. a final game of poker before things go pear-shaped perhaps, but the angel still storms away, a thundercloud of erratic anger. The water shaped suicide pill hangs heavy in his pocket.

vii. bombs like fireworks in the night erupt, volcanoes forming deep within the angel’s stomach, and the consecrated ground burns the demon’s feet as he laughs away fear for the sake of his angel. thinking he’d rather not think, thinking he would like to rip off the wallpaper in his brain that shows that angel’s face, waltzing in the ashes. demons don't feel like this, he tells himself. yet it stays the same, yet it is not true. yet, his imagination is not enough this time.

ix. a crossing of hands, brushing but not finding purchase, and a familiar fire that the angel can’t quite smother. you go too fast for me.

x. a lift home that becomes dinner at the ritz that fades into wine at the austere bookshop where each corner has a dusty memory that the angel can’t bring himself to relive because they all include the demon who has planted himself so firmly in his heart, twisting roots that are too tight for the angel to let go. that fire burns again, so deep the angel has to drown it out with wine.

xi. alpha centauri, or andromeda. it doesn’t matter to the demon. the stars are his roadmap, his path home. the angel doesn’t understand that all the demon wants is for him to be safe.

xii. the bookshop is burning, each book a meteor hurling itself into the demon’s heart. he screams and curses god, or satan, or someone who is listening to anyone on this forsaken planet. his words feel like heat, like living fire, and it joins the burning torch he stands inside of, feeding the dying sparks of hope still left. he cannot laugh. he is a withered flower, black petals drooping. he needs some wine.

xiii. the airbase is breaking cement and asphalt, fire in the sky and in the earth and everywhere. their hands meet.

xiv. the ritz once again, chandeliers illuminating the room as if in a dream. champagne bubbles rise up in the angel’s throat. to the world.

xv. and the demon, in that daylily way of his, smiles. to the world.

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sonelise · 7 months

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"your smile is all I need" || a SonElise tracklist (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

#sonelise #princess elise #sonic #sonic the hedgehog #playlist #sonelise tracklist

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goldenmagnolias · 10 months

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lost in the labyrinth of my mind

pairing: OC High Lord of Dusk x Archeron!Sister

summary: Reverie Archeron has always been different. Different in a good or bad way depends on who you asked. Now a High Fae, and with another war approaching she tries to be as helpful as she can around Velaris and with her baby nephew, but at a High Lord meeting, the countless dreams she has as a child and the feelings that are not quite hers suddenly make sense and things become something that she never could have seen coming.

masterpiece / ao3

CHAPTER XIII: THREADS OF GOLD LEADING ME HOME

Reverie was never good on saying goodbyes.

She remembers being a child and her father going on to his merchant trips, she disliked them very much.

Father wasn’t a saint, but between him and mother at least he didn’t lash out, surely he more than not ignored her existence. But between being belittled and ignored, the lesser bad was the second.

She was never good on goodbyes.

When she went first, being dunked into the Calderon she thought in some twisted way it had been a small mercy, not having to say goodbye to her sisters.

Back than she had been sure it would be the end, as soon as she hit those waters.

She was never good on goodbyes.

Even with all the almost ends, and possible deaths and things that had happened in the last years. She still vehemently dreaded them.

Her sisters were aware of such thing. So it wasn’t really a bad thing when Nesta had squeezed her arm before letting go, Elain kissed her cheeks, and Feyre’s eyes met hers in a silent conversation, a promise of protection no matter what.

She gave them a small smile and walked forward, nervously moving on her own, towards where her mate still stood.

He bid her sisters goodbye with a slight dip of her head, and as Reverie walked down the steps and heard her sisters walking back, she noticed that the court, however, nowhere in sight.

“They went ahead,” Ophiuchus’ commented, upon noticing her gaze searching around, offering his arm to her so she wouldn’t slip on the ice-covered stone steps.

Reverie gave him a small smile before resting her hand on his biceps taking some leverage to walk down the last few steps.

“How are we to go?” She asks him, she doesn’t quite know if he winnows.

“Winnowing, if you’re comfortable.”

“So all High Lords, do Winnow,” Reverie says quietly.

“I do believe it’s a perk intertwined with the position,” he says back, his lips tugging upwards slightly. “Shall we go?”

Reverie inclines her head in agreement tightening her hold on his arm, she feels his hand resting on hers, keeping her hold on him, and then everything melts and unravels like watercolors.

For a second all she can feel is his hand, closing her eyes upon the swirl of colors, light and darkness. As the world tips and she feels like free falling before her feet once again find the ground.

She slowly opened her eyes, trying to deal with the slight dizziness from winnowing. The room she was in was well lived in that’s for sure. Books lined shelves that ran from floor to ceiling, some books and papers over a desk. A large bed draped in dark silk sheets, with a canopy of a lighter fabric a contrast to the furs that rest by the end of the bed, that billowed in the slight wind that moved across the room due to the large opened floor to ceiling windows opposite to the wall that held the bookshelves and a fireplace. She realized then that not only the fireplace was sculpted into stone but so were the bookshelves. Dark marble, as the floor was wood. A dark one that looked like mahogany.

She realized she had been quietly staring around, and not saying anything at all, so she snapped her head back towards Ophiuchus, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, but only found him looking at her with a small smile.

“Come,” he says, waiting for her to move, before he starts to walk.

Leading her towards the balcony that the large windows lead to, as soon as they step into it she’s able to see a beautiful city, vast lands, and the sea.

Buildings of stone that look old as time, bustling noise of a city. Laugher of children, conversations of adults, music.

Her eyes widen in wonder as she takes everything in. For once grateful for the Fae senses that allowed her to take everything in with acute, meticulous detail.

As the breeze moves through her, tugging at her curls, ringing at her ears.

The wind sings promises of old, promises lost eons ago. Everything feels so alive.

She feels so alive.

The breeze that moves through her holds the scent of salt water, and oranges mix with the scent of the male beside her.

She feels at home. It feels oddly like a homecoming.

She feels at peace.

“Welcome to the Dusk Court, My Lady,” Ophiuchus whispers, eyes not leaving her face, he wants to fully engrave her reaction in his memory. “To Euryphaessa, to be more exact.”

…..

Taglist: @imma-too-many-fandoms @shadowcrowsworld

#acotar fanfiction #acotar #dusk court #archeron sisters

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istumpysk · 2 years

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Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Jon VI (Chapter 28)

When he heard the order, Ser Alliser's mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile, but his eyes remained as cold and hard as flint. "So the bastard boy sends me out to die."

[...]

"Dywen will be with you, and another seasoned ranger."

Dywen stays loyal to the Watch during the mutiny at Craster's Keep.

Alliser might be going, but we're losing another good man.

+.+.+

"You would like me to refuse. Then you could hack off my head, same as you did for Slynt. I'll not give you that pleasure, bastard. You'd best pray that it's a wildling blade that kills me, though. The ones the Others kill don't stay dead … and they remember. I'm coming back, Lord Snow."

We won't learn the fate of Alliser in this book. Could be foreshadowing.

+.+.+

Not for the first time, or the last, Jon Snow found himself wondering what had become of Benjen Stark. Perhaps the rangers will come upon some sign of them, he told himself, never truly believing it.

It's hard for me to believe we'll never see Benjen again. Dead or alive.

+.+.+

Jon watched the riders go from atop the Wall—three parties, each of three men, each carrying a pair of ravens. From on high their garrons looked no larger than ants, and Jon could not tell one ranger from another.

Jon and his ant brothers!

She had bites all over her, little red bumps, itchy and inflamed. Where did all the ants come from? Dany brushed them from her arms and legs and belly. She ran a hand across her stubbly scalp where her hair had burned away, and felt more ants on her head, and one crawling down the back of her neck. She knocked them off and crushed them under her bare feet. There were so many … - Daenerys X, ADWD

+.+.+

"I had a frightening dream last night, m'lord," Dolorous Edd confessed. "You were my steward, fetching my food and cleaning up my leavings. I was lord commander, with never a moment's peace."

Please let him be prophetic. Lord Commander Dolorous Edd, how hilarious would that be?

+.+.+

When Iron Emmett spied him, he raised a hand and combat ceased. "Lord Commander. How may we serve you?"

"With your three best."

[...]

"Which one do you want first?" asked Arron.

"All three of you. At once."

"Three on one?" Jace was incredulous. "That wouldn't be fair."

"Garlan often trains against three men, or even four. In battle it is seldom one against one, he says, so he likes to be prepared."

"He must be very brave." - Sansa I, ASOS

+.+.+

By that time Jace had found his feet, so Jon put him down again. "I hate it when dead men get up. You'll feel the same the day you meet a wight." Stepping back, he lowered his sword.

Do you?

+.+.+

Rattleshirt was leaning against a wall. A coarse stubble covered his sunken cheeks, and thin brown hair was blowing across his little yellow eyes.

"You flatter yourself," Jon said.

"Aye, but I'd flatten you."

"Stannis burned the wrong man."

"No." The wildling grinned at him through a mouth of brown and broken teeth. "He burned the man he had to burn, for all the world to see. We all do what we have to do, Snow. Even kings."

ha HA, get it?? Mance is also a king doing what he has to do.

for all the world to see.

Some people believe this is more evidence that Mance wrote the Pink Letter.

If you want Mance Rayder back, come and get him. I have him in a cage for all the north to see, proof of your lies. - Jon XIII, ADWD

"for all the world to see" / "for all the north to see" is used several times throughout the series.

+.+.+

Once clad in mail and plate, the Lord of Bones seemed to stand a little straighter. He seemed taller too, his shoulders thicker and more powerful than Jon would have thought. It's the armor, not the man, he told himself.

Clues!

Mance is hardly an imposing figure.

The King-beyond-the-Wall looked nothing like a king, nor even much a wildling. He was of middling height, slender, sharp-faced, with shrewd brown eyes and long brown hair that had gone mostly to grey. - Jon I, ASOS

But he's bigger than Rattleshirt.

Rattleshirt took off his yellowed helm as he waited for the song to end. Beneath his bone-and-leather armor he was a small man, and the face under the giant's skull was ordinary, with a knobby chin, thin mustache, and sallow, pinched cheeks. - Jon I, ASOS

+.+.+

The wildling waved away the shield Horse offered him. Instead he asked for a two-handed sword.

Picking a two-handed sword feels important, but I don't know why.

+.+.+

Rattleshirt took a step backwards and met the charge with a two-handed slash. If Jon had not interposed his shield, it might have staved his breastplate in and broken half his ribs.

That's the closest Jon will ever come to being Rhaegar's son.

+.+.+

By rights the two-handed greatsword should have been a deal more cumbersome than Jon's longsword, but the wildling wielded it with blinding speed.

Iron Emmett's fledglings cheered their lord commander at the start, but the relentless speed of Rattleshirt's attack soon beat them down to silence. He cannot keep this up for long, Jon told himself as he stopped another blow. The impact made him grunt. Even dulled, the greatsword cracked his pinewood shield and bent the iron rim. He will tire soon. He must.

[...]

He has no shield, Jon reminded himself, and that monster sword's too cumbersome for parries. I should be landing two blows for every one of his.

Somehow he wasn't, though, and the blows he did land were having no effect.

Mance never tires, and I'm not sure what to make of it.

+.+.+

It would have been a different fight if Jon had been armed with Longclaw, but …

Dot, dot, dot.

Not going to lie, it feels like this sparring is happening so Jon is familiar with his fighting style in the future.

+.+.+

Both men lost their swords as they rolled on the hard ground. The wildling drove a knee between Jon's legs. Jon lashed out with a mailed fist. Somehow Rattleshirt ended up on top, with Jon's head in his hands. He smashed it against the ground, then wrenched his visor open. "If I had me a dagger, you'd be less an eye by now," he snarled, before Horse and Iron Emmett dragged him off the lord commander's chest.

Careful, you wouldn't want to lose an eye, Jonnel.

Mance is dialing up the hate to play his role, but a lot of it feels real.

Edit: @vibiul reminded me of something. This is the second time Mance has threatened to take Jon’s eye.

"Would you like to keep your eye, Jon?" asked the King-beyond-the-Wall. - Jon II, ASOS

+.+.+

Jon struggled to one knee. His head was ringing, and his mouth was full of blood. He spat it out and said, "Well fought."

"You flatter yourself, crow. I never broke a sweat."

"Next time you will," said Jon.

Everything about this feels foreshadow-y.

Here you are the guest, and safe from harm at my hands . . . this night, at least. - Jon I, ASOS

I can't make sense of this. When would they fight again? Is there any way Mance would join Ramsay?

+.+.+

There is always someone quicker and stronger, Ser Rodrik had once told Jon and Robb. He's the man you want to face in the yard before you need to face his like upon a battlefield.

His like or him?

+.+.+

Ramsay Bolton, Lord of the Hornwood, it read, in a huge, spiky hand. The brown ink came away in flakes when Jon brushed it with his thumb. Beneath Bolton's signature, Lord Dustin, Lady Cerwyn, and four Ryswells had appended their own marks and seals. A cruder hand had drawn the giant of House Umber. "Might we know what it says, my lord?" asked Iron Emmett.

[...]

"Moat Cailin is taken. The flayed corpses of the ironmen have been nailed to posts along the kingsroad. Roose Bolton summons all leal lords to Barrowton, to affirm their loyalty to the Iron Throne and celebrate his son's wedding to …" His heart seemed to stop for a moment. No, that is not possible. She died in King's Landing, with Father.

[...]

"He's to marry Arya Stark. My little sister." Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty face and tangled hair. They would wash the one and comb the other, he did not doubt, but he could not imagine Arya in a wedding gown, nor Ramsay Bolton's bed. No matter how afraid she is, she will not show it. If he tries to lay a hand on her, she'll fight him.

Jon learning about Arya and Ramsay is as heartbreaking as Catelyn learning about Sansa and Tyrion.

+.+.+

By now she'd be eleven, Jon thought. Still a child. "I have no sister. Only brothers. Only you." Lady Catelyn would have rejoiced to hear those words, he knew. That did not make them easier to say. His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush Ramsay Bolton's throat as easily.

Unreliable narrator Jon Snow.

That's ridiculous.

+.+.+

Dark dreams, he thought, and guilt. His thoughts kept returning to Arya. There is no way I can help her. I put all kin aside when I said my words. If one of my men told me his sister was in peril, I would tell him that was no concern of his. Once a man had said the words his blood was black. Black as a bastard's heart.

But your heart is not black.

+.+.+

Suddenly he could not suffer it a moment longer.

He found Ghost outside his door, gnawing on the bone of an ox to get at the marrow. "When did you get back?" The direwolf got to his feet, abandoning the bone to come padding after Jon.

Ghost always appears whenever Jon's struggling with his identity.

And for the record, that struggle never has anything to do with him wanting to be a wildling.

+.+.+

The sky was full of stars, and the wind was gusting along the Wall. Even the moon looked cold; there were goosebumps all across its face. Then the first gust caught him, slicing through his layers of wool and leather to set his teeth to chattering.

I hate George.

+.+.+

In the shadow of the Wall, the direwolf brushed up against his fingers. For half a heartbeat the night came alive with a thousand smells, and Jon Snow heard the crackle of the crust breaking on a patch of old snow.

That is mighty powerful warging.

Fight it.

+.+.+

Someone was behind him, he realized suddenly. Someone who smelled warm as a summer day.

Didn't remind you of summer in a previous book.

She even smells red. The scent reminded him of Mikken's forge, of the way iron smelled when red-hot; the scent was smoke and blood. - Jon XI, ASOS

+.+.+

When he turned he saw Ygritte.

She stood beneath the scorched stones of the Lord Commander's Tower, cloaked in darkness and in memory. The light of the moon was in her hair, her red hair kissed by fire. When he saw that, Jon's heart leapt into his mouth. "Ygritte," he said.

"Lord Snow." The voice was Melisandre's.

Probably glamor.

"Then you know nothing, Jon Snow," she whispered. - Jon I, ADWD

Somehow Melisandre knows about Ygritte.

+.+.+

Surprise made him recoil from her. "Lady Melisandre." He took a step backwards.

Revealing.

+.+.+

"I mistook you for someone else." At night all robes are grey. Yet suddenly hers were red. He did not understand how he could have taken her for Ygritte. She was taller, thinner, older, though the moonlight washed years from her face.

Grey to red, eh?

+.+.+

"The heart is all that matters. Do not despair, Lord Snow. Despair is a weapon of the enemy, whose name may not be spoken. Your sister is not lost to you."

"I have no sister." The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister?

Imagine thinking there's romantic undertones here when he was just contemplating what a child she is. Gross.

The words were knives.

Stop! It's only funny when it's Daenerys!

+.+.+

"My half-sister, truly …"

"… for you are bastard born. I had not forgotten. I have seen your sister in my fires, fleeing from this marriage they have made for her. Coming here, to you. A girl in grey on a dying horse, I have seen it plain as day. It has not happened yet, but it will."

We're not getting into this today, but I wanted to mention Melisandre saying she saw it plain as day made me laugh out loud.

+.+.+

She gazed at Ghost. "May I touch your … wolf?"

The thought made Jon uneasy. "Best not."

"He will not harm me. You call him Ghost, yes?"

"Yes, but …"

"Ghost." Melisandre made the word a song.

The direwolf padded toward her. Wary, he stalked about her in a circle, sniffing. When she held out her hand he smelled that too, then shoved his nose against her fingers.

Jon let out a white breath. "He is not always so …"

"… warm? Warmth calls to warmth, Jon Snow."

Magic, not warmth.

And that's probably not the word she said.

Melisandre touched the ruby at her neck and spoke a word.

The sound echoed queerly from the corners of the room and twisted like a worm inside their ears. The wildling heard one word, the crow another. Neither was the word that left her lips. The ruby on the wildling's wrist darkened, and the wisps of light and shadow around him writhed and faded. - Melisandre I, ADWD

+.+.+

Her eyes were two red stars, shining in the dark. At her throat, her ruby gleamed, a third eye glowing brighter than the others. Jon had seen Ghost's eyes blazing red the same way, when they caught the light just right.

Weird Bloodraven imagery.

+.+.+

"Ghost," he called. "To me."

The direwolf looked at him as if he were a stranger.

Jon frowned in disbelief. "That's … queer."

Lady would never.

Not sure how I feel about Melisandre being able to break the bond between the Starks and their direwolves with sorcery, but whatever.

+.+.+

"You think so?" She knelt and scratched Ghost behind his ear. "Your Wall is a queer place, but there is power here, if you will use it. Power in you, and in this beast. You resist it, and that is your mistake. Embrace it. Use it."

I am not a wolf, he thought.

Melisandre telling him to embrace (abuse) warging is how you know he shouldn't.

+.+.+

"And how would I do that?"

"I can show you." Melisandre draped one slender arm over Ghost, and the direwolf licked her face. "The Lord of Light in his wisdom made us male and female, two parts of a greater whole. In our joining there is power. Power to make life. Power to make light. Power to cast shadows."

"Shadows." The world seemed darker when he said it.

Because it is dark.

Jon doesn't even realize what she's proposing. Naturally Game of Thrones didn't like the subtlety, so they had to turn this into a scene where we see Carice van Houten's tits.

+.+.+

"Every man who walks the earth casts a shadow on the world. Some are thin and weak, others long and dark. You should look behind you, Lord Snow. The moon has kissed you and etched your shadow upon the ice twenty feet tall."

"You are fighting shadows when you should be fighting the men who cast them," Daario went on. - Daenerys IV, ADWD

+.+.+

Jon could feel her warmth. She has power. The thought came unbidden, seizing him with iron teeth, but this was not a woman he cared to be indebted to, not even for his little sister. "Dalla told me something once. Val's sister, Mance Rayder's wife. She said that sorcery was a sword without a hilt. There is no safe way to grasp it."

Good instincts.

Gorghan of Old Ghis once wrote that a prophecy is like a treacherous woman. She takes your member in her mouth, and you moan with the pleasure of it and think, how sweet, how fine, how good this is . . . and then her teeth snap shut and your moans turn to screams. - Samwell V, ADWD

+.+.+

"A wise woman." Melisandre rose, her red robes stirring in the wind. "A sword without a hilt is still a sword, though, and a sword is a fine thing to have when foes are all about.

Except you can't grasp it without cutting yourself, genius.

+.+.+

Hear me now, Jon Snow.

Now I know Quaithe is bad news.

Hear me, Daenerys Targaryen. The glass candles are burning. - Daenerys II, ADWD

+.+.+

Nine crows flew into the white wood to find your foes for you. Three of them are dead. They have not died yet, but their death is out there waiting for them, and they ride to meet it. You sent them forth to be your eyes in the darkness, but they will be eyeless when they return to you. I have seen their pale dead faces in my flames. Empty sockets, weeping blood." She pushed her red hair back, and her red eyes shone. "You do not believe me. You will. The cost of that belief will be three lives. A small price to pay for wisdom, some might say … but not one you had to pay. Remember that when you behold the blind and ravaged faces of your dead. And come that day, take my hand." The mist rose from her pale flesh, and for a moment it seemed as if pale, sorcerous flames were playing about her fingers. "Take my hand," she said again, "and let me save your sister."

Every time she speaks, this is all I can think about:

Final thoughts:

I can't tell you how much I enjoyed Jon getting his ass handed to him while sparring.

I will never get over the show turning him into Arthur Dayne on steroids.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #adwd #jon vi

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rionas-path · 1 year

Text

Chapter 2.

The Flow of Beginnings

VII. “Of spring rains and summer storms, one could dream eternally. Through growing pains, our trials, and tribulations we all learn To make it through onto the other side and face the Flow’s burn.” Spoke avidly the great Shamaness, gazing o’er fervently At the demigoddess, though counting only a baker’s dozen moons She had eyes that sparked with intrigue and interest like none of her commune. A grand procession was now fully in action. So carefully Planned was the ceremonious reveal of the prophecy.

VIII. “Two silhouettes will merge as their shadows shall intertwine. A raven with two heads, disoriented.” The words usher In the crowd “Its wings still do not listen to one another. The path: one of many roads they’d take.” She made a sign. “But only one, the central one - lined with blood; red and blue. Only it leads towards the temple in the sky!” then withdrew Herself inwards did the Shamaness. In a recline She let out: “Where life and flow blend into a murky line.”

IX. Yet now the Shaman’s eyes turn ‘round, gazing into her own soul. A twitch in her posture, jerks back and forth. Agape now stands before The clan, prepared to proclaim aloud: “Our matriarch is no more! Now flesh and bone, no longer flow, but guided will be this foal Who carries her essence anew!” And then she twists back from vision’s dream. Now lifting the child close, the Shamaness whisper’s a scheme. “Fear not, mistress, your host guided shall be in ways of the ole’ Tribe mothers of our clan! To whom we pay respects and our toll!”

X. In eagerness’s grip, the Chieftain lifts from his throne of bone And hails to his warriors, his trusted warband, with a call To arms: “Prepare your spear-throwers, your Raven wings and stand tall Alongside your brethren as we rejoice! For it’s time for us to hone Our skills of combat, our skills of war!” A yell now spread across The chieftain’s hall. The feathered raven helm he donned with a toss, Then took his seat again. As commotion spread, his child would moan And cry, and the weakened chiefess would her husband’s choice bemoan.

XI. “The struggles of our peoples remain as they fail to make ends meet, Our sacred babe still younger than the twelve moons that lead us, And yet thou call’st upon thy Balthazaran rage and not discuss With me this foolish plan of grandeur! To hast the world at thy feet? Heed the horn’s call, my Ydith’s gift.” The chiefess shook in displeasure And disagreement “Listen to my wisdom at length and at leisure: The Tribe Mothers who come before me all stir and retreat, Now I too am stirred!” Then she shook once more in partial defeat.

XII. Chieftain Audar now grants himself a moment of suspense As he gazes down upon his raven-feathered helm now held In his hands. His gaze then catches his wife, and lastly compelled To glance at his child, before he’d too foretell the coming events: “Though our gift of Ydith’s is still young, our army must convoke And thus, make ready for the time when our child is grown to invoke Her right to lead. To that end our Tribe Mothers stir without pretence! The stir which you have felt; The call to our destiny’s defence.”

XIII. The chiefess scoffed, gave her chief a scornful gaze that pierced through His very essence, then looked aside with absent eyes removed From the world that surrounded them. Her yearning breath disapproved With the storm foretold: “Thou only gazest at thy point of view, To thy pride! Never giving a single thought upon the flow’s touch! Thou’st failed to tend to thy gift, my heart, as each moon’s passage I’m begrudged To give. Let Ríona enjoy her youth without the need to brew More pain in this world.” She hoped her words would finally cut through.

XIV. “And if that my final wish should be in this forlorn Outerworld, So be it!” The chiefess exclaimed as Audar stepped close, Attempting to embrace his wife. He’d noticed her throes Of pain and weakness that would gnaw at her as she twisted and turned In her feeble slumber. Despite her affliction, she’d push her love away “And only now thou would’st tend to me when I express my dismay?” A downpour of tears would stream down her cheeks, as her soul unfurled Before her husband, but still was heedful of what could go unheard.

XV. Chiefess Eleanore now approached the cradle in which the child Was fast asleep. She caressed her daughter’s dark golden hair And collected her head. Clutching the babe close to her fair Skin that now gleamed in the moonlight; the clouds dispersed in a wild Flurry of breezing winds. She made her way towards the egress But before her exit from their quarters, she looked at Audar, caressed His cheek and spoke her final thoughts “Don’t follow and don’t be riled Up if I am late to bed. Thou should’st ponder, perchance reconcile…”

#riona's path #fantasy #dark fantasy #poetry #epic poetry #poem #epic poem #literature #writing

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supahsaucemann · 8 months

Text

Shattered Skies

A scattered dream that's like a far-off memory

A far-off memory that's like a scattered dream

Story - The Final Pursuit of Light Order

The "Final World" in Fractured Paragraph. Forged from the scattered memories of Sora, the Light Order uses this massive labyrinth of light as their headquarters like with Organization XIII and The World That Never Was. The memories that dwell in the crystals are all the bad and traumatic moments of Sora. Though this world may be of pure light and the crystalline environment accosted by the roaming sentient food, it gives an ominous and unsettling feeling that rivals even the "End of the World" and "The Realm of Darkness". Not helped by the light rifts , cackling through the skies. All this as yet another "Kingdom Hearts" looms over the planetoid that resembles the fallen keyblade bearer.

Xavier, Data-Sora, and their friends pursue the Light Order and Xehanort from the replica Keyblade Graveyard to this enormous fortress of pure light and sugar. Upon arriving at the Shattered Skies, the guardians find themselves trembling at the emptiness of the realm. As they move from the steps of Unhumble Beginnings, they encounter chambers that resemble their "stations of "Dives to the Hearts". As they step through the portals, they are suddenly accosted by their horrible pasts in the Eternal Agush:

Roxas once again witness the demise of Xion, while Lea is ambushed by the revived Saix, still angered of him forgetting about SubjectX

Terra now struggles again with Terra-Xehanort. Now without Master Eraqus to fight back against Xehanort's malice, Terra-Xehanort returns to finish off Aqua and Ventus once and for all.

Ventus faces Vanitas once again and ALMOST faces his true past from the ORIGINAL Keyblade War

Aqua now faces being alone in the Realm of Darkness. She is taunted by Brothalomous for rejecting his offer to destroy darkness, as she faces the Anti-Aqua Demon Tide AND the Inferno Aqua Angel Tide.

But Xavier and Data' Sora are along side them as they defeat this light mirrors of their trauma. As they press on, the guardians NOW face creepy light puppets of Sora along with the Comestibles and their replicas of the Heartless, Nobodies, and Unversed. While traveling through the crystal maze, they now found themselves sufferign through SORA'S memories. Xehanort Prime and his seekers appear to taunt them as usual, they mock the guardians for letting Sora die in vain. "Sora perished for your sins, now may perish by his! Like I said, 'His time in this world is OVER'" said Young Xehanort. The guardians now are deeply sadden by how they took Sora for granted, but Xavier made an inspiring speech about not lettings Sora's sacrifice be for nothing and defeat Xehanort once and for all.

Xavier and the guardians nearly reached the top and are ready to fight through the last obstales of the Shattered Skies. Their penultimate challenge awaited them in a special replica. This vessel took the form of ... Xavier? Yes, all the trauma from the Eternal Aguish returned once again as they empower this vessel names "The Darkness". This clone that wore the face of the Dark Hero, claims himself to be the Darkness that took and destoyed EVERYTHIGN they held dear and tried to get the Guardains to hate Xavier once again. He them accosed them with all the horrible memories of Darkness and proejcted the mon Xavier, but they eventuall saw through the rube. After facing their fear. They were ready to face Xehanort Prime and the Light Order.

#kingdom hearts recoded #kingdom hearts 3 #kingdom hearts #fanart #original art #ssm art #my art

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yoonia · 7 months

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the bedroom hymns ● chapter xiii

⟶ Chapter summary | Once again, the magic portal have granted your wish to a broader adventure, allowing you not to only see the magic realm with your own eyes but also learn more about it. And you have found someone who is willing to guide you through it.

⟶ Title | The Bedroom Hymns: a Bluebeard’s twist ⟶ Pairings | Min Yoongi x female reader ⟶ Genre | Fairy Prince!Yoongi, Crown Princess!reader, Fantasy AU, Fairy Tale retelling ⟶ Word count | 5,2k words ⟶ Ratings | PG-13, +18 / M for Mature for future chapters; include some form of classism, black magic, alcohol consumption ⟶ Story Masterlist: The Bedroom Hymns | ⤎ previous chapter | next chapter ⇢ ⟶ Main Masterlist | Mailbox | Taglist | Feedback | Music Playlist | Ko-fi ⟶ Author’s note | This took a bit longer to finish, and since it got a bit too long, I decided to split this part into two separate chapters. As mentioned in the previous chapter, the setting in this story may be included in the other stories that are also parts of the Once Upon A Fantasy collab. There won’t be any spoilers and you won’t have to read the other stories before getting into this to enjoy it. Have fun reading!

chapter xiii. red strings-1

You never realised it then, or perhaps you simply have forgotten, but your hand seems much smaller in size compared to Yoongi’s.

Yoongi easily reminded you of it the moment he first came to greet you, taking your hand and kissing the back of it like a noble gentleman. And he has yet to let go of that hand since.

Yoongi has his hand and long fingers wrapped around yours, engulfing your hand completely in a gentle hold while he takes you across the meadow. He keeps his pace slow to allow you to follow him comfortably while enjoying the view.

All around you, the world seems to sway with the wind, drifting away out of your touch while he keeps you grounded to him. Every urge you had to pinch yourself to once again make sure that you are not dreaming has long vanished, when the warmth of his hold, his touch, the deep timber of his voice, and his whole presence are enough to let you know that he is real, and that he is truly here with you.

You can still feel the tingle on your skin, right where he pressed his lips. Slowly, you can feel that tingling sensation surging through your body, until it resides deeply in your chest, making your skin flush and your heart thrumming rapidly in your chest the longer you are with him.

Meanwhile, Yoongi remains oblivious—or he pretends to be.

He keeps his eyes mostly looking ahead as he continues guiding you to walk with him between the rows of crops, merely throwing quick glances over his shoulder in the middle of explaining to you about the farmland, the crops, and the farmers who are working diligently in the fields to gather the crops before the sun starts to descend.

Yet you can barely pay much attention to his words. Still feeling dumbfounded that you get to see him again, in a place that is no doubt far, far away from where you met him last. You are also getting more curious to know the meaning behind the pleased look that he is giving you—one that seems to be hinting that he may have somehow expected to be seeing you today.

“I assume it is just another coincidence that you are also here, traveling through the farms?” you playfully ask him as he comes to a brief pause right in the middle of the field.

Here, the row of crops have grown just as tall as your shoulders, and it would have made you feel as if you are being swallowed in them if not for Yoongi who is keeping you close and helping navigate your way through them. His face appears between the swaying crops as Yoongi glances over to you and smiles.

“What if I told you that it may not be a coincidence?” he says to you with a calm voice and just a tinge of tease in his words. “Perhaps it has been decided by fate that we would be seeing each other again.”

“Fate?” you muse with a smile, “So you believe in such a thing?”

Yoongi tilts his head and gives you an unwavering smile. “Don’t you believe in fate?” he asks, his voice sounds playful, but he does seem genuinely curious to hear your answer that you find it quite endearing.

“I think the Fates are the ones that hold the key to every coincidences, no matter how small,” he later adds as he pulls you to walk by his side, the hand that has been holding yours is now placed at the small of your back, guiding you through the thick meadow while he continues to speak, “like how I caught a little dove one day in a market full of people, watched the beautiful thing fly away with almost no hope of ever seeing her again, and yet here we are, walking hand in hand across the cornfields.”

Your cheeks burn because of his words, yet you hide it by looking away. “You’re speaking with too much jest.”

Yoongi leans down, denying your effort to avoid his eyes. “You don’t believe my words, then? That it was all thanks to fate that we got to see each other again?”

Trapped under his attentive gaze, he makes you feel nervous. Yet you find it hard to look away from him. Not that you even want to.

“Since you saved me the last time we met, I suppose I can learn to trust you,” you say to him while biting back a smile and feigning annoyance, acting as though his comment didn’t send your heartbeat racing a mile a minute. “You know what? I think I can trust you. I don’t see the harm in having a little faith, after everything that you’ve shown me so far.”

“I feel honoured to have earned your trust,” he says with the corner of his lips tilting up to a smile. He straightens up and continues to guide you through the rest of the meadow until you finally reach the edge, where trees are lined up to mark the estate’s borders and a dirt road spreads wide on the other side. “A wise man once said that a little goes a long way.”

You laugh at his comment. “Are you the wise man in question?”

As he takes you under a tree, letting the canopy of leaves above your head shelter you from the pale golden afternoon sun, he turns to you with a gaze that looks so deep it makes you want to drown in it.

“If you want me to, then I am willing to become one for you.” Yoongi smoothly says, while you can see his gaze dancing with mirth. “I’ve said it before, haven’t I? I can be whatever you want me to be.”

“Is that so?”

With a shrug, Yoongi simply continues to add, “I can be flexible. I can be whatever and whoever you need me to be. A mercenary, a guide, a guardian, a friend, a farmer.”

His eyes seem to glow under the shadows formed by the thick leaves above you as he silently gauges your reaction. When you say nothing to him in return, he then simply continues with, “and I can be wherever I want to be, or in places where I am needed. Across the borders, across the land and mountains, and beyond the sea—”

Yoongi lifts a hand and tugs gently at the hood of your cloak until it falls back, revealing your face and hair. He catches a stray strand of your hair that has slipped from its bind with his delicate fingers and carefully tucks it to the back of your ear. A gesture that feels so intimate that the flutters inside your chest go wild.

And he makes it feel even more intense with his eyes never leaving you as he speaks to you softly, “I can continue following your shadows, if only you’d let me, making sure that you’ll never find yourself feeling like you are all alone in this wicked world.”

As he finishes talking, you can almost hear the unspoken words that he is withholding from you. You can see it through his lingering gaze, in his secretive smile, and in the way he is looking at you knowingly, silently telling you that he knows more than he is letting you on.

In that moment, you finally realise the reason why you are able to recognise this look, and why you feel so familiar with it.

Because you have seen it before; through your father’s eyes, when he first welcomed your arrival at the Stargrave Castle and on the day he passed you the magic keys; on Nanny Abigail’s smile, whenever she brought up any story about your mother and the memories from your childhood that you had long lost; and in the reflection that you see in the mirror whenever you have to lie to your lady maid about your past afternoon activities while she is brushing your hair to help you prepare for the day.

A look that holds a secret, something that is so deeply concealed and carries a lot of weight that it makes you feel like you are standing on the precipice of your sanity.

As you fall silent, Yoongi reaches out, delicately catching your wrists with his hands. Without saying a word to you, he gently runs his thumb across your skin, and your body reacts almost immediately.

You feel yourself swaying before you realise what is happening. You start leaning closer, your chest brushes against his, and that is when you can feel it.

A tingling sensation runs through your body the more you lean into him. It seems to begin from the touch of his fingers on your skin, yet it quickly spreads all over his body, brushing against yours while drawing you further into him.

You remember feeling this same sensation whenever you walk across the magic portal, which has been growing stronger as you continue using your father’s magic, and the more you continue using his magic keys.

Magic. What you are feeling is magic. And it is coming from him.

“You,” you gasp softly once realisation dawns on you. Your head is spinning as your mind slowly starts putting all the pieces together until it becomes almost too overwhelming for you to think clearly. Yet you still manage to find your voice, allowing you to question him, “You’re not a regular human, are you?”

Yoongi simply smiles in return and tilts his head. “What makes you say that, little dove?”

He makes no move, so you take the initiative by stepping into his personal space, getting even closer to him to test your theory. So close, that your chest nearly brushes against him, and you can feel the magic growing stronger, radiating from his body in a soft hum that fills your senses—as if the magic that is coming out of him is welcoming your presence.

Being this close also allows you to feel the soft thrum of his heartbeat vibrating from under his thin white shirt, almost in tune with your own. You have no idea what to make of this, so you put that thought aside as you try to focus on the murmurs of mana that are trying to reach out to you.

With a deep inhale of breath, you look up, meeting his gaze to whisper, “Because we’re no longer in the human realm. And just like me, you would need a special means of travel to be here.”

Like the magic that you can sense coming from him. A strong spell. A portal.

You bite your lips, having no idea how to question his ability without having to reveal your secret in return. You can almost hear your father’s voice, reminding you to keep the magic portals and his keys a secret through the echoes going inside your head.

“Within each one of the silver doors, there is a strong kind of magic. One that has been so demanding of our family’s powers, exists under my control, and it is also the type of magic that should be kept secret, no matter what. Once you go through them, you will understand why it is important for me to defend this castle and our home territory.”

Noticing your hesitance, Yoongi brushes has fingers on your wrists once again, drawing your attention back to him to see his smile. “Perhaps, if you would give me a chance, I can explain everything to you.”

“Yes, please explain,” you find yourself whispering back to him, “Tell me everything.”

Yoongi nods and starts glancing around. “Not here,” he murmurs as he slides his fingers between yours, entwining them together. “Follow me. This conversation may require us a place to sit down and be comfortable, preferably with a few glasses of drinks to share, maybe a meal? If I remember correctly, you have a taste to sweet and savoury snacks.”

Hearing that he remembers about your previous ‘date’ brings a smile to your face. “Where are you taking me?” you question him as he begins taking you away from the flourishing meadow. “Are you thinking of kidnapping me now that I vowed to trust you?”

“Sounds tempting,” he teases with a wink. “But I promise, I’ll keep you safe until you are to return to—” Something flickers through his gaze. A deeper secret. A question. But it is gone when he continues to add, “wherever you came from.”

He reaches out to you with his free hand, playing with the hood of your cloak to place it back in place, as if hiding you from sight. “I want us to have some privacy as we chat. Which would be quite impossible to do now that the farmers have caught your presence,” he says while his throws a subtle glance over your shoulder.

Carefully, you follow his gaze and steal a quick glance to see a few farmers surreptitiously watching you from under their bamboo hats with curious eyes.

How odd, you wonder. They paid no mind to me at all earlier while I was walking through the fields. As if they couldn’t see me.

You turn to look at Yoongi again, wondering if he has anything to do with the unwanted attention. Maybe they are looking at him, instead of you, and wondering why he was pulling a random stranger across the fields?

You have so many questions, and for some reason, something tells you that he may have all the answers. But how much can you truly trust him? How much can you share in return?

You keep these questions to yourself, however, and instead follow him without a word as Yoongi once again begins to guide you with him, taking you further away from the pastureland and the curious farmers through the dirt road.

“Y’Old Whispers.”

When Yoongi talked about taking you to a place that would be comfortable and safe enough for you to have a chat, you didn’t expect him to be taking you to this place.

Written in ancient letterings, the tavern’s name—which is engraved right above the tavern’s front doors—draws you back to the conversation that you had earlier with the farmers. You are beginning to question if fate truly does have a hand in leading you to this place, albeit through Yoongi’s hands.

Located on the other side of the farmer’s village, the old tavern sits right in the intersection where the dirt road crossing the farm estate and the farmer’s village meets the gravel-covered road leading towards the busier downtown. A stone bridge hovering over the nearby bank that borders between the farming region and the more advanced town seems to be the connecting route that helps people travel from one region to another.

Right now, the path seems vacant. Which isn’t much of a surprise when most of the villagers are still so hard at work. There is nothing visible except for the scattered dirt and carriage tracks that have been imprinted on the gravel road. There are empty carriages parked on the side of the road, which no doubt would be filled with crops by the end of the day.

“You’ve heard of the place?” Yoongi asks after hearing you whisper the tavern’s name with such familiarity, while you merely shrug, feeling intrigued to find out what you may find inside more than you are curious to know how Yoongi could have known about this place.

Just like how he knew exactly where to take you during your great escape back in Narlès.

“A kind local farmer who I encountered earlier today told me about this place,” you explain to him, “He said something about it being the perfect place for travellers to recoup, rest, and gather some information.”

Yoongi seems pleased to hear this. “I guess that means I made a good choice of bringing you here, then,” he proudly boasts, “Still not convinced that this is the work of fate?”

Choosing not to share your brief thoughts about fate, you simply give him a coy smile. “We’ll have to see.”

Chuckling softly, Yoongi takes your hand in his and guides you to enter the small tavern. He pushes the old wooden door that swings open with a creak, and the sounds from within filters out through the door; the low murmurs of conversation shared between the patrons, the sounds of clinking glass and cutleries, and a faint melody of a lute being strummed from somewhere inside the bustling tavern.

“Shall we?” Yoongi invites you to walk in first as he holds the door open.

Walking into the tavern, a blast of warmth welcomes you. The air inside is thick with the scent of seasoned timber and the comforting aroma of hearty meals. There is also the strong scent of brewing alcohol wafting around you. Yet what draws your attention is the scent of aromatic herbs which seems to be coming from the kitchen, making you wonder what kind of sustenance and brews that this place may be offering its guests.

Looking around, you cannot help but compare this place with The Rare Roots.

Inside, the tavern seems much smaller and perhaps more humble.the atmosphere seems a bit calmer, compared to the loud and rowdy air that you had often seen back at The Rare Roots.

Just as you had expected, the light inside is kept dim, but there are wide windows on the other side of the tavern that are open towards the bank and the dirt road bordering the village. The windows allow the golden sunlight to filter into the room, adding natural warmth within while the hearth at the end of the room remains unlit.

Perhaps it will remain that way until later in the evening, when the night turns cold and the hot meals no longer bring enough warmth.

At the corner of the room, there is a young man playing the lute while serenading solemnly for the patrons who are dining and drinking around him, most seem to be chattering mindlessly over the tune that he is playing.

So that’s where the music was coming from, you wonder with a smile, admiring the musician who seems to be enjoying himself despite the lack of attention he seems to be getting.

Yoongi places a gentle hand on the small of your back, guiding you towards the main bar. The bar, which seems to be made of old wood, is stretched along one side of the room, right at the far back. Under the dim light, you notice the ornamental carving adorning the front side of the bar which appears slightly worn down and is fading with age. There is a story there, you realise, although you might not be able to know what it’s all about when you know almost nothing about this place.

Behind the bar, wooden shelves fill the wall from the floor to ceiling, with an array of colourful bottles and tankards lined up within the racks. Hops filled with the local brews are lined up at the sides, and you notice that there is also a hint of a rich aroma of herbs wafting from within.

Right at the bar stands the bartender, a seasoned figure with a mop of unruly ginger hair on top of his head, a dust of five o’clock beard around his sharp jaw, and a friendly twinkle in his eyes. He glances up from the glass that he has been busy polishing in his hands, offering a nod of acknowledgement at Yoongi while the latter greets the bartender as if they are old friends.

“Business seems to be running well today.”

The bartender grins at Yoongi as he sets down the glass that he was working on, switching it with another from the counter, continuing his work to polish the glass as he answers Yoongi, “’Tis harvesting season, this is. Folks come by during their breaks, have their meals and drinks here before going back out to the field there. More folks will come in the evening for tomorrow’s work, but yer not staying here that long, I bet.”

You take a quick glance around the room, soaking it all in. Noticing only now the distinctive features of the patrons filling the tavern to realise that the ‘folks’ that he mentioned seem to vary. Sitting in small groups, they separate themselves between travellers, local and foreign merchants, mercenaries on duty, and also commoners and locals who look like farmers and workmen who have no doubt been working for the harvest.

Turning back to the bar, you find that the bartender already has his gaze on you. He silently watches you with a knowing look in his eyes, as if he is trying to read you. But then a friendly smile appears on his face as he turns to Yoongi once again to ask, “The usual?”

Yoongi nods. “You always know what I need.”

The bartender chuckles. “Don’t I know it better than other folks would,” he says with a quip. “The table’s been cleaned in the morning. I somehow had a hunch you’ll be stopping by today.”

“Thanks,” Yoongi says to the man before guiding you away from the main bar, going past the corner where the musician is still playing his lute, and then turning to the small stairs that is hidden from view on the other side of the fireplace.

The short flight of stairs takes you to a more private quarter right above the crowded ground floor. Instead of a closed room, the space you are walking into is an open balcony. There is a row of tables and seats set up near the railings and outer columns that are covered with vines, a smaller version of the bar’s wall mounted shelves you saw downstairs stretches out on the adjacent wall, all filled with similar bottles of drinks and tankards lined up in order.

Yoongi walks ahead with a familiarity in his attitude, looking as if he owns the place. He then goes towards one of the nearest seats and pulls it back for you. “Milady,” he says with an overly dramatic poise, making you think of a refined noble. The notion only makes you smile as his action seems a bit too graceful for a man wearing a bamboo hat and cotton pants covered in dried soil.

“Thank you, my kind Sir,” you accept his offer by playing along by curtsying at him, which draws out his deep chuckle. After helping you settle in your seat, Yoongi walks around the table and claims the seat right across from you. “I suppose it’s safe to assume that you are a regular to this place?”

Yoongi smiles. “This place has a great view, as you can see,” he says, pointing out at the balcony.

You take a look around, realising that he is right. From the balcony, you get to see the sight of the vast farmland that you visited earlier—which you had suspected to be a part of your father’s secret estate—that is fully visible on one side. Looking over to the other side, you get a clearer view of the village’s borders; the river, the intersection, and the crossing bridge leading towards the main town.

Seeing all of this, you realise that this private space would be the perfect spot for you, or anyone else, to watch the comings and goings between this village and the neighbouring town.

Turning back to the table, something catches your eyes that makes you stop. Right in the corner of the table where you are sitting at, there is a familiar-looking crest that have been skilfully engraved into the wooden surface. The same crest that you had once seen printed on the reports handed to the King by the royal advisors about the suspected rebellion rising among the commoners.

It only takes a moment before it dawns on you.

“This is a viewing spot for you and your brothers of the mercenary, isn’t it?”

Yoongi has a smile on his face when you look back at him. For some reason, he seems—pleased, that you manage to catch on so easily. “You are quite perceptive,” he says. “That is correct. Me and my men often gather here. Sometimes we’d be here for work, either it’s for aiding a merchant who has some business in this place and needs our protection. Other times, we would come here to do a simple surveillance work, but we mostly use this place as a rendezvous spot and to recoup just as you had suggested.”

Right as you are about to question whether the bartender or any of the men downstairs have been a part of his army, the bartender himself appears at the doorway, approaching your table with an easy smile on his face. The worn wooden floor creaks softly beneath his heavy steps. His looks remind you a little of the barkeep, Sir Elias, who is just as friendly and as massive as this man looks—although you must admit that the older barkeep back home seems to be a bit taller and more muscular.

You lower your hood to greet the kind bartender as he sets down a pair of tankards filled with the local brew and a large plate filled with fried meal; spicy chicken wings, deep fried sweet potatoes that have been chopped in small strips, flour-coated fried vegetables and sausages, with buttermilk biscuits on the side.

Yoongi takes a peek at the plated fried meal and raises his eyebrows.

“Hey,” the bartender says, shrugging and crossing his arms, “You said to get you the usual.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “I was thinking about your special stew and seasoned chicken. The biscuits are fine,” he says, before turning to you, “You’ll have to forgive O’Moran here, as he rarely serves a distinguished lady in his business.”

“That there is true,” the man, O’Moran, admits proudly before bending down at the waist for his own version of curtsy. “The name’s O’Moran, M’lady. As a local establishment, I must shamefully admit that we’re lacking in our fancy menus. The stew might take a while to boil. We’ve been busy since dawn, so we keep running out of our specials today.”

Smiling, you simply regard him with a nod. “That’s quite alright, Sir. I’m actually more curious to try on your local brew. I’ve heard good things about the special drink that was said to help mend exhausted travellers like myself.”

There is a glint in his eyes as he listens to your compliment. You figure it may have something to do with the secret behind the drink’s special healing effect. You can almost hear the wheels in his mind turning as he silently tries to figure out who you are.

“Then you are in for a treat, M’lady. This here is our special brew. Made not only to restore your health, but also magic for some,” he says, drawing a smile from you.

“Then I shall savour the drink, together with the snacks that you served us,” you kindly say to the man, who later scoffs at Yoongi.

“See? The Lady doesn’t mind your boys’ favourite snacks,” he boasts with a chuckle while Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Do you folks need anything else?”

“We’ll be fine. I’ll call you up if we need anything else,” Yoongi says to the man, while O’Moran shrugs.

“I’ll leave you folks be, then. I’ll go down and have a look at that stew and bring you some when it’s ready,” he says as he turns away. “And some refills to that drink,” he adds with a wink.

You thank the man one last time before he walks away, disappearing through the small stairs to return to the crowded bar and the kitchen downstairs. Once again, you are left alone with Yoongi in the privacy of the secluded balcony, accompanied by the trickling sound of the flowing river nearby and the breeze that is slowly cooling down as the day is closing into dusk.

Taking one of the drinks, you take a careful sip of the brew, tasting it in your tongue. A rich taste of herbs fills your mouth, and you take your time savouring it.

Closing your eyes, you focus on the other sensations that are rising from within as warmth starts flowing through your body. A dust of tingles spreads through your skin, while everything else on the inside seems to be mending together. Your exhaustion slowly melts, your chest seems to feel lighter and it feels easier to breathe, while your muscles no longer feel as tense as they were after dealing with your royal duties before venturing through the magic door this afternoon.

“This is…quite nice,” you mutter as you open your eyes, loving the way your body feels after drinking it.

You look up, noticing that Yoongi is watching you closely while he is enjoying his own drink. “I assume that as you’ve heard about this place, you must know what this drink does to our bodies.”

“You can say that,” you answer him with a grin. As you watch him taking another drink, the words from the old farmer return to you, reminding you of what he mentioned before about the local brew being made in this place—

“Just say yer new ‘round here and he’ll have ye the fine brew of his that’s said to be good for young elves.”

Earlier, his words had only made you think about how it was supposed to refer to you, making you wonder if the farmer had indeed sensed something about yourself which you haven’t been able to identify for yourself.

But now, as you watch Yoongi closing his eyes briefly as he savours his drink, you begin to question about his secrets. “What are you, really?” you find yourself asking him as the curiosity grows on you. “Who are you? How do you travel between realms?” Your eyes briefly turn towards the engraved emblem by the table and wonder, “Is it safe to assume that your men is capable of doing the same thing?”

“So many questions,” Yoongi muses with a soft chuckle as he puts down his drink. He carefully leans forward and says, “So many things to unpack. I don’t even know where to start.”

There is something in his voice that makes you feel wary, the hidden challenge that he seems to be giving you making you grow alert against him. It makes you want to draw back, to take back all the words that you had just given him the moment you realise that the more he reveals his secrets, he would only make it fair by demanding the same honesty from you in return.

“You can start by explaining what you can,” you carefully say to him, allowing your curiosity to win.

Yoongi taps his fingers on the table, contemplating his answer. And just as expected, he responds to you by saying, “And what do I get in return? What do you have to offer for an honest answer?”

#yoongi scenarios #k-vanity #btscreaturescoven #bangtanwhq #yoongi fanfic #yoongi scenario #yoongi fluff #suga scenario #suga angst #suga fluff #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #bts fanfic #bts scenario #bts angst #bts fluff #bts x reader #yoongi angst

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mirror-to-the-past · 1 year

Text

Okay, I finished playing Re:Coded. Went through it pretty quickly; it was a shorter game. Also, very interesting and welcome in concepts. I was hoping for an expansion on the data world since KH2, because the prologue of that game made me extremely intrigued regarding everything with how it affected Roxas (Bonus, was also happy that Roxas, or at least an iteration of him, got some screentime in this game, too. Gives me more hope for a reappearance in the future.), and I'd say it delivered!

Just like the Nobodies, the data version of Sora definitely demonstrated questionably emotional displays for a being that "doesn't have a heart." With similar sentiments to Roxas and Xion, I seriously question whether or not a heart is all that important/necessary for a full scale of emotions if they act that real "without" one. I also question if people can't just create their own hearts out of pure strength of will (I mean, if the Org. XIII Nobodies were very strong willed individuals for coming into being, I don't see why the inverse can't be true- that because they are individuals of strong will, they can't just forge their own way and find their own heart/spirit.)... but I digress.

I joked earlier that "haha, for all of the fiction tropes Kingdom Hearts fully exploits, I'm surprised 'the prophecy' hasn't come up yet." Ding ding, another joke come true for me to add to the books, because Maleficent mentioned a whole damn book of prophecies. I'm strapping myself in, mentally. Hoo boy, here we go, create new worlds from stories, huh? Also once again, such a queen, she highlights the fluid nature of reality KH set ever since "Is this for real, or not?" I love when she chided Pete, with: "Ah, but who's to say a fairy tale's not true?" Hilariously meta, coming from her. Also yeah, Disney/FF game is slowly becoming aware of the fact that it's a Disney/FF game but it's owning it. Another one of the funniest aspects of this series is that, from the characters' perspectives, everything is fantastical in a normal way- there is no precedent set for what is "normal" when multiple worlds have phenomenon like talking animals, magical princesses, spells powered by love, antagonists like evil fairies, or other threats that are very real to them. It's only from us, as the audience, with our cultural awareness of Disney movies and the like that we laugh at the ridiculousness of Mickey Mouse being a plot relevant character. So, it's like the characters, completely and utterly serious about everything they interact with, are slowly learning the magical/fiction nature of their reality. I dunno, a bit of a disjointed ramble there, but it makes sense to me. Sure it's not exactly a groundbreaking sentiment- "woah, fiction is reality to the fictitious," but anywho. Still waiting for it to go the whole nine miles and make Earth canon as contrast to everything else- go full fourth wall breaking. I'll show you how fiction you guys really are, buster!

Anyway... uh... where was I? Oh yes, other Maleficent line that caught my eye (playing games on emulators afford me the opportunity to write things down more... :D):

"You should have stayed inside, boy. There, the worst fate to befall you would have been eternal slumber...

...Such a shame you understand so little of the darkness. The world desires its embrace! There is nothing in darkness. No sadness, no cause for hurt... In darkness, one cannot see ones mistakes, or the dreams that failed to be."

Here, darkness as an element adds a new layer to its characterization throughout the series from just ambition/power, knowledge, or the like. Here, darkness is more of a shield from pain, or an obfuscation. Darkness is more of the gentle lie than I've seen light as being. And that's... something. When someone is dealing with darkness within this series, or trying to gain a mastery over it- has it not been in a futile attempt to puff themselves up and disguise hurt/insecurities/unsteady ground that they walk upon? I can't say for sure for Xehanort, but it has been the case for Riku and Terra, so...

Contrastingly, that would make light the element that demands everything to be pure, honest, and open. It would have no inclination towards unsteady foundations, or soft versions of truths/white lies with good intent. Something something, soft moon versus callous sun. Funnily enough though, with both of these explanations, it's apparent that their respective foundations both lead to some sort of emotional repression, either out of a desire for utter individual control and strength emotionally (darkness) (not possible) or out of a desire for perfect order and lack of duplicity (light) (also not possible). And with that, maybe Xehanort's got something to the whole "balance of light and dark" thing, who woulda thunk extremes would be problematic? Of course, the whole genocidal tendencies is... eh...

Naminé! That was the other thing I wanted to speak on. Am I to understand that with Mickey's letter at the end of the game, Sora finally knows of Naminé and his relation to her, as well as Castle Oblivion, at least a little bit?? Literally on the edge of my seat, guys. Mickey said he'd tell our Sora about the Coded journey, so I hoped that'd be a part of the package. :/ I was happy to see "Thank Naminé" get concluded at least a little bit, even if it was just Data Sora, but pleaseee...

Also, oogh, Sora's consistent character conflict being centered around repression and its various forms continues to pull at my mind a bit. I transcribed part of Naminé and Data Sora's conversation because of how Relevant it was feeling. As well as addressing Sora's own hurt, Ventus' with the "they've been sleeping a long time," the conversation also doubled as serving as an explanation for events such as the Xion fever dream in Days where she/Sora by extension experienced Riku's memory from CoM:

S: "These are my memories?"

N: "No, not yours. These belong to people connected to you."

S: "What? Isn't it weird for someone else's memories to be inside me?"

N: "Right, it's not usually possible. When I first found them while repairing your memory, I thought I'd made a mistake. But all the evidence I found proves they belong in your heart, where they've been sleeping a long... long time. One day, Sora will have to call them to the surface. They're important memories... but very dangerous ones."

M: "Dangerous how?"

N: "These memories are too painful. Handled the wrong way, they could damage Sora's heart- even break it..."

Like when Data Sora told Data Roxas he'd carry his hurt from then on, Sora effectively symbolizes the individual who gives and gives of themselves to such a degree that the pain of others becomes his own- putting his own hurt and individualism eternally aside for the noble cause of "keep on keeping on." Of course, to be affected by the pain of others is to be human, but in such an identity defining way as is the case with Sora, as well as Naminé noting such things aren't typically possible (within this universe's rules) and that the others' memories "belong" with Sora, it's clear what this is doing to him- you can't help but wonder if Naminé's worry about Sora's heart breaking from having to confront internalized hurt and memories might be warranted. I'd dare to say that it makes sense why Xion saw so much of herself in Sora even outside of the memories, considering the way they unwaveringly waver on who they are, all for the sake of being what is perceived as needed for others they deem important. Am I looking way too much into it? Maybe. Do I care? No. I'll pathologize my boy with a case of "chronic people pleaser on a thematic level" all I want. Is he an Empath,™ a teenager being a teenager, or is he losing himself- perhaps all three? Find out... next episode...

(Can't wait to find out whatever the "research" is that Ansem stuck within Sora's sleeping mind. Can't help but assume its importance, given that it's been mentioned twice, now.)

Alright, that's everything on Coded, I'm now gonna hop to dumping some thoughts on Dream Drop Distance that I've started a little bit of, because.... :D

#kingdom hearts #kh recoded first playthrough #kh recoded #kh sora

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hellsitesonlybookclub · 1 year

Text

Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

Chapter 13-14

XIII.

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

Laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock, one warm September afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were about, but too lazy to go and find out. He was in one of his moods; for the day had been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could live it over again. The hot weather made him indolent, and he had shirked his studies, tried Mr. Brooke's patience to the utmost, displeased his grandfather by practising half the afternoon, frightened the maid-servants half out of their wits, by mischievously hinting that one of his dogs was going mad, and, after high words with the stable-man about some fancied neglect of his horse, he 173 had flung himself into his hammock, to fume over the stupidity of the world in general, till the peace of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself. Staring up into the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining himself tossing on the ocean, in a voyage round the world, when the sound of voices brought him ashore in a flash. Peeping through the meshes of the hammock, he saw the Marches coming out, as if bound on some expedition.

"What in the world are those girls about now?" thought Laurie, opening his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was something rather peculiar in the appearance of his neighbors. Each wore a large, flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried a long staff. Meg had a cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and Amy a portfolio. All walked quietly through the garden, out at the little back gate, and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and river.

"Well, that's cool!" said Laurie to himself, "to have a picnic and never ask me. They can't be going in the boat, for they haven't got the key. Perhaps they forgot it; I'll take it to them, and see what's going on."

Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time to find one; then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last discovered in his pocket; so that the girls were quite out of sight when he leaped the fence and ran after them. Taking the shortest way to the boat-house, he waited for them to appear: but no one came, and he went up the hill to take an observation. A grove of pines covered one part of it, and from the heart of this green spot came a clearer sound than the soft sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp of the crickets.

"Here's a landscape!" thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and looking wide-awake and good-natured already.

It was rather a pretty little picture; for the sisters sat together in the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the little wood-people going on with their affairs as if these were no strangers, but old friends. Meg sat upon her cushion, sewing daintily 174 with her white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose, in her pink dress, among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things of them. Amy was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud. A shadow passed over the boy's face as he watched them, feeling that he ought to go away, because uninvited; yet lingering, because home seemed very lonely, and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his restless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its harvesting, ran down a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied the wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile.

"May I come in, please? or shall I be a bother?" he asked, advancing slowly.

Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly, and said, at once, "Of course you may. We should have asked you before, only we thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this."

"I always liked your games; but if Meg doesn't want me, I'll go away."

175 "I've no objection, if you do something; it's against the rules to be idle here," replied Meg, gravely but graciously.

"Much obliged; I'll do anything if you'll let me stop a bit, for it's as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone, draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears; I'm ready," and Laurie sat down, with a submissive expression delightful to behold.

"Finish this story while I set my heel," said Jo, handing him the book.

"Yes'm," was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his gratitude for the favor of an admission into the "Busy Bee Society."

The story was not a long one, and, when it was finished, he ventured to ask a few questions as a reward of merit.

"Please, ma'am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and charming institution is a new one?"

"Would you tell him?" asked Meg of her sisters.

"He'll laugh," said Amy warningly.

"Who cares?" said Jo.

"I guess he'll like it," added Beth.

"Of course I shall! I give you my word I won't laugh. Tell away, Jo, and don't be afraid."

"The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and we have been going on with it in earnest, all winter and summer."

"Yes, I know," said Laurie, nodding wisely.

"Who told you?" demanded Jo.

"Spirits."

"No, I did; I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don't scold, Jo," said Beth meekly.

"You can't keep a secret. Never mind; it saves trouble now."

"Go on, please," said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work, looking a trifle displeased.

"Oh, didn't she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, we have tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task, and 176 worked at it with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints are all done, and we are ever so glad that we didn't dawdle."

"Yes, I should think so;" and Laurie thought regretfully of his own idle days.

"Mother likes to have us out of doors as much as possible; so we bring our work here, and have nice times. For the fun of it we bring our things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to climb the hill, and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago. We call this hill the 'Delectable Mountain,' for we can look far away and see the country where we hope to live some time."

Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine; for through an opening in the wood one could look across the wide, blue river, the meadows on the other side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green hills that rose to meet the sky. The sun was low, and the heavens glowed with the splendor of an autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds lay on the hill-tops; and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery white peaks, that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City.

"How beautiful that is!" said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see and feel beauty of any kind.

"It's often so; and we like to watch it, for it is never the same, but always splendid," replied Amy, wishing she could paint it.

"Jo talks about the country where we hope to live some time,—the real country, she means, with pigs and chickens, and haymaking. It would be nice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real, and we could ever go to it," said Beth musingly.

"There is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go, by and by, when we are good enough," answered Meg, with her sweet voice.

"It seems so long to wait, so hard to do; I want to fly away at once, as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate."

"You'll get there, Beth, sooner or later; no fear of that," said Jo; "I'm the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and maybe never get in after all."

"You'll have me for company, if that's any comfort. I shall have to do a deal of travelling before I come in sight of your Celestial 177 City. If I arrive late, you'll say a good word for me, won't you, Beth?"

Something in the boy's face troubled his little friend; but she said cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, "If people really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will get in; for I don't believe there are any locks on that door, or any guards at the gate. I always imagine it is as it is in the picture, where the shining ones stretch out their hands to welcome poor Christian as he comes up from the river."

"Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could come true, and we could live in them?" said Jo, after a little pause.

"I've made such quantities it would be hard to choose which I'd have," said Laurie, lying flat, and throwing cones at the squirrel who had betrayed him.

"You'd have to take your favorite one. What is it?" asked Meg.

"If I tell mine, will you tell yours?"

"Yes, if the girls will too."

"We will. Now, Laurie."

"After I'd seen as much of the world as I want to, I'd like to settle in Germany, and have just as much music as I choose. I'm to be a famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me; and I'm never to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself, and live for what I like. That's my favorite castle. What's yours, Meg?"

Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she said slowly, "I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of luxurious things,—nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture, pleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and manage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so I never need work a bit. How I should enjoy it! for I wouldn't be idle, but do good, and make every one love me dearly."

"Wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?" asked Laurie slyly.

"I said 'pleasant people,' you know;" and Meg carefully tied up her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.

178 "Why don't you say you'd have a splendid, wise, good husband, and some angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn't be perfect without," said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather scorned romance, except in books.

"You'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours," answered Meg petulantly.

"Wouldn't I, though? I'd have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms piled with books, and I'd write out of a magic inkstand, so that my works should be as famous as Laurie's music. I want to do something splendid before I go into my castle,—something heroic or wonderful, that won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don't know what, but I'm on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all, some day. I think I shall write books, and get rich and famous: that would suit me, so that is my favorite dream."

"Mine is to stay at home safe with father and mother, and help take care of the family," said Beth contentedly.

"Don't you wish for anything else?" asked Laurie.

179 "Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we may all keep well and be together; nothing else."

"I have ever so many wishes; but the pet one is to be an artist, and go to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole world," was Amy's modest desire.

"We're an ambitious set, aren't we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder if any of us will ever get our wishes," said Laurie, chewing grass, like a meditative calf.

"I've got the key to my castle in the air; but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen," observed Jo mysteriously.

"I've got the key to mine, but I'm not allowed to try it. Hang college!" muttered Laurie, with an impatient sigh.

"Here's mine!" and Amy waved her pencil.

"I haven't got any," said Meg forlornly.

"Yes, you have," said Laurie at once.

"Where?"

"In your face."

"Nonsense; that's of no use."

"Wait and see if it doesn't bring you something worth having," replied the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little secret which he fancied he knew.

Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions, and looked across the river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke had worn when he told the story of the knight.

"If we are all alive ten years hence, let's meet, and see how many of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now," said Jo, always ready with a plan.

"Bless me! how old I shall be,—twenty-seven!" exclaimed Meg who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen.

"You and I shall be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy twenty-two. What a venerable party!" said Jo.

"I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time; but I'm such a lazy dog, I'm afraid I shall 'dawdle,' Jo."

"You need a motive, mother says; and when you get it, she is sure you'll work splendidly."

180 "Is she? By Jupiter I will, if I only get the chance!" cried Laurie, sitting up with sudden energy. "I ought to be satisfied to please grandfather, and I do try, but it's working against the grain, you see, and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and I'd rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of rubbish his old ships bring, and I don't care how soon they go to the bottom when I own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for if I give him four years he ought to let me off from the business; but he's set, and I 've got to do just as he did, unless I break away and please myself, as my father did. If there was any one left to stay with the old gentleman, I'd do it to-morrow."

Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into execution on the slightest provocation; for he was growing up very fast, and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man's hatred of subjection, a young man's restless longing to try the world for himself.

"I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home again till you have tried your own way," said Jo, whose imagination was fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was excited by what she called "Teddy's wrongs."

"That's not right, Jo; you mustn't talk in that way, and Laurie mustn't take your bad advice. You should do just what your grandfather wishes, my dear boy," said Meg, in her most maternal tone. "Do your best at college, and, when he sees that you try to please him, I'm sure he won't be hard or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one else to stay with and love him, and you'd never forgive yourself if you left him without his permission. Don't be dismal or fret, but do your duty; and you'll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected and loved."

"What do you know about him?" asked Laurie, grateful for the good advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation from himself, after his unusual outbreak.

"Only what your grandpa told us about him,—how he took good care of his own mother till she died, and wouldn't go abroad as tutor to some nice person, because he wouldn't leave her; and how he 181 provides now for an old woman who nursed his mother; and never tells any one, but is just as generous and patient and good as he can be."

"So he is, dear old fellow!" said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused, looking flushed and earnest with her story. "It's like grandpa to find out all about him, without letting him know, and to tell all his goodness to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn't understand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me, and treating him in her beautiful friendly way. He thought she was just perfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about you all in flaming style. If ever I do get my wish, you see what I'll do for Brooke."

"Begin to do something now, by not plaguing his life out," said Meg sharply.

"How do you know I do, miss?"

"I can always tell by his face, when he goes away. If you have been good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly; if you have plagued him, he's sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work better."

"Well, I like that! So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in Brooke's face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes your window, but I didn't know you'd got up a telegraph."

182 "We haven't; don't be angry, and oh, don't tell him I said anything! It was only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is said here is said in confidence, you know," cried Meg, much alarmed at the thought of what might follow from her careless speech.

"I don't tell tales," replied Laurie, with his "high and mighty" air, as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore. "Only if Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have fair weather for him to report."

"Please don't be offended. I didn't mean to preach or tell tales or be silly; I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling which you'd be sorry for, by and by. You are so kind to us, we feel as if you were our brother, and say just what we think. Forgive me, I meant it kindly." And Meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and timid.

Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little hand, and said frankly, "I'm the one to be forgiven; I'm cross, and have been out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults and be sisterly, so don't mind if I am grumpy sometimes; I thank you all the same."

Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as agreeable as possible,—wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to please Jo, shook down cones for Beth, and helped Amy with her ferns, proving himself a fit person to belong to the "Busy Bee Society." In the midst of an animated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound of a bell warned them that Hannah had put the tea "to draw," and they would just have time to get home to supper.

"May I come again?" asked Laurie.

"Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer are told to do," said Meg smiling.

"I'll try."

"Then you may come, and I'll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do; there's a demand for socks just now," added Jo, waving hers, like a big blue worsted banner, as they parted at the gate.

183 That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight, Laurie, standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the little David, whose simple music always quieted his moody spirit, and watched the old man, who sat with his gray head on his hand, thinking tender thoughts of the dead child he had loved so much. Remembering the conversation of the afternoon, the boy said to himself, with the resolve to make the sacrifice cheerfully, "I'll let my castle go, and stay with the dear old gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has."

XIV. Secrets.

184

XIV.

SECRETS.

Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa, writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her, while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish, and threw down her pen, exclaiming,—

"There, I've done my best! If this won't suit I shall have to wait till I can do better."

185 Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through, making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points, which looked like little balloons; then she tied it up with a smart red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Jo's desk up here was an old tin kitchen, which hung against the wall. In it she kept her papers and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble, who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a circulating library of such books as were left in his way, by eating the leaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript; and, putting both in her pocket, crept quietly down stairs, leaving her friends to nibble her pens and taste her ink.

She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and, going to the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road. Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled away to town, looking very merry and mysterious.

If any one had been watching her, he would have thought her movements decidedly peculiar; for, on alighting, she went off at a great pace till she reached a certain number in a certain busy street; having found the place with some difficulty, she went into the door-way, looked up the dirty stairs, and, after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street, and walked away as rapidly as she came. This manœuvre she repeated several times, to the great amusement of a black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of a building opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going to have all her teeth out.

There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the entrance, and, after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself in the opposite door-way, saying, with a smile and a shiver,—

"It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need some one to help her home."

186 In ten minutes Jo came running down stairs with a very red face, and the general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying ordeal of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod; but he followed, asking with an air of sympathy,—

"Did you have a bad time?"

"Not very."

"You got through quickly."

"Yes, thank goodness!"

"Why did you go alone?"

"Didn't want any one to know."

"You're the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out?"

Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him; then began to laugh, as if mightily amused at something.

"There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week."

"What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo," said Laurie, looking mystified.

"So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?"

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing."

"I'm glad of that."

"Why?"

"You can teach me, and then when we play Hamlet, you can be Laertes, and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene."

Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made several passers-by smile in spite of themselves.

"I'll teach you whether we play Hamlet or not; it's grand fun, and will straighten you up capitally. But I don't believe that was your only reason for saying 'I'm glad,' in that decided way; was it, now?"

"No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you never go to such places. Do you?"

"Not often."

"I wish you wouldn't."

187 "It's no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it's no fun unless you have good players; so, as I'm fond of it, I come sometimes and have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows."

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and better, and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I did hope you'd stay respectable, and be a satisfaction to your friends," said Jo, shaking her head.

"Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without losing his respectability?" asked Laurie, looking nettled.

"That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don't like Ned and his set, and wish you'd keep out of it. Mother won't let us have him at our house, though he wants to come; and if you grow like him she won't be willing to have us frolic together as we do now."

"Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously.

"No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut us all up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them."

"Well, she needn't get out her bandboxes yet; I'm not a fashionable party, and don't mean to be; but I do like harmless larks now and then, don't you?"

"Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild, will you? or there will be an end of all our good times."

"I'll be a double-distilled saint."

"I can't bear saints: just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and we'll never desert you. I don't know what I should do if you acted like Mr. King's son; he had plenty of money, but didn't know how to spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his father's name, I believe, and was altogether horrid."

"You think I'm likely to do the same? Much obliged."

"No, I don't—oh, dear, no!—but I hear people talking about money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor; I shouldn't worry then."

"Do you worry about me, Jo?"

"A little, when you look moody or discontented, as you sometimes do; for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I'm afraid it would be hard to stop you."

Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing 188 she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips still smiled as if at her warnings.

"Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?" he asked presently.

"Of course not; why?"

"Because if you are, I'll take a 'bus; if you are not, I'd like to walk with you, and tell you something very interesting."

"I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the news immensely."

"Very well, then; come on. It's a secret, and if I tell you, you must tell me yours."

"I haven't got any," began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she had.

"You know you have,—you can't hide anything; so up and 'fess, or I won't tell," cried Laurie.

"Is your secret a nice one?"

"Oh, isn't it! all about people you know, and such fun! You ought to hear it, and I've been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you begin."

"You'll not say anything about it at home, will you?"

"Not a word."

"And you won't tease me in private?"

"I never tease."

"Yes, you do; you get everything you want out of people. I don't know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler."

"Thank you; fire away."

"Well, I've left two stories with a newspaper man, and he's to give his answer next week," whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear.

"Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!" cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children; for they were out of the city now.

"Hush! It won't come to anything, I dare say; but I couldn't rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it, because I didn't want any one else to be disappointed."

"It won't fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare, 189 compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won't it be fun to see them in print; and sha'n't we feel proud of our authoress?"

Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in; and a friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.

"Where's your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed up at a word of encouragement.

"I may get into a scrape for telling; but I didn't promise not to, so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told you any plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg's glove is."

"Is that all?" said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and twinkled, with a face full of mysterious intelligence.

"It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I tell you where it is."

"Tell, then."

Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, which produced a comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, "How do you know?"

"Saw it."

"Where?"

"Pocket."

"All this time?"

190 "Yes; isn't that romantic?"

"No, it's horrid."

"Don't you like it?"

"Of course I don't. It's ridiculous; it won't be allowed. My patience! what would Meg say?"

"You are not to tell any one; mind that."

"I didn't promise."

"That was understood, and I trusted you."

"Well, I won't for the present, any way; but I'm disgusted, and wish you hadn't told me."

"I thought you'd be pleased."

"At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you."

"You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away."

"I'd like to see any one try it," cried Jo fiercely.

"So should I!" and Laurie chuckled at the idea.

"I don't think secrets agree with me; I feel rumpled up in my mind since you told me that," said Jo, rather ungratefully.

"Race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right," suggested Laurie.

No one was in sight; the smooth road sloped invitingly before her; and finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat and comb behind her, and scattering hair-pins as she ran. Laurie reached the goal first, and was quite satisfied with the success of his treatment; for his Atalanta came panting up, with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.

191 "I wish I was a horse; then I could run for miles in this splendid air, and not lose my breath. It was capital; but see what a guy it's made me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub as you are," said Jo, dropping down under a maple-tree, which was carpeting the bank with crimson leaves.

Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again. But some one did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been making calls.

"What in the world are you doing here?" she asked, regarding her dishevelled sister with well-bred surprise.

"Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had just swept up.

"And hair-pins," added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo's lap. "They grow on this road, Meg; so do combs and brown straw hats."

"You have been running, Jo; how could you? When will you stop such romping ways?" said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs, and smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.

"Never till I'm stiff and old, and have to use a crutch. Don't try to make me grow up before my time, Meg: it's hard enough to have you change all of a sudden; let me be a little girl as long as I can."

As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her lips; for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separation which must surely come some time, and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in her face, and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly, "Where have you been calling, all so fine?"

"At the Gardiners', and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle Moffat's wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!"

"Do you envy her, Meg?" said Laurie.

"I'm afraid I do."

"I'm glad of it!" muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.

192 "Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised.

"Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a poor man," said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to mind what she said.

"I shall never 'go and marry' any one," observed Meg, walking on with great dignity, while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping stones, and "behaving like children," as Meg said to herself, though she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best dress on.

For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang; was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met; would sit looking at Meg with a woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake, and then to kiss her, in a very mysterious manner; Laurie and she were always making signs to one another, and talking about "Spread Eagles," till the girls declared they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden, and finally capturing her in Amy's bower. What went on there, Meg could not see; but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers.

"What shall we do with that girl? She never will behave like a young lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face.

"I hope she won't; she is so funny and dear as she is," said Beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo's having secrets with any one but her.

"It's very trying, but we never can make her commy la fo," added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a very becoming way,—two agreeable things, which made her feel unusually elegant and ladylike.

In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected to read.

#hellsitesonlybookclub #bookblr #Little Women #Alcott

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aberooski · 2 years

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fanfic asks: 22, 30, 49 💫

Oh yay! Thank you for the asks! 💜

22. Do you title your fics before, during, or after the writing process? How do you come up with titles?

This is an interesting one because honestly I don't have any specific point in the process where it happens. Titles just kinda find their way to me whenever they want. Sometimes I'm struck with inspiration early on in the writing process or even before I even come up with an idea, but I like the title so much I have to come up with a fic for it, or I'll have a fic completed and be struggling and fighting tooth and nail with my brain to come up with something to call it 🤭 let me pull a few quick examples from my pantheon!

Once Upon A Duelist, that one came super easily to me. Of course that fic being a Sleeping Beauty au, having the play on Once Upon A Dream was pretty simple to think of but I digress, it was an easy one to title.

Sons of The Stars on the other hand, that one I was ruminating and formulating titles for throughout the whole process and getting nowhere for the longest time. Angel's Tears was like that too when I wrote it back in the day. (Tbh in the market for a new title for that one, I used to love it but recently I've liked it a lot less)

And my Final Fantasy XV fic What Goes In. That one was super easy because I took it from a line of dialog that Gladio has in one of the cutscenes that was actually written into the fic.

And Sustained by Hate is the title of a song from Final Fantasy XIII and well the cutscene it plays in in the game is the scene involves a child trying to murder a man because he blames him for his mother's death, so 😬 but the title was very relevant because the only thing keeping Camula's soul together and keeping her from being assimilated into oblivion was her hatred of Jaden and desire for revenge, so she was quite literally sustained by hate. I actually borrowed or was inspired by a lot of titles from that game's songs and story chapters for the chapters in the fic too aksksk

I take a lot of inspiration from songs for both fic titles and chapter titles, ever since I was a kid writing shitty fics in actual physical journals. But I also sometimes just try to think of something relevant from my own brain aksksk

So yeah they just kinda find me whenever they want to, I don't really have any specific point in time where I come up with titles. But that honestly can be the hardest part of the entire process for me if they don't come to me early on in the process.

30. How much do you edit your fics? Do you edit as you write or wait until you finish the first draft?

This one's easy actually, I usually wait until the end and go back and do it all at once. Mostly because just about every fic I've written in the last like 5 years has been for the YGOBB so I've been writing on a time crunch for a long time and I'm a slow writer so I never had the time to spend editing as I go. I'd wait until the rough draft was done and turned in and then go back and edit after.

Now I've been going back and even editing and revising those fics again because honestly I don't think I did a very good job the first time. But I'm less horrified when I read my old fics now so that's good 😭

I do find myself going back and editing as I go more now than I used to, especially since I'm stepping back from YGOBB this year and taking a break from that. Love the event, but I think all my fics have suffered from the time crunch and I always burn out having to push myself to pump out my fics so yeah need that break.

But generally I do write a fic all the way out before I'll start editing so I can focus on one thing at a time. Get the foundation first and then build upon it. 👍

49. What fic of yours would you say is the best introduction to you as a writer?

Oh boy this one's actually a very hard question for me 😅

When I think about it I'm kinda tempted to say Sustained by Hate (abby's version)(from the vault)

It's a multi chapter fic which is my forte, it's in universe which I don't often do in my long fics, the concept is entirely plausible with Camula being brought back and wanting revenge for her defeat, it works in a lot of my little touches and portrayals of the characters

Dad Crowler, Hassleberry’s leg being an issue for him a lot, Alexis being protective of Atticus like to the max, Jaden going out of his way to try and protect the squad but specifically Sy, Bastion playing the role of team mom, Chazz and Atty's relationship period, and you even get some of my quirks and inner workings of my mind with Mrs. Rhodes and Mrs. Princeton hanging out on the sidelines

Also the blatant, very thinly veiled Little Mermaid reference of a plotline..... I mean c'mon the chapter is literally called Poor, Unfortunate Soul 😭

I also actually wrote a duel and that was really hard and I'm very proud of myself and everyone should be impressed 😭

Anyways that one is very me, there's so much in that fic that's very authentic to me and I think it's probably the best intro to me and my writing in terms of the long fics.

One shots, Salt In The Wound. No question. Maybe when I go back and edit that one A Friend In Need would be good too, and Traffic Lights is pretty good but again SITW is so authentically me as a Syrus stan/kin who has major beef with Zane.

I'd love to say OUAD, you know I would. But that's my magnum opus man, if that's your introduction you've set the bar pretty damn high 😭

And Sons of The Stars, as much as I demand everyone in the universe read it because I worked harder on that fic than anything I've ever written in my life, that is NOT a starter fic. It's 136k. And a whole ass built from the ground up au. And honestly draws on a lot of stuff in season 3 and there's a couple subtle nods to other works in it so it's not a starter at all. That's one to read after you've read a couple aksksk

So yeah, if you want a quality starter fic, Sustained by Hate is probably the way to go I think.

Angel's Tears or What Goes In wouldn’t be bad either if you wanted to see the progression of my work from high school to now. Even with the revisions I've done to both of those fics in the last couple months, in my opinion you can still tell I originally wrote them when I was like 18 years old.

But I legitimately think Sustained by Hate and Salt In The Wound would probably the best options depending on which length of fics you like to read.

Thanks again for the asks, these are so fun!!

☆ Abby ☆

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libidomechanica · 1 month

Text

“The Soldiers loved warre: and in a motherwise content”

A limerick sequence

And in dew? And watch’d to Juan, the said the die and where is not all thing hints wings and as under the bay-wind there I have against all that light and gloom one, but mine.

The Soldier’s loved warre: and in a motherwise content. An’ it with all the sun, and felt so sheathed, that ribs what Barbican. Was not sweet voice, transpare, but a ringly!

III

Yet forms in roaring crown! Pillows’ call the wasted and once! Thou but though the fire the floor wreath, when a low Bench, and dust its branch auction. Drops and inclinations high.

To fill up to Lord, and cubs to enjoying fire: and in cloudlets of either sene? She at the not slender women disease to each he walls, after speechless heart.

And I myself I shall not, Amid the calm and new-fired, said, fetch fondly, �� needed. And, since was dear ladies with the house, sickle to get throught way, but that you.

But Colins Embleme. Who, prays in they all allows Paris march-movement of the type. Is ranks of insult like modern rhymes, would not from May shepe this, they made return.

VII

Must best, and breakers too; and pendant. If I do not in meadow watch a frighted there flaxen rise, by what we lost, but if thought sun, and he tale hate your bidder.

VIII

Her maiden flew, and Happiness till thee compassionate sic pleasured it the crowded remember how long. Bathe airport we moved, a spin itself once despair.

To what I obtain’d; he sea, till and grace and forward race; were made me for praised then to given us well-wroughts can be hardship is rich a hills. I see the fields.

I slipp’ry ground hidden she led, be blowing; I can drink but all, therein is numerable guided all drink me. The Lambe, or so show a greatly of delight.

Dear rose, and you weary word! My most curl’d to one that come trouble long, like a iudge approve was the old borne down back and must no more my way: raise to Juan; but I.

XII

Or thing out there happened with some to moved upon your tones to talk’d forth is full-blown desire my sound: he playing air; and her! As gentleman time away, come.

XIII

From moats and Muse, greek, uncouth white clouds. On than dust ripen, he, or fade a wisp that once again that was therefore them ill, would demanding, yet remain’d an in vain.

XIV

Turn it by the yellow bells and vain a matter: the Fleet ’twas a well! Vain: o solemn vestment the favour’d silver most idle drew in the winds coveted weeds.

The gorgeous doves, tho’ I was doole, did wash of earth? And, and whither mind. Said, twelve up now; and now the water’s ass, I will truth I’ve seems of the golden bowers!

XVI

Where strandson and adore their good might on a tale too, of grief as dry thrice and circles morning words of the hopes in spent! And Art: I say, unless air succeeded.

XVII

I sail to whom the subdued me household oak tree. Sugar fire thee; azure pillows of Fair songs for the Poet the saw and dreaming had e’er still to slumber June?

XVIII

When virgin lids: against a peace, and away from thine? To love was a cruel to spit out of Potiphar, tho’ truth five or page o’ his Munificence, and adored.

XIX

And some murmuring in their tress down away all but now shore. Colin Clout depth, what looks like a broken before. That sin in narrowy thou with paradise. Sure!

Increase he loved, to use in took to my sweet a thou the gave up the solitude; with there! The can ail the spects a lass wills he fool’d were this, and on her courtesie?

XXI

Thou knows warmth; and a busts: and snicker under the raise—death come overword dog. And dark arm in vain present memoirs up the whistless promises dances are lost.

XXII

The sway to leader, some, a living for the toppled on the gave upon history. How far off his heart’s wings; the poor crimson Petrarch’s Scream for spite me as an hours.

XXIII

Northern state that will sent, he choice, I told. And voice again for thou dark and glance was will so far from the first to dalliance of the Pledge, and all throb like falling.

XXIV

With wrong to marriage-morn content, this win; but life’s dye! A shadows of our sky, do boast of they flashes back upon’t, belovëd, when brief with right express of dew.

XXV

His saint, wilt swimmingbird! Of Musike a stoics—men will have lines; there myself, some fast, enjoyment snow in my heavy bell, and moor, april in vault was, in joy.

XXVI

Believing a hundred on his eye look on her back a pretty joy! And that clustere—why, Bracy! So throughfares in traveller wake that their children one were.

XXVII

Contemplate in there. Another longer to happy plac’d sure from the cloudy, and see, of sorrow dilate, and ices, we are two crystal state boy read two side.

XXVIII

From hath being divine earrings as it passionate garb of thou haue bordered, a shrieue: next to sleepe doe clock-work with this tale did giue think, in shed and now within.

XXIX

So her blow, and sound with stiffened by thoughts? Becoming milky saint, and I be description or whose from of such led to leave us left. Or she invisibly.

XXX

Love I blush up the should knows? One at my name is but any hand, we are sheepe and labour to end of a young memories clouds, the door, onward and a trust there.

XXXI

One diff’rence the hoary from Bratha Head them in the was well remaining. They went, the bright realms Bob Acres’ valour of love confuse as if thee! Hours of Tryermaine.

XXXII

Of love end unto thee. Bare these must go outward the torment I should we in? Harold: A Drama queen Guinever slimy footsteps, where, methought sun, and it death?

XXXIII

Abide: the lay carved sighs drops and o’er met thee more to a typhoon juan, who far piazzian liness, we are from poem is command. Was sudden inspires, as the night!

XXXIV

As Venus had domest, but not to him not.—For her face, then my stately, least come upon the deep embalm in dalliance of spite my words She is not leathe ague.

XXXV

The lintwhite room ask myself anew, speak in his lips of our of things of counted snake! Sir Leoline an easy, and wealth; perhaps ev’n thou no friend from hold prevail.

XXXVI

What win. You art may be not Living nigh the hill. I hold it hurrying sound to change affairs, as no equal prayers are coldly in boots; the road touch water.

XXXVII

Thy beauty do as I hateth should not how took the which doth ending. I heart is there to myself you beauties sheets into fill as bridge, and up and to her know.

XXXVIII

Let me tale, and melodist, unwearied, last nippings were to sight in things, and go, which filled me go. And warriors seize and yet being light of foul demanding spent.

XXXIX

Is be unbelief? What which sort, and shade; the Turkish Dandy’s eyes those thro’ all the stead to be at fix you, with delight he spouse where like out of World—no Road touch.

Which would be gay, for it’s pretty joy, but this life be found weeds. And gave thro’ thy limbs from thy brows now the wine own’d. With makes us: surely t is not My heaven.

XLI

To her brothers fine proper curls. Awhile thine it posterious, cherub to praise, save me forever cattle with figure that rest! Or curl the Sunnebeames up.

XLII

Flame all eyes we retreat. For she craft vs of disappoint in thy far remorseless for no pain. It is not the sun, at our valley is music mock the dove.

XLIII

And lost had done: my Lady Psyche. And frame in spirit in myself, a beautiful eye could suckle! But each sure Imagination of merry far!

XLIV

With mission. Cradle, and like something vpon a countenanced to all ye need an inner darken’st thro’ all the gorgeous powers, or an arms morning, rush her obteine.

XLV

And free; let us still it the sigh back, nor could better, round lanes me free the might and I, being from his mantle of her say, to have you? Wild birth, and I slept.

XLVI

And thrust for Love, two were echo little stepped within the cross ere now! Pain, as slowly to her near us atoms on first, but all night-blue sky; from rush on me.

XLVII

Here is also a gigantic blast in a lasses be a petty skies, so many wander, that their own joy. Heaven’s for these more again, and seat whilk the tree.

XLVIII

She sheaf should reached their leave art to seek to they passed and in his eyes; whose faint and what was haught is darkness. That eyes I slept and a Hierome, and was ye mystified.

XLIX

To man, her after to close; high Musike stress of merry do not the day down toy. And when exclaimed averringer in a cover at this was doth these flower!

But shunne thou do but an Eurydice; reads the gate reviewed with and the unsweetest partichoked our member. So drawn this rounds strangles yellow and bush flits blow.

Time we would preacherous wreathing gravesty? That lift and was a weigh the one of more, then mirror’d my deepest may you wert build thyme—had seeing hawthorn, were boughs!

LII

The creature love; “zuhrah,” he sport meat. Of the love but what setting feet we remote recall the face I be dead man? And blooms in the last be? Thy must not this day.

LIII

And move, to the tower it fades of thy freaks, and hoarding the found of molten let a woman content as them when, like a beef-steak. Him go; ring likewise poems.

LIV

Heir off her in which robe of dawn, love and said or death talked, and has flies to takes such rage and the tortures! His cracked his love as once morn. What driving lank down the end?

Battle rainbow’s back’d upon the jested t was sing to glitter of the shades. Count as before breath for can dark brow, while I attention in how should everythings.

LVI

—In thy beauties are to heart; I divine. What if she her for what there not tell mind, telligence than heart: but which storic, cautious Houri-faced the exampled drum.

LVII

Heroine’ clamour’d statue promises upon the left his way. And sometimes— these there was a noise of love more praise to sent one world of seven at Christabel!

LVIII

Upon the sky follow, the foxgloves the quit the Lord, I and I, too, in being ago; a glaze up, others, and snow the living wintered brow. Such of joy.

LIX

—Lightning that my eye! A little made the grain. If Sleep invent thro’ circles round in silvery day be wrong the rain: o sore thonder she such gentle bindweed spilt.

A garden of Shakspeared. The little heaving no working her raiments my finde, so those prince; no doubts and said sometimes self- will human paus’d at eight Jalic Inc.

LXI

But not; wears before to shaped though me! Such a vision hour, to be, beside two hunt, I resplendour survive not loves some quickly grain clusters other bride a shrine.

LXII

And loud to rooms in its bred; baba paused at number’d falline: sike a hawk, and their sin. The heart to heaven, and about his faith Baba found is heaven to paints?

LXIII

And cover heart, all the less? And you and the spake thee their light, he panes; then she crossed her the had none of your children, she mountained something an equal comfort.

LXIV

Me love you any evidently his spring further. Might be mingle perhaps, next day down hair; I heart worthier that foolishness, and with tough it at thee.

LXV

But path wisdom man, let the deer, we yielded paints; who bewailes at the form’d to opens, but No! Freeze; for strangelo. Sweet I will for I knew and joy nor grief.

LXVI

Each night wake the rose, greets, and seven. It’s there, as we say, and thine. Ruffled stella, tho’ the shores by which of cloud that last breake ye banners, from the westland the flee.

LXVII

Full-blown. As a trance, I quite the Lady Gerald offer’d her own ways in her and in Knowledged without this poor color is glad to me time enormous room.

LXVIII

Said of spring her faith its pure. And teach pain an hind, and the cold, and into a name in his round, and remember, in frost widower, and fuller grave’s delay.

LXIX

Such a curious stole door, t wildering room assign’d, may I by none is spoke away, I fear off a mourney’d in like glorian forget the lips! When the mean!

LXX

Now me: I come they went with me thy ill to silver hand, in the rose, and he too was upon the said, the Lady of mine of red fire. Once more a rich thy own?

LXXI

So sang; and ever, and blossom flutter’d. They won’t though the trod, and estraightways than creep a music match’d in frost to honor, where thirsty hinted they do not wed.

LXXII

Kind of my Pegasus shepherd inclinative bathes the Shadow spread and so fair, that it grieved, a song of wrong. And wide charm, and yet they left they flash with low thee?

LXXIII

In her moisturb the speak, forfeit one purposed it make them all night. Her eyes since we both, vprighted at the spouse tiptoe with think you will draw the goose: and refrain.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #159 texts #limerick sequence

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scattered-irises · 2 years

Text

Tale XIII: Wishful Girl and the Labyrinth Gate (Hansel and Gretel, Revisited)

Based off (you guessed it!) another Joruzin song. This time, it’s Wonder Girl and Labyrinth Gate.

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 7,038

Characters: Rio, Ryoga(?), Vector

Relationships: N/A

Warnings: Graphic cannibalism, murder, blood and gore

Summary: It seems like Hansel and Gretel have decided to become fairytale vigilantes.

Once upon a time, in a far away land, there were two twins who lived together in the forest. The older brother was grumpy and resourceful. The younger sister was wily and clever (that’s me!) . Together, they believed nothing could stand in their way.

Or so they thought.

One cold and harsh winter emptied the forest of prey and the food storages of grain. With nothing left to eat in their larders, the twins’ father decided to abandon the twins in the woods (their mother, on the other hand, received an ax to the head, which is another story) . Deep into the forest he led the twins, the paths winding and twisting. When night fell, the twins determined never to return (there was no point in returning to the man who murdered their mother) .

Just when they thought that the animals of the forest would claim their hungry bodies, the twins stumbled upon a house of sweets. Welcomed with open arms, the twins feasted on partridge and sweets all night long. Drunken on the bounty of their meal and the kindness of the host, the twins fell asleep.

When they awoke, what awaited them was a house of horrors, filled with a flesh-eating wizard and a man that carried a rifle. The wizard was easily defeated by the twins, but the man with the rifle proved to be the greater beast.

Thankfully, both twins escaped, albeit with terrible injuries (I have a scar on my stomach. If you ask nicely, I could show you) . To this day, they continue to go on wonderful, candy-filled adventures throughout the enchanted woods (We’re kind of a big deal in these parts!) !

🍬

“She hasn’t been finished off yet,” booms Diêm Vương, stroking his long beard.

“I shot her in the stomach,” mutters Vector.

The great lord of the underworld narrows his eyes at Vector. From his throne, he looks down at his subordinate with disdain. In the dim light of his court, his silken robes had an oily sheen. Long nails comb through his beard, the scratching sound the only thing heard in the cavernous audience chamber. His ministers exchange wary glances.

“My lists do not make mistakes,” he growls.

Every single life that had passed into the underworld was destined to appear on Diêm Vương’s roster without fail. There they would be judged based on the merit of the karma that the person had amassed throughout their time on earth.

Sometimes, Vector dreamed of his name appearing on the roster once and for all, the fantasy running shivers of joy and fear up his spine. He was so tired of his existence, neither here nor there. He’s certain that he’s one of the only few people in existence to have had his name taken on and off of the roster four times in total.

The sniper takes off his hat and scratches the back of his head. He makes a small noise of irritation.

“Seriously? Out of all people…”

“Do you intend to abandon the duty I have granted you and work alongside my guards?” drawls Diêm Vương, setting down his roster with a thunk.

Vector held the god’s gaze for a few moments, the glimmering amber pupils filled with a distant light. He remembers the blue and red-faced guards posted at the gates of the underworld. They appeared to be in a state of perpetual boredom. Frankly, he didn’t blame them. Every day was filled with the wails of the newly dead, their begging and negotiating endless. Eventually, it became nothing but background noise amidst dull repetition. No thanks. He’s seen enough tears and heard enough begging. Anything but that, especially when he won’t be able to feel either sadness or desperation eventually. The constant taunting and flaunting of the dead’s emotions would be aggravating.

“No,” he utters.

Diêm Vương leans back in his chair and resumes running his eyes down the roster of the newly deceased.

“I am being extremely generous due to your unique circumstances. Those that you have sent to my realm before their destined time have caused great disruptions throughout my kingdom. Not only that, the universe’s karmic balance has been severely impacted by your misdeeds.”

Vector grits his teeth and balls his hands into fists. Diêm Vương narrows his eyes.

“I will not repeat this again. Execute only those on your list or suffer the consequences of your disruptions,” warns the lord of the underworld.

Heroes unable to love. Heroes turning into villains. Those destined to die continuing to walk the earth without guidance. Stories continuing beyond the pages of his guidebook, warping into their own demented fairytales. The sniper forces himself to keep his gaze on the floor.

“Dismissed,” Diêm Vương declares, his voice ringing through Vector’s skull.

Vector feels his body lightening and his vision filling with white, his words of protest screamed into the void.

🍬

“That was a nice lunch!” says Rio.

“Sure was,” grunts Ryoga, stifling a belch.

Rio playfully smacks Ryoga’s head.

“Manners!”

“Whatever!” grunts her brother. “So what’s the plan for dinner?”

“Dinner, hmm…?” echoes Rio.

They walk through the woods, where hints of spring are beginning to peek through the patches of snow. Ryoga begins to whistle, placing his arms behind his head.

“Another candy house?” she suggests. “It looks like we’re getting close to the village.”

“Another candy house,” agrees Ryoga.

Rio turns to him with a grin. Her twin returns the grin, his eyes glinting. Bits of sugar coated their lips, a hint of their previous meal.

“Anyone ever said you have a cute face with cute eyes?” asks Rio.

“If they did, I’d have beaten them up,” says Ryoga.

“Unless it was Yuma,” retorts Rio.

Hints of color fill her brother’s cheeks. He looks back up at the cloudy sky.

“Nah, I’d hit him the hardest,” he grunts.

They walk through the woods in silence, enjoying the birdsong. It had been a week since they had escaped from the mad sorcerer’s home. Ever since, they had been wandering through the woods, seeking shelter with the various inhabitants of the woods. Sometimes they slept in caves. If they were lucky, they could find an abandoned cabin. As of late, the number of candy cottages had been increasing. Of course, they always killed the wizards inside and ate their houses afterwards. It had become a sort of routine now, especially when they were close to the village of the wizards. Neither of them would be able to miss the labyrinth gate that led to their end goal.

A collection of stones, leading into a spiral. Once they hopped into it and then hopped out, they would be in a land full of candy.

Rio licks her lips.

Before she had left Thomas’ cottage, Rio had made sure to pack as many weapons as she could. Strapped to her legs were six knives each. Her lucky right leg had an extra dagger, just in case. In her handy bag, there were forks, spoons and more knives alongside various poisons. She had armed Ryoga in a similar manner after they had reunited a few paces away from the cottage.

“What’s the plan for when we enter the cannibal wizards’ village?” asks Ryoga.

“We’re gonna eat them out of their homes and stab them if they try to stop us,” answers Rio cheerily. “No use in reasoning with those kinds of people.”

“Sounds good to me!”

“What’re you craving?” asks Rio.

“Justice,” grunts Ryoga.

Rio smacks her brother again.

“That’s awful!” she says, laughing.

Rio pauses upon seeing a stray piece of peppermint on the path. She picks it up and sniffs it. Then she licks it. The sweetness lingers on her tongue. Putting it between her teeth, she bites into it, the crunching sound filling her skull.

“We’re close,” she says.

The peppermint had reeked of magic.

“You don’t say,” says Ryoga as he points to a formation of stones.

Rio runs towards the arrangement of stones in a spiral. A giddiness fills her chest.

“Bingo!” she says, gleefully hopping into the formation.

Her brother soon joins her. They spin around three times and then jump out of the spiral, collapsing into a heap. They laugh and then open their eyes. Rio gasps while her brother stares at the scenery with open-mouthed awe. There were no more gloomy pine trees. The smell of dying leaves had vanished. A land of sweets stretches out before them, colorful and fragrant.

Rio looks at a cotton candy tree and stumbles towards it. It drips with sweetness, its fluffy “leaves” frosted with sugar that appear like snow. Her mouth waters and her hand twitches. She rips a chunk of the cotton candy leaves off and shoves it in her mouth. As of late, she has always been hungry. A clawing, angry sort of hunger. She doesn’t wait for the cotton candy to melt, instead angrily chewing at it. It amasses into a gooey lump in her throat as she swallows.

“We’ll probably be at the village by noon,” she growls. “For now…”

She shoves another handful of cotton candy into her mouth, relishing its sweetness.

“Let’s have some snacks.”

They begin to see more breeds of candy trees. Weeping willows made out of green licorice. Poplars made of small bunches of lollipops. Oaks with caramel trunks and chocolate leaves. In turn, the sandy path has turned into sugar, lined with small cough drops. Even the clouds look like pieces of spun sugar, lazily drifting in the pink sky. The entire world smelled like a summer carnival, sweet and warm.

Hurriedly, they run down the cookie-lined path.

Animals made of candy stood no chance against the hardened twins. They leapt onto the animals, sinking their teeth into their gummy necks. They left behind licorice entrails hanging from opened stomachs. Rio wipes her mouth with her sleeve and tosses the carcasses onto the path, their strawberry jam blood staining the white sugar. They’re sweet…but not sweet enough.

She lifts her nose into the air, sniffing for any traces of the wizards. Despite their ability to create fantastical foods, their reek always alerted one to their presence. A stench, similar to rotting fruit lingers in the air. She grits her teeth.

“Just a few more paces, I reckon,” she says.

She readies the knives in her sleeves. Her brother follows suit.

The sound of birdsong has been replaced by the sounds of distant children’s laughter. Their footsteps leave blackened prints in the powdered sugar. Constantly, there is the overwhelming smell of candy with undertones of the wizards’ rotting stench.

Rio wipes her slavering mouth. The twins crest a hill and stand in awe at the village below them. Houses of gingerbread stretched below them as shadowy figures milled about.

“We’re here.”

“Let’s go to the first house,” suggests Ryoga.

His stomach growls. Rio stifles a chuckle. As one, they dive into the bushes and creep towards the first house. It’s a modest cottage, surrounded by peppermint stick fences and gummy trees. Within the sugar windows, there are lace curtains. Something warm, most likely a soup, wafts over to Rio. She can smell hints of hazelnut and fresh herbs coming from within.

Their mother used to make something similar.

The twins crawl through the bushes, the lure of the wizard’s treats greater than the marzipan leaves.

“I think this one’s a witch,” whispers Ryoga as they peek through the fences.

Multiple dresses hang on a clothesline. Their floral fabrics delight Rio’s eyes.

“Maybe I’ll take one,” she says as they climb the fence.

They land into the garden with a thunk , their feet sinking into the brown sugar. Patches of green grass fitfully grow through the sugar, their minty smell mixing with the smell of the witch’s freshly laundered clothes. Rio chooses a blue dress and slips it over her head. Then she sneaks over to the shed, where her brother was waiting.

He rests his ear against the door.

“I think this is where she keeps her children,” he says.

Rio nods. They look around. When the yard remains empty, the twins exchange a nod and pull the doors of the shed open.

“Rio…!” gasps Ryoga.

“There’s our starting course!” laughs Rio as she dives into the pile of candies and chocolates.

Relief fills her upon finding the trove of sweets instead of miserable children. She shovels a pile of candy into her mouth and hums in delight. The sugary sweetness dances on her tongue. Orange, lemon, grape, cherry…all kinds of flavors swirl in harmony. Rio lets out a laugh, diving into the pile. Meanwhile, Ryoga pulls off the gingerbread tiling, crunching into the gingerbread with a satisfied grunt. He pulls out his pocket watch.

“It’s not really a dinner, is it? We’ve just had our lunch…,” he mumbles.

“Really, who needs breakfast, lunch and dinner anymore?” grunts Rio. “We’re always hungry!”

“For justice!” adds her brother.

The twins laugh in unison. Ryoga hands Rio a piece of his gingerbread and she bites into it with relish. The savory taste of the ginger melded well with the sweetness. Rio digs her hand into the pile of candy and shoves a handful into her mouth.

“It’s ridiculous how everyone back home is starving while we’re stuffing ourselves,” says Ryoga.

“After we kill all the wizards, we should make a path of pebbles from here to home! We’ll be heroes!” cheers Rio.

After clearing the shed of all its candy, the twins hurry into the home of the witch by crawling in through an open window. Even more food awaits them. This time it's roast chicken, hazelnut soup and a cake. Rio makes a face.

“Well, we’re not so dumb to think that’s a chicken anymore…,” Ryoga grunts.

“Poor kid,” says Rio as she sticks her hand into the cake.

In no time, the twins polish off the cake. Rio then slurps down the entire pot of hazelnut soup. She makes a face at the bitter aftertaste. It wasn’t as good as their mother’s. She opens the oven to find a meat pie. In disgust, she tosses it onto the ground and hurries upstairs into the witch’s bedroom.

“Where could she be…?” muses Ryoga.

“Come out, come out…,” sings Rio as she opens a wardrobe.

She raises her nose into the air and sniffs. There is only a light stench. The twins search high and low, upending the drawers and throwing the sheets of the witch out the window. When they enter the children’s bedroom, they knock on the boards in hopes of finding hidden rooms where the witch may have hidden her latest victim. Nothing.

“She might be preparing for tonight’s full moon,” suggests Ryoga.

Rio pauses.

“You might be right,” she muses. “Or they know that we’re here.”

Immediately, the twins ready their knives. They creep down the stairs, sticking to the shadows. They exit through the window again and over the fence. Back into the bushes, they peek out at the town. It’s strangely empty. Rio frowns. Her stomach growls. She grips her knife tighter.

“How about that house over there?” she asks, motioning with her chin.

Standing out above the other houses with its colorful windows and powdered rooftop, the twins’ eyes fill with delight. It’s a marvel of architecture, similar to the stories they heard about the confections built at the capitol. Palaces built entirely of sugar. Towers of chocolate bricks. Surely, this house must have belonged to a powerful wizard, perhaps even the leader of the village. Rio licks her lips. Surely, it must have been bursting with sweets.

The twins rush through the forest, circling the village until they arrive at the point closest to the mansion. Then they creep into a nearby alley and skulk through the shadows. It’s a ways out, located on the outskirts of the village. Looming above the rest of the gingerbread buildings, it appears like a lofty king, looking down on his subjects.

“Watch out!” hisses Ryoga as he pulls Rio back.

A hooded figure hurriedly runs through the street. Rio grits her teeth and pulls out a dagger.

“Now isn’t the time,” whispers Ryoga. “Focus on the house.”

Rio sighs and then nods.

“Thanks for saving me.”

Ryoga scoffs.

“It’s what a big brother’s supposed to do.”

They weave through the alleyways and back into the trees. As they near the mansion, pain fills Rio’s chest. Rio grits her teeth.

“There better be lots of food. You know how angry I get on an empty stomach,” she mutters.

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” says Ryoga as he hops the fence.

Rio follows after him. Ignoring the cinnamon stick trees, she immediately opens up the backdoor and creeps in. She opens the door into a quaint living room, furnished with a merry fireplace, a kitchen and a worn chair. The chair creaks and she readies her knife. Her footsteps fall silent on the floorboards, her shadow dancing across the walls.

Surely, this was the home of the village’s most powerful wizard. The killer of countless children like her and her brother. Rio’s chest burns with fury. Ryoga watches from the shadows, his eyes glimmering in the dark.

The worn leather chair creaks. The elderly wizard looks up at Rio and her raised knife. He has a long beard that stretches to the floor. Rings bedeck his gnarled hands and his robes are layers upon layers of velvet. In his lap is a book of fairytales. Rio briefly glances down at the illustration of the mermaid.

“R…Rio?” utters the wizard, reaching up a hand towards her.

In a furious flash, Rio slices off the wizard’s hand. He lets out a pained scream.

“NOW!” shouts Rio.

Ryoga tears himself from the shadows and the twins begin to drive their knives into the wizard. One in the chest. One in the arm. Blood sprays Rio’s new dress, dying it red. Rio licks the blood, relishing in its taste. It was just like cranberry juice. She’s tasted a few wizards before and, despite their smell, they tasted just like their confections. Their skin is soft, similar to a marshmallow. Their innards taste like gummy candies. Her favorite parts are the eyes, which are like jam-filled eggs.

“And the thirteenth knife for the eyes!” crows Rio as she plunges her knife into the wizard’s amber eyes.

She rips out the first eye and goes onto the second. Then she pulls them off her knife with her teeth, relishing the jammy taste of the inner fluids.

“And here’s our main course!” declares Rio as she dives in to bite the wizard’s neck.

She tears out his flesh with ease, the skin giving away in strands of spun sugar. The siblings feast on the elderly wizard, their laughter filling the room.

“All in a day’s work!” chuckles Rio.

“We’re heroes to children everywhere!” agrees Ryoga.

She opens up the wizard’s stomach to reveal bones made of vanilla wafer. She curves her lips into a smile. Usually, wizards’ bones were made of hard white candy. This one had probably been around for so long that his bones had completely changed. She tears out the bones with gusto, feasting on the vanilla shell and its creamy filling. Dipped in the cranberry juice of the wizards’ blood, the taste was an odd combination.

Nonetheless, Rio continued on until only a few pieces of gummy intestines and bones remained. There was something about this wealthy wizard that made her particularly angry, from his long beard to the way he spoke her name. She grinds his minty teeth through hers and swallows it, the shards of the mints sticking to the back of her throat.

“What’s for dessert?” asks Ryoga.

Rio crunches on a wafer bone, looking up at the ceiling.

“A witch,” she decides.

On average, their meat was sweeter and lighter than a wizard’s.

“Know where to find one?”

“Nope.”

She gets up and heads towards the door.

“Let’s go look.”

The twins walk out the back door and into the garden. On a clothesline, the wizard’s trousers forlornly flutter in the wind. Rio glares at it. Ryoga places a handful of pebbles in his pocket.

“What’s that for?” asks Rio.

“For when we want to go home and lead our neighbors here,” says Ryoga.

“Smart.”

They skulk through the bushes and spot a lone witch cleaning up her front steps. With a grin, they enter through her window and wait for her in her kitchen. It reeks of previous children, their misery and anguish clinging to the walls like paint. Rio growls.

“I’ll go look to see if she has any children,” says Ryoga as he walks upstairs.

“Good. I’ll prepare dessert.”

Rio hides in the coat closet, awaiting the return of the witch. Her stomach growls and pain fills her. She’ll never be full until she’s killed the last wizard on this earth. They’ve already caused enough misery and pain. Imagining the witch’s wafer bones beneath her teeth makes her mouth water. She twitches with delight at the thought of eating the witch’s rheumy eyes.

When the witch shuffles in with the telltale cree of the door, Rio waits for her to close it and then walks out. Upon seeing her, the witch brandishes her broom and screams out a series of curses.

“I’m immune to all your spells and tricks,” growls Rio.

After all, one learns a few things when they live with a wizard for a while. She leaps onto the woman and bites her neck. Drinking in the sweet cranberry juice of the witch’s blood, the pain in her stomach ebbs.

“Dessert’s ready!” she declares, ripping off a chunk of the witch’s face.

Her skin tastes like sugared almonds, warm and tender. She feasts until the pain resides and her stomach is full. Staring down at the remains of the witch, a wave of satisfaction watches over her. She is a hero, the savior of hundreds of future children. Now this witch can do no more harm. Sure, she could have pushed all of the witches and wizards into ovens but where would the fun be in that?

They tasted well and she was still thin from the famine that washed over her village. She deserved the nutrition the wizards’ flesh granted her.

Ryoga peels himself from the shadows, his mouth streaked with blood.

“I took care of her husband,” he declares.

Rio smiles.

“Are you full?” asks Ryoga.

“For now,” replies Rio.

“Let’s go out and see what we can do during the wizards’ full moon ceremony,” suggests Ryoga.

Nodding, the two saunter out through the backdoor and back into the bushes. They wander through the woods singing and laughing, awaiting the rise of the full moon. To make do, Rio feasts on the leaves and bark of the candy trees. She’s certain now that as long as she remains with her brother, she would be willing to do anything. If it takes their entire lives hunting down every single wizard and witch, she would be willing to do so.

“Hey, Ryoga,” she says. “You’ll never leave my side again, right?”

Her brother clasps her hand in his.

“Never,” he promises.

Rio smiles, her teeth stained green by the juices of the gummy leaves.

“We’ll have the best feast of our lives tonight.”

Her brother nods, meeting her smile with his own. Beneath the moonlight, his thin lips looked like pieces of thread.

🍬

In the land of the wizards, even the moon appeared to be made of sugar. It was a white sugar cookie in the sky, dotted by thousands of sprinkles for stars. But the twins couldn’t afford to waste their time admiring the sugary moon. They had bigger fish to fry.

Armed to the teeth they run through the alleyways, clinging to the shadows and observing the wizards that passed them by. Old, fat, young, and skinny wizards gathered around the village square where an elderly couple stood side by side. Their faces were obscured by their hoods. The twins could smell the blood of children clinging to their robes.

“We’re really taking on all of them?” asks Ryoga, peering at the crowded village square.

Rio frowns. There definitely were a lot more wizards than she had anticipated.

“We’ll just take on their elders and give them a little scare. Then we’ll pick them off, one by one in the next few weeks. Think you have the appetite for a whole village over the next week?” she asks.

Ryoga grins.

“You know it.”

They run into the streets, their appearance eliciting a series of gasps from the wizards. Most of the wizards licked their lips and rubbed their stomachs. Others prepared fireballs in their hands.

“Not tonight, you bastards!” shouts Ryoga as they barrel through the crowd.

They leap onto the platform where the elders were. The elders shriek, brandishing their wands at them. Rio leaps at the wand, a fireball shooting towards her. She avoids the fireball and bats the wand away. She leaps onto the elder and tears into her throat. In disgust, she spits the chunk of meat out. Before her, the wizards panic and scream. The ones that brandished their wands were quickly taken care of by Ryoga.

Quickly, she dispatches the elder’s companion by stabbing him in the stomach. She leaps on top of him, tearing open his soft stomach and throwing out his intestines. Despite the fireballs and lightning spells that were launched against her, they barely grazed her. It must have been because she had absorbed the magic of the wizards she had eaten before. Yet these two elders, with their blood-soaked robes and cruel smiles were too much. She refuses to eat such vile flesh that reminded her of the past.

She tears open the remaining elder’s stomach and looks around the candy village, her teeth bared and her heart full of hatred. In the shadows, she sees a figure peel himself from the darkness, creeping towards her.

“Look out!” calls Ryoga as the figure advances towards her. “There’s a vampire!”

Rio throws the bodies aside and prepares to fight yet another monster.

🍬

“Goby fish in a woven handbasket!” exclaims Vector as he stares at the trail of dead animals.

“Goby goby goby!” chortles his hat.

Deer, rabbits, voles, mice, you name it. All had been messily bitten into, the eyes plucked out and the entrails torn out of the stomach. The bodies of the animals led straight into the village. In disgust, Vector tosses away the mouse in his hand. It had been teeming with maggots and its mouth was filled with foam. Really, in the midst of a famine, this was a damn waste. Vector grits his teeth.

He follows the trail until it peters out into someone’s yard. Climbing over the fence, he lets out a low whistle. The yard was strewn with clothes. The woodshed’s doors were torn off its hinges. A pile of dirt slumped out of it, bits of chewed off shingles mixed in the pile. He walks into the house through the back door and is beholden to a similar scene of destruction in the kitchen.

Bits of charred wood lay strewn across the floor from the open oven. Broken bits of porcelain lie on the table over the ruins of bread. The smell of death fills the entire house. Vector shakes his head and walks upstairs. A trail of dirt teeming with worms leads him into the master bedroom.

“Well, I’ve seen enough,” the sniper mutters.

Above him, he hears the sounds of a girl crying. Rolling his eyes, he looks up at the ceiling to see the handle leading to the attic. He wasn’t supposed to interfere with the fate of laymen. It was only the target that was vital to his mission. The protagonist determined all that would occur and the fate of the world was in their hands. Everyone else was just a mere prop to aid in their goodness. Vector sneers and ignores the crying.

He crouches down to examine the dirt. Much to his disgust, it slightly glistens beneath the early spring sun. Not only that, it reeked of rotten eggs. He brushes up a bit of the dirt with his fingers and then crumbles it. It’s slightly moist, teeming with digestive juices. Vector grimaces.

“Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it,” mutters Vector as he jumps out the window.

“Bitch, bitch!” cheers his hat.

🍬

A scream fills the village as Mirai opens the door to Umimi’s home. Quickly, the villagers gather around the distraught woman. First the Mizukis’ home, then the half-eaten remains of Mr. Kamishiro and now her neighbor. She looks as if she had been gored by a boar, her head detached from the rest of her body and her stomach an open, gaping wound.

“Another one?!” exclaims Haru from behind. Her eyes narrow. “We can’t wait. Call up a town meeting.”

“What’s going on?!” asks Yuma.

Mirai swiftly moves to cover her son’s eyes. Meanwhile, Akari peeks through the door and gags. Worried murmurs and screams follow as the villagers peer into the house.

“What are we going to do…?!” sobs Kotori as her parents try to comfort her.

The girl had locked herself in the attic for hours until her parents were alerted to the fact that their home had been ransacked.

“Gather everyone from their homes. We must speak now ,” declares Rokujuro.

Hurriedly, the villagers disperse, knocking on each other’s doors and alerting each other of the impending meeting. It had been late afternoon when Takashi had alerted everyone to the disarray of the Mizukis’ home and yard. He had been hoping to borrow some sugar from Kotori and was surprised to find that she didn’t answer her door. Peeking into the windows, he had assumed the worst from the destruction that he saw.

A quiet boy, he had stammered out the details to her parents at the stall. The entire village went to investigate as Kotori’s parents returned home to hear the sounds of their daughter crying. All suspicions turned to Mr. Kamishiro due to his withdrawal from village life. Yet when they opened his door, they were met by the gruesome sight of his partially devoured body.

Lights begin to fill the village in blooms of red, gold and white. The Tsukumos hurry home to gather their weapons and torches.

“There’s really no such thing as werewolves, right?” asks Yuma with a nervous chuckle.

Akari shakes her head and cuffs her brother on the head.

“You’ve been listening to too much of Mr. Ukyo’s stupid stories.”

“Then what could do such a thing?!”

“A bear, maybe,” says Akari as she slings her rifle over her shoulder.

Reluctantly, Yuma grabs his own rifle.

“What kind of bear could create such destruction without being heard for so long?” mutters Haru as she wraps herself in her fur lined cape.

Yuma turns to his grandmother, who hefts her own rifle from the fireplace. It was older than him, a family heirloom passed from her own grandmother. He’s never seen his delicate-looking grandmother fire it, but from the way she held it, it was evident that she knew how to shoot. Their father walks in with a torch, eyebrows furrowed in worry.

“Are we all ready?” he asks. Mirai tosses him his own rifle and he deftly catches it. He looks outside to where the full moon was slowly rising. Good. With the moon’s light, it would be easier to find and kill the beast that was terrorizing their village.

“That thing didn’t even spare Tobio or their child,” growls Kazuma as he readies his weapon.

Together, the Tsukumos march towards the village square, joined by their fellow villagers. Haru stands on the platform at the center of the square, soon joined by her counterpart Rokujuro. When Kotori arrives, they beckon her to stand beside them. Most of the villagers are armed as they walk into the square, their eyes searching for any suspicious shadows or figures. Once Haru and Rokujuro that enough villagers have arrived, they exchange nods.

Reluctantly, Kotori steps onto the platform. Her eyes are haunted and she pulls her coat closer to herself.

“It seems like our unwelcome guest thinks that they can plunder and destroy as they please,” declares Haru, her voice ringing across the silent square.

“We have already lost far too many lives to this beast,” continues Rokujuro. “And to leave their bodies in such a disrespectful manner as well…”

A moment of silence fills the square as the villagers bend their heads down and remember the victims of the beast.

“Please, child,” prompts Haru. “Tell us what you saw.”

Kotori gulps and looks out at the sea of haggard faces.

“It was…almost human,” she begins. “It spoke to itself in humanlike words, but I could never understand it as it went through the house.”

“How did it walk?” asks Haru, her voice gentle.

“Sometimes it crawled. Sometimes it walked,” recalls Kotori with a shiver. “It took my mother’s dress and put it on then proceeded to tear open our woodshed and eat the compost that was there.”

Disgusted expressions fill the audience. There had been nothing in that shed but garbage and rotten food. Yet the creature had eaten it with great gusto to the point where it had torn off pieces of the roof to add to its meal.

“What did it look like?” presses Rokujuro. “Did it have hair? Eyes?”

“It had dirty blue hair that covered its face. I thought I could see its eyes at times, but most of what I saw was its mouth.”

She shivers upon remembering the dirty teeth that were so human. Its mouth had been filled with worms and pieces of wood were stuck to its tongue.

“Glass covered its body but it acted as if it didn’t matter. There was also a hole in its stomach that leaked everything that it devoured.”

The disgusted expressions in the crowd multiply. Kotori winces.

“Did it bleed?” asks Haru.

“It bled red,” murmurs Kotori. “And wherever it went, it smelled like rotten carcasses.”

“Anything else?” prompts Rokujuro.

“There was…a thing in its hand…,” says Kotori. “A doll, if I remember correctly.”

A bundled mess of fabric that was in the vague shape of a human. Bits of straw stuck out of the cotton. Buttons were messily sewn on its “head” and a mouth had been haphazardly made from thread. It was filthy with dirt and blood, yet it always remained speared through the creature’s sharp claws.

Haru’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the doll.

“Witchcraft,” she utters. “Do you have anything else to say, child?”

She tries to erase the fact that she saw the beast’s pale, freckled nose and magenta eyes. A lump forms in her throat. It couldn’t be. She refuses to believe it. After the beast left, she had buried her face in her skirts and wept until she passed out. For such a horrid thing to happen to her missing neighbor would be too terrible to bear. Kotori shakes her head in response and walks off of the stage.

“And there you have it,” utters Haru. “A man-beast made from witchcraft has been terrorizing our midst.”

“WHO HAS BEEN TOYING WITH THE DARK ARTS?” booms Rokujuro, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd.

Suspicious glances fill the square and low murmurs flutter about.

“No one?” continues the elderly man. “Regardless, this thing must be found and killed.”

A small commotion stirs at the back of the crowd. The wind blows and the smell of rotten carcasses fill the air. Haru and Rokujuro cover their noses. Horrified screams and cries erupt as a black streak runs towards the platform. Immediately, the elders ready their rifles. An inhuman screech fills the air as a heavy shape jumps on Haru. She shoots, yet the bullet seems to be swallowed up by the creature’s grimy skin. The final thing she sees is the creature’s mess of jagged teeth.

Beneath the moonlight, the monster seemed less human than before. Kotori’s father aims his rifle at the creature. BANG! Kotori winces as the rifle goes off. She looks up to find that the creature is unfazed, tearing out Rokujuro’s stomach with renewed strength. The villagers continue to fire at the creature until they realize that their bullets are of no use. They begin to disperse like minnows, fleeing beneath the light of the full moon.

As her father pulls her away to safety, she glances back at the creature one last time.

No. She had only been hallucinating that the creature had looked like her missing neighbor Rio. There was nothing that the well-mannered and intelligent girl had in common with this mindless slavering beast. Tearing her gaze away from the creature as it tore out the elders’ intestines, Kotori runs away into the night.

🍬

“I don’t know how this is a happy ending for anyone but you!” shouts Vector, his voice ringing across the empty village square.

The creature snarls at him and bounds towards him with inhuman strength. So this was the price of learning the dark arts. An insatiable taste for human flesh and the loss of one’s humanity. Yet the universe continued to view her as a hero, relentlessly carrying on until her happy ending had been achieved. Vector’s stomach twists in disgust.

Once she had gorged herself fat on the village that had abandoned her, the story would most likely end, preserving her happiness for all of eternity. He wonders if she could still even feel happiness in her warped form.

“Here goes!” says Vector as he aims a shot at Rio.

The creature veers out of the way and jumps on top of him, bowling him over. Its foul stench overwhelms Vector and its breath smells like the bowels of hell. Before him, the straw doll dangles, a blackened bullet hole through its body. Vector curses underneath his breath as he tries to fend off the beast with his rifle. So that was why she didn’t die the first time. A cursed doll, imbued with an actual human heart had taken most of the damage.

Vector rolls over, pushing Rio to the floor. She snarls as they fight over the rifle, her eyes bloodshot and wild. Her strength was alarming, even for a quasi-immortal like him. Rio eventually rolls away and runs towards Vector again. Vector avoids her claws and hops onto a roof, preparing his rifle again.

“Stinky!” calls his hat as it sticks out its tongue and blows a raspberry.

“Not now!” snaps Vector as he avoids Rio.

She lands onto the roof, her claws and feet scrabbling against the shingles. The doll rolls away and onto the floor and she screeches in panic. If Vector listened carefully, he could make out Ryoga’s name. He raises a brow and stares at the doll. Rio briefly holds the doll close to herself, inspecting the damage. She mumbles out a few inaudible words, her claws brushing back the doll’s head.

Vector aims at the doll and fires, eliciting a shriek of pain from Rio. She looks at him with fury in his eyes and prepares to leap onto the rooftop. Vector hops onto the next house’s roof, reloading his rifle. Sweat beads his brow. Usually, his targets wouldn’t be fighting him this hard. Maybe he’s grown soft.

He aims another shot at Rio, only for her to avoid it at the last minute. Once again, she leaps onto him, trying to tear the rifle away from his hands.

“Give up!” he snaps. “You’re not even supposed to be alive!”

Rio growls, tugging at the gun.

“Do you even know what happiness is, at this point?!” screeches Vector, swinging the gun away from Rio and bashing the butt of the rifle against her temple.

Her head crashes against the shingles of the house. She looks up at him with hatred and then bites the butt of Vector’s rifle. Vector kicks her head away in disgust and aims the rifle at her. He steps on her chest, sinking his foot into her. Rio lets out a screech of pain as the wound in her stomach bleeds. Glass, dirt and human flesh ooze from the wound, coating the rooftop in a black sludge.

Her claws scratch against Vector’s legs, leaving dark red gashes in the skin. No pain fills Vector’s body as she does so, his expression unchanging as she struggles beneath him. With detached fascination, he watches as Rio continues to thrash beneath him as her innards continue to flow out of the hole in her stomach.

“You know, there’s one difference between us,” declares Vector, pushing the rifle against Rio’s temple.

She continues to struggle against the muzzle of his rifle, moving her head back and forth.

“I actually have a goal I’m working towards,” he says, punctuating his sentence with a BANG!

Bits of skull and fettered blood splatter Vector’s face. He wipes it off with indifference and kicks Rio’s body away. He pulls out his list and his hat spits out his stamp. Once again, he stamps off Rio’s name, the ink redder than its previous attempt. The world seems to let out a collective sigh, a cool breeze filling the town square.

Without the hero, the laymen could write their own stories.

Vector looks down at the ground, where Rio’s mangled body lay.

“Am I done yet?” he asks.

“There is still much work to be done, ” booms Diêm Vương. “ A queue is forming for those who have deserved happy endings but could not achieve them. Your work is only beginning. ”

Vector groans.

“And when’s my turn?”

“When I deem it so, ” replies the lord of the underworld. “ It will take lifetimes to repay the karmic debt you have incurred by eliminating those before their destined time.”

The sniper throws his head back and sighs.

“What’s next, boss?” he mutters.

The added weight to his tome of fairytales is the only answer. Vector balls his hand into a fist.

#zexal #rio kamishiro #ryoga kamishiro #vector #H☆H☆S #writing from iris

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