#/no remorse or feeling for the lives he's cut short but haunted instead by places and animals...

[amberedcorpse]

Duke lives in a perpetual state of missing home and being glad he´s not there anymore. Missing the place, it's sights and sounds, but not the people who lived alongside him in that tiny house. Glad that he made them "disappear", glad that he destroyed every branch of his family with his own two hands...But the place, it's trees, the earth and the river-- all of it still haunts him.

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

Hey, you once mentioned something about Tom Riddle being a little suicidal. Your new post reminded of that and I wonder why you think that. It’s the complete opposite of what the books want you to think.

Alright, it’s time, let’s do this.

My standard disclaimer whenever we venture into the dark pit that is my thoughts on Tom Riddle: I’m going to say a lot of controversial stuff that fandom generally doesn’t agree with, I will say so much of this shit that I simply do not have time to explain it all, I expect 99% of you to disagree with me and the other 1% to be so horrifyingly offended that I dare to contemplate a world in which Tom isn’t always an overly competent psychopath that they leave me notes telling me to take this trash out of their character tags.

We good? Alright.

So, when I say a little suicidal, I mean that he is suicidal.

Not on the level that he’s going to kill himself tomorrow, or even has plans to kill himself, but in that he makes very strange decisions for someone who desperately wants to live.

And yes, I realize I speak blasphemy given that Tom Riddle’s entire m.o. is supposed to be his crippling fear of death.

Oh man, this one’s going to be so long.

So, my reasoning comes down to a few things:

The location of the horcruxes and the nature of their protections.

The events of Deathly Hallows and Tom’s final actions in the novel

The nature of horcruxes and what it means to not only be able to create one but what it does to you (caveat that I am going to headcanon hard here and speak utter blasphemy)

So, let’s start in order this time, because I think the first two are actually far easier for me to explain.

The Location and Nature of the Horcrux Protections and the Trouble with Backdoors in Security

So, first, the horcruxes are all conveniently located in Great Britain. Not even just in Great Britain, all in places that Albus Dumbledore and later Harry Potter can track down with relative ease, all fairly close to each other.

Now, part of this is undoubtedly attributable to Tom’s overly romantic nature. 

Yes, Tom Riddle is a giant romantic, though not necessarily in the traditional sense everyone thinks of. The film “Patton” and its treatment of Patton comes to mind. Tom Riddle is a man enamored by a sense of greatness, of being remembered in this world rather than fading into oblivion, by the significance of places and times in history not only of the world but of himself. He creates an entire, grand, persona for himself because to live an ordinary life for him is to be worthy of nothing.

So, given that, of course Tom places the horcruxes in sentimental locations that have personal meaning to him.

However, it also makes them perilously easy to find and collect.

By itself, this wouldn’t spark my notice.

The ability to destroy horcruxes are not easy to come by. There’s only one basilisk and it’s by chance/Lucius fucking up that Harry gains access to the necessary basilisk venom. Using Fyendfire is an incredibly dangerous thing to do and just as likely to blow up you and the next three towns over as it is to destroy a horcrux. And if there are other means of destroying a horcrux they’re just as hard to come by or just as dangerous.

It’s not quite throwing it into the fires of Mt. Doom from which it was forged but it’s pretty damn close.

So, really, without JKR’s convenient Deus Ex Machina giving both him and Dumbledore the means to actually destroy these things, Tom Riddle’s horcruxes are pretty damn safe no matter where we put them. As we see from the locket, which Regulus manages to collect but Kreacher cannot destroy even after several decades.

However, what does spark my notice, is that the horcruxes can be collected by someone other than Tom Riddle when it appears as if they were never intended to be. What do I mean by this?

From what we see, there’s no benefit to Tom if the original horcruxes are found by anyone. He doesn’t seek them out to restore his original body, they’re just anchor points that should be hidden at all costs. So, he’ll never need a Death Eater to go collect them for him should he be indisposed (indeed, to do so would require a tremendous amount of trust in people he has very little trust in). 

So, why hide them in such a way that others can access them? There are canon based options which would have prevented anyone else from reaching them. Given the existence of age lines, I imagine Tom Riddle could make some arbitrary barrier keyed only to himself. There are mokeskin pouches, such as the one Harry is given in the seventh book, which we know can only be accessed by whoever they’re keyed to. There’s the Fidelius Charm which, true requires a secret keeper which Tom would be very meh on, but options exist.

Tom Riddle could wipe the locations of his horcruxes off the face of the map. He chooses not to. Which leads me to believe that, at least on some unconscious level, he wants the horcruxes to be found.

Then we have the protections.

Specifically, I’m thinking of the locket here.

Yes, the protections are very formidable, but they’re also goddamn weird. 

Rather than make the horcrux simply inaccessible, kill all those intruding, instead the intruder has to go through a very “Saw” like puzzle in which they drown themselves in despair until they finally get the locket, at which point they likely suicide by zombie.

More, there’s no hint that there’s any other way to retrieve the locket. 

Backdoors in security are a very bad idea. What they do is weaken the security as a whole and, if you can take a short cut is, it means that someone who is clever enough and motivated enough can to. Dumbledore is both clever and motivated enough, and I imagine if there was a way to get the horcrux that involved not doing this ridiculous task he would have done it.

More, we’d be back to the land of Tom making sure only he can access the horcrux by requiring a password, keying it to his magical signature, or something so that no one else could get it.

Which means, that’s right, if Tom wants to get the locket he’s drinking the goddamn despair juice just like the rest of us.

What kind of a person would do any of this?

I’ve gone over this before, but I don’t think Tom Riddle’s crazy. Rather, in this case, I think he’s driven by an unbelievable amount of nihilist rage and is also quite depressed.

Tom goes to collect his horcrux, “Ah, it’s time to remember what a miserable life I’ve led and the sheer awfulness of my own existence. Good, I was starting to feel a little too happy. Let’s see if I get eaten by my undead, vengeful, victims today.” 

The Events of Deathly Hallows and Tom Riddle’s Death

I think Tom Riddle’s final death in the books was suicide.

Tom takes over the Wizarding World, finally, and it’s as miserable as ever.

He’s trapped in this sham, barely functional, probably very painful body. His Death Eaters are completely out of control and for all that he wanted society to burn it’s now burning and no one’s even learned anything from this. Children in Hogwarts are being routinely tortured and have now staged a rebellion in which he’s having to slaughter them (I have reasons to believe that this is not what Tom Riddle wanted, at all, but that’s best saved for another post), and then he learns his horcruxes have all been destroyed without him even noticing.

There’s so little left of him, he has accomplished nothing, and there’s Harry Potter back from the dead yet again, gloating at him that love conquers all and Tom Riddle will never understand.

And Harry’s right, Tom Riddle will never understand, the world is meaningless and flat to him now and he finally understand that there’s no point to it. I think Tom Riddle decides he’s done. He’s just done.

He enters in a duel with Harry Potter knowing the weird nature of their wands. Now, it can be assumed he used the Elder Wand, but we know they get locked in Priori Incatatum , and that makes no damn sense with the Elder Wand (well, wandlore in general is silly, but I’m working with what JKR gave me here). So I choose to take JKR at her somewhat established canon and say that, no matter what Harry thought, Voldemort was using his original wand.

He throws out the killing curse, despite having now witnessed Harry resurrecting twice to this thing, and within two seconds it rebounds and kills him.

Voldemort’s death is a lot like this scene from the recent, terrible, 2020 live action Mulan (10/10 do not recommend).  Now, we’re supposed to think that this scene is the witch saving Mulan’s life and thus showing her hope for the next generation. In actuality, the witch literally flies into an arrow she could have easily deflected from Mulan’s path. It’s a suicide that Mulan is too stupid to notice.

Tom chooses suicide in the most ridiculous, flamboyant, and easily written off manner one can and no one even notices. Instead Harry crows that he has personally defeated Voldemort, with the power of love no less, HUZZAH!

And the castle parties.

The Nature of Horcruxes

I almost don’t want to include this because it’s so... well, I’m really drifting far from canon and fandom now.

However, with horcruxes, there’s always an overriding question of why Tom is able to make so many when we don’t see anyone else with these things around (especially as it’s clear that murder doesn’t simply happen for those that now have horcruxes).

Usually, you have fic authors just sort of shrug and go, “Well, he’s that evil, I guess.” Sometimes you have them go, “No one else is crazy enough to keep going, and that’s why Voldemort’s cuckoo bananas.” 

One very good explanation I’ve seen is that it’s because most people, when they murder, feel remorse immediately. The soul split happens, but they’re haunted by the murder for the rest of their life, and thus the horcrux isn’t made. Voldemort, feeling nothing when he kills anyone, is thus able to make them even for when he’s only indirectly associated with the death in question.

However, to me that never really jived philosophically.

Mostly, I simply cannot imagine that tearing apart your very soul is an act of indifference. Here’s how I see it: to do something like that to yourself, you must care, you must care beyond all imagine and human endurance. Your soul literally cannot abide it and saws itself in half, purging what you cannot stand about yourself the most. 

The remorse part is, yes, remorse for the act and the victim but more to the point it is the ability to forgive and reaccept the worst part of yourself. That part of yourself that you purged and destroyed, which is nearly impossible to do and might very well destroy the fabric of who you are). 

In other words, while creating a horcrux is an abominable act of hatred, it is also one of profound self-hatred.

Tom Riddle loathes himself so much that he is able to do this over and over and over again. 

As Tom Riddle goes on he makes himself into less and less and less of himself until he probably doesn’t even know who he is anymore. He just knows, whatever is left of him, he loathes that too. 

And then, of course, he gives up, runs into the nearest flying arrow, and dies.

TL;DR: Tom Riddle’s is a miserable existence that ended in a miserable if unintentionally hilarious manner

[calpops]

reverse revival | c.h.

Calum didn’t have the right words to restore the past. He couldn’t reverse time and make himself realize what he knew all along any sooner. There would be no going back and fixing the moment; there was no way to make it come before the night where nothing went right. Just one night was able to bring back all of the defining moments in Calum’s relationship. The good and the bad, the love and the heartache, the maybes and the somedays.

6k words

Copyright © 2020 calpops. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be posted by anyone else on any platform in any format (translations included).

<< >>

A seething silence sat in every inch of Calum’s home. A winter moon was just a sliver in the sky, every empty corner inside echoed back words said in the heat of the moment. His back pressed to the hallway wall, head thumping lightly against it as his hands came up; fingers tangled in his hair. His palms pressed into his forehead and his teeth sank into his lower lip; brown eyes burned without remorse and an involuntary sob that built from his chest up escaped. He fought off the urge to slide down the wall, collapsing in on himself and warding off problems. It was innate to Calum to shut down and close off when the world became too much; he thought he had broken the self destructive habit when he met her, she was one of the few people who could shatter the self imposed silence and make him open up.

Calum took in a shallow breath though he intended for it to be deep. His chest was tight and his throat felt as if it was closing, body pushing off the wall and moving on instinct to the door at the end of the hall. He didn’t knock though it stood closed with reason. His tense hold on the doorknob faltered, his shoulders rolled back and he gathered courage. She was behind the door, waiting in her own world of self imposed silence that would warily welcome Calum and bring him to a sudden stop. The door swung open and Calum stood motionless, her back was to the door, chin resting on her hands and elbows atop her knees, legs hanging off the bed and body still.

Calum managed to get out her name though it was bittersweet as it rolled off his tongue.

There was still a deepset burn that ached through his chest, a night of harsh words and miscommunication haunting them both. She turned to take a peek at him, tired eyes watery and nose twitching. Her hands were shaking and restless, fingers digging into the sheets and eyes flickering away from Calum’s gaze. Calum furrowed his eyebrows, forehead creasing and hand coming up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. His breathing was thought out; forced and painful as his throat continued to feel as if it was closing in.

She licked at her bitten raw lips; in times of distress her teeth sank into her lower lip, leaving reminders of peril in their wake. “What?”

Calum let out a huff and dropped his hand. The one worded question was enough to prompt him to go to her side. The word was softer than those exchanged just minutes earlier. It encouraged him to sit on the edge of the bed, inches between them and uncertainty clinging to his next words.

“Let’s go for a drive.”

An incredulous look crossed her face, one that had doubts plaguing Calum’s mind, regrets running rampant over five small words. Maybe his plan was foolish. Maybe the time he spent behind a closed bedroom door in silence had concocted nothing helpful. He swallowed nervously and waited for her response though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it anyway.

“Alright,” she said between a strained breath with eyes that pooled tears and hopes and fears for all that a silent night turned to a drive were worth.

Calum nodded; too scared to speak and break the delicacy of agreement. He was too nervous and unsure to reach for her hand as he usually would, but he could almost feel her fingers locking with his, could almost trace the lifelines on her palms and knew they matched his. Instead, he put one hand in his pocket and stood, the other timidly guiding her with a separation; it stayed in midair, too overwhelmed to press to the small of her back to lead the way. They stumbled around each other and to the bedroom door, sneaking glances as they walked out; taking deep breaths and keeping them in with chests and hearts wound so tight they didn’t know if they’d ever be able to let them go. Only when they reached the front door did a blast of cool air force their exhales; lungs crying in relief and harmony, hearts hanging in silence and tandem.

They reached for their shoes and coats and pulled them on over pajamas; hers reached lower past the short nightgown clinging to her body. Calum’s was leather and smelled like her—so often it found a way to her shoulders on nights when he told her to bring a coat but she never did. Calum stayed silent as they got in the car, only the click of buckles and the hum of the engine coming to life accompanying them. Headlights cut through the night, small flurries of snow lit up and glimmered in the distance. She stayed quiet in the passenger seat; slipped on a mask that bid glossy eyes goodbye and shrouded her in a facade of calm. Calum couldn’t do the same. He couldn’t keep his grip on the wheel from white knuckles or the plummeting feeling from crashing through his stomach. His jaw was set and terse. Eyes distant and yet they took in every minuscule detail of the night; contemplating all that was ahead and all they could leave behind. He wore his heart on his sleeve and emotions on his face. Only with her. Only for her.

They drove on, minutes passing in a blur of headlights and hums. Calum was rigid and unrelenting in his resolve to fix what was breaking. He knew his emotions were heavy and diluting rationale. He knew his heart was yearning for an easy way out and simple fixes to bigger problems. He still felt tight and breathless, winded and uncertain he should let go. From the corner of his eye he saw her shift, saw the mask of calm crack with concern.

“It’s okay. We’re going to figure it out, we’re going to work through this.”

Her comforting words collided with Calum’s hopes. Knowing she wanted the same eased some of the aches, took away some of the uncertainty and helped to build more hope in stained glass walls around his heart.

“Breathe,” she reminded in a whisper and everything bottled up inside of Calum began to let go in fractured pieces that caught the light.

Pressure released slowly; first with a breath, then with dropping shoulders and a relaxed jaw. The road was desolate; the late hour and cold temperature keeping people inside. The path Calum drove was familiar. Turns led to a place that was once considered home to them both. A small apartment complex came into view as Calum eased on the breaks and stopped the car. It stood lit up by the headlights; old stone and ivy climbing the building brought back memories in droves. But one moment stood out in Calum’s mind more than any. It was a night filled with hope and doubt and fears drowned out by desires that a question he’d been dying to ask finally fell from his lips.

“What are we doing here?” She asked and Calum could hear the hitch in her voice and found nervous eyes taking in the old building.

“Remembering,” Calum mumbled and shrugged as he put the car in park and undid his seatbelt; hoping it might alleviate the task that breathing normally was becoming. “I never officially lived here with you, but I realize now that it always felt like our first home.”

The crack in her mask of calm expanded, breaking away entirely as she took in his words and softened; once hardened gazes melting into something much more familiar and welcoming. She nodded, understanding the feeling that Calum was trying to explain. Reminiscing in much the same ways. Missing times when their world was confined to a five hundred square foot studio apartment. Before complications. Before miscommunications made them breathless from words exchanged and hearts finding uncharted doubts.

“I felt that way too,” she said in a whisper and finally met his gaze.

He laughed at the insistent memory forcing its way through his mind. The scattered pieces laid out in a gleaming and familiar pattern, yet it taunted him, was daunting and left his skin prickling with ambivalence.

“It took me months to finally ask if you wanted to live together,” he admitted and noted the way her fingers curled into her palm. He shook his head at the intrusive memory but accepted it into his mind anyway. “And I didn’t even do it in the way I wanted to. My whole plan failed.”

“You had a plan?” She asked, voice teetering on calm and intrigue.

Calum had never shared the failed plan with her; tucked it away into the recesses of his heart and mind and left it alone with the shadows. Her question begged to bring it into stained glass light; to see the reflections of color and failure in dazzling bursts of a past that never was. Calum sucked in a shaky breath and ran a hand through his hair before clearing his throat. He took in her curious and waiting eyes, the way they didn’t falter when finding his gaze and wouldn’t let go.

“I was going to make it a big thing to make up for the last attempt at a romantic gesture,” he explained and watched as recognition flickered in her eyes and turned a taut frown into an easy smirk. “I had the whole night planned. I was going to surprise you when you got home from work; but a storm brought you home early and knocked out the power. There would’ve been string lights and music and dinner. It would’ve been perfect. Instead it was what it was.”

She smiled, hand releasing and fingers relaxing as she too became immersed in a moment neither could forget.

“I thought it was perfect,” she said in a low tone, hand daring to reach for his; always being the first to cross uncharted territories and reach for the things they both wanted. He reveled in her touch and words; felt himself let go of pieces of the past. “I don’t think I could ever forget opening the door and having you immediately blurt out ‘let’s live together’ when I thought we already kinda were.”

Calum laughed through a tight throat and burning eyes. “You’re always one step ahead of me.”

“That’s the problem,” she mumbled and Calum felt those words cut through him.

Though she meant it in a way to paint a light of fault on herself Calum took it to his heart and let it glimmer against the things he felt were his fault instead. They were fine tuned to each other but always running on different circuits. She was a step ahead, a second before him, a plan to a fleeting thought. Sometimes he couldn’t keep up; not in the ways that mattered. Five words came as a revelation to them—even though they both knew it deep down it shocked them both into silence. Instead of saying something, anything, to help bring them back to the moment and the struggles they were facing—Calum falling behind as she watched with what he assumed was silent resentment—he peeled out of the parking spot and headed further into their past.

<<

The night was cold and the streets were lined with fresh snow from the small storm the night was bringing. Calum drove them away from the apartment building, past a failed attempt at a question and to a place of admission. They exited the car, tugging coats closer around them as winter wind bit at their skin. Lights that would usually flicker with life were dulled from the storm.

“Do you remember?” Calum asked into the thick silence; his body was tense and unsure, waiting for a response that could make or break him.

“Of course I remember, Cal.” She was soft spoken, voice drifting to a time long past.

Calum let out a small laugh, one that slipped through the cracks of his resolve at the absurdity of the memory. It wasn’t funny, yet he stood with her by his side, frame shaking from the guffaw that spilled out of him. “I messed it all up.”

The sentence brought Calum back to the first time they had walked through an imposing wooden door. He had showed up forty five minutes later than he should have though he was the one to pick the time. He’d been held up at the studio, been pushed back even further by the snow that began to fall from the sky. There’d been an apprehension in Calum as he had made his way towards the restaurant, he contemplated if all those mishaps had been signs. If maybe what he was going to say was better left for another day. But he had stopped short as he entered and she sat waiting; one hand was pressed to her cheek, lips puckered and patient, her hair was perfectly disheveled from the winter wind and impatience for styling and Calum’s heart skipped a beat. All the inhibitions and second thoughts melted away as she turned and caught his eye, her eyes were bright and gleaming against the lights; content to pull him in and keep him under.

“I was late. You were patient,” Calum started again, recounting the misfortunes the night had brought them. The added meaning weighing heavily in the air between them. “The waitress hit on me. You laughed it off. I hated what I ordered so you offered me your plate. They were out of dessert. You said you’d make cake at home. And when the time came for me to finally say what I should’ve said months before; I messed that up too.”

She shuffled her feet and let out a tight giggle, it was strained and Calum could hear the attempt to replace tears with laughter. She pressed the smallest bit closer to Calum and let out a breath to recollect herself before they would forge their journey onward and deeper into the past.

“You love me?” She repeated Calum’s words verbatim, only her voice had gained confidence and control after laughter that threatened to break them both. Calum’s voice had cracked and spluttered as he realized his mistake.

Calum shook his head in disbelief, breath leaving his body in a plume as it collided with the cold. “I couldn’t even tell you that I loved you right. I said ‘you love me’ instead and all you did was nod. I did it all wrong with the right person.”

She sighed, smaller than Calum had and grabbed his hand with a timid reach. “It wasn’t wrong. You did everything you could, the best you could.”

Calum shook his head solemnly, no matter how many times he thought back to that night it never sat right. No matter how many times she had reassured him it was okay it never felt like it was. He couldn’t count the times he had wished for a do-over; for a second chance at a first confession.

“It was snowing,” she spoke up, catching Calum’s attention once more with a squeeze of the hand and never wavering eye contact. “You left the studio as soon as you possibly could. Inspiration couldn’t wait—I could. You were worth every minute.”

Calum shrugged, eyes burning and throat tightening as she continued justifying a night that always sat like the weight of the world on Calum’s chest.

“You couldn’t help but be charming, it’s in your nature. It’s part of why ‘you love me’ had me nodding. I didn’t even question it. Because I did—I do. And I knew what you meant when you said it. Someday had arrived. You finally loved me too.”

Her choice of words ripped the breath from his lungs, scattered it into the cool night air and let it hang with hurt and doubt and months of guessing. He knew well before he said those words that she loved him. Could tell by the way she looked at him, by the things she did and the patience she wore on her sleeve. She was ahead of him again, waiting for him to catch up—left to wonder if he ever would. Or if he would leave her ahead, veer off course and find a new path and pass her at a parallel. He couldn’t imagine those months of uncertainty and wonder. He didn’t want to try to comprehend the pain that must have sat with her as she knew what was in her heart but questioned if the same was in his.

Calum didn’t have the right words to restore the past. He couldn’t reverse time and make himself realize what he knew all along any sooner. There would be no going back and fixing the moment; making it come before the night where nothing went right, he couldn’t change the circumstances. All he could do was tell her how he felt. Try to make up for the spaces between them and the paces he fell behind on.

“I know you say it’s all okay,” Calum began, nervously licking his lips to buy time he wasn’t sure they had and brushed his thumb across her knuckles. “But I’m sorry for how it happened.” That it didn’t happen sooner.

She nodded, expression contemplative and calm. “There’s nothing to apologize for. I wouldn’t change any of it; even if we could.” They couldn’t.

He interlocked their fingers and led them back to the car. Away from a piece of their past made of jagged edges and transparent regrets. They drove away in a somber silence, Calum dove head first and trench deep into the reasons for the complications as a winding road took them further into their past. To a place that highlighted all that was wrong and spun their emotions with whirlwinds of mistakes. To a place of the past that Calum hoped would help them heal their present and keep them together in the future.

<<

The car was parked and the headlights lit up Calum’s old house. They had spent years there together. Her place was more of a home to them but Calum’s still made way into their memories; moments burned with regrets and lessons learned. They discovered many pieces of themselves and each other within the walls of the house. It stood empty now; on the market to be sold again. Through the glare of the headlights on the windows Calum could see shadows dancing along the hardwood floor and painted walls. But all he could remember was one certain night; stepping around each other and away from their problems.

“Why did we come back here?” She asked and Calum knew the memory in his mind must have worked its way into her thoughts as well.

She was still in the seat next to him and couldn’t tear her gaze away from the house; couldn’t get her mind off the moment that almost broke them. A moment just like this night had brought them; silence and uncertainty was entangled in their past so intricately they couldn’t be forgotten. Words were left unsaid and emotions ran so high they escaped them completely.

“I don’t think we ever really worked through it,” Calum mumbled and she sighed in a knowing way. “Maybe we wouldn’t be here right now if we had. Maybe we need to now.”

Pain flashed through her eyes; nose twitching and forehead creasing as she considered his words. She nodded, hand now gripping the seatbelt as hard as his hand had gripped the wheel at the beginning of the night. Heat poured through the car but an icy feeling washed through Calum’s veins. Snow still fell in flurries outside and Calum could recall leaves drifting in the night air years ago. It wasn’t a night he wanted to remember or revive. They had brushed it away, left it in a corner of the house to be forgotten when they finally moved in together. Their problems sat abandoned in empty spaces and hollowed hearts. Digging up broken pieces of their past was a necessary pain. If they didn’t, they may never be whole again.

“It’s my fault,” she said and shocked Calum; his mouth hung open in his surprise and his body went still.

He faltered at her admission. Neither had ever taken blame for that night. They were both much too stubborn and content to let fault and blame simmer and boil between them with silence and heartache. Calum stole himself and shook his head; tried to come up with words and a way to shift her feelings but came up empty.

“I shouldn’t have—I can’t—expect you to be on the same page as me. To feel the same as me. I need to give you time.”

Calum’s chest was tight and he couldn’t help the shaky breath that escaped him in a painful force. He looked at her; took in her form highlighted by white winter moonlight and yellow headlights. Her eyes fluttered closed and stayed shut; pained breaths lifted her chest and shook her body. Calum shook his head, refusing to let her take the blame though he knew she couldn’t see the motion. His fingers curled into his palms and dragged across his sweatpants; hands clenching and jaw getting tight.

It had been a night of harsh words exchanged and questions going unanswered. She had wanted more than what he was giving; a promise, an inclination that they were going somewhere, anything more than what already was. More than dates Calum tried to write off as casual, more than hookups and half assurances and lingering wonder eating at her. Calum always knew she deserved more than that. Before the tears and screams and self doubt plagued them on a night when the world was too calm and quiet for such an event. She just wanted to know it was more than what she thought; or at the least that it might be someday. She only ever asked about someday.

“I shouldn’t have made you wait,” he began and knew she would jump in if he spared even a breath. He shot her a glance as her eyes opened and begged silently for her to stay quiet so he might speak his piece. “It wasn’t fair for me to want everything except commitment from our relationship. I didn’t want anyone else. I was being an idiot. Maybe I was just too scared to really have you… because if I had you I could lose you.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” she soothed and reached a hand out for his, the touch punctuating the meaning of her words. “I’m still not.”

<<

The night brought them back to a memory that first defined them. A first date was now desolate in the winter weather where once it had been vibrant and abundant with life and hope. They stayed in the car this time, letting the heater keep them warm as the memory of awkward brushes of their hands and blushing cheeks made way into their thoughts. Calum knew they needed the contrast of a time so simple and sweet to the haunting memories of a fight that bit with venomous teeth. They could hear the waves lapping against jagged rocks in the distance, and took in the foreboding height of the lighthouse standing on a rocky cliff. Night clung to the sky but brightened by a roving light. Fights melted away in favor of first experiences. Heartache eased with memories of fluttering nerves and breathless conversation.

Calum tore his gaze away from the foreboding image of the roving light calling out to life and cutting through the spattering of snow the coast was receiving. The air was thick in the car but nothing compared to when a door separated them. They had ventured through the darkest parts of their story, dove head first into regrets and came up to the surface with hearts and lungs seeking breaths of relief and comfort. They found all of that within each other; in reached for hands, forgiveness and promises. With hope for a future together looming on the horizon of an ocean guarded by rocky edges and happy moments. Calum finally felt he was able to breathe without a crushing force of guilt sitting on his chest and weighing him down; without anxiety that the night might be their last.

“How long has it been since we were here?” She asked and Calum saw her eyes glossed over, highlighted by moonlight that rippled off the waves and shined when tears finally fell.

“A while,” Calum answered; fully knowing it’d been years since they first and last visited the lighthouse.

“You always said we could come back,” she reminded and quivering lips forced a smile. “I’m glad we finally could.”

Calum nodded his agreement and let a moment of silence and contemplation sit with them. It was his idea to go to the lighthouse for a first date—he tried to think outside of the usual dinner and movie first date cliche. He wanted something scenic but the likes of a picnic in the park seemed too ordinary for her. He wanted to impress but not admit the thought and effort put in; he wanted it to seem effortlessly perfect in a sense. He thought with all of himself, sometimes with too much of himself and for too long; often dubbed an over thinker, and sometimes finding it coming back to bite him. He overthought their first date and everything after that. Every moment and aspect of them. He questioned and writhed over answers that only time could give him. He realized now—with eyes on her lit up by their first date years after it happened—that he should have been living every moment with her and not questioning what the next would be.

“Should’ve been sooner,” was all Calum could say in response. A lot of things should have been sooner. “It’s hard to believe it’s been years.”

She laughed; less strained than before but still with a touch of melancholy in the rise and fall of the giggle. She wiped the tears off her cheeks and sniffled. “Sometimes it feels like yesterday… I can still remember everything.”

“Remind me; about all of it?” Calum requested; knowing he was too inside his own head to remember the finer details. He wanted to know the moment and see the memory from her point of view.

She had a way of taking things in and recalling them; words outside a closed restaurant easing Calum’s woes and instilling a sense of safety and love inside him. She let out a small sigh from the passenger seat, neck slightly craning to look out the driver’s side window and to the once grassy area just off the structure and rocky paths. She looked right past Calum but he knew she was conjuring up images of him from that day in her mind. Another small smile begged at the corners of her lips, a great contrast and compliment to the tears that had fallen moments before. She was somber and serious but her touch to his shoulder was soft and light and a reminder of all their times past.

She licked her lips and let her teeth sink into her bottom lip for just a moment. It was less peril that drove the motion and more a feeling of helpless want; a want that couldn’t be met, she couldn’t actually go back to that moment made only of happiness. Her lip sprang free and she finally turned back and caught his eye.

“It was such a nice day. The sun was out and the water was calm. I showed up and you told me you’d been waiting for me for a while; I don’t know if you actually were but I remember it got me to blush. You’ve always had this way of saying things that are so ordinary but feel so much more than that. I guess that’s why I fell so much faster than you. You never gave me time to slow down.”

Calum’s eyebrows furrowed and his mind spun. He could remember that moment and those words, in the moment they were fleeting and reactionary, a way to see her get flustered and note her reception to him. Looking back now he realized they were true; he had been waiting, in more ways than just at the lighthouse for a first date. He’d been waiting for someone like her, someone who could shatter his perception of what he had always known, challenge him and his heart. It was unfortunate she was the one to wait in the end.

“You planned everything. The view, the food, the flower you gave me,” she started to regale again, voice lost in the memory and drifting in and out of the moments they lived and were living. “It all seemed so perfect. I’d never been on a first date that had so much thought put into it.”

She saw through his facade of effortlessness and seeing the truth. He considered that might be why he could never get away with brushing off his feelings and hiding from his own heart with her. She knew him, could see through cloudy stained glass and straight to his heart. She knew before he did.

“And then it started raining,” she said through a laugh and threw her head back to the headrest of the seat. She let out a breath and let her hand trail from his shoulder and down his arm, slowing where she knew tattoos stained his skin before lacing their fingers together. “You accounted for everything—except the weather. One moment the sun was out and you were leaning in to kiss me. The next it was downpour and I was laughing against your lips.”

Calum warmed at the memory though he could almost feel the bite of unexpectedly cold summer rain against his skin. He nodded to himself as the memory broke like the storm clouds in the sky. Snow still fell in light flurries and the night was starting to fade, tinged of deep purple trying to rise on the horizon. Calum didn’t say anything else as he put the car back in drive and headed off once more. There was one last place to visit. One last memory to relive and one more question to be asked.

<<

Their last destination of the night had them climbing out of the car and tugging their jackets closer to them, standing pressed together for warmth. They parked down the block and walked through a haze of snow to familiar windows with remnants of flowers left from a season passing. This was where Calum first spotted her, through the windows in just a glimpse. He had stopped in his tracks as she disappeared in a split second. He did a double take and she came back to him; flowers in her hands and hair and a smile worn so brightly it rivaled the beauty of bouquets. It was days before they officially met and time stood still when he caught the first sight of her. He didn’t know it then, wouldn’t understand it through most of their time together, but now—stood with a night of memories floating through his mind and heart—he realized it was love at first sight.

“You came in with the worst excuse for needing a bouquet I’ve ever heard,” she mumbled and Calum laughed; knowing his reason was a thinly veiled excuse to have a conversation with her. “I forget; was it your mom or sister that ended up with it?”

Calum grinned. “I did, actually.”

There was no way he could give away a bouquet crafted by her. His shoulders slumped at the admission, finally feeling some weight lift from him; the air was cold but welcome against his heated cheeks. The snow had stopped but the biting chill of winter kept on. He wondered how she wasn’t shivering; her layers so minimal and legs completely exposed. Usually he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her and she’d sink into the material with a smirk and a blush. He never realized she wasn’t cold and she never denied the offer. Wind whistled past buildings and trees; swept through the small town and curled around them, her hair blowing back and her jacket opening. She didn’t mind the breeze or the cold at all.

Red among darkened gray and timid spatterings of white caught Calum’s eye. A fallen flower sat in the snow; petals holding on for dear life. He moved to it, bent down to pick it up and held it in a loose pinch. His eyebrows furrowed as he turned back to her and saw interest run across her face.

“A peony,” she declared and reached one hand out to softly brush her fingers over the petals. “Just like in the bouquet.”

Calum wasn’t sure what it was—the night of memories, the warmth she instilled in him with just a look, broken stained glass barriers sitting in fractured pieces, or the coincidence of a flower laid in the snow. Whatever it was, thoughts that couldn’t be ignored screamed through Calum’s mind. With a breath and a heart made of hope he fell to one knee.

“Marry me?” Calum asked, knee pressing into the cool concrete below, sweatpants dampening from the slush lining the sidewalk. The flower he had picked up was now a symbol and an offering in place of a ring he’d been eyeing through a shop window. He held the flower out to her with all of his heart and hope etched into every petal.

“No.”

Her answer was startling and sure. Voice unable to be swayed and the one word enough to knock Calum forward, body lurching into the weight of his knee and his other leg giving, foot slipping on the sidewalk as he fell to both of his knees. Flower in his hand dropping to the ground.

“No,” she continued and the repeated word struck another chord deep in Calum’s heart. She bent down, settled with bare knees on the concrete to be directly in front of Calum. Gentle fingertips brushed through his hair and trailed along his jawline. “Not yet.”

“Not yet,” he repeated and was unsure if it was a question or an agreement.

She nodded, eyes glossy and shining against minimal light of new day. “Someday. When we’re both completely ready.”

“What if I am ready?” Calum asked before he knew if he was. Dropping to one knee and two words escaping him had been rash and not at all the way he might have planned it. Nothing had ever gone as he had planned.

“What if I’m not?” She wondered aloud and inched closer to him; trying her best to communicate without words.

“You’re not?”

“Maybe… I don’t know yet.”

“Isn’t that what the fight was all about?” Calum whispered with strained breath and burning eyes. “I thought you wanted this. You’re always a step ahead of me. You always lead. I thought I should this time.”

“Cal, I never expected a proposal. I just wanted to know if we want the same things. When we’re both ready. I just needed...” she trailed off and her nose scrunched as she contemplated the right word. “A solid answer. Something other than a maybe; to know if we were walking the same path—together. I just wanted to know if you wanted it to happen someday.”

“It will,” Calum promised, content to be the one to wait this time. A reverse revival of their love told him it would be worth it. “You love me?”

“You know I do. And I know you love me too.”

<<

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[atlasfreak]

hell is hot from your mistakes

chapter one; Tumblr Edition

The afterlife is a mess of time and space. Dream got the brunt end of that mess, of time, and bad luck follows Tommy even in death. Dream is mere seconds too late reviving him.

Tommy wakes up in a familiar, unfamiliar world in a familiar, unfamiliar body that looks so much like an old friend of his, and yet he remembers everything when really, he shouldn't. His brother's voice guides him, the Nether is blistering heat and dust and his hands are hoofed.

ArchiveOfOurOwn link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30073104 or THIS.

Dream has the book and he's at work.

He's surrounded by blood, and corpses. Bodies. His hands are stained red and so is the face of the boy beside him and the fur of the cat in front of him. He's drawn a circle out of the red and the cat lays, set to look sleeping, in the center.

He's missing his mask - it's broken, shattered. The sharp porcelain edges are red, too, cut on the soft skin of his dead cat to draw his ring of blood. Cut on his fingers, too, as he had aligned the shards to smile up at him.

Dream stands and opens the book. It's akin to an inventory; incorporeal pages that the warden can't take away. He reads quietly and he checks his preparations and he double checks it and he triple checks it and then he glances over the translucent pages and-

And yet, the cat's corpse is still.

He waits longer. Waits for the cat to blink open its eyes, jump back to its feet. Waits for it to meow and rub against his legs.

But it stays limp and cold and lifeless.

The same as it has been for the past six tries.

Dream slams his fists on the ground, snarls. "Work! Fucking work! WORK! Bring it back!"

He's furious.

He did everything the book said, everything the book asked. He followed every step down to the letter, every drop of ink. And it didn't fucking work.

He didn't kill his protagonist for nothing. He needs to get out. He needs to get out. He needs it to work. He'll do it, he'll figure it out, he'll get it to go. He'll get the cat to come back and he'll get Tommy to come back and he'll get out, even if he has to tear through the obsidian with his bare hands.

He feels wet on his cheeks, he hears it drip onto cold fur. He's furious. He's furious.

"WORK!" he screams, and it listens.

There's no poof of smoke or swirl of magic. No glowing bodies, no floating corpses, no showy tricks.

But there is soft, shaking paws. They bat at his face, at his tears. Tender, haunted eyes bore into his.

"Oh," he murmurs, wiping at his eyes. He stares at the saltwater on his fingers as it turns mixes with red and turns polite pink, then looks up at the living, breathing cat with its front legs on his and head tilted worriedly. "Oh."

The cat meows gently, butting his hand. It has been through so much for just a little cat, so much. It bumps against his fingers again.

Longing for his kindness, his warm attention. The quiet compliments and pets from before the light faded from its eyes.

The sweet Dream who gave it his food, who showered it in affection.

He swipes an arm through the air, flinging it across the room. It screams death's scream as its tiny body is thrown to the starving lava and Dream watches it squeal and screech and burn away.

That Dream is dead. He died a very, very long time ago. The cat is living in the past.

Well... lived.

But he did it. He brought it back, he cracked the code. After so many attempts, he did it. Tears. Regret, remorse, grief - whatever. Pain.

Dream turns his eyes to the mangled body of TommyInnit.

Broken and beaten and bruised and bloody, he's not touched it. Not even to brush blonde hair out of gray eyes (they were blue once. They aren't anymore). Too afraid he'd mess something up, that he wouldn't be able to fulfill his promise.

He feels a smile stretch across his face. He grins, and he grins like a madman.

"Tommmmmy," he crows. "Ready for another round?"

The corpse is silent. Of course it is. It's dead! But Dream can fix that, yes.

"Oh, I sound like Wilbur," Dream whispers. "Wilbur! Oh, I'll get him, next!" He claps his hands, his eyes light up like a storm - a dangerous one. A very dangerous one. "And Schlatt, too, bring them all back, why don't we? Bring them all back!"

He doesn't need to draw still blood, no need to cut Tommy's pale skin on the glazed shards of his mask; the crimson already stains his hands. He draws a new circle - a big one.

Dream slams his fist into the wall. He hears a sick crunch and gasps, fire shooting up his arm. He laughs, he laughs. Tears pools from his eyes and he lets them fall onto limp blonde hair and he feels victory surge through his veins and fucking hell, his hand hurts like the devil, but he knows Tommy's eyes will flutter open and he knows Tommy will scream loud enough to be heard all the way from here to the Arctic.

Nevermind that- he did it. He's done it. He can bring people back.

He's a god.

He's a god, he's a god. He can bring people back to life! Nobody else can do that. An admin is nothing compared to a god. He's- he's the most powerful person on the server.

He brought the cat back. He brought Tommy back!

He brought Tommy back, and yet Tommy doesn't open his eyes.

"Go on," Dream mutters, kicking at the boy. "Get up."

Tommy doesn't move, he doesn't respond, doesn't shout curses or scream or swear. Dream frowns.

He leans down, studies the body. He grabs a cold hand and he holds his fingers to the wrist, checking.

No pulse.

It didn't work.

Dream sits back. Why didn't it work? "Why didn't it work?" he echoes aloud. "Can I not- why didn't it go? Why didn't it work?"

He wishes he hadn't killed his only company. Dull green eyes stare at the lava, at the molten bubbles. At the swirling heat that had mercilessly swallowed up the cat - Pussboy, he reminds himself bitterly - and Dream sits down and he tries again.

And again.

And again.

And Tommy stays dead.

Is this the afterlife?

It can't be. Tommy was there - he saw it. The afterlife is blank. It's a void, it's all light. This place is dark.

It's empty, too. No warm brown eyes, no surprised yellow. Wilbur is not waiting with open arms and a gaping wound, and Schlatt is not staring at him with cold shock and pale skin.

This place is not death. Tommy's seen death.

What is it then? If it's not death, what is it?

He opens his eyes.

It's not dark, he notes first. It's red. Very red. His first thought is blood, but it's very much not blood. He turns around, trying to find a hint of color - any color, any color but red - and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

There's a piglin there - a baby piglin is glaring at him. It has downy fur and no tusks or sword or crossbow. It's a child, barely days old.

"Hello?" Tommy tries, but it comes out odd. He looks around and he looks down at himself and all at once, he realises a few small things about his appearance, and then he realises one big thing. The big thing.

He isn't human.

He has hooves on his hands and feet, his ears are on the top of his head. A tail lays behind him and his skin is covered in soft, orange-ish pink fluff. Just like the piglin next to him.

He doesn't scream. He wants to, but he doesn't. He simply shuts his eyes and covers his mouth.

Ok, Wilbur, I'll play fuckin'- I'll play cards with you, just get me out of here. Get me out of here.

He could almost swear he hears his brother laughing at him.

Tommy opens his eyes- he's still here, in hell, with a piglin.

It squeaks at him. Tommy shuts his eyes again, so it squeaks again.

When Tommy doesn't respond, it hits him.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" Tommy screeches- every blow feels like he's reliving his own death. His voice comes out a garbled piglin mess - is his throat not equipped for English? "Stoppit!

He feels the ground vanish from under his feet and he feels a brief panic surge through him - what a way to go, huh? Well, what a run. A short run, but a run regardless. Time, Tommy thinks, to go back to the white place, the Zone, because a baby piglin beat him to death. That's a couple steps down from Dream beating him to death, probably, and a couple steps up from dying to a baby zombie, Phil.

(When Phil dies, will he come to the Zone, with us?)

But Tommy's not even there himself, he realises, because he still feels the warm of the Nether on his face.

When he opens his eyes, Wilbur is not there, waiting. The piglin child is. He still sees red and he still sees the piglin child. He still is a piglin child. He's alive. He's not going back to the white.

Suddenly, Tommy can breathe again.

He finally looks up. He's dangling by the scruff, and there's a big piglin holding him with hooves like his. An adult piglin with blank white eyes. He can't tell if they're full of affection or scorn, but he doesn't want to find out.

And that must be mother! Tommy hears a voice mock.

"Shut up, Wil," he grumbles. The baby piglin crosses its arms as Tommy is lifted out of reach.

The adult piglin growls at him, sniffs at his head. Like she's making sure he's not dead. It kicks at the violent little baby, a warning, then places Tommy down again.

Tommy would flip the other child off, but he only has three fingers.

Don't be so mean, Tommy! Wilbur chastises, his voice echoing through Tommy's mind like Chat did. That's your brother!

"It's not my brother," Tommy spits.

He, Wilbur corrects.

Tommy growls. The big piglin growls back.

Tommy shuts his mouth.

"Wil, the hell is going on?" he decides to ask instead. The other two tilt their heads in confusion as he mutters what must be gibberish to them - and it sounds like gibberish to himself, really. But Wilbur seems to understand.

I mean, hell if I know, Wilbur's voice seems to move around, standing by his left now. Tommy glances over, but there's nobody there. Just his - he gags - brother, the piglin. Looks like you got reincarnated.

"Reincarnated? That's when you throw food back up, innit?"

That's regurgitated, Tommy. It's when you die and then are born again.

The big piglin stands up and oinks at them. Tommy know, deep down in his little piglin brain, that she wants him and the other to follow. She leads them through the underbrush as Tommy continues muttering to his real brother, the one who has taken the place of his old chorus.

"I'm a piglin," Tommy huffs as he stumbles through the roots. He takes pride in knowing he's not the only idiot, as the other baby pig trips and falls, too - neither of them are used to walking. Especially not on hooves.

You are a piglin, Wilbur's voice confirms. Tommy sighs.

"Like Technoblade," he says. "I'm a piglin, like Technoblade."

Wilbur pauses to think. Yes, that sounds about right.

"Did Techno die too? Was he a human once?"

I'm not omnipotent, Tommy. I don't know Technoblade's life story.

"Oh."

I don't think he's the same as you, though. Technoblade is really tall, and he has a mane. You don't have a mane. Nor does your mother.

"Think he's one of those axe pigs? In the bastions?"

A brute? Yes. He's a brute, I think.

"Damn right 'e is," Tommy growls. "Nasty fuck. Prick."

No, no, Tommy. A bastion piglin is called a piglin brute. Technoblade is literally a brute.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Tommy stares at the ceiling, blankly. Part of him worries a stalactite will come barreling down to crush him. "Life as a piglin is boring. I would like to come back to the DreamSMP."

Wilbur laughs. Tommy snorts, too- what a joke. Wanting to go back. But it's true. He misses it. He missed it in exile and he missed it while imprisoned. He misses it now.

No, no, this is interesting, Wilbur says. I'm stuck here with you, anyway. Even if I wan't to, I can't take you back. I don't want to though, I'm having fun.

"It's boring, is what it is!" Tommy drawls. "You're only having fun cos you get to watch, Disembodied-Voicebur!"

Big Piglin guides them to a nook- a small Netherrack cave yawning out from under a sheer cliff. She sniffs at their heads again as they follow her into the cavern, making sure they didn't up and zombify on the journey. When she's sure they're still alive, she grunts at them. Sleep time. You're young, so you need to sleep.

She lays almost like an Overworld pig, Tommy notes.

You'll probably never see Overworld mobs ever again.

It's not Wilbur's voice, it's his own. A quiet thought, a thought he made, and it shakes Tommy to his core.

Wilbur sighs, his voice practically drips with apprehension. Don't- don't lose hope, Tommy. Technoblade, remember? He got to the Overworld. You... you can do it too.

Tommy's piglin brother lays down, too. More humanlike than their mother, but still not quite human enough to comfort Tommy.

But regardless, he copies.

Goodnight, Tommy.

"Goodnight, Wilbur. It's.. good to have you back. I think."

Wilbur doesn't respond.

Tommy shuts his eyes. Sleep doesn't come easy as it should for a baby piglin, but he's not surprised - he's not really a baby piglin. He's TommyInnit in the form of a baby piglin.

He's an imposter - at least, he definitely feels like one.

When his eyelids finally grow too heavy and the sironsong of sleep finally lures him off the side of the ship, he dreams. He dreams of dark cells and a smiling mask.

And in that dark cell, Dream glares at it - the mask. He avoids the empty eyes of the body in the corner. He knows they're still empty, despite his efforts. His best efforts. He's so drained. So tired.

He hears potatoes splash into the water in the corner, turns to watch them bob. Sam has remembered that he is in there.

Dream drags himself to the water, tilts his head to glare up into the darkness. "Why not fucking kill me?!" he screams up the tunnel. "Why not just kill me, Sam? I killed him."

Sam does not respond.

"You can't, can you? You want my help. My book."

Sam does not respond.

Dream snarls and throws the spuds at the lava, they burn like his cat did. He hears a sigh echo from above him, but no more food falls.

"Don't starve yourself," Sam growls. "I'll bring more tomorrow."

Dream does not respond.

He turns to Tommy's body and despite it all, he keeps trying. He keeps trying. Tommy does not respond.

[official-alex-cyprin]

Ring, Ring

Summary: MC feels the call to Olympus deep in her blood, not understanding what it means for her and her fate. (An AU where MC is Hera’s true reincarnation.) || AO3 A/N: A lot of this is based off different pieces of the Astoria lore all jumbled together! Also the title is a sort of pun : )

_____________________

The throne calls to her, sings to her blood and watches it dance beneath her skin.

It promises so much: immortality, power, respect.

But for all that it whispers in her ear, for all that it will give, she knows it would take away so much more. It would steal her very life, smother her soul, snuff out her light.

So in spite of the slivers of divinity that course through her body, the thrum of aura that waits to burst out... she turns her back on the throne and leaves.

(The song follows her well outside the throne room, and no amount of covered ears shakes it from her.)

-

She’s in the throne room again.

A few other gods mill about, waiting for Zeus to come and start their meeting. Something about stepping up security on Olympus, she thinks, but she can hardly get her thoughts in order to remember if she’s right or not.

Against her instinct to look away, the covered throne pulls her gaze to it. There’s familiarity there, arms that would welcome her home if she would only uncover it and sit.

Her legs almost walk her over, and she has to make a conscious effort to remain where she is. It takes so much more for her to tear her gaze away when Zeus finally does arrive, but still it calls to her. She doesn’t hear a word the gods say, watches their lips move but finds their voices drowned out by the hum of something more that fills her veins.

When the meeting adjourns, she only realizes she should go when a passing god accidentally jostles her. She mutters some quick apology- a god would never apologize to a human, of course- and makes her exit.

The singing follows her down the golden elevator, finally stopping when she gets on a train.

(She’s lived in New York her entire life, and she’s never hopped on the wrong train until then- it takes her an extra half hour to get home.)

-

She hasn’t been on Olympus in weeks, and that’s how she knows it’s getting worse.

The lines written across her screen have been up there for hours, and she’s tried to get through them, absorb what they’re telling her, but it’s fruitless. Nothing sticks, no matter how hard she concentrates.

The allure of the throne is too strong, tugging at an invisible string that leads directly to her soul.

Someone says her name but she can’t focus enough to tell who, can’t look away from her screen that she isn’t really seeing as images of the throne fill her head. Its sweet whispers weave around her, and whatever reasons she’d built to fight against them begin to crumble.

Why was she fighting, anyways? She could go up to Olympus right then and-

A hand clamps down on her shoulder, shaking her out of her reverie. Cyprin looks down at her with concern in their eyes, and she strains to hear what they say.

They’re sending her home for the day.

She frowns but doesn’t argue, and maybe that’s the biggest sign yet that something isn’t quite right. She packs her things and leaves the office, and the further she gets, the more it feels like she’s losing a piece of herself.

(The song follows her home, now; she hums along with it as she stares up at the ceiling of her room.)

-

When she wakes up the next day, it’s not to her alarm, or her neighbors being a little too loud. It’s to the startling sight of the abandoned throne, not even a step away from her. The cover rests in her hands now, and the tightness that built up in her chest when she left H.E.R.A. the day before is nothing but a memory.

The pink robe falls to the ground at her feet and she finally, finally looks upon Hera’s throne, in all its glory.

She finally feels like she’s where she’s meant to be.

All the pieces slide into place and she reaches forward, a lightness carrying her into the throne- her throne.

A shout sounds behind her alongside frantic shuffling that gets closer and closer, but her aura springs to life then. Gold seeps from her ring, pouring out in droves and dripping from her skin like molten metal. It forms a wall, intricate and beautiful and unbreakable, cutting her off from whoever wanted to sway her from her calling.

Time slows around her as she takes her seat, a jolt running through her when she touches the strong marble of the throne. Her vision blurs, or maybe everything is sharper than it’s ever been before, but then it’s gone, and the dark surrounds her.

(There’s only the song now, attached to nothing, blotting out everything else, and she wonders for the first time, however briefly, why it sounds so terribly sad.)

-

Slowly, she opens her eyes again, and takes in the world around her. Her shield still stands, but her head is clearer than it’s been in a long while, and she can see who stands on the other side.

It’s a plethora of gods, all watching her with shock- awe?- and then it hits heer, what she’s done.

She tries to stand, apologies filling her throat and tripping over each other trying to get out- but none come, and she’s still sitting, she realizes.

Her shield comes down in a rain of golden peacock feathers, settling on the ground before turning to dust.

And then she speaks- or someone speaks through her, because it isn’t her voice, they aren’t her words, and it definitely isn’t what she wants to say.

“I’m back,” her body says, a strange voice in a familiar body. But not so strange that it doesn’t strike a chord with her. And it sounds so full of sorrow, the ache in the voice pulling at her heartstrings .

The gods all cheer for her and she can only wonder why.

Didn’t they hear the pain? The resignation, the... the fear? 

It was clear as day to her, and maybe that was just a side effect of whatever had happened, but it felt like so much more than that. How could understand so deeply the anguish of one she’s never even met?

(Though, a part of her whispers, perhaps it’s been someone she’s known all along. A strange familiarity that pulls at her seams and pushes the truth: she was never alone there, in her skin.)

-

A grand celebration is held for her return- Hera’s, that is. Most everyone is drunk in minutes when Dionysus breaks out his most sacred wines, though Hera refuses to drink.

And she’s grateful for that, because living in her own head and taking the backseat to her body made her somewhat fearful for what a hangover would be like. Would her little world waver and crumble and slip away?

She shook her head (no she didn’t), trying to focus on something else. I nthe corner of the goddess’ vision, she sees Aphrodite and Hades, engaged in private conversation. Except, they keep looking over at her, and it’s an odd feeling to see how sadness and joy war on both their faces.

Then Hera turns, and they’re thrust out of sight... only for Cyprin to come into view instead.

They hang back against the wall, a drink in their hand. It looks like they’ve already had a few, but it’s not enough to shake the frown loose from their lips. They’re watching her, and what must be the phantom feeling of her heart aches.

Hera watches them too, for a short moment, but it’s too much. She turns and leaves, and both are somehow sure that the gods wouldn’t miss her.

(In the midst of their quiet walk- past Zeus’ estate, she notes- she wonders if this is what it’d felt like for Hera for the past 25 years.)

-

“I’m sorry,” the goddess whispers.

It takes a moment before she realizes who Hera was speaking to, since no other soul was around.

The goddess was speaking to her. 

“I didn’t want this, not for you, not for me.” Hera heaves a sigh, and suddenly it feels like she’s taken Atlas’ place in holding the sky, her remorse crushing down on them both. “But I couldn’t resist Olympus’ call after all. The call is easy as breathing, so when I tried to stop...”

She remembers when she left H.E.R.A., and it was harder to breathe. She knew what the goddess was trying to say- ignoring the call was on the same line as trying not to breathe. You had to give in, eventually.

She tries to convey her understanding, and she’s not quite sure it gets through to the goddess, but she tries.

(It’s a constant struggle against the current of the goddess’ power, one she can’t seem to win. She begins to wonder if giving up is her only option to end whatever state she’s in- if it’s an option at all.)

-

Everything grows unbearable.

Hera is distant from the gods, and her loneliness speaks volumes. There’s a constant, lingering pain in the goddess’ heart that afflicts her own, one that runs so deep she isn’t sure the goddess could ever recover from such a thing. 

They see Cyprin, from time to time, but they can’t even stand to look at her. The few times they’ve been forced to speak to the goddess resulted in more hurt on all sides than anything else- they could never stop from slipping up and using her name; they could never bring themself to correct it. 

The goddess never punished them for it.

And then there was Aphrodite, who was once the goddess’ best friend. Now she only ever had sad smiles and haunted eyes when she looked upon them. Sometimes it felt like she stared so deeply into Hera’s eyes that she pierced the veil that isolated the body’s true owner. But nothing ever came of that.

Hades was just as bad. He could be civil, and he often wore his untouchable mask, but Hera saw right through him each time. Which, of course, meant she did too. She could see the guilt in the god’s eyes, the regret. 

All of it was too much.

And to top it all off... Zeus. He’d thrown himself at Hera, praised her, tried to love her, but everything he did made the goddess feel sick. It got so bad that she stopped leaving her own estate at all.

In the back of her own mind, she watched the goddess waste away, waste the life she’d given up, waste her body. No matter how she yelled, or how she tried to do anything, nothing ever happened.

It drove her mad. Angry, yes, but she’s known anger before. Madness was a whole other thing, one that sometimes lead her to letting her conscience slip away. In those moments, she felt like she was drowning, pulled this way and that in an ocean of souls that had been washed away, overcome by the goddess’ own.

(She wasn’t ready to let go, but there was some comfort, she realized, in knowing that she could let go.)

-

Hera’s first trip to Earth is what ruins her.

She hardly thought anything of it as the goddess stepped into the elevator. She’d been on Olympus for so long- too long- that what lived on the Earth’s surface almost slipped her mind. Or, rather, who. 

It was a punch in the metaphysical gut when those doors opened to May. May, her best friend, who’d wished her well on her way home the night before everything got turned on its head. May, who loved her, and who looked so utterly broken and betrayed at her appearance.

She whispers her name, and the goddess shakes her head sadly.

“Not anymore,” Hera says.

It breaks more heart than one.

The goddess leaves after that, quick, wanting to limit the pain as much as possible.

Her head is left swimming and everything hurts, but she’s strong. She’s made it this far, bearing the sorrow of Hades and Aphrodite, the heartbreak of Cyprin. She could bear a little more- she could hold onto May’s grief, too.

And then it all shatters- her resolve, her heart, her world.

Because, against all odds, fate wasn’t done with its twisted form of torture. It had thrown everything else at her- it wasn’t going to stop just to spare the heart of her brother.

Her brother, her Josh who’d watched her grow up and loved her enough to let the gods into his life, just a little bit, so he could understand her. Who always let her vent to him, and always knew the right thing to say to make the world seem okay again. Josh, who stood in front of her now, shock plain on his face.

It tears something out of her when he says her name, sounding more lost than she’s ever heard. The hope she hears lacing through his words is another blow to her heart and she almost lets herself drift away right then.

But she needs to see what happened- if not for her own sanity, than for Josh’s sake. It's her turn to listen.

Except he doesn’t say anything else. He backs away from her, tears streaming down his face. His breath hitches and there’s a haunted look in his eyes that she hadn’t seen since their mother died. She never wanted to see that look on him again, and yet there it was... because of her.

Everything blends and blurs together when he finally turns around and runs. She barely notices when the goddess uses her aura to teleport them back to Olympus, though it’s no relief to either of them. 

The darkness that’s threatened to pull her in before, the sea of souls that cry a melancholy wail she recognizes as the song that pulled her to the throne- it ebbs away at her.

And this time she doesn’t resist it, doesn’t step out.

She allows herself to be washed away, her vision fading quickly. All of her senses become dull, a ghost of their former selves, and it’s easy again.

(She’s Hera, and that’s that.)

[eternaljouska]

Redamancy, Chapter 4 - Lee Jihoon

Pairing: Husband!JihoonxReader

Genre: Angst, the tiniest amount of Fluff

Chapter: one | two | three | FOUR | five | six | seven | eight | nine | end | epilogue |

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: I still am not sure how many chapter this story’s going to be. The number above’s just the amount of chapter of which idea I already laid out. And somehow I’m not really proud with this chapter...?

–

It’s only the next week that the hospital lets you out.

You are nervous. And so is Jihoon. Both of you are standing in front of a two-story house he claims yours. It is rather big, and it is pretty. You don’t know what to expect from going home. You also don’t know what is expected of you. And it makes things get a little too overwhelming. Your mother-in-law has suggested that your sons are to spend the week off or more with her in Jihoon’s old apartment, as to not make it worse for you. Surely you can’t jump back to your role as a mother when you can’t even remember having them in the first place. You know that she means well, but your brain keeps seeing things from the bad side, and you can’t help but think it’s just your head.

Jihoon on your side takes a long breath before he opens the door and guides you in. And the view before you is enough to bring your thoughts back from its wandering. The inside is as pretty as the outside, but it is quiet—too quiet.

“Um, I- I’ll give you a tour.” Jihoon’s voice cracks through the silence. You smile a little, it’s impossible not to feel bitter. Not when you need a tour of your own house. Not when your husband can’t even talk without stumbling on his words.

He goes through the first-floor basic: living room, bathrooms, dining room, kitchen, guest rooms, the kids’ rooms, and the master room. He only gestures roughly to the last room before he asks you to follow him upstairs, dismissing the grand piano sitting near the stairs. If nobody could recognize the house as you and Jihoon’s, they’d surely can once they reached the second floor. From left to right, there is Jihoon’s studio, the family’s music room, a mini gym, and your haven. You don’t miss the smile that he shoots you when he says the word ‘haven’. A real smile, which—as cliché as it is—makes your heart skips a beat on its wake. You copy that smile and paste it on your face as he opens the big wooden door for you.

You gasp.

Your eyes wash every possible inch of the room from where you stand halfway through the door. It is marvelous, and you feel like you’re tearing up. The first half of the room is filled with tall shelves full of books. And as it goes, the room transitions into a greenhouse and opening up to a balcony, which you guess faces the back of the house. Half of the greenhouse’s roof is made up of glass and so is the wall separating it from the balcony. There are pots and pots of flowers: lilies, primroses, and flowering maples atop the tables and geraniums, orchids, and cacti hanging down from the racks and ceiling. There is a hammock hanging outside and a long couch in the middle of the room, complete with a few coffee tables and a coffee maker atop one of them.

Your stride is slow, and your mouth is hanging open. It’s about a minute later that you snap out of it and turn to Jihoon in disbelief. “I made this? I mean… not like made, but you know…”

He chuckles, the sound pulling at the edge of your lips. “You did.”

You scoff, still in disbelief. “I… I always wanted this”—you gesture around the room, amazement clearly written on your eyes—“a library of my own. A mini garden. I… I made it.”

But then your thought catches up with your amazement. And you wonder why Jihoon has said ‘haven’. It is heaven-like, yes, but why a haven? You were about to voice your wonder when Jihoon asks, “Food, sleep, or shower?”

Your train of thought is cut short. “Uh? Shower, I guess. I don’t feel like eating, and I’ll sleep after.”

“Alright. I’ll be in the studio. I need to send whatever I have and check my emails for a bit. Do you want me to-uh-show you the way again or…” he uncertainly asks.

“Oh. No, I’ll manage. Thank you.” You turn around and walk away with a blaring ache inside your chest. You were hoping to explore the room, but Jihoon didn’t give you the chance. He has dismissed you just like that. And as you exit the place, you think you understand why it is called a haven. Now with bitterness and heaviness on the forefront of your mind, your first instinct is to go back inside and mend your heart with beautiful words and flowers. But you are denied that luxury.

You wonder whether you feel burdened because you forget or because you don’t forget enough. Then you walk down the stairs deliberately slow, your good hand holding onto the railing like your brain to the sound of Jihoon’s chuckles and your heart to his smile. And you decide that you’re indecisive.

You halt your step once you are in front of the master room’s door, your heart pumping too quickly for your liking. It is just a room, you try to reassure yourself. But you know it is not true. You place your hand on the door with a slight push, and it opens with the impact. It is not locked.

It is just a room.

You sigh and make your way to the closet. You refuse to walk around and go straight to the closet, half of which is full of your clothes and the other half Jihoon’s. Standing in front of it, Jihoon’s familiar scent wafting from inside the closet, you feel incredibly lonely. You miss him. And you feel new tears start forming in your eyes.

You grab a random pair of clothes and walk to the bathroom with something a little like a purpose. Compared to a garden and books, a long, hot shower can only amount to so much. But you figure it will be good enough for your impending tears.

Jihoon enters his home studio with a heavy step.

Now that you are awake, he has to deal with the mess he left the company in. It is frustrating, but to be completely honest, Jihoon is quite relieved to have a valid reason to get away from you. It is cruel, he knows. But the whole situation is killing him. He doesn’t know what to do or how to act around you. All with the remorse weighing down his chest and the growing doubt in his head. The thought of you regretting what both of you have becomes a constant ghost that haunts his waking hours. And his work is the only thing that can lock that ghost away, even for a mere moment.

Without him realizing it, he’s been working for hours straight. It’s not a surprise, really. This is how things always go. Hours are forgotten. You are forgotten. But once his computer is shut down, there the ghost of you is, alive as ever.

Jihoon rises from his chair with a long sigh. It is night time already. Jihoon was planning to make you some food on his way out, but the house is dark and silent. And another bitter thought slips inside his head. So this is how it’s like to be in the house without you. Or the you that’s his wife. He walks to the lamp switch with a sad smile. A simple thing like the turning on the lamps—of course, he would take that, too, for granted.

He enters his equally dark room only to see you sleeping on the right side of the bed—your side of the bed. He skips the light in the fear of waking you up and makes his way to tuck you inside your comforter and sit near you. He brushes away the hair that falls on your face and kisses your forehead gently. He watches your sleeping figure for a while before he grabs his pillow and takes a blanket out of the closet for him to sleep on the couch.

In the middle of the night, you drift off your sleep, grasping for him. But when your hand is only met with emptiness, you bolt up crying. The feeling is as painful as it is familiar. And you unknowingly look for his pillow to hold instead, an action you’ve done so many times it’s become second nature to you. But when you find nothing, another grain of hope is lost again. And you curl up and cry yourself to sleep, hoping Jihoon is willing to meet you in your dream, at the very least.

Morning arrives faster than it did in the hospital. You go out to the living room and see a pillow and blanket on the couch.

“Morning. I don’t think you’re allowed caffeine, so here’s some milk. I was going to send this to the room.”

You ignore his greeting and ask him instead, “Is this where you were last night?”

Jihoon is slightly surprised by the question, pausing on his action of placing your glass of milk and his cup of coffee on the table. “Uh, yeah. I don’t want it to be awkward for you, you know.”

You frown in confusion. You don’t understand why he can’t just act the way he usually does. You shake your head and say, “You don’t have to. I want you to stay. With me.” You look at him with determination. You can clearly see his uncertainty, and you falter. So you add, “If… if that’s okay with you. I mean.”

“Of course! Of course, it’s okay.”

And of course, since you dread the night as much as Jihoon does, it comes earlier than you both expect it to be. You have been spending time with Seungkwan, Seokmin, and Soonyoung while Jihoon was catching up with work in his home studio, only coming out of it for lunch and now dinner.

The trio fills most of the silence, that’s their specialty. The cluttering of dishes is drowned by their laughter and banters. That’s why when each one of them comes to you to bid their goodbye, you panic—well, inwardly. You figure Jihoon will go back to his studio, so you linger on the door, waving to the air that was BooSeokSoon. You are expecting to hear him excusing himself, and that’s exactly what he says when he opens his mouth. “Come inside, it’s cold. I’m going back upstairs.”

“Don’t,” you mutter as you close the door. “Stay? Please?”

He looks at you for a second too long while you squirm, waiting for his response. “Sure.”

Both of you are sitting rod straight on the couch, feeling so far away from each other than the couch itself allows. Silence, again. Your eyes are on the big TV in front of you, but you are only seeing the tap tap tap of Jihoon’s fingers on his thigh. Halfway through the movie you don’t remember choosing, you say, “D-do you want to go to bed?”

Your eyes are still on the screen when he answers, “If that’s what you want.”

You nod shortly. His passiveness is getting into you, and once again you want to scream. But you hold back and give him a tight smile instead.

Jihoon clenches his fist so that his fingers won’t nervously tap on any surface they land. He is nervous, uneasy, jittery, antsy, and all of those things. So far, he’s been limiting his words, appearance, and contact when it comes to you. Only that way does he can survive. He can’t possibly talk to you without wanting to call you baby, look at you without wanting to kiss you, or touch you without wanting to pull you into his arms. He can’t possibly voice his wants, not when you forget or seem to regret—not with his regrets. But then you asked him to stay with you, twice. And his pitiful heart soars with hope.

Only to free fall without a parachute.

Jihoon walks out of the shower to you positioning yourself on your side of the bed, facing away from him. Oh Lord, is he disappointed. He is unmoving on his place, watching you. Your breathing is even, so you must be sleeping already. With slow steps, Jihoon nears the bed to grab his pillow and walk to the door. But before he opens the door, you turn on your back and call his name, “Jihoon? Where are you going?”

He drops his hand from the door handle but doesn’t turn around. And when he sneaks a glance at you, you’re already sitting at the edge of the bed, rubbing at your tired eyes. “You seem… uncomfortable.”

“Yes,” you answer right away, and his face falls. He’s expected that answer, but he didn’t imagine the hurt to be like this. He was about to turn away when you continue, “From my left shoulder.”

“Oh.” And he feels like laughing.

“Want to switch side for a bit?”

--

[iturbide]

Grima Backstory

This has been such a long time coming but I’m finally going to condense a headcanon Heroes!Grima history because I need it and I am apparently in the mood to break hearts.

Cut for length and likely extreme angst.

While I will try to keep this to a more broad overview, I’m still going to split this into several general sections for ease of reading.  If anyone wants more details on anything in particular, feel free to ask!  Also I apologize for the inconsistent rambling styles and bursts of random analytics.

Creation and Birth

So we actually have some information regarding how Grima canonically came to be.  Which is pretty great, all things considered, because it gives us a really strong starting point.  We know that the alchemist Forneus acquired the blood of a divine dragon through unknown (but presumably dangerous) means.  Using that as a base, he added several other alchemic ingredients (human fluids, herbs and nectar, etc.) and sealed the concoction within a vial, monitoring its temperature and daily adding some measure of human blood to the mixture. 

Within 40 days, there was clear evidence of a new lifeform in the flask.  It was tiny and resembled a human fetus -- which, all things considered, isn’t a surprise: embryonic development shows some rather striking similarities between a variety of species in the early period, and given that the creation was the size of a jelly bean at 40 days it may very well be that he attributed its appearance to a human embryo because that was the blood he’d been providing I know this isn’t pokemon but the science hat is warranted in this case.  It continued to grow as he provided fresh blood on a daily basis until, at the 80th day, its development finally began to diverge from the generic embryonic form into something distinctly inhuman, with a long neck and tail. 

From the 80th day on, Forneus’ creation began to show some increasingly surprising developments.  While divine dragon blood had been the basis of his experiment, the new lifeform looked nothing at all like one, with six eyes and two pairs of wings in addition to its feathered hind limbs.  But more surprising still to Forneus was the fact that the creature seemed aware of him from within its vial, its eyes sometimes seeming to smile at him. 

For a time he was delighted.  The care and monitoring saw the strange dragon grow to the size of a puppy -- but within its flask, it began to stir, demonstrating the first signs of a power he was not equipped to handle.  But something interesting to note is that Forneus himself described the divine dragon blood in its pure form, prior to his experiment, as having a terrifying power -- so there is absolutely nothing to suggest that Grima’s powers were any more terrible than a divine dragon’s, and Forneus was just coming to realize that he may have gotten in over his head with this experiment, assuming violent connotations simply because the creation didn’t have the glorious appearance of a divine dragon. 

Most surprising and disconcerting to the alchemist as time went by was the fact that the developing creation’s consciousness seemed to reach out to him from within the vial.  He thought he heard it, believed he glimpsed dark, violent thoughts -- but remember, the creation was only a few months old.  Even assuming that another 40 days had passed, Forneus’ experiment was only three months old and had never been outside its flask.  Something so small, so new, knows nothing of the world, of violence -- what are a baby’s thoughts like?  How does it interpret the world?  How much of what Forneus considered to be his creation’s thoughts were just the reflection of his own fears as the tiny being reached out to the only other entity it knew?

Interestingly, the last line of the account is in quotes.  This might be a translating typo, or it could be a clue that the words aren’t the whole truth: that his intent had been to destroy the creation before it could reach adulthood, but in making the attempt he either failed or stayed his hand and let it go, doctoring the final entry in his account before fleeing what he believed to be his mistake and praying it would not come back to haunt him. 

Whatever the case, Forneus’ creation escaped its flask and retreated deep into the Thabes Labyrinth, out of sight and out of reach of any who might do it harm. 

Growth and Escape

There’s a notable gap here between the end of Forneus’ account and Alm’s encounter with the creation at the heart of the Thabes Labyrinth.  We know that a significant amount of time likely passed between Forneus’ final entries and the battle; while the creation certainly grew rapidly (from non-existent to the size of a thumbnail to the size of a puppy over the course of a few months), this might not be unreasonable for a dragon hatchling growing in an artificial eggshell, and even with Grima’s seemingly limitless capacity for growth (just judging by how huge that dragon is in Awakening), it would still take a significant amount of time to reach such a size, and would likely be dependent on the resources available to fuel such growth. 

But let’s take a look at what we do know: while Forneus might have abandoned his creation to the dark, the strange new entity clearly did not perish as the alchemist might have hoped.  Instead the creature survived on what it could find -- insects, lizards, rats, whatever it could feasibly capture and consume as it grew.  

With nothing else to do, once its hunger was sated, it liked to watch the things that lived alongside it in the dark maze.  Their thoughts, when it reached out to them, were simple and straightforward, and while it did not feel remorse for taking their lives to sustain its own, it felt no spite for them: they each did what they had to in order to sustain their own lives. 

Time passed: years, decades, centuries.  Forneus’ creation continued to grow, until at last it became difficult to navigate the narrow passages of the labyrinth. So it retreated deeper, into the wider halls; then deeper still, into the great chamber at the labyrinth’s heart.  In the dark and quiet, it continued to grow, feeding on whatever it could (including other creatures Forneus had likely made in the time before he laid his hands on the blood of a divine dragon). 

And then, much to its surprise, something ad disturbed the labyrinth’s peace.  Travelers from foreign lands made their way down into the dark -- and while the creation retained only hazy memories of Forneus after so long alone, the smell of them awakened its curiosity.  It rose from the depths to investigate -- but the adventurers saw only a terrifying visage, and attacked without thought. 

The shock of their assault made Forneus’ creation lash out in response, which only seemed to cement in the strangers’ minds that this was a monster to be destroyed.  The battle was long and hard, and in the end, the creature vanished -- but it was not dead.  It only retreated into the dark to nurse its wounds.  The scent of the travelers eventually faded...but something lingered even still: a breath of something strange that the creation had no name for.  So when it was sure that the adventurers were well and truly gone, it crept up from the heart of the labyrinth, working its way through the passages it could still traverse...until at last it reached the surface, and for the first time in its life saw the sun. 

It was bright, blindingly so to six eyes so used to the dark.  For a time, it retreated, simply breathing in the scent of the world beyond the labyrinth that the travelers had come from.  And when at last the gentle moon took the place of the sun, it made its way out into the world for the first time. 

Humanity

So let’s take a little peek at our timeline here.  We don’t know when Forneus lived or worked, but we can say with reasonable certainty that Alm and Celica are contemporaries of Marth, who is himself Chrom’s ancestor from 2,000 years prior (Palla, Catria, and Est appear as major characters in Echoes and Marth’s games both, which puts them in a reasonably short time period).  This means that Alm’s group encounters Forneus’ creation 1,000 years before Grima is subdued by the first Exalt of Ylisse.  This also lines up with Tiki’s age, assuming she was somewhere around 1,000 when she knew Marth, since she’s around 3,000 in Awakening. 

Based on all the evidence we have available to us, dragons don’t age the same way humans do.  Fae is canonically a few centuries old, but mentally and physically she’s a very young child, likely somewhere between 5 and 8 years old by human terms.  Similarly, we know that Nowi, Tiki (in Marth’s time), and Myrrh are all around a millenium old, and physically they appear to be somewhere in their early- to perhaps mid-teens (with variable mental ages -- Tiki gets a pass here since she wound up in a magically induced coma for most of her life, but Nowi acts like a bubbly childish teenager while Myrrh is more mature but really no older).  And in Chrom’s time, Tiki’s around 3,000 years old, and has an appearance of a woman somewhere in her mid- to late-20′s or perhaps early 30′s. 

Considering that divine dragon blood was the core compound in Forneus’ creation, it seems safe to assume that Grima would age more like a divine dragon than a human (since the human blood and fluids were accessory to the base dragon blood component).  And given that Fae’s dragon form is still comparatively small at a few centuries old, even with the seemingly limitless capacity Grima has for growth (just look at that dragon in Awakening), Grima is probably somewhere between a few centuries and a millennium of age when Alm’s party delves into the Thabes Labyrinth.  Meaning that, for all intents and purposes, what Alm and company faced was no more than a curious, confused child -- and that even when the first Exalt brought Grima down, the fell dragon was likely no more than two millennia of age, or effectively in their early twenties from a mental standpoint. 

Think about that for a minute. 

Forneus’ creation creeps out of the Thabes Labyrinth and finds a world swarming with humans.  Given that they haven’t exactly had the best experiences with humans, they’re somewhat warier now, but the strange new world is too much for its curiosity to pass up.  Naturally, there are those humans who try to attack, and still more who flee...but eventually, humans begin to approach the monstrous creature.  They doubtless fear at first, but anyone who’s paid attention would have noticed that the dragon didn’t attack unprovoked, and it did not pursue those who fled.  Humans are innately curious, and some of them began to reach out to the strange creature in friendship.  In turn, Forneus’ creation hesitantly responded, reaching out to their minds as they had their creator so long ago...and in that one simple act, things changed -- for better and for worse both. 

They named Forneus’ creation.  They were the ones who dubbed them Grima.  And as word spread of the dragon’s appearance, humans came from all corners of the continent to.  There were those who believed the dragon to be a kind divine, fearful enough to frighten off plague and pestilence.  There were those who believed the dragon to be a weapon, no more than a tool to be turned against enemies. There were those who believed the dragon to be evil incarnate, a threat to all humanity and worshipped by only the most wicked of mankind.  And there were those who believed the dragon to be a friendly, curious creature trying to learn about the world. 

And with so many viewpoints, each treated Grima differently.  Those who worshipped the fell dragon as a divine begged for boons and favors, brought offerings to appease Forneus’ creation, prayed to them for salvation and aid; when they believed their requests fulfilled, they praised Grima...but when they asked too much, for things impossible for any man or divine, and their prayers went unanswered, they cursed Grima’s name.  Those who wanted only to use the dragon’s power for their own devices brought gifts and favors, spoke sweet words to turn the fell dragon to their side -- but as soon as Grima bade their request, they had no more use for them, and abandoned them to reap the spoils of victory.  Those who saw the dragon as evil waged war against those who flocked beneath Grima’s wings, slaughtering any who disagreed with their judgment in the name of beliefs they stubbornly held and vilifying the fell dragon for defending his own, though he never struck the first blow.  And those who reached out to the dragon kindly, who tried to teach them about the world -- those who Grima loved more than any other -- were taken by age and infirmity one by one, while time left Grima forever unscathed. 

Downfall

The good humans -- the open-hearted ones, the gentle ones, who saw Grima as a friend above all else -- were few and far between.  And each loss, be it to sickness or age or violence, robbed the fell dragon of hope in the face of mounting abuses by the swaths of selfish others.  A thousand years before the events of Awakening, shortly before Naga and the first Exalt struck Grima down, there was one human that the fell dragon cared for above all others: they were kind, and gentle, and their presence soothed the dragon like nothing else.  Wanting nothing more than to hold that hope close, Grima forged a blood pact with the human...and they became the first to bear the six-eyed mark, the Heart of Grima (aptly named, as the fell dragon truly loved them with all their heart -- and what a great heart Grima had).  

The fell dragon did not overtake the human’s body, though the bond would have allowed it.  The blood pact was the proof of the bond they had long shared.  They lived their lives together and apart, taking heart in one another’s company in spite of the trials that they so often faced.  The human, in time, bore a child of their own, and shared that joy with Grima, as well.  And the fell dragon was, however briefly, happy. 

But it could not last.  Those who saw Grima as a weapon to turn against their enemies realized that the fell dragon’s favored human stood in the way of their aims -- and so they plotted and planned, and finally set their cruel designs in motion. 

Under the guise of an attack by Grima’s enemies, they killed the fell dragon’s bonded human.  The child was spared, perhaps saved by their other parent, perhaps rescued by strangers and secreted away from the slaughter...but whatever the case, they vanished from Grima’s sight.  And that loss was all that the fell dragon, who had already been so close to devastation, could bear. 

With no one to remind him of the good humanity had to offer -- with their loss as proof of all mankind’s ills, in the fell dragon’s eyes -- Grima set out to destroy all of the wretched, hateful, small-minded, selfish humans it could set its sights on.  Taking control of the body bearing the six-eyed mark, now that the soul had left it, the fell dragon waged war on two fronts, carving swaths of destruction with a form that filled the sky and performing targeted strikes with the body that could pass among humans without arousing the least suspicion.  Those who had orchestrated the attack in the first place had no way to control the dragon’s power, and were left in fearful awe of Grima’s might as the dragon razed all in its path.  

The threat posed to humanity was too great for Naga to ignore, and so she chose her champion, the first Exalt.  With Falchion in hand, they struck Grima’s weakest point: the human vessel that housed a part of their soul.  The holy blade’s power rippled through the connection between vessel and dragon, destroying the human form and laying the fell beast low for a millennium. 

Aftermath

In the wake of Grima’s defeat, the humans who had so inadvertently caused the fell dragon’s break saw an opportunity.  Given that Grima had forged a blood pact with a human, and that human in turn bore a child, there was every likelihood that Grima’s blood had been passed on.  Those who sought Grima’s return for use as a weapon against their enemies called themselves the Grimleal, and over the course of the next thousand years, they sought out any who might be even distantly related to that child of Grima’s bonded human, arranging strategic marriages to any who might have even a trace of Grima’s blood in their lineage.  This, over time, led to Validar, and finally Robin, who at last bore the Heart of Grima...and who, in a moment of weakness after they were forced to take Chrom’s life, succumbed to Grima’s promise of power if it meant being able to take out their suffering on the one who caused it. 

Askr is proving a very good place for Grima, though.  The Summoner calls to mind that last gentle human they had such faith in, and little by little, that has helped to open them up again.  They can do things here that they could not have imagined once (which contributes significantly to their little dragon baby creche).  And once again...they feel that they are happy. 

[metrcnome]

WARNINGS FOR: language, character death, suicidal behavior, Jazz is a major idiot, ANGST, nobody is happy, bad end. Written to: this song

For @petrexian​ I’m sorry

If you love somebody, set them free

        The hardest choice he’d ever made was staring him right in the face; the warning of what he had to do and the prayer that he would chicken out. He lit up his world in a way he didn’t know it could be set alight anymore; brought a song to his spark that he’d long thought deceased. A rap on the office door and that voice (oh that voice) beckoned him to enter. The weight of his decision like boulders crushing in on him had him in an unusual slouch. There was no coming back from this, but then he wasn’t planning on coming back. The slight twitch of a smile is a blow he’s not prepared to face. It forces him to rock on his pedes, tension lacing his frame so intricately he’s not sure it will ever go away. Prowl is beautiful in the way he’s a force of nature; he crashes against Jazz and pulls him under til he revels in the sensation of drowning. He could bask forever in the others presence and never grow tired of him, but he knows that would be too cruel. What he intends to do is no less cruel, but then he’s only thinking of how he wants to save the love of his life from as much pain as he can. The selfish part of the saboteur begs him to just forget about his whole plan--to lean forward and press his lips to that smile; memorize the feel of everything he’s ever wanted. 

         Instead he sits in a chair, tense and bored looking--enough that the small smile is lost (he’s committed it to memory all the same). “We need ta talk...” He keeps the tremor out of his voice, but barely. He watches the others blank expression and finds he doesn’t want to read into it, so he doesn’t. For once he doesn’t want to think about how Prowl will feel. He already knows. “Look this...” he gestures between them, feeling sick even before the words have left him. “...is nice and all but I think I’ve had enough.” Tension; it’s so thick now you could physically cut it with a knife. He presses on even as his tanks flip about inside him. “You’re too cold, I think we should break up.” He expects screaming, yelling, being thrown into a wall and beaten, maybe even tears. The cold calm; the eerie ‘I see’ do nothing to alleviate the guilt so rampant throughout his core he’s shocked it’s not showing on his face. “I must ask you to leave.” It’s so polite that without another word he gets up and does as asked. He’s barely two steps down the hall when he hears the crash of furniture and data pads scattering around the office. His spark clenches painfully and he almost turns; almost scurries back into that room and begs on his knees for forgiveness. Jazz almost goes back, but he doesn’t. He faces ahead and swallows back the tears. “This is goodbye...” he whispers to no one. 

--

         It is months before he sees his ex again; months before he even glimpses the inside of the autobot base. He’s tired, sore, and bruised--but he’s alive. The first thing that he feels when he runs into Prowl is remorse. He’s cold; reserved in a way that speaks volumes of how he feels. Conversation is kept short and to the point. Jazz crumbles under the guilt of it all. At first he avoids him; attempts to keep their interactions to a minimum and pretend that he’s alright. But he’s not alright, he’s anything but. Music is shockingly devoid of everything he does, leaving an eerie quiet where once others had expected some sort of noise to fill the emptiness. Missions go south more often than not and finally, finally it’s agreed that he’s losing his touch. When he’s broken, beyond hope of carrying on, that’s when they finally talk. He finds himself cornered in an office with an irritated Prowl. Clearly neither of them is interested in prolonging their time together and he caves. “Oh primus...” he whispers, falling to his knees. “Oh primus what have I done...” and it’s enough to stop the lecture; enough to give him the opening he had longed for. 

           “Prowl...” His intake feels as if its full of sandpaper; dry and rasping as he fights the tears. “I didn’t mean it.” But even that sounds false so he tries again. “I was a coward.” It’s the truth. “I was afraid...this deep cover...I was afraid I wouldn’t be comin back. I thought I was gonna die so I...” The words stick and he shakes under the force of the others gaze so he drops it, turns off his visor and allows himself to be blind. “So I broke yer spark. I pushed ya away because I was afraid. I didn’t...didn’t believe in you enough to trust that ya could handle my death if...if we were still together. So I lied...I lied and I told ya that ya were...” Oh but what had he done. Tears begin to drip down his face and he finally lets himself cry. It’s soft, like a childs, as he remains kneeling on the ground in his agony. “I won’t ask ya to forgive me...” because there is no forgiveness from this. He hears the punch before is lands. His visor cracks, splintering from his helm as he’s sent tumbling backward. He accepts it, knows he deserved it. “Right...” he rasps. “Right I won’t bring it up again.” 

             They’re over, he knows. Any hope of redemption was gone the minute he opened his stupid mouth. He knows he’s a fool but oh he just can’t go on. He tries so hard to forget; to let the memory of softness fade into nothing. He can’t let go. Jazz was prepared for many things, but he was not prepared to live a life without Prowl. He threw himself into his work as if it could ease the pain he had brought upon himself; the agony that tore at his sanity. To have been so close and yet lose it all in a single moment haunted him. He barely slept, barely ate, and took risks that he really shouldn’t. The persona of merriment vanished completely and he became as cold to the rest as Prowl. He pushed away every friend he ever had. What use were friends to a dead mech walking? And oh how he craved the sweet relief of death. He had known tenderness and love and now found that he could not live without it. If he could not have Prowl then he could not live. Dramatic and foolhardy, but a thought he could not rid himself of. He haunted the base like a ghost; a shell of himself. 

              If Prowl knew or cared, he did not show it. In fact, the saboteur was certain he’d decided not to care. He had hurt him, quite irredeemably so, and it made sense he’d lost any place in the others spark. That did not mean Jazz did not care. He cared so deeply that when no one was looking he did quiet things to ease the strain of the others work. He cleaned his office, touched up his desk, even left him cubes of energon. He knew not how the gifts were received, but then he wasn’t doing it to win favor. He simply cared so deeply and so wholly for the other it just seemed more illogical to not help. So he slunk about the shadows like a thief and paid no heed to whether he was noticed or not. His spark, for better or for worse, belonged solely to Prowl. 

--

          Routine when broken when the decepticons attacked. It was a shock to them all and had their ranks hopelessly scattered. In his desperation the silver mech only had one goal in mind: find Prowl. Nothing mattered to him but the black and white mech who, in spite of everything, meant the world to him. Without him the was no music, no light, no anything. He found him, back turned to the enemy and grappling with a decepticon over his blaster. It didn’t take but a second for his faster frame to go shooting across the field, a desperate cry on his lips as he took the blow meant for Prowl. It ripped at his spark, tearing at the delicate edges of the chamber and dooming him. In a final act of defiance he threw one of his daggers into the enemy that had tried to murder the love of his life. With the danger gone he crumpled into waiting arms. 

            He was cradled tenderly towards a warmth he knew all too well. Regret pulsed up inside him that he’d caused this gorgeous face to pinch into something pained once more. He reaches up, smearing energon across the others cheek. “I’m sorry Prowl...” He didn’t mean dying, nor saving the others life. Oh no--he would never regret anything more than foolishly pushing away the best thing to ever happen to him. “I love you...” A broken whisper meant only for him. Darkness bubbled around him and pain seared through his censors. In a desperate moment he arched up, lips pressing to Prowls as he tried to whisper the words back. Nothing ever came, he slumped back in the embrace and his spark went out. 

                   Jazz died in Prowls arms, a smile on his face.

[tardisfireworks]

Conditioning II | Mustafar AU | Star Wars Fanfic

X- posted on Fanfiction.net.

Sequel to Conditioning.

Summary: Queen Amidala had been conditioned to help those in need.  Padmé could not forget that.

Rating: T for dark themes.

Notes: Constructive criticism appreciated.

He was cowering sitting on the floor.

That was the first thing Padmé noticed in the live security holo.

Just like he was when he –

Killed all the Tuskens.

Killed.

It all came back to that word. Anakin (or was he Vader now?) had been broken by what he had done, back on Tatooine.

He had taken great comfort in her voice, and her hugs. He had gotten better.

(Or had he?)

“Padmé.”

It was Obi-Wan’s voice.

“No,” was Padmé’s short reply. “I want to – no, I need to talk to him.”

“Listen, please,” begged Obi-Wan, “Our rebellion depends on you. Palpatine has assumed control of the Galaxy, and –”

“I know what Palpatine’s doing, Obi-Wan,” Padmé said shortly, her voice suddenly sharp. “But Anakin –”

“Anakin’s dead, Padmé. Vader took his place.” Obi-Wan did not elaborate further. The conflict in his voice was obvious.

“He saved your life,” said Padmé. “After endangering it himself, I know,” she added quickly at her friend’s pointed glare.

“That act of heroism – if it can be called that – does not give peace to all the spirits of those who died by his hand,” he deadpanned.

Padmé had no response to this. Instead she shifted her attention to her swollen belly. She could not wait until her child was born, so that she could hold him in her arms, play with him –

Did Anakin not share a part in the future she envisioned for their child?

He doesn’t deserve to, said a voice, he doesn’t deserve to, after what he has done.

Obi-Wan sensed her discomfort.

“I know what’s bothering you, Padmé. But he tried to kill you once –”

“I know, Obi-Wan. I know.” She took a deep breath. “But I think it can’t be put off. I need to see what he has become. To tell it to his face that I – I –”

“I understand. I will talk to Bail about this,” Obi-Wan said, his voice suddenly soft. And then he left the small room that they used as the Rebel base, leaving her alone.

 The first moment when Padmé entered the underground dungeon, she noticed a sort of muffled noise. She didn’t know what it was.

“Anakin,” she said. “I’m here.”

Anakin looked up at her, his eyes bloodshot and hopeless.

“Padmé,” he breathed, his chest heaving. “You came.”

“I did Ani, of course I did.” But she didn’t go near the bars that separated the corridor from the cell.

“I’m sor –”

“Ani,” she cut off coldly, “we both know an apology won’t solve anything. So, please, don’t make this any harder for either of us.”

Anakin (or what was left of him, anyway) gulped and clutched his legs tighter, but Padmé didn’t know whether it was out of frustration or sadness, or a combination of both.

“How is our child?” he asked slowly, carefully.

“He survived,” she said shortly, unable to say anything more.

Anakin closed his eyes and buried his head in his arms again. And then Padmé understood where that muffled noise came from. He was crying.

She knew she had to try. “Obi-Wan told me what you said after you saved his life. Fifty times, really?”

Anakin raised his head. “You try and be his Padawan and then we’ll see how many times you save his life. I felt like I needed to be paid to be his personal life-saver at one point.”

Padmé allowed herself a chuckle.

Then Anakin started laughing.

But it was no longer that charismatic laughter that Anakin Skywalker had been famous for. It was hollow and felt a bit too forced.

He quietened soon after.

“Yoda was here, you know?” Anakin said, after a pause. “I could feel him staring at me. But I couldn’t look at him, Padmé. It hurt too much, knowing what I had done.”

Padmé knew what was coming.

“I know you can’t forgive me Padmé, but please I just need to say this to you:

“I am sorry. There. Done.” There was a hint of bitterness in his voice.

She inched slightly forward. “Who are you now? Anakin Skywalker, or Darth Vader? Jedi or Sith? I need answers, Ani. I can’t just forgive you for this!”

“I know.” And he went back to his silent sobs.

Padmé had said everything she had to say, and yet felt that she needed to stay.

“I know something’s bothering you. You can tell me, you know.”

He didn’t respond.

Padmé didn’t expect him to, either way.

She sat there, on a wooden chair for nearly one half-hour before Anakin said anything at all.

“I didn’t know I knew their names.”

Intrigued, she gently prodded him:

“Sorry?”

“The younglings. Their names, Padmé. They keep haunting me. I can’t think without their screams filling my head … I don’t know what to do!” he tried to yell, but it came off as a growl.

Good, said a voice in Padmé’s head. Remorse is good.

But he’s in pain, she tried to reason with the voice. Shouldn’t I help him?

When you do bad things, remorse is what makes you human again, Padmé. But Anakin Skywalker will never return. He didn’t do bad things. He committed atrocities. He deserves pain.

No, I won’t let anyone hurt him, Padmé thought defiantly. Not even himself.

“Anakin,” she started but Anakin quickly cut her off.

“No. I know what you’re trying to do. Pull me back to the light. I – I  can’t. Padmé, I’m beyond repair. Please, don’t.”

She respected his wishes. “I’ll be back.”

And then, with a swirl of a cloak, she left.

  Obi-Wan was waiting in the meeting room for her.

“How is he?”

“Physically – fine. Mentally – bad.”

Obi-Wan let out a frustrated sigh. “I wasn’t asking for that,” he said. “Did he –”

Padmé turned away from him. “He did,” she managed. How could she convey what had happened in words? How could she explain to him the kind of mess Anakin had become?

A pregnant pause followed.

And then –

She felt it. Contractions. She turned to look at a concerned Obi-Wan in his eyes. “I think I’m in labour.”

 “It’s a boy,” said the monotonous medical droid, after many hours of labour.

Hah, Anakin. Take that. I was right. She allowed herself this small victory. She knew there was another, though.

Obi-Wan held her son close to her.

“Luke,” she breathed. Her son. Her Luke. She felt his soft, fragile arm. She felt stronger.

And then she felt it again. Contractions.

Soon after –

“It’s a girl.”

The droid held her daughter towards her.

“Leia,” she whispered.

And then she passed out. The last thing she heard were her children’s cry.

  She woke up a few hours later.  Her children were by her bedside, soundly sleeping. They warmed her up from inside out. Made her feel less scared for the future.

Just as she tried to lift herself up into a sitting position, a voice came calling out for her.

It was Anakin.

She turned to face him. But he struggled to walk and his wrists were cuffed. He was guarded by Yoda and Obi-Wan. She snapped back into reality. This was not the Anakin she had married. This was not the Anakin that foolishly tried to show off in a truly teenage fashion. This was not him.

But Queen Amidala had been conditioned to help those in need. Padmé could not forget that.

And so she allowed herself a smile – a particularly strained one, but it was still a smile.

Yoda and Obi-Wan stayed outside, but kept a close eye on Anakin, who staggered weakly towards her.

“I hope you know that we both were right?” she asked. “We have a son and a daughter. But I was right first.”

Anakin looked like he wanted to say something, but then he rushed to his children, who slept without a care.

“What are their names?” He whispered softly.

“Luke and Leia,” she told him. She could tell him that they were “Luke and Leia Naberrie” later.

He knelt beside her with great difficulty. “How are you? Are you still in pain?”

She shook her head.

Anakin smiled.

It was probably the closest thing to that lopsided grin she was familiar with, but it wasn’t close enough.

But then she realised it was a long road to recovery. She decided it was enough for today.

[yellowsugarwords]

Walking Dead Game FanFiction - “Found Again”

[jeniiii]

Little, White Wagon [Death Angel A.U] || t.h

Summary: In which death falls in love.

Words: 1474

Warning: Mentions of death, angst, sad

Comments: I’M SO SORRY I’VE BEEN SO INACTIVE. School started and I was busy with getting used to that, but I’m back with more angst (because that’s all I’m good at, lmao). I’m still trying to get through the two requests I have, so if you asked me to write something, I promise it’s not forgotten I just take forever to write something I’m proud of. Also, I didn’t quite finish ‘Tom Holland Week’ as I never posted ‘Royalties’ but it will posted as soon as I’m able to write something decent... Anyways, enjoy Tom being a Death Angel, lol.

************

There was always a movement there.

A small, little white wagon, where your legs were pressed against the bars and your arms squished to your sides. You almost felt suffocated, so far away and distant - falling, falling, falling. The edges would cut you every time you touched them, blood dripping down, so slow - so agonisingly slow. You watched, feeling the tips of your fingers tense, eyebrows knit together as the red liquid stained every part of your clean, little, white wagon.

Don't do that, you'd scream, you can't do that!

But that blood continues to drip, staining your hands and your feet and your head and you feel like you're drowning in everything you've ever done. Head darting forward, arms flailing back. You feel like you're stuck, moving back and forth in a ride you didn't want to be on.

Let me off, please.

Oh, but sweetie you're stuck on this ride and he's in control. It'll come to an end; with your bones spread across the ground and blood staining your perfect, little, white wagon. He doesn't care how you get there. If you're a gift of mangled limbs or a pristine body with one little scratch just above your temple. He'll take anything.

Since when was death picky?

~~

You saw him for the first time your dreams.

You didn't recognize him. He was almost black; disappearing into the corners of your mind that you couldn't get to, his hands curving around your spine, so close just to crack. He walks - runs,crawls - closer every time, his lips turned up and eyes completely dark, wings shadowing his figure. He tied himself against your wrists, his pointed lips and sharp teeth leaving bumps against your skin. He consumes you, making a home between your bones with his nails digging against your stomach, whispering into your ear while screaming your head.

Oh sweetheart.

He doesn't leave, casting his figure into every corner, hiding out in places only you knew. Surely this was just your imagination?

That a boy bathed in darkness and morbid shouts was nothing more than a mere figment. A dream, a nightmare that gnawed at your mind and killed your head. You felt unsafe, alone in your room with nothing but his voice still crushing your thoughts.

You don't know who he is, what he is, but you don't think you want to. He smirks at your screams, cradling you in his arms, his dark wings cascading down his back and bounding him in chains. You want to run away, you want to hide.

You soon realize you can't hide from your imagination.

~~

He's there again.

He doesn't approach you, only staring through a mirror. There are creatures snapping behind him, screeching into your ears and reaching out just to feel your blood on their skin. You pull at your hair, tears streaking your face as you yell out to the boy that stood, watching.

Who are you? Leave me alone!

You're scratching at your skin, blurring out the figures who stay banging against a wall of glass that only lasted long enough to break.

Sweetheart, it's okay. Soon you'll be here with me, riding in a white wagon with blood trailing your tracks.

You stare at him, watching blood drip down from the wings behind him, looking into the pool of black that imprisoned his eyes. It's the last thing you see before you're jolted awake.

Before you see his smirk fall.

~~

He used to be normal, believe it or not.

Despite what you thought of the demon that kept you up at night - the one that ate away at you with no remorse, no guilt - he used to brighter, cleaner, happier. He was angel, someone who created life with every breath he took and god, he'd give you life too, if he could.

But that was before he fell. Before he made a mistake that painted his skin grey, that stained his wings a black he's try to scratch off and landed him here. In fire and death and everything he was against when he was the one that didn't have to deal with it.

He prayed, begged to be taken back from the depths of living hell, breathing and killing around him like some feast he surely didn't want to be apart of. But his words were left unheard and his heart left to die.

Death was all he'd known.

But for you -

Oh for you, he never wanted you to know death.

~~

The next time you see him, you're fully awake.

You remember his skin, the graying mass that covered a hollow body with demons eating away at the tissue and ripping apart his thoughts - yours, too, but who's to say he isn't you, that you're not one. He moves with you, recreating, adapting, cloning. He's apart of you that you pick at, blood falling and poison screeching. You feel sick, watching as his lips turn up, mouthing words from across the street that echoed into your head.

Hello sweetheart.

He smirks at you, eyes just as dark as they were that night. His eyes linger on your figure and you wonder what's going through his mind, what's gong through yours when you're seeing this - this demon who ate away at your thoughts and how he's - he's here.

You want to scream.

But before anything leaves your mouth - before you yell out to ghost you're not sure really exists, he disappears into the shadows. Just like he always does, just like he always will.

You run home alone.

~~

He's doesn't know what draws him to you.

Reaching out for the tip of your skin, curving around your wrists, feeling the warmth he could only ever imagine heating up his fingers. He plucks away at is wings, cursing, screaming to let blood drip from holes he'd leave. He wants to paint himself in all he's ever done just so he forgets you, but he tries and all he ever comes back with is the sound of your voice in his head.

Who are you?

He doesn't know what to say. How he's watched you, how he's hunted you only to come back short, never daring to place his hands around your neck, ready to take your last breath with his lips on your own. He craves you in a way no angel - despite his title of a morbid end - should.

He visits you in dreams that kill your head instead of your veins. He consumes you in ways that make you go insane, but he can't leave because he has to kill you somehow. It's all he can give to you. His touch of bloody nightmares never comparing the dreams he wished he could push into your hands, soft fingers he wished he could trace and heal the scars he bit into you.

He kills you in more ways than one - in more ways than he needs to, but he can't go on any longer making someone he... he loves suffer the rage of his inconsistent infatuation of dead corpses and dying breaths.

He still wonders if he can ever love you. If what he felt for you was anything more than a craving, to feel more than the fires that burned his skin red. The skin he hid away from the girl who needed the perfect boy of marble skin and sharp edges.

He hides away from you, in hopes of finding love between your screams.

Because who would ever think there was love in death?

~~

It's been a few years since he first met you on that little, white wagon. In those hallowed dreams, in those black eyes you wished - he wished - would stop haunting your every move. It's not the way it was anymore; it's a pale grey, red and black swirled together, bound around your ankles, with screams blasting from a speaker that wasn't there before.

I see that he's visited.

He came in and pulled on your hair, yanking away the light from your eyes and sucking you into a dark hole.

(Oh how he wishes he could take that light back, that he could be more than death to you. It's too late now, too late).

You haven't moved in awhile, have you? Your little, white wagon - your thoughts - stuck at the edge, tipping, tipping closer and closer and closer and -

You're tired aren't you?

You're weak and vanishing into the air that already left your lungs so long ago, poison in its position and a knife digging into your sides. Your legs have only fell, no longer squished against the sides of your precious little wagon.

He watches on with sad eyes, but no tears streaking his face.

Deaths feels no remorse. No guilt.

But Tom surely felt something when he pushed that wagon off the edge, flinging himself away with it.

[folklore-musings]

If I Can’t Have You (part 2)

Summary: Very AU. Archie Andrews is dead. The only leading suspect is one of his oldest and dearest friends, Jughead Jones. Betty Cooper is forced on a mission to find Jughead and bring him in, getting herself kidnapped throughout the process. Everything is a lie and nothing is the truth in this twisted tale of love and death.

Read on AO3 here

Read Part One here on tumblr

A/N:  Sorry this took so long to update I’ve been so busy with my other fic Camera Shy, my apologies. In this chapter we finally get to meet Betty! Thank you so much for the comments and kudos before, don’t be afraid to leave more if you like this! Thank you @jandjsalmon for the inspiration and @riverdalelovee for the read over. You ladies are wonderful.

Betty was sitting at her desk when the wanted poster landed in her inbox. “Do you know where we might be able to find him?”

She picked up the paper, hot off the press and scrutinized the face of the man staring back at her. Suddenly the walls were caving in and her throat felt like sand paper. Betty couldn’t believe it. Those eyes that same crooked smirk, the unruly curls falling into his face, and that stupid hat. He was 25 years old, in her opinion he really needed to let that thing go.

“No.” Betty said, face showing no emotion. “Why, what did he do?”

Kevin Keller pulled out the empty chair across from Betty and sat down. He reached over her desk and placed his hand over hers, a sympathetic gesture that Betty found welcoming. “We think he had something to do with Archie’s death.”

Betty swallowed the dry lump in her throat at the sound of her fiancé’s name. She told herself she wouldn’t cry anymore over him, at least not in public. It had been a little over a month since the murder and she’d been trying her best to move on with her life. It was a lot harder than she thought it would be.

“I think that assumption is a little far-fetched, don’t you think Kevin?” She grabbed the water bottle next to her laptop and took a sip. Wow, it was hot in her little office. She stared at the drawing some more, captivated by those haunting, pencil drawn eyes she knew so well.

“It’s Jughead, he’s capable of anything.” Kevin sighed heavily and dropped his gaze. “I need you to do me a favor Betty…”

Betty paced circles around the island in her kitchen, practically burrowing a path in the hardwood floor. She’d bitten her nails to the point where they were bleeding. How could Kevin do this to her? Wasn’t there a conflict of interest here, having Betty investigate the murder of her fiancé?

She hung her head in her hands, ripping the ponytail from hair and flexing it between her thumbs. The ponytail slipped and she watched it fly across the room, landing silently on the floor near the table. She curled her fingers into her fists like she used to when she was younger. Thankfully, she had no nails left to reopen the scars that littered her palms.

During her next lap around her island, Betty stopped just short of the fridge and opened the cabinet above and to the left. She peered inside, reaching up and grabbing the familiar orange pill bottle. Her hands were shaking as she opened it up, popping two little orange tablets into her mouth. They hit the back of her throat and Betty swallowed them dry. She gripped the countertop, hating herself for having to succumb to the prescription drugs she hadn’t taken in months. She despised feeling powerless.

Betty was about to place the pill bottle back in the cabinet before having second thoughts and pocketing them instead. If she was going to have to force herself to search out Jughead and ultimately solve the murder of her beloved Archie, she was going to need all the drugs she could lay her hands on.

She grabbed herself a glass of water, sipping slowly as she waited for the drugs to settle in. Glancing around her little two bedroom home her heart ached. Ever since Archie’s murder she no longer was capable of being alone in the dark. Every light was turned on in the kitchen and the living room beyond. The brightness was harsh to her sleep deprived eyes but Betty couldn’t handle turning them off. She was afraid Archie’s ghost would return just to haunt her; to ruin her life in the wake of his death, just as he did when he was alive.

Archie and Betty were the perfect All-American couple. They’d grown up as next door neighbors, forced into each other lives at the mere age of two. Betty had loved Archie since she was seven, and he brought her a princess Band-Aid to cover her scraped knee when she’d fallen off her bike, trying to keep up with him and Jughead. He’d kissed her knee, telling her it was all better and Betty was crushed.

Throughout high school he serial dated every girl in their grade, even the hot young teacher that came to town. Everyone had gotten a taste besides Betty and it drove her to the brink of insanity. No matter how hard she tried to be perfect, Archie refused to see her as the girl she could be for him. It wasn’t until after she dated and broke up with his best friend Jughead that Archie fell under her charming spell.

But Betty was never enough for Archie.

They dated for five years, long distance as they went their separate ways for college. As soon as they returned to their hometown Archie popped the question and Betty, without hesitation accepted the princess cut ring he forced upon her finger.

It wasn’t long until they moved in together, getting used to the pre-married life when Betty started to notice Archie’s web of lies. He’d come home in the wee hours of the morning, reeking of scotch and cheap perfume. Betty swallowed the pain the first time she saw the smeared red lipstick on his collar.

Red was never her color.

When she tried to confront him about it she’d be met with the slap of his hand across her cheek. He’d call her a jealous bitch and a child. “This is what you wanted Betty!” He’d scream in her face.

But without Betty, Archie was nothing. His parents were divorced and his father had nothing left to his name when an old business venture went south back in high school. Betty was his key to a solid a future, the perfect cookie-cutter American dream family that everyone wanted but no one ever got.

Four months before their wedding Betty threatened to leave him if he didn’t quit the drinking and the sleeping around behind her back. Despite his abuse she still loved him something awful. But Archie never stopped and thought about what Betty asked of him. And the night she tried to leave he pulled her by her golden ponytail and shoved her against the wall. “If you leave me, I’ll kill you.”

Betty fell to the floor in her kitchen, clutching the glass of water in her hand afraid it may spill. She tried and failed to hold back the tears as they fell. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. She’d wanted so much more out of life but all she’d gotten was the bad end of Lifetime movie drama.

Archie’s icy tone still woke her up at night, shaking in a cold sweat. It wasn’t until that moment that she realized she wasn’t safe, that she’d never be safe.

She walked on eggshells around Archie after he’d threatened her life, afraid to set him off again. She knew what he was capable of, but she never imagined he’d be capable of murder.

Weeks went by into months as their wedding loomed closer. Betty forced herself to focus on the details of the caterers, the dress and the cake, spending all the time she could away from home, away from him. She dropped fifteen pounds in a month without trying, and when she looked in the mirror, nothing but hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes stared back.

Everyone blamed the stress of the wedding, but Archie knew. And Archie thrived off her fear.

Just two weeks before the wedding Betty received a call at 3 a.m, waking her from troubled sleep. She felt the sheets beside her and they were cold.

She answered the phone with a yawn. In the background of the call she heard sirens and her heart dropped like a bomb to her stomach.

“Betty? Betty it’s me. It’s Kevin. I don’t know how to tell you this but Archie-“ The phone line filled with static and she missed the last of what he said.

“Kevin what? I’m sorry my signal is terrible. What’s wrong?” She stepped out of bed and paced down the hallway, flicking on every light as fled her way into the kitchen.

A groan sounded through the receiver. “Betty, Archie’s dead.”

Betty placed a hand over her eyes and cried as she sat on the cold kitchen floor, the memories flooding her mind like a hurricane. She didn’t cry for Archie, no. She cried for herself. She was finally free.

She grabbed hold of the counter for support as she brought herself back up to her feet. Her hands trembled as she finished the glass of water, setting in the sink. With shaky knees she walked down the hall and turned the corner into her room.

There at the foot of her bed was a suitcase full of clothes. She eyed the floral bag with remorse and reached down to the clutch the handle. It was time to go find Jughead.

[amillionsmiles]

you only live forever in the lights you make (Keith/Shiro)

Title: you only live forever in the lights you make Summary: After the championship game, Keith is still learning about victories—both big and small. / High school basketball team AU. A/N: 90% of this was written just because I am a sucker for the varsity letterman jacket aesthetic. Bonus ~vibes~ to listen to while reading can be found here. Also check out @sheithzine if you’re interested in seeing this in PDF form + accompanying art by @ditaauraart ! :)

[Read and review here] or continue under the cut. 

“How’s the ankle?”

The cushions bounce slightly as Lance collapses next to Keith on the couch, smelling of Old Spice and perfume.  A Coke glistens in his hand; Keith uncrosses his arms to accept it, popping the tab.  He takes three big gulps, bubbles tickling the back of his throat as he looks at his right foot, propped up on Kimberly Moreno’s coffee table.

“It’ll be fine.”  His eyes flick toward Lance.  “You’ve got lip gloss on your face.”

Lance puffs his chest, pulling his letterman higher on his shoulders.  “What can I say?  Everybody loves a champion.  And by everybody I mean Nyma and by loves I mean—”

“Stop.”  Keith rolls his eyes.  “I do not want to hear these details.”

“Your loss,” shrugs Lance, smile refusing to dim as he bumps Keith’s shoulder.  Loss means nothing to either of them tonight, not when they’ve won, despite Hunk getting elbowed in the nose; despite the turnover that turned into their getting dunked on; despite Keith twisting his ankle during the second quarter and having to sit out the rest of the game, sweating through his jersey as their team eked out a 59-57 victory over Galra Tech.

It won’t make any headlines—Galra and Voltron are known more for their robotics teams than their basketball—but Keith can’t think of a better way to end the season.

“So, at the risk of sounding like a douche,” starts Lance, “but I’m really, really glad I got to play, even though it took your messed up ankle to put me in.”    

Keith blinks.  It’d been a sore spot for them right after tryouts, when Keith had gotten starter and Lance had gotten benchwarmer.  Especially since Lance had saved up to attend training camp that summer while Keith had waited tables.  To think that after all this, Lance still believes he didn’t deserve to be on the court—

“You would’ve gone in regardless of whether I got hurt or not, Lance.  You were good, tonight.  You are good, period.”

Lance grins, less bravado, more belief.

“Good enough to start next year?”

“Definitely.”

Lance opens his mouth to say more, but his eyes catch on something; abruptly, he stands up instead.

“You know, I just remembered—someone wanted me in the kitchen.”  Wink.

“What—” Keith swivels his head, confused, before a different figure enters his view.

“Nice speech.”  Shiro hands Keith a fresh bag of ice, dropping into the newly vacated spot.  His arm presses against Keith’s with the motion, and Keith swallows, distracting himself by flexing his foot and leaning forward to replace the water-filled bag on his ankle.

“It wasn’t a speech,” he mutters.  “And anyways, it’s not as good as one of yours.”

Shiro shrugs.  “You have plenty of time to work on it.  Captain.”

The word, though playful, holds a certain weight, a mantle Keith’s not quite ready for—not when he still considers Shiro the true team captain, warm beside him.  Coran had broken the news in the locker room after the game, to Keith’s stunned expression.

(“Oh, don’t act so surprised,” Lance scoffed later, clapping him on the back.  “Even I voted for you.”)

“You’ve got the stats to back it up, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Pidge comforted, adjusting her glasses as she riffled through the book.  She, too, had big shoes to fill, what with assuming Allura’s duties as manager.

And Keith has faith in his talent as a player.  It’s just the leading part that’s off—sometimes he gets tunnel vision, pushes people too hard, is too abrasive.  He isn’t a natural motivator, he isn’t—he isn’t Shiro.

Shiro, who on the first day of practice partnered with him for dribble drills because Lance and Hunk had already paired off.  Shiro, who took him shopping for basketball shoes when his old ones fell apart.  Shiro, who made sure that Keith ate before every game.

Shiro, who is graduating.

“Hey.”  A gentle tug on his ponytail, reminiscent of all the times right before the huddle when Shiro would look into his eyes and ask, how are you feeling, and just like that, Keith is grounded again.  The music’s heavy bass pumps in his ears.  Lance leans against a wall, talking to Nyma.  Pidge is destroying at beer pong under Matt’s watchful gaze.  Hunk and Rolo are arm-wrestling, the rest of the team in the backyard, upstairs, scattered through the house—joking, laughing, celebrating—and Keith gets a flash that this could be them next year, too, if he does his job right.

“You’re going to be a great captain,” Shiro reassures.

Keith lets himself lean a little closer.  “You think?”

“I know.”

*

Keith where r u

Hunk helping clean up, gimme like 15 min, sorry

Slipping his phone back into his pocket, Keith leans against the fence, trying not to put too much weight on his bad ankle.

“Need a ride?”

Keith shifts, unsurprised at Shiro’s appearance this time.  “Um…yeah, actually.”

Keith nvm, going with Shiro

Hunk HA. Lance owes me $10. have fun ;)

Hurriedly, Keith swipes the message away, clearing his throat.  “Okay.  We can go.”

“Do you want to wait here? I can bring the car around, I parked a little far.”

“I can make it,” insists Keith, already turning to limp down the sidewalk.  It takes three steps before his toe catches, tripping him forwards—“Shit—”

“I got you.”  Shiro hooks an arm around his waist and drapes Keith’s left arm across his shoulders, fingers encircling Keith’s wrist.  They make a strange, hunched figure in the moonlight, hobbling together; Lance comes to mind, leering over his battered copy of Othello, mouthing “the beast with two backs” and Keith pushes it away, scowling—now is not the time—

The metal of Shiro’s car against his back is sweet relief. Keith rests against it, takes a few short breaths while closing his eyes.

When he opens them, Shiro is gazing at him softly.  “You always make things hard for yourself.”

“Says the one joining the military.”

“Hey, ROTC pays for my tuition.  It’s not a bad deal.  Something to consider, next year.”

“Yeah, okay,” but Keith doesn’t want to consider a senior year without Shiro’s booming laugh, the way he leans into Keith’s space without overwhelming.

His fingers find the door handle.

He turns.

Shiro kisses his cheek.

Keith freezes.

“What—”

“Sorry.”  Shiro’s cheeks glow pink in the moonlight, hands open at his side, and Keith leans harder against the car, suddenly unsteady.  “I should have asked—I don’t know if you remember—”

“Wait.”  Keith’s mind races.  “Is this about…”

Two months ago, Keith had decided to confess in the locker room, of all places, a choice that haunts him still.  It’s too easy to recall the curve of Shiro’s back as he’d pulled his shirt over his head.  His look of surprise, then hesitance: “I feel the same way, but let’s wait until the season is over, okay?”

Keith had thought that was Shiro’s delicate way of rejecting him; he hadn’t mentioned it since.  But now—

“I didn’t know you were going to make a move immediately after the season finished,” he blurts.

Shiro shrugs.  “It’s 1 AM. The stars are out, you’re leaning against my car…it’s all very romantic.”

A pause.

“Better than a locker room, anyways,” he adds, grinning.

“Shut up,” Keith groans, reaching for Shiro’s letterman jacket and tugging him forward.  Shiro catches himself, forearm braced against the window, other hand hovering over Keith’s hip.  Tentative, still.  Keith’s call.

In the dark, Keith follows the bob of Shiro’s Adam’s apple.

“I get why you wanted to wait, now,” he says, soft, the realization rolling around his mind like a ball circling the rim.  “If we were going out, and then I got captain…people would have talked.”

“And you think you’re not people-smart,” teases Shiro.  His eyes belie the lightness of his tone, heavy as they pin Keith in place.

“Maybe I’m only smart when it comes to you.”

Shiro chuckles.  “There’s a thought.”  His next words are closer, brushing the shell of Keith’s ear.  “Besides, I needed you focused on basketball, not me.”

“That’s a little conceited.”

“Is it?”

Fingers dance along the hem of Keith’s shirt and then they’re under it, pressed against the small of his back; Keith shivers, thinks of victories—big and small.

“Your hand’s cold.”

“Sorry,” murmurs Shiro, but there’s little remorse in it, just a smile pressed against Keith’s temple, a buzzer going off in Keith’s head.  A knee between his legs, their bodies aligning, and Keith thinks of that moment of grace when he releases the ball from his hands, watching it arc away from him with a held breath—and when Shiro finally, finally kisses him, it’s bleachers full of people rising to their feet, the thunderous roar of a crowd, the sweetest of sighs as the ball tumbles, headlong, through the net.

[keliandra-blog1]

Kassandra and Kaidan - Prt 2

Cover render by the amazing Leo-Fina - Check out her blog! :)

Setting - Mass Effect 3 Post Citadel Coup. Pairing - 100% F!Shenko Started as a drabble, became a little more! You can read Part 1 here It’s going… somewhere, don’t ask me where because I have no idea! Under cut for the rest as it got a little long. :)

The corridor outside of the observation lounge had been silent for a while. Longer than he cared to consider when there was a sleeper pod with his name on it. With a sigh he put the datapad he had been holding down onto the chair and stood, crossing the small distance to the window. The stars gliding past felt all too peaceful when he knew far too many belonged to worlds engaged in the battle for their lives - including his own.

Two weeks was how long he has been back on the Normandy and although debriefings kept him apprised of their missions, he had yet to be assigned to one. He had put in requests the moment both missions had been drawn to his attention, they had gone unanswered. It was hardly surprising, of course she would choose to take those she trusted and it felt like a lifetime ago that he had been one of those. He supposed in a way it was, at least her lifetime. That fateful mission that had changed everything.

Grateful that no one had been there to see him do it, he shook his head to force those thoughts away. It wasn’t the time to be thinking about Alchera and all that he had lost there. Although she hadn’t spoken to him directly he had seen enough of her to be concerned. He had seen the way her shoulders remained continuously tense, the almost permanent frown that marred her forehead and that haunted, almost empty expression in her eyes. The war was taking it’s toll on everyone, it was to be expected but to see her in such bad shape it didn’t just tug at his heart. It scared him. Like a constant reminder of just how bad the situation with the reapers really was. Kassandra Shepard was not easy to rattle and yet she was so very clearly affected.

He wanted so badly to hold her. Just to be there to help her forget about the war, even if it was only for a short time. Perhaps some of his reasoning was also a little selfish because he too wanted to forget for a time, to lose himself in her to be able to feel as if everything might be okay. It wasn’t though, nothing about it was okay. Nothing about them was okay either and he only had himself to blame for that. The worst part was knowing in the same situation he would do it all over again. He would turn away from her on Horizon to remain with the alliance, refusing to ever work with Cerberus and he would hold up that weapon again in defense of the council. At least until he was certain it was okay to lower it.

He knew how hard it had been for her to open up to him the first time, that although she had been with other men before him she had never allowed herself to love before him. Then he had gone and turned away when she needed him, perhaps there was no second chances from there but he needed to believe there might be.

There was no way of knowing how long he had been standing at the window, staring out towards the stars without really seeing them when he heard the familiar sound of the observation lounge doors open. Kaidan turned around expecting to see a random crew member who had come looking for a quiet place to reflect. Instead he found himself looking into a pair of light green eyes that he knew all too well. Kass was standing in the doorway, barefooted, wearing an over-large black hoodie and matching black pants. Somehow even in clothing very obviously thrown on in haste, she still looked as adorable as ever or, perhaps because of it.

There was hesitation in her eyes as she stood there not moving, silently questioning. If only he could figure out what the question was that had her searching his eyes for an answer.

“I am sorry,” he said quickly as he stepped forward to scoop up the datapad from the chair. “It’s late, I guess you were expecting to have the place to yourself. I’ll be out of your way.”

“No,” she responded with a soft voice. Even then it still amazed him how the famous Commander Shepard, hero of the Citadel among other equally impressive feats, could appear so vulnerable to him. “Edi told me you were still awake.”

It took a moment for her words to fully register. “You were looking for me?” he asked, wondering if he sounded as surprised as he felt.

“I should have come to see you before now, I’m sorry,” she replied. Slowly she stepped forward, her bare feet barely making a sound as she moved to one of the chairs and sat down on the edge.

He ached seeing how tense she was in his presence, it wasn’t supposed to be like that. It shouldn’t be like that and the worst part was not really knowing if he was to blame, cerberus, the collectors or the war. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he responded. “Are you okay?” he asked and then instantly cursed himself. Stupid question Alenko.

Her hands clasped and unclasped in her lap several times as she remained silent. He knew her. He knew her well enough to know not to push, it was why he had waited for her to come to him in the first place and there, faced with her silence he knew to give her time to speak. If she was ready she would, otherwise she would get frustrated and leave. He prayed that wouldn’t be the case.

“I didn’t want to be alone and I didn’t know who else to turn to,” she finally admitted weakly. Her expression was so full of remorse that he felt his heart shatter in his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop that,” he said in a voice that was half way between firm and choking back the emotions flooding his senses. He moved away from the window to sit down on the seat next to her, grateful that she had chosen one of the longer chairs over the single he often occupied. “You are not alone, I could have gone anywhere to help with this war. I wanted to be here on the Normandy for you.”

Her arm shot outwards as her fingers gripped his much larger hand tightly. “It’s not fair on you, not after… not when you…” she fumbled. The words clearly catching in her throat.

“Don’t,” he said firmly. “Just don’t…” She didn’t have to say it. He knew, why hadn’t he seen that before? She was worried about him and what may happen if he lost her again. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be with him anymore, it was the fact that she did but what? Thought that she shouldn’t when the war could take her from him again? It could take any of them at any time. He knew that all too well, he just didn’t want to think about it.

He turned his hand around in hers and laced their fingers together. How many nights had he lain awake just wishing for the chance to talk to her again? To touch her again? Too many, he lost count long ago. She was right there he could hear her words, he could touch her, he could smell the familiar scent of her perfume and he was not going to waste a second of whatever time she was willing to give.

He didn’t know how long they sat there in silence, hands clasped together and eyes on the stars as the ship moved beyond them. It didn’t matter because she was there, no longer just a fantasy or dream summoned by his mind but real and oh so warm.

[frozen-knights]

Thoughts on Pink Diamond and Rose’s Rebellion 

This is related to the unaired / leaked episodes of Steven Universe. If you have not watched the episodes or wish to remained unspoiled please don’t read under the cut. This is not a theory just some thoughts. 

I do not and will never agree with the way the Diamonds rule over the gems, but on the other hand I do not agree with the way Rose rebelled. Societal change does not happen over night and for a race as long lived as the gems change would be harder. We don’t fully know what triggered the rebellion and while we know the Crystal Gems wanted to be free there must have been a tipping point. Something so bad happened that Rose and her followers finally said “No!” and they had to rebel. 

The Crystal Gems did not know about the cluster and this could have been the reason Rose stood against her Diamond.  Rose kept her secrets, Lion and Bismuth are living proof of this, she might have known about the cluster as she was close to Pink Diamond (I assume) and this could have been what made Rose rebel. She loved earth, she loved all life and she wanted to protect the earth, this could have been the reason she stared her rebellion. Maybe Rose learned how a cluster is made (through shattered gems forced to fuse) and was so horrified by this that she had to rebel to protect her fallen comrades.  Pink Diamond and love.  At this point I imagine Pink Diamond was a very loving Diamond. Her love might have been different and I think her youth made her very naive and she didn’t understand why she shouldn’t do the things she did. But she was a Diamond and Diamonds get what they want even if its bad. 

All Gems love their diamonds, its a loyalty that is born with them how and why I’m not sure but it is all they have known. Even after the crystal gems rebelled and pink diamond was shattered the crystal gems (minus amethyst who had never met the diamonds) loved their diamond(s). Pearl and Rose mourned Pink diamond (Stevens crying seems to represent Rose’s regret or grief) and Sapphire did not wish to meet a mourning Blue diamond again (expressed through Garenet) thought this could have been equal parts fear and remorse.  So far we have only seen fear/respect/admiration from Peridot (and other gems) concerning Yellow Diamond and the crystal gems are naturally wary of the Diamonds in general. I believe that Pink Diamond was young and therefore more “new” to the world she wasn’t jaded like her elder siblings she was hopeful and naive.  The gems born/made on Earth are far more unique, all the amethysts we have met are much more expressive. They enjoy just being themselves they are caring and kind but strong to they also don’t seem as serious as home world gems. Maybe all gems start out this way and are made into the soldiers they are. Peridot is a prime of example of this as she went from most serious gem to fun and quirky once she had her freedom even Lapis is learning to deal with her new found freedom though understandably at her own pace.  Rose quartz gems (I only have our rose to go off) seem to be strong, loving, protective figures who are deeply loyal to those they care about. And I have no doubt that Jasper(s) is the same. Jasper loved her Diamond that much is clear but unlike Rose Jasper did not have time to grieve. She went from a war zone where her Diamond (someone she loved) died into (i’m guessing) another military style place and later on other battlefields.  She is the equivalent of a soldier never getting assistance to deal with her PTSD.  Anyway my point is that Pink diamond inspired love she taught it to others and it is why Rose did not love the same way Greg did. Yes she loved Greg and other humans, but it always seemed (until Greg) that Rose loved humans the way we love a pet and that she learned this from Pink diamond.  The human zoo The human Zoo is my main reasoning for this. Pink Diamond wanted to save as many creatures (and plants) from the cluster as possible. She wanted to protect and preserve, something that yellow diamond seems to think is foolish. But Pink Diamond loved like a child, I’m sure at one point (most of us) have wanted to own all the animals, maybe you picked up a bird and took it home or kept frogspawn in a jar or a fish in a jar or something like that? Well imagine we are the fish in the jar and Pink Diamond is the curious child who wants to protect everything she owns. After all the Diamonds OWN things, the rule and command and Pink Diamond as young as she was, was given command over this one planet.   But her planet was going to die and so she wanted to save as much as she could so she created the zoo. It was a conservation effort much like the reason we build zoos, are zoos wrong? Yes they are but on our earth they are needed because fuckers have yet to learn hunting animals to extinction is not good. Is a human zoo wrong? Of fucking course it is, but we are lesser beings to  the Diamonds (and gems) we are the tigers and they are the humans making sure we don’t go extinct.  Pink Diamond Vs The other Diamonds & Roses Reasons for rebelling. IF, Rose knew about the cluster I think Rose would have wanted to Pink Diamond to stand up against her sisters. I think Pink Diamond allowed freedom and allowed her gems to live how they wanted rather than how Homeworld wanted. But when it came time to create the cluster Rose demanded that Pink Diamond stand up to her sisters, and maybe Rose believed that her Diamond would. But instead Pink Diamond turned her back on rose and on Earth and sided with her sisters and so Rose rebelled. This in turn lead to other gems who wanted their freedom, who wanted to free of the Diamonds to stand behind Rose. Rose may not have cared for freedom, she may not have cared about much other than saving Earth. But I think her views shifted over time with the more followers she gained, especially upon seeing and meeting Garnet.  I do believe that Pink Diamond was either shattered a short time after Garnet came into being or before Garnet was born.  If Pink Diamond was alive when Garnet was born than Blue Diamond was sent to deal with the Rebellion on Earth because she is a much more gentle Diamond compared  to Yellow and may have been the reassuring presence Pink Diamond needed to carry on her mission of turning the Earth into what the Diamonds needed.  If Pink Diamond was already shattered and the Rebellion was in full swing by the time Garnet came into being then I assume blue Diamond was sent because she is the next logical Diamond to send. Yellow Diamond is always busy with something “important” and I assume she was at the time of the rebellion to, no doubt Rose’s rebellion may have triggered other rebellions in other worlds and possibly Homeworld.  I think visiting earth is what caused Blue Diamond spiral of depression, Yellow Diamond has never visited earth and has no wish to and I think visiting the place where your loved one was murdered (it was murder) would cause anyone great pain. I feel out of all the gems Blue was the one who was closest to Pink and Yellow was next. She revisits earth and wishes to carry on Pink Diamonds legacy of saving humans (as guessed by our sapphire) before the cluster emerges. She was obviously very close to Pink Diamond and unlike other Gems who are shattered more often I feel the Diamonds thought themselves as invincible until Pink Diamond was shattered. Imagine being thousands (possibly millions) of years old, you would grow complacent and accept that maybe you would never been shattered. Then up pops a new world, a new diamond and new ideas and the youngest diamond is shattered and how do you process that? I imagine any Diamond Birth is the cause of great celebration and Pink Diamond was loved by her sisters and her Death would have been something new to them. How do you process an emotion that you may never felt (or felt on such a deep personal level) before? Yellow Diamond buried herself into work and anger. Peridot and Yellow pearl are shown to fear Yellow Diamond when she gets angry or annoyed which indicates she had not dealt with her grief either.

Blue Diamond spiraled into a great depression, she doesn’t function well she is always crying always slumped I doubt she gets much work done these days. She seems to have lost some respect from her gems if Agate is any representation on how Blue Diamonds gems feel about her.  The aftermath of the Rebellion - Roses Regret 

Not much has changed. Yes the crystal gems have their freedom, but the rest of gem society has carried on as normal (at least for now) there have been other wars and we know resources are low at the moment which means wars are still happening. Maybe wars with other races or other much more successful rebellions? Maybe Rose inspired a much greater movement and yes the cluster has been bubbled. But was it worth it? All those shattered gems turned into a geo-weapon, all those rose quartz’s bubbled. Yes Rose saved the Earth, saved many lives, the lives of creatures that she (and maybe) Pink Diamond loved. Garnet is free to be herself, Pearl has her freedom and Amethyst is a gem who has never known the tyranny of the Diamond authority. But Rose could only save herself and three other gems, everyone else had either fled earth or had become corrupted by whatever was unleashed upon Earth to end the rebellion once and for all.  Rose was a solder who fought for a cause she believed in and she did not think about the long term implications. She did not deal with the cluster (if she knew of it) she had not expected to deal with corrupted gems and she tried her best to find a cure. But in the end she put that all aside for herself and a new life, she finally moved on and put all her faith into Steven. Was that good? I’m not sure, Steven does offer a unique perspective of both Earth born Gem and Human. But he does not know what Rose knew, he does not know her secrets and he has been shown time and time again to be haunted by Roses mistakes. Bismuth, Pearl, Pink Diamond, Jasper and Corrupted Gems.  These are things a boy Steven’s age should not have to deal with, Rose had hoped that her past couldn’t or wouldn’t come back to bite but it has and it currently is. Roses plan was incredibly well meaning but short sighted. 

The Diamond Authority - Times are changing  We have been drip fed ideas about the Diamonds for some time, each unique in appearance, how they rule and of course their personalities. They are rulers who literally tower over their subjects but even among the diamonds their is a hierarchy. White is the head of the Diamond Authority, Yellow and Blue stand shoulder to shoulder as equals and Pink was at the bottom young and new.  The Diamond Authority seems something that has remained unchanging for as long as anyone can remember. When a new Diamond is born they are given a planet and given a mission and the Diamonds have carried out their duty well over these many years. But the death of Pink Diamond shifted this power balance.  Blue is unable to cope with her depression and she is unable to work, instead she trapped in spiral and seems unable to deal with her depression. Yellow Diamond is coping through work, she has buried herself in her work and I suspect is doing Blue’s work to. Yellow is not without sympathy but she hasn’t dealt with her own grief and has simply boxed it up putting it away, Blue may start to pick up after these episodes and go back to work. But It will be slow. I imagine with one diamond not working as well as she once did this has caused major problems throughout the gem controlled worlds as it has divided the attention of Yellow diamond and possibly white.  

Just some thoughts, I plan on tackling ideas I have about white diamond soon!