#&. our kingdom has fallen / it's their turn to rule again › arc !

[recreatd]

❝    freshly cut grass is my new favorite smell.    ❞  the young girl is SPLAYED out on the grass as she peers up at owen , the large amount of sunlight hitting her face and causing her to squint her eyes.  fingers rake gently through the blades of grass beneath her while a smile graces her INNOCENT features.  ❝    i’ve never gotten the chance to smell anything like it before.    ❞  maisie rolls onto her side so she could reach into owen’s toolbox and retrieve his recently requested screwdriver.  she sits up and extends the tool towards him , not lying back down until it was completely out of her grasp.   ❝    what about you?  what’s your favorite smell?    ❞

@chaordiic liked this for a starter !

[chromatic-lamina]

class and ass

Being handsome helps in terms of gaining reader and viewer empathy. But Orochi really hasn’t done himself any favours in his actions either. But anyway, let’s have a look at these two despots: Donquixote D and Kurozumi O.

Doflamingo’s childhood story is shown rather than told, and he’s a more charismatic villain, so the general reader maybe feels the nuances of his past more deeply, but both he and Orochi were persecuted in their childhoods for reasons outside of their control, and due to their heritage and actions of others.

It seems that it’s only luck (or not) that Orochi was not hung up for crucifixion and archery practice in the same way the Donquixote family was, but as you can see from the words above, treatment was no better, and the Kurozumi clan was “chased and terrorized by strangers who claimed they were performing justice”.

The Donquixotes were persecuted for being Celestial Dragons due to crimes committed by other Celestial Dragons.

Possibly because of this, and very probably influenced by these injustices chasing justice, Orochi and Doflamingo inflicted very un-benevolent dictatorships (or pretty damn unconstitutional and cruel monarchies) on the populations of the areas that maybe they had a historical “right” to.

We know that both Orochi and Doflamingo (and many of the villains of One Piece) use the local people (of all backgrounds, including dwarves) as assets to be manipulated into furthering their aims, no matter the cost.

We all know that Wano is very pretty to the general outsider if they were only given access to the Flower Capital (and allowed entry), but the wider country is polluted and in ruin. People are valued for their use in the various mines and factories, and the various mines also seem to double as prisons (or one does, Udon). The plebs and rebels are generally only ‘valued’ for this and are seen as an expendable resource.

The above is from Dressrosa, and the dwarves (Tontatta) are talking about slavery under the original Donquixote rule of 900 years ago and then goes on to say that the Tontatta and Dressrosa have returned to very similar times.

And of course this is not to mention the Toys who toil for the kingdom—dissenters who have been turned into wind-up slaves that their loved ones have forgotten. Dressrosa is far prettier on the surface. The actual land not as ravaged as Wano, but its prosperity stems from suppression and exploitation, just like Wano. Luffy, in this arc (Dressrosa) also mentions how aspects of Dressrosa remind him of where he grew up.

In terms of nurture, who knows how Orochi would have ended up without Kurozumi Higurashi’s influence? And we see far more how it has an effect on his life than Trebol’s possible effect on Doflamingo’s life (though the implication is definitely there too).

And it was unjust what Orochi went through. He was running and sheltering for his life when he first came across Higurashi, but it leads us to the continual One Piece question of whether the boy who’s strapped himself into a suicide vest is responsible if he then pulls the pin? And what stops him from pulling the pin and encourages him to take off the vest?

Just before the panel above, Higurashi has declared that Orochi will be the shogun, in a similar way to Trebol declaring that Doflamingo is a king.

And Hirugashi’s words (top right, second frame): “He who stands at the top writes the rules. And just like that a crime is no longer a crime,” echo Doflamingo’s famous speech at Marineford.

And at this point, Orochi is maybe open to even buying into his persecution, or thinking there is some outside reasoning for it. And the persecution is unjust, but Higurashi’s declaration that Orochi’s hardships are due to the birth of Oden’s father is in one sense correct, but is also at the same level of humanitarian disregard and illogic as the mob that chases the Kurozumi clan.

Whether the madness and rage that Trebol says Doflamingo possesses was also greatly directed by adult interference, such as Streussen and Mother Caramel with Big Mom, or Kurozumi Higurashi’s influence with Orochi. will be something that One Piece forums will discuss ad infinitum, and rightly so. Cycles being broken, perpetuated, created and maintained are fascinating.

Anyway, these two, unlike Big Mom, have this very destructive life purpose in common (see below).

Orochi (above)

Doflamingo on the castle rooftop.

(Doflamingo designing his own match to death (above).)

As we know, regarding the panel above, Doflamingo had physically manipulated Riku Dold into cutting down his own citizens, and the game that he designed for the Dressrosans to play within the birdcage that he set over the island, was basically murderous citizen against citizen in order to survive. He has no care for the populous. 

Both, generally speaking, from the book of classic villain tropes, want everyone D-E-A-D. Even if they also perish in the process. Though if Doff gets eternal youth (which maybe makes him immortal?) he might not.

Orochi is probably not dead. I think there’s one head left unaccounted for (also a form of immortality, or at least eight chances at longevity), and likewise, I doubt he’s going to want to spare the capital once Onigashima lands smack-dab on top of it. If he lives that long. If he’s already dead, then long live the king.

Doflamingo, in non-devil fruit form, has more strength and mental fortitude than Orochi. He has backbone in terms of being a strong character and true to himself, no matter what (maybe like Law and Luffy and Kid). We also see him take care of his Family in ways that seem surface-level appealing, though surrounding himself with toadies who enabled him in the first place is an element both he and Orochi share.

Anyhoo, I know it’s a common theme throughout One Piece (as said and said again in this meta), and that Orochi hasn’t been able to develop as a character in the same way in terms of having his own relatives and subordinates and past relationships explored in more depth and layers, but yeah. Also, that constant theme of does anyone have a god-given right to be a pure arsehole? Both were fallen nobles.

And they both smile a lot.

As does Big Mom, Kaidou, Luffy and maybe Shanks. We’ll see with our other supernovas.

I think we’ll meet Doflamingo after Wano though, but Orochi might be contained to the past.

[greenygreenland]

The Floor Is Lava: (Platonic) 501st x Jedi Reader

-saw something about the floor is lava and imagined this in my head at like 3am

-note, you are a jedi padawan of shaak ti’s with your own squad (who are actually my ocs lol). They are called the Nebula Squad (the squad is actually from Wannabe, another one of my Star Wars fanfics)

-basically, you are someone who acts alone (without your master) and goes on special ops missions. you team up with anakin a lot

-CAN BE READ WITHOUT HAVING TO READ WANNABE

Summary: The floor is lava.

Spring came early. Too early. Maybe it was the fact that this planet had short winters, or the fact that you just weren't used to the warm breezes and scorching heat. After being stationed on Hoth for a good two weeks, you adjusted to the climate. With that came the curse of low heat tolerance.

"I'm going to die." you grumbled.

Your mission was in the more civilised (that was how one of your boys put it) regions of the planet. For some strange reason only the Force knew, your ship broke down in the worst place: a deserted village. Why was this the worst place? Because there was no way you could repair a broken ship without spare parts.

And where were spare parts located? In the city you were supposed to land in. Great, just great.

“(Y/n), can’t we contact General Skywalker for assistance?” inquired Nova. “We are supposed to RV with them anyway.”

Nova was your friend and assigned clone Commander. He, like you, had a knack for getting into sticky situations. Usually he was the one with the plan B, not you. “I can ask Grav and Nimbus if they can get a signal out over there.” He pointed to the mountain on your right. It was tall with a jagged top, where thick forests of luscious greenery sprouted out all over.

Yeah, good luck getting through that.

“You mean to tell me there’s no signal here?” you inquired. “Just how remote is this place?” Even with that bucket over Nova’s face, you knew he was frowning and holding back a long sigh. “Intel said--”

“Intel’s always wrong.” cut in a voice. You peered over Nova’s broad shoulders and met gazes with another member of your squad, Icee. He was just as tall as Nova, sporting the Squad’s signature purple stripes and it’s logo--a nebula. Over his shoulder, he held tight to a sniper rifle. The thing was a beauty, as well as his baby.

“The three things you can never trust are the weather forecast, the canteen menu, and intel. Plain and simple, vode.” Icee added. You shook your head, swatting a few mosquitoes away with a wave of your hand. “If that big ‘ol mountain is the only place we can get a signal from, then I say we go. All of us.”

Nova nodded in agreement. He shouldered his pack, adjusted a few straps on his kama and weapons, and motioned for the rest of the squad to move out. “Is there anything we should know about the wildlife here?” he inquired. “My HUD’s picking up the usual birds and rascals. I’d rather not risk it though. Remember Felucia?”

A shiver ran down your spine at the mention of that jungle-hell. Everywhere you walked lay a deadly plant in need of its next meal. They snuck up on you too, striking out of nowhere like the silence of night. Your number one rule there was not to touch anything.

“There are a few carnivorous plants south of here,” answered Nimbus. “Besides that, all we have to worry about are the birds.” You admired the way he was able to brief everyone so quickly. The only other clone you’ve met with such a well of info was Tech, a member of Clone Force 99.

“What do the birds look like?” you inquired. Nimbus scrunched up his face under that bucket of his. “I don’t think you wanna know.” Grav squinted at the screen and pushed his brother’s head with the back of his hand. It wasn’t enough to hurt him, but you sensed a lingering annoyance in the air after. 

“What, you scared of some little bird Nimbus?“ he teased. Nimbus wordlessly flipped over his datapad for everyone to see. The screen displayed a large bird-like creature with long fangs covered in drool. Its eyes were beady and bloodthirsty, as if it wanted you to be its next meal.

Nimbus scanned over the heading. “This is a...uh...Kah-rah...Kahl-ram-dah-lahm-dahl...?”

“Kara’dalamb’da.” corrected Storm. He pulled off his helmet, the low ponytail of his fanning out in the warm breezes. “I’ve read about them once. They’re not the type of creatures I’d want to run into. They drag you to their caves, pull you apart limb, and then chew you alive. The worst part is that they don’t eat you.”

Nimbus knitted his brows together. “So we’re like chewing gum to them?”

“Exactly.” Storm affirmed. “They come out at night time, then stay around till dawn before hiding in their caves.” Icee blanched and you couldn’t blame him. You were all heading towards the mountains, where plenty of caves and labyrinths lay. There were probably tons of those Kara-whatevers waiting for their dinner.

You folded your hands together with a tight frown. “Is there another way of getting a signal to Anakin?” George shook his head sadly. You sensed an overwhelming amount of resignation rolling off his shoulders. “No. Even if I tried use long-range comms, it wouldn’t work. There’s too much interfering with the signal.”

There was a chance you could telepathically contact Anakin. He’d answer in an instant and personally come to find you. But that would drain your energy. Your boys needed you more than you needed to contact Ani. If you became dead-weight then it would compromise the mission.

“Alright,” you decided. “We have twelve hours to scale that mountain and hurry our shebs to the ship. If we don’t make it back in time, consider ourselves toast.”

You wished you’d consider yourself toast from the start. If that were the case, then you wouldn’t be running for your life. The mission up was a success. You managed to reach the highest point on the mountain in less than eight hours by ways of a local trail (Nimbus noted that this was a popular tourist spot in autumn). Then you contacted Rex, who promised to RV at the foot of the mountain.

The way down was a different story.

It was dusk when you made your descend. The moon rose into the sky while the sun shied away, and if it weren’t for the boys and their helmet lamps, you wouldn’t have been able to see a thing. At first, the walk back was completely fine. The boys were in good spirits and you weren’t hungry for (favourite food).

But then it didn’t go well.

It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t see the giant jaws of death looming over you, or Nimbus, who started arguing with Grav. Again. It also wasn’t you fault that George so happened to trip over a rock and slam into Sapnap, who tried breaking his fall by grabbing onto Halo’s arm. The three went down together, and with the heavy clanking of katarn-class armour, you were sure the whole animal kingdom heard the show.

And that was how the Nebula Squad found themselves in this mess, fleeing from the horrifying Kara’dalamb’da.

“This is your fault Grav!” cried Nimbus. They bumped heads and it took all your willpower not to join the screaming match. “Shut up,” replied Grav. “You were the one who started it!” Nimbus gritted his teeth. “You who else started this?” he seethed. “Them!” He pointed over his shoulder at Halo, George, and Sapnap. They were the ones who had fallen, after all. Why else did the beast wake up?

“It wasn’t my fault!” cried George. Sapnap scoffed and it was lost to the screech of the oversized bird above. “No one said it was your fault anyway! You just have a guilty conscious!”

You eyed the bird with a sharp scowl. It flew higher, into the haunting light of the moon and across the stars. It gave a great screech again. You covered your ears as a shiver ran down your spine. “Is there any place we can hide from that thing? I’m pretty sure it can smell us from klicks away!”

“That’s correct Commander!” Nimbus congratulated. By the light aura around his shoulders, you guessed him and Grav already made up. They always had petty arguments anyway. “The Kara’dalamb’da has an incredible sense of smell and a wingspan of about ten meters! That’s pretty cool.”

Storm stared at his brother in bewilderment. “How is that cool?” he demanded. “You want to be chop suey for that thing? Be my guest.” Halo laughed a little. You knew he was doing it to shake off his nerves. “Why’d you have to go on and say that? Now I’m going to start singing.”

You scanned the forest. For miles, it seemed to be only forest, wildlife, and bare nature. A flicker of...something cut through your senses. Calculating, at the ready, and deadly. You paused in your step, Storm mimicking you. He met your gaze. “You sense it too?”

“Maybe it’s them.”

You heard them before you saw them.

“Blast that bird out of the sky!”

A squad of 501st troops rustled through the trees. They were silent as the night, save for one trooper who decided to whisper-shout a ‘hi’ to your squad. Their formation, lame as it was, worked in their favour. They raised their blaster, lighting up the sky with bright bolts of blue.

“Can we get a rocket launcher over here?”

“Yes, sir!”

The bird dropped out of the sky with a cry, razor-sharp teeth bared and claws at the ready. It was coming closer, diving faster. You pulled out your lightsaber and thumbed it on.

I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.

You heaved in a deep breath and leapt into the moonlight. Your robes fluttered in the wind, and your hair whipped in arc of (hair colour). It was like you had wings. Time slowed and you raised your lightsaber. It came down in a neat slash across the beast’s neck.

You tumbled through the air and met the ground in a roll. The beast fell behind with a loud THUMP!. You turned off your glowing blade and stashed it away on your belt. The adrenaline keeping your nerves hidden away was slowing, and the realisation that you just murdered a beast settled into your mind.

Part of you wished things could have been different. But what choice did you have?

“Commander!” called Nova, stopping by your side. “Are you okay?” You smiled and he heaved out a sigh of relief. “That was some jump, but now look.” He pointed to your dirt-covered robes. It wasn’t a big deal, but to someone like Nova, it was an issue.

“Here.” Nova helped you dust off the robe with a few pats. “That’s better.”

“Oh, it didn’t look bad.” you stated. He folded his arms across his chest. “That’s what you always say (Y/n).” You grinned and bumped shoulders with him. He replied by playfully shaking his head with a sigh.

A familiar boy made his way towards you. Even through the moonlight struggling through the thick canopies, you saw the chipped blue paint. “Rex,” you greeted. “Thanks for the assistance. Although, I wish you toned it down a bit. You made my squad look like a bunch of young fools.” A loud ‘hey’ sounded from your boys, but you elected to ignore it with a grin.

“Your squad did a phenomenal job in staying alive that long.” Rex said with a chuckle. “And besides, you stole the show in the end. The boys had fun watching your display.” You three shared a warm laugh that reminded you of the sun.

Speaking of sun, was it just you or did it get brighter outside? You looked up to gaze at the moon. It still stood high in the sky, just as before. The stars were out too, bright and clear as ever. So why had the temperature risen so quickly? It was at least another eight hours till dawn. That was more than enough time for the moon to stay out.

A scattered cluster of birds flew from out of the trees. Was it just you or was the forest getting really silent? Owls refused to hoot, those kara-whatevers weren’t screeching from their caves, and crickets stopped chirping their calming songs.

“WOAH, WOAH, WOAH!”

“I TOLD YOU IT WAS HERE!”

“I THOUGHT IT WAS IN THE SOUTH!”

You spun around so fast that you could have gotten whiplash. Sapnap, George, and Halo sprinted from out of the thick trees with their helmet lights on the highest setting. You squinted behind them. Something had to be chasing them, otherwise they wouldn’t be sprinting like track stars.

But you didn’t see any deadly animals, nor did you sense them. All that was left was an...

...an eerie silence.

You thought back to the briefing. Back to the meeting you nearly fell asleep in. If it weren’t for Icee kicking your feet every now and then, then you would have passed out completely.

“On this outer rim planet, I suggest you be careful,” Obi-wan had said. “The locals reported the activity of volcanoes erupting unexpectedly. They believe it has to do with an angry spirit plaguing their land, but we’ve found out the Separatists have a hand behind this.”

“Do you know where these volcanoes are, General Kenobi?” inquired Grav. He shook his head. “No, but I’m sure you won’t have to know. The city under siege is our main objective. You will rendezvous with Anakin there.”

Sapnap, George, and Halo motioned for everyone to move. There was a flicker of movement behind them. Fives emerged from the bushes in a frantic sort of panic. “LAVA!” he cried. “THE FLOOR IS LITERALLY LAVA!”

That was all it took for everyone to run. As uncoordinated as the retreat was, having lava behind you wasn’t exactly something anyone could stay calm about. The glowing magma was faster than it was supposed to be, and you had a feeling it was because it had a nice flow coming out of the planet’s core.

“Talk about an intense game of ‘the floor is lava’!” Hardcase shouted with a laugh. Jesse ‘pffted’. “I thought being chased by lava would be worse! This isn’t nearly as bad as last mission!”

Last mission? Oh, what was Ani doing to these poor souls? Your shoulders slumped in defeat. They were so nonchalant. How? Burning to death in lava was said to be the most painful death, and you’d rather not be Gollum in his last moments on Mount Doom.

“Why don’t you turn that frown upside down?” inquired Fives. You hadn’t even realised he’d caught up with you. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s just a bit of lava!”

You threw a hand over your shoulder and pointed to the glowing, hot mass. It burned through everything it touched. A fire was beginning to catch too, and all the smoke and ash from it wasn’t doing you any good. “Just a bit of lava? Well how would you feel running into that?”

“I don’t know!” he retorted. “Never tried it!”

“If you did, then you’d be dead!” Kix shouted. You face-palmed. “That’s a bit of a no-brainer!” Fives pulled off his helmet. The grin smacked upon his lips didn’t leave. “Who’s up for a round of ‘the floor is lava’?”

“Me!” said Jesse.

“And me!” added Hardcase.

“You guys need to cool it.” Kix said. “But don’t leave me out, I want to play too.”

You let out a long sigh. The 501st may have saved your skin today, but tomorrow? They’d probably get you killed.

TIP JAR <--- (if you’re feeling nice)

[inky-duchess]

The Villain's Ending: How to Serve Your Villain Their Comeuppance

The Villain is one of the most important characters in your story, the driving force for everything that happens your heroes and your world. The Villain must be dealt with, we can all agree on this one point. The Villain has been tormenting our hero and they must be punished. And not by a falling brick, Dave and Dan. The audience deserves a real ending and your villain must be punished accordingly for their actions.

Punishment fits the crime/ Poetic Justic

The Villain has been cruel, they have done horrible things to our hero. The world decides to get its own back in the most ironic and poetic way possible. These endings are perhaps the most enjoyable to both read and write, they allow both you and the audience to have closure but while making echoes in the story.

Carrie is one of my favourite novels. Carrie has been pushed far past breaking point by the conclusion of her story, she has been bullied, humiliated and betrayed. Every character who has ever hurt Carrie (either physically, emotionally, mentally or spiritually) gets their just desserts. She has been tortured for her strangeness and inability to fit in... and now, her strangeness is what she wields against her villains. She destroys her bullies at the school dance (wiping them put at an event which was meant to be the happiest night of their life), getting rid of Chris Hargensen and Billy Nolan, the puppeteers of her humiliation (using Chris and Billy's status symbol [the car] against them and taking control of it away from them to hurt them with it) and good ol' Mama Margaret White dies at her daughter's hands, slowing her heartbeat with her TK (Margaret is punished by her own daughter, her life taken by the gene she passed to her own daughter and via the symbol of love, a commodity she denied her own child).

Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame is a beautifully shot film and one of Disney's gems. At the film's climax, Frollo is trying to kill Esmeralda and Quasimodo atop the apex of Notre Dame. Frollo has a sword in his hand and seems to be winning, raising his sword to smite Esmeralda as she tries to help Quasimodo, reciting "And He shall smite the wicked and plunge them into the fiery pit!" But he has weakened the stone gargoyle he stands on and his movements cause him to fall and cling to the gargoyle as it cracks, its eyes glowing with sudden divine rage. Frollo falls backwards into the fiery blaze of Paris to his death. Justice is served.

In Game of Thrones/ASOIAF, we see this in spades. Ramsay Snow has hunted down young women in the woods with his hounds, tormented Theon Greyjoy into madness, had his stepmother and half brother fed to his hounds only minutes after the boy is born, killed his father (though this is a service to society), might have killed his own elder half brother, burned Winterfell, raped Jeyne/Sansa and being a pretty bad human being. In the show, Ramsay is fed to his own dogs while Sansa watches. Tywin Lannister has also been a terrible human being: having his son's wife raped while he watches, arranging the Red Wedding, allowing Cersei to set Tyrion up for murder, punishing Alayaya, his actions against the Reynes and Tarbecks, his terrible parenting and his general evilness. He is shot while taking a dump by Tyrion, the child he disparaged most in a rather inglorious fashion. Tywin dies leaving his dreams of dynasty to crumble, his unsavory relationship with Shae to be uncovered and humiliated after his death. The Seven were truly good that day. And not to mention Walder Frey, being served his own dead sons in a pie and killed by the daughter and sister of the woman he had slain in the very room he sits in. You can see the confusion and fear in his face as he tries to work out why this is happening, mirroring Catelyn and Robb's own horror and fear. Arya cuts his throat, echoing her mother's death.

In Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom, we are introduced to the hunter Ken Wheatley. He hunts the dinosaurs, helping the main villain in rounding them up. He has a habit of collecting the teeth of the animals he hunts. He pulls out a Stegosaurus's tooth, relishing in the prize without caring for the creature's fear and pain. Wheatley tries to do the same with the Indoraptor, thinking the beast has been tranquilized but Indy was just playing. The Indoraptor bites his arm off as he tries to pull her tooth, killing him in gory glorious fashion. Indy was a very good and clever girl.

Book Ends

The Villain sometimes is treated to a walk down memory lane in their final moments. The beginning of their story is echoed in their final moments, bringing the circle to a finish and creating a nice clean break. The end feels earned in these circumstances, rounding off the arc nicely.

In Harry Potter, Voldemort fears death. He has done all he has done for his preservation and longevity. Voldemort faces off Harry in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, one on one as it had been when Voldemort stood in Harry's bedroom in Godric's Hollow. As before, the action that begun the tale ends it for Voldemort. He fires the Killing Curse at Harry and it gets turned on him. Voldemort dies simply, with no thunderous drama. He gets both his worst fears wrapped up in some poetic justice. The circle is complete.

Arya Stark faces all kinds of villains in her trek across the riverlands in A Clash of Kings. She and her gang of misfits (Gendry, Hotpie and an injured Lommy) are cornered by Lannister soldiers. The soldiers gather the gang to send them to Harrenhal. Raff the Sweetling, one of the soldiers asks Lommy "Is there something wrong with your leg, boy?" And Lommy replies, that yes he is hurt and he has to be carried. Raff stabs the boy through the throat and jokingly repeats Lommy's request. Arya encounters him again in Braavos in the Mercy Chapter of Winds of Winter. She stabs him in the thigh and feigns worry for his condition, asking him whether she should help him to the physician. Instead, Arya stabs him in the throat. The circle is complete.

Though Braveheart is a rather mixed bag of tricks, it does get this echo right. Muireann has her throat cut for both marrying without the Lord's permission and attacking the English soldier who tried to rape her. Enter William Wallace who takes on the garrison and raises the village to utterly destroy the soldiers. He marches into the Lord's fort (the place he felt safest in as Muireann did in her village and metaphorically in her marriage to Wallace) and drags the fucker to the same post he executed Muireann at, cutting the Lord's throat. The circle is complete.

In Captive Prince, the whole conflict of the series kicks off at Marlas where Damen kills the Veretian Prince in battle, brother to Prince Laurent. Kastor has taken his brother Damen's throne and forced him into slavery. Damen's opening chapter has him being readied for his ordeals in the slave's baths before being sent off to Vere to serve Laurent. Fast forward to our ending and Damen has come home for his throne. He confronts Kastor in the slave baths where Kastor tries to kill him. Laurent steps in and delivers a killing blow, killing Damen's brother as Damen killed his. Two circles are fulfilled.

In The Heroes of Olympus: The Blood of Olympus, Gaia has begun to destroy Camp Half Blood, levelling the forces of the gods and demigods. Gaia began the first first cycle of the PJO Universe by having her husband, Ouranos/Uranus killed. Gaia had Ouranos come down from his domain the sky, away from his source of power. She had him ambushed and killed, her son Kronos, the original antagonist do the deed. We fast forward to the present and Kronos has been taken down by Camp Half Blood and Camp Jupiter. Gaia is mad af and rises to take out the heroes. In the end, Gaia's fate is that of Ouranos, driven from her point of power, the earth and destroyed. The bookends are a couple of millennia apart but the circle is complete.

There is always somebody else.

The Villain and hero are mortal enemies. The Hero has suffered at the Villain's hand for the length of the story, battling them in tests of strength, power and wills. The Hero must over come the Villain... or do they? The Villain must be beaten, that is a fact or else the story has no purpose or no meaning. One must triumph over the other. But there is no written rule that states that it must be the protagonist who must deal the blow and here is where justice can be done for even the most minor character.

The Captive Prince series has this ending in spades. Throughout the story we are pelted with the Regent's evil actions: Hurting Erasmus, killing Laurent's horse, setting his own nephew up to be sexually assaulted and murdered at the hands of the man who killed his brother, constantly being creepy, keeping children as pets, taunting Laurent about abusing him, killing his own brother the King, ordering the death of Pashcal's brother who knew the Regent ordered the King's death, of the killing Nicaise, corrupting Aimeric and his takeover of the Kingdoms of Vere and Akielon. We spend the story waiting for his downfall, waiting for Laurent or Damen to strike the blow. But it isn't them. Instead, the Regent seems to have won, trapping both heroes. Then comes the justice. The truth comes to light. Aimeric's mother testifies against the Regent. Evidence gathered by Nicaise and Pashcal's testimony of his brother's actions both prove to be a nail in the Regent's coffin. In the end, it is the ghosts of three of the Regent's victims who beat him and drive his supporters to abandon him. The victims get the revenge, not just the heroes. It isn't an empty victory for them.

In Outlander, Claire is kidnapped and subjected to torture and abuse at the hands of Lionel and his men. He broke into her home, snatched her, beat Marsali and tortured her. When Claire is rescued by the men of the Ridge, Jamie asks her which men attacked her but she cannot recall so he has them all killed excepting Lionel that is. He is kept because of his value to his brother and Claire's belief that a patient shouldn't be harmed by the doctor. Enter Marsali. She has hurt in the kidnapping and had to watch the strongest woman she has ever known subjected to horrors. She understands Claire will not take revenge because of her Hippocratic oath but she swore no such vow. Even the speech, is striking reminding us that Claire is not just the only one has hurt. "I've been learning the art of healing. Mistress Fraser taught me well. She took an oath to do no harm... I have taken no such oath. You hurt me, you hurt my family, you hurt my ma. I will watch you burn in hell before I let you harm another soul in this house..." Also, she kills him with a syringe which is a nod to his destruction of the one at the battle with the regulators. I for one hope it hurt.

In Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, we see this happen a lot. Neville takes out the sword of Gryffindor and fucking charges at Nagini, a piece of Voldemort, avenging his parents' torture and his own brutal treatment in his final year. Bellatrix has killed Sirius and Dobby, both two characters very dear to Harry and his friends. They do not get to bring her down. It is Molly Weasley who gets to do it, a mother who has lost her brother, her son and almost her world to the ideals of Bellatrix. She fucking snaps and we cheered her on.

In the Lion King, we watch waiting for Scar to get his comeuppance after he pushes his brother off a cliff, chases away his nephew and destroys the pride lands. Though Simba fights a good fight, he gets a case of Hero-itus and decides not to kill his uncle (it is a Disney movie after all) but events transpire and then Scar is trapped with the hyenas, the same hyenas he just tried to throw under the bus only a few seconds before this.

[lavenderradionoises]

Can You Hear the Winds Changing? - Part 3

I love how this entire thing started as an assignment for class and now became a project with a plot and full character arcs. 

You can find part 1 HERE and part 2 HERE Warnings: mentions of war, violence “Do you really think that having a festival this soon after the campaign is appropriate?” Usta asked Aion, pacing the length of his room. Aion watched his sister. A letter and rose lay forgotten before him on the table.

“It’s Candelae, Usta! The people wait for this the whole year, rest of the world be damned,” Aion countered. When Usta sighed, he took it as a sign to continue. “Besides, it’s one of the few festivals that father allows which celebrate gods who aren’t patrons of the royal family. The people need this now more than ever.”

Usta stopped her pacing to level Aion with a glare before a knock sounded from the door before Iiaare, Usta’s maid, walked in carrying two platters of food. With his own servant dismissed to celebrate with his family, the prince was quick to take one from her.

“Here, let me help.” Iiaare rolled her eyes and let out a heavy sigh but allowed the prince to take one of the platters. 

“She isn’t helpless, you know. If anything, she can probably carry the food for all the visiting nobles and not break a sweat,” interjected Usta, making her way to the table. Iiaare gave a noncommittal shrug and held up eight fingers before pointing at the platters and mimicking the motion of carrying them. 

Aion watched the interaction with a slack jaw and eyes that darted between the two. “When did you two become friends?” he asked, surprised, remembering how only last week Usta was constantly complaining about her new maid and her inability to communicate.

Usta hummed as though mulling over the question. “When she punched Sir Prent in the jaw three days ago after he told- how many was it?”-- Iiaare held up four fingers-- “after he told four maids that it would be an ‘honor to have his bastard children’ or something along those lines.” 

Aion looked at Iiaare, baffled. He knew Sir Prent and some other knights had missed the past couple of days of training, but the story was that they were feeling ill after coming home from the battlefield. 

The rest of the mealtime was spent discussing what else led to the unthinkable friendship between his sister and her maid. Apparently, as soon as Usta gave Iiaare her protection as both the princess and the kingdom’s seer, Iiaare decided that the best way to use it was for those who had no such protection. 

While Aion was impressed with the new maid, he was even more shocked to hear the awful behavior of the kingdom’s knights. He had known they weren’t perfect, but the knights were supposed to stand for honor and integrity; yet here they were, using their power to abuse those without any. It made his teeth grind. He was so lost in his own head that he didn’t realize their meal had finished until Iiaare lifted his plate from in front of him.

“Oh!” Aion exclaimed, jolting to face his sister as she was making her way out of his chambers, “remember that there will be a remembrance feast tonight for the fallen knights. You should make an appearance.”  

Usta stared at her brother from the open door before rolling her eyes and walking away. Iiaare bowed her head in the prince’s direction and closed the door with more force than Aion thought was necessary. 

~

Aion scanned the banquet hall full of knights and nobles dressed in green, the color of mourning, his earlier conversation with Usta and Iiaare still echoing in his mind. 

“Looking for someone?” came a familiar voice from his left. Aion turned to his sister, eyebrows raised at her presence.

“Oh, stop looking like a startled stoat,” Usta sassed as she took her seat, gesturing for Iiaare to fill her wine glass “The knights who fell in battle were my people too, they deserve the same respect as anyone who works with me in Firebird tower.” The prince nodded and murmured quick thanks in her direction before turning to face the king on his right, who was engaged in quiet conversation with the queen.  

“I have my personal guard stationed at every door. If Stozia attacks, they will buy us some time,” the king said, eyes wandering around the room just as Aion’s had a moment previously.

“Are you sure they will attack tonight?” the queen questioned, spinning her wedding band, a gesture Aion had come to associate with his mother feeling anxious. 

“No, but both Captain Necrosis and Lieutenant Iaastil have a feeling,” the king replied before taking his wine glass and standing up. 

Aion tuned out whatever speech the king had prepared to honor the fallen knights; it was one he had heard many times. The prince gestured for Iiaare to fill his glass with more wine. When the servant did not react, he turned to her. He was not expecting to find her stiffly staring at the main entrance to the banquet hall. Nor was he expecting to see the slightest tremble of her hands around the pitcher. 

Just as he turned to look at the doors, they burst open, with two people calling for knights in the room to prepare for a fight before barricading the entrance. Aion recognized them as twins, Elos and Alos, from his father’s private guard. Unsheathing the sword from his waist, Aion began yelling for everyone to start evacuating. He turned to his sister, kissing the top of her head.

“Take Iiaare and Mother, head for my rooms. If anything happens, take the tunnels to the lower town. At least one of us needs to survive this.” 

Usta opened her mouth in protest but stopped. 

“I love you. Make sure you come back to me alive.”

Hearing yelling approach the doors, he watched his sister grab Iiaare and ran in the direction of the evacuating nobles. 

Aion joined his father and the twins in the front of the hall, the sound of splintering wood resounded through the room.

~

Aion and Usta took turns pacing the physician’s office, both wringing their hands and telling each other that everything will be okay.

“I just don’t understand why…” Usta trailed off, looking towards the cot where Iiaare was being treated. The prince had to bite his tongue so his response would not make it past his lips. He had his suspicions as to why Iiaare jumped between his sister and the assassin’s sword, but it was not something his sister would want to hear. 

The court physician made his way to the siblings. His posture was relaxed as he rolled up unused bandages. 

“She will live. The sword didn’t pierce any vital organs, so she should recover without any issues. Though she will need to rest until further notice.” 

Both siblings let out a sigh of relief. Usta made her way to Iiaare’s side, clearly intending to stay with the servant until she woke up.

“What about the council meeting? They need your ability to See,” Aion began, but quickly realized how futile any argument would be. His sister would hear nothing of the meeting until she knew that her maid would wake up. So, he made his way to his father’s chambers alone, readying himself for an argument between his father and Captain Nexros. 

He heard the yelling before he saw it; surprisingly, his father was not arguing this time.

“Just because Stozia already sent assassins doesn’t mean they won’t do it again!” Iaastil exclaimed, their words followed by a thud. Perhaps they hit the table with their fist. 

“They won’t! That’s not how wars work,” came the reply from Captain Nexros.

“Oh yes, because the rules of war don’t ever change, and Stozia is well known to follow any code of conduct.”

“What do you suggest we do then? Make documentation for every person who lives in this country?” 

“That won’t work when raiders attack. That will be the first thing they go for, leaving all our outlying villages vulnerable,” Aion interjected as he entered the room. The duo stopped whatever glaring match they started earlier to glance at him.

“What do you mean?” asked a young boy near Iaastil. His features and accent reminded Aion of the twins, both of whom he noticed were missing from the room. 

“If everyone in Nemothage was carrying some kind of documentation that they live here, raiders would begin targeting it along with food and supplies,” Aion continued, taking a seat across from the queen, “And if the documentation is stolen, then we would not be able to help the village, hence leaving them vulnerable.” 

At that, Iaastil smirked triumphantly at Nexros, who in turn pinched the bridge of his nose. Moments later, he threw up his hands.

“Fine, be that as it may, but we still need to figure out Stozia’s next move.”

The king pointed at the map in front of him, “There have been attacks on Flatband, Rizeria, Quoavacia, and other border villages between us and Stozia. That’s not even counting the battle at Yorkmer.” 

“I wouldn't put it past King Azorius to keep sending mercenaries to border towns to try and split us up,” The lieutenant speculated, repeatedly tapping one of the outlying villages on the map. “My money is also on him trying to forge an alliance with Nicosby to the north.”

“Why Nicosby? King Azorius and Queen Malyn have a rocky relationship at best,” Aion’s mother pointed out. Aion prepared to answer but was cut off by Nexros.

“Because both have something to gain. Stozia has always wanted our mines, while our current stalemate with Nicosby over the Gretrior fields won’t help us form an alliance. But if Stozia wins, Nicosby might have a chance to gain that territory.” 

“Necrosis is right,” the king stated, ignoring the look of pain on both Iaastil’s and Nexros’s faces before beginning to ramble off instructions on where the king’s guard should go out to scout. Before the king could make any more decisive decisions, Iaastil cut him off.

“Your Majesty, we still have to consider our mission of protecting Princess Usta while she is in Grimmimire. We’re leaving in a couple of days to make it there in time for her to follow up on her promise to the village elder.”

“I see,” the king said lowly. “On whose authority are these orders?”

“The prince’s,” answered Nexros, shifting slightly in Aion’s direction. 

The king looked at Aion, eyes narrowing. Aion squared his shoulders and glared back at his father. His father may still be able to rule, but age occasionally interfered with the king’s priorities, especially when it came to Usta and her role as the kingdom’s Seer. 

The stand-off lasted until the door burst open and a frazzled Usta strode in, scanning the room. Once she zeroed in on Nexros and Iaastil, she stomped over to plant herself in front of them.

“Captain Nexros, could you please ask your twins to leave my maid alone? If they offer her another torte, I think she is going to lose her eyes in the back of her head. Who even let have that many? They have about thirty between the two of them.”

This time it was Aion who cut the captain off, with a smirk that rivaled Alos’s when they were scheming.

“Are you sure it’s not you who’s going to lose their eyes in the back of their head?” 

Usta ignored Aion in favor of glaring at the captain and lieutenant. The captain stood up from his spot at the table.

“Elos must have gone to the kitchens after the attack, she and Alos didn’t even show up for the briefing.”

Usta let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose before turning to their father. Her eyes were tinted green, something Aion recognized as a sign of his sister getting a vision.  

“Your plans to attack through Marmeny are going to fail. Stozia is trying to lure our forces in by purposely weakening their defenses.” Aion watched the king scowl and reach for a quill and some extra parchment. “the most effective way to win would be to split up into three groups.” 

Usta approached the table, keeping eye contact with the king from where he was still leaning over the map. Aion watched the battle in his father’s eyes, contemplating whether to believe the kingdom’s seer or to order his daughter out of the war council. Moments later, the king stepped aside, giving Usta ample room to join the table. Aion released a silent sigh and settled in more comfortably. Even with Usta’s help, this was going to be a long strategy meeting.

[izaswritings]

Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis:  Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Warnings for: cursing, mentions of past child abuse (via Gothel), and emotional tangles due to said past abuse (again, freaking GOTHEL). Also, frank descriptions/depictions of scars and past injuries, emotional breakdowns and mild sensory overload, and further issues of forgiveness along the lines of complicated parent-child relationships. 

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AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here! 

Previous chapters are here.

And, the newly created discord server can be found here!

-

Chapter VI: The Princess

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As the Sun continued her fruitless search, deep in the shadows, unable to pull away, the Moon too slowly began to fall.

You might be starting to doubt me, by this point, but I assure you: She fell. How could she not? Lovely Moon, lonely Moon, who danced alone despite all the stars that cluttered around her. Yes, she fell. She watched from shadows as the radiant woman scoured the seas, and with every moment found herself drawn in ever closer, caught in the Sun’s brilliant glow. For although Moon did not linger alone in the skies, never had she seen a being quite like Sun. Sun was closer and brighter than any other star—great and grand and tall, her smile soft and glowing, her long train of tightly coiled hair like fire. The Sun was blinding in her radiance and the Moon knew not how to face her.

And there was this, too, of course. The Sun searched. She looked for Moon everywhere, and called apologies across the sea; with every day of failure her eyes fell and her expression went downcast. And slowly, something in the Moon’s stone heart began to stir. Little by little, she fell.

Until finally, one day, when the Sun had almost given up hope on ever seeing that lovely woman again— the Moon at last left her shadows, and approached…  

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.

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For a moment, Rapunzel is frozen still.

Her hands curl into her skirts, stiff and aching, the pain like lightning up her wrists. Her breath has caught, strangled, in her throat. The name almost seems to echo, and the whole court is struck silent—Rapunzel, choking on the shock; her mother, now white in the face; and her father—the King—

His reaction is most surprising of all. Because as Stalyan approaches, as her name rings out—the King looks not angry, or shocked, or afraid… but tired.

Then the exhaustion fades, and fury sparks, and he sits upright in the throne, eyes flashing. His fingers clench on the armrests of the golden chair; Rapunzel can almost hear his teeth grind. The court shifts back to life in the same instant— whispers echoing across the great hall, pale faces and gaping mouths hidden behind raised hands. The guards are stiff-backed, their hands tight around their halberds, eyes burning beneath the helmets. Rapunzel casts her gaze around the room, and is floored by the response. She knows the name only from Eugene—and yet, there is no denying this. At the sound of Stalyan’s name, the whole castle has drawn itself up in arms.

Stalyan, for her part, almost seems to bask in the attention. The throne room is pale and gray in the grips of the morning storm—the windows blurry with rain, the lights dim, the air freezing to the touch. The members of her father’s court are all dressed in heavy cloaks and dark coats to fight the chill, and in contrast Stalyan is a flash of brilliant color, bright red lips and swaying skirts, as if the cold hasn’t touched her at all. She saunters to the throne with a small smile playing at her lips, and when she kneels before the king, there is something mocking in the slow duck of her head.

She is nothing like Rapunzel has imagined her to be, and yet exactly as she expected. The smile that curls at her eyes; the sway to her walk, the laughter in every movement. There’s a control to her, a grace to her every action: like a performer on a stage, who knows exactly the role she’s playing. It strikes Rapunzel as sickeningly familiar.

There’s no question, really, of who Stalyan reminds her of, and Rapunzel hates that most of all. Because there is something about Stalyan that reminds her of Eugene, of Eugene-of-before, when Rapunzel first met him, and the resemblance digs into her insides like a splinter. All at once, it is so much harder to breathe.

Stalyan is still kneeling—head bowed, but even then, Rapunzel can see the smile curling smug at her lips. She is flanked from both sides by two men, tall and broad-shouldered and armored, stone-faced under the stares of the court. They stop a few steps behind her, arms crossed.

“Lady Stalyan,” says Rapunzel’s father. His voice is low and furious.

Stalyan lifts her head, just a little, at the address. If the King’s disapproval unnerves her at all, she doesn’t show it. Her eyes linger on the whispering court, on the queen, on Rapunzel—before fixing, at last, on the king. Her smile widens.

“King Frederic.”

“I don’t recall inviting you to court.”

“Well, then, I apologize for the lack of forewarning,” Stalyan says, raising her head fully. She’s still smiling—though now, in the dim light of the storm lamps, it looks a little more like a smirk. Rapunzel grits her teeth. “I hope I’m not intruding? Yilla here—” She waves one hand behind her, at the merchant who granted her entrance. The man closes his eyes, looking sick. “Well, he assured me his contract with the Kingdom was already set, so I figured I’d simply just… tag along. You know?”

“That contract is looking to be revoked,” Rapunzel’s father snaps, icy. Yilla the merchant cringes. “Lady Stalyan.What are you doing here?”

“I only want to talk,” Stalyan says, heedless of the danger in the King’s tone. She places a hand on her chest, over her heart. “It was a last-minute kind of idea. I just thought I would stop by and… see how negotiations were going?” Her smile grows. “On that previous matter we discussed.”

“There is no discussion.” His voice is flat. “I have given you my answer, and it is no.”

“And talking as a concerned neighbor of your kingdom, I really must protest.” Stalyan tosses her hair over one shoulder, waving her hand carelessly through the air. “King Frederic, I’m not an enemy. I know things have been… hard for your kingdom, lately. With all the port cities falling to attack, I mean, I imagine you must be spread quite thin…?”

Rapunzel’s father doesn’t even twitch. Stalyan shrugs. “Well. The other Kingdoms may fall back, and selfishly guard their borders, but my father has other plans. Vardaros is only growing in power under our rule, and we have aid to spare for Corona.”

He speaks through grit teeth. “We did not ask for your help.”

“It’s a gift!” Stalyan’s smile is hard. Her eyes are laughing. “Well, and as far as I know… my father and I are the only ones offering aid. Really, now. Can you justify turning us down?” She clicks her tongue, sounding briefly disgusted, smile fallen to a scowl. “King Frederic, I thought you cared about your people, not your pride.”

Rapunzel inhales sharply, stunned by her daring. She looks at her parents before she can even think to stop herself. Rapunzel’s mother is tight-lipped and cold, fury in the set of her hands, but it is the King who Rapunzel watches the closest. All the color has drained from his face; his eyes burn like a banked fire.

Rapunzel bites her lip, waiting for him to snap. For the thunder in his voice, for the denials. She almost wants it. Stalyan—Stalyan is here. Here in the castle, in Rapunzel’s home. This woman is responsible for most—if not all! —that has been going wrong, and to see her—to hear her— to have her here, now, of all times—when Rapunzel’s head still aches and her hands still spasm, with the echo of Cassandra’s words in her ears—

She can’t. She can’t.

And so, for the first time, Rapunzel waits desperately for her father’s anger, for him to deny and defy and shut the doors. But the King does not move. His lips are a thin line, and his hands clench— and yet. He grits his teeth, and holds his tongue, and says absolutely nothing at all.

And Stalyan smiles.

“Really,” she says, starting again—but Rapunzel is no longer listening. She stares at her father with wide eyes, something sinking in her chest. He’s… he’s not saying anything. Why isn’t he saying anything? Why is he just taking it? If he knows—if her father recognizes Stalyan for what she is—then why?

Something cold strikes through her. Her breathing stutters in her chest.

“W-wait,” Rapunzel says, and stands, her voice rising. “Wait!”

The court has gone dead quiet, all eyes on her. Rapunzel barely notices. She feels feverish and thin, grasping for straws, trying in vain to understand. “That’s not true!” she cries, staring at Stalyan. “That’s not true!”

Stalyan sniffs, annoyed. Her glance at Rapunzel is dismissive and full of contempt. “Oh?”

“The King—” Stalyan raises an eyebrow, looking bored. Rapunzel’s hands curl into painful fists. “Corona is—!”

“Rapunzel!”

She cuts herself off, stunned. Her father stares down at her from his throne, his eyes bright with an emotion she can’t name. His next words hiss through clenched teeth. “Sit. Down.”

Rapunzel almost gapes at him. “But—”

“Yes,” Stalyan says, and Rapunzel’s eyes snap back to her. Stalyan is smiling again, but there’s nothing friendly in the expression—her eyes are narrowed, her lip curled. “Sit down, Princess. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Watch your tongue,” Rapunzel’s father says, coldly, before Rapunzel can reply. “The same can be said for you, Lady Stalyan. For all you claim your father is eager to offer aid, he has yet to come here and offer it himself, has he not?”

Stalyan’s expression flickers, quicksilver and bitter, a flash of fury before her head bows. “I… I only meant that this was a matter between us, Your Majesty. After all, I act in my father’s stead.” Her head lifts. She looks to the side, and meets Rapunzel’s eyes. “Does your daughter act in yours?”

Rapunzel turns to her father. She can hardly believe this, cannot understand it—cannot fathom what is happening. Why is he listening to this? Doesn’t he know who Stalyan is? Why haven’t they thrown her out? Why—

Her eyes catch over her father’s shoulder. Beside Elias, who has stood shaking and small ever since Stalyan walked in, is the Captain of the Guard, Cassandra’s father. He is dressed in full armor; he stands tall by the throne. But his eyes are dark. His teeth are grit. He—

He looks angry.

He looks resigned.

And something finally clicks.

Rapunzel casts her gaze around the throne room, horror climbing up her throat. The whispers. The way the whole room had reacted, the way they’d known—the way not one had tried to stop Stalyan from approaching despite the hate in their eyes, not even the guards.

She’d known someone was attempting to blackmail Corona, but never in her wildest dreams has she thought they were succeeding. But the pieces come together, at long last, and Rapunzel can finally see the picture they paint. The pirates attacking the coast. The trade routes closing down. Money lost; jobs stalled. Revenue cut. Land trade would become all the more important—guards hired out for the long journeys on the roads—and that means—

My father and I are the only ones offering aid.

And there it is: the answer. Maybe the castle does know. Maybe they’ve known all along who Stalyan is, what this offer entails. But they don’t have the money or the people to spare, and there are no other offers. Corona has been caught, tangled in the web—

And they cannot afford to refuse.

Her father—the King—looks across, and meets Rapunzel’s eyes. “Sit down, Rapunzel,” he says. His voice is hard. His jaw is clenched tight with helpless anger. “And do not interrupt again.”

The feud between the guards and the King—smarted pride, helpless anger. The wariness of the citizens. The rumors.

Stalyan is smiling again. Her eyes gleam bright and burning, as violent as the storm outside. She stands below the throne, surrounded by glaring eyes, but there is a light in her face, and victory in her smile— as if, deep inside, she’s already sure that she’s won.

And the worst part is—

Maybe she has.

Rapunzel sits down, hands curled into trembling and painful fists, and grinds her teeth so hard she thinks she might break.

“Wonderful,” Stalyan says, soft and smug. How could Eugene have liked this woman? What could he have seen in her? Her smile makes Rapunzel sick. “Let’s talk business, then, shall we?”

.

The rest of the negotiations pass by in a blur.

Rapunzel barely listens, her head spinning, eyes hot and fingers wound tight from stress and pain. By the time Stalyan leaves—empty-handed still, though with a smile and a promise to return that makes something lurch ill at Rapunzel’s gut—the rain has stalled, the sky darkened to late afternoon, and the throne room is stiff with silence.

The door clicks shut behind Stalyan’s retreating back, and Rapunzel’s father waves his hand. “Go,” he says, cold in a way Rapunzel has rarely heard him, and his court scatters like breaking glass, vanishing out of the room. Only Elias remains, lingering small behind the thrones like he’d rather be anywhere else. Rapunzel’s mother, still sitting, shades her eyes with her hand and sighs.

Rapunzel stares at the doors for a long moment, her breath shaking in her chest, fluttery and fragile. Then Pascal jumps to her shoulder and chirps at her, and all at once the world snaps back into place. She inhales so sharply she almost chokes, and jumps to her feet, whirling on the throne. “Dad—”

His eyes have closed. He puts his head in his hands. “No, Rapunzel.”

“I haven’t even said—” Something catches and strangles at her throat. “What—you have to know who she is. What she wants! And the things she was saying, I— the Baron, we can’t let—”

“Rapunzel,” her mother says, bracing.

“Enough,” her father snaps, at the same time. His hand lowers. His expression is stormy. “I know, daughter.”

“Then why are you—”

His voice has gone flat. “It is none of your concern.”

“But—”

“No!” His hand slams down on the arm of the throne. His head lifts. “This is not a debate, Rapunzel! If I had known that— that she was here—then you would not have entered this room.”

Rapunzel steps forward, beseeching. “But I was here. And I know—who she is, what she’s doing! I’m already involved! Please, I can—I’ll be more careful next time, I won’t interrupt, I just— let me just try—”

“No.”

“She’s trying to hurt Corona!” Rapunzel cries out, her patience finally snapped. “She’s already hurt Corona!” How many trade partners have they lost, in these past few months? What does that mean for the people, for the merchants, the artisans and farmers and the people who depend on the sea? Something deep inside Rapunzel has cracked, a thread worn down to breaking. She’s losing hold of all of it—her emotions, her grip, this conversation. She remembers Stalyan’s cold little smile and feels sick. “I have to—”

The King rises to his feet, expression closed off, then pivots on his heel and heads for the door. He says not a word to her; he barely even looks at her. Rapunzel snaps her mouth shut, feeling slapped—and when she turns to her mother, it’s to see her standing to leave too.

It burns. A strangled cry rises in Rapunzel’s throat, and she lunges forward, chest tight, following after them. “Stop hiding things from me!” she shouts at their backs. “You can’t—!”

“As though you haven’t been hiding things from us?” Her father turns to her, his composure broken. He gestures at her—no, Rapunzel realizes, at her gloves, and she flinches back before she can stop herself. “You cannot demand honesty from others and then refuse to give it in turn in the same breath!” He closes his eyes, exhaling hard. “Not to mention whatever happened with—that boy, Varian—”

“I—” Her throat closes up. “That’s different.”

“It concerns our kingdom, and our people’s safety—so no. It is not.”

“Varian isn’t—what happened in the labyrinth— he’s not a threat!”

“And you have no proof of that!” The Queen puts a hand on his shoulder; the King inhales deeply, shaky, his teeth grit. When he opens his eyes again, his expression is calm and cold. “And I find it especially interesting, daughter, that you recognized Stalyan for who she was, when I have been explicitly clear that you are to stay far away from all of this.”

Rapunzel flushes, furious. “I—!”

“I’ve made my decision.”

Her eyes burn. Her chest is strangled tight, twisted to breaking. She thinks of Stalyan’s mocking laughter and the cruelty in her eyes as she insulted Corona, the king, her people—the way no-one dared say a word in protest, even as their eyes burned, and something deep inside Rapunzel’s heart gives in and cracks.

“Why are you just taking it?” she whispers.

There’s a moment of silence. The Queen looks away. The King’s gaze drops to the floor. He is quiet for a long time, and then his shoulders slump. His eyes close again. This time he does not look angry. He looks—he looks—

When he raises his head, and meets her eyes, his expression is grim—but his eyes are so, so tired.

“Return to your rooms, Rapunzel,” he says, and he says it low, says it softly, and this time when he walks away, Rapunzel doesn’t try to follow.

Her mother exits with him, quiet as a ghost, her lips twisted shut. She doesn’t look back at Rapunzel either. For a moment, though, her eyes catch on Rapunzel’s hands, the leather gloves—and something in her, too, seems to drop, her shoulders bowed.

“Oh, Rapunzel,” she says. “Get some rest.”

Rapunzel stares down at the throne room floors, waiting for the sound of their footsteps to fade. She feels very dizzy, and sort of sick; at the same time she is frozen, so cold she has to fight not to shiver. It’s not raining anymore, and in fact the clouds are thinning, letting in faded streaks of reddish light—and yet. She feels so cold.

She’s alone in this room, except for Elias—as always, ever by her side. The guards have gone, the advisors scattered. The thrones look small and fragile, swallowed up by the stone. The pretty tile floors are stained bloody and bright in the afternoon light.

Rapunzel stares at the door so hard her eyes hurt.

There’s a creak from behind her, the squeal of old armor. Elias. He approaches tentatively, carefully, and he stops just out of reach. She can hear him take a breath—deep, steadying. As though bracing himself.

“…Princess, a-are you—”

She turns. “Let’s go.”

Elias says nothing more.

Rapunzel walks through the castle in something like a blur, her head hot, her hands shaking. She slams back into her rooms with a violence she hadn’t thought herself capable of. The doors smack against the wall and bounce back, and—she flinches. She doesn’t feel any better. It’s not enough. It’s like being bruised. She feels too small for her skin, like there’s lightning in her blood, shaking all the way through her. She wants to break something. She wants to scream. She wants— she wants— 

For a moment Rapunzel just stands there, in this beautiful tower room. She takes it all in. Her painted walls, her soft bed, the open balcony with its lovely new artwork, Corona in eclipse. She looks at those lovely marble walls, the wide double-doors, and it feels like a chain around her heart.

She can’t stay here, Rapunzel realizes. She can’t. She can’t sit trapped in this tower a second longer, or she really will go mad.

She doesn’t bother to close the doors behind her. She heads for the balcony, drawing her hair out from the beads, and loops the long strands around the railing with trembling fingers. She can’t get the tie right. In the end, Pascal has to crawl down her arm and finish the knot for her, securing her hair for the descent, and Rapunzel closes her eyes against a sudden wave of tears. It’s not sadness. It’s not—she’s almost used to her hands by now, really, but—

It’s so frustrating. On top of everything else, it is just—so, so frustrating.

She buries her head in her arms. She breathes. Her head pounds.

“P-Princess…?”

She doesn’t move. Her breath is hot against her palms. She lifts her head and looks back at Elias.

His expression has gone drawn and fearful; his eyes are wide, lips tight and pale. His hands shake on the halberd. He looks between her and the railing and back again. Yes, Rapunzel thinks. That’s right. Elias, her new guard. Her father’s spy. Ordered to never let her out of sight.

“Yes?” she says, and there is a coldness to her that she has never felt before. She isn’t shaking anymore—she is still. Something curls in her heart, pulls cruel at her expression. (I’m trapped, something in her whispers, even then. A voice that sounds just like hers, only younger, only smaller, only afraid. Even now, still, I’m trapped.)

She keeps her eyes on him. Elias stares at her and then at his feet, unable to meet her gaze. His face twists, as though he’s about to cry. His amber eyes are glassy and wet. Then, his jaw clenches. His expression firms. He takes a deep breath, and lifts his head, eyes still bright but steadier, now, determined—

“It’s alright,” Rapunzel says, before he can speak. His mouth snaps shut. All at once the emotion has drained from her; she feels deadened, quiet. Her heart has sunk to her gut. She doesn’t want to know what he’ll say. She doesn’t want to hear it.

She looks down at the balcony floor, her newest mural painted bright and bold against the gray stone: Corona in shadow, the eclipse above, little lights still shining. The morning she’d painted it, all those weeks ago, the image had given her hope. Now it leaves her tired. “You can tell him.”

“I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rapunzel says, gentle and dead. She turns back to the railing, looking up at the sky. The storm is truly over, now—the rain vanished, the sky slowly clearing up, and Rapunzel feels, bizarrely, as though it’s leaving her behind. Come back, some part of her wants to say. Come back here. But that, too, is a stupid thought.

Something bitter tugs at her upper lip. “He probably should have expected this,” she says, finally. “In fact… I want you to.” She looks back. Her expression firms; her hands tighten on the railing. “Tell the King I’ll be back when I feel like it.”

Elias’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I don’t— I don’t have to tell him anything.” He swallows. “I don’t.”

Rapunzel’s lips press, a grimaced smile. “Oh.” It hurts. It’s kind. He’d be dismissed from the guard for sure, speaking like that, if anyone found out. Her eyes burn. “I— that’s— thank you. I mean it. Thank you, Elias. But—” She forces another smile, unsteady and weak on her face. “You don’t have to do that for me.”

He stammers. “But I—”

“Please.” She’s grateful, a little, but mostly she is just tired. Tired of things going wrong. Of people giving up the things that matter to them. Of people giving up these things up for her, especially. “Please, just… please don’t.”

Elias falters, and he looks down again. At last—slowly, reluctant—he gives a tiny nod. “Okay,” he says, in a small voice. “Then… I’ll tell him. If you say so.” His head lifts. “…Princess, are you— are you okay?”

Rapunzel almost laughs at him. She swallows down the hysterical giggle, feeling it flutter uncomfortably in her chest, and turns away. She leans her arms against the railing, and swings herself up to sit on the bar; the cold metal burns at her legs even through the dress. Her feet dangle over the ledge. She reaches up and grips her hair in shaking hands, wraps it secure around her arm. She stares up into the glare of the afternoon sun, the light breaking through the clouds—and all at once, she doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.

“Yes,” Rapunzel says, finally, dully, and slips down off the balcony before Elias can work up the nerve to call her out on the lie.

.

In the quiet grips of the morning fog, the Riesling woods are really quite lovely. With its soft rolling hills and towering trees, clustered so close that from above there’s no break in the green, the woods are peaceful in a way that seems almost unreal. The one road is dirt-worn and broken up by roots, barely wide enough for a cart. Any towns nearby are small and isolated; tiny thatch roof cottage houses with home-grown gardens and barely a market to speak of.

It’s peaceful, in these woods—sleepy, even. They’d entered three days ago, jumping off the latest wagon to make this trek by foot, and it still boggles the mind. It’s so gentle—all birdsong and scattered sunlight, like something from a kinder dream. It’s unreal.

And it’s almost funny, in a way, Varian thinks, staring up at the mist. Because the last time he spent an inordinate amount of time travelling across a couple countries, he’s pretty sure he hated it.

“Moony.”

Of course, Varian reflects, he probably had his reasons for that. The chains—gods, he remembers those. The iron always chafed at his wrists, and he could never really get comfortable, and that iron ball, so heavy, he’d hated that most of all…

“Moony. Get up.”

And sure, he’s spent these past six months traveling with Adira too, but those early months after the labyrinth had never quite felt real. Not in the way that mattered. There’d been no destination to it, no meaning—and Varian hadn’t really been in a state to much care, either. This is the first time it’s really felt true—Corona, off in the distance, the looming goal. Suddenly the roads feel solid beneath his feet, and the travel and the time they’ll take to return needles at him like a ticking clock. He’s going back. After all this time, after everything, Varian is finally going… home.

“Hm. Have it your way.”

Adira swings her staff for his skull; Varian, lying flat on the ground and trying in vain to ignore her, yelps aloud and rolls away, scrambling for his own staff. In the misty sunrise the light is soft and scattered, almost blue, and the world seems dim and shadowed, dampened. The trees here are tall and dark and shaded, great bristling sugar pines with heavy spines now damp with dew, and it’s early enough in the day that even the birds are still singing hello. It’s wonderfully cool too, which is practically warm for this not-quite-springtime weather, and the most pleasant morning they’ve had in a while… so of course, Adira is using this time to train. Varian hates her.

“Head’s up!”

Varian curses again, and brings up his own staff just in time, scrambling back. Adira’s staff cracks against his block—he strains against the blow, his boots digging into the dirt from the pressure. His arms are already shaking, but Varian tries to push back anyway, straining against the staff bearing down for his head. His vision spins. His knees start to buckle—

Adira frowns and makes a dismissive noise, and then pulls back to swing for his ankles. This time, Varian isn’t fast enough to dodge. Adira’s staff smacks hard into his ankle bone, and his leg buckles—and Varian falls hard, flat on his back in the grass once again, groaning.

Adira, above him, shakes her head. “I keep telling you, watch your feet.” She raps the staff smartly against his still-smarting ankle, less a hit and more a warning. “Get a strong stance first, and then you can try defense.”

Varian catches his breath and forces himself upright. For a moment, he doesn’t understand why she’s stopped attacking. Then he sees the small glitter of glowing blue-black stone, rising up by his feet, and falls back on the ground.

Adira sighs again. “You’re distracted.”

Varian throws his arm over his face, trying to ignore the sharp twist in his chest. Every time. He’s stopped jumping at the appearance of the black rocks, if only because it’s become a distressingly common event, but…

Damn it.

“I need a break,” he mutters, and shoves his hand back through his hair, glaring off into the fog. His good mood has soured with this, the peace turned ill and vexing. Varian hates traveling. He’s lost the iron chains this time around, but gained something so much worse, and really, he’s starting to get tired of this. He remembers Moon’s smile, bright and furious and cruel—Figure it out yourself—and the memory curls bitter in his chest. “It’s not working!”

“It’s barely been two weeks. We have a month and more to Corona at this rate. We still have time… and you need to give it time.” Adira offers him the staff; reluctant, Varian takes the end and lets her pull him back on his feet. “Can you keep going?”

Varian brushes stray grass off the hem of his sparring clothes—mainly just his old clothes, because if he ruined his new outfit he’s pretty sure Yasmin would murder him, miles of distance between them none-withstanding. “I’m fine,” he says, and pulls out his hair from the ponytail, combing his hands through it. Augh, it’s all messed up. “Just give me a second.”

“You keep flinching,” Adira notes, leaning on her staff. She eyes him critically, frowning slightly as Varian pulls his hair back again into a neater ponytail.

“Wha— I thought reflexes were a good thing!”

Adira taps her staff against the ground, unamused. “That’s not what I meant.”

Varian looks up at that, his heart sinking. Adira raises an eyebrow at him. He flushes, and his eyes drop back to the ground.

She’d noticed, then. Damn it.

It’s been almost two weeks since they left Yasmin’s house and Port Caul behind. In that time, they’ve already left a few merchant carts, either catching new rides or walking the road in search of another traveler going the right direction. As far as Adira can tell him, Corona is a good two months journey away, if they make good pace— they won’t arrive until the true start of spring, at least, maybe even sometime near Varian’s birthday, though of course he hasn’t told her about that. In the time they have, though, Adira has apparently taken it upon herself to help Varian with training and controlling the black rocks both. It’s a good idea—logical, even. And yet…

The bruise on his face has faded, by now. They’ve talked it out, they’ve set the terms for training and traveling and everything— Varian even agreed to it this time, damn it all—and yet, he still can’t focus.

Part of it is the rocks. Part of it is the Moon, her cryptic warnings and piecemeal answers; part of it travel and trauma, his restless dreams and the endless road. And part of it—as she has no doubt noticed—is Adira.

Varian keeps his eyes on the ground. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I—I just—”

“It wasn’t an accusation,” Adira says calmly, cutting him quiet. When Varian eyes her, she shrugs. “It’s fine. I expected this. There’s no reason for you to feel comfortable with it.” She lifts a brow. “Don’t apologize for things I’ve given you reason to fear. I just need to know if you can keep going. If not…” She shrugs again. “We’ll try again tomorrow. Though I will have you practice your stances, Moony. Honestly.”

Varian sneers. “You slapped me once.”

“Once is enough. Don’t blame yourself for logical things. I said, can you keep going?”

Varian picks up his staff, stubborn. Adira sighs at him, but slides back into a stance regardless. “One last round,” she warns.

“I can do this.”

“Hm.” She swings for him; this time Varian keeps his feet, remembering her advice. He leans back on his heels and slips to the side of her swing—tightens his grip on his own staff through the gloves and lashes out for Adira’s blind spot—is blocked by the sudden flick of Adira’s wrist, and has to scramble back to avoid getting kicked into a tree. “Regardless—” She swings for his ankles again, and Varian trips away, a desperate dodge. “We have a long journey ahead of us. Best not to exhaust ourselves.”

“Corona is—month and a couple weeks away, right?” He ducks a swing, already wheezing, out of breath.

“By merchant roads, anyway. Navigation gets funny across countries.”

He fumbles the staff, annoyed by his own poor dodging. Damn, if he could only hit her back once—! “If you’re saying there’s a shorter road and we haven’t taken it…”

She smacks the staff against his shoulder and he yelps. “Watch your left. You keep leaving yourself open.” She side-steps Varian’s wild swing and raps the staff against his knuckles next, the blow felt even through his new gloves. Varian hisses at her. She shakes her head at him. “Like a cat,” she remarks absently to herself, and then, louder: “Besides, I wouldn’t rely so much on that timeline. We have our own problems to deal with before we can get to Corona.”

Varian draws back, sour, slipping off one glove to rub at his smarting hand. “What do you mean?”

Adira looks at the ground, pointedly. Varian follows her gaze to the black rocks. He looks away. “Oh.”

The fight has fallen slow now. Neither one of them is really trying anymore. Adira straightens, yawning boredly into one hand, and tosses her staff carelessly by their packs. Ruddiger, sleeping snug atop Varian’s bag, doesn’t even twitch. Varian, for his part, drops his staff like it’s a hot coal and leans over his knees, fighting to catch his breath.

“It’s a bad idea to enter another city while that’s still not under control,” Adira says, not unkindly. “And since sparring isn’t working…”

“It’s helping,” Varian says, and makes a face right after, abruptly aware of the hypocrisy. He’d just said otherwise, ugh.

Adira’s lips twitch, an almost-smile. “Hm.”

Varian splutters at her. “I, I mean, it’s—it’s giving me ideas even if it isn’t exactly working—I’m coming up with new plans as we speak, okay—”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Varian mumbles an insult under his breath, shuffling on his feet, bright red—and then bolts for their bags, Adira’s laughter echoing at his back.

Their camp falls quiet after that, but it’s a comfortable kind of silence. Varian changes back into his nicer—warmer, too, which is most important—clothes and his coat over that, at first with sharp angry movements and then calmer once the embarrassment fades. He takes a moment to look down at the nightlight crystal, still hanging off his coat buckle. He takes it in his hand, drawing strength from the pale glow. He breathes in. He exhales.

“Set up the fire, Moony.”

“Got it.”

By this point it’s almost become routine, they’ve done it so often. As Adira stalks off into the trees to hunt, Varian clears out last night’s fire and rebuilds it for their breakfast, walking around their small clearing to gather up twigs and brush for burning. By the time he’s got a blaze going Adira has found their meal, and as the fire starts to crackle, Varian keeps his eyes on the flames and ignores her prepping the meat best he can, even now still a little squeamish at the sight of blood.

Ruddiger wakes up by this point, and scurries over to curl in Varian’s lap. Varian pets him, absently, as their breakfast cooks—Adira’s found some birds, and eggs too, and the smell is almost heavenly, especially with the spices Adira bought from the last merchant. Varian combs out the matts in Ruddiger’s fur and frowns off into the fog, sketching out possible experiments in his head. There’s still not quite enough money for him to buy alchemy equipment, but maybe one day, he’ll be able to bring them to life.

Adira takes the meat and eggs off the fire, and Varian takes his bowl with a mutter of thanks. He eats slowly, sneaking Ruddiger bites when Adira isn’t looking. The campfire is warm against his legs, and high above, the morning haze is starting to burn off under the sunlight. It’s soft. It’s nice.

But again and again, Varian finds his eyes drawing back to the rocks.

He hasn’t told Adira about his conversation with the Moon—hasn’t known how to bring it up, really. But he knows he should. That conversation has played in loops in his mind ever since, and with the distance of hindsight, Varian is starting to realize that whatever’s going on is… a lot more, he thinks, than just pirates. A rot that lies forever beneath the deep, Moon had said, and as fucking cryptic as that sounds—well. “It” is apparently waking up, if Moon is to be believed, and that’s…

And as much as Varian hates to admit it—he believes her. That attack on Port Caul… it wasn’t right. There’s too much that doesn’t add up. Moon’s attempt at warning him away from the port, the way the black rocks had all pointed at the sea, as if to threaten something—or someone—still on the waters, and… that earthquake. It’d been a small one, sure, but enough to knock Varian off his feet, and… and that’s not natural, is it? Earthquakes and pirate attacks all along the coast, and how strange that they would coincide…

He thinks he needs to tell Adira. He should tell Adira. It’s not like he can ask Moon, even if he wanted to; Moon herself seems intent on ignoring him after that night, beyond the occasional vindictive and vivid night terrors.

Varian takes another bite of eggs and considers it, turning the possibilities around in his head. He grimaces around his breakfast. Ugh. She’s going to yell at him for being stupid, and she’s going to be right, and—ugh, awful, nope.

Still. He’s got to do it. Varian swallows down his mouthful and puts down his bowl, exhaling steadily. He brings one hand to the nightlight, and grips it tight. “I… I am trying, you know.” When Adira looks up, he clarifies: “With, um, with the rocks. I’m trying.”

Adira tilts her head. “I know.”

“I’ve…” Varian clears his throat. “I’ve tried everything.”

“…Okay,” Adira says, a lot slower now. She looks Varian up and down. She closes her eyes. She sighs. She sets aside her bowl, and leans forward to link her hands under her chin. “Alright. What did you do.”

And yeah, okay, despite the fact he’d been deliberately leading her to that exact conclusion, Varian still splutters a bit. “Why do you always assume it’s something I’ve done!? Maybe I haven’t done anything. Maybe it’s—”

“Varian.”

“—okay, fine, yeah, whatever, I—I kind of summoned and tried to interrogate the Moon?” It comes out sort of like a question. “Definitely summoned.” Adira is making a face. “Only kind-of talked to though, because, um—I sort of—insulted her—at the end there, but she totally deserved it—”

Adira holds up a hand. Varian shuts up.

Adira is silent for a moment. Her jaw is stiff with tension; her knuckles are almost white. But then she relaxes, forcefully, deliberately unclenching her jaw. “…Right.” She rubs at her face, suddenly looking very tired. “Right.” A pause. “Damn it, Moony.”

“I know, I know.” He crosses his arms. “I—I get it okay? But I… I didn’t know what else to do. And I figured, if she was the reason all this was happening…” He doesn’t look back at the black rocks. He doesn’t.

Adira’s eyes draw back to the rocks too. She sighs. “And?”

“She… said something… odd.” Varian adjusts his posture, fidgeting with Ruddiger’s fur, and repeats as best he can the Moon’s cryptic comments on the pirates and the presence she felt in the city. “I’m sure it means something,” Varian concludes, certain. “I just… can’t figure out what.”

Adira is very quiet—deliberately quiet—and Varian narrows his eyes at her. “You can,” he realizes. “You know something. Don’t you?”

“…I’m really hoping I don’t.” Adira reaches back for her sword, and while she doesn’t unsheathe it, her fingers flex restless on the hilt. “Later.”

“No, tell me now.”

“I’m not even sure of what I know, kid. Later.” Varian curls up, teeth grit, and Adira gives him a glance. “I will tell you,” she allows, at last. “I will. But not now. Some stories… are best left undisturbed unless absolutely necessary, got it?”

His lips press, and Varian looks away. “…Later,” he agrees, grudging.

“Hm.” There’s another pause. “And the rocks?”

“What?”

“Did the Moon say anything on how to control the rocks?”

Oh. Varian stares a hole at the ground. “She refused to tell me,” he says, something bitter rising in his chest. He glowers at the dirt. “She said I had to figure it out myself or whatever. So the whole gamble was useless, on that front.”

Adira almost seems to twitch at those words, her brow furrowing. Varian looks up, searching her face. He frowns. “…What is it?”

Adira hums. Her gaze is distant, staring holes into the campfire. “She told you to figure it out on your own?”

“Yeah…?” He watches her. “She just—likes watching people suffer, I don’t know. It was stupid. But I mean—I don’t know if I can… before we get to Corona—”

“No,” Adira says, before he can finish. “No, actually… this is good.” She looks thoughtful. “Listen, Moony. If she said you had to figure it out yourself, that means there’s something to figure out. A trick to it. And if training isn’t working, then… maybe it’s something we haven’t considered? Something we don’t know.” She blows out a long breath. “…Damn.”

Varian blinks at her. “Um…”

Adira straightens. “Right,” she says, decisively. “Strike the merchant-caravan plan. We’re going off-road.”

“W-what? Why?”

“I have an idea. Something that might help. King Ed—” She snaps her mouth shut abruptly and grimaces. “…Someone I once knew told me about it. I’ve avoided it for my own reasons, but… now might be the time to change that.” She rises to her feet, heading for their bags. “Pack up once you’re done eating. We head out as soon as we can.”

“Wait, wait—” Varian snaps his head around to follow her, struggling to catch up to her train of thought. “Where are we going? What are you talking about?”

“Quirin ever show you a graphtic scroll?” Varian freezes mid-motion, his breath stuttering in his chest. “Old paper, ancient writing, showed a glowing flower and a stylized sun, maybe some of the moon, black rocks—”

“Yes,” Varian says. His own voice sounds distant to his ears. His head is pounding. He feels very cold. “Yes. I saw it. He—never showed me, but I— have it. Had it.” It’s with Rapunzel now, probably; he never saw it again after using it to translate those lines in the ruins, and it wasn’t in the satchel Rapunzel gave him either.

Adira considers him. “Could you read it?”

“I… not at first.”

“But later?”

“I figured a rough translation, but—” He stops. “Why? Why does it matter?”

Adira nods to herself. “Could you do it again?”

“I mean… maybe?” Varian puts a hand to his head, feeling a bit dizzy. “I’m missing—so much stuff, wow—” His books, his tools, his references—the last time he’d translated that odd writing, in those ruins, he’d had the scroll for reference and Eugene to help—

Something about that memory gnaws at him. Varian blinks, hand drifting away from his temple. His brow furrows. The ruins… he hasn’t thought of them in ages, but—hadn’t that translation, too, had something to do with the Moon? An odd little poem, and then that final phrase…

“But you have a better chance than most.” Adira seems to have come to a decision; she speaks firmly, sure and set. She slings her bag over her shoulder and looks off towards the dirt road. “Listen, Moony. There’s only one place I know that might have what we’re looking for—greatest store of information on the Moon and Sun and their powers than anywhere else on this continent.”

As she speaks, though, something odd shivers through him. Varian blinks fast, feeling dizzy. His blood is burning cold, all at once—his chest, seizing up. He blinks faster, and twists a hand in his shirt, over his heart. What?

“Most of the scrolls there are still unreadable—never got translated because of the history of that place—”

What’s happening? Something is wrong. He’s freezing. He’s freezing. And the longer Adira talks, the more she says, the stronger it gets. Like a building realization—a growing horror. A memory that isn’t his own.

“—but if you put in the effort, it might pay off.”

There is something icy in his blood. A chill in his breath. There is a burning in the back of his mind, the distant tang of godly rage, and Varian realizes, all at once—

This isn’t me.

“I wonder,” Adira says, and the Moon’s power burns. “Did Quirin ever tell you about the Great Tree?”

It’s like something in his very soul has flinched. A sense of foreboding, like Port Caul but somehow so much worse—and inward, somehow, horror internal, like this is something the Moon had not meant for him to feel at all.

Adira is calling his name, but Varian isn’t listening. There is terror frozen still in his chest, a far-off echo of hatred and rage and fear, strangest of all. But already, he can feel it fading, the connection locked down, cut off—and almost without knowing why, Varian reaches back.

…Moon?

But she has already gone.

.

Rapunzel wanders Corona’s streets in a daze.

The storm has moved on, and in its wake the sky burns with color. It’s beautiful, in a very real sense—the light warm and golden-red, the houses back-lit by the rosy tint, the puddles on the streets shining golden with reflection. The sun is setting, and the streets are full, Corona taking full advantage of the last few hours of sunlight.

Rapunzel sees them as if from far away, the moving crowds hazy to her eyes. People are milling about—shopping, dancing, laughing. The stone walkways are warm beneath her bare feet, even as the air burns cold in her throat. And the crowds—the people—they press in around her, makeshift walls. She’s tied up her hair, but badly, and it’s clear who she is. Some people call her name across the street. Others run up to her. Xavier, in the shadow of his workshop with his new apprentice by his side, waves her a hello.

They falter, each and every one of them, when they see Rapunzel’s face.

It’s cloying, and caging, and even outside the castle walls, their eyes press into her like chains. Her breathing quickens. There’s just so many people—all here, all looking at her—and Rapunzel doesn’t want to be seen, right now. She doesn’t want to be their princess. She just wants to be no one, invisible, safe in a crowd.

She misses Eugene.

“Princess!”

“Princess, over here!”

“Lovely to see you!”

She picks up the pace, trying to escape them, something buzzing in her ears. But they are too close—too near—a hand catches at her sleeve, tugging hard, and she jolts.

“Princess, if I may, I have an issue I’d like to discuss with you—”

“Rapunzel?”

Her breathing stutters at the familiar voice, and she stops mid-step, halfway to fleeing, and turns so fast her head spins. She scans the crowd, rapid, and stills when she sees him. And yes, she’s got it right—because there, at the end of the street, shopping bags in his arms and brow furrowed, is Lance.

“It is you!” he says, delighted, when she meets his gaze. It’s almost dizzying, how little he seems to have changed: beyond a new vest and a few fancier earrings, he looks just as he did when Rapunzel first left, all those months ago. “Ha! Who would have thought? What brings you to town on this fine evening, princess?”

Rapunzel beelines for him at once, her throat knotted. Her eyes tear down the streets. She can’t see Eugene. “Where—” she starts. It’s hard to speak. Her throat feels caught. “Is—is Eugene—”

Lance’s smile falls to a frown. He shifts all his shopping bags to the crook of one arm and carefully reaches for her shoulder, stopping just short of touching her. “Hey,” he says, and his brow furrows. “You look a little…”

“Is Eugene here?”

Lance shakes his head. “I just went out for groceries. He’s back in the Snuggly Duckling.”

“Oh.” Her heart falls. Her vision swims. “Oh. R-right. Right.” Of course he isn’t here. Of course he’s somewhere else. Of course…

The crowd has caught up to her. Their voices clamor in her ears. Someone touches her sleeve again and she flinches. Her hands curl. Despite herself, her lips pull back in a snarl. It’s awful—she’s awful—they just want to talk and here she is, acting like—!

But everything is hot and tight and roaring in her ears, and for a moment all Rapunzel wants to do is smack those hands away from her.

Lance draws beside her, close enough to touch, and shoots her a wink. “Come on,” he says, and glances up at the crowd, impatient and shifting, closing in. “It’s been a while—months, even! We should catch up.” His voice rises, directed at the small crowd that’s formed around her. “No busybodies allowed!”

“What—”

“You can’t just take all the Princess’s time, you—!”

“I’m catching up with a friend,” Lance says, and turns back to Rapunzel, offering his arm. She stares at it. After a moment’s pause, she takes it, and Lance’s smile dazzles. His voice lowers, for her ears alone. “That okay?”

She nods. Lance squeezes her arm—warm, somehow, grounding, and this time she doesn’t flinch—and then he steps boldly forward. “Coming through!” he shouts, sing-song. “Make way! Hungry people rushing through!”

He gets them out of the market, down a few more streets; guides her swiftly and easily through the alleyways until any pursuers have gotten lost in the tangle of side-streets. Rapunzel closes her eyes and doesn’t watch, just lets him lead her, and breathes in deep the whole time.

At last—when it’s silent again, calm again, safe to breathe again—she lets go of his arm, standing on her own. She smooths her skirt down with her hands— Pascal, curled up on her shoulder, brushes off his scales— and sighs, shaky and thin, an exhale that leaves her empty.

When she looks up again, Lance is watching her. Rapunzel gives him a weak smile. “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m fine.”

“Well, all right,” Lance says, easily enough. Rapunzel nods, relieved at the lack of argument. She glances back down the street from where they’d come, and stifles another sigh in her throat.

“But, um…” She studies her hands. “Thank you.”

Lance’s returning smile is almost blinding in its radiance. Rapunzel swears she can even see a sparkle in there, somewhere. Somehow. “Of course!” He gestures down the streets, giving a theatrical bow. “I know a good place for dinner around these parts, too. Not as fancy as your castle food, but, eh. You’re not much the type to care about that, are you?”

“No…” Rapunzel blinks. “Oh. I— what?”

“Did you think I was joking about dinner?” Lance rises from his bow, grinning. “I meant it. Hey, just this once, I’ll even say the meal’s on me!” He winks at her. “Partly because I don’t think you brought your wallet with you, princess, but also… I mean, really. Months! We’re due for a conversation, aren’t we?”

“But your groceries…”

He looks down at the parcels in his arm like he’d forgotten they were there, and hums. “I was planning on staying in the city tonight anyway. Bought too many duck antiques… there’s no way I could have gotten back to the Snuggly Duckling before sundown. And walking those roads at night?” Lance gives a full-body shudder and looks briefly scarred. “No. Oh, no, no, I don’t care what Eugene tells me, those roads are definitely haunted. No-thank-you. I’ll head back for the bar tomorrow.” He glances at her, and something in his face gentles. “You aren’t holding me up at all, Princess. Trust me.”

“I…” She searches for an excuse, for a reason, but her mind is blank and—and she’s too tired to think, let alone argue. “…Okay.”

Lance is looking at her again. It’s an odd expression on his face, thin and a little worried. He pats her on the shoulder, almost helplessly, and then links back their arms and guides her wordlessly back down the streets.

The silence, too, is unlike him—but for once there’s a comfort in it, in the quiet, in the not having to listen. Rapunzel closes her eyes and lets the streets blur past her, lets Lance lead her blind across the city. It feels as though all the world is fading in and out of focus, blessedly distant—sound distorted and soft, sight blurry and indistinct. Like falling asleep, without the nightmares, and as they walk, something unwinds in Rapunzel’s chest, loosens in her shoulders, eases up the stranglehold on her lungs. She inhales deep, and this time actually feels like she’s breathing.

Slowly, surely, twilight falls over Corona’s capital. Above them the sky turns from bloody red to a richer purple—bleeding slowly to a darker blue. Stars are beginning to show on the firmament. The horizon is a band of molten gold, the sun sunk low and vanished beyond the retreating storm clouds. The sea breeze has gone chill, without the sun to warm the winds, and Pascal burrows in her hair like it’s a blanket, his little chuff of annoyance soft in her ear. This time, it even makes Rapunzel smile.

The restaurant Lance takes her to is a small sea-side business, with tiny oak tables and windows of colored glass. He must be a regular—the owners greet him by name and with a smile—and he seats her near the back, where she can be half-hidden from the door, by a window overlooking the sea. There’s a small vase with cut flowers sagging in the center of their table; Rapunzel reaches out, and brushes the golden petals with one gloved hand. The fresh blooms are starting to wilt, but they’re still lovely. She’s always liked yellow flowers, but then, she’s probably a little biased.

Lance orders dinner, water and stew for them both, and flirts with the waiter as he settles in his chair. His laughter is bright and deep. His boasting is as familiar as the sunrise, and just as comforting. Rapunzel traces her finger across a wood-grain stain in the table, watching the flowers and letting their voices wash over her, and thinks of nothing at all.

When the waiter has gone, and they are alone, Rapunzel says: “You didn’t have to do this.”

Lance raises an eyebrow at her. “Uh-huh.”

“Really, you didn’t. I’m… I’m honestly fine.”

Lance winces. Looks away. Looks at her again, from the corner of his eye.

“…Really, I am.”

“Err.”

He’s got a terrible poker face, but then, Rapunzel is the same way. She buries her face in her arms. “Really,” she says, voice muffled, throat tight. Her eyes burn. Her sleeves are getting damp. “Really, really, I am…”

Lance is quiet for a long time. When he finally speaks, the drama has faded from his voice. He sounds gentle. He sounds tired. “Princess,” he says. “Uh, Rapunzel. I… I don’t think that’s true.”

She opens her mouth—but her throat is so tight it’s gone silent. She presses her lips shut and swallows so hard it hurts. Her eyes are itching. She doesn’t say anything.

“I mean,” Lance says, after a pause. “I… hm. I don’t know what I mean. I’m not very good at this, am I?” He clears his throat. “Err. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s…” She exhales. It trembles. “Maybe,” she says, finally. “Maybe.”

“…Maybe?”

“Maybe I’m… not okay.”

“Oh,” Lance says. He thinks on this. “…Oh.”

They’re silent, again, the both of them. The waiter brings their food, and Lance takes it with a murmur of thanks, his earlier flirtation gone. He taps the glass bottle of water against Rapunzel’s arm, and smiles faintly when she lifts her head. “Drink?”

She nods, mutely. He pours her a cup without comment. The glass is freezing in her hands; the water, when she forces herself to sip at it, is crystal cold. She presses the cup against her forehead, and exhales against the rim. The glass fogs. She wipes it away with the tip of one gloved finger, and watches the fog dew down the side of the cup like rain.

“Stalyan showed up in court today.”

Lance stiffens.

“She arrived unannounced.” Rapunzel runs her finger along the glass edge again, ignoring the tremble in her hand. Her lovely leather gloves are wrinkled and creased—a bad sign on its own, even without the building ache in her palms. She’s pushed her hands too hard today. “She… she wanted to discuss… a deal.”

Lance is quiet. He sinks in his chair, eyes wide. Sweat has beaded on his brow. His gaze darts around, rapid and nervous, and when he finally looks back to her it’s with an open expression of doom. “…Shit.”

Something about the way he says it almost makes her giggle, and Rapunzel chokes down the noise and presses the back of her hand against her eyes to keep from crying. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I mean—it’s, it’s not fine, but I can... I can.”

“Still. That’s awful.” Lance shakes his head. His face falls. “Gods, I should have made Eugene come with me today… maybe then—”

“No, it’s fine, you’re fine—”

“Haha! I’m not offended, Princess. You must miss him a lot.” Her throat has gone all tight again, knotted like thread, and at her expression Lance’s eyes soften. “Yeah, you do,” he says. It’s not a question, and in the next breath Lance has put a hand over his heart. “I’ll get him to visit you. Promise.”

Rapunzel stutters. “No,” she says. “You don’t have to—I know why he can’t—”

“Even so.” Lance crosses his arms. “It’s scary times, to be sure… But not so bad as that. He can stand to tell you what he finds in person, at least! Gah, I knew I should have pressed him on that— like a letter would be enough!”

“No, don’t— it’s not that simple!”

Lance blinks at her. He’s frowning again. “What? Why not?”

“It’s just—not!” Her stomach twists. She fights to breathe. “I—I don’t know—I can’t—”

The words leave her. Rapunzel shakes her head, mute and frustrated, and curls her aching fingers around the glass.

Lance considers her for a long moment, biting hard at his lip. He doesn’t understand, Rapunzel realizes, and the worst part is she has no idea how to explain it. How to even put it into words. “I can’t,” she says instead. “I can’t.”

“…Okay.” Lance hesitates. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

“I—” She stops. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Lance says, again. “Would it help if I talked?”

She thinks about it. The easy cadence of Lance’s voice, rhythmic instead of jarring. All the time she’s been away, all the things she has to catch up on. The distraction. “Please,” she says, only a little desperate, and Lance nods just once before he launches into a story.

“Did I ever tell you I got the bar? No? Did I tell you how? Oh-ho, okay, sit back, Princess, because do I have a tale for you—!"

It’s a long story: meandering, wild, vibrant. She’s forgotten, Rapunzel realizes, listening to him speak, how good Lance is at stories. He embellishes a little—or a lot—but the story itself is solid, understandable. He tells her about his job, working as a cook at the Snuggly Duckling—the owner’s sudden retirement, Lance’s abrupt inheritance. “Old man sprung it on me at the last second, just to be funny,” Lance confides in a whisper, shaking his head in remembered disappointment. “Can you imagine!?”

He tells her about the Snuggly Duckling, what it’s like to run a tavern, about the regulars— “Hookfoot joined his brother in concert, did I mention that—no? Well, there you go!”—the people Rapunzel has missed, and the people she’s yet to meet, and the people she didn’t expect to hear from again. “Oh, oh, and guess what,” Lance adds, when they’re halfway through their meal. “Red and Angry—you remember them? They came back!”

“Really!?”

“Yeah! Right out of the blue, too! I was stunned, I tell you. Shocked! And you won’t believe what happened—”

He tells her about werewolves, about Keira and Catalina and family. The treehouse Lance helped build for them— “I mean, they refused to stay with me, when I offered, but I couldn’t just let them rough it in the woods—you know—my old orphanage matron would be horrified at me, and I can’t stand the thought of disappointing that lady—” and the meals the girls come by for sometimes at the Snuggly Duckling, when they’re feeling up for socializing.

Lance smiles when he talks about them. He beams. And by this point, with the sun set and the city winding down to a quiet drawl, dinner with a friend and all her troubles feeling so far away—this time, Rapunzel manages to smile back.

He’s happy, she realizes, watching Lance speak. He’s honestly, truly happy. It’s in everything he is, in every word, in every laugh, every fond gleam in his eye. There is something in Lance that has settled, that has found its place, and it almost takes her breath away to see it. He’s happy. He’s okay. He really, really is.

“I’m so glad for you, Lance,” she says, when he pauses for breath, and he startles and blinks at her. “I… I really am.” And she is. It makes something in her feel light and free and dizzy with relief: here is a life untouched. Here is someone who she hasn’t failed—who she hasn’t even helped—whose happiness has nothing to do with her at all. He found it on his own, she thinks. He found it all on his own, or maybe it found him, and it’s such a weight of her shoulders that Rapunzel could almost cry.

Lance beams back. “Well,” he says. He sounds almost flustered. “It’s… a bit of a shock to me too. I mean. Wow.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not what I’ve always dreamed of, admittedly, but… it’s really something.” He laughs. “It’s mine!”

Her heart feels full of light. Rapunzel laughs with him.  “Werewolves, though!”

“Gods, right!? And don’t get me wrong, that freaks me right out, but Catalina seems happy with it, so…”

And for the first time in a long time, Rapunzel finally feels like she’s home.

“I’m happy for you,” Rapunzel says, again, when Lance trails off. She’s smiling. Truly smiling, wide and bright. “I am.”

He grins at her. “Thank you, Princess. And what about you?” It’s a casual question—instinctual—and he seems to realize what he’s asked almost at once. Lance blanches. “Wait. Shoot. F—um. You don’t have to answer that, uh, sorry—”

“It’s okay.” She takes a breath. She looks at the drooping flowers, and stirs her spoon through her bowl of stew. “I… I’m…”

She trails off. She stops. She looks down at her hands, and she thinks.

And it’s funny, in a way. It’s strange. Because in all the time since Rapunzel has left the labyrinth behind—all these months, all this distance… Rapunzel has never once told the full story.

Not to Eugene. Not to Cass. Not even to Pascal. She has given pieces, given moments, forced them out through gritted teeth over the months, and tried to create an answer for their endless questions from the fragments.

But the full story, still—still, still. She has never said it aloud. She has never laid it out in full. She doesn’t know why. Is she afraid of it? Is she scared it will hurt her? Or maybe it’s just that she knows it would hurt everyone else. Eugene, who’s expression shuts down at the story. Cass, who falls into helpless anger at the reminder every time. And her parents—oh, her parents. It’d break their hearts, if they knew the whole truth. It’d scare them half to death. And so Rapunzel has never said it.

Now should be no exception.

Except— this is Lance. Her friend, sort of. A kind-of brother, in a way. She knows him through Eugene, mostly, but in the half-year before her journey to the Dark Kingdom she likes to think they’ve become friends in their own right. This is Lance, who is happy—whose life does not weigh on her shoulders—who is looking at her, calm, waiting, expectant, for whatever it is she has to say. There is something secure about him, Rapunzel realizes suddenly. In all the months they have been gone, something in Lance has resolved. There is a steadiness to him that was not there before—a certainty that will not break.

And she thinks—secretly, hopefully, almost afraid to dare—her story, she thinks, won’t hurt him.

And so Rapunzel starts to speak.

The story does not come easy, and it doesn’t come coherent. The travel—the journey—Varian—the arrow, the firelight, and the letter she ignored. The labyrinth she gives only segments, the things she can bite off behind her teeth. “It was dark. She—the Moon—had a thing, a creature. It hunted us. It nearly killed us. Varian—”

And Lance listens. He is a captive audience. He gasps at the right places. He shakes his head at the right times. He hisses in anger. He curses under his breath. He listens, and though there is horror in his eyes, there is no pain. The story will not hurt him. It doesn’t hurt him the way it hurts Eugene and Cass, who go cold when they hear; doesn’t hurt him the way the half-truths hurt her parents, who looked as if every word might drive them to tears. And it is—a relief. It is such a relief, a treasure she never knew she needed, that Rapunzel finds that for once—for the first time in six, seven months—the words are still there. She can still speak. Of the end, of the Opal, of the long journey back—of Stalyan, of her father, of her mother, of Elias. If she wanted to, she could tell him all of it.

So she does.

When Rapunzel has finally finished talking, her throat aches and the sky has gone dark outside the restaurant window. Tiny stars shining out in the black, the flowers wilting in the vase between them, the food finished and the restaurant almost empty. But the air is warm—the candlelight soft—and Lance is shaking his head. “Gods!” he says. He sits back in his chair, looking stunned. “And the King, he wouldn’t even hear you out?”

“They aren’t listening to me,” Rapunzel bites out, chest tight. “No one is… and Cass, she’s never—snapped at me like that before. Something’s bothering her, but she won’t…” Her fingers curl in her dress. “I get why she’s angry, but I don’t know why she’s taking it out on me! I’m doing the best I can, I— I’m trying! I’m trying.”

“Yeah, you are!” Lance crosses his arms, leaning back, looking disgruntled. “Man.”

“Yeah.”

Lance frowns. “And I’ll bet it doesn’t help that you only learned about Stalyan through a letter, huh?”

She looks away. Lance leans forward, eyes knowing. “Leave Eugene to me,” he says, firm. “I meant what I said before. I’ll get him to come visit.”

She glances at him. “Thank you. Really. But… I know why he can’t. The castle— my dad—”

“Yeah, I know.” Lance sighs, slumping in his chair. “Oh, I don’t know. What a mess! Just…”

“Thank you,” she says again. “And—and you’re right, I do miss him. I want to see him again. So much.” She laughs, weakly, not really feeling it. “So, so much. I just… I can’t risk it.”

“Still.” Lance sighs again, heavier, resting his chin on his hand. “He’s moping too, y’know? Just seems like… it could be over so quick, if you guys could just…”

She looks down. It pangs at her heart, to know Eugene misses her too. Not that she doubted it, but—it’s nice, even so, to hear it. She exhales slowly, and tries to put it all into words.

“My dad, the King, he hasn’t been… I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. I—honestly, I don’t really think he’d hurt Eugene. Or, or ban him away, or anything. At least I hope not.” She swallows hard. “But everything—it all keeps getting worse, everywhere I turn, all the time, and I can’t—I can’t risk it. I can’t risk him. Not if I’m wrong.”

“You should have more faith in yourself,” Lance says. “Princess, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but… you’re a pretty good judge of character.”

She laughs. “It—it doesn’t feel like it.”

“Mm…” Lance is frowning now, thoughtful. He taps one finger at his chin. “I think,” he says, slowly, carefully, “that you need to talk to them.”

She looks down. “I’m trying—”

“I know! I know. But—” Lance hesitates. “Just… you’re not wrong, you know? Things have been getting pretty tangled up around here. And I mean, thinking on it…” He winces. “Well. How much… how much have you really told your parents?”

She looks away.

“I mean,” Lance says. “You don’t have to tell them everything. Or anything! Personally, I’m of the mind that they are way over-reacting to the secrets thing, to frankly appalling degrees, but—well, half a story leaves a lot of open endings.” He snorts. “Hell, for all they know, Varian could be plotting revenge at this very moment.”

“He’s not!”

“I know. I believe you. But with everything that’s going on, with the attacks, with Stalyan—well.” He rubs his chin. “I dunno. I mean, it looks bad, doesn’t it?”

Rapunzel can’t argue against that. She sighs.

“Plus,” Lance says, to himself. “Something about all this… what you and Eugene have been saying about the castle… I don’t like it.”

“It is pretty awful, seeing everyone fight.”

“I mean, yeah, but I meant— ah, I don’t know. It just feels familiar. It’s old tactics. Divide and conquer, right? Used to do it in heists all the time.”

Rapunzel blinks at him. “You think the in-fighting might be part of the plan?”

“Eh. Maybe? I dunno. Just—it’s weird that Stalyan showed up, isn’t it? Using her name and everything—and the guards know who she is! It’s a risk. They can’t arrest her publicly, but what if someone decided they didn’t care about the consequences, and attacked anyway?” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just really doubt that lady came on a whim. She’s here for something, and I don’t know if the negotiations are the goal.” He holds up a finger, as if giving a lecture. “You don’t steal the big shiny on display—you take the smaller shiny the rich man forgot to booby-trap.”

Rapunzel frowns at the table. “Mm…”

“Anyways. Food for thought! What were we talking about? Oh, yeah. I get why you don’t want to talk about it. But— your parents aren’t like the Moon lady, you know?” Lance rests his chin in his hand, gaze distant. “This place isn’t a labyrinth.”

Her fingers curl. Her voice comes out tight. “Are you saying it’s all in my head?”

“Nah, of course not,” says Lance, so easily that Rapunzel’s budding anger falls flat. She blinks at him. “Just that it’s a different level of bad.” He sighs. “You’ve been through something awful, Princess. That can mess with your head sometimes, you know? Things are bad here, but… I don’t know. I’ve been wondering for a while. You guys… it sounds like you’ve been treating this situation like it’s going to go worst-case-scenario any second— and hey, maybe you’re right to! But…”

Rapunzel searches his face, stunned. She has never once thought about this, and the possibility leaves her blind-sided. “You think… I’m treating this situation like the labyrinth. But in reality, it’s…”

“Eh… maybe attempted arrow-murder level. But not much higher on the scale than that.”

Rapunzel snorts. She covers her mouth. “That—”

“Too soon?”

“That was awful!” But she’s laughing, and spluttering on it, and she feels like she can breathe a little easier.

Lance grins, looking pleased. His smile fades into something softer. “Just… think on it, okay? They might surprise you.”

Rapunzel closes her eyes. “I hope so,” she says, and she says it steady, even though some part of her aches to admit it. “But I don’t know if I… if I’m willing to take that risk. If I want to—know the answer, I guess.”

“Fair enough,” Lance says. “And hey—sometimes people just aren’t worth taking that risk for, anyway. It happens. But whatever you decide…” He pauses, and clears his throat. “Well. Things may be hard, now, and I know I wasn’t there for you on the journey, but…”

He stops again, shaking his head. “Look, Rapunzel. You’re not alone, okay? Eugene and Cass… you guys went through all that awful together, and while sometimes that can bring people closer—sometimes it can drive them apart too. It might just be you guys need a break, but that doesn’t mean you’re not friends! Better to take a breather than drown together, as I like to say.”

He must see something on her face, then, because he offers her another smile. “The important thing is, whatever happens… you aren’t alone.” The smile grows into a grin, bright and fond, and he winks at her. “You have a lot of friends here too, you know.”

Oh, Rapunzel thinks. Look at that. Her eyes have gone watery again. She clears her throat and tries to smile. “Yeah?”

“Of course!”

She gives another watery laugh, and presses her hands against her eyes again. She breathes into her palms. The gloves are getting damp. She can hear Lance stand—the dishes taken away, the clink of coins as he pays—and she stands too, still wiping at her eyes, unable, somehow, to stop smiling.

“I have to head out,” Lance says, a bit reluctant. “But—let’s do this again, yeah? Your treat next time.” He brightens. “Oh-ho, we can go shopping! There’s some lovely new stores—”

Rapunzel nods. Then she turns and hugs him, sudden and fierce. He’s warm—solid. “You’re a good friend,” she whispers. There is something settling in her. A decision made in the space between one breath and the next, bravery dredged up from the deep. She feels like she’s finally found something—ground to set her feet on, something she can hold onto. Something to carry her through.

She is suddenly, painfully grateful for him. Because Lance is right. Rapunzel is not alone here. He is her friend, too, and in this moment—she is so grateful for that. To have his friendship. To have met him. To have come back here, and seen him again.

She can feel him laugh. “I wasn’t always.” He hugs her back, hard. “You want to know something funny, Princess?”

In the warmth of his voice, she can hear him smiling.

“I think I learned this from you.”

.

It’s totally dark by the time Rapunzel returns to the castle, her heart settled and her hands no longer shaking. The wind blows sheer ice, now; the cobblestone is chill against her bare feet. It’s late—she’d stayed out longer than she probably should have, given the situation—but Rapunzel pushes that thought aside, and keeps going.

Her shoulders are pulled straight back—her chin, tilted up, subtle defiance. She doesn’t feel any stronger, really, nor any better, and in truth, not much has changed. The terrible things are still terrible; the danger, still present; her fears, undeterred. But Lance’s words linger on in her ears and in her heart, and Rapunzel looks at Corona with new eyes.

The people smile. The people wave. One of the maids, dressed in casual clothes and on the arm of another lovely young lady, smiles shyly at her and calls hello across the street.

You have friends here too, Lance had said. You aren’t alone.

Rapunzel lifts her hand and waves back. Yes, she thinks. She has friends here. She isn’t alone in this. She isn’t alone.

And so she walks with her head high.

When she reaches the castle, it’s with something in her chest gone hard and cold and certain, and she doesn’t flinch when she walks through those open gates. When she reaches the castle entrance—closed shut for the night—she meets the eyes of the night-watch guards and smiles.

“I’d like to see my father, please,” Rapunzel says, calm, and watches them nearly trip over themselves in their rush to open the doors. When she enters the castle it’s with her head held high.

There’s only one place her father would be at this time of night, too late for dinner but too early for bed. She already knows where to find him. She should maybe stop in her rooms—maybe do a lot of things, really—but instead Rapunzel heads right for her father’s private study.

If she’s going to do this—and honestly, she’s still not sure if she is—but if she is, then… she has to do it now. Before she loses her nerve, and the glow of bravery that moment with Lance has given her.  

She hasn’t been to his study all that often, but still, she knows the path like the back of her hand. The castle in the late-night hours is quiet and near-serene; beyond the occasional guard, no one is in sight. When she reaches her father’s study—the last room at the end of a long hallway on the second floor of the castle—his is the only room lit, light bleeding out from under the closed double doors.

To her surprise, the guard standing before the doors is one she knows, and Rapunzel falters mid-step, blinking at him. “…Stan?”

He startles, nearly dropping his halberd, and plays hot-potato with it for a second before snatching it back with a nervous laugh. “I—Princess!” She gestures franticly for him to keep his voice down, and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Princess!’ he says again, now muffled. “Oh, thank the Sun—you’re back!”

“I’m back,” she agrees, and winces. “Late, though.”

“Oh, better late than never!” But he seems nervous too, and his eyes flicker back to the door of the study. “That newbie Elias came by a little bit ago, and I—well, I didn’t mean to listen in, but…”

She keeps her smile, just barely. So Elias had told the King after all—she’s glad. She wouldn’t have wanted him to get in trouble for letting her sneak away, no matter how much she’d appreciated the offer. Still… “He—he didn’t get in trouble, did he?” she asks, suddenly worried. “It’s not his fault, really, I was the one who left him behind…”

“Well, maybe a little scolding, but no punishments, I think—I mean, it is you he was guarding.” Stan winks at her. “No, uh, no offense meant, but—well, you’re hell to keep track of, Princess.”

Despite all the tension tying knots in her gut, Rapunzel has to smile at that. “Speaking from personal experience?”

“After the sixth time, the Captain didn’t even bother scolding us anymore…”

She feels a bit bad for laughing, but giggles anyway. “Still,” she says, and sighs. “Thank you, Stan. I’m glad he wasn’t in trouble…” Her eyes drift back to the door. “Um… did—did he…?”

Stan sobers. He winces, visibly, and looks back at the doors. “He was a little upset,” Stan admits. “But… not as much as I thought he would be, honestly. Still.”

“Still,” Rapunzel echoes.

Stan looks her up and down, and then steps a little to the side. “The King asked not to be disturbed, after that, but, if it’s you…” He pauses. “Er. If you want to?”

“I… yes.” Rapunzel steps forward, reaching out one hand for the doors. “Thanks, Stan.”

“Of course.”

Rapunzel nods. Her hand is on the handle—the door, already unlocked. And yet—

And yet.

She hesitates, at the doors—she can’t help it. As she stares down at the brass little handle to her father’s study, Rapunzel finds herself faltering. She finds herself wondering. Does she really want to do this? Is she ready to do this?

After all, it’s been… an awful month. A terrible day. And for all that Rapunzel knows, she knows the King and Queen aren’t Gothel, that they loved her for all the eighteen years she was gone and even more since she returned… she can’t deny that they’ve hurt her too. For different reasons, maybe, out of fear and out of love, but do the reasons really matter when the outcome is the same? Rapunzel, locked in a tower—locked out—locked away.

Just because they never meant to hurt her doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

And this, too, has always been a fear of hers, a secret and poisonous whisper in the back of her mind. Because once upon a time, Rapunzel had loved Gothel—some part of her, despite how much she wishes she could rip it out, still loves Gothel. And maybe, in her own twisted way, Gothel had loved Rapunzel too. It hadn’t made Gothel any less of a monster, but it does make Rapunzel wonder, in her darkest thoughts—what if she gets it wrong, again? What if she loves someone who is not worth loving? Would she even know? Could she even tell?

So Rapunzel hesitates. She lets herself hesitate. And she closes her eyes, and takes a breath, and for a moment just—lets herself breathe, lets herself really think about it. Does she want to give the King a chance? Does she want to try and fix this? Is she really willing to take that risk?

And could she walk away, and leave things as they are, instead?

She considers it. And to her surprise, she finds—she could.

It would hurt. It would break her heart, but Rapunzel has done such things before. She loves her parents. She has loved every parent she ever had, for better or for worse. But she is startled, almost, surprised by her own resolve—because somewhere along the way, she has found the strength to leave them behind. To not forgive the harm. To not let it go, without comment, without question, the way she always did before.

And somehow, strangest of all, the knowledge that she could walk away, that she really could just—let them go… it decides her. She closes her eyes and exhales, slow and sure, and when she opens her eyes again she is ready.

Behind her, Stan sounds hesitant. “Princess?” he says. “Are you okay?”

And despite everything, she smiles.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m fine.” And then, her back straight, her head high, her hands steady— Rapunzel knocks on the door, and gives her father a chance.

.

The door opens without resistance, and Rapunzel steps inside her father’s study.

As she’d thought, her father is sitting slumped at his desk. It’s a cozy room, this study—all red velvet curtains and bookcases for walls, pale yellow lighting and soft green carpet. Papers are scattered across the main desk, and stacks of books and discarded documents litter the floor. A cup of long-cold tea sits by his elbow, and thin spectacles rest on the bridge of her father’s nose. He’s in a soft red shawl he only wears when truly stressed—an old, tattered thing with golden sun embroidery that once belonged to Rapunzel’s grandmother.

His head rests in the shadow of his hand. Ink stains his fingers. He doesn’t look up. “Arianna, please. I know what you’ll say—”

He looks up. His voice cuts off.

“Dad,” Rapunzel says, quietly. She looks at him. He looks old. Tired. Worn to the fringe. There is a tension to his jaw, and his knuckles are white on the quill, but—

He doesn’t look so angry, like this. In this small lit study, surrounded by these crumpled papers, without even a crown… he doesn’t even look like a King. He is just a man—just her father—and he seems, in this moment, as defeated as she feels.

Rapunzel’s hand slips off the doorknob. Her anger has gone ashy in her mouth. The words, rehearsed in her head the whole way here, come out shaky and thin. “Hi,” she says, and it comes out very weak. “Dad.”

He puts down his quill slowly, eyes wide. “Rapunzel,” he says, half-greeting, half-questioning. When she nods, his expression flickers. “…You’re back.”

The automatic answer—sorry for leaving—she swallows back. She’s not sorry. “I’m back,” she agrees.

He waits. When she doesn’t say anything else, he blows out a heavy breath. “That was foolish,” he says, but he sounds more resigned than truly angry. “With everything that is happening—”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

She almost brushes it off, but hesitates. “I couldn’t,” Rapunzel says, at last. “The castle, my room…” His face is blank. He doesn’t understand. Rapunzel looks away. “The tower,” she admits, and can sense him go stiff. “I just… had to get out. By myself,” she adds, remembering Elias. “Just… just for a little while.”

He doesn’t say anything. The silence is almost deafening, a physical weight; all at once the month weighs down on her, the tension and the not-fighting and the sense of having lost even this, too, lost home once again.

“Can we talk?” Rapunzel asks, after a pause, and her voice has gone suddenly small. “Please. Please, Dad, can we talk?”

Her father—the King—Frederic stares at her. For a moment his expression stutters, and his eyes squeeze shut. He takes a deep breath, and puts down his pen, and opens his mouth as if to speak—closes it, again, and rests his head in his hand.

After a long pause, he finally nods. “Yes,” he says. “Yes. Of course.”

Rapunzel closes the study door behind her, and walks carefully into the room. She settles down in one of the chairs by the bookshelves; scoots it closer to his desk and folds her hands in her lap. Pascal, still on her shoulder, tugs once at her hair in comfort and then hides away again. Rapunzel looks down at her knees. Her ankles cross.

The silence stretches. She thinks of Lance, of Eugene, of Cass—of Varian. She looks down at her gloves, feeling the tug of her scars underneath the cloth, and when she speaks her voice is small but steady. “I want to be there for the next talk with Stalyan.”

At once, his expression hardens. The exhaustion in his eyes, the brief vulnerability, is locked down and hidden away. When he speaks, his voice is tight and bitter with disappointment. “No.”

“I—” She takes a breath. “Please.”

“No.” His voice is harder, now. Exhausted and frustrated in equal measure. “This cannot continue, Rapunzel. I can’t—you say you wish to talk, but all you make are demands; you tell me nothing of your journey or your reasons but expect me to accept your decisions—”

“And why can’t you?’ Rapunzel says, still forcefully calm. Her voice shakes. “Why is it so hard—”

“Because your choices put Corona at risk!”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?”

For all rights, this conversation should be angry—and yet, their words are even, tight, controlled. It doesn’t feel like a conversation between father and daughter. It doesn’t feel anything like it should. And somehow this hits Rapunzel in a way nothing else could—suddenly this hurts like a knife to the chest, and she can feel something burn behind her eyes. “I can do this,” she whispers, and it aches. “I can do this. I’ve done everything I can, I’ve tried to prove myself again and again, so why do you keep—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Frederic says, cutting her off. “I— I have given my answer, and it will not change. You cannot—”

“Listen to me!”

“No!” He stands, the chair skidding against the floor. “You listen to me. This cannot go on! This—”

He’s drawn himself up, now, drawn himself tall and towering—and it’s the same as before, as every time before—as everyone has always done, standing over her and talking over her and acting like they know best, always know better, know Rapunzel more then she knows herself. As if, in all these years, they think she’s learned nothing at all.

And all at once, Rapunzel is angry. She is sharply, blindly furious, near breathless on the rage. She matches him—stands just as tall, chin up—steps forward, defying, and brings her hand to her mouth and drags her pretty leather glove off with her teeth.

He goes still.

But Rapunzel doesn’t notice, and she doesn’t care. She snatches the glove from her mouth and grips it, working at the other glove with stiff and shaking fingers. When the second glove is off, she lets them drop, and glares as she stretches out her hands before her, baring the scars into the light.

“This is part of it, right?” Rapunzel demands. “Is this why you’re mad at me—because I didn’t want to tell you? Don’t you get why I didn’t want to?”

Frederic says nothing. He looks pale, muted… and he should. The scars are never a pretty sight, but today has been a bad day and they look even worse because of it. The old wounds are inflamed, the scars white and puckered, the skin surrounding pink and angry. It aches when she opens her fingers. The cold of his study makes the tension wind even tighter in her knotted palms. Uncoiling her fingers even this little is almost too much for her to bear.

“You said you trusted me to take care of myself,” Rapunzel says, tight. “You said. And guess what? I did. I’m here, aren’t I? I came back. We all—” Her voice cracks. “We all came back from that place alive.”

He stares at the scars. His eyes flicker away.

“I get it,” Rapunzel says, a little quieter. “I do. But you can’t—you can’t protect me from this. You can’t stop me from getting hurt. This, now, it’s not… it’s not going to work. It’s not what you think.”

Something goes stubborn in his expression. He takes a breath. “Rapunzel—”

“Look,” she demands. Her voice is shaking, just a little; her gut still clenches to see the scars. “Look. Dad, please, just—look.”

He looks. His eyes are old and tired and so, so sad. He stares at the scars and something seems to drain from him; something awful and old weighs on his shoulders. “I know,” he says. “I know. I should have never let you go—”

“You aren’t listening,” Rapunzel snaps, before he can finish. “You aren’t— I was always going to go. Okay, Dad? I was always going to follow that path. That’s not what this is about. Please, just— listen. Listen to me.”

He stops. He breathes. This time, he meets her eyes.

Rapunzel looks back without flinching. Her breath rattles in her chest. Her scars ache.

“Do you know how I got these?” she asks, and the room is so quiet. “Do you know how I got these scars? Can you guess?”

He looks weary, worn. Defeated. It makes something in her quail. “Someone hurt you.”

“No.”

His expression flickers. “…Then,” he says, strained. “Then no. I don’t.”

“I,” Rapunzel says, and the memory makes her chest hurt, her breath tight, and oh, she almost wants to laugh— “I caught a sword.”

Frederic is silent. He looks pale.

“I panicked. There was no time.” The golem, swinging for Varian’s head— “I wasn’t thinking. I grabbed the blade—barehanded. I caught it.” This time, she laughs, soft and a little shaky. “With my— with my bare hands! I caught it. And I held it. And I pulled it back, mid-swing.”

Any remaining color washes out of his face. His eyes flicker back to the scars. “That’s impossible,” he says, and—

“Maybe,” Rapunzel says, and she’s shaking, head to toe. “Maybe. But that doesn’t matter.” It is impossible, the way many things are. A concussion that heals in days instead of weeks. An infection that never comes. Golden hair that never splits, never breaks, always strong enough to carry whatever she wished. Sun-lit power that burns like fire in her veins. All impossible things. But that is not the point.

“I caught it,” Rapunzel repeats. “I caught the sword. I held it back.” In the moment it had felt painless; in hindsight it was agonizing, that split-second of aching pain as the blade slid through her fingers and carved deep into her palm. “I saved a life.”

He stares at her.

“I saved a life,” Rapunzel says, and it’s almost a plea. He needs to understand this. He has to know, because otherwise, she thinks, he’ll never really get it. She stretches out her fingers as much as she can, as much as she’ll ever be able. Crooked and scarred and small in the candlelight. Callous rough in the skin between her forefinger and thumb. “And I did it with my own two hands.”

The memory is a painful one. Bloody, and fearful, and cold. But victorious, too. A bitter sort of pride. Never mind what came before. Never mind what came after. In that moment, Rapunzel had been right where she needed to be. Not too late. Not then.

She has the scars to prove it.

“I know you want what’s best for me,” Rapunzel says. Her voice is soft, but in the quiet it feels so much louder. “I understand. I do.” She feels cold. “Every parent I’ve ever had has always wanted what’s best for me.”

At this, Frederic recoils, a full-body flinch. The last of the color drains from his face. Some small, bitter part of Rapunzel is glad for it. Gothel would not have even blinked.

“I understand,” Rapunzel repeats, gentler. She takes a breath, exhaling shaky and slow, and meets his eyes. Her back straight as if sitting on a throne. Scarred hands held loose by her sides. Shoulders squared, her chin tilted up. And gold, too, flickering in the corner of her vision, in the depths of her eyes. “But— Dad?”

She waits. He says nothing.

“You can’t stop me.”

He is staring at her now. Finally, finally at her. Seeing Rapunzel at long last. Seeing who she has become.

Rapunzel waits. He doesn’t move. She closes her eyes and the gold is gone, but the warmth remains, coiled like a flicker of fire around her heart.

“Maybe,” Frederic says, at last. “Maybe I… maybe I can’t. But that doesn’t make your actions any less dangerous—to you, or to the people out there, relying on you to keep them safe.” She opens her mouth, angry words on her tongue, and he shakes his head. “Like that boy, Varian. I know the two of you were once friends, but after all he’s done…! To let him go! To do such things without cause, without reason, to take such risks on a whim—”

“It wasn’t a whim!” But she understands. It is as Lance had said, after all—it does look bad. It does seem strange. And maybe she should have told him this, at least, from the start. Never mind she wasn’t ready then. Never mind she didn’t know how.

She still doesn’t know how, but she’s willing to try. “Dad, I… I let Varian go because I had to. Not because of our past.” In truth, she’d let him go in spite of it. Beyond those few brief moments in the labyrinth, for most of their time together Varian had been nothing but awful to her.

“Rapunzel—” Frederic gestures in the air, grasping for the words. “My dear, that wasn’t… that wasn’t your choice to make.”

“Maybe.” And yet. Rapunzel steels herself. “…But do you have any idea what it’s like to— to live in a cage?”

He quiets. His eyes narrow, and he sits back, looking her up and down. “No,” he says, and it’s almost grudging, reluctant. “No.”

“I couldn’t bring him back here,” Rapunzel admits, and it’s the truth. “I couldn’t. If I did, I— I don’t think I would have been me anymore, you know? If, after all that—after everything that happened, if I’d still…” She shakes her head, the words gone. “I couldn’t. Not to him. Not to anyone. Not after that.”

His lips press. He looks away.

“And it’s funny,” Rapunzel says, almost to herself. “Because, um, in truth, I— I still don’t know if I even really forgive him. Or if I even like him. So much happened, and changed so quickly…  I don’t know. But at the time, I just—I just wanted him to have a chance. No matter how I felt. I… I had to give him a chance.” Her hand lifts, and brushes at her heart. “And I’m sorry, but— I can’t regret that. I refuse to regret that.”

“…I understand,” Frederic says, and he sounds like he really might, like he’s really trying to. “But I cannot let you get involved with the Stalyan situation if you can’t keep yourself safe. I’m not shutting you out just because of the secrets, but also—” He cuts himself off, teeth grit. ���A princess cannot afford to give in to emotion. I—I am aware, the irony of this coming from me, but… a princess must truly put her people first.”

Rapunzel nods. She drops her hand. She braces herself, because this is going to hurt him—and says, with only the slightest of tremors in her voice, “I’m afraid I’m still rather new to being a princess.”

It’s terrible, his reaction to that—the way his expression stutters, then drops. Rapunzel doesn’t look away, but something in her gut curls. She knows the words have hurt him, and for all it’s necessary—it hurts. It does. She doesn’t want this. She never wanted to tell him this, but then, Lance was right about that, too. They need to know. They need to understand that for all Rapunzel is their daughter, now, is a princess and a fighter and a girl with a destiny—before everything else, above all else, she has only ever been just Rapunzel.

It’d be nice, to pretend those eighteen years in the tower never mattered. That Rapunzel could be the princess they always dreamed their daughter would be. It’d be wonderful, but… it isn’t true. It isn’t her.

But then—this is true, too. “I’d like to learn how to be a queen, though. Someday.” She offers a fading smile. “And I—I am putting my people first. In a weird way. I think… some part of me already knows. I want to be the kind of queen who gives chances. I want to be the kind of person who— who doesn’t lock anyone away. Who lets people change, if they choose to, who creates that chance…” Her fingers curl. The scars pull. “I want to protect Corona, and the people—everyone—with my own two hands. In whatever way I can.”

Silence.

“You can shut me out all you like,” Rapunzel says, firm. “But I’ll never, ever give up.” She meets his eyes. “That’s a promise, too.”

This, at long last, seems to strike home. Frederic stares. When he finally speaks, his voice has gone dead quiet. “I can’t—we can’t—” He stops, looking stunned at his own stutter. His eyes close. “We… I can’t lose you again, daughter.”

“I know.” Rapunzel smiles. It aches. “And I’m sorry, but... I’m not a child.”

And heavy, unspoken between them, the echo of his own words: That isn’t your choice to make.

He bows his head.

Rapunzel exhales hard in the same moment. Her eyelids flutter, and she presses one hand to her temple, suddenly so dizzy it’s a wonder she doesn’t fall right over. She feels tired. She feels awful. But something in her has settled. Something in her has eased. Because it’s terrible—painful and pressing, and it tears at her heart—

But he is listening. She can see it in his face. He’s heard her.

“Thank you for listening,” Rapunzel says. Her voice is a rasp; she feels very tired, all at once. “Your Majesty.” But that is too cold, too much, and her voice shakes, just for a moment. “…Dad.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and Rapunzel nods to herself. She shuffles on her feet, picking up her gloves, and finally turns away, making back for the door. Not looking back is one of the hardest things she’s ever done.

She puts her hand on the door. She makes to open it.

“Rapunzel.”

She stops.

“I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She stares down at her bare hands, the pale scars. She blinks back the tears.

“Me too.”

She shuts the door behind her to silence. She walks back to her rooms. Her heart is tight. Her hands shaking. She doesn’t smile. It’s a victory, but there’s no real joy in it—just a strange, aching relief. Something she’d never wanted to do—something she’d had to do.

And despite it all, Rapunzel cannot bring herself to regret this, either.

.

.

.

The letter comes on the brink of dawn.

Lady Caine spies the hawk on her own, without help from lookout or spyglass, as has become common. Her eyes burn green in the rising sun as she unties the missive from the hawk's leg, and her crew stand silent and still and ready as she glances at the letter. It’s fine parchment, dark red ink—our ally in Vardaros, Lady Caine likes to say about these letters, but all the pirates know is that when the letters come, heads roll.

They are beaten and bruised, Lady Caine’s crew; wounded, still, some of them, from when the black rocks rose in Port Caul. Their numbers culled, but only for a moment—slowly, surely, Lady Caine has gathered her people back together again, replaced the old with the new. She barely seems to know, now, which of her crew are newly acquired or old hands. The ones that have been with her the longest have noticed. The ones that have been with her the longest are afraid.

Lady Caine laughs when she finishes the letter, bright and cold, and then she crumples the parchment in her fist and tosses it carelessly in the ocean. “Looks like it’s so far, so good, barring any unfortunate mishaps,” she says, and stretches out her arms, linking her fingers and stretching up to crack her back. “Pull up the ropes, boys. We have a journey to make, and revenge to enact.” Her smile is a cruel gleam of teeth in the light of dawn. “One last stop, and then we sail for Corona.”

They scatter at the wave of her hand, and Lady Caine turns back to the sea. The crew has docked in a small little alcove by some abandoned islands, the cliffs above her rising tall and weighty, slopping and ancient rock like a heavy fist jutting from the sea. As her ship pulls out from the cove—and then the next ship, and the next, and all the others she has gathered in these long months of conquest—Lady Caine turns her head to stare at them, those lovely cliffs silhouetted dark against the sea-line sky.

Beside her, the darkness flickers. In her ears, a whisper grows.

“No, no news on the Moondrop yet,” Lady Caine murmurs back, to the echoes. Something cruel curls at her lips. “We’ll find them soon enough. But, for now…”

Her eyes turn back to the cliffs. Her hand rises.

“I think… I should do a little more practice.”

Her eyes burn bright and poisonous. The air ripples around her outstretched fingers. The wind snaps. For a moment, the world almost seems to twist—almost seems to scream—

And as her earthquake rocks the distant cliffs, that ancient stone buckles, warps, and falls heavy into the churning sea.

[statistical-improbabilities]

OCtober Day 2: Mercy

Thanks again to @oc-growth-and-development!

Ulla Teru is a siren with the power to conjure illusions to trick the five senses, but great power comes with a great price, and for Ulla this takes the form of headaches and hallucinations. She’s just recently taken over the siren kingdom and has made some interesting reforms as queen. She’s a charismatic leader, but a villain in the end, and well into an insanity arc that’s been pretty fun to write.

CW: emotional abuse, physical abuse (implied), hallucinations, fictional politics

Being a queen of a kingdom was a deceptively simple thing. It was being a queen of the people, Ulla had found, that was a challenge.

In an effort to convey her dedication to Kraseux to her citizens, one of her first measures enacted upon taking the throne was to hold open sessions for petitioners to come to the palace and air their grievances with the kingdom. The previous king had been absent frequently, and grossly out of touch with the people he dared call his, when in actuality, he had no clue what his subjects thought or demanded of him as a ruler.

Ulla would not rule like him. She would open her doors to her subjects, greet them from her throne with decorum and a charismatic smile as they knelt before her and poured out their hearts in hopes of some small mercy. And she would listen. She would promise nothing else, but she would listen, and often the illusion of a compassionate ear was enough, and they would go on their way feeling satisfied, approving of her methods and policy with unwavering loyalty. It was rather exhausting, but necessary.

The latest batch of petitioners were much like those from the day before, and every day before that: miserable, desperate, and forgettable. Each face blended into the next, an endless stream of flashing scales and tear-filled eyes as they begged for an extension on a loan payment, or an exemption from military service, or whatever else it was. Ulla listened attentively to each one, and had her attendants take note when it seemed appropriate. If she was feeling particularly generous, she might review the notes later that night before discarding them, but she wasn’t feeling generous often.

She called forward a Renegade who stood at the front of the line, noting the way he glanced back at the guards at the entrance to her throne room before kneeling. He looked as if he’d been turned shortly before becoming a grandfather, yet he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Ulla’s smile curled just a bit wider at that. She knew she looked young for a queen, even younger for a siren, but she commanded respect all the same. The illusion of maturity she wove over her true features only amplified it.

She let the silence hang in the air between them for a moment, then spoke in a soft tone, each word rippling with a smoothness like refined silk. “Rise, and state your business.”

The Renegade swallowed nervously, but drew himself up from his position. “Your Majesty, I’ve come to request compensation for an injury received while serving the kingdom. My superiors… they promised to file the request, but that was six months ago, and escalating the issue has done no good.”

Ulla raised a brow. “May I inquire as to the specifics of this… injury?” she questioned, leaning forward ever so slightly.

“The alignment in my tail is damaged,” he confessed, and indeed, Ulla could see where one fin lagged behind the other, even as he held himself in place. “I was hit by debris from the sinking of a human ship.”

A tense quiet persisted between them for a few moments, and Ulla tapped one finger against her chin in thought, flicking her own tail lazily. “Marianne,” she said, beckoning one of her attendants over, “please escort this gentleman to the proper offices in the military division to file his request and have it sent off.” The attendant hurried over and took the Renegade by the elbow, and Ulla’s demure smile briefly reappeared when he flinched. He was escorted away quickly, and she motioned for her scribe to record the details of their interaction before calling the next petitioner.

“Next.”

The black scales of a Deceptor came into view, and Ulla inclined her head ever so briefly as the woman knelt. She looked older than the Renegade before her, but no less respectful. The majority of Ulla’s own divining had been supportive of her reign since she was merely the Deceptor monarch, and they had reaped the rewards once she’d become queen. The days of Deceptors being reviled for their illusionary powers were soon coming to a close, and she was doing what she could to uplift their status as the superior divining of sirens. No longer would they be second-class citizens—not in Ulla’s Kraseux. “Rise,” she said.

“Your Majesty, I—I’ve noticed that more people in the capital are wearing Veritium jewelry,” the Deceptor woman began haltingly. Ulla sat up a little straighter, and conceded a small nod.

“Yes, I’ve noticed the same.” The cursed metal had fallen back into vogue when she’d assumed the role of queen, though Adonis had long since been a proponent of its illusion-breaking abilities. Not only did it stifle any Deceptor’s power who was too near to withstand it, it also bestowed adverse side effects that took any number of forms, depending on length and intensity of exposure. Ulla’s head began to ache just at the thought of it, even though her Deceptor guards strictly enforced her new policy forbidding the wearing of Veritium to these meetings.

The woman nodded vigorously. “I’ve heard tell that you plan on introducing legislation restricting the sale of Veritium in the capital. I came to request that you extend the boundary of that legislation to include the outskirts of the kingdom and the nearest colony as well. Some of my close friends find it hard to leave their homes without becoming ill. It’s harmful to our livelihoods. We can’t keep living like this, Your Majesty.”

“No,” Ulla mused, “you certainly can’t. Did you get that?” Her scribe paused to give her a short nod, then returned to writing frantically. Ulla smiled, watching the tension ease from the woman’s face as she received a tentative smile in return. “I’ll take that into consideration. You are dismissed.”

That woman’s obvious relief was quickly replaced as the next petitioner entered, an Auxilia man who appeared close to tears as he all but collapsed before her throne. Ulla’s smile vanished. “State your business.”

“Please, Your Majesty,” he begged, glancing fearfully at the guards, then back up to Ulla. He seemed quite intimidated. “The—the property taxes that you raised—I’ve been late on my rent for three months. If I can’t pay this time, I’ll get evicted—”

She held up one hand, and he fell silent. “Those taxes are necessary for repairing the infrastructure of our kingdom,” she said, exceedingly careful to keep her tone diplomatic and measured. “On the west end of the kingdom, correct? Your taxes have been raised to allow for maintenance of transportation currents in your area. Surely you knew this when you signed the contract for your lease?”

“I—I did, but… Your Majesty. It’s not just me. Other Auxilia in the area are struggling too, and—and Harmonia… we don’t need maintenance on transportation currents, we need to be able to live in our homes. I can’t make enough money to get by, there’s no jobs anywhere nearby because I don’t have the right qualifications. Please, Your Majesty—have mercy, or we’ll all be out on the streets, please have mercy…”

Ulla watched impassively as the Auxilia man worked in vain to conceal his desperation, his distress that was bringing him closer and closer to tears. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet the eyes of a guard, and inclined her head, motioning them over. To the man, she murmured, “Your concerns are not unwarranted, but rest assured, I and my fellow monarchs will find a solution for not just a few Auxilia, but the betterment of the entire kingdom. Now, if you would kindly compose yourself, I’ll have you escorted out.” She left no room for argument. It would do her public image no good for him to dissolve into a sobbing mess in her throne room.

Who was he to demand mercy from his queen?

~

She’d only heard a few more petitioners before closing requests for the afternoon, instructing her attendants to say that she had a great deal of work to attend to if anyone asked. They would assume that she’d taken many sirens’ requests to heart and was already beginning to process them, and she would allow them to think that for as long as they desired.

Ulla held no trust in her attendants. Only enough to know they would convey the message she told them to, nothing more, which was why she told no one the reason she’d retired to her rooms after the sessions was that a pounding headache was beginning to return. They were becoming easier to stave off now that Veritium was forbidden from most instances where it might come in close contact with her, but it was never completely avoidable. Adonis had always been paranoid, and some of the petitioners had worn scale implants that could not be removed for a short meeting. If her hallucinations were to arrive, Ulla wanted them to stay private.

The kingdom would never approve of a queen gone insane, no matter how much expertise she had taken in weaving her mask.

When Ulla reached her chambers, she locked the door behind her so no attendants could trail in her wake, then removed the crown that had sat upon her head and set it aside. There were no mirrors in her rooms, as there never had been. Her illusions could trick a mirror, but if the hallucinations so commanded it, the illusions could fall just as easily.

She drifted over to a window and clasped her hands behind her back. The Auxilia man was not yet out of sight, swimming far slower than the sirens around him due to his lack of a true tail. After a moment, she turned away from the window, but she could still hear his voice in the back of her mind, growing louder and more desperate until it filled the room.

“Please, have mercy… have mercy, or we’ll all be out on the streets… please have mercy…”

At some point, his voice had become her own. She wasn’t sure when.

Her father stood over her, the room distorted and rippling around them. Mercy, Ulla? he murmured, saccharine and dangerous, and she shrank away. Her tail was made of lead with the iridescent glint of Veritium, and it pulled her to the ground.

“No, please… I didn’t mean to, Father,” she whispered as her leaden tail gave way to leaden legs, short and spindly and unable to support the weight of her pleas. “I don’t—I don’t know what I did…”

Why, you’ve killed that man, the hallucination said with a wicked, sharp-toothed grin, and Ulla shook her head violently.

“I didn’t, it’s not my fault!”

Oh, but it is, her father said. You’ve killed that man as sure as you’ve killed your own mother. She’d be disgusted if she saw you like this—but she can’t, because she’s not alive to see it. The hallucination stepped closer, and Ulla shrank away again. It was no use crying for her mother—she never came when her father did. She’d died minutes after Ulla was born. Ulla’s mind could only conjure the dead she had known, because to be known was to never truly die.

Do you really wish to test me, Ulla? You look like your mother did at that age, you know. It would be a shame if you were to force me to change that.

“No, please,” she begged, loathing every word that fell from her tongue and yet being powerless to stop them. “Have mercy, please have mercy…”

The hallucination raised its ghostly hand, and the fingers elongated into jagged talons. Shadows around the edge of the room pressed in closer, piling heavy onto her chest and wrapping around her legs and arms and mouth. Her father brought his talons down. Ulla closed her eyes and screamed.

 ~

When Ulla opened her eyes, she was the only one in the room. The side of her face stung, but when she raised a shaking finger to probe for injury, nothing was there. A stream of bubbles rose up towards the ceiling, but no figures stood looming over her where she lay crumpled on her side on the floor.

Slowly, she sat up. The pain was an illusion, and it would go away when she regained control. She’d lost control for far too long that time. Her hallucinogenic episodes were lasting longer and becoming more frequent, but nobody had witnessed it. No one had been around when she’d lost control of her mind and her powers, and it would stay that way.

The streetlamps outside her window were beginning to glow, betraying the time that had passed. They’d be expecting her for a state dinner soon. Carefully, Ulla began to weave her illusions over her face once more, and only when the painstaking process was finished did she allow herself to breathe.

No one knew what happened when Ulla’s illusions fell.

A queen did not beg for mercy.

No one would ever know.

[official-cisphobe]

i highly admire your worldbuilding skills. can you tell us more about your OCs and their universe?

this is probably gonna be a bit lengthy so strap in! (edit: it is very lengthy)

the basics of Voidverse, like I explained earlier, is that there is a group of people tethered to each other by fate and higher forces, the purpose of the Alts is that they are a sort of keeper of balance between worlds and each of them is a sort of savour or hero in their respective timeline/universe. They weren't always aware of each other but when a great danger threatens all multiverses and all life they have to come together to defeat it—they do this with the help of someone called Katalin Huerta who has an ability called The Bridge ie she can create 'bridges' to other timelines/universes from wherever she is.

Technically the main character of Voidverse is Classic the Demon aka Classic, who is sort of a butterfly effect to get both the Alts and the end of the world running. but more about that later, I'll explain the other characters first.

anyway this ended up being super long so added a Read More to not take oevr anyone’s dash akdhsfsfg

Jojo - already explained

Leoh Yu - Leoh aka Badger is probably the most normal Alt out of all of them concidering he's not a demon or any sort of supernatural or sci-fi creature. Leoh grew up in Dazhai, China in the late 1970's to late 1980's with his mother and grandmother where they owned a farm and a bakery. His life took a turn when his mother got very sick and his family couldn't afford good doctors or treatments. at some point in the way of making money Leoh at 18-years-old was approached by a group of hitmen to recruit him, which after some time and thinking he accepted. Leoh worked as a hitman for about 30 years before retiring at age 40 to get married to his now husband Nico Mahariel as well as adopting a babygirl named Qing-Qiu. Leoh's past, however, will not let him go that easy but that's a story for another time.

Tuyja - Tuyja was a prophet of the Goddess Ghalme in an ancient civilisation called the Weykha. the Weykha lived in a sandstone kingdom and it is rumoured that they are where the legends of mermaids and Atlantis came from. Tyuja however was not of the Weykha people, instead she was born from the stars with ocean blue skin and horns made from spacedust. She was regarded as a sort of next in command from the Royal family and was basically treated as an extention of the Royal family (if not even higher than them), which infuriated the jealous Weykha prince. Tuyja had also fallen in love with a servant girl called Muza, which the Prince had used as leverage against her and turned the Weykha people against her, telling them that Tuyja would steal all their gold and jewellery and give it to a servant girl, that he had heard her say she would strip the skies of moon and star so that Muza would shine the brightest, that he had seen her tame ocean waves so that the servant girl could pick sea shells from the sand below. Tuyja had become a threat to the people who had praised her and come to her for guidance, they had banished her into the sea for 5000 years.

Quiet - named after one of my friends because I really like teir name and I've had difficulties naming this character for years, Quiet was born and raised in a lab where they were subjected to varieties of cruel and inhumane experiments going as far as getting permanent damage to their ribs and lungs. in canon Quiet only got their name after joining the Alts, Jojo who became their closest friend nicknamed them Quiet because they're,,, well,,, really quiet. ngl their story and character arc is on the undeveloped side

Lotus Draqon - Lotus is a half-human half-dragon who grew up outside his pack of origin because his mother Jupiter wasn't sure how the Matriarchs would react to Lotus' half-human trait. The dragons are an ancient people of long ago with vast magical abilities and lived in harmony with mortals, sharing their magic with them—until an evil was awakening and the Gods began to tear down entire cities. Mortals expected and begged the dragons to help them survive but the Matriarchs decided to abandon them, priotising the dragon's survival. They lived in isolation and hiding, shielded in a deep forest by magic for thousands of years. until Lotus as a young adult decided it was time for him to leave the nest and see the world. Jupiter was reluctant but Lotus was determined to never again live in fear. In time Lotus would become a very important figure to both the dragon and the mortals inhabiting the lands as dark forces began to matirialise and the Matriarchs became restless, declaring war against mortals.

Voidkeeper - demons are very hard to kill creatures, no regular blade or bullet with damage them much beyond cuts and bruises. the most efficient way to kill a demon is for one to end their own life which by Satan's rule is forbidden. It has happened technically two times but the first one was by a demon now known only as the Voidkeeper. After ending their own life as punishment their horns and tail were cut off, their magic taken away, and they were banished to the Void forever. Slyly they managed to grab some of their depleted magic and put it into a magical stone for safekeeping, it is only a very limited amount but can do very wondrous and powerful things things. The Void grants the Voidkeeper clairvoyance as to what is going on in whichever timeline and universe, they are a sort of silent watcher and will never interfere with the goingonabouts of the mortals. the Voidkeeper has a very minor but very important part to play in regards to the Alts and the saving of all life in the multiverse but for now they are patiently waiting and watching.

and finally there's our boy Class whose story is undoubtedly the most developed out of all of these so let's go through it:

Classic is a minor demon and was born at a time when the Underworld and the Human world were not so separate. He was born in a tiny demon village of about 15-20 inhabitants. His father had left him and his mother when Classic was about three years old and has not been seen since, Classic doesn't know if his father is dead or alive and doesn't really care about it either. Classic was an only child and pretty much a mama's boy, although he had a few friends in his village. Unfortunately his life changed forever at 12 years old when human soldiers pillaged his home, killing everyone—Classic would have been dead as well but his mother used her dying breath to save him with magic.

Classic had been knocked out during the raid but when he awoke he witnessed the aftermath of a bloodbath. Scared and alone and unsure of what to do he ran away from the scene and travelled days across the country until he stumbled upon a town of humans. Wrath overcoming his senses he murdered the entire town, leaving no human alive, going as far as tearing down entire houses and setting the entire place on fire.

Classic was later found in the ruins of that town crying by a group of angels. He was taken by them to a city in the sky and adopted by a family of angels. He wasn't generally liked by his neighbours but the angel child he lived with became his best friend for years to come. They grew up together, learned to use their different magicks together, Classic learned he could even materialise wings and fly albeit badly at first.

But as history has shown, wherever Classic goes, terror follows.

Classic had been having nightmares for months, very terrible ones, of dark forces beyond his understanding. They felt familiar and cruel, almost mocking.

Before he realised what he had done, the angel he spent his childhood with was dead and there was blood on his hands. Just like before, as if on instinct he ran away from the city of angels and went into hiding. Multiple years had passed by now and the human world was very different from what he remembered. It was no longer that easy to stay out of the radar of humans, since they were pretty much everywhere with cameras and police.

To say he was causing issues in the human world would be an understatement. He would steal, break into houses, even kill to survive. Random fires would start and radiation with no apparent source would appear all over.

This is where Katalin Huerta comes in—see, she is a commander of a very special branch of task force, it was her own creation. Her people dealt with supernatural oddities and threats, it was govrrment funded but entirely indepentant from their meddling albeit they can be difficult to please. Katalin was born with special abilities, a sort of family tradition—at birth her soul was bonded with that of a powerful spirit that had once been one with the soul of Katalin's mother. The spirit gave her the ability to control and create fire but her own speciality was her Bridge ability.

anyway, Katalin had taken notice of the strange indicents around town and taken some of her people to go check it out, only to find a teenaged demon crawling in an abondoned factory. She could tell the demon was just afraid and lost and decided to help him. Which is how Classic joined her task force.

Which honestly was probably the best thing that had happened to Classic, Katalin taught him to fight and better utilise his demon magic as well as taught him to use a sword (Classic has never understood guns and will never attempt to). Learning spells with a human was a difficult task but eventually they figured it out. Classic's natural abilities worked very strongly as illusion based magic as well as materialisation, although the latter has been more tricky to master even after all these years so as we speak Classic's only materialisation spells are his wings as well as his sword and teleportation.

Eventually the darkness haunting Classic began to rear its head again, Katalin catches wind of this and fortunately can help him keep it out from his head yet it still lingers in the air and grows stronger.

until now Classic had never before talked about the darkness. but at this point he was cornered and Katalin wouldn't take no for an answer.

At that point in time all Classic knew about the darkness was that it was some sort of ancient entity, it wasn't a demon because its presence felt entirely different from at least the demons Classic was used to. He nicknamed it Ash, as all he could remember from the times it has appeared are the ashes left by roaring embers.

In reality the darkness is one of the five forgotten gods of an ancient people. It was cast aside by the Creator and exiled from the land of gods. The darkness hates mortal life because of the gods' love for them, so it seeks to destroy all that is living. in its weakened state it needs a vessel to succeed and has been corrupting Classic and molding him into that vessel since that day he turned 12-years-old.

Only the Alts can defeat the darkness, whether Ash stays defeated is only a matter of time.

[ty-talks-comics]

Best of DC: Week of December 11th, 2019

Best of this Week: Ocean Master - Year of the Villain One-Shot - Dan Watters, Miguel Medonça, Ivan Plascencia and Wes Abbott

Ocean Master was happy once.

With a loving surface dwelling girlfriend, Erin, and a potential new stepson, Tommy, he threw away his lust for power and hatred of his brother in order to live a peaceful life. All of that was upended, however, when Queen Mera came to his doorstep asking for help. With his homeland in political peril, he chose to leave his happiness in order to restore it to proper glory, hoping to return back to his loves. However, seduced by Mera’s relatives from Xebel with promises of power, he betrayed the Queen only to be defeated and imprisoned. 

When he resurfaced shortly after during the Drowned Earth event, free of Atlantis’ prison. He did everything in his power to make it up to Mera and Aquaman himself. He aligned himself with his family to take down the old Ocean Gods, but was defeated then as well. It was a long time before he was heard from again until now.

This book begins with Erin walking out to the shore that her home sits on, calling out to a mysterious figure she noticed in the darkness - Orm himself, somehow still alive. She responds to his reappearance with anger, saying that he abandoned his family and demanding answers for why he left. He recounts the story of his fall with amazing art by Miguel Medonça, capturing the grand scale of Atlantis, accentuated by Plascencia’s fantastic colors. He then tells her of how he lived among the homeless of Atlantis until he was finally able to escape.

Erin questions how a kingdom like Atlantis could possibly have homeless and vagrants of any sorts and Orm responds with one half of overall theme that this story lays out, “Atlantis has beggars, madmen and other rejected people of the street.” Amongst the homeless, Orm hears of a fairy tale, the story of Dagon, and learns of a mad king that sought to control an ocean elemental with an amulet around his neck. Dagon’s people, fearing his encroaching madness, slit his throat and cast the amulet into the deepest depths of the ocean.

Soon after, the madman who believed the tale found a way out of Atlantis and allowed Orm to follow him towards the calling of the amulet. Erin interjects in the middle of Orm’s story that at no point has he apologized for abandoning them and asks him why he was there. He replies that he missed them both and asks to see Tommy, but she declines. She has every right in the world to be furious at him for the way he disappeared. Granted, Mera could have told Erin what happened, but that likely would have made things even worse.

As Orm continues his story, he reveals that he had every intention of returning once he escaped, but the madman that he was following was kidnapped by someone, so Orm chose to go and save him instead. Mendonça shows the trepidation on Orm’s face as he decides what’s the best course of action and when he arrives to some kind of rig, he’s met with a daunting structure that he had no idea about. When he enters, he encounters many horrible creatures and Palkor, the madman. He then draws the conclusion that all of these creatures were once vagrants from Atlantis turned into monsters.

Before he can commence in freeing them, he is attacked by F-List villain, Marine Marauder (the female one). She tells him how Lex Luthor offered her one of his Gifts and how she’s using it to sell mutated sea life to various militaries. She and Orm engage in a fight which sees Palkor mortally wounded and Orm needing to escape and regroup. Mendonça and Plascencia give the escape a real sense of gravitas as Palkor’s blood pours as they reach the water. With his head shaped like a clam, he weakly says Dagon, insisting that he finally reach his calling before his end. Mendonça actually makes Orm look like a caring guy in the moment as he carries his dying “friend” to the trench.

Mendonca then draws a sequence of a dead Palkor falling into the depths and Ocean Master following just to see if Dagon's story had any merit. Mendonca shows how the walls of the trench encroach on Orm, getting smaller and smaller as he descends into absolute darkness. Plascencia accentuates this scene by showing the water getting darker and darker the deeper he goes. Watters dialogue gives the situation some poetic weight as Orm describes how the weight of the ocean is pressing down on him, but his curiosity is stronger.

Amazingly, the story of Dagon rings true as Orm discovers the water elemental, a girl named Lernaea and upon seeing that he stays to speak with her, despite the weight of the water bearing down on him, she gives him the amulet and raises him from the ocean floor into the sky, calling him King Orm. The scene is beautiful as Leraea looks at him like he’s saved her from a terrible fate of loneliness and the moon shines on him ever so brightly. He looks regal, even as shadows obscure his face. It’s as if destiny called to him.

Soon after, he returns to the rig and confronts Marine Marauder. Though we do not see their fight, Ocean Master returns with her defeated body on his trident and rallies the mutated creatures of the sea and forms a new city, the City of Dagon. He tosses Marine Marauder into the crowd and tells them to feast and cheer. Soon after, Luthor appears to Ocean Master, offering him a gift. In quite possibly one of his biggest flexes, Ocean Master shows Lex that he has an amulet that could control Lernaea and make her do as he commanded...and breaks it, granting her her freedom from all control. She chooses to stay with Orm and Orm, in turn, says that he needs nothing from Lex or Atlantis as Lernaea sinks the rig.

After everything, Erin asks Orm what he wants and he wishes for Erin and Tommy to come to Dagon and rule beside him, but Erin declines. She tells Orm to never come back to her home after a tender embrace that could have seen them become one again. Orm is hurt, but unsurprised. As he walks back to the sea, he adds one final note that he considers Tommy to be his son and that when he’s older, he may come back to see if he wishes to rule beside his father, which sends Erin into a fury. Our final shot is of Ocean Master sitting on a throne of his own, something he had actually been avoiding since his arc in the New 52.

Here we get the second half of the theme. Atlantis has those it has cast aside and Orm is there to take and keep them safe.

I never thought I’d see the day where I’d look at Ocean Master with anything other than pity and disrespect. Sure, he did cause a giant flood in his attack on the world during War for Atlantis, but he’s always had this… sadness to him. His new 52 characterization portrayed him as a man that just wanted a normal life without a throne, but destiny pushed him towards that kicking and screaming. 

Dan Watters portrays him as a more tragic figure than we’ve come to expect, seeing him full of regrets of lost love as well as a newfound confidence similar to that of General Zod in Bendis’ Superman right now. Mendonça and Plascencia stunned with amazing visuals and colors. Ocean Master stands out as being a dark mirror of Aquaman, being far more ominous and melancholic. With this creative team, we really feel how low he’s fallen and how he’s had to claw his way out of his despair.

Overall, this is a very good showing for a villain that I have a newfound respect for and I actually can’t wait for the ensuing Aquaman story that’s soon to follow. High recommend!

[flibbertigiblet]

Episode 1: FORESHADOWING GALORE

Was it a perfect episode? No. The pacing is still a bit iffy, the dialogue bland, and important scenes felt rushed/undeveloped. But did it give me hope and/or satisfaction? Yes. Light on action, but heavy on foreshadowing, this episode lays the groundwork for three of our favorite theories – Dark!Dany, Political!Jon, and Jonsa.

As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I never thought that we would get all our theories openly confirmed in the first episode. The showrunners are giving us the last moments of calm before the storm, and it makes sense that they allow the viewers to enjoy Jon’s homecoming and the various reunions between several beloved characters before they hit us with the major twists those theories entail. What they do instead is pepper the episode with strong hints of these outcomes. In this post, I’ll be highlighting the plot points and dialogue that support these theories, rather than going through the premiere scene by scene.

Let’s jump right into it. This is a long one.

Arrival at Winterfell

After a heartfelt hug with Bran (and thank the gods that we finally get a semblance of humanity from the Three-Eyed Raven in this), Jon turns to Sansa, who had been watching their reunion with a small but fond smile on her face. As Jon rears up to embrace his “sister”, the camera makes sure to cut away from them to focus on Daenerys and Jorah, watching them from a distance. Bran is kept in frame, observing their reactions. Sansa too, turns her gaze on the newcomers, even as she wraps her arms around Jon.

I will admit to being disappointed that the reunion hug between Jon and Sansa was much briefer and less intense than what we got in the HBO trailer, but in retrospect, that fact makes me go “hmm”. After all, they chose that particular sequence to be the first and only snippet from S8 to show in that trailer, despite the episode’s truncated version of the hug (or any other scene from the season, really) being a possible option. A photo of this scene shot from yet another angle from a Spanish(?) publication was circulating the internet only days ago. D&D want us to pay special attention to the relationship between Jon and Sansa.

Podrick Dany certainly is.

Dany and Sansa eye each other from across the courtyard, before the former approaches the Starks. As Lyanna Mormont and Lord Royce stare at her with suspicion, Jon makes introductions.

“My sister, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark,” Daenerys says with a fixed smile. “The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed, as are you.” (You know, one way of interpreting this line was that it was Jon who told Dany that Sansa is beautiful. Because, well. She is.)

Sansa is not impressed by the transparent attempt at flattery. She looks Dany up and down and leans back slightly in thinly-veiled disdain, but her words and voice are perfectly civil. “Winterfell is yours, your Grace.” Take note: neither she nor anyone else in the courtyard bends the knee to their would-be queen.

Daenerys doesn’t buy Sansa’s act for a second, but Bran doesn’t have time for this catfight and tells everyone what’s what. The Wall has fallen, and the Army of the Dead (+ dragon) are marching to Winterfell. That sobers them up quickly.

Meeting the Lords

Everyone is gathered in the Great Hall. Pay attention to the framing. At the head table, Sansa has been relegated to Jon’s right, where Davos, as the Hand of the King, used to sit. Daenerys has taken up Sansa’s former seat to his left, where the Lady of Winterfell typically sits. In this first shot, however, Dany is standing by the fireplace, leaving a visual and metaphorical gap between the Northern pair and Team Dany, represented by Tyrion, who is seated at the far end of the table.

As acting leader of Winterfell, Sansa is the one running the meeting. She establishes the fact that she has called on all the banners to retreat to Winterfell, and asks for an update from Lord Umber, last of that once-mighty House. A young boy no older than Bran was in season 1 pops his head out from behind one of the nameless Lords. He is small, and cute, and has been singled out by the script, so clearly he is doomed.

He addresses first Sansa - “We need more horses and wagons, my Lady,” – then Jon – “and my Lord,” – who flashes him a quick smile – “and my Queen.” – and only then Daenerys, who does not love being third on this list. “Sorry,” apologizes awkwardly. His business is sorted out, and he is sent off.

Jon instructs Maester Wolkan to send ravens to the Night’s Watch to summon them to Winterfell. “At once, Your Grace,” says the man, out of habit, probably, but it’s all the excuse Lyanna Mormont needs to stand up to sass Jon for renouncing his crown (mostly because D&D have designated her the improbable mouthpiece of the North and have not bothered to introduce us to any of the other lords).

Jon tries to make his case, but nobody is convinced, not even when Tyrion tags himself in. As he tries to sway the Northern lords, the camera cuts to the other three – Jon in between the two women, Stark and Targaryen, black and white. They really couldn’t be more obvious about the symbolism here, but in case you missed it, the showrunners give us more evidence that we’re not about to get The Hair Braiding That Was Promised.

Sansa is facing the lords, addressing Tyrion, but is clearly speaking to Daenerys when she asks just how Winterfell is supposed to feed Team Dany’s massive armies and the dragons. Like the responsible leader that she is – take notes, kiddos – Sansa had spent the past few months stockpiling supplies to help her people through winter. Was the North expected to support these newcomers too? “What do dragons eat, anyway?”

“Whatever they want,” says Dany.

The two women look at each other with no further pretense at friendliness. Battle lines have been drawn.

(Jon sits there, pretending not to notice.)

A Proposed Proposal

Davos, Varys and Tyrion are discussing how to salvage the alliance between their respective sides. Davos tells the others that Northerners do not trust easily, that this trust needs to be earned. But he is hopeful that it can happen. “On the off chance that we survive the Night King, what if the Seven Kingdoms, for once in their whole shit history, were ruled by a just woman and an honorable man?”

He is talking about a possible marriage between Jon and Dany, but at this point the audience knows the truth of their relationship, and by the end of the episode – spoiler – Jon does too. Whether or not the GA realizes it yet, this makes the conversation equally applicable to the Jonsa side of the triangle.

Plus, le gasp! A Stark-Targaryen marriage? How dreadfully romantic.*

*Okay, I am actually strongly anti-Rhaegar, but the show plays them as some kind of grand romantic pairing so I will try to contain my antipathy for the purposes of this review.

A Darker Turn

Down at the courtyard, Daenerys is feeling somewhat put upon.

“Your sister doesn’t like me.”

Jon tries to mollify her. “She doesn’t know you. If it makes you feel any better, she didn’t like me either when we were growing up.”

“She doesn’t need to be my friend. But I am her queen. If she can’t respect me…”

WHAT, DANY? IF SANSA CAN’T RESPECT YOU, WHAT WILL YOU DO?

We’ve been saying it for a long while now, but guys. Dark!Dany is coming. While certain elements of the fandom persist in denying the obvious trajectory of her character arc, the foreboding undertone of this line is hard to ignore. What made this even more chilling was that she said this to Jon, a member of her family, who doesn’t yet know at this point in the episode what Dany’s extreme reaction tends to be for insubordination.

(Oh, but we know.)

When Sam learns of what Daenerys did to his father and brother, he could barely hold it together long enough to excuse himself from her presence before falling apart. Despite what Dany stans would have you think, this is a perfectly human and normal reaction to hearing such dreadful news. Also human and understandable? Mistrusting the kind of ruler who would execute a man for not bending the knee. Especially since Sam has personally seen a more humane sort of leadership before in Jon, who he later urges to take up his birthright as the true heir to the Iron Throne.

Other metas have discussed Dany’s approach to leadership and her increasingly draconian (an apt word, no?) attitude towards what she feels is her rightful position as Queen of the 7K. That she can and will take what is hers. A sense of entitlement not dissimilar to that which she attributed to her dragons earlier in that public display which did not endear her to her Northern subjects…

Side note: We’ve seen the indiscriminate destruction that an unchecked dragon can reap before when one of them – then only half-grown – killed the young daughter of a goatherd in Meereen. We even received a handy reminder of this straight from the mouth of Dany’s staunchest supporter and ally only in the episode before this one: “Dragons don’t understand the difference between what is theirs and what isn’t. Land, livestock, children…letting them roam free around the city was a problem.” – Jorah Mormont, S07E07.

And because it hasn’t been hammered into our heads enough, we are reminded of this again later on, when her Dothraki riders list exactly how much her dragons had consumed just that same day (“only eighteen goats and eleven sheep”, which apparently means “the dragons are barely eating”). This is followed by a powerful shot of said dragons surrounded by the charred bones of the livestock that could have fed dozens of people.

The same people who cowered as the dragons flew over Mole’s Town, and whose fear she appeared to relish.

Foreshadowing much?

That Dragon Flying Scene

Oh boy. I’ll be honest. I wasn’t excited to see this one at all. In the end it was both more and less awful than I imagined it would be. The dragon riding scene is bound to be controversial. Thrilling to some, pandering of the worst kind to others. To me, it smacks of fanservice, but let’s give the show the benefit of the doubt and try to parse its storytelling purpose in the greater scheme of things.

Despite Daenerys’ unsubtle threat towards Sansa in the previous scene – which Jon was conveniently prevented from addressing due to the interruption of the Dothraki – and the sight of Drogon and Rhaegal apparently sulking whilst surrounded by the remains of the food they are “barely eating”, the showrunners made the odd decision to play this scene with a note of levity.

Out of nowhere, Dany oh-so-casually encourages her lover to try riding her dragon, a foolhardy decision based on what, exactly? The one time Jon had a moment with one of her “gorgeous beast(s)”? Dany teases him about his initial reluctance, and laughs at his ungraceful attempts to hang on as the two dragons freewheel over the snow-covered lands of the North before landing in front of a beautiful waterfall for a “romantic” moment.

In dialogue calling back to Jon and Ygritte’s famous cave scene (listen, are D&D just going to troll us by recycling  all of Jon’s best hits?):

“We could stay a thousand years, says Daenerys, looking back at Jon. “No one would find us.”

“We’d be pretty old,” says Jon with uncharacteristic humor.

I believe Jon’s lightheartedness stems as much from his being home with his family at long last as the thrill of dragonriding with a pretty girl by his side. The two flirt using cheesy lines straight out of bad fanfiction before sharing a kiss which I suppose will please the stans.

Not me, though. Romantic music playing in the background or not, like in boatbang, the supposed passion of the moment is interrupted by a third party which makes the whole thing awkward. The final shot of Jon’s eyes widening as he sees Rhaegal staring directly at him as he kisses the Dragon Queen made me snort, but it is unclear whether it was played for a laugh, is meant to underline the awkwardness of this romance, or be an ominous portent of the revelations to come.

And Now For the Good Stuff

That terrible unnecessary Disneyfied brightly lit, panoramic, even mildly comedic sequence contrasted sharply with the scene between Jon and Sansa only minutes later. We are treated to a Jonsa staple: a warm, candlelit scene full of tension, fluttering eyelashes, and heaving bosoms. This time, the air is shimmering with a new emotion – jealousy.

The two start off by discussing a message from Lord Glover, who “wishes (them) good fortune but he’s staying in Deepwood Motte with his men.” This immediately sparks an argument between them about Jon having bent the knee. They’ve had variations of this fight before, and to be honest, it’s a little tired. While I fully understand Sansa’s reservations about the presence of Dany and her armies in the North in terms of logistics, I tend to be more sympathetic to Jon’s insistence that the discussion on Northern independence needs to take a back seat for the moment given the gravity of the threats they are facing. But Sansa clings stubbornly to this old argument, and she (rather unfairly) lays the blame for Lord Glover’s desertion at Jon’s feet (let’s blame who is really at fault here, Sansa – the disloyal lord himself).

But of course, that’s not really what they’re fighting about.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to abandon your crown,” she says, voice shaking with anger as she turns her back on Jon.

Jon, frustrated, moves several steps closer. “I never wanted a crown. All I wanted was to protect the North. I brought two armies home with me, two dragons.”

Sansa spins around. “And a Targaryen queen?” she spits out.

Ah, and here we come to what appears to be the true cause of her wrath. Jon reminds Sansa that without Daenerys (and her martial strength), they don’t stand a chance against the Army of the Dead. Sansa is silent. She cannot argue the need for the armies and the dragons, but she takes particular exception to the woman who leads them. Why, Sansa? TELL US WHY.

It’s in their eyes as much as their words.

Jon heaves a deep sigh, closes his eyes. “Do you have any faith in me at all?” (Y’all, this line just about broke my heart cause he just wants her to love trust him.)

Sansa’s eyes are soft and slightly glassy. “You know I do.”

Jon takes another step or two towards Sansa, never breaking their gaze. “She’ll be a good queen. For all of us.” His eyes move away briefly. “She’s not her father.”

Sansa looks down, gathering herself with a deep breath. “No, she’s much prettier.”

Jon gives a pained smile of acknowledgment. It is his turn to avoid her stare.

“Did you bend the knee to save the North?” Sansa asks him, her eyes unfocused. “Or because you love her?”

Jon glances up at Sansa, but doesn’t respond.

END SCENE.

(Let’s give a standing ovation to Sophie and Kit for acting the hell out of this scene. I want a hundred gifs of this, people. Please get on it.)

The subtext is rich, rich, rich, my Jonsas. The dream is still alive.

One Last Thought - The Importance of Sansa Stark

Nothing made me happier than seeing our Queen in the North Lady of Winterfell given all the credit and respect that is her due after seasons of anti bullshit. See:

The people’s deference to her position and the role that she plays in the North

Tyrion’s acknowledgment of her survival skills - “Many underestimated you. Most of them are dead now.”

Arya’s steadfast defense of her - “She’s the smartest person I ever met.” - when Jon (Jon???) himself was expressing frustration towards her (check out @athimbleful 's recent ask for an explanation for Jon’s behavior in this scene)

Even Dany’s behaviour towards Sansa (first with that cringey introduction), and later when she singles her out for not “respecting” her, despite the fact that none of the Northern lords were showing her any warmth is an indication of her awareness of Sansa’s alpha status, which is right and just and exactly as it should be.

As recent promo materials, cast interviews, etc. seem be strongly pro-Sansa, I am reasonably optimistic that this all bodes well for our girl. For that alone, I will breathe a little easier...

...at least for one more week.

[recreatd]

she was supposed to be asleep  --  but instead, she’d found herself seated just outside the living room while trying to eavesdrop listen intently to the conversation owen and claire were having.  their voices were SOFT and quiet, making it difficult to hear anything being said.  head is leaning against the wall while eyelids slowly become heavy.  she’s about to head back to bed when she hears her name  -- maisie --  she knows she heard it.  but just as quickly as she could hear, she once again could not.

now wide awake, maisie watches as a few more words are exchanged before claire says goodnight and heads back to her and owen’s bedroom.  the child contemplates following the redhead’s lead, but finds herself walking TOWARDS owen instead.  kind eyes are focused on him as her head cocks to the side SUBTLY, her own gentle voice entering the air a moment later.    ❝    i heard my name...    ❞    concern is etched in CHERUBIC features while she moves to sit next to him on the couch.

@raptorraised liked this for a starter !

[littlemisssquiggles]

I was wondering; in your story idea when Salem’s forces take a number of Atlesian citizens hostage to use as leverage against Oscar, what sorts of people did you envision would be taken prisoner and what would become of them after Ruby and Oscar finally defeat Salem?

Hey Al.Well that Pinehead headcanon is actually one version of two Dark Domain Arc concepts I’ve shared before.One where Oscar is the only one taken prisoner by Salem and he becomes the Boyin the Lonely Tower as Salem imprisoned him in a similar fashion to how she waslocked away centuries ago and the second version is the one where both Ruby andOscar are the only ones taken prisoner by Salem and are forced to survive herdomain in the Land of Darkness in order to make it back to civilization wherethey’d hope to be reunited with their comrades who they last saw trying toescape the Fall of Atlas.

The one where Oscar becomes Salem’sprisoner is the only version where the Atlesians are captured along with him. Ifigured it’d be pretty interesting if Salem succeeded in capturing a fractionof Atlas’ populace when they were trying to flee Atlas before it fell from the sky.I figured it word appeal to the malicious side of Salem if she captured thoseinnocent people to be used as leverage to force Oscar, as Ozma’s incarnate tosubmit to her whims.

It’s also another way to provide anexample of just how little Salem cares for humanity while Ozma and by extension,his successors, do. 

To have Salem threaten the lives of innocent men, women andchildren from a kingdom she destroyed, using them as collateral to force Oscar into submission which the young lad would willinglysubmit to for the sake of the people is an excellent way to show the differencebetween these two immortal beings’ mind-sets on humanity and the value of humanlife.

So to answer your question Al, Ipicture Salem capturing a mixed bag of Atlesian captives. I figured Salem to be the typeto honestly care very little for what type of class an individual is. That stuff mattersnaught to her to her victims because in her eyes, they’re all expendable in the game of fulfilling her selfish desires.  Soeven if she were to capture someone who was originally of upper class in Atlas,like let’s say Jacques Schnee for example—it’s not like she’d give him oranyone else better treatment over others.

They’ll all be her slaves forced underthe same chains of bondage with their fickle lives in the hands of one poor youngboy forced to be their ‘king’ with his actions reflected upon them; be it good or bad. The idea Ihad is that during the Fall of Atlas, let’s say the Atlesian Army led by WinterSchnee rallied together to board as many fleeing Atlesians from both Atlas andMantle to take them to safety in another neighbouring kingdom.

Since the Kingdom was going to plummet andpossible decimate both Atlas and Mantle, at this point, the army could notdiscriminate. So you had ships piled with refugees from all walks oflife—Atlesian and Mantlese, upper class and lower, human and Faunus, huntsmenand civilian. And although the military were successfully in rescuing everyonebefore the devastation, that didn’t stop Salem from using her forces toimprison a good portion of the populace.

Like imagine the Atlesian armysuccessfully rescuing 100 airships holding over 1000 people only for Salemto swoop in and capture at least half of that. So while the one half managed toescape, the other half were taken to the dark lands.

I even have this idea of some of Weiss’family—like perhaps Whitley and her mother along with family members from her mother’s side—become prisoners of Salem. It’s a cool way to give Weiss anincentive to go on a life and death rescue mission to Salem’s Domain joining Ruby and theirteam.

The way I pictured this version of theDark Domain Arc is that Oscar and more than half the Atlesian populace becomevictims of Salem’s abduction during the Fall of Atlas. General Ironwood is outof commission, practically on his death bed since he sustained life-threateninginjuries during the Fall. PerhapsJames was trying to help/ protect Qrow Branwen during a fight before the two wereswarmed by a pack of winged Beringels who practically tore both man apart,particularly James (a nod to the Wizard of Oz where the Scarecrow and the TinMan were harmed when the flying monkeys came for Dorothy to take her to theWicked Witch).

With Ironwood down, the Atlas militarylook to Winter as his right hand to take charge in his place.

Basically my idea is that theFall left a big blow that affected everyone—it was even worse then whathappened in Vale. Speaking of Vale, I really like the idea of everyone fleeingfrom the Fallen Atlas and returning to Vale with what was left of the Atlesianpopulace. From Vale, not only do our heroes reunite with old allies (such as GlyndaGoodwitch, Professor Port and Dr. Oobleck) but they also plan their next bestcourse of action.

Like I have this theory where I believepart of Salem’s plan would be to use Atlas to spark a second Great War betweenthe kingdoms. Like I know it’s a stretch but…think about it:

Salem has kind of shaped Atlas to takethe fall for certain events. Like the Attack at the Vytal Festival and the Fallof Beacon, that could be misconstrued to look like an Attack from Atlas. Caroline Cordovin pointed at this during V6 when she made the acknowledgement that since the Vytal Festival, it’s cause the rest of Remnant to see Atlas in poor light.

Not to mention that the stunt that waspulled with Cordovin herself and the mechazord in Argus. That could be twisted to makea point that Atlas was planning to make their move on Mistral too since theirforces resides in one of their main cities. 

And lastly, there’s Vacuo. With the wayhow Vacuo was brought up last season where, I think it was Watts who said thatif Ironwood comes to his senses, he could reach out to Vacuo. My guess is thatSalem is planning to pull some move that will probably paint Atlas at firingshots at Vacuo. That’s my hunch. 

Atlas will be turned into a martyr to spark a Second Great War in Remnant. And upon Atlas falling, perhaps this might spark the unknown Leaders of Mistral to cease this as an opportunity to have Mistral rule over all four kingdoms since technically, Vale (the kingdom whose original leader first ended the first war) and Atlas (the most technologically advanced and military leading kingdom crumbled to the ground) are at their weakest.

For all we know, after Atlas falls, Mistral might want to take over. After all, wasn’t it not Mistral who sort of instigated the first Great War in a way? I’m just saying. 

This is actually making me think ofsomething important—what if…Salem is the least of our heroes’ worries. What if...the big final battle would be during a Second Great War?

I have this weird feeling that, if wedo get a standalone Dark Domain Arc during the Atlas Trilogy, it’ll probably end with the group confrontingSalem. Like Salem vs Ruby as our main heroine but instead of killing her, Salemis sort of restored in a weird way. A part of me believes that it’s not Salem’sfate to die by being killed but to receive death through finally understandingwhat the Gods were trying to show her after all those years ago.

I know no one likes the SalemRedemption headcanon buuuuuuuut…this squigglemeister think it’s very likely due to theforeshadowing left behind by the Lost Fable. At least…okay, hear me out withthis one.

My gut feeling is that RWBY’s climax arc will involve historyrepeating itself. 

It will feature Remnant going througha second Great War and it will also feature Salem gathering an army from thatGreat War to enact her revenge on the Gods for a second time.

I feel as if Salem could go throughsomething similar to Haggar/ Honerva during the final season of VoltronLegendary Defender (only not as poorly executed).

I feel like should Ruby use her Silver Eyeson Salem on full blast, she wouldn’t kill her but restore her to her originalself before she fell into the Grimm Pools of Darkness. I feel as if Ruby’s eyes would only cleanse Salem of all of her darkness.However, it wouldn’t change her.

Salem would be reverted back to her original self from First Remnant but she would still harbour the same negative emotions that brought her to her own self destruction.

Alhough she has been cleansed of her darkness, it did not rid her of all the anger and resentment she still harbored for so many years. Her body may be changed again but her memories of the past will still stay with her.

As a matter of fact, it only served to remind her of why Salem became the monster she once was and still was at heart.

The Gods. It was all their fault. They did this to her and they still needed to pay for what they put her through. So basically Salem returns to her old ways.

I like the idea of Ruby cleansing Salem with her Silver Eyes but Salem is still bitter. She hasn’t let go of the past and still wants vengeance.So like before, she tries to form an army of the Grimm but  because Salem no longer had anyties to the darkness after her restoration, the Grimm no longer served her.

Thus Salem loses her Grimm army. There could even be a thing where Salem is unable to turn herself back into her Grimmified form. Perhaps after seeing that her power could cleanse Salem, Ruby uses it to get rid of the Grimm Pools? Not sure if she’s that powerful. If not Ruby then I can see Oscar doing that or her and Oscar doing it together, using their combined Light to rid away the land of Darkness maybe?

 This infuriates Salem. ��In a nutshell, my theory is thatRemnant will fall into a second Great War. During those events, we’ll see ouryoung heroes experiencing what their ancestors suffered through with the kingdomstaking fire at each other with Mistral making the first advances to invade and conquer the remaining two kingdoms since Atlas fell. And while and Vacuo’s leaders are doing their best to ensure that Mistral doesn’t wind up taking over their kingdoms, the people suffer at the hands of the Grimm who become more rampant during the chaos.

And while the War is in full effect with everyone fighting against Mistral, Salemuses that as a ploy in her schemes. 

Similar to how she gathered First Remnant’sleaders against the Gods in the Lost Fable, what if…Salem rallies the leadersof Mistral (as the most dominant kingdom) appealing to their lust for power so that they may train their weapons on a much higher target. 

Imagine if… Salem gets the leaders of Mistral to side with her by saying something along the lines of why rule all of Remnant when you can rule the whole world should they aid her take down the Brother Gods.

What do you think of that? Again I know it’s a stretch of a theory butit’s worth thinking about. So yeah, this answer took a rather strange turn. Nosure if I quite answered it but that’s my answer in a sense XD Hope I answeredyou in some shape or form Al or at least gave you more than you bargained forXD

~LittleMissSquiggles (2019)

[obsidianarchives]

Game of Thrones Recap: S8E2 - "A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms"

Let me get this out of the way up top, I am and have always been a sucker for bottle episodes. While your mileage may vary and I can understand being disappointed if you were expecting more plot than character payoffs, this was everything I could have asked for in a prelude to the devastation we all know is coming. Only one location this week, so let’s get into it.

Winterfell

I don’t know what Jaime thought was going to happen, but the Kingslayer showed up about 19,999 soldiers short on the bill and was immediately hemmed up and brought to trial after arriving in Winterfell like a thief in the night. Daenerys was ready to feed Drogon the man who killed her father (and if he kept pushing it, a side of Tyrion), and Sansa was all too ready to help before Brienne of Tarth stepped in to vouch for him. Finally giving respect to the depths of their relationship, her word was enough for the Lady of Winterfell and Jon, who wants NO smoke between his sister and his love, is just happy to have another hand in the fight. He exits stage left, giving Dany the cold shoulder as soon as she bangs the gavel, ignoring his beloved like he’s 1995 Dumbledore.

Ratbag, slave trader, creepy old pervert Jorah, who for some reason is still hanging around, managed to convince Daenerys to save Tyrion’s head and job as Hand for now and also advised her to have a direct conversation with Sansa instead of ruling by exchanging petty looks. In an overdue change, we’re getting to the point and having characters act like adults instead of talking about each other this season. There is a thawing of relations, as the two powerful leaders find common ground and Sansa explains that her standoffish nature is less about Dany specifically and more about ensuring the protection of her people.

She knows men do stupid things in love (and out of love) and while the Dragon must have three heads, Sansa wants to make sure her people are protected should Jon make decisions with the wrong one. She apologizes for the lack of formalities last episode, but isn’t here for the kiki and wants to know what will happen to the North after the battle with the dead. Dany is as non-committal as Stevie J, but her answer is cut short by the arrival of Theon back in Winterfell. I didn’t like the looks Sansa and Theon were exchanging here, but hopefully it’s just the bonds of friendship and not a more romantic suggestion. I have never seen it for Theon, his redemption arc, shipping him with anyone other than death, or as a staff, record label, and a MFing crew and I’m not about to start now.

The Night’s Watch and Brotherhood Without Banners holdouts (primarily Tormund and Dolorous Edd) made their way to Winterfell from the disaster with the Umbers at Last Hearth less than a day ahead of the army of the Dead. With all the expected players finally assembled, the armies of the living try to come up with some sort of strategy, and their plan centers around setting up Bran as bait to get the Night King in the open. For the first time we begin to get some sense of what the White Walkers may actually want, and chief among that is killing Bran as the holder of living memory. Theon volunteers to guard him, which means he’s as good as dead, but no great loss there. Breaking up the war council, Jon avoids Dany again, still having not told her about being first in line for the throne.

After experiencing even more microaggressions, Missandei and Grey Worm realize they’ll never be welcomed in Westeros, and being disgusted with the racism, make plans to retire somewhere warm and safe when this is all over. Which means they’re going to die. BUT THEY’D BETTER NOT! I need someone to rescue them and fly them to Wakanda. By the old Gods and the new.

GHOST BYKE! They finally remembered Jon’s closest companion and friend was not one of the direwolves they needlessly killed, as Winterfell is transformed to the Wall South. We see Jon, Edd, and Sam once again as the Watchers on the Wall, this time atop the Starks’ castle, reflecting on all they’ve seen and mourning their fallen brothers Grenn and Pyp. Inside, Jaime and Tyrion are also going down memory lane, which turns into a fireside chat joined by Brienne, Podrick (who Neville Longbottom’d ALL the way up), Tormund, and Davos. Tormund tries to measure his dick against Jaime and teaches the children about the virtues of calcium.

Trading war stories and all this unlikely group have survived to this point, Tormund — ever the feminist — is disgusted that Brienne is not yet a knight. After she downplays how much the honor would mean to her, Jaime realizes it’s past due and as an anointed knight himself, commands Brienne to kneel as he confers the honor upon her. There’s a touching bit of hesitation on her part, as a woman who has been taunted all her life has to pause to see if this is just another mockery, but in a stirring and surprisingly intimate scene, she finally attains her lifelong goal. Which, unfortunately, means she’s also going to die.

Atop the walls, the Hound and Arya are having another one of their stilted, yet loving conversations, during which Sandor Clegane admits fighting for her changed him. However, being interrupted by Lord Beric reminds Arya there’s somewhere she’d rather be and goes to find Gendry. After stalking her prey and realizing Gendry is here for her murderous ways and still as fine as ever, she drops all pretense and asks his body count as she starts stripping, deciding she wants to celebrate Easter Sunday by hopping on that boy right there in the forge. Our little baby psychopath is all grown up and made good on six years of lust.

Outside, Lady Lyanna Mormont read her cousin Jorah for filth for even fixing his mouth to tell her anything. Unfortunately, the scene did NOT end with her banishing him from the North and our sight, but with Sam rewarding the worthless weasel with the Tarly family’s Valyrian steel sword “Heartsbane” in memory of Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. Back at the fire, Podrick channels his inner Pippin from Lord of the Rings and uses his gifted pipe, er…pipes to sing on the verge of battle. As we see a montage of loving couples (and Sansa x Theon) spending their last night together, we end with Daenerys finally walking up on Jon in the crypts as he stares at his mother’s statue. Jon finally tells her the truth about Rhaegar and Lyanna, and by extension, himself. Instantly, the love leaves Dany’s eyes and she looks at Jon now as a threat and rival, growing colder than the winter outside. Before they can finish their conversation however, they are interrupted by horn blasts. The dead are here. It’s. About. To. Go. DOWN!

With next week’s “Battle of Winterfell” bearing constant comparisons to the Battle of Helm’s Deep in Peter Jackson’s The Two Towers, it’s interesting that this episode should share so much in common tonally with The Return of the King: a kingdom on the edge of war, awaiting its inevitable destruction before the dawnless day. The episode posits that life is intrinsically linked to memory and history. What better way to spend a last night with the forces of the living than by reminiscing. The last enemy that must be defeated is death, but the battle is not lost as long as the memory of what was lost is preserved.

Book-Specific Notes: I try to keep theories and predictions (at least those informed by the text) separate for the particularly spoiler-averse, so read on at your own discretion. The choice to use Jenny of Oldstones for Podrick to sing before the battle was potentially telling. For a refresher, this is also the song that Tom of Sevenstreams sings as payment to the Ghost of High Heart for her visions. The song laments the Tragedy of Summerhall, which saw the death of several legendary figures, but was also the night Jon’s father (and Daenerys’s brother) Rhaegar Targaryen was born. The Jenny of the song is the wife of Duncan Targaryen, who gave up his claim to succession and chance to rule the Iron Throne out of love. It's also strongly hinted that the Ghost of High Heart is the same witch who made the prophecy that The Prince That Was Promised would come from that specific Targaryen lineage.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say the show is tipping its hand yet, but there are a number of interesting parallels. But also, the lyrics might spell trouble for those that we saw in the montage as Pod sang:

High in the halls of the kings who are gone Jenny would dance with her ghosts. The ones she had lost and the ones she had found And the ones who had loved her the most.

[polandspringz]

1 for the rat hunters

I decided to make this one be about how the team meets Primal and Ratborg! There is a bit more to Ratborg’s character and Primal when it comes to Lab and the rat companions’ knowledge of things, but to the rest of the team this is completely new. Also, I decided to make this a prequel to a certain event with an important member of the squad.

“Lab, where are you taking us?”

“Yeah, it’s early for us to do a hunt. I mean there are a ton of rats out, but if we were actually spotted-!”

“Exactly. This is risky, even for you. What’s up?”

An animalistic growl was the last to join the chorus of voices whining behind the leader. The sky had just turned black as the sun had fallen along with the world and everything began to turn over to night. The colorlessness above them was less darkness and more clouds that began to fog up the stars and moon that were starting to peek through. Lab walked on ahead, ignoring the protests of his comrades, smiling internally even though his robotic face couldn’t express it.

Ratthew squeaked on his shoulder, communicating with Ratgo and Ratdall in the squirming, rat filled hole that used to be his liver. Some whiskers nudged against his neck, tickling him under the collar even though his mechanical parts extended down towards his collarbone. A human hand came up to pat the small creature.

“You know who we’re visiting… All of you always had better clockwork than I ever did,” He mumbled, “I think it was one of you who told me it was time anyway.”

“Sals, what’s Ratthew saying?” Poland whispered from the back, walking alongside her bear companion (friend? Sister? Adoptive sister? Lab wasn’t quite sure he remembered what the whole deal was with that) who was the most recent addition of their little band of hunters. He was keeping a steady distance from the group though, as he was a wanted fugitive, so he doubted that even with her superior hearing, Sals couldn’t guess what had been exchanged between the rats.

A red feather drifted over head onto the sidewalk in front of Lab. He glanced up. Pigeonbach was frozen in the air, recognizing his mistake.

“I thought Sals was in charge of Pigeonbach?” Vince exclaimed as they watched Lab expertly, as if trained his entire life, reach out a hand and the bird woke from its paralysis spell and swooped down to perch. Walking up and down his arm, Lab turned around to regard his team with a sigh.

“I am the one the rats trust. Never forget that,” as Pigeonbach and Ratthew moved to sit by his bicep, Lab motioned towards his abdomen, pulling slightly at the lapel of the tied trench coat. There was no need for any reveal, any elaboration could be done in words, without dragging literal skeletons out of the closet, “They chose me, so they will always listen to me. Now, are you going to keep questioning me, or can we continue on?”

Despite his anger, a few minutes into their walk again, Lab began to open up.

“We are going to the bank. We are meeting someone there. Say nothing, do nothing, just watch me. I’ll explain everything later, because it is going to happen very fast, okay?”

They rounded the corner, the large columned and marble building standing tall at the end of the street. Nowadays, very few humans wandered around outside because of the invasion, but a few still mingled about amongst the small rat bodies scampering over the crosswalks and sidewalks. Lab looked at the sky. He flicked Pigeonbach off, and tucked Ratthew into his coat pocket before breaking off into a sprint. Vince, Sals, and Poland gave each other curious looks before they scampered after, being slowed down by trying to avoid stepping on any of the scurrying citizens. They weren’t as fortunate to be emitting a signal to the other rats that a large rat, or someone disguised as a very large rat through smell, was plowing through.

They ran across the street after Lab, who had now gone still and was staring up at the sky, his green light bulbs in place of his eyes let out rings of light that were just visible above his tilted back head as he watched something invisible to them. Sals’ nails clicked along the pavement, and Lab whipped around and threw his arm out with a shout-

“Stay back!”

In a flurry of ember and orange lava, an explosion gushed out of the roof of the bank, the waves of heat and energy throwing the group back towards the grassy area they had dashed across, Lab and Vince who had been in the lead being thrown back down on the tar of the road. Windows screamed as the fire shoved against their panes and within the fraction of a second that followed Lab’s warning they were thrown open and shattered, columns and ornate carvings reduced to rubble that flew over their heads. Finally, the waves condensed back in, and the rush of air and sound collapsed back to the center of the rising, bubbling, yellow and black foaming explosion and the crackling and hissing of the gas and heat could be heard at last as everything settled.

“What the hell just happened?!” Poland shrieked as the team all she leaned on Sals for support. Everyone was rushing to their feet, except for Lab, who sat up on the asphalt and stared into the flames, watching even as rats and people raced past them all in a flood of panic. Vince was yelling something at Lab, anger evident on their expression as they tried to wrench him to stand, but their leader merely flopped back down, and was it their imagination or did the lights on his head appear to glow a little brighter as he watched the dance of the fire?

“The screams all sound the same…”  A voice whispered on the hot wind that whipped the fire around the debris, building it higher and higher.

“She’s here…”

All of the rat hunters looked towards the flames, watching as a shadow began to blur and smear behind its wall of energy. Soon, the brown smudge became darker, like a blot of ink that had splashed onto a golden parchment, and then it burst through the wall into the gray light on the other side, and it was pitch black against the inferno burning behind them.

Them. There were two figures, a humanoid one and then a smaller dot, a different blot closer to the ground, standing on two legs as well. Sals and Poland moved closer to Lab and Vince, disbelief on their expressions as the two figures began to strut forward towards the group.

“I will explain everything soon. Now, allow me,” Lab said, standing up and going to meet the mysterious figure halfway.

“You know Lab, I just can’t understand them. Even after all this time, Ratborg is the only one that has ever sounded different.”

“What have you been doing to Ratborg?”

“Nothing. But when we set the place ablaze, it’s never like what you read it books. Nothing blood curdling, nothing chilling. Only-”

“-only squeaks. Well, it’ll change soon.”

“Hasn’t changed in years, buddy. Doubt I’ll find anything satisfying in this town.”

Lab’s posture changed, and if he had eyes, they would be narrowed to slits with suspicion, “Nothing?”

The woman smirked, “That’s right,” She tucked one hand into the deep pocket of her indigo leather coat and rubbed a finger back and forth above her lip, a wicked, wild grin evident on her face, “Nothing but a bank chock full of burnable money and checks made for wedding gifts.”

“A wedding?”

There. was a beeping noise, and the two looked towards the bipedal rat with hulking round, iron shoulders that had ceased it’s twitching motions and was glaring down the road.

“Time?”

Two more beeps, the second one cut abruptly short before the rat scurried forward. The woman pulled a cigarette box out, and deposited one stick into Lab’s hand before she brushed past him, both hands hidden within her coat and her head bowed.

“Looks like I’ve gotta blast. Won’t even have time to leave my signature. You know it well enough by now, right? Can you do me this favor?”

Her rat was already down the road. Police sirens and fire engines were wailing on in the distance. As quickly as the other rat hunters blinked, she had ran off, and their leader was hunched over the sidewalk in front of the bank, ignorant to the embers falling on the concrete around him.

“Lab, get back? What are you doing?”“We need to go, now! If they see us here, we’re already dead, but if they see you, you’re surely to die right away! Let’s go!”

Sals bit the stick out of Lab’s hands, spitting it out suddenly when they realized the thing began to sizzle and fizz with her saliva. It was chalk.

“What’s going on?” She growled. Poland nodded jerkily and followed Vince’s example and grabbed one of Lab’s arms.

“What did you take us out here? To see this?! To get us framed?”

“It’s not like you to question me,” He quipped, and the girl curled away, eyes overcome with shame, “But, you should know before we go, that woman was Primal, a hunter from outside of town.”

He squatted back down and began to draw, arcing the chalk into elegant curves and rings as he spoke, “She’s our informant, striking places like this for big information that we can’t normally get if we want to keep some anonymity.”

“There are other hunters outside of the city?”

“She helps all of us. She knows the stories and information on all the rats ruling on this side of the world. Speaking of which,” he drew one more thick solid line across the draw, solidifying the symbol into the ground just as the fire spread to a tree that stretched over their heads, the green leaves swallowed within seconds as the fire rained down like hail upon them, “It appears while we were out hunting, our good friend Rat King Cora went and got himself hitched.”

Somewhere, deep within a chamber inside the castle walls, a girl sits on a plush bed. The windows are open. It is daylight on this side of the kingdom still. A large rat with a crown sits across from her in a chair, waiting patiently, a human maid takes back the water glass from the girl. Her head bowed, her hair tied up, tentacles beginning to take shape as she adjusts to the mutation, she holds a hand over her throat, and breathes out her first of many warbled sentences.

“Woomy.”

[sserpente]

In a heartbeat (Chapter 31)

A/N: ARE YOU GUYS READY FOR A NEW CHAPTER?!

Doctor Strange possessed an extraordinary sense of perception. With his enchanted red cloak, nearly no enemy was enabled to sneak up on him. It clung around him like a second pair of eyes, scanning the environment behind his back to protect him from evil.

It startled him all the more when suddenly, the cloak flattered wildly, excitedly like a dog that had been promised a fresh and juicy bone. Alarmed, he turned on his heel, facing an all too familiar man only few feet from where he was standing, burying his nose in a magic book in an attempt to stop Thanos’ schemes.

“Loki,” he began dismayed, slightly tilting his head to replace a half-hearted greeting. His fingers were ready to cast a spell and send him flying through dimensions again when he took a threatening step forward but then, much to his surprise, lifted both his hands in defeat.

“Listening to what I have to say might turn out to be in your own interest, sorcerer. And in that of the entire Midgardian population.” He spoke darkly, his voice oddly calm.

Strange hesitated. “I have seen you and Thor in a vision. You are dead.”

“As far as Thanos is concerned, I am.” Loki simply replied, shooting him a stern look in the process. Strange understood immediately. So he was the first one to learn that the God of Mischief was still alive and had fooled death once again.

He nodded slowly. “So what do you want here?” Loki clenched his fists, fighting the itching urge to conjure two shiny daggers to stab the would-be sorcerer. Thanos’ lackeys would be here any minute. He did not have any spare time.

“I demand to know the whereabouts of my people. The Valkyrie and the Cronan took the Arc and fled. I know they have contacted you. Finding out myself would take too much time and energy that I have not to waste.”

For a couple of nerve-wrecking seconds, Strange silenced. Staring Loki down in a scrutinising manner, attempting to read in his wicked blue eyes what side he was on. He decided quickly that he really did not know what had occurred after his fake death.

“I don’t know yet. Valkyrie never made it on the Arc. She stayed behind with (Y/N).”

Loki’s face fell. At the mention of your name he flinched, barely, shockwaves of fear and concern cursing through his entire body. If you had stayed in the village when Thanos attacked him… you had either witnessed his seemingly gruesome fate or gotten killed in the explosion. One possibility was more dreadful than the other, for both would have had you suffer unbearable pain he knew he was the reason for.

You finding out about his coup to fake his death yet again had never been part of the plan. He would have sought you after all the threats Thanos had caused had been eliminated, reunited with you and gifted you that happy ending he had always promised you in your sleep.

“She is alive.” Strange finally added, watching curiously how he breathed out audibly.

“And where is she now?”

“With Thor, somewhere in space, I’ve been trying to track them.” With his brother, she was at least somewhat safe. He knew that if something happened to her, Thor knew to expect a blood bath. Never before had he held anything so dear in his life, not even when Frigga was still alive.

“What about Banner?” He choked out.

“He is downstairs with Tony Stark. He will not be happy to see you.”

Loki snorted. “That feeling is mutual. No. Thanos believes I am dead and so does everyone else and I would appreciate if it remained this way until Thor kills him.”

“Thor? You think Thor will kill him?” Strange interrupted. Suspicion and distrust crawled up his spine, his body language betrayed him.

“My brother is a lot more powerful than you give him credit for.” And he was in a rage. Because of Heimdall—and because of him. He silently cursed himself. Of course his oaf of a brother would not take the hints and comprehend the hints he had provided him with.

“And what about (Y/N)?”

In an instant, Loki’s arrogant and superior gaze faltered again, his composed expression replaced by sudden sadness.

“Tell her nothing. Not yet. She will put herself in danger if she learns I am still alive and try everything in her power to go looking for me. She is stubborn.”

“You love her.” Strange stated simply.

The God of Mischief gritted his teeth. Yes. Yes, he did, with all his heart. It had been terrible to leave her behind like this but what business was that of his? “Now, are you going to help me or not?”

The sorcerer tilted his head. “Alright…” he started slowly. “Let us hear your plan.”

“The Tesseract is an undying energy source, nothing has changed about that. You tell Stark that if he clones the electromagnetic particles inside the stone, he can, with a little help of the princess of Wakanda, manifest them to a consistent object.”

He hated this kind of science talk. The words lay heavy on his tongue, yet fortunately, they were not his own. They were Stark’s. It was complicated.

“Let him know his Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing system and a man the size of an ant provided him with the information. He will understand, in time.”

The sorcerer frowned. “That is all?”

“This is vital knowledge he must receive immediately.” Loki hissed. “In the meantime, I shall be going to Jötunheim.”

“Hiding in a different realm will not stop Thanos from finding you if he succeeds.”

The God of Mischief rolled his eyes. “I have much more meaningful business on Jötunheim. Thor will need all the help he can get. I am the Frost Giants’ rightful king and I shall return with an army.”

Strange had to admit, Loki’s idea was promising—and pretty much their only hope. “And how exactly do you intend to do that? My portals cannot send you to a different realm.”

The God of Mischief smirked. “With this.” The sorcerer gasped the moment the brightly, blue shining Tesseract appeared in his palm.

“You had it all along.”

Loki nodded triumphantly.

“If you have the real stone… then what does Thanos have?”

“That, sorcerer, is a question you should probably ask your new friends. Tell no one I am alive.” And with that, he dissolved, a green shimmer of light announcing his magical departure only seconds before Ebony Maw arrived on Earth to demand the remaining Infinity Stones.

Travelling by Tesseract wasn’t exactly the most pleasant way to move between worlds. It was draining and exhausting, costing Loki a lot of energy he desperately needed to reunite with his brother and much more importantly, to get you to safety as fast as possible.

He could not make any mistakes—not that he ever had, of course, still, he needed to be extra careful about his word choice today. Especially in a place like this.

To say he had missed the planet he had been born on would be an atrocious lie. He knew now how was resistant to the cold, the ice and the snow around him barely affected his Jötun body. The frost-bitten air wrapped around his limbs as he strolled towards the ice palace Laufey had resided in, dark boots trampling through the ankle-high snow on the frozen ground.

His breath was visible before his eyes, white clouds evaporating with every step that he took closer to the species his adoptive father had taught him to fear.

“You…” A deep voice growled. Loki turned, already expecting to see one of the Frost Giants materialise sharp icicles that would pierce through his armour like steel.

“I must admit, I anticipated a little more joy upon my return.” He began with an arrogant smirk.

“What do you want?”

They had no desire to kill him—not just yet. No one travelled to Jötunheim just to ride a sleigh or make snow angels on the cold ground. There was always a purpose; and ever since their kingdom had fallen, they were desperate for every visitor who promised them a new reign and the revival of their bleak realm.

It was risky. If they took the lead or gained the upper hand, Midgard would be all but lost.

“I come with an offer you will not be able to dismiss.” He began confidently.

“Go on…” More Frost Giants appeared from behind icy walls, weapons at the ready.

“Our universe like we know it is in danger. Thanos, the last survivor of Titan, is attempting to accomplish what no one has ever accomplished before him. By wielding the Infinity Gauntlet and collecting all six Infinity Stones, he can wipe out half of the universe… including your race.”

“What business is that of ours?”

“I believe you did not listen,” Loki growled darkly. “If Thanos succeeds, half of you will be dead. Do you truly think you could deal with another loss? This place is already a pathetic excuse for a realm. You have no purpose, you have no king and you have no power. I intend to give you all of it.”

“A king?” The Frost Giants stepped closer. Anger was radiating off of them as they circled Loki. He looked small compared to them, despite his wit and obvious superiority. “What makes you think we would want an Asgardian to rule over Jötunheim?”

“Laufey had a son, did he not?” He began quietly. The Frost Giants had never known it was him who had killed his predecessor, his birth father. After Laufey’s defeat on Asgard, they had fallen, powerless without a skilled ruler and helpless without the casket.

He did not have it. It had been destroyed during Ragnarok, however, all of this was information he would wickedly withhold from them.

Swallowing thickly, Loki took a deep breath and embraced the cold around him like an old friend. It clung to his limbs like liquid metal, turning his skin blue and his eyes red. The Frost Giants took a step back, both shocked and flabbergasted at what they saw.

“I was taken from Odin the very same night your weapon was stolen from you. He raised me as his own, preparing me to one day claim the throne of Asgard. It was too late for Laufey when I found out about my true heritage, my destiny.” He lied, looking the Frost Giant he was speaking to dead in the eye. “I, Loki Laufeyson, God of Mischief and Lies, am your rightful king… and I will lead you in a glorious battle.”

A/N: You didn’t think I would actually kill him, right?! COME ON.

[tuxxer]

My thoughts on S5 of the magicians

Thoughts on Season five of the Magicians

                 So, as we finished Season four of The Magicians, we turn our thoughts on what is to come for the surviving members of the troop. Alas Quentin Coldwater joins the ranks of casualties during the war on magic. The Show treats death not as a finality, but merely as a plot device to advance a story line as needed. This time however the actor who plays Q, appears to have decided that there was no more to tell in his story and to leave the show on a personal high note.

                I have decided that the show needs a new direction and felt that it was time to bring you the reader along for the discussion. Season five for all intents and purposes is a clean slate in terms of story. Normally the previous season would set up the story for the following season at some point during the episode run. From what I could tell, almost every outstanding story arc has been resolved and the only new story arc is the deposition of high king fen and the current whereabouts of Josh Hoberman.

                The Twins have been cast into the seam, the director of the library has been killed in his attempts to achieve godhood, the fascist library state has fallen and hedge witches have gained a level of respectability in the eyes of classically trained Magicians. Only miscellaneous plot points remain. Fillory has been the subject of a hostile take over by the aptly named Dark Magician, Irene McAllister is still on the loose, the whereabouts of Santa, Panty sniffing pervert, Mayakovski, the chick from firefly I lost track of, along with Marina and Poppy.

  Elliot Waugh

                 Farm boy from Iowa. Has excellent leadership and organizational abilities and very confident in his magical abilities, the kind of person that you would follow to hell and back for a martini. That is if you’re an insecure person that has issues and a serious need to be accepted into a cool kid clique for personal validation. Probably a nice empathic guy if he knows you on a personal level, but only if he is the dominant.

                Has the ability to guide with out ordering and punishes by withdrawing friendship and patronage. Maintains a clique of disciples that adhere to his mindset, lives a lavish and flamboyant lifestyle and can level a scathing barrage of wit and sarcasm. Has intimacy issues arising from childhood and maintained a co-dependency with Margo.

                Of course, that is Season one Elliot. What I expect to see in the up coming season is a broken version of that Elliot with flashes of greatness followed by wallowing in self pity. This is of course up to the producers and they may have ideas on their note pads and emails about the direction they want to go.

                Elliot needs to go the way of Q in the books and become a teacher at Brakebills teaching what ever flavor of magic he has. He is ageing out of his past lifestyle and is in danger of being seen as an old person rather than the young edgy type he was. I am not someone that has the medical documentation to be able to diagnose Elliot, but I have known people like him. Living life like you don’t expect to make it past your thirtieth birthday and then waking up and realizing your no longer young and the phone no longer rings.

Margo Hanson

                Young, Beautiful, and the patron saint of mean girls everywhere. She comes to us from the west coast and a scion of a rich family. Wearing an aggressive wardrobe that promotes her confidence in that when she is in a room, you will know. An aggressive spitfire who hides a secret identity, with unusual talents and achievements. Like Elliot, she is highly competent with great organizational skills, and unlike Elliot has no problem with pointing out your flaws.

                Her command of invective is truly inspirational, her common sense shining when pulling out the pistol shocking the naïve Q and his prime directive in the nietherlands. Forming the second part of the co-dependency with Elliot, she enabled his lifestyle and validated him when perhaps she should have been making steps to evolve without the following seasons.

                For season five I expect that she will complete the transition that she has started in season 4, fully and without apology. Congruent to that, I expect that at some point in the season she is going to throw down with Elliot and tell him in her usual fashion to grow a set of tits and man up. As Janet, she has shown that she can run a major company and as Margo, that she can rule a kingdom.

                Mere time loops are not going to be a problem, this has come up before with Q and Julia arriving in Fillory sometime in WW2 England. We can expect that no matter the problem, this time Margo will be the one solving it, and probably much to Elliot’s discomfort.

  Kady Diaz

                 Kady is the anti-Margo, much the same ingredients but nature won out over nurture with her. The daughter of a hedge witch, admitted into Brakebills and expelled for stealing items for Marina. Coming to terms with this, she forms an unlikely partnership with Julia and ends up in a very frightening situation with Reynard the Trickster.

                Sharp and attractive and tends to be one of the more physical magicians in the group. Jock rather than cheerleader. When she is brave, she is fearless but when she is venerable, she goes introverted and runs. For Jade to shine she needs to be part of a team and up till now she has had nobody depending on her.

                I expect in Season five, Kady is going to have problems integrating the hedge witches and interfacing with whom ever is running the library. Enough has been done to the hedges that I could be forgiven for thinking not all of those hedges are going to be live and let live.

                Obviously, what I would like to see for her, is to return to the world of law enforcement and perhaps integrate that with the magical world. Much like the Auror’s do in the Harry Potter world. Bonus points if she takes up with the production of Dragon Porn.

     Julia Wicker

                 What can we say about Julia? Gorgeous, educated and fashion confident. She is no Margo that uses clothing to announce her presence. Dealing with her, your dealing with a professional that is not immune to the fact that she is attractive and can’t have her head turned by mere flattery.

                She has been in a race since Season one with Margo to see who transforms into the person that they are meant to. Combining talent and compassion and raw determination, she has gone from being a hedge witch, suffering huge personal losses and surviving, to ascension and becoming a goddess.

                Losing Q will be a huge blow for her, the last surviving person that she knew from her old life and perhaps the man she would have eventually married. With her magical abilities now returned, she faces an uncertain future.

                Like Elliot, the best place for Julia to be is going to be Brakebills as a teacher of some sort. Possibly even becoming the dean and taking Fogg’s place at the school. That mentorship day in Season one strikes me as a good landing spot for her.

   Alice Quinn

                 Hyper-smart , studious with serious attention to detail. Pretty, but very insecure and fashion negative. With librarian looks and a body that’s a teenager’s wet dream, Alice tends to use clothing that either lets her ugly up and be invisible or clothing that draws attention to her natural charms while forgetting that this lady has you looking where she wants you to look.

                For her magic has been real, and not just a tool that compliments the rest of a person’s abilities. If Magic does not present a solution, she attempts to find another way to solve a problem magically. Her worldview has been shaped by absentee parenting, a brother whose death led her on a quest to find him, only to find Q instead.

                A loner with no use for team work, she has trouble integrating with other team members on a long-term basis, and as such she has had the most trouble finding a spot on the team and keeping it. Her collaboration with the library in the past season, and the casualties suffered by the hedges does not bode well for her, when it comes time to count the cost after the dead have been mourned.

                For Season five, I expect her to go to pieces and crash and burn. Q was her rock in the same way that Charlie was. Magic will be her first go to, for returning Q to the mortal world. Short of being able to do that, she is going to have to make her way in the library as the only path open to her. Fun thought for bonus points, I expect her to form an unlikely pairing with Elliot

     Penny

                 Penny has the least amount of thought allocated to one of the prime characters. Switched out from Penny40 to Penny23, he seems to be really kept around when you need a magical uber. Both variations on the character have strong loyalty vibes to those that deserve them, and has a strong moral compass.

                Ever the outsider, he finally finds a home and friends when teamed up with the crew and I expect that will continue in Season five. If anything, I expect that he will suffer from severe sympathy fatigue and team up in some capacity with the library, or hopefully Kady’s hypothetical magical police.

 Again, I should mention that I should say a few words about him, just I am drawing a blank as to where he goes from here.

  Josh Hoberman

                 Josh is one of the older members of the team, a class ahead of Margo and Elliot and a contemporary of Poppy. Seemingly nice guy whose magical talent should be hospitality magic, if that’s even a thing, what his actual discipline is, I confess I never paid attention. It might be plant magic cause he seemed to have gotten the good drugs.

                Called up from the bench a couple of years ago, he has been an advisor to the Fillory side of the crew and gotten steady promotions up till now. Due to an ill-advised Dalliance back in the day, Josh has a little problem with full moons. Leading to a surprising short-term solution and a steady squeeze that’s going to be complicated in season five.

                But wait, there is potentially more. In the process of saving Elliot from the monster, Josh traveled back to Fillory to coordinate with the Fillorian magicians, and at some point, after Fillory was subject to a hostile take over from some individual. Leaving Margo and Elliot to arrive in Fillory 300 years in the future to find that Josh and Fen are missing.

 The Fuck

                Season five, I am going to use the books to align Josh’s future. Assuming Mayakovski is the invader, kicking Josh and Fen back to Earth seems reasonable and I am predicting Josh takes up residence in an Italian Palazzo with Fen. With no real idea how they got three hundred years into the future, Josh may have concluded that the dynamic duo have shuffled off their mortal coils and has at some point made sexy time with Fen, expect the fun to begin when Margo sends a what the fuck Bunny to express her dissatisfaction on Josh being AWOL.

      What should come next.

  This is the reason we need new blood, at best the current cast is only good for one more season before monster of the season starts to get boring, if the show is not canceled by then anyways. I had this thought in my head when I was watching mean girls. At the end of the movie, there is this brief shot of a couple of girls walking in the distance, clearly, they are the next generation mean girls.

 Anchor the show around Brakebills, it has played a bit part in each successive season but should be the main part of the next generation. Wrap up lose ends for half of season five and then start introducing the new Elliot, Julia, Kady etc. Start up the mentoring, teaching positions with new and arrogant magicians that are gonna conquer the world, as the past crew explain why the class lost half of their people when magic went away.