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I made changes to the original submission

this is FANTASTIC. you’ve captured the moment and his expression (the steel in his eyes!) so perfectly.

I sprained my right wrist two weeks ago (falling off an electric scooter on the way to the gym, classic millennial tomclownery) so I’ve been typing at half speed and feeling too demoralized to even try writing, but being reminded that people care about my work enough to make wonderful art of their own really means something. <3

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where have you been?!

working.

that’s the short answer. the long answer is that my employer, a despotic university that will go unnamed, has had its budget cut by $400m as punishment for not bending the knee bone-crackingly enough for the Trump administration, and in consequence my contract (for a position that was supposed to become permanent this year) was essentially cut in half. it’s a bit complicated, but the gist is that I’ve had to double my workload and take on a lot of new clients in order to make the same amount of money. as these clients are mostly medical school applicants, my work is tied to their deadlines, which means I have to make the most of the feast season (March through September) to support myself through the famine months that follow.

what this means is that I’ve been working every day for weeks and most days for months and have barely had time to pet my cat, never mind finish a chapter.

things will get better soon, but for now, please understand that I am far more frustrated with the lack of updates than you are.

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I loved the latest chapter so much!! when asher was mentioned i screamed literally saw "young man" and "Torken" and leapt out my chair, so excited to see more of my fav boy... especially now that there are more eyes on him oooooohhhh

oh this is exquisite actually

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Part III Chapter 3

half as long as it should be but exactly as long as it could be I guess?

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part III ch3 sneak peak

Doran was a badger. 

At least that’s what Connell’s mother Reenie had said. Doran had protested: surely Connell, who regularly dug up grubs, was more like a badger than he was. (Yes, Connell dug up grubs to draw rather than to eat, but still. The point stood.)

“My Connell is a quail,” said Reenie decidedly. “He blends in when he needs to and he knows how to take care of himself. You, my lad, are a badger. Tough, clever, stubborn as anything. Hardy, too. When the weather changes, you’re the first to adapt.”

Even as a child, Doran had known Reenie wasn’t just talking about the kind of weather that spun the metal rooster on the barn roof. The Duke’s estate had its own climate, a complex system of currents and atmospheric conditions which produced storms no less intense than the ones outside. Doran often found himself caught in the crosswinds. He knew, without anyone having to tell him, that this was because the Duke loved his mother, and Lady Amelia hated her.

(The Duke told Doran’s mother he loved her, anyway. He said the same thing to his horse, and with much the same tone of voice.)

Now, a dozen years later and hundreds of miles from home, Doran had new reason to appreciate his badger-like adaptability. He’d found a nice little place for himself among the soldiers at Redditch, and there was no reason he couldn’t do the same at Guye. 

From what Doran had seen so far, Robert Black’s encampment outside Castle Guye was like and unlike the garrison at Redditch. It was full of soldiers, obviously, and soldiers were more or less the same wherever you went, but these soldiers were unusual (in Doran’s experience, at least) because observed no strict hierarchy between themselves. Once Doran got over the shock, he found this arrangement quite suited him. He had as little patience for hierarchy as a freedman as he had when he was a slave. 

And thank the gods for that. He’d feared the opposite might be true—that he might turn into one of those men hated by everyone, who shun the class they come from even as they’re kicked at by the class they want to join. A man like Hector Balkas.

Doran tried not to think about Balkas. It made his back itch. His back and his fists.

Anyway, there was no need to think about Balkas. Doran had been one to look back over his shoulder; he certainly wasn’t going to start now. Not when there was so much behind him he’d like to forget. 

That smarmy prick Robert Black had ordered him to find an occupation. Well, Doran planned to do exactly that.

The smithy seemed the obvious place to start. Doran had a strong arm and no fear of open flame, which were, as he understood it, the basic requirements for forge-work. He’d always fancied himself as a blacksmith, or maybe even a farrier. He liked horses well enough, and the leather aprons the smiths wore. Besides, he had a vague idea there was money in it. 

Money, now, that was something to be thinking about now he was free. Annie would be waiting for him on the other side of this war, and he wasn’t about to make her a pauper’s bride. She deserved better than that.

Building had started on the smithy on the moor at the same time as the privies were being dug, and while it was nothing to the mighty forge at Redditch, it was still in better nick than the rest of the camp. The crackling fire cast a ring of light and warmth that defied the gloom of the moor. In the glow, Doran saw a familiar figure straighten, hammer in one huge hand.

“Finn?”

“Doran! By the gods, it’s good to see you.”

Finn pulled Doran to his great chest and gave him a bone-cracking squeeze. 

“I see you lost the chain,” said Doran, when Finn released him. “The collar, too.”

“Mislaid it at Redditch,” said Finn cheerfully. He gestured at Doran’s bare neck. “I see you’re short a bit of metal, too.”

“Me and Connell both.” Before Finn could ask about Luca, Doran rushed on, “Tell me what happened at Redditch.”

It was the right question to ask: the garrison’s fall was still blazingly clear in Finn’s mind, and his description was absorbing enough to distract both of them from Luca. Doran hadn’t thought he had any sentimental feelings for Redditch, but hearing about the gates going up in a hail of flame and cinder gave him a funny feeling in his chest. Still, he was cheered to hear that Davies was dead. 

“The forgemaster, too,” said Finn. “Smoke poisoning, of all things.” He shook his head in disgust. “Ah, well, at least he’s gone. Gods forgive me, Doran, but it’s a better world for him being out of it.”

Doran agreed. As far as he was concerned, there were still far too many men like the forgemaster left in the world, and smoke poisoning was far too kind a fate for any of them.

Unfortunately, at this point Finn turned to far less interesting topic, namely the valor, gallantry, and general heroism of Robert Black. 

“He came out of the fire with his sword flashing, like something out of a legend. Rallied the men with a word. They say Roland had Melchior’s blood, but I never believed it til I saw Black in action. He’s a commander, all right. The real thing, not a pretender like Davies and Balkas.”

Doran must’ve winced. Finn gave him a sympathetic look.

“No fond feelings for your old master, eh? I don’t blame you. Balkas was a brute. I’ll never forget that whipping. No wonder Luca was passing the bastard’s secrets on to Black.”

“You knew?” 

“Yeah, he told me,” said Finn, shrugging. “Needed me to make him a contraption to smuggle information out of Breakwater. And here, listen to this—turns out my daughter joined up with the rebels! She’s alive, Doran, can you believe it?”

“That’s fantastic,” said Doran, his mind still on Luca. “Is she here at Guye?”

“Black left her with friends in the Midlands. A gentleman by the name of Fourteys. He’s got an daughter Wilma’s age. Good people, Black says. They won’t treat my girl like a drudge. And Black wrote to tell Fourteys about me, so he can tell my Wilma that papa is coming for her just as soon as he can.” 

Finn had gone wet around the eyes. Doran pretended not to notice, to spare the big man his dignity. 

As Finn pulled himself together, Doran thought back on what he’d just learned. Finn had known Luca was a spy. Toby knowing was bad enough, but at least Toby had figured it out himself. Luca had actually told Finn. Luca never told anyone anything about himself if he could help it. Connell said they shouldn’t pry; Luca would share when he was ready. And he had shared—a little, anyway—and even if most of it was fucking horrifying, Doran was still grateful to hear it. He knew it wasn’t easy for Luca to tell. That made sense, Doran supposed. If he’d been stripped down as often as Luca, maybe he would’ve clung to his secrets, too. Maybe it made him feel a little less naked, knowing there parts of him the men would never see.

So, fine, let Luca keep his secrets. He’d a right to them. But to trust one of the biggest to Finn! Finn was a nice bloke, but he was a fucking stranger compared to Doran. Hell, Luca one of Doran’s closest friends. He’d thought Luca felt the same.

Maybe he’d thought wrong.

“Twinge in my head,” said Doran, seeing Finn’s questioning look. “Anyone else we know come to Guye from Redditch?” 

Finn rattled off a few names, mostly free laborers or freed forgeworkers. “And Mal Fergus, of course. Never one to pass up an opportunity, eh? His brother’s here too. Ned. Joined the rebels at Absalom. Nice as anything, Ned is, and honest as they come. Dunno how Mal came out so crooked and his brother so straight, but that’s family for you.”

Doran thought of Toby and winced again. No mystery as to which of them was the crooked one.

He’d been wondering how to ask Finn about apprenticing at the forge—as a slave he’d always just been assigned work; he had no idea how to go about asking for it—but luckily Finn gave him the perfect opening. They’d set up Redditch as a sort of arms factory for the Midlands, and most of the smiths had been left behind to run it; they were badly undermanned here at Guye. Oh, no doubt the Dogs of Guye had their own smiths, but Finn wasn’t keen on the chances of peaceful collaboration, not after all the trouble over Luca when they arrived.

Here Finn broke off, and Doran could tell he was about to ask if Doran had heard anything about Luca. To cut him off, Doran blurted out his plan (stupid, now he heard himself stammering it aloud) to train as a blacksmith, or maybe a farrier—something along those lines, anyway, and might there be a place for him at the forge?

To Doran’s relief, Finn responded so enthusiastically it was clear that help was badly needed indeed. 

“You won’t be at an anvil right away, mind,” Finn warned him. “It’ll be fetch and carry work, cleaning tools and the like, but you’ll learn as you go, and the lads’ll be glad of the help.”

Fetch and carry work sounded unpleasantly like what Doran had done as Balkas’s drudge, but he supposed even free men had to start somewhere. 

Mal Fergus wasn’t hard to find. He’d found a plum spot to pitch his tent and was dealing out a hand from his “lucky” (for which read “rigged”) deck of cards to a group of soldiers. They were a mixed lot, three Solasans and an Enkaaran, plus a Guyish-looking fellow chewing a birch twig. All watched Fergus deal with the keen avidity of seasoned gamblers.

Fergus, of course, looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. That was his real gift, Doran thought, even more than quick hands and a devious mind: the ability to appear totally plausible even as he was swindling a group of heavily-armed men. 

As Doran approached the table, a boy stepped out from behind the table to block his path. He looked barely old enough to have left home.

“We’ve got a full table,” he said, crossing his arms.

At this, Fergus looked up to see Doran and broke into a broad grin.

“Doran, as I live and breathe! Fellows, excuse me a moment. My lieutenant here will take over.”

“You set up your new operation fast,” said Doran once he and Fergus were out of earshot. (He bit back the sir just in time.) “Got a new flunky and everything. Did you ditch Carnaby and Graeme at Redditch?”

“I buried them at Redditch.”

Fergus said this so casually that Doran gave him a sharp look. But he wasn’t joking. He wore his usual mild, mocking expression, but his jaw was tight, his eyes remote.

“They died when Black’s men took the garrison?” Doran asked.

“They were Black’s men by then. I recruited them. Maybe if I hadn’t, they wouldn’t’ve been killed by their own barracks-mates.” He tried to smile. “Well, here we are. Out of the ashes and all that. Are you happy to see me?”

“Delighted.”

Now it was Fergus’s turn to give Doran a sharp look.

“Still haven’t forgiven me for cutting you off, eh?”

“I know that was Mouse’s doing.”

“Yeah, but your Mouse is hard to hold a grudge against. Especially now.”

Doran forced himself to shrug. A tense, effortful gesture. Like shouldering a stone.

“Anyway,” he said, “I figure you owe me a drink, s—Fergus. Now I’m a free man and all.”

Fergus laughed.

“That’s right! I promised to take you out on the town, didn’t I?” 

“And rent us a pretty girl.”

“Too bad there’s none of those around. Nancy and the rest stayed back in the Midlands.”

“Good,” said Doran, with a vehemence that took both of them aback. He cleared his throat. “You’ve set up quite the a nice little operation here, s—Fergus. Not worried about Black bringing the hammer down?”

“Ah, well. The thing about Black is, he wants everyone to get along. And cards, they’re the great unifier. A common language, see? Solasans, Enkaarans, Northmen—we all speak aces and spades.”

Doran was about to retort when his gaze was caught by a passerby. Words fled.

It was the young man from Black’s tent, of course, the one with the honey-colored eyes and scar on his cheek. He moved lightly, in long strides, like a stalking cat. His clothes hung well on him; Doran could imagine the tapered waist and lean, muscled thighs beneath the fabric.

He was brought back to earth by Fergus jabbing a sharp finger into his ribs.

“Better watch that roving eye of yours, Doran. That lad’s not on the market.”

“He’s got a lover?”

“A protector, anyway.” 

“How protective of a protector?”

“Put it this way: I’d rather steal a boy from the King’s seray than try to chat up Robert Black’s adoptive brother.”

Oh, fields of hell. Doran was beginning to think that Robert Black had been sent by the gods to thwart him. 

“They’re that close, eh?” said Doran weakly.

“I hear Tam Tregeryth himself wanted to court the lad, but when he went to Black for permission, Black threatened to cut off his head and post it on a pike. He’d do it, too. Gods know he’s ruthless enough. And you must’ve seen that barbarian bodyguard of his. Inseparable, the two of them. Anyway, after that, Black put the word out: Asher Lacey is strictly off-limits.”

“You’re well-informed,” said Doran, trying not to sound bitter. “Been collecting gossip like a fishwife, have you?” 

“I keep my ears open, that’s all.”

“You hear anything about Lord Tobias?”

“Balkas’s shitty little squire?” said Fergus, surprised. “Yeah, he’s up at the Castle. Best-treated prisoner in the kingdom, from what I hear.” He eyed the healing bruises on Doran’s cheek and temple. “A fair sight better than the Dogs treated you, I don’t doubt.”

“They had their reasons,” said Doran. He couldn’t explain without telling Fergus what had happened with Luca, and he’d rather have Robert Black’s bodyguard cut off his head and post it on a pike. 

“Well, if you’re keen on revenge, we’ve had more than a few Northmen sneak out to the moor for a bit of action,” said Fergus. “Would be nice to have a strapping fellow like yourself around to keep an eye on things, like you did at Redditch.”

By keep an eye on things Doran knew Fergus meant stand between me and the pissed-off fellow waving a knife. Doran hadn’t minded when the fellow in question was Solasan: their soldiers were generally willing to let themselves be talked down from a fight, especially if there was a bribe in the offing. But the weeks Doran and Connell had spent as the low men in the Dogs’ hierarchy hadn’t exactly left him impressed with their restraint. And the Enkaarans were a totally unknown quantity.

Seeing his hesitation, Fergus said, “At Redditch, you wanted a free man’s cut. You’re worth more than that to me now, especially with Graeme and Carnaby gone. What d’you say to ten percent of the winnings?”

“Call it twenty, if I’m worth that much to you.”

“Cut the difference at fifteen and I’ll shake your hand, freedman.”

Doran hesitated. Could he get more if he pushed? 

But he was tired of pushing. Whatever fight was left in him after that nightmare journey through the Wychwood had been leached away in the cold void of the pit. Besides, knowing what Fergus took in from the punters at Redditch, fifteen percent was nothing to sneeze at.

As they shook hands, Doran thought of Robert Black ordering him to find an occupation. Well, hark at him now: two occupations before noon, and hardly any work at all to get.

How’s that for earning my supper? he thought triumphantly.

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dispatch from the fire zone

things are not great in LA right now, fam.

my husband and I got lucky: we didn't have to evacuate. however, we are currently sheltering a friend (+ their cats) who did, and the helplessness and dislocation they are experiencing is wrenching to witness. their parents may lose their house; fires are still burning on their street. my mother-in-law is staying with her sister. every day we receive news about people we know, and people we don't, who lost everything.

some resources for those also in the zone or who want to help:

track the fire here

donate to United Way LA here

donate to the Emergency Network of Los Angeles here

donate to the Los Angeles Regional Food Bank here

donate to the Wildfire Recovery Fund here

donate to the Pasadena Humane Society here

here is a centralized directory of GoFundMe's for those affected by the fire

stay safe. xox

** in response to the "where are you?" questions in my inbox...I try to spend as little time on the internet as possible for ADHD management/the mitigation of existential dread. tumblr is my only form of social media and I check it rarely. this isn't because I don't care about my readers and appreciate the incredibly kind, thoughtful, and brilliantly incisive asks I receive: I cherish them. it's simply that internet avoidance + executive dysfunction = extreme slowness to respond. thank you for your understanding and your patience, now and always.

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I dunno how to explain it but Robert is both Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy and Killer Queen

beautiful and also accurate

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How old are Tris and Aram? 😮

I reread the the part where Aram and Tris perform in Breakwater and one the generals say Tris is old, and I’m like bro. He’s not old lol. The master at The Harelquin said he didn’t keep slaves past 25 or something? So he’s not even 25!

I guess because of the types of slaves that they are they aren’t expected to live long, so in that’s context they would be “old.”

It’s honestly really sad and one of the worst things that characters like Tris and Luca have had brainwashed into them because there’s a whole bunch of young men in the story who think they’re getting “too old” to do things with their lives or be wanted.

Awful awful.

fantastic question and fantastic observation. more and more I'm realizing that a big part of my motivation in writing gender the way I do in TGB is to work through experiences of objectification and dehumanization which are, in our culture, reserved for women -- including anxieties around age and obsolescence.

in Part I, Tris is in his late 20s. by Part II, he's turned 30 and is really, really not happy about it. Aram is only a few years younger, but since his life prior to capture was so privileged and untroubled, he looks quite a bit younger -- which, of course, just compounds Tris's anxiety.

at the same time, part of the reason their relationship has been so healing for Tris is that he's been able to feel wanted without being objectified, and in a way that isn't dependent on looking "young" (because even though he is young, he definitely doesn't see himself that way). it was Aram who introduced Tris to the idea that beauty doesn't have an expiration date -- an idea he's still trying to wrap his mind around.

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drops these here and runs

COME BACK HERE SO I CAN GIVE YOU A HIGH FIVE

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I am so deeply fond of your fic and of Asher Lacey please accept my humble offering

OH WOW THIS IS PERFECT ACTUALLY??

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WHEN ARE WE GONNA GET A DORAN/CONNELL POV 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

oh boy are you going to enjoy the next chapter

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sneak peak: part III chapter 2

The hatch above sliced the weak light like a cutting wire, casting a grid on the damp stone walls below. Connell watched through half-closed eyes as two water droplets slid down the wall toward a patch of light. He wasn’t betting on any droplet in particular; simply observing their progress.

Doran spoke, his voice raspy from dehydration. They weren’t quite thirsty enough to start licking the walls, but it was only a matter of time.

“Hey, Con,” he rasped. “What time d’you think it is?”

The first dozen times Doran had asked this question, Connell had tried to make out the hour by the subtle variation in the darkness. The next dozen times, he’d responded with sarcasm. Now he didn’t even bother to reply.

“I’d wager it’s lunchtime,” said Doran. “Hey, Con. What’ll you wager it’s lunchtime?”

“Doran, we’re in a pit. What do you expect me to wager, rat bones?”

There was a pause.

“I don’t think all of these bones belonged to rats,” said Doran.

Connell had been trying not to look too closely at the pitiful heap of bones against the far wall. Now it loomed hugely in the corner of his eye, a portent of a future he didn’t want to contemplate. He turned back to the water droplets, but they had already been absorbed into the stone.

“Hey, Con.”

When Connell didn’t reply, Doran kept repeating his name until he snapped.

“What?”

“D’you think Toby and Luca made it to Fleetside?”

There was a long silence. This time Doran didn’t try to break it.

The top of the pit opened with a scream of metal. Piercing sunlight streamed down. Connell and Doran scrambled to their feet, squinting up through watering eyes. Connell could just make out dark figures high above. He had the image of hunters looking into a trapping pit to see what they’d caught for dinner.

There was a muffled discussion, too far up for Connell's straining ears to hear. Then something was thrown down. A rope ladder. It unrolled as it fell before jerked to a stop a few feet above the damp ground.

“They can’t seriously expect us to climb up,” said Connell.

Doran was already testing the ladder’s bottom rung to see if it would hold his weight. He cast Connell a scornful look.

“What else are we going to do? Stay here and starve?”

He had a point. Still…

“What if they cut our heads off once we get to the top?”

“It’ll be a better death than that poor bugger got,” said Doran, nodding to the heap of bones.

That was all the convincing Connell needed. If he was going to die, he wanted to die on his feet, under the sky, with the gods as his witnesses. Not here in a hole like a rat.

Doran was already scaling the ladder. Connell took a steadying breath and pulled himself up after.

They emerged several long minutes later, sweating, panting, dizzy with hunger and vertigo. After so long spent in the dark of the pit, even the pale gray sun was blinding. Connell wiped his streaming eyes on his sleeve. The figures swam into focus—not Dogs of Guye but a dozen armed men who wore no uniform. Still, Connell could tell they were soldiers. It wasn’t just their weapons, but their air of casual menace and the readiness with which they held themselves.

Gods above and below, Connell was sick of soldiers. Nearly as sick as he was of waiting to die. He almost hoped this lot would just kill them and have done with it.

“You’re the freedmen they call Connell and Doran?”

The question was asked by a wiry, weathered, quick-eyed man in a dark orange greatcoat. He had no symbols of office on his breast, but it was clear from the way his fellows regarded him that he was the leader here.

Connell and Doran shared a speaking look. They had no friends in this place. Anyone who was looking for them by name meant them harm.

Their fear must’ve shown on their faces. The soldier held up his hands.

“We’re no enemies of yours, lads. Got you out of that pit, didn’t we? I’m to bring you to Robert Black. Orders from the man himself.”

“Why?” asked Doran, only remembering to add “Sir” when Connell elbowed him.

“Something to do with his boy,” said the soldier, shrugging. “Anyway, you ought to be thanking your lucky stars Black spared a thought for you, busy as he is. The Dogs meant to leave you down there. They were taking bets on how long you'd last.”

Connell and Doran shared another speaking look. This time it was horror that echoed between them like the sound of a scream too deep in the earth for any living soul to hear.

“How long were we down there, sir?” Doran asked.

“Two days,” the man replied. “And no wonder you’re jumpy as cats, you must be bloody starving.” He took some bread from the inside pocket of his greatcoat and tossed it to them. “Thought so,” he said, as they fell on their portions like wolves. “I’m Tyburn, by the way.”

The name was vaguely familiar. From Doran’s reaction, he knew it.

As they followed the man—away from the pit, thank all the gods; Connell would be glad to have no more dealings with pits for as long as he lived—Doran leaned in and hissed, “Willy Tyburn, Con! He’s the Terror of King’s Road! His gang held up Lord Ambrose’s carriage, remember? The Duke wouldn’t leave the grounds for months without an armed guard.”

As usual, Doran had spoken louder than he intended. Tyburn cast an amused look over his shoulder.

“Belonged to the Duke of Chesten, did you?”

Connell and Doran exchanged guilty looks.

“Yes, sir,” said Connell. He turned his forearm to show the Duke’s mark branded there. He was so blanched from the cold that four-ringed annulet stood out like a blood-blister.

“We aren’t runaways, sir,” said Doran quickly. “The Dogs freed us.”

“I’m in the business of taking collars off slaves, lad, not putting ’em back on,” said Tyburn. “Whether in the Dogs’ camp or ours, you’re free men.”

Doran didn’t try to hide his relief. Seeing it, Connell had to tamp down a searing flash of anger. After everything Doran had put them through—after what had been done to them, to Toby, to Luca—even now, after all of it, the only thing he cared about was his precious fucking freedom.

Toby and Luca. Could they have run into Robert Black on the way to Fleetside? Luca had been a spy, after all, however difficult it was for Connell to get his head around; he and Black were on the same side. And they’d known each other in Lyonesse, hadn’t they? That brute Arkwright had said as much. Black had been one of Luca’s clients when he was still posing as a lord. But maybe that, too, had been a ruse, a cover for their meetings. Maybe Black and Luca were better acquainted than anyone knew.  

The same thoughts were going through Doran’s head. In a voice too low for Tyburn to hear, he whispered, “Something to do with his boy. You don’t think…?”

Connell didn’t know what to think. But he hoped. He hoped more fiercely than he’d let himself hope for anything in a very long time.

They passed through the vast gates and emerged onto the moor. When Connell was here last, it had been an expanse of damp mist drifting over earth so barren even the snow seemed to wither as it fell. Overnight, a city had sprung up. It was a city of tents, thousands on thousands, vanishing into the far distance. Within those tents and bustling between them were twice, no, three times as many men—soldiers, Connell supposed, though few wore anything like a uniform, and some of those uniforms were in Ademar’s colors. At least half looked more like Midland peasants than battle-hardened rebels.

“Con, look!”

Connell followed Doran’s pointing finger to a group of men distinct not only for their richly-colored skin but their military bearing. These must be the Enkaaran mercenaries he’d heard about. They were certainly easier to imagine in battle than the peasants. Still, in their pale uniforms against the backdrop of gray tents and grayer sky, they looked lost, even a little forlorn, like a flock of birds blown off-course in a storm.

“Poor buggers came all the way to Castle Guye just to camp on the bloody doorstep,” said Tyburn, shaking his head. “That’s Northern hospitality for you.”

He brought Connell and Doran to a tent that would have been indistinguishable from any of the others except for its size and the sense that, somehow, the rest of the camp had been built around it. A line of people queued outside, all with that air of self-possession particular to freeborn men. They reacted with varying degrees of indignation as Tyburn pushed Connell and Doran past them and into the tent.

Judging from the bustle of activity within, they’d just entered the center of operations. These soldiers were clearly among the more seasoned. Connell even spotted a few faces he recognized from Redditch. Others were familiar from the wanted posters he’d seen in Lyonesse and along the King’s Road.

And at the center of it all was Robert Black.

He would’ve stood out even if he hadn’t been half a head taller than everyone but the barbarian who loomed at his right side. There was the red hair, of course, unnervingly similar to the color of dried blood, and the eyes that stared out of deep hollows, as hard and bright and calculating as a carrion bird’s. Connell had seen drawings of Black’s face on wanted posters—bad drawings, he’d thought at the time, but seeing their subject now, there was some truth to the depictions. He might not have the cartoonish menace of the posters, but Robert Black was the most dangerous-looking man Connell had ever seen.

Robert looked up and saw them. It was like being pinned under a glacier.

“That will be all,” he said.

He didn’t even need to raise his voice. In a moment the tent was empty. Even Tyburn melted away. The only one who stayed was the barbarian. Black’s bodyguard, Connell assumed. His was not a comforting presence.

Robert Black came around the desk and leaned against it. There was a silence; Connell measured its length in heartbeats. When at last Robert spoke, his voice was chillingly devoid of feeling.

“So you’re the so-called friends who abducted Luca.”

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Do we ever meet Master Commissioner? I kind of hope not because he’s basically the catalyst for all the horrible things that happened to Luca.

Crossing my fingers that he went back to Kel and Lucas brothers found him and killed him.

SPOILER warning...

...but no, we never meet Master Commissioner except in flashbacks. We do, however, meet some of MC's former subordinates in Book 4**, including the clerk mentioned in Part II Chapter 15 and the high-ranking officer who succeeded him as Commissioner. They knew Luca when he was with MC, and their perspectives will fill in some of the gaps in Luca's backstory.

** reminder that we're still on Part III of Book 1!

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Sorry, I’m back again because I’m still re-reading the interlude.

Why is Asher so easily able to grasp such basic concepts that no one else can? Like when Luca’s talking about that boat that was set on fire, Asher’s like, okay and? Did you set the boat on fire?? No? Okay, well that’s that then. Because literally what else is there.

Honestly, Asher is just such an insolent little shit (complimentary) that he can see through bullshit much more easily than other people. Whereas Luca's sweet and accommodating nature makes him easy to manipulate, Asher's defiant and oppositional nature makes him...well, the opposite. He questions everything, including -- especially -- the things that Luca would never dare to. He's a spiky little porcupine shooting quills of truth in all directions. And that's both his superpower and his kryptonite -- because it means that, unlike Luca, he's incapable of making peace with fucked-up situations. It isn't just that Asher won't surrender; he can't surrender. Not a bad quality to have during a war, but a serious potential problem in the aftermath.

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I’m reading Asher’s Interlude again because I’m back in my phase of obsessing over tgb and I haven’t memorized it yet like I have part 1 and 2, and I came across some of my favorite lines!

“Asher tried to imagine Luca in a real room in a real house, wearing clothes like a normal boy. But there weren’t any barbarians on Cherry Street.”

Asher just perfectly communicates Lucas isolation. There are no barbarians on Cherry Street. There’s no barbarians anywhere it seems, besides the ones at high court being killed in The Games. The only other Keld person we’ve met aside from Luca and all the gladiators is Hrini! And Luca met him at the age of 19, along with Ged! I can’t even imagine how lonely that is, it makes me feel for Luca.

This is such a well-stated observation, and right on the money. A lot of readers have asked why the brainwashing pleasure slaves undergo has had a greater and more enduring effect on Luca than, say, Tris, and this is a big part of the answer. Even before the training house, Luca was so isolated for so long that he was incredibly susceptible to reprogramming. Being a good slave gave him identity and purpose and the possibility of self-worth. Pleasing men made him feel a little less alone, even as it deepened his isolation by earning him the resentment of his fellow slaves.

And, of course, this is also why making friends has been such a huge part of Luca's self-actualization arc. His recovery depends on knowing that he is loved and valued for who he is rather than the ways in which he can be 'useful.' I'm really looking forward to continuing to expand his sense of belonging in Part III.

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In an alternate universe where Master Commissioner never took Luca to Solas, how do you think Robert and Luca would have met?

I love how this question got my brain spinning off all sorts of wild scenarios.

I imagine that without the tempering influence of Luca, Robert probably would have been far more of a hellion when Grandfather found him -- so much so, perhaps, that he was forced to enlist and sent to Kel instead of University to straighten him out.

I would love to hear your ideas! <3

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thank you all so much for your quick replies!! it seems the issue is that you're not logged in. TGB is now Ao3-account-readable only bc bots.

Hey,

I wanted to read Part 3 of the Golden Bird (again) and found that all of your work just disappeared off of AO3. Is everything okay? Do you know what's going on?

what the absolute fucking fuck. are other people having this issue? I can see all my work on my dashboard...