#{ seriously considering archiving and starting fresh }

[quotevarchive]

hey! hope this ask finds you well. so, im a bit of an amateur digital historian (in that i take internet history seriously) and i like to write casual essays about websites from time to time. quotev flew up on my radar when i saw some yall on cohost, and ive been reading everything i can about it for the last several days. from what i've gathered, nobody really knew quotev's double life except for q users themselves. in fact, it's been such a well-guarded secret that most are unaware of quotev's existence, much less that it was a quiz site with a secret component to it. so i am putting out a call to you and any quotevians reading: would any yall be open to contributing to a quotev post-mortem? it seems like it was a pretty monumental site to many users, and as for the pain of its loss, i understand it myself: the website i consider basically 'my highschool years' went dark just last year, and knowing that it's essentially lost to everyone but those who were there for it bums me out. BUT quotev is still fresh in the minds of the people who called it home, and i'd love a chance to learn more about its unique culture and what made it so special to its users, even if many users now feel betrayed by it. if you do publish this ask (which you are under no obligation to do so), anyone reading it is free to send me an ask directly and i'll make sure my anon is on in case anybody wants to remain anonymous. also just in case i need to clarify, i'm not trying to write a smear piece or anything tabloidesque involving individual users - i want to know quotev as users knew it, whatever was loved and hated and why it will be bitterly missed.

yes hi!!! This ask is so exciting to me because I have been a little too into quotev history and dynamics and social interaction (hence the blog) for a few years now. I only started “archiving” in late 2022, but feel free to look through my older posts for any info. everything's a bit clogged up with the “quotev death” posts but back in the archive there’s a decent amount of stuff. I collect whatever i can. also feel free to hmu if you have any specific questions.

the hidden social media of quotev was always such a funny thing to me. Even older users who used to roleplay or make quizzes and fanfics there didn’t seem to be quite aware that it had become so centered around the activity feed, and of course any mentions of it on bigger platforms like youtube were always like “cringe 12y/o fanfic haha.” (Not that anything we actually did was any less silly.) anyway, i was always torn about this because i did NOT want quotev to become more popular, but i wished people knew about the crazy shit that really went down there. Your post-mortem is a great idea because you’ll be telling the story of social quotev with no worry of sending new users to the site…because he is already dead

I highly encourage any followers who have fond memories or stupid stories to submit them!

[ashwritesmonsters]

The Thru-Hiker (part 2)

Female Reader x Male Mothperson (Desmond)

Prev: [Interlude] Next: [Part 3] Words: 2.9k Note: Yes, this story is alive! Don't mind me just editing things like 80 times 😭

As you wake gently to the sun shining through old lace curtains, you enjoy a delicious moment of not quite knowing where you are. Your body feels rested properly for the first time in ages, and the bed underneath you feels impossible to get up from. This all changes when you remember you're in Willow Grove, on the second floor of Evangeline's Bed & Breakfast, and running into Desmond again is a very real possibility. The town was a tiny one, after all, and Moths like Desmond literally stood head and shoulders above the humans, Selkies, and Lupines in town.

With the possibility of seeing him again giving you much needed motivation to get out of bed—you literally imagine yourself hugging him and nuzzling into his soft neck fuzz—you quickly freshen up with an indulgent hot shower and throw on some fresh clothes. You never realized how much you missed wearing things like leggings and sweaters until you wore nothing but purpose-made hiking gear for months. 

The moment you step out of your cozy room, you're dragged by the nose downstairs towards the aroma of fresh croissants. As you step into the kitchen, Evangeline pulls a baking sheet with half a dozen of them out of the oven, her tail wagging with satisfaction.

"Good morning, dear," she greets you, moving with impressive speed to set out a plate and silverware for you in the breakfast nook. "How did you sleep?"

"Perfectly," you reply, playing hot potato with a fresh croissant as you sit at your plate. 

"I've forgotten how nice it is to sleep in a real bed. I seriously considered never getting up."

"Well that just wouldn't do!" She smiles warmly, baring her sharp canines. "Otherwise, who would I share breakfast with?" She turns her back on you for a moment to reach for jugs on the counter. "Coffee, orange juice, water?" She offers.

"Coffee, please," you ask. You heft your camera off your shoulder strap and onto the table, where it's joined by a mug of steaming coffee. You don't have to be a coffee snob to tell by smell alone that this is better than the freeze-dried stuff you had with you on the trail.

"You're a photographer, I take it?" Evangeline asks, eyeing your toaster-sized camera.

"I am," you say between bites of warm croissant. She smiles as you enjoy her delicious handiwork.

"Is that what brings you to Willow Grove?"

You think while you chew. Yes, you could tell her that you're here because you hiked five months to find a Moth you hooked up with in the woods, whose full name and contact info you don't even know, and you're sorta hoping to just bump into him in town and...

"Pretty much," you lie. "I took lots of photos on the trail, and I guess I didn't want to go straight back to the big city. Willow Grove is a very pretty town." That last part is honest.

"Well you are in for a treat." Evangeline leans in, elbows on the counter. She's proud of her town and her tail wagging is proof. "If you're looking for something to do today, I'd love to help you with some recommendations of mine."

"That would be lovely." Just like that, your croissant is nothing but crumbs, so you sip your coffee.

"Well, I think you should start at our library." Evangeline reads your mind and grabs you another warm croissant. "I'm sure you would find the archival photos there interesting. There are some from nearly a hundred years ago on the microfiche."

"Wow. That's pretty good archiving." You start working on the second croissant. You're drawn in by the chance to see this town in photos a century old. The town already feels so steeped in history; you'd love being able to see it for real.

"For a town this size it's unheard of. The library really is the centerpiece of the town. It's the only building with three stories and it's a beauty, too. It's all red brick and stained glass on the outside, with stained wood and brass fittings on the inside. It's pretty enough to photograph on its own, now that I think of it."

"I'll have to do that, then," you chew. "Thank you for the recommendation, Evangeline. I'd be lost without your help."

"Of course, dear. Don't hesitate come by and chat with me again."

You nod eagerly and thank her again. Between Evangeline's generosity and the small town charm, Willow Grove was growing on you. Once you finish your coffee and croissant, your camera finds itself slung on your shoulder once again and you set off, stepping out into the crisp Autumn air.

The walk to the library is a pleasant one, with the scent of fallen leaves and woodsmoke in the air. As you approach the building, you see what Evangeline meant when she said it was the town's centerpiece. The red brick exterior is adorned with intricate stained-glass windows depicting scenes of nature and the townspeople. Where the morning light shines on the exterior just right, you frame a shot and snap a photo.

Stepping inside, you're greeted by the rich, dark wood interior that oozes warmth and history. If you weren't drawn here by the lure of the archival photos (and didn't have a Mothman to find), you'd want nothing more than to curl up in a warm corner and finish a book in one sitting. Your eyes are drawn to the towering bookshelves that seem to reach for the heavens, each equipped with rolling ladders to access the highest volumes.

Following Evangeline's advice, you make your way to the microfiche room, eager to delve into the historical photographs she had mentioned. Upon entering, you find yourself alone under the dim lighting with only the sound of analogue machinery as various machines hum and click around you.

You take a seat at one of the microfiche machines, both eager and intimidated. You're no stranger to old tech, but you've never used one of these, and the machine's knobs and scroll wheels seem don't match anything you've used before. With determination, you begin to attempt operation, threading a nearby spool of delicate film through the machine and squinting at the projected images on the screen.

Despite your best efforts, the machine proves stubborn and uncooperative. The images refuse to focus properly, and the scroll wheel seems to have a mind of its own as it either moves too fast or not at all. Growing increasingly frustrated, you ball your hands into fists and fight the urge to smack the machine. You'd probably end up more damaged than the machine if you did.

"Ugh," you mutter under your breath, trying to channel your patience and remind yourself that it's just an old machine. "Why won't you cooperate?"

Taking a deep breath, you look around the dimly lit room, seeking solace in the quiet space. As your eyes adjust to the low light, you notice the intricate details of the machinery and the countless reels of microfiche waiting to be explored. Thinking about the long history of this town and the fact you're only one of many people determined to photograph it and record its charm calms you down a bit.

You refocus your attention on the stubborn machine, steeling yourself for another attempt at coaxing it into cooperation.

Just as you're about to touch the scroll wheel again, a gentle tap on your shoulder startles you. Your heart leaps into your throat as you spin around, only to find Desmond standing behind you with a warm smile on his face. 

"Hey there," he says softly, his big red eyes sparkling with amusement. "Need a hand?"

"Desmond!" you exclaim, unable to contain your joy at seeing him again. With a mix of delight and relief, you sweep him into a tight hug, lifting his featherlight frame off the ground for a moment. His fluffy wings flutter against your back, and you can't help but smile even wider.

"Wow, someone got pretty swole on the trail," Desmond jokes awkwardly as you set him back down, his chitinous features accentuating his shy grin. "I'm glad to see you too."

"Sorry, I just got carried away," you apologize, cheeks burning a little. "It's been so long since we last saw each other."

"Yeah, it really has," he agrees, rubbing the back of his neck. "How have things been for you since we... parted ways?"

"Tiring, but good," you reply, trying to focus on the positive aspects of hiking and living like a caveman. "I actually finished the trail just a few days ago. You weren't kidding when you said the town was right near the trail's end."

"Well, welcome back to civilization. I don't need to reintegrate you to society do I?" He teases.

"Shut up," you land a playful shove against his shoulder. "What are you doing in the library, anyway? You haven't been stalking me since I got into town, have you?" You tease back.

"Actually, I work here. It's what I did before I hiked the trail and it's good to be back."

Desmond the Librarian just seems too fitting for him. "How's life as a librarian?" You ask.

"Quiet, mostly," Desmond admits with a chuckle. "But I like it. It gives me time to read and watch old movies, which is nice. Plus, I get to help people find what they're looking for, whether it's a book or a piece of microfiche."

"Speaking of which," you say, gesturing toward the stubborn machine, "any tips on how to make this damn thing work?"

"Of course," Desmond says, stepping closer to the microfiche machine. With a few deft movements of his slender fingers, he adjusts the knobs and scroll wheels, and the image on the screen comes into focus.

"Thanks," you say with relief. "I was about to give up on this thing."

"Anytime," he replies with a warm smile. Then, he glances around for a moment before leaning in slightly, voice hushed as if by instinct in the quiet library. "Hey, do you want to see something really cool?"

"Sure, what is it?" you ask, your curiosity piqued.

"Come with me," Desmond says, leading you out of the dimly lit microfiche room and toward a staircase tucked away in the back corner of the library. "There's a private office upstairs with an amazing view of the town. I think you'll like it."

As you ascend the stairs, you notice the atmosphere shifting from the cozy bustle of the library to a serene, quieter space. The dark wood paneling continues upwards, and the scent of old books melds with the faintest hint of dust.

Desmond opens the door to the private office, revealing a room filled with antique furniture and more floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A large, arched window dominates one wall, offering a stunning view of Willow Grove below.

"Wow, this place is incredible," you breathe, taking in the beauty of the room and the town beyond. Townspeople below mill about, getting ready for a lazy morning. You can see the cafes on the main street starting to fill up and people driving their cars on the winding roads to the neighboring towns.

"I thought you might like it," Desmond says, a hint of pride in his voice. "It's one of my favorite spots in the library."

You both step closer to the window, absorbing the breathtaking view and enjoying each other's company in the peaceful atmosphere of the office.

"You know, um..." Desmond starts, fidgeting with his neck fluff, "I'm happy to see you again. I'm glad decided to find me again."

"Me too." You sidle up to him, enjoying the warmth of one of his wings. "I worried you'd think I was crazy, or you'd have gotten over me, or..."

Desmond stops you. "No, not at all. "I'll admit, this would have been much easier if I just gave you my number," he chuckles, "but it just didn't feel right back then, you know? But now that some time has passed and I've gotten to be on my own for a bit... this feels right, having you with me."

"Thank you," you reply, touched by his words. Your heart swells, and the knowledge that Desmond is just as happy as you are to be here has your face filling with warmth. If Evangeline's croissants were a feeling, they'd be closest to the sensation of Desmond wrapping a soft, warm, fuzzy wing around you as you both watch Willow Grove come to life.

Just as you're about to stand on your tiptoes to plant a kiss on him somewhere, the door behind you swings open.

"Desmond, I need to talk to you about..." The voice, strong and low like dark chocolate, trails off as the Mothwoman enters the room and spots you. Immediately, an aura of coldness and intimidation emanates from her, making the air heavy with tension. She's taller even than Desmond, and her black wings, spiderwebbed with streaks of white, wrap around her like a cloak.

"Who is this?" she demands, her gaze fixed on you. The warmth in the room dissipates like a snuffed out candle.

"Mom, this is my friend," Desmond says, trying to defuse the situation. "We met on the Appalachian Trail a while back."

"Friend?" Samara narrows her eyes, suspicious of your presence. Her overprotectiveness of Desmond is palpable, making you feel like an intruder in their world.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs... um..." You stammer, offering your hand in a polite gesture.

"Samara," she replies icily, ignoring your extended hand. She turns her attention back to Desmond. "You never mentioned any new friends from your trip."

"Ah, well, we just recently got back in touch," Desmond explains, his voice wavering slightly under his mother's scrutiny.

"Is that so?" Samara regards you with a steely gaze, her tone accusatory. She begins asking terse, probing questions, attempting to assess you as if you were a threat. "How did you meet? Why are you here in Willow Grove?"

"Um, we met by chance on the trail," you respond, feeling uneasy under her intense stare. "As for the rest, I'm just here to take some photographs. It's a hobby of mine." You try to remain polite, but can't help being taken aback by her coldness.

"Photographs," she repeats skeptically, looking you up and down. There's something unspoken in her expression, a hint of distrust that you can't quite decipher.

"Mom, please," Desmond interjects, coming to your defense. "It's really not a big deal. We're just catching up."

"Fine," Samara relents, her tone still chilly. "But don't plan on spending all day with her. You're needed at the circulation desk soon." With that, she gives you one last lingering glare before turning and leaving the room as abruptly as she had entered.

You stand there in the wake of her departure, heart pounding, as the atmosphere slowly begins to return to near-normal.

"Sorry about that," Desmond says with an apologetic grimace. "My mom can be a bit... overprotective."

"Is she always like this?" you ask, still reeling from the encounter.

"Unfortunately, yes," he admits. "Especially lately, with the town's Founding Festival coming up. She's been under a lot of stress." He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly before continuing, "I guess I should let you know she's the mayor of Willow Grove, so the responsibility of overseeing the whole event falls on her."

"Your mom is the mayor?" Your jaw goes a bit slack. Having his mom dislike you is one thing, but when she runs the whole town? You try to shake off the lingering unease, focusing instead on the warmth of Desmond's wing as he returns to your side and rests his hand on your shoulder.

"Yeah," he chuckles nervously. "She's a bit of a local celebrity around here. I'm really sorry for how she acted towards you. I promise, it's not personal."

"Thanks," you say, managing a small smile. "I appreciate you sticking up for me."

"Of course," Desmond replies, his gentle eyes meeting yours. "You're important to me, and I don't want my mom's behavior to drive you away."

The sincerity in his voice makes your heart flutter, but there's also a pang of disappointment. When he had introduced you as "just a friend" earlier, it had stung a little, even though you understood why he did it. You wonder if that's all you can be to him when Samara is around – just a friend.

Desmond seems to sense your uncertainty, and hesitantly reaches out to take your hand. "Hey," he says softly, "if you're up for it, I'd love to take you on a real date soon. Somewhere outside of this dusty old library."

"Really?" The hopefulness in your chest flares up at his words.

"Absolutely," he confirms, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. "I want to show you the town and get to know you even better."

"Then I'd love that," you reply, feeling a mix of emotions, but still hopeful. Willow Grove seems like a town just magical enough to make this work, no matter how much warming up Desmond's mom needs before she gives up the cold shoulder.

[dulltoned]

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven

Clay sat perched up on one of the many stone clusters scattered around the entrance of the bunker with a clipboard sat on his lap, an inventory for Branch's perishables printed across each page in neatly made rows and columns. He wanted to help out with his brother's organization but Branch was adamant that his system didn't need any adjustments. Clay had hesitated then, wondering what else he could do to take some weight off of Branch's shoulders, but before he could even ask Branch had shoved a list and a pen in his hands and asked him to check the stock on the lower level. Clay was more than happy to have a task to do. This has definitely been the longest he's gone in quite a while without having a job to keep on top of and it was starting to make him antsy. He had only made it halfway through the five-page list, Branch had a lot more perishables than he expected, and so he made his way up to the surface after a few hours to get some fresh air.

That had been two hours ago. He's looked over the list at least fifteen times now, checking and double-checking that he hadn't overlooked anything so far, and he was quickly running out of excuses to stay outside. But Viva had come over with Queen Poppy and so her friends and his older brothers were locked in an outrageous water balloon fight over in the clearing he conveniently had a perfect view of. It looked like a lot of fun. Clay wasn't fun anymore.

He's been trying to subtly keep an eye on the all-out war waging just a few meters away, watching as the group laughed and splashed about. They cheered and groaned in equal measure with each blow that landed and Clay wondered with no small amount of yearning whether or not they'd split into teams or if it was a free-for-all game. It took all of his focus to not jump up and join in. He'd spent years proving that he was more than just the fun one, that he still deserved to be taken seriously, and he would be damned if he threw all of that away just for one silly little water balloon fight.

His frustration with himself only grew when his ability to do his one task was inhibited. He knew he was being ridiculous. He could very well just get up and head back inside but he hadn't yet found the willpower. Each time he nearly gave in and went back in to finish up his work another loud cheer would break out or they'd spread apart to start another round and he'd be drawn right back in.

He doesn't know why this was so hard for him. He's been just fine all these years and he found a lot of joy in the work he did for the community back at the golf course. It seems that his restlessness was starting to get to him in ways he hadn't really considered. There was an eagerness buried under his skin that called for something to do and he could admit to himself that he still wanted to throw himself full-force into the parties and events that made up Troll Village. There were a lot of parties and events in Troll Village. Clay has still gone to his fair share of get-togethers with Viva unbeknownst to his siblings. It was easy to let loose with Viva. Viva never once doubted that he was someone serious and respectable and she had been a large contributor to how he viewed himself now. It was also really nice to be able to come back to the peace and general quiet of Branch's bunker, unwind from a loud day full of bright colors in the comfortable quiet surrounded by muted and natural tones. There was a balance that Clay found for himself that he really enjoyed but he was afraid of showing that to his brothers. He'd been so adamant after seeing them all that he was no fun at all anymore but he'd never expected to spend any extended period of time with them again.

He couldn't escape it now, he supposes, and honestly he doesn't want to. He had forgotten how much he loved them. He'd never say that to their faces but he was grateful to have them in his life again. His cold relationship with John Dory has even improved significantly and he finds that it's actually really nice to talk to his eldest brother. They've spent a few long afternoons just chatting around the bunker, exchanging stories about their lives since the band broke up. It was still weird to see John really listening but it was a nice kind of strange.

Another round of cheers breaks out and drags Clay from his thoughts. He looks up to see one of Poppy's friends drenched, the big blue one, with an empty bucket rolling along across the grass beside him. He's clutching his pet worm to his chest as he guffaws, pushing his hair back with his free paw. Clay groans softly and lets his head fall onto the clipboard with a muted thunk.

A light chuckle from somewhere behind him startles him out of his wallowing and he whips his head around to see Floyd and Branch making their way over. "Having fun?" Floyd pressed with a soft smile on his face. It's clear that it's one of his bad days. His eyes have large bags hanging under them and he moves slowly without his usual grace. Clay can even see his hands shaking slightly after he gets a little closer.

"Me? Never." Clay scoffs and smiles back in greeting. He raises his clipboard in one hand, spinning his pen expertly in the other, "Just getting some fresh air while I check over my work." They exchange a look that Clay can't really place and Branch hoists himself up onto the rocks that Clay has made his home the last couple hours. "What brings you two out here? Poppy finally convince you to join in?" He turns a teasing look to Branch.

"Ha, ha," Branch deadpans, looking every part unimpressed. Fun or no fun Clay could never give up messing with his brother.

"Also getting some fresh air," Floyd cuts in before their banter could escalate. "I really needed to be outside for a little." He shrugs but Clay's smile drops at the haunted look in those pink eyes. Despite everything it could still be so difficult to overlook everything that Floyd has been through. He still hasn't told them just how long he'd been trapped with Velvet and Veneer but even the handful of hours that Clay had been held captive had been enough to rattle him to his core. Floyd was fragile in a way the rest of them weren't, his heart on his sleeve despite how delicate it could be. On days like this Clay was reminded that despite that Floyd was no less strong.

"Well, you're more than welcome to join me," Clay assures warmly, he glances back at his clipboard and very pointedly ignores the game going strong in the background. "Just don't expect much from me in terms of company." Because he was working and not because he was captivated by the water balloon fight. Obviously.

"Thanks," Floyd's smile is soft and he takes Branch's hand when the other offers him help. Branch easily pulls Floyd up and Clay wonders if Floyd is just that light or if Branch is just that strong. "What're you working on?" He asks as he settles down between Branch and Clay.

"Oh," Clay blinks. He had expected their conversation to end there. Sure, he wanted to be taken seriously but he didn't expect the others to have any interest in his work. He was always entertaining back then, he told good jokes and did cool dances, but he expected their attention to drift elsewhere when they realized he was being boring. He didn't really think that would change just because they were older now. It was the price he had to pay for the results he wanted. The only person who seemed to enjoy things like this in the way he did was Branch. It made something melt sweet and soft beneath his ribs to see Floyd expressing a real interest. "It's inventory for some of Branch's provisions. I wanted to help out a little so he asked me to take stock of the perishables." Saying it out loud he knows it doesn't sound interesting. All the detail work and the tedious counting rarely caught anyone's attention. Even Clay got bored of cataloging like this from time to time.

"Oh, yeah, should probably know what you have if it can expire." Floyd realizes, nodding along. He looks pale now that Clay can see him in the sun. Floyd's pelt is a bit dull still compared to Clay's own and there's a haziness to his eyes that speaks more to how unwell he's feeling than to bad memories. "I'm honestly a bit surprised you have more than what's in the pantry," Floyd turns his head to Branch and the older two bask in how the tips of Branch's ears turn a deep blue. Clay wasn't stupid. He's seen that Branch's skin isn't as saturated as the rest of theirs, even compared to a still-recovering Floyd. He doesn't know if anyone else has given it much thought and he's pushed it to the back of his mind. The possible implications made his stomach twist and he didn't want to jump to any conclusions. Maybe after years of holing up with Viva a bit of her paranoia had rubbed off on him. Either way, it was really nice to see some color back in Branch's face.

"I may have stocked up when I knew you guys would be staying." Branch mumbles, averting his gaze and staring intensely down at the tall grass brushing against the rocks.

"Aw," Clay coos because he can't resist. "You bought real food just for us." He reaches over, carefully avoiding knocking too hard into Floyd sat between them, and ruffles Branch's hair. Expectantly Branch quickly tries to push him away, hands flailing up to bat at the offending arm. It was becoming a running joke between the three eldest brothers to see who could manage to touch Branch's hair the most before they went home. Branch was usually quick enough to duck away or hide behind someone else but there were still plenty of opportunities to catch him by surprise.

"The rations are real food," Branch argues, successfully untangling Clay from his hair and scooting away for good measure. He shoots Clay a sharp glare and huffs, though he doesn't retaliate. "They're for emergencies though. I only had enough fresh food stocked up for me and apparently it's important to be a good host." Branch rolls his eyes and Clay can already picture Poppy ranting with great exasperation at Branch about the importance of taking care of your guests.

"Thanks Branch," Floyd says it with such sincerity that Clay couldn't even hope to follow it up with any more teasing remarks. Well played, Floyd. It's interesting to see Branch immediately soften under Floyd's kindness. There was a general affection that rested on Branch's features when he thought no one was looking, content in a tired way that felt like it should be foreign to the youngest of them, but he always visibly relaxed with Floyd. It makes sense. Floyd was the one who brought them all together, and Floyd caused the least amount of ruckus, but Clay thinks there's something more to it that he's just not privy to.

"Of course," Branch nods, shyly soaking up the gratitude. Clay has learned that Branch isn't really used to others being grateful for him. He doesn't know exactly why, whether no one ever really explicitly thanked him or he'd never had someone who could, but Poppy made it no secret that she was always grateful for Branch. His face got several shades darker every time.

Another round of cheers draws Clay's attention before he can think to ignore them. Viva is somehow covered in glitter and cackling like a madwoman, leaning heavily on a chortling Poppy to stay upright. Branch chuckles and Clay glances over to see the other troll shaking his head fondly with an easy smile on his face. His face always melts when Poppy is involved. The Queen flips some sort of switch in him that rounds out all his sharp edges. Clay doesn't know how to thank her for being there for Branch but he wants to find a way. Maybe he'll ask Viva.

"You know, you could always take a break," When Clay looks at Floyd his expression is far too knowing. Clay hates it when Floyd gets smug. He's sure the last twenty years have only made Floyd better at being a little shit. Floyd's expression only turns smug, though, when Clay doesn't immediately respond. He tilts his head towards the ongoing game, silently urging Clay to get up and enjoy himself.

"Psh, what?" Clay waves a paw, "Nah, why would I do that?" Even to his own ears he sounds painfully unconvincing. He had an image to upkeep now and he wasn't about to shatter it just because he had no self-control.

Branch tilts his head, raising an eyebrow, "Why not?" His confusion catches Clay off guard a little. He'd expected Branch to question him the least. Out of everyone, Branch is the only troll around who wouldn't want to participate simply because he didn't feel like it. "It's not like that's gonna take you the rest of the day, and it's not important anyway." Branch gestures to the clipboard with a shrug, settling back on his paws and turning his head back towards the fun. "The more the merrier, right?" Coming out of anyone else's mouth the question would've been rhetorical.

"It's not really my scene anymore, Bitty B," Clay tries to explain with a warm smile, watching fondly as Branch's face screws up at the nickname. "I don't really do that kind of thing anymore, I got my own stuff to do." He wiggles the clipboard again. Branch's frown doesn't move, if anything it only becomes more pronounced. Floyd and Branch look at each other again and this time Clay can practically see the silent conversation bouncing between the two. He doesn't know when this happened, they didn't have time to cultivate this kind of close relationship without everyone else noticing, but Clay has never felt more like the middle child than he does right now. With his two youngest brothers conspiring against him and his older brothers off doing the exact thing he yearned to do he felt particularly out of the loop.

"You know," Floyd starts. It's not a good sign when Floyd starts. Floyd won't hesitate to give him shit. "No one will care if you have some fun." Clay expects teasing, some remark about how he'll always be the fun one, but Floyd's face is sincere and open. Clay's stomach twists and he resists the urge to focus his attention back on the clipboard. That'd only look like he was avoiding eye contact.

Clay rolls his eyes, "That'd be great. If I wanted to." He places the clipboard aside and subtly stretches out his fingers. He hadn't realized just how hard he'd been gripping the wood until he'd let go. "Seriously, guys, I'm good. I'm right where I want to be." He goes for a reassuring smile but Branch is looking at him with those calculating eyes of his so Clay knows he's screwed. He sighs, sticking a hand into his messy hair and picking at a knot there, "I'm fine, really. I have work to do right now and I don't know if I'm comfortable being the fun guy in front of so many trolls." Branch's gaze softens and Clay lets out a relieved exhale. Floyd's smile is sympathetic as he hugs his knees to his chest.

"I get it," Branch nods, turning his gaze away again. That only sparks Clay's unease again. Branch avoided eye contact sometimes when things got emotional. Floyd says it's an easy way to disconnect yourself from the situation without leaving. Clay thinks Branch is just awkward. Bruce thinks they can both be right. "After the Bergens discovered that they could be happy without eating a troll a lot of Poppy's friends tried to invite me to things afterwards. Ya know, since I helped out. It took me a while to take them up on it, I didn't want anyone to think that I was an entirely different troll just because we all went on some crazy adventure together." He shrugs and clears his throat, turning his head back towards his bunker when his discomfort rises.

Clay laughs, "I don't know what that has to do with me," He tries to play it off but quiets quickly when Floyd shoots him a pointed look.

Branch huffs a soft laugh and turns back at him just far enough for Clay to see him roll his eyes. "I wanted people to still take me seriously, and not assume that just because I changed I suddenly wanted to do everything a normal troll does. Don't get me wrong I love being a troll, and it's nice to do things every now and then, but I'm also still me." Floyd gently knocks into Branch and offers an encouraging smile when it seems like Branch is getting off track. Branch clears his throat again, "Right, the point is that I know what it's like. To avoid doing things so that people don't look at you differently." Finally Branch makes eye contact again and Clay is taken aback by the open compassion there. It's warm and understanding and makes Branch's blue eyes shine. "You can still have fun sometimes, Clay. We know that's not all you are."

Floyd quickly agrees, jumping in to give Branch a moment to pull his thoughts together and compose himself. "No one is gonna hold it against you if you want to enjoy yourself." Which is such a nice sentiment and Clay knows they both mean it but… but it's different when it comes from your younger brothers. Of course they'd still take him seriously. To at least some extent they'll always remember the days when they were kids and he knew more than them. When they were kids they could come to Clay for things, whether they took him seriously or not, because more often than not he had the answers or knew someone who did. Floyd's encouraging smile dims when Clay clearly isn't convinced.

Branch sighs, tilting his head back with a small groan of genuine frustration, "Clay," he starts firmly, rolling his head back up to clock Clay with a dark look. "The only person who you're gonna convince with this is you. No one is all stiff and professional all the time, and everyone has hobbies that they do for fun. If you want to have fun you should. You're not the fun one anymore but that doesn't mean that you can't hang out with your friends." Branch stands with a grimace, holding out a paw to Clay. Clay stares blankly back for a few long moments before Branch impatiently shakes his offered hand and Clay takes it on instinct.

Branch pulls him unceremoniously to his feet and drags him off the rocks and off toward the commotion without so much as a pause. "Woah, woah, hey," Clay protests, trying to pull back only to find that Branch's grip is strong. He turns back to Floyd in search of help but Floyd just offers a smug little wave with a smug little grin. "What're you doing?"

"We," Branch corrects, "Are gonna go join a stupid water balloon fight." The closer they get the more trolls pause in their battle to send them curious glances. Clay can already feel the nerves building under his skin but they're chased away by the growing excitement and anticipation. Branch was offering him an excuse. He saw that Clay wanted to join but he was too caught up in himself to take the chance and he decided that he'd give Clay an in. Clay's heart bursts with affection, warmth seeping into his body that had nothing to do with the summer sun.

"Hey," John Dory greets, hair soaked and dripping water from tall strands hanging in front of his face. He tosses a water balloon lazily into the air, catching it lightly while his eyes flick between them. His smile widens when Branch and Clay stop only a few feet away. The whole field was still, waiting with baited breath for the next move. Clay was equally frozen wondering just what Branch would say. Branch, as it turns out, doesn't say anything. He takes one step forward, sighs a long-suffering sigh, and extends his arms out on either side of him in open acceptance.

Approximately three water balloons slam into Branch at once; John Dory lands a swift bullseye to Branch's face, Poppy hits him square in the torso, and Bruce gets a shot in on Branch's hip. Branch falls back like a man shot, landing on his back with a quiet oof, and looks up at Clay with a deadpan expression ruined by the shine in his eyes and the nearly imperceptible twitch of his lips. "Avenge me." He monotones.

Clay doesn't hesitate to jump into the fray. Chaos erupts across the field as every troll scrambles for ammunition. Viva joins Clay in his quest for vengeance and Poppy cries betrayal when her sister nails her in the back of the head. Clay can hear Floyd laughing from here. Branch sits up from where he'd fallen, watching with a soft smile as Clay finally lets himself have this. Clay smiles back. He has a lot of fun.

[snifflesthemouse]

In Other Words seemed to be the best title for this...

Hello, my lovely readers and friends!

This author sure hopes this post finds you all much better than it found me when I started writing it. Nothing is seriously wrong at home, in the real world, right now. It’s just that I had to actually watch these first three episodes for me to really be able to speak on them from my perspective.

Since there is SO much to unpack, digest, and consider, this author has decided to do a post per episode to really give them each the attention they all deserve. There are things in there I saw that many probably never thought to look and see. There are things I overlooked, too. Which goes back to the first paragraph.

I find it interesting that none of the episodes on the series have titles. I guess Meghan and Harry are the only ones allowed to have titles over at Netflix? Meghan and Harry used very precise days to make the focus all about them, and yet again we all fell for it. But, as we grow sicker and more tired of these two, I know that soon, it will all be over for them. This model cannot sustain, and they will become corsairs focused on ravaging and destroying each other next once they run out of ammo for the Royals. Even this series is “limited”. But when you have a limited subject… I am being mean, I know.

The first episode has a little summary blurb that says, verbatim, “As Harry shares the impact of a childhood in the public eye, he and Meghan reflect on the secret, early days of their unexpected romance.” So, even their blurbs and summaries reveal their hypocrisy (and their obsessions with secrets). Insert a fresh meme where Harry says being in the public destroyed his life, yet he’s actively throwing his own children in front of the camera.

We get some disclaimers from Netflix right off the rip. Before we see a person or picture, we are told that this is “a first-hand account of Harry & Meghan’s story, told with never before seen [sic] personal archive.” What that really means is Meghan and Harry have been recording for this since before they signed the deals. They were filming in March of 2020 before ever signing a deal with Netflix in September 2020.

It now makes sense why all these places just jumped into bed with these two. They had to show something of content to score these deals. It says all interviews were completed by August 2022; so, from their first date until August of 2022, they’ve been videoblogging for Netflix.

The next disclaimer says. “Members of the Royal Family declined to comment on the content within this series.” Which means they never saw it in the first place for them to ever be able to object. Right off the rip, Netflix thinks these disclaimers will be enough, and right off I know it will not be.

The first scene we get is of an airport. Everything in this series is designed to feel like a documentary and not a reality show. Meghan must’ve been the one to suggest the stock photos and the stringent music. I can hear her now telling H that the only difference between a reality show and a documentary is the soundtrack, or something awful. We then see Harry talking to the camera in March 2020, right after their final engagement. Literally, he is videoblogging his future betrayals toward his family in the Heathrow Airport.

He's recording in the airport at Windsor, speaking, as we see a ton of pictures that should be new to us… but aren’t. The thing is with Harry and Meghan, they forget about saturation. We are so tired of hearing about them, and we’ve seen so much of them, that these new photos are not that special.

But, yet, Netflix paid quite a bit to oversaturate them some more. They start us out with Harry and Meghan apart, during the end of Megxit. She’s in Vancouver, and he’s in London. They claim that the media, the institution, and only they know the full truth. Except, is that really true, Harry? It’s not, is it?

I mean come on now, they have told us their story via Funding Freedom, Oprah, Ellen, James Corden, Gayle King, Dax Shephard, Meghan Markle Podcaster, Harry Markle Movie Douche, and that’s not even touching all the “five friends” they have on social media pretending to care. We know everything about their story.

WELL… Until they started telling it. Because everything is different now. Before, H asked M to marry him while they were roasting chicken. We even thought they were playing us a fool and using urban lingo, remember? But, no, sadly that’s all wrong. So is how they met, who Meghan was dating and living with at the time, and all the rest.

Once we get the couple together, well. It finally gets interesting. Harry watches Meghan watch a video of herself answering the “Prince Harry or Prince William who’d you rather?” and her acting like she didn’t care. H looked as if they never saw that clip, because you could tell he was upset with how she replied.

If you feel like this post is all over the place, it is. I am writing this as the documentary plays. This hopping around from them leaving to them meeting to them “sacrificing everything for each other” has all been touched on in the first five minutes. This author wanted to show you, exactly, what a hot mess this is all.

Essentially, this limited series is a “well here, this should suffice right?” that Netflix put together after they learned who Harry and Meghan really are. If you really look, it almost seems as if Netflix is getting revenge on them. Netflix will get that money either way; people like me have to watch this stuff, right? That, or they’re seriously that simple and that self-absorbed. But then again, I am different.

Maybe that will work out since everything in this documentary is different about H and M, too. Harry says “a friend of ours” suggested they video diary the whole process. At one point, we even hear Meghan try to cop it off and say “we keep talking about it… it may not make sense now, but it will one day” or some nonsense. In other words, Netflix said if you want this deal, you need to record something of substance and bring it to us before we’ll greenlight you and pay you.

I bet every rumor of Meghan filming Catherine’s and William’s kids at Kensington Palace were true. But, before I can even think about that, I get interrupted with Megahn coming in with her own little digs.

“The past six years of my life- books have been written about our story BY PEOPLE WE DON’T KNOW. Doesn’t it make more sense to hear our story from us?” brings us into meeting a Meghan who was intent on being single back in 2016. She failed to mention that she wasn’t single, though. Before H came, C came. Cory.

Then we get H and M together talking about meeting up for the first date. You know, the one that she ditched Piers to make. When she said they were “child-like” at first, Harry blinked three times rapidly. Before then, Meghan had just told a story about him being late. She said, “I���m not about this” and that she “couldn’t understand what could make him late”. Like how dare they be in downtown London in June, let alone how dare he be a working Royal at that time in 2016. How dare H!

Harry’s face said everything. It said “Oh really, because Meghan Markle Z list actor on the way out of her biggest gig couldn’t handle a PRINCE OF THE REALM BEING LATE a few minutes”. Everything about this relationship is broken. It will not stand. You see, both of them are using each other.

I’ve said from the beginning that I believe Harry is using Meghan as a way to get back at his father. I have also said from day one that Meghan was using Harry, too. But this isn’t a symbiotic relationship because neither really care about the other in a way where they both actually benefit healthily from the relationship.

At one point, Harry gets irate over Meghan mentioning that Harry had a list of what he looked for in a woman. He even said he wouldn’t talk about the list. He then made a joke that Meghan was the list, and the producer said it was a good answer. It was a copout. He was lying about everything he told her. He had a list, yes, but it wasn’t all her. She was the only one willing to act out the parts he wanted most.

When the show isn’t Harry and Meghan rewriting their own love story (again), they show very personal home videos of King Charles being a loving father. He even says his childhood was filled with joy, laughter, adventure, and happiness. But nothing we see is really more than an extension of what’s been out there forever now already. At the core, this whole thing makes Netflix very rich, those two looking very badly, and The Royals are attacked.

One revealing thing is how little Harry, as a boy, would make his own binoculars out of cardboard to look back at the press. Something tells me that his mother put him up to it. This is where the show goes in the “invasive paps and press” stage. He tells us that he was taught not to feed into it. There is a reason for not feeding into it, H. It stops it dead in its tracks. For example, if we all stopped talking about them or looking their way, they’d not matter and would have no other choice but to go away quietly.

This first episode continues on and on for what feels like too long. We get James Holt using that iconic, nasal British voice you get on the American made documentaries. And then it hits me. They must’ve edited it AFTER the Queen died, at least some. The interviews stopped in August of 2022, but they have the Queen marked as dying in 2022 when they show the Royal Family Tree. She died in September. If they could edit her death in, why not edit that scene where Meghan mocks the monarchy, UK tradition, and her husband’s dead grandmother out to save face?

Overall, save your time. This isn’t’ a documentary. It’s not reality television either. It’s Meghan and Harry complaining and lying, peppered with some Republicanism. We get several situations that are uncomfortable, and we get to see just how dysfunctional, controlling, manipulative, and vindictive Harry and Meghan are with each other.

You guys think they’re horrid now working together? Wait until they turn that vitriol on each other…

Oh, and the fact that Harry showed the clips of his mother in the Panorama complaining about being photographed so much, only for them to use photos of the press at Harry Potter to “replicate” how H is his mom again… rich. He said his mother was only alone after the divorce. So… in other words H… THE ROYAL FAMILY protected her. If she wasn’t alone until the divorce, that says she was respected and protected until she left. So, how could the Royal Family be responsible for your mother dying at the hands of a drunk driver and choosing to go sans seat belt H?

I’m whole-heartedly convinced this is planned and orchestrated from way back when. Like H is the real hunter here and M is the one really getting hunted. He saw a fame hungry monster and decided she would do. The more Meghan and Harry reveal who they are, the more they will prove us all right. Hang in there, guys. Listen, there is literally like thirty more minutes left at this point, and I just cannot anymore. But… now we get to see the recap of Diana’s death.

All I can say is Harry has been pretending to be Harry the Prince on camera for his whole life. He was trained by one of the best manipulative mommas ever, only to marry a hack who can’t do the manipulation part genuinely, without being caught. There is a reason none of their real friends made it into the series. He’s not spiraling people, he’s been planning this. He figured it out shortly after his mom died, at Eton. He figured it out then, that he could rattle cages. Episode One: Harry is his mother.

Oh, and it seems like he blinks rapidly in a row when he’s lying or provoked. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s holes all over that mansion’s walls.

Sorry guys, I got to minute 49 and had to stop. My poor husband watched it, too. He says “who the hell calls their wife by the letter of their first name?” God I love him.

 

EVERYTHING THEY’VE LIED ABOUT SO FAR:

1. HOW THEY MET: First they said they met via a mutual friend. Then they say they met via Instagram.

2. They said they didn’t know the people writing the books about them. OMID?

3. She said she never googled H, but she literally tells us that she didn’t consider seeing his social media as googling him.

4. The List he had for a wife, and her being it.

5. How they got engaged: first it was roasting chicken, then it was in Africa

6. Harry and Meghan were serious when they went to Botswana; they had met only twice in person before the five-day trip.

There's more to this, I just gave up and had to get a break. I made it to 49 minutes and begged mercy. Feel free to add to the list!

[thetakeon]

How to Choose the Best Tech Blog for Your Interests

In today's fast-paced digital world, staying up-to-date with the latest tech trends, gadgets, and innovations is essential. Tech blogs are a ripper resource for tech enthusiasts, providing a bonza load of info on everything from smartphones to artificial intelligence. However, with so many options available, how do you choose the Tech Blog Australia that aligns with your interests? Let's have a squiz at some key factors to consider when making this decision.

1. Define Your Tech Interests

Before you start your search for the perfect tech blog, take a moment to have a chinwag about your specific tech interests. Are you passionate about mobile technology, gaming, cybersecurity, or maybe emerging tech like virtual reality or blockchain? Knowing your niche will help you narrow down your options.

2. Assess the Credibility

Credibility is fair dinkum when choosing a tech blog. You want to rely on dinkum information and trustworthy reviews. Look for blogs run by experts in their respective fields, or those affiliated with reputable tech publications. Also, check for editorial guidelines and transparency regarding conflicts of interest.

3. Check Content Quality

The quality of content is a ripper factor. A good tech blog should offer well-researched articles, in-depth analyses, and thoughtful commentary. Look for blogs that provide a mix of news, reviews, how-to guides, and opinion pieces. Have a Captain Cook at a few articles to gauge the writing style and depth of information.

4. Regular Updates

Timely updates are essential to staying current in the tech world. The best tech blogs consistently publish fresh content to keep you in the loop about the latest developments. Check the blog's posting frequency and consistency to make sure you won't miss out on important news and updates.

5. User-Friendly Design

A clean and user-friendly website design enhances your reading experience. Look for tech blogs with intuitive navigation, responsive layouts, and easy-to-access archives. A well-designed blog is a sign that the creators take their content seriously.

6. Community Engagement

Engagement with the audience is a bonzer sign. A good tech blog should encourage discussions, comments, and reader feedback. Check if the blog has an active and respectful community of readers who share your interests.

7. Diverse Authorship

Diversity in authorship brings different perspectives and expertise to the table. Seek out blogs that feature multiple authors with varied backgrounds and experiences. This diversity can lead to more comprehensive and balanced coverage.

8. Tech Blog Recommendations

Ask for recommendations from fellow tech enthusiasts, or search for best tech blog lists from reputable sources. These lists often highlight popular and reliable tech blogs that cater to different niches.

9. Explore Social Media Presence

Many tech blogs have a strong presence on social media platforms. Following their social accounts can help you gauge their activity, engagement with readers, and the type of content they share.

10. Personal Connection

Finally, trust your gut feeling. A tech blog that resonates with you on a personal level, aligns with your values, and consistently provides valuable content is likely the best fit for your interests.

Being a technologically advanced country, Australia is showing the pathways for technological invention in this decade of the twenty-first century. In this scenario, Tech Blogs in Australia produced by various reputed sites like The Take On Tech are now getting accepted in the entire world by tech lovers on a practical note. 

Along with providing the Latest technology news, The Take On Tech can give you the update guides on current and upcoming technological innovations of Australia as well as of the entire world. Therefore, do not waste much time, visit the site quickly. 

Conclusion

Choosing the best tech blog for your interests requires a combination of research, personal preferences, and aligning with credible sources. Once you find the right one, you'll have a top-notch resource to satisfy your tech cravings and stay informed about the ever-evolving world of technology. Happy reading, mate!

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

sacrifice (day 4)

(chapter 9 - tesfest2022 - read on AO3) (tw: homophobia)

-

On a fine summer's day where the armour clung to her skin from sweat, on a sweltering summer's day where the thieves were too lethargic to thieve and it seemed as if half the population had retreated to the cool shelter of the Mournhold underground, on a hot and humid summer's day where each step of the patrol had been arduous and even the most faithful Ordinator grumbled about the weather, Iliah decided to end her shift by jumping into the lake.

Of course, it would've been very un-Ordinatorly behaviour to jump in a lake fully-armoured, so Iliah was forced to postpone her plunge until she'd returned to the barracks and unclad herself. She'd spent the morning patrolling the Temple alongside a more experienced Ordinator, herself being still considered a novice, but experience, in their profession, did not by necessity translate to seriousness, and after some convincing she'd managed to persuade her comrade to join her in her holy pilgrimage. The Ordinators had a reputation for gravity, but in the safety and privacy of their own company, they were as weak to the promise of a mid-summer plunge as any heat-addled citizen of Mournhold. The Ordinator she'd been patrolling with-- an older man named Othres-- even had the bright idea of inviting some of the Temple Orphans, suggesting with a half-joking cynicism that they could be used to fetch fresh fruits for a picnic.

"I don't think Almalexia would be impressed," Iliah complained as they plodded down a stairway. "They're children, not servants."

"Duty is good for the growing soul," Othres replied patiently. "And we'd share the fruit with them."

"Or we could just take them. Without making them carry fruit."

"Come now, the little scamps are good at climbing. That mango tree in the garden is fruiting, they could climb up and get some for us."

They reached the mess-hall, one of the vast underground chambers that constituted the Temple Subterranean. The chamber was swarming with Ordinators-- some having just got off their shifts, others just heading out. Unlike most parts of the subterranean, the mess-hall was sweltering, radiant with so much golden armour heated in the sun. With a quiet, beleaguered groan, Iliah removed her helmet, and from the corner of her eye she saw Othres do the same.

"I was a Temple orphan," Othres told her as he wiped sweat from his face. "We used to go on trips like that all the time. Trips to the lake during summer, or down to the river, excursions to Selfora or Gnaar Mok..."

"Were you made to carry fruit?" Iliah asked, running a hand through her sweaty hair as she did so-- she'd cut it short, to the length of her ears, and it stood up in strange angles.

"Fruit! There was a Hand, a real alit of a s'wit, who made us carry full packs of military gear. Wanted to start us on heavy armour training early."

"And you still became an Ordinator."

"I didn't say it wasn't effective--"

He broke off, for a Hand of Almalexia had approached them. Both Ordinators quickly fumbled their helmets under their arms, then made a sign of reverence to the Hand, who returned it with curt formality. 

"Sera Othres," the Hand greeted them, "And Iliah."

"Seron," Iliah nodded. "Ah-- I mean, Ghartokyn Seron."

"How formal you are." Seron was fully-armoured, and Iliah couldn't see his face, but he'd been her mentor since she first came to the Temple and she could hear the displeasure in his voice. "I need you to come with me."

"Me?" Iliah asked. "By the Goddess' orders?"

"In a way. Come.”

Her neck felt sweaty. For a brief, foolish moment she wanted to protest-- the promise of the lake with its cool waters loomed heavy in her mind-- but she was obedient to a fault, and only bowed her head and let Seron lead her from the room. He took her through the crowded barracks, towards the archives, and Iliah wondered if Almalexia Herself had summoned her; but Seron seemed to have an air of unhappiness about him, how he wouldn’t look at her, how he kept his gaze straight ahead and his pace brisk. 

When they reached the door of the library Seron paused and took Iliah by the arm. “The goddess wanted me to pass on a message for you,” he said stiffly. “Would you hear it?”

“Of course.” 

“Good. She said: I need him.” He released her arm and stepped aside with a bow. “Go in.” 

The reason for Seron’s apprehension was obvious as soon as Iliah opened the door. For at the central desk within the library, unattended, jarringly opulent against the dear dusty shelves and walls all askew, was Father. 

It was as if hornets were buzzing in Iliah’s brain-- every thought was blank. She stood, stunned, by the door, grasping for some script, some instruction on what to do. He was just sitting there, as every bit formidable and disapproving as he’d been in her childhood; but she wasn’t a child, she was a Temple servant, she couldn’t bow to him, she had to act. What was Ordinator Protocol here?

“Duke Melam Dren,” she finally forced herself to say. 

Melam had already turned in his seat to face her. “Iliah,” he replied, as calm and authoritative as if they stood in his own house. “Finally.” 

“For what do you require an Ordinator’s service? Citizen.” She tried very hard to keep her own voice flat, formal. 

Melam made a small, exasperated sound. “I don’t require the service of an Ordinator. I requested to see my daughter.”

Iliah realised that she wasn’t wearing her helmet. Her face felt hot, still sticky with sweat from the warm day-- she fumbled with her helmet, bringing it up to her head.

She heard Melam scoff. “Put that aside.” 

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Iliah said stiffly, “Your daughter is not here, serjo.”

“Don’t be obstinate, Iliah.” 

“I only quote doctrine. Your doctrine. No daughter of yours would let perverse lusts lead her--”

“Iliah! I’ve come to reconcile with you. For the Mother’s mercy, won’t you make peace with me?”

Her throat felt thick. Having Melam so nearby-- in the library, nonetheless, a room Iliah had come to consider as a sort of sanctuary-- it felt profane, invasive, as if someone had jabbed a finger into soul. 

But he could not have come here if Almalexia had not willed it. Suddenly feeling very small, she hugged her helmet to her chest and moved cautiously to the table, where a second chair had already been placed. 

Melam watched her as she sunk into the chair. He was almost unchanged since the day Iliah had left his house: a face lined but not old, the same dark hair that she and Karnalta bore, slender of shoulder, dressed in exquisite robes of dark indigo that must’ve been unbearably hot in the summer humidity. Iliah watched him fiddle with the edge of the sleeve, then twist a gold ring around one of his slim fingers. 

“Good girl,” he said as Iliah sat. “Now. Listen to me.” 

Iliah stared at the surface of the table and said nothing. 

It was as if Melam had expected her silence; he began speaking in a carefully-rehearsed monotone:

“All my life I have been faithful to the Temple. Almalexia has been a personal friend of mine since the days of my youth. Your own noble lineage, the lineage of your mother, is intertwined with Mournhold and her Goddess, and has been since before Almsivi were gods.” His language was formal, in the way Iliah had once heard him talk to merchants and diplomats. “The bond between Temple and Ra’athim is as deep as any. So. It is to my deep regret that, in recent years, those bonds have become strained. The tragedies that have shaken our family… but the time has come for healing. Let us put this grief behind us. Let us be at peace.”   

Iliah had been rubbing her finger against the eye-hole of her Ordinator mask. “The tragedies that have shaken our family,” she repeated after him. “You mean me.”

“I didn’t,” said Melam. “Karnalta’s crime. The death of your mother. We have faced so much grief.” 

“At Karnata’s trial. You said--”

“Let us not speak of it.” 

“But you said we were both cursed. As if I were just as bad as she--”

“Can you judge me for what I said in such an awful moment?”

“Even before that.” Iliah’s breath was shallow, she wouldn’t look at him. “You cast me out of your house. Because I’m Telmoran. You called me-- sick.”

Melam winced. Then he closed his eyes, passed a hand over his face. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, with difficulty. “I may have reacted… too strongly.”

Iliah raised her eyes to stare at him. 

“Try to see it from my perspective!” said Melam. “When I married your mother I felt like a common thief. The last scion of a four-thousand year old bloodline and she chose to marry me. I didn’t deserve the honour. Her own father swore to her she’d be the death of the Ra’athim, for the folly of marrying me. I always bore that fear and that guilt. When she fell pregnant with you it seemed like a blessing-- the Ra’athim line would not die under my watch. I was so relieved. And then you were born, and then we learned she’d be carrying twins, and then…” 

He exhaled, there was real grief on his face. “I tried to see it as a blessing. Not one daughter but two; the Ra’athim line would be twice as strong as I’d found it. Your mother’s sacrifice would not be useless, with two scions to take the place of one. That’s how I consoled myself after her death-- it was a worthy sacrifice, for two daughters, who might have two daughters of their own, from whom this ancient lineage could grow anew… 

“Can you imagine, then, how it felt, when you stood up at dinner that evening and announced you would never marry or bear children? That you’d let four-thousand years of history die inside you for the sake of your own juvenile desires? How could I not have been aghast?”

He leaned forwards, spreading his slender hands on the flat of the table. “So you see why I did what I did,” he said imploringly. “I was desperate, Iliah. I couldn’t stand to think of your mother’s sacrifice going to waste. That is why I reacted how I did. And can you blame me? Your mother died to bear you, and this is how you repaid her. Even you should be ashamed.” 

Iliah had been staring at the table all the while, her fingers tight on the edges of her helmet. Her sword still hung at her side, the sword her very ancestors had given to her, before they knew what she was; she envisioned taking it, splitting the skin of her arm, pulling out the veins like threads of a frayed sweater and throwing them all at Melam’s face. 

“You are my daughter,” Melam was saying. “I did my best to protect you. You were such a strange, sick child besides, so susceptible to the impressions of others. I feared you’d been taken advantage of by someone, or had some strange ideas placed in your head… you are still young, and may change your mind. But I admit it. I was too harsh. I should not have cast you out.”

He was silent, then, and Iliah gradually became aware that he was waiting for her to reply. The mask felt cold under her fingers. 

“Okay,” she finally said. “Is that all you wanted me for?” 

“Well-- yes.” 

“Fine.” Iliah began to rise. “I’ll go, then.”

Melam let out a long sigh. “You still hate speaking. I always wondered what I’d done to you, to make you hate me so much that you wouldn’t say a word to me.”

“It’s not about you,” Iliah said hoarsely. “The way I am. Who I am. It was never about you. It’s not to spite you, it's just who I am.” The words felt thick in her throat, strangling. “I won’t-- I can’t be your daughter. Not how you want me to be. I’m an Ordinator now, and I’m good at it. I don't want to be anything else.” 

“If you would only try, Iliah.” Melam replied. “I think that’s why we clashed. We all make sacrifices in life-- that is the way of things! We cannot lead the lives we wish. I did my part, Karnalta did hers. But you never even tried to fix yourself. It was always about what you wanted. Even this Telmoran business-- wait. Don’t leave yet.” 

For she’d turned away from the table and stepped towards the door. 

Despite herself she paused, waiting. 

“I’m going to be working very closely with Almalexia for a while.” That polite formality had returned to Melam’s voice. “If you won’t agree to let us be family, will you at least agree to be civil?” 

“You are a citizen of Mournhold,” Iliah replied carefully. “I’ll treat you as I treat any citizen.”

“Good enough. Thank you.”

An awkward silence descended between them. Skin crawling, Iliah crept closer to the door. 

“Wait,” Melam said again, his voice now slightly more urgent. “Tell me one more thing. How do you introduce yourself?”

“I’m sorry?”

“When someone asks your name, what do you call yourself?” 

“... Ordinator Iliah Mora.” 

“You may call yourself Ra’athim again,” said Melam. “From now on, call yourself Iliah Ra’athim.” 

He’d said it as a command; it felt like a curse. She ducked her head and left. 

Seron wasn’t waiting for her outside, but Iliah hardly noticed. This part of the underground was more or less deserted, and though she could hear the bustle of the mess-hall from around the corner before her,  she felt profoundly alone. The solitude was an unexpected relief-- a great knot of tension that had been within her mind uncoiled, a faint buzzing filled her ears. 

For several seconds she stood in that empty hallway, feeling dazed, bereft of herself, as if her soul had been plucked from her body and now hovered unaffectedly above her. It was as if she’d ripped out her own veins after all; she felt hollow. 

Operating on instinct, she walked forwards, towards the mess-hall. But she’d only taken a few steps when a group rounded the corner and cut her off, two Hands accompanying--

“Idrenie?” Iliah said in surprise. 

For it was indeed the accused spy that had appeared, the one Iliah had guarded months ago-- here she was, flanked by Almalexia’s own servants and seeming as comfortable as any priest within the heart of the Temple. She heard Iliah’s voice, and stopped in her tracks, turning her head. 

“Who--” she began, staring at Iliah’s bare face. Then, “Wait, you’re that Ordinator who snitched on me! I didn’t know you were so--” she let out a breathy laugh. “Give me a moment,” she said to the Hands accompanying her. Then she stepped forwards, reached out to touch Iliah’s arm. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.” 

Words escaped her; Idrenie’s fingers felt electric through her armour. 

“Taken your breath away, have I?” Idrenie asked, smiling. “No matter. Hey, you never told me-- What’s your name, Ordinator?” 

“Iliah Ra’athim,” she replied, dazed. “Would you like to go swimming with me?”

[momolady]

Dragon Boyfriend: Deiphobos 2

More lore about the Ruby Empire.

Female Reader x Male Monster (both cis)

Deiphobos’ was built for the population of the whole island. While his chambers are at the very peak, the lower levels were made as a place for gathering, learning, sharing, as well as housing all the dragons that once lived here. All your life you assumed it was a mountain or volcano. No one went near it anymore, so the paths that once led inside have become overgrown and impassible. They were marked off as dangerous and left alone for ages.

Just below Deiphobos’ chamber is an archive filled with books, scrolls, and maps, and below that an amphitheater filled with seats. It goes on like that, layer after layer, until the kitchens. There are several stoves lined up along the walls, old and in desperate need of cleaning, but the stoves and equipment are still in working order, made entirely of cast iron.

“I remember when there were people coming through here at all times,” Deiphobos muses nostalgically.

The knives on the wall are rusted, which is a shame because they looked like very beautiful pieces. “I had always assumed dragons were inhospitable.”

“Some were. They wanted more power and more of the gem isles. But there were more dragons who simply wanted a place to roost, considering how we grew on Grattertock.” Deiphobos comes up behind you, blowing onto the stoves to disperse some debris.

“Rough place?”

“From what I remember.” he steps back as you start to clean. “It’s been so long, and I have slept since then.”

You smooth oil over the cast iron to clean it, rubbing away the rust that has built up on the surface. You take the ash aside, dumping it out and stocking the stove with fresh new coals. Once you get the stove clean, you start setting up your workstation with the spices you brought from home and the cookware your family sent with you.

“I have to get used to this new stove, so I’m going to start off by making some bread.” You turn to look back at Deiphobos. “Once I understand it, I’ll be better able to cook my family’s recipes.”

Deiphobos tilts his head to the side. “This is much more involved than I expected.”

“My family have all been chefs,” you say proudly. “Considering how my cooking was so familiar to you, I’m almost certain my ancestors used the same recipes. Although I’ve never had to make enough to feed a dragon.”

Deiphobos chuckles. “You don’t need to worry about feeding me. As long as there is heat, I don’t not need to eat like you would assume. I eat simply because I enjoy it.”

“How lucky.” You take out the ingredients you’ve been able to bring. At most, you have worked in very few kitchens, all of them you know intimately. You’ve gotten used to the feeling of being able to work without thinking. This is different, wholly new. You expected some trial and error getting used to this new kitchen, but it almost feels like home. The layout feels almost second nature. Eventually you have the bread rising and covered with a cloth. As you step back from the counter to allow it to rise, you look back at Deiphobos watching.

“It’ll be some time now. I like to let it rest as long as possible so the bread won’t be so dense when it is baked.”

Deiphobos lifts his head. “You’re free to do as you please here. I just ask you don’t go below the ground level.”

“Why? Is there a dark secret I shouldn’t be seeing?”

“No, it's dangerous. You could fall into the underground river and get trapped in the caves.” He says this all so seriously it actually makes you nervous.

“That would be trouble,” you murmur.

Deiphobos rises. “My home is your home, so use it as you see fit. Find your own comfort here.”

This is a strange notion to you. Having worked with the same family for a decade and never being allowed into most of the house, you’re used to having limitations. Being able to wander and call a place home feels foreign, almost taboo. “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” you chuckle. “It’s almost overwhelming.”

Deiphobos nods at the ceiling. “In the archive there are records of old recipes, I’m sure. It might be worth your while to see what history is up there. You may find something familiar to you. I’ll be going to begin clearing the pathway.”

“I would like some rabbit for stew tonight,” you tell him. “If you happen upon any rabbits.”

Deiphobos nods. “I’ll bring some back for you.” He leaves through the fireplace again, and you go upstairs to the archive.

You’re not sure where to begin. There are so many books, and you don’t know if there is an order to anything. The first book you pick up is written in a language you don’t know. The second one has recipes, but they aren’t the cooking sort. In fact, you’re pretty sure it’s all about poisons and potions.

There’s a lot of dust, and after you begin to suffer a sneezing fit, you go back down into the kitchen. You check on the bread and find it exactly as you like. You take it out, kneading it again and stretching it to form long cords that you braid together. Funnily enough, this style of bread is called ‘the dragon’s tail’.

As it bakes, you go back up to the archive to hunt again. You’re used to working in a kitchen that’s always busy from morning to night, and you haven’t had moments of rest between meals since you were a child. You don’t know how to keep yourself busy until Deiphobos returns with some rabbits.

You search the shelves until you find a book with some promise. It’s a diary, but throughout the pages are recipes. The woman in the diary details her daily life, talking about her routine of getting up early in the morning to make breakfast for her younger siblings and parents. She discusses the way to find the perfect eggs and how to prepare them to everyone’s liking. She describes rabbit traps, knives, the best pots in her kitchen. She’s so descriptive about everything, it feels as though you’ve lived her life.

You leave the book where you can find it again, then return to the kitchen to check the bread. Deiphobos returns with rabbits in his claws, and dust covering his scales. “Something smells good,” he murmurs.

You take the rabbits and hang them up so you can skin them later. “The bread should be done soon.”

Deiphobos lies down near the fireplace. “Did you find anything in the archive?”

“I did.” You begin sharpening your knife. “It’s a diary by this woman. She’s so detailed about everything she does around cooking, I almost feel like I am doing what she says.”

Deiphobos nods thoughtfully. “Good. I’m glad you found something.”

You place pots under the rabbits and begin skinning them. It's a gruesome process, but one you’re used to. By the time you’re done, you can take the bread out of the oven. The crust is perfectly golden and crackles when you touch it. The scent is heavenly, wafting through the entire kitchen. You slice it, smearing honey over a still-steaming piece and handing it up towards Deiphobos. “See what you think.”

Deiphobos eats directly from your hand, which tickles slightly. He chews the bread slowly and his eyes become brighter, glowing in the light. “That was wonderful.” Tears come to his eyes again. “It’s just as I remember.”

“My grandmother called this recipe the dragon’s tail,” you confess. “That’s partly why I made it.”

Deiphobos’ tears fall down his cheeks, splashing to the floor to cool and make mounds. “Thank you.”

“Hey, now.” You come up beside him and stroke the side of his neck. “No need to cry. Would you like some more?”

He nods his head and sniffles. “Please.”

“It’s almost refreshing to see someone cry over my food.” You turn back to slice another piece.

“There’s something to it,” he murmurs. “Something special.”

Honey drips onto your fingers as you look at him. “What do you mean? That’s how I always make it.”

“I can’t exactly say what it is, or describe what it feels like. I just know there’s something to this bread that makes it special.” Deiphobos looks down at you. “It’s better than I remember.”

Something about his words makes you excited about cooking, even more than ever before. You smile at him and nod. “I’m glad you like it so much. I’ll try to keep up the good work, I promise.”

You grow more and more at home in the kitchen. You’ve cleaned the other stoves to make different recipes at the same time. Deiphobos goes out every day to clear out what has overgrown around the keep, and you work happily at recipes that you haven’t been able to make in years. There are dishes your family made just for special occasions, and recipes in the diary that you want to try. You haven’t felt this joyful about cooking since your great-grandmother was alive and teaching you what she knew.

Deiphobos is good company as well, although he’s still recovering from his hibernation, struggling to recall the days before his sleep. He loves your cooking though, and every day you want to impress him more and more.

“I’ll be done clearing soon,” he announces one evening. “Then you can come and go as you wish. You don’t have to stay here.”

“I might be here often. I love the kitchen, and I would enjoy continuing to work for you.”

“Is it working?” he asks.

You stop for a moment. “No, I suppose it’s not exactly the work my family is accustomed to. But wouldn’t you be upset if I went and cooked for someone else?”

Deiphobos reaches out and pats the top of your head. “Why would I be? I believe you should share your gifts with the world.”

You frown and shrug. “Most people, when they can hire a cook, don’t want to share. The families my mother and grandmother have worked for have ensured they never leave them.”

“That is why this keep is here, and the festivals were begun. So people could share their gifts and work together. So if you decide to stay here, I only ask that when you cook you invite others to partake of the meal.”

His words touch your heart, and make you even more proud of your cooking. “It would be my honor, Deiphobos.”

He smiles and nuzzles your cheek. “I am glad that you are here and willing to share this gift.”

One the path is cleared, your family is the first to visit. It’s hard to get others to come, as most people are afraid of the keep and Deiphobos himself. Bit by bit, people begin to trickle in just to look around. Soon, once the food you make becomes known, more and more start coming. Deiphobos is hesitant to show himself at first, and remains in his chambers on the top floor, where no one but you can find him.

“You should come and visit with the people one day,” you tell him.

“They are afraid. I am afraid,” he says simply. “It will take time. You know this.”

You pet his scales, rubbing his head between your hands. “But I want you there.”

Deiphobos lays his head in your lap. “And I wish to be with you,” he whispers. “This time we have shared, the kindness you have shown me... I do not know if I can express the depth of my gratitude. I would give you all I owned. I would give you the fire in my veins.”

You drape yourself across  his head. “You don’t need to give me anything. I have all that I could ever ask for.”

“Thank you again,” he whispers. “That is what I will give you for now.”

One afternoon, you notice some younger children playing near the entrance to the caverns under the keep. “I wouldn’t go down there,” you warn them. “It’s very dangerous.”

“Who told you that? The dragon?” one mocks.

“There’s a river that flows underground,” you say sternly. “It’ll pull you under if you’re not careful. Please keep away from there!” You march away from them, angry that they would make fun of Deiphobos.

Later that evening, you hear screams coming from below and rush down to see what’s happening. The children are waist-deep in the water of the caverns, trying to save a girl who is holding on to a stone while caught in a very strong current. The girl looks tired and weak, struggling hard to keep her hold. You rush in, forcing the children to get back on land and to go find help. Then you make your way towards the girl, fighting against the strong current yourself. You wedge yourself against a rock and offer your hand to her. “Take it! Hurry!”

“I can’t hold on!” she cries.

You stretch further, trying to reach her so she doesn’t have to let go. You manage to grab her and pull her into your arms, but as you do, you lose your footing and fall into the current. You and the girl scream as you’re pulled under, dragged along the harsh rock floor. You lose sight of the girl, and then everything goes dark.

You’ve been swept underground. The water is so cold that your limbs begin to feel numb. You’ve never seen such darkness. You’re pulled underwater several times, forced back up and struck against stones. You manage to grab hold of something and cling, shivering. It’s hopeless. You know it is. You have no escape, no way out. This was your grave now. There’s no sense in holding on. Your breath shudders in your chest, and you begin convincing yourself to let go, to allow the current to take you, and to flow to your resting place.

Your toes begin to feel warm, as do your legs. You close your eyes and sink, letting yourself fall down into the endless cold depths. Something is warm against your back, and the warmth seeps through to your core, your hands, your face. You open your eyes and see your hair glowing around you. Your lashes, your lips, your limbs, all have a radiance wrapped around them. Deiphobos floats above you, holding out his hands for you to take. You grab hold of him, hoping this is the last thing you see before you die.

You wake to softness all around you. Your body feels weak, but it is surrounded by comfort. You open your eyes to the malachite veins running along the ceiling and walls. You take a rattling breath. Stretching out your arms, your hands find purchase on warm scales.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” Deiphobos whispers. “I am so...” his voice chokes off as he lays his head on you, letting you wrap your arms around him.

“Am I dead?” you croak. “Is this all a dream?”

“You’re alive!” he cries. “And very much awake.” He touches your face and nuzzles against you. “I was so afraid.”

“Then under the water,” you murmur, “I wasn’t seeing things. You saved me.” You hug him as tightly as you can despite the fatigue in your body. “I thought I was gone for sure! I was ready, and when I saw you, I had hope...” You look into his golden eyes then place a soft kiss on his scales. “But how?”

Deiphobos smiles at you, tears lingering in his eyes. “I did whatever I had to. I burned into the earth to save you, because I knew if I didn’t, my heart would break, and after waking, I would not have survived.” He inhales deeply and sighs. “I told you I would give you the fire in my veins,” he whispers into your ear.

You look at your palms, seeing that same glowing radiance from before. “To save me?”

Deiphobos nods. “Half my life is yours now.”

Tears rush to your eyes. “That’s so much.”

“Then stay with me, if you wish.” He licks your cheek and nuzzles your hair.

You wrap your arms tightly around him. “I never wanted to go to begin with! I wanted to stay regardless.” Tears fall freely down your face. “If your life is mine, then half my life is yours.”

Deiphobos embraces you. “As long as your grandmother allows it,” he laughs.

[voiceless-terror]

a little ficlet for @jonsimsandcats day! set in season one.

“Once again, there’s really no need to buy me tea-”

“And once again, it’s the least I can do,” Martin replies, happy to just be out of the archives. His living situation is not ideal and the dust in Document Storage is not helping his allergies. Still, it’s better than being worm food, so he’s trying to be grateful. And it is, after all, the least he can do, after sneezing and spilling a mug of tea all over Jon’s latest report. “Besides, the fresh air will do us both some good.”

“I suppose,” Jon grumbles, eyes trained ahead as he keeps a surprisingly brisk pace for someone of his stature. “But only for a moment.”

“Of course.” Martin’s shocked he actually agreed to it, considering how high-strung he’s been lately with all the worms, and the deadlines, and the general mess. But Jon had just stared at the slowly-soaking papers and sighed, getting to his feet when Martin offered. And he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It’s a nice day, anyway, and the blessed moments outside are worth Jon’s grumbles. Jon’s been...nicer, lately. Well, maybe not nice, but softer -  he’ll occasionally let out a sarcastic remark and glance towards Martin, as if to check if he smiled, and will tell him goodnight when he deigns to leave the archives. Martin logically knows this is the bare minimum for polite interaction, but he’ll take what he can get. Tim once told him Jon needs time to warm up to people, and that he can actually be quite fun. Martin’s warming up period seems to have lasted half a year, and he’s still running a bit cool.

“Stop!” Martin lets out a grunt as Jon throws an arm out, hitting him directly in the stomach. He’s looking from left to right with a sudden intensity, his eyes wild. Martin’s mind immediately pivots to worst-case scenarios- worms, Prentiss-

But there are no worms, and certainly no Jane. There’s just Martin and Jon, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk like idiots. He opens his mouth to speak when he hears a tiny, mewling sound coming from somewhere to his right.

Jon’s head perks up, a rare smile gracing his features. It makes him look impossibly young. “Martin, did you hear that?”

Martin blinks. “Uh, the-”

He’s once again interrupted by the tiniest of meows and watches as Jon immediately crouches where he stands, tiptoeing over to a tiny alleyway. It’s almost comical, and Martin would laugh if he weren’t so dumbfounded by this turn of events. Jon starts to make a strange little whispery noise, holding out his hand, and that’s when Martin starts to worry for his mental state.

“Jon, are you-”

“Shh!”

And suddenly the source of the tiny meow- an equally tiny cat - bounds out from behind a trash can, stopping hesitantly in front of Jon’s hand. It’s a dirty little tabby, almost pitiful looking, but that doesn’t deter Jon in the slightest, his entire face lighting up at its appearance. He smiles encouragingly, going still, and the cat creeps forward, moving to sniff at his fingers and then butt its head against his hand.

“Oh, look at this little man-” It’s not quite baby-talk, too serious and too Jonathan Sims to ever be described that way, but it’s a strange enough tone and it sort of does something to Martin in the vein of indigestion and heart palpitations. Here’s his stuffy boss, crouching in a dirty alleyway, petting a dirty cat, and whispering sweet nothings as if it were his own.

“I-I thought you didn’t like animals?” is all he manages to get out.

Jon’s smile doesn’t waver as he leans closer to give the cat a particularly good scritch as it rubs enthusiastically against his hand. “I don’t like them when they’re defecating in my archive.” Ah. Touche. “But you wouldn’t do that, would you? Would you?” The cat, unsurprisingly, responds only by purring as Jon scratches at it’s chin. “Of course. That’s what I thought.”

Martin crouches down beside him, the cat leaping back at the sudden movement, but Jon pays it no mind. “Oh, that’s just Martin,” he says to the cat, reaching towards it again. “He won’t hurt you. He’s very nice. Aren’t you, Martin?”

Martin nods seriously, as if he’s not being talked about like a well-behaved dog by his boss who barely tolerates him. He reaches his hand out, like Jon had, and watches as the cat butts up against it after a few sniffs. And Jon’s looking at it so fondly, that Martin almost forgets how to breathe. 

When the cat finally scurries off about ten minutes later (a car backfired, much to Jon’s chagrin), Martin’s joints are aching and Jon’s staring forlornly down the alleyway, like a wife watching her husband go off to war. He lets out a sigh before turning to Martin, suddenly all business. They say absolutely nothing as Martin gets their tea, and it’s as if the whole thing happened in some sort of fever dream.

That’s what he’d think, at least, if he didn’t have a few clandestine snapshots of Jon saved on his phone, to show to Tim and Sasha when he gets back. And if he didn’t have that funny, sinking feeling in his chest that meant yes, it did happen, and yes, he might just have a crush on his boss now.

Goddamnit.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30983480

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Mind the Gap: Three

Shang-Chi laid you carefully on the bed and leaned over to kiss you on the forehead, smiling a little when you fuss at him sleepily. “It’s okay,” he murmured, brushing a lock of hair out of your face tenderly, “I’m only going down stairs.”

When you sit up. Bolt upright suddenly, he reels back. It takes a moment for him to realize that you’re not what’s staring at him. Your eyes are the same unearthly silver they had been. “Let her sleep,” he ordered sharply.

“We,” a voice that is your but… Not yours replies haughtily, “Do not sleep. We are eternal.”

“Not without a body you’re not,” he fired back, frustrated. You just got to sleep. You were just so close to feeling better. Your face doesn’t change, not really. There’s an absence of expression. One that he’d taken as seriousness in that empty field, but now realizes that the Archive probably doesn’t… care enough to make you appear “normal” when speaking. Still, even if the Archive wasn’t sneering at him where he could see it, he could feel it.

“Have care, boy. Our vessel will not belong to you.”

And before he could reply, You fell backwards onto the bed, your head hitting the pillow with a soft thump.

“You’re right about that,” he says quietly, not sure if it can hear him or not. “She doesn’t belong to me. She doesn’t belong to anyone… You might have saved her life once, but now you’re just squatting.” He shakes his head and pulls a blanket over you, carefully tucking you in before turning and heading back downstairs.

__________

Downstairs, he finds party preparations in full swing. There’s food being cooked and more food being ordered from town to be picked up. There’s a small army of people moving tables and arranging lights and torches and building bonfires. It was cozy looking. And impossible for him to tell how many people were coming.

“How is she recovering?”

Shang-Chi turned and faced his father, smiling ruefully, “Not as fast as I’d like. But at least she’s asleep.”

He nodded and gave his son a sympathetic look. “They’re all worried,” he cautioned.

“We should start a club. Y/N can make us jackets.” When his father gave him a look, Shang-Chi smiled a little. “It spoke to me,” he said after a second.

“The Archive? What did It say?”

“It told me that she didn’t belong to me,” he said, restraining an eye roll with effort.

Wenwu frowned, “It challenged you?”

Shang-Chi shook his head, “It wasn’t a challenge. It was a warning. She never even woke up.”

They stood for a long moment and considered the implications of that. But neither one of them had a chance to say more when Katy burst through the screen door with Xialing on her heels. “You have got to see this! There’s fucking werewolves!”

“Werewolves? Kai is a werewolf-”

“No. What? No- I-” Katy is bouncing on the balls of her feet and bolts back out the door.

“A pack,” Xialing said rolling her eyes, more fond than irritated. “Specifically her father’s pack.”

And it’s curiosity more than anything that lures Shang-Chi outside. You never talk about your parents- Not that he can really blame you. He hadn’t talked about his family with you at all. And now? He has the gift of staying in your childhood bedroom. And seeing the things that made you into the woman he loves. Still. Werewolves? He assumes your mother is a witch but- If this going to be a fight? Is it going to upset you?

He walks down the steps to see Kai and who he assumes is your father. You have the same lazy half smile and the same warm eyes that you share with your brother. And for just a second, he wants to turn around and bolt. He’s seen you dismember demons. He’s faced creatures from other dimensions. But somehow? Meeting his Girlfriend’s dad is more terrifying than both those things.

He’s a big man. Tall. Imposing. A solid wall of muscle. A shock of curly dark hair… It was almost like the universe had distilled his every idea of a werewolf into one person. Except for the jaws. And slobber.

“Good Luck,” Xialing snorted quietly.

“Gee thanks,” he said taking a deep breath and stepping forward. He’d been seen, there wasn’t any escape now.

The huge man stepped forward, “I’m Renaud,” he said. His voice a deep rumble, like Thunder. “You, must be Shang-chi.” He took the hand that was offered and shook it, not as roughly as Shang-Chi had expected. And he hadn’t missed that his name had been pronounced correctly. “Thank you, for calling my son… Just because Y/n can handle things on her own doesn’t mean she should.”

“So you found her?”

“Of course,” he said, smiling, “I always know how to find my kids.”

Shang-Chi smiled in spite of himself. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since you’d seen your father. But somethings seemed to be universal. “My father-” he started, But Renaud made an impetuous gesture.

“We’ve met,” he chuckled, taking the hand that Wenwu offered.

“Several times, in fact,” Wenwu said. “And I hope-”

The Werewolf released his hand and rocked back on his heels, “The sins of the father and all that,” he said with another impetuous gesture. “I learned long ago that telling a witch what to do is always a bad idea.”

Shang- Chi looked from one to the other and glanced at Katy and Xialing for help. He had the distinct impression that he was rapidly helping to establish some new international thing. When both the girls shrugged at him at a loss he glanced at Kai who gave him a small nod.

“Dad,” Kai said, “I’d hate to interrupt whatever work meeting is about to happen but… Hospitality Law. You know Grandma and Lea like to et all the stupid formal things out of the way up top.”

Renaud looked at them apologetically and turned to his son, “And then I’d like to see your sister.”

“So far as I know she’s asleep,” Kai said leading him away, the other three wolves that had been standing there watching followed after.

“It’s the middle of the day,” he protested.

“Not for her. She’s still at least a day behind the rest of us.”

Shang-Chi watched them go and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “At least no one at me,” he said, looking back towards the house.

“Werewolves haven’t done that in public for 300 years,” Wenwu snorted.

___________

People arrive steadily. Bringing kids. And food. And drinks. Shang-Chi watches in fascination as all the tables Kai had hefted into place filled with things. And the Coolers he had helped Lea to fill with Ice started keeping drinks cold.

So many faces and names. It’s a whirl and a blur. Still. It doesn’t take long for the kids to warm up and claim him, and Katy as their new playmates. Like all children they’re susceptible to a good story and an infectious laugh. Except for one. There was a little boy. He stayed near an oak tree. A Book over his lap. And he seemed to be watching the goings on, all the flips and little bursts of magical energy with irritation. He didn’t want to play. At least not with them. And while no one bothered him, it was clear that the other kids didn’t want to play with him either.

At least- At least for a while.

When you appeared, a little bleary eyed with your hair in a messy bun and some fresh clothes. His whole face lights up. Shang-Chi hears the shout and watches, grinning as his book goes flying and he launches himself at you, clinging onto your torso like a spider monkey and burying his face in your neck.

And suddenly, the silent boy with the great big book is talking. And talking. And he can’t seem to stop smiling.

“She’s his person,” Lea said smiling a little, handing Shang-Chi a glass of cold lemonade. He looked at her in askance and she smiled a little, “They both understand what it’s like to be the weirdest person in a room full of weirdos,” she explained. “Emmet had no magical ability. And Y/N hears voices and can tear out a Vampire’s heart with her bare hands.”

“Fair enough,” he says nodding, watching you greet the kids with hugs and kisses and declarations that they’re all too tall. “It’s good to know I’m just a novelty.”

Lea grins, “No one can ever take her place with them… It was Kai with the last crop. But Y/N was always his buddy. She’s had him wrapped around her finger since the first time someone put her in his lap.”

“So you’re telling me I should expect a big brother lecture?”

“Maybe. But. It’s more likely that he figures she could take you in a fight and there’s not much point.” The redhead’s eyes sparkle with mischief though. And Shang-Chi chuckles.

“You think so?”

“If she can’t, the Archive can.”

That was a sobering thought. And Shang- Chi took a deep breath. “What- what happened?”

The woman looked at him and for the first time, he considered that she was probably older than her face. Despite the lack of lines her eyes seem… Ancient. “I don’t know if I should tell you. I’ve spent… A long time keeping those details a secret.”

“I just-”

“I know,” she says softly. “You should know. If only… If only so you know she wasn’t always this way. She used to want… She wanted to be in the Olympics. She wanted to be a rockstar… She didn’t want to be this.”

Shang-Chi was quiet. Waiting. He didn’t really know what to say.

“Her mother- When she was born her mother was furious,” Lea said after a long moment. “600 years and so many babies I’ve brought into the world… And the was the only time I’ve ever seen That. She refused to even hold her.”

“Why-”

“Because she was powerful,” Lea said. “I knew- We all knew- the second she took her first breath that she wasn’t just a Witch. And for Clara? That was a betrayal. Clara had spent DECADES trying to amass more power. And here her daughter just had it? Absolutely not. It was unthinkable.”

Shang-Chi winced. “So then-”

“She sold her,” Lea said bitterly. “Put her on the black market and handed her off to the highest bidder.”

“No-”

“What she sold her to though? It was a… a cult. A fringe group. They took children like her and tried to- to change them. And if torture wouldn’t change it, burning. Well. The holy fire would at least make sure they went to heaven.”

He felt himself waver and he leaned against the tree that was at his back. “What the fuck-”

“Indeed,” Lea said nodding. “To make a long story short, It took Kai, Renaud, and her Great Aunt Jet to bring her home. And it cost Jet her life… It was a price she would gladly pay but not everyone feels that Y/N was worth the effort. Including Y/N.”

He looked back towards you, watching as you tossed one of the kids up to Kai who tickled them and tossed them to one of the waiting werewolves who promptly pitched them off the dock and into the lake. But on the edges, he could see the barely masked disapproval. And he knew you. He knew that you knew it was there.

“Lenora has been trying to keep things at bay but… I’d be lying if I said I blamed Y/N for keeping her distance. She loved Jet. We all did. And it’s- it’s hard for her, knowing that if it weren’t for her- She might still be here. She might be able to control the Archive. Instead of being controlled.”

And all he can do is watch you. And hurt. He hurts for who you are now. And for the little girl that you had been. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

“Shang- Chi,” Lea cautioned, “She says she doesn’t remember but-”

“You don’t know?”

“No. We don’t. And if she’s trying to protect herself-”

“I won’t ask her,” he said, “I don’t think I’d want to remember that either.”

[ladyfawkes]

Eugene Appreciation Week | Day 6: Protect and Sacrifice

Desiderium by @Ladyfawkes and @trekkiehood

Current Chapter 10: Never Surrender

Current word count: 18868

Rated T for graphic descriptions of violence, physical torment, events during a POW setting

Chapter Summary: For the first time since being attacked and abducted, Eugene wakes up.

Chapter 10: Never Surrender

The first time Eugene awoke, he had been turned on his side. Someone had placed the tapered part of a large syringe in his mouth. He gagged on the warm stream of saltwater being actively injected and immediately began vomiting, which in turn yanked and pulled and twisted up all of the severed and injured muscles and tissues just below and to the right of his stomach. It felt as if his guts were on fire and actively trying to push themselves out of the wounds that cursed sword had given him. He tried to bring his arms down to fold them around his wound in front but he’d found his wrists were tightly bound with ropes instead.

“It huuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrts,” he howled mournfully, in earshot of whomever was near. Or at least he would’ve howled, had his cry not cut out halfway through. Only then did he realize how stupid he was to have used his voice. Instantly, he became so drained he started shaking. For he not only unwittingly revealed this weakness to his enemy, the action induced Eugene to use the most injured, raw parts of himself. His reaction, however, had at least been visceral, instinctive, and utterly involuntary; he had no control over it. However, if Eugene thought he’d felt nausea and pain before, that was almost nothing compared to how he’d felt in the here and now.

After Eugene had fallen unconscious, he’d clearly and repeatedly aspirated what little stomach contents he possessed into his lungs and sinuses. A pained groan escaped him regardless; His raw throat and sinuses pulsed with a dull throb in the back of his head every time he tried drawing a breath.

“Believe it or not, I am trying to help,” said a tiny voice beside him. “Sometimes, though, it’s gotta get worse before it can feel better,” continued the voice. Gradually, Eugene’s top half was raised at an angle. The old cloth beneath him soaked with blood and vomit was removed and replaced; the fresh one was folded over several times and placed underneath his nose, mouth, chin, and neck. He was still on his side but was given a bolster to put under his ear and top half of his head as further support at this new elevated angle. His shaking slowed slightly. However, in the back of his mind, Eugene still recalled how precarious was his position. Therefore he could not bring himself to trust this mystery medical person. The captain was still bound at the wrists and ankles, after all. He assumed his boots were long gone. There was no way they’d leave footwear accessible for a prisoner -- especially not one they’d have no intention of ever releasing.

Rather than finding any comfort in what had just been said or done by this funny-voiced person, Eugene stiffened as the syringe wielder injected even more saltwater into each nostril. Though Eugene still choked, coughed, and gagged very violently, the entry-and-exit wounds through his midsection were simultaneously given moderate compression from either side until he’d cleared out the last of the salt water. The compression action alone had diminished his pain, nausea, and the nasty sensation that his guts were spilling out by about 30%. And he didn’t throw up again either. For the time being.

“I would cut your bindings, as they’re so useless and even cumbersome,” mumbled the voice, “but Regis would have us both hanged immediately….” Though Eugene struggled valiantly and tried to become an active information-gatherer like his training demanded, nothing proved to him that he was too far out of his element more than the traumas of this particular interaction. Even his own weakness shocked him. Though the name “Regis” had instantaneously provoked distinct emotions from within.

The mystery person again mopped up Eugene’s face from the deluge of saltwater. “I know that was awful,” commiserated the individual, “but I’m betting your throat and sinuses are no longer killing you. That it’s much less painful to breathe, at least from your neck up?”

Eugene said nothing….and only scowled until he did gingerly test breathing…. and it was indeed far easier and less painful now that the aspirated stomach acid had been cleared away. Buuuuuut he had this permanent stitch now, this ache below his right lung….Eugene seriously wondered whether he would ever breathe deeply again.

“Well, that’s all right, playin’ possum,” said the voice. Can’t say as I blame you, nosiree, captain in the enemy camp and all….” and the person bustled about, chattering aloud to Eugene but mostly to himself. “Oh, and my name is Clarence, my designation here is ‘apothecary’, although my duties compass a great deal more.” Was it just Eugene, or did ‘Clarence’ sound a little bitter? Could this be a rift Eugene could press to his advantage? “This possum skill is good,” the Clarence person rejoined, “because the more ill and unconscious you are, the more put-off Regis will be…..I know since he already walked away once due to being so disgusted by the state of you. You were supposed to have been brought whole and unharmed….and Javeen, Regis’s 2nd, truly learned to regret his actions.”

Eugene’s shivering persisted and worsened although it was clearly a warm day outside. He had no earthly idea how much time had passed since he was first abducted nor how long it had been that he’d worn anything from the waist up due to being stripped down by...Javeen, was it? He guesstimated it had been at least two days since he’d eaten or drank anything...but it felt more like 6 or 7 days because of his injuries. As an orphan, Eugene knew well the ravages of starvation. He’d faced it many times as a child and youth and young adult. And this was….not like that. At all. It was infinitely worse.

Though this small apothecary minding Eugene clearly couldn’t match him in size, he removed and shared his tunic nonetheless. Or at least he attempted to share. “I’ve got on several layers,” mumbled the little man….

“Curse it,” the apothecary finished, as he realized Eugene couldn’t possibly be dressed in normal clothing while still bound at the wrists. And a few seconds later, very abruptly, Eugene’s wrists were blissfully cut free of the ropes that had bound him.

In another wholly involuntary action, Eugene automatically turned from his side to his back, his arms fully separating so his chest could expand and he could breathe in the air his oxygen-deprived body so desperately needed.

The apothecary seemed to have anticipated his needs and again gave Eugene compression so as to minimize the sensation his guts were falling out as he greedily sucked in more and more shuddering lungfuls of air. “Oh deary dear, no wonder that was so difficult for you,” the little apothecary fretted. “Broad chests and large arms do not do well for one’s lung capacity when they’re all mashed together. I can’t imagine Adonais himself could handle his wrists being bound in such a way….”

Breathing in as if it were going out of style was exquisitely painful but this pain was also infinitely worth it. Then Eugene coughed and….it was chunky style, i.e. some of the leftover goodies the syringe hadn’t been able to remove earlier. He turned his head to the side and spat it out. “Good!” said the apothecary. “That’s even better than you getting more air. We need you to cough up all of that junk. And breathe as deep as you can, at all times, even when it hurts.”

Unexpectedly Clarence seized Eugene’s hand and placed it around the cushion he’d been using. “Anytime you need to sneeze, cough, or what-have-you, press the cushion against your midsection. It will help a little. Regis’ll just have to hang me then, he can’t very well have me heal you if you’re gonna go off and die of aspiration pneumonia, nosiree…..”

Heal me in order to hurt me, ugh, thought Eugene. Talk about mixed signals. Now that he was laying on his back, Eugene’s head near the base of his skull started throbbing with the renewed pressure. In spite of himself, Eugene reached up with his left hand and felt the back of his scalp.

Clarence continued bustling about. It was registering through Eugene’s pain-haze that this is the same apothecary that had just given him full use of his hands. Even handed him a projectile. Maybe this guy isn’t what he seems? Eugene considered. Nope. NO. Don’t get lulled by a false sense of security. Considering his wounds and the fact his ankles were still bound, Eugene was basically still immobile anyway, even with full use of his hands and arms. Well, almost full use. If he moved his right arm in a certain way, it tugged all the way down to his worst wound and made him see twinkly pain stars in front of his vision. He determined to keep that arm closer toward him at all times to avoid triggering that horrible lightning twinge. And this meant he couldn’t reach down far enough to slip the ropes off his ankles even if he’d tried. Eugene realized the physician knew exactly what he was talking about by deeming the binds “useless”. His prisoner was going nowhere and this little man knew it.

The physician (Eugene had already substituted ‘apothecary’ in his mind) took note of Eugene’s movements. “Ah yes, I see you’ve discovered the other little 'present' Javeen and his men left for you: that nasty goose egg on the back of your head. I advise against making any more sudden movements? I’d hate to see you vomit again.” Fanfriggentastic. Here was yet another thing that explained to Eugene why he was in such rough shape….Javeen’s men had brained him earlier. Although he couldn’t recall when it happened along with why he’d felt so beat-up and bruised all over, everywhere….those things were still a mystery to him.

The physician did his best to dress Eugene in the too-small tunic of his. Again, he apologized -- APOLOGIZED!! -- for it having been all he’d had on-hand. Ill-fitting though it was, Eugene had finally stopped shivering. Once again, Eugene found second thoughts about this strange little man creeping into his consciousness. Next, the physician had grabbed what looked like a Coronian saddle blanket and draped it around Eugene’s shoulders, offering another layer of warmth. It finally caught up to him regarding what that meant; the physician had handily kept him from slipping fully into shock.

He’d also made dang sure that Eugene could breathe as well as could be expected…..by cutting his binds….and whatever that syringe debacle was…..although the process itself was nightmare-ish, it couldn't be denied that everything had worked as intended. Sometimes things have to get worse before they can feel better. Not to mention the man had gone out of his way to ease Eugene’s pain with that cushion compression trick. Already Clarence had engaged in at least two things that were probably directly against protocol by doing just a tiny bit more than the bare minimum.

Clarence steepled his hands and considered Eugene’s positioning. “I’m gonna need better access to that wound on your back,” he said. “Don’t use any of your own power to help me turn you; I’ll do all of the work. Is that clear?”

Eugene shrank a little at such intense scrutiny paired with the direct order….yet said nothing. It was the most demanding Clarence had been thus far. The apothecary sighed shortly, clearly not taking silence for an answer this time.

“I mean it, Mr. Tough Guy. This is one instance where you must be like a living ragdoll and let me do all the rest. Do you think you can handle that?” Clarence paused briefly, appearing to consider something. Eugene simply stared at him. “You can communicate by whispering. Actual whispering, not sotto voce style. It requires far less lung capacity and is unlikely to cause much pain. I say again, do you think you can trust me? Because if you try to ‘help’ even a little, you could cause those wounds to push outside what’s meant to remain inside.”

“Yes,” Eugene whispered without hesitation. He didn’t know exactly what it was about this interesting apothecary that elicited his trust. And then it occurred to him as Clarence very slowly turned his patient's legs to his left side, encouraging Eugene to breathe through the pain: Clarence cares.

Not to mention….Clarence was right; whispering barely hurt Eugene at all….in complete opposition to when he’d shouted earlier upon first waking.

When Clarence went to turn Eugene from right to left by grabbing his right arm, however, they ran into a semi-unexpected snag. This arm, it appeared, could not be pulled...lest it trigger that nasty stitch Eugene had experienced earlier. So the apothecary took the saddle blanket and refashioned it into a type of jacket-sling so Eugene’s right arm was held secure against his chest; now his patient didn’t have to worry about his right arm being at the mercy of whatever gravity felt like doing with it.

With his free arm, Eugene lightly held the cushion against his gut. Then Clarence managed to carefully and successfully roll Eugene’s upper half onto his left side without any additional complications. Eugene was allowed to rest after all the additional activity. His side without the wounds was naturally far more stable and for the first time since awakening, the mere act of breathing didn’t make him wanna pass out from too much pain. Although it was still comparably arduous and taxing by trying to breathe deeply as instructed. The last time Eugene could recall feeling this helpless was when he had a nasty case of typhus around age 5 or 6 that had nearly killed him.

“Right now, I’m preparing an anesthetic for that wound in your back,” murmured Clarence. The apothecary was using medical terms that until that point in time for which Eugene had had very little use. It made Eugene wish he’d read and paid more attention like Rapunzel.

And mentally conjuring his beloved sweetheart so easily within such a natural context suddenly sent unbidden shockwaves of loneliness, hopelessness, and despair crashing through him. Regis would never release him and Eugene knew it. He’d gone to far too much trouble convincing others that Eugene no longer existed amongst the living. Past the end of his needfulness for this prisoner, the mad king might eventually attempt to use Eugene as bait at a later date. But until then, Eugene was still being secretly held here, wherever ‘here’ was...which had to mean that it was becoming more likely with each passing hour that Javeen’s decoy ruse had worked. That whatever was left after the fire the enemy troops had started, and after Corona’s soldiers watched their own captain get struck down, it was practically a given that nobody from his kingdom was out searching for Eugene right now.

In spite of himself, the back of his still-raw sinuses welled up and started dripping with these instant pent up emotions. He sniffled softly at first but when Eugene pictured himself back in the nursery, rocking Kleisonne and singing their special song….considering that Rapunzel has to sing it now….it was more than he could take. It had already been over two months since the last time he had left them to take up arms at New Old Corona and even though he could see Corona Island from the top of the mountain pass, as captain, Eugene felt as if he might as well have been a million miles away. With so few fighting men, with so few soldiers who’d actually experienced prior sustained combat much less led through it, such inexperienced leadership, and only a rather ancient stockpile of weaponry….(Corona had been at peace for hundreds of years, after all...) Eugene simply could not leave his station under any circumstances….not even to see his family. The kingdom’s needs had been too great….still are too great. Had his father’s battalions arrived yet from the Dark Kingdom? Probably not. Eugene had a feeling he’d be hearing all about it from the apothecary, chatty as he was. But then….but then -- one shining light of realization cut through the pain haze and fear fog….piercing its way through his overwrought mind and body. Rapunzel was actually queen now and thus not at the mercy and whims of what others thought or felt anymore. Not really. And Eugene could sense with absolute certainty that Rapunzel would not rest until she had found identifiable remains by means of incontrovertible proof. And once they found the only clue Eugene had managed to leave behind, Rapunzel’s resolve in finding him would become dang near indestructible. He’d just have to try and find a way to escape -- or more practically, considering his woeful state of being, somehow get word out ASAP so that Corona would still be performing a rescue, not a recovery.

Eugene hissed rather loudly at the sudden harsh stinging sensation emanating from around the wound in his back. The sharp intake of breath had in turn disturbed everything else within Eugene’s predicament. “My apologies,” Clarence spoke out, “I’m usually accustomed to patients who are already unconscious by the time I get to them,” he explained with a hint of nervousness.

Aaaand he’s apologizing again. For unintentionally hurting me. Truly this guy was proving over and over he really wasn’t Regis’s mad scientist henchman. After Clarence was finished with the stinging stuff, he grabbed some type of salve that Eugene was sure he already knew pretty well. Tallow, the same stuff used as a base for candles, also made a great healing and moisturization agent. It sealed the wound away from everything else including dirt and further abrasions.

It was basically how Eugene had avoided having too many scars for so many years, and the one main reason why he appeared completely unscathed, despite all of the bar fights he had been swept up in, and the smaller now invisible wounds he’s had. Although he currently rolled his eyes at his own past vanity by trying to achieve physical perfection with flawless skin. Eugene was certainly gonna have some gnarly scars after this….provided he lived long enough to actually heal from his open wounds and captivity….Eugene inwardly admonished himself to stop thinking morbidly. And to instead be grateful for Clarence and his incomprehensible kindness in such a morbid setting. And if Eugene weren’t already laying down, he would’ve been bowled over by what the apothecary did next. Clarence not only carefully cleaned and applied tallow to every inch of the abrasions those ropes had caused, he covered the red welts on Eugene’s wrists with long knotted-off strips of floursack cloth. It was such an unexpectedly….kind thing to do, to tend to wounds caused by a prisoner’s restraints…..Eugene was momentarily taken aback….and currently lost in thought. And this is when Clarence figured he’d had as good a time as any to crank up the hallucination juice.

Somewhere behind Eugene, something that smelled vaguely of incense and oil started burning nearby and he started coughing. Clarence reminded him about the cushion trick and the coughing sensation eased off and Eugene began to feel oddly and unexpectedly relaxed. His cognitive body functions had largely gone dormant and he was floating in a soft white haze. He felt….groovy. Every once in awhile, lightning streaks of pain might interrupt his dreaming as Clarence, who was not only a good apothecary but a well trained surgeon, worked on sewing up Eugene’s wounds.

Clarence couldn’t have Eugene eat or drink anything prior to surgery so that effectively eliminated anything taken by mouth when it came to easing his patient’s pain at this time. So the apothecary took the one safest route left to him; the psychoactive one. The main problem was that psychoactives didn’t technically knock you out….at least not the ones of which he was in possession.

The surgeon was distinctly worried that even if Eugene had tried to ingest any medicine or even water, it very well would have triggered pain so agonizingly distressful that he wouldn’t be able to stop screaming once it got started. Based on the prior blood and reflux content he’d seen so far, (as well as how his patient had reacted during his first few seconds upon waking) Clarence strongly suspected part of Eugene’s problem was a nasty duodenal tear and that meant high-intensity stomach acid was busy slowly seeping itself out everywhere it wasn’t intended to be, both inside and outside of his patient. Unneutralized stomach acid pouring itself into one’s abdominal cavity was indeed Not Good at All, especially since that includes everything else that regularly accompanies stomach acid. Clarence's plan was to be as hands-off as possible. He'd witnessed far too many patients die of resulting infection directly caused by a surgeon's brash (and yes, stupid) tendency to just dig around in open wounds. Clarence still didn't know if his patient needed to be sewn up all the way or if drainage sites needed to be packed as he healed.

All things considered, this “enemy” captain shouldn’t even be conscious. Eugene had to be practically dying of thirst and yet he wasn’t complaining. Here he was, on this makeshift exam/surgery platform, high as a kite, tripping aloud about fluffy purple bunnies wearing watermelon hats. Or was it purple watermelons wearing pink bunny hats? Whatever that meant, thought Clarence, with some amusement.

Clarence seemed to have an internal immunity against the “incense oil” he was burning for his patient’s sake. He was both annoyed and grateful for said immunity. He also fervently hoped this patient would stay distracted long enough with pleasant hallucinations in order for Clarence to do what he needed. It wasn’t like him to operate on a patient without explaining everything thoroughly, but he was hoping against hope that by subtracting another layer of self-awareness, it might somehow help Eugene stay distracted even longer. Besides, you can’t rightly swallow much of anything when it’s just going to…..leak back out such a nasty hole in your vital organs. Above all else, the young captain needed that tear repaired as quickly as possible.

Real things about world history discovers/innovations: When 'syringe' is mentioned here, it's not like a hypodermic needle or even an oral medication syringe. The size of syringes in the 18th century were more the size range of a can of spray deodorant on up to a large can of hair spray.

“Okay, Captain Fitz-Humpty-Dumpty, let’s try and put you back together again, shall we?” murmured the surgeon to himself, as he took one last glance at his overstocked supply of incense oil.

@gleamful-lanterns @kingreywrites @autumn-ravenclaw

A/N: In order to keep this an element of realism in this historical setting, you can imagine the amount of research that went into building this single chapter. Medicine was taking some monumental strides starting in 16th century (1500s) onward.

[bardicious]

A Teensy Weensy Blog Update

I was quite diligently scrolling around my archive feed - privating some posts cause I just didn't like some and others had discourse I didnt care to see in my own blog (however I've kept any more recent ones cause meh - I guess the recent spite is still fresh) but what I've learned is...

a. I make way too many promises I don't follow through with, I mean well, really - but mental and physical health gets in the way and I just usually don't have as much time or interest to delve into all my artworks or post ideas.

b. those projects I promised to make are still rolling around in my brain trying to gain purchase, I cant promise that they'll ever get made or be made soon cause honestly Im having a social media melt down and need to focus on my career, so its all up in the air - still pondering the future of this blog and my time on social media

c. I have gotten angrier recently and major shocks its because I interacted with Marvel media again. That was my first mistake, really. But considering I will forever love the characters too much to abandon them - and I quite enjoy mutuals and some fans from there, I'll be making efforts to divorce myself from whatever the hell Marvel is putting out now and actually - truly - work on my interpretations of the characters. (Which will veer dramatically away from canon because not so shockingly I actually hate most of canon - I truly do - and oh please don't get me started on the writers, actors, directors that make all this garbage) (Marvel fanfic writers, I love you and only you)

d. I truly need to get back into more mellow fandoms like Garashir and Kurtbastian - cause those places be the bomb. And the bits of DC fandom that I don't want to beat with a bat. They're cool too. :) (I'm up to here with the bs discourse about batcest though - seriously dont @ me whether you hate it - I really just dont care for anti behavior)

e. I'm going to work extra hard to make this a positive space for people to follow me. Ill try to tone down negative posts (not cause I disagree with any of them - but cause I know focusing on the negatives really doesn't do anyone any good - that said don't be a dick to people who need to express their anger at something - that isn't people - basically chill the fuck out y'all and mind your business, there is a blocking function for a reason)

f. Really sad I had to turn off my anon asks cause I really did get some sweet people in there. Y'all are wonderful. I just cant cope with anonymous dick heads. <3

j. Might reblog less???? Not sure. But the amount of posts on my blog is becoming unmanageable (thats a lie, it already is - sobs-)

And yeah, that's it for now. Im still basically on hiatus until at least the new year (and gosh I actually go on hiatus quite a few times I noticed), currently living off romantic comedies and shows like the hardy boys and stargate. lmao.

Anyways, thanks yall for following, reblogging, and liking my stuff. <3 Truly whenever I see your tags and whatnot, you make my day. :)

[emachinescat]

The Day that Camelot Forgot

A Merlin Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat ​

@febuwhump​ day 24 - memory loss

Summary: A vengeful Morgana casts a powerful curse on Camelot on the day Merlin is named Court Sorcerer, making everyone in the citadel forget that Merlin – and his impact on their lives – exists. She can only maintain the spell for one day, but twenty-four hours is more than enough time for the warlock to get himself into some serious trouble.

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, the knights, Gaius, Morgana is mentioned

Words: 6,444

TW: anxiety attacks, burning at the stake, main character near-death

Note: This story is a bit late, as it was meant to be published on day 24 of Febuwhump, but I got sick, and missed a few days.  I did post the first half of it on Tumblr on the 24th, but this is the finished product. I am seriously considering writing a sequel, because there are definitely a lot of ramifications that I gloss over here, a lot of angsty, whumpy stuff that I could (and most likely will) expand upon in another story. But I'll let you read the story for yourself, and see if you're interested in a sequel! 

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, and re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this! :)

Merlin woke up to a broom head hitting him in the face, which was not how he expected his first day as Court Sorcerer to start.

An indignant squawk escaped him as he rolled off of his bed in an effort to escape the assault. He already had an insult for Arthur on his lips when his bleary eyes cleared and he realized that it had not been the king at all who had woken him in such a manner. It was Gaius, and he was poised to strike again.

"Gaius!" Merlin stammered, scrambling to his feet and dodging another blow from the broom. "What the hell are you doing that for?"

Gaius didn't answer. Instead, looking as mean and ornery as Merlin had ever seen him, the old physician demanded, "How did you get in here?"

Merlin cocked his head to one side, completely nonplussed. "I… live here? I remember turning Arthur's offer for new chambers down so I could stay and care for you – OW!"

Gaius had hit him again. "Who are you?" he all but growled.

Merlin blinked. "Gaius, you know me," he insisted, his heart hammering out his uncertainty at the pulse point in his neck. Something was wrong; Gaius might be cantankerous for his old age, and he might have enjoyed the odd joke at Merlin's expense, but never something like this.

Merlin tried again. "Gaius, it's me… Merlin." When Gaius only glared at him distrustfully from beneath two gnarled eyebrows, he added hopefully, "You know… Hunith's son?"

To his relief, recognition lit in his mentor's eyes at the mention of Merlin's mother, but distrust immediately replaced it. "I have known Hunith all of her life," Gaius said, voice low and measured, broom still held at the ready. "But she has no son."

Real fear exploded in Merlin's chest – fear for Gaius, not for himself. There was only so much Gaius could do with a broom, but if he was forgetting Merlin so suddenly and so completely…

"Ah, I'm sorry," Merlin said as calmly as possible, raising his hands in front of him to show he meant no harm. "My mistake. I'll … get out of your hair."

He darted out of his room, across the physician's main chamber, and out the door, leaving a confused and agitated Gaius in his wake. Merlin prayed that the old physician wouldn't get himself into too much trouble while he was gone, and then darted for Arthur's chambers.

***

He ran into Gwaine on the way – literally, he ran headfirst into the knight, so distracted by Gaius's sudden and dramatic loss of memory. At first he wasn't sure whose ridiculously muscular torso he'd bumped into, and despite his worry, he couldn't help but grin when he saw the bearded face glaring down at him in surprise.

Wait…

Glaring?

Merlin stumbled back.

"Watch where you're going, friend," Gwaine said in response. The way he spoke sent a wave of wrongness down Merlin's spine. He had called Merlin friend, but it was a vague, generalized term. When Gwaine normally called Merlin his friend, the word was saturated with warmth and shone with the light of a dozen charming grins. Now, it meant nothing. And when Merlin looked up into his friend's dark eyes, there was no recognition there. No smile that Merlin had come to understand as reserved especially for the knight's closest friends. Gwaine's eyes landed on him, flashed in brief annoyance, and then skirted off of him almost nearly as quickly.

"Gwaine?" Merlin asked, irritated at the uncertainty in his own voice.

Gwaine, who had already started sauntering away, turned back with a puzzled expression. For just a moment, Merlin was sure that kind, mischievous face was going to open up in an eyes-to-mouth smile like it always did upon seeing him, but then the brow furrowed, and Gwaine asked, "Do I know you?"

Merlin opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He stood there, gaping like a fool, his whole body coiled as if ready to spring into action, limbs numb, fingers trembling, fear wrapping its constricting tendrils around his chest.

Gwaine gave Merlin an odd look, then shrugged. "Maybe we drank together once."

Merlin nodded weakly, remembering not just once, but many times he and the man before him had gone to the tavern together, often with the rest of the knights, sometimes even the king, in tow. He thought of laughter, and promises of friendship and loyalty, and tavern songs and Gwaine standing on top of a table doing a clumsy jig. He thought of the first time they'd gone to the tavern after learning of Merlin's magic, how Gwaine had asked him a million questions that had gotten more idiotic with every drink. ("No, Gwaine, I have never tried to transplant my nose into the center of a rose to see if flowers can smell themselves.")

By the time he had resurfaced from the barrage of memories that Gwaine had forgotten and that Merlin now clung to with a new ferocity, the knight had gone.

Feeling distinctly sick, Merlin resumed his trek to Arthur's chambers, noticing with fresh terror that every person he passed either didn't acknowledge him at all, or gave him a second, bewildered glance like they'd never seen him before, like he had no right being where he was – being in his home.

***

Arthur didn't remember him, either.

Merlin was so near panic when he got to the king and queen's chambers that he almost forgot to knock. Knocking was never something Merlin had been particularly adept at remembering to do, especially when it came to his duties to Arthur, but since the king had married Gwen, Merlin had made sure to amend his habits. There were some things that Merlin absolutely did not want to walk in on, and besides, he respected Gwen too much to risk barging in on her unannounced.

It was Arthur who answered the door, and Merlin was so flustered that he didn't wait for an invitation to enter (when did he ever, though?), and he squeezed his way into the room past the king. Gwen was nowhere to be seen.

"Thank the gods you're here, Arthur," Merlin huffed as he bustled in. "Something very weird is going on. Gaius and Gwaine are acting like they don't know me, like they've never seen me in their lives!"

He turned around to face his friend. To his surprise, Arthur's hand was on the hilt of his sword at his hip, and suspicion rolled off of him in waves. "Who the hell are you?" he asked flatly, blue eyes flashing with an intensity reserved for those who wished to do him, his kingdom, or his loved ones harm.

Merlin had been expecting a joke like this. Arthur was never one to pass up an opportunity to tease his former servant, soon-to-be Court Sorcerer. The dry retort, "Very funny, Sire," died before it could escape his mouth, though, because when he looked at his king, his best friend, he saw no glimmer of recognition. No familiarity. No kindness or warmth or irritated indulgence. Arthur's face was that of a man who had just had a complete stranger barge into his room and started talking to him like they were old acquaintances – which, Merlin was beginning to realize, was exactly what had happened from the king's point of view.

Merlin swallowed heavily and entreated, "Arthur … King Arthur. Please tell me that you know me." Desperation clawed at his throat and infected his next plea. "Please."

Arthur didn't speak, didn't relax his grip on his sword hilt, but he didn't draw the weapon either, which Merlin thought had to be a good sign. Finally, after several long, tense moments, Arthur responded in a slow, cautious tone, "I'm sorry. I have never seen you before in my life. What business do you have with me?"

Merlin's world, everything he knew and understood and loved, crumbled around him in that moment. He staggered back, managed to stay upright by pure strength of will alone. What the hell was going on? The familiar sting of tears pressed against the back of his eyes, and he only managed to keep himself from crying by sheer stubbornness. He took a deep, steadying breath, made a conscious effort to look as non-threatening as possible, and tried very hard not to panic.

"Okay," he said, and his voice shook, so he tried again. "Okay." This time, his voice was steadier. Arthur's glare pounded into him from across the room, and knew that the king's already thin patience was running out. "Something very wrong is happening in Camelot," the sorcerer began.

Arthur interrupted him. "I agree," he said pedantically. "There's a strange man in my chambers."

"I'm not – I am, or I was, your servant."

"My servant's name is George."

Merlin couldn't help it. He groaned. "George? The one who makes jokes about brass? He's your servant in this hellish version of Camelot?"

Arthur sent Merlin a look that was almost pitying. "You are obviously very confused," he said in a surprisingly gentle tone. "But I am king of Camelot, and you have no right to be in my personal chambers. Go now, and I will think nothing more of this intrusion. If you do not, then I will have to treat you as a threat, and call the guards."

Merlin shook his head, unwilling to let this go. In the span of a single morning, his entire reality, the world he and Arthur had worked so hard to build and the future that they were about to step into, his new position as Court Sorcerer, his friendship with Arthur, everything, had been ripped away from him. He had to figure out what could have caused this to happen. He didn't have to think long – who was out there with enough power to make what seemed like the entire citadel forget he existed? Who was angry and envious and vindictive enough to take away everyone he loved on the very day that the culmination of his and Arthur's dreams were finally taking shape?

Even as Arthur stepped forward, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, preparing to draw it, Merlin blurted, "It has to be Morgana!"

All the color drained out of Arthur's face in an instant. He stood there, frozen, a horrible expression of pain manifesting in his eyes. "How dare you speak of my sister," the king growled, and Merlin actually backed up a few steps, bumping into the end table that he'd polished more times than he could count.

"I know she's a difficult subject to talk about," Merlin managed, striving to keep his voice steady as the grief in Arthur's eyes turned to fury. "But it's the only explanation. Morgana must have cast a curse on the citadel – you have to let me go find her, please, and I can stop this, and the world can go back to normal."

Arthur drew his sword now, and Merlin had no more room to retreat. He stood before his king, his closest friend, his muscles aching from the tension gripping his body, his heart pumping so fast and hard he could feel the flutter in his chest. "Arthur, please–"

"I am your king!" the man who had Arthur's face but spoke like his father spat. "You will address me as such! And how dare you insinuate that the Lady Morgana was a sorceress! What vile game are you playing?"

Merlin's head spun; he had no idea what was going on, how Arthur was currently seeing the world, but he did know for certain now that Morgana was behind it. The reverence and love with which the king said his half-sister's name could only come from a delusion the sorceress in question had placed there. Then something Arthur had said hit home. "What do you mean 'was'?"

The expression on the king's face was faintly nauseated, as if he were being forced to remember something that he had hidden away deep inside, or as if he were actively fighting the urge to cut Merlin down on the spot. Either scenario felt entirely wrong and filled Merlin with a sense of dread. "My sister is dead," Arthur said flatly. "She who would have been queen – should have been queen." Oh, yes, Morgana was definitely behind this, Merlin thought wryly. It was bad enough she had these sick delusions in the first place, but to force everyone in Camelot to play a part in them was equally terrifying and sad. "Struck down by a sorcerer in cold blood."

Merlin flinched at the way Arthur spat the word sorcerer. It had been years since he had heard the title said with such hatred and derision, and never had he heard this level of malevolence for magic-users come from Arthur's mouth. After everything they had been through together, after the joy of watching their prophesied destiny unfold before his very eyes, after hearing Arthur accept his magic and plan to officially declare him Court Sorcerer, hearing the title that Arthur had so often spoken of with pride slide out of that same mouth slicked with hatred hurt. But Merlin reminded himself of the truth – this wasn't Arthur, not really; somehow he was being fed false memories – and he squared his shoulders and looked his king right in the eyes.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said solemnly. Arthur's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Merlin hoped it was a good sign. "But Arthur – your highness – I need you to listen to me, please. I can explain everything. I can try, at least. But your memories aren't what you think they are. Morgana is alive and… very well, considering the power of this enchantment."

"My sister was murdered by magic, and yet you still insist that she is the evil enchantress!" Arthur fumed, and Merlin felt like he was talking to a stone wall, or even more deaf and unyielding, Uther Pendragon. He very seriously considered knocking Arthur out with magic and tucking him away safely in a wardrobe somewhere while he himself went to deal with the sorceress who had caused all this trouble. But Merlin could sense Arthur, the real Arthur, somewhere beneath the surface of those familiar-but-foreign eyes, and he was sure he could break the spell without having to go to the source. Merlin was Arthur's dearest friend, the king had said this himself (and yes, it still counted even if Arthur had been incredibly drunk after a night in the tavern with Gwaine when he said it). And Merlin knew Arthur better than anyone else, save the queen.

I can reach him, he reassured himself. Arthur is still in there, somewhere. I just have to find him. And once he's back to himself, I can deal with Morgana.

"Please, sire," Merlin said, putting every bit of sincerity he could muster into his words. "Just… let me tell you my side of the story. Let me remind you of who I am, and who you truly are. I am your friend, Arthur, and you have said yourself that I am the most stupidly loyal man you have ever had the displeasure to meet." A desperate chuckle lilted his last few words.

"You have two minutes."

"Um, there's a lot to cover, actually," Merlin responded. "Can I have a bit longer, because I don't think–"

"One and half minutes."

"Okay, okay, I'll stick to the basics!" And so Merlin gave Arthur the quickest and most condensed version of their friendship and history he could cobble together in less time than it usually took to exchange greetings with his king in the morning.

He ended with, "And so you see, it makes sense that Morgana would want to sabotage this occasion, because it marks the beginning of a new era that she desperately wants to be a part of but is too bitter and proud to humble herself and change for. She wants to tear us apart, wants you to do something that you'll later regret. But I know you're stronger than this, Arthur. I know that you remember me, deep down. The life you're living isn't yours. Your memories aren't yours. They belong to Morgana, but your mind does not." A strange, almost trance-like mask had descended over Arthur's face while Merlin spoke, and hope started budding in the warlock's chest – he was so close to breaking through, he could feel it.

"So," Merlin prompted, when Arthur did not immediately respond. "Do you remember? Have you realized the truth, sire?"

Slowly, Arthur nodded, and the dazed quality to his eyes cleared up in an instant. "Yes," he murmured. Merlin allowed his eyes to close momentarily in relief; his body sagged against the table at his back. Thank the gods, the nightmare was over. Now all that was left was to find Morgana and make sure nothing like this ever happened again.

But Arthur wasn't finished speaking, and the hardness had steeled his gaze once more, his lips set in a straight line and his jaw clenched and held high. "I have realized that I was a fool to think that you were a harmless vagrant with delusions of grandeur who wandered into the wrong part of the castle. I should never have opened the door for you."

"Arthur–"

"I am your KING!" Merlin snapped his mouth shut, tears once again prickling at the corner of his eyes. The injustice of the situation weighed as heavily on him as his destiny once had. "You are a sorcerer, an enemy of Camelot, here in an attempt to take down Camelot from the inside. But your spells and tricks and poisoned words will not work on me."

"But–"

"Guards!"

"You don't understand, I–"

"Guards!"

***

Elyan and Percival were the knights who dragged Merlin to the dungeons and threw him roughly into a cell. Then Percival clasped his wrists in shackles, which were chained to the floor. The door slammed shut with a metallic clang.

"Percival – Elyan!" Merlin called out as the knights that had only a week ago pledged their acceptance and loyalty to him as the soon-to-be Court Sorcerer and chief advisor to the king. "Please, you know me!"

"You'll die for your treachery, sorcerer," Elyan spat.

The left, and Merlin sank to the cold, damp stone floor, chains clinking. He drew his knees up to his chest, rested his aching head on them, and did his best to remember how to breathe.

***

Merlin wasn't sure how long he had been in the dungeon, but it had to have been a couple of hours at least. He hadn't eaten breakfast because the old man who usually prepared it for him had instead attacked him with a broom. Now, he was certain he had missed lunch too. His stomach growled at him in protest, but the hunger pangs meant nothing to Merlin. Even if the guards dropped off a meal fit for a king, he wouldn't be able to eat a bite. Everything had gone so wrong.

And now Merlin was at a loss of what to do. He could escape the dungeons easily, he knew, and go searching for Morgana. But there were so many uncertainties, a litany of what ifs that railed against him whenever he thought about breaking out of his chains and sending the cell door crashing into the guards holding a silent but hostile vigil on the other side. If indeed he could find Morgana and discover a way to reverse the curse, then it would, of course, be an easy fix. Merlin's failure to connect with Arthur and break the spell himself had planted a seed of self-doubt deeply within the soil of his mind, however, and now what he had been so sure of before he'd tried to fix things himself – that he would be able to hunt down Morgana and stop this madness with magic – seemed like a distant, unrealistic goal.

And if he did fail? If he could not find Morgana, or if she had managed to employ a magic far more powerful or strange than he currently knew how to counter? If he was unable to break the curse? Then Arthur would go on believing Merlin was the enemy, and Merlin would have forfeited any chance of reaching his friend by flouting the king's edict, attacking the guards, and breaking out of the castle.

Merlin had only been able to get through to Arthur in his other life, his real life, by showing the king over a period of years that magic was not something to be inherently feared, not something evil in and of itself. He had had to show the king through his own life and actions the truth about magic, so that when Arthur had at last learned of his secret, it was from Merlin's own lips and with nearly a decade of loyalty and friendship to back up Merlin's assurances that he had only ever used his gifts to protect Arthur and Camelot. Sure, Arthur had been angry at first, and hurt that Merlin hadn't trusted him, but he had come to an acceptance of Merlin's magic much more quickly than the warlock had imagined. King and servant had grown even closer in the wake of the truth, and soon after, Arthur had started drafting plans for making magic legal and had proposed the idea of Melin's being officially named Court Sorcerer.

But if Merlin was forced to start from scratch, to rebuild his relationship with the king – a possibility that pained him deeply but that he was more than willing to do, if it was the only way to get Arthur back and get their destiny on track – then it would not be wise to start that relationship off with a jailbreak. Then again, he argued against himself, neither was blurting out his secret to an Arthur who had already shown great disdain for magic and who held no memory of or loyalty toward Merlin at all. At this rate, maybe it was better to just take the risk and escape, because how in the name of the Triple Goddess was he supposed to convince Arthur of his loyalty if the king most likely planned to execute him for treason?

He almost made his escape then, but something stopped him. At first, he couldn't identity exactly what it was, just a feeling, an uncomfortable squirming in his gut that could have been the voice of destiny, or instinct, or, quite possibly, hunger. But either way, it bothered him enough that he held off on his plans to break out and examined the feeling more closely. Eventually, he realized – if he left Arthur now, especially in the state he was in, alone and unprotected and with Morgana out there somewhere with her eyes feasting hungrily on the citadel she so earnestly believed should be hers, he could be putting the king in more danger. If Merlin wasn't able to find Morgana in time, and she used his absence to ease her way into the citadel and onto the throne, which Arthur would readily give up to her in his current state.. With him under her influence, she could do whatever she wanted to him – kill him, imprison him, break his mind forever… and Merlin wouldn't be there to stop her.

With this thought, he decided to wait it out, and to see how events would unfold. He would not use his magic to defy Arthur or make his escape unless absolutely necessary. After all, he tried to assure himself, there was the very real possibility that Morgana would not be able to hold this powerful of a spell for long. She might be a priestess of the Old Religion, but even she had her limits. Perhaps her plan was to lure Merlin out to find her and then to use his absence to take Camelot for herself, but it was entirely possible that she only had a limited window of time to achieve her goal and that she was counting on Merlin to act on his emotions and search her out immediately.

Or maybe her plan was just to simply wreak havoc in Merlin's life for as long as she could. Either way, Merlin reasoned, her hold over the entirety of Camelot could not last forever. Sooner or later, her grip would weaken and Arthur and the rest of the citadel would wrest their way out of her control.

Merlin just had to survive until then.

***

He was unsure of how much time had passed when they came for him again. No one had brought him food, or water, and no one had come to visit him during his imprisonment, either. Merlin thought it was highly likely that Arthur had ordered any curious parties to stay away; the king had made it abundantly clear that he considered Merlin a dangerous threat. The fact that he had not been given even a hunk of stale bread or a flagon of water sent warning bells off in Merlin's mind – if this strange Arthur was anything like Uther had been, then he knew that he would be executed swiftly and without trial, and there was no need to feed a dead man.

Gwaine and Leon came to collect him. Leon unlocked the shackles and shoved him at Gwaine, who spat at his feet. "And to think I was kind to you this morning," he growled, and Merlin fought the urge to remind him that he hadn't exactly been kind, more indifferent. Gwaine roughly spun Merlin around, wrenched his hands behind his back so hard that pain sliced through his shoulder blades. Merlin felt his hands being bound tightly, expertly behind his back with course, thick rope. He reached into himself and felt his magic, alive, pulsing, ready to rise to his defense, and he took solace in it, but kept it at bay.

Not yet, he told himself.

But he was getting scared, and he was running out of options.

***

They shoved him to his knees before Arthur, who sat unyielding and terrible on his throne, a mirror image of his father. Merlin realized with a start that there was only one throne.

"Where's Gwen?" he asked. Now that he thought about it, the servant-turned-queen hadn't come up when Merlin had told his story to Arthur earlier, and the king had made no mention of his wife. In fact, he recalled with a start, none of Gwen's more domestic touches had been in Arthur's chamber.

Arthur stood, striding forward and looming over his prisoner. "You should have gagged him," he groused. "He doesn't know how to shut up." For a split second, Merlin thought that maybe the real Arthur was beginning to resurface – that was exactly something that he would say! Then he crossed his arms over his chest and asked irritably, "Who is Gwen? Your accomplice?"

"No, no," Merlin quickly assured him, not wanting to cause any trouble for Gwen, wherever she was. It was odd, he thought: Most elements of Camelot had stayed the same in Morgana's living nightmare, like the knights – even the non-noble ones, even Elyan, Gwen's brother, had remained as they were. But Arthur, in this version of reality, had never married Gwen. It made sense if he thought about it, though. Gwen had occupied the role that Morgana had believed was hers, had, in the witch's eyes, betrayed her trust and left her for the man that represented everything Morgana hated. Of course, Gwen wouldn't have her happy ending, her marriage to Arthur, with Morgana in charge. She was being punished as well. Merlin wondered if Gwen had been left with her memories of the real world like he had been, or if she was somewhere in Camelot, living and thinking as a maid when she really was a queen.

To Merlin's relief, Arthur didn't pursue the line of questioning any further. "I have talked this matter over with my council and advisors," he said in a measured voice. A burst of bitterness howled inside of Merlin – he had been named Arthur's chief advisor! He had been a part of the original council, the Knights of the Round Table, when Arthur had first brought them together! And now this illusion of Morgana's had stolen that away from him, too.

Not yet, he reminded his magic, as it raged and boiled and frothed inside of him. Be patient.

He might have been able to control his magic, but he could not keep his sarcasm completely in check: "And I am sure that in your discussion with the council, you all came to a completely fair and totally unbiased decision based on facts and not the unfounded prejudices of your father's rule."

He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it certainly was not Arthur's face flushing an angry red, nor the back of his hand smashing full-force into Merlin's cheek, snapping his head to the side violently. He felt one of the king's rings split the skin on his cheekbone, and thought for a breathless moment that the entire left side of his face had caved in.

He couldn't keep back the lone tear that crawled from the corner of his eye. It didn't come from pain or even shock – but a sense of gut-wrenching betrayal that he could not reason his way out of, even knowing that Arthur was not himself. Even in the state that Arthur was in, even knowing that the king would make plans to execute him, Merlin never anticipated Arthur himself becoming physically violent with him. Somehow, Arthur's hitting him was so much more of a betrayal than a death sentence.

Just. Wait. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to keep his magic from rising to his defense.

"You will learn your place, sorcerer," Arthur hissed. "When you burn. Take him; we light the pyre at first dawn."

***

Fear screamed through Merlin's body like a whirlwind, and coherent thought fled in the wake of his worst nightmares manifesting before him. He had been sure that Arthur would have chosen hanging or even the chopping block, but a pyre –

Merlin had grown up terrified of fires, horrified at the possibility of dying a brutal, torturous death, swallowed and ravaged by flames, all because he was born with magic. Because of who he was.

No one had been burnt at the stake in years in Camelot. Certainly not after Arthur became king. It was a barbaric practice, and even the worst war criminals and traitors were given a swift, merciful death. He had assumed that Arthur would continue that tradition.

But no, when he was dragged out into the courtyard – the sky was dark, but the air chilly and damp, heralding the approaching dawn – a great pyre had been constructed, and the rest of the knights – his friends – had gathered around, their faces lit eerily by the flickering flames of the torches they held at the ready. At least Gaius wasn't there.

You're not actually going to die, Merlin tried to remind himself, dragging desperately for air through his nose, his mouth blocked by his neckerchief that they'd dragged over his mouth in a bid to keep him from talking, or screaming, or just out of pure spite, Merlin didn't know. You can escape. You will escape, and find Morgana, and stop this. You can't delay any longer.

He drew himself up as tall as he could between Leon and Gwaine, calling his magic to his aid and –

He wasn't sure what happened, or how his friends-turned-enemies had guessed that he was about to try something – maybe he had given himself away somehow, maybe they had noticed the change in his stance or a shift in his energy, or maybe Morgana was interfering even now, ensuring that he would not escape his fate so easily. Whatever the reason, just as Merlin drew upon his magic, something blunt – a sword hilt? – crashed into the back of his skull, and everything was pain.

Agony ripped through his head, his neck, and crackled down his spine. Any grip Merlin had on his magic slipped through his fingers, and he fell forward, held semi-upright only by the knights escorting him to his death. He didn't lose consciousness, but he did lose all sense of control over his body and his magic, and the only thing that existed was pain. His stomach churned in time with the throbbing of his head, and his eyes were driven shut instinctively by the light of the torches before him.

The next few minutes passed in a state of distanced terror and pain. Merlin was acutely aware of the heaviness and agony of his head and the nausea in his gut. He also felt every spike of fear, every bit of helplessness, every scream that wanted to rise up from the most primal part of his being. And yet, at the same time, it was as if it was happening to someone else, and he could do nothing about it. Everything hurt and he was going to die and Arthur was going to burn him alive, his friends were going to light the pyre, and he would die in agony, and not even his magic could stop it, because he couldn't feel it, couldn't find it – he was magic itself, and yet it eluded his grasp, all that existed was pain and confusion and his head swam –

He felt, as if from a great distance, himself be hoisted onto the pyre. He felt the rough wood of the stake rub blisters into his tied hands as he was shoved against it, head lolling uselessly as if it belonged to someone else. He felt rope wrap around his torso, his legs, securing him to the pyre, and he tried to lift his head, which rested on his chest, tried to find his magic, but all he uncovered was fear and despair and pain.

He vaguely heard Arthur speaking from somewhere close by – or maybe it was from miles away. He did not understand the words but knew them to be a list of the supposed crimes Merlin had committed – being born with magic the chief of those. And then, far too soon, Arthur stopped talking, and Merlin sensed through his partially closed eyes the knights approaching with their torches, and he felt the warmth of the fire as those torches were lowered to the wood.

Merlin forced his eyes open, thrust his head up and looked at his friends, then beyond them, at Arthur. He maintained eye contact with his king, his brother, his best friend, even as the knights lit the pyre and he felt the heat begin to spread. Merlin didn't know if Arthur could hear him from this distance, if his words would be loud enough, strong enough, or if they would be caught up and consumed in the rising flames. It took every ounce of strength and concentration to push past the pain and call out, as loudly as he could, "I forgive you, Arthur."

And then, as the flames began licking at his feet, his boots, his clothes, something popped. I was as if the world itself had been out of joint, like a dislocated shoulder, and in that moment, the painful but satisfying second of release, it had snapped back into place. The air shifted, the world stopped spinning for the briefest of moments, and then, it clicked back into its rightful place.

The spell had been broken; Merlin could feel it in every fiber of his being – his magic cried out in relief, and it was only then that he realized that it hadn't been his head injury that had prevented him from fighting back, from escaping – it had been a last, desperate attempt by Morgana to get her revenge, to hide his magic away from him just long enough for him to die.

But she had failed. Her power, her hold and control, had finally given out on her, and Merlin felt his magic bubble back to the surface, and despite the pain and the fear, he summoned rain from a cloudless sky as the sun continued its golden ascent and put out the flames.

Around him, he heard yells, and cries, and his name was shouted from all directions, from the mouths of those he loved and trusted and who had very nearly killed him. But his head pounded, and he was so weak, and the fire was out. He slumped in his bonds, eyes fluttering shut, head dropping to his chest.

He didn't even feel the hands untie him. He didn't feel the knights gently lift his too-warm body from the pyre, didn't feel himself being carried into the castle and placed on a bed, didn't feel Arthur's tears of mingled guilt and relief splash onto his face.

He did, however, somehow, amidst the quiet and dark of unconsciousness, hear Arthur's voice cut through the silence, strong and familiar and real. "Gods, I – I'm so sorry, Merlin. My dearest friend, I–"

When he woke, Merlin would embrace his king, reassure him that no lasting harm had been done. He would smile at his friends, clasp hands with the knights and hug Gaius, find Gwen and make sure she hadn't suffered the same disorienting day that he had. He would answer all questions asked of him, and he would assure Arthur and the knights as many times as it took that he did not blame them, would explain Morgana's dark role in everything. He would find Morgana, and make sure that nothing like this would happen again.

When he woke, the world would be right. It wouldn't be normal – after everything that had been done to him, after all the betrayals, even though he didn't blame his friends, it would take a while for normal to come back around. But Merlin would persist, and he would have his friends – his real friends, with their real memories – to help him through it. As he would help them through the ramifications of their own pain, guilt, and regret.

And when he woke, he would be named the official Court Sorcerer of Camelot. He would be given a robe fine enough for a king, but he wouldn't care about that. All that would matter would be him, at Arthur's side, protecting him and fulfilling their destiny. That was how it had always been, and Merlin, when he woke, would look forward to a bright future of peace and hope.

But for now, he gratefully, peacefully slept, knowing that when he next opened his eyes, Camelot would remember.

[unityghost]

Masquerade

Oh look, I wrote part 29 of Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels.

Based on the following prompt from Archive of Our Own user PersonFace:

Gabe hides his true thoughts and pretends to make progress, and, to his surprise, he's good at it. Not, they let it go, not, they're not noticing, he's really good at hiding away, and putting on a face. Even Sam is fooled. Gabe is conflicted on how to feel about that.

I'll confess that some of this doesn't follow the prompt to the letter, but I did my very best. And of course I am sorry for how overdue it is.

“No,” said Sam.

“Yes,” said Gabriel.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “I told you, you’re not coming to fight.”

“I heard what you said, which is why I lied and agreed I’d lay low. Thing is, I don’t want to see you flop because you lacked the knowledge to keep from getting slaughtered.”

Sam’s face softened. “You gave us all the information you could.”

He and Gabriel stood alone in a motel room near the Uinta mountain ranges in Utah. It had been a long while since Gabriel had spent a significant amount of time out west, and indeed, they planned on being here for no longer than a few days. Dean had already left to start the car, and Sam was blocking the doorway so that Gabriel couldn’t accompany them.

Gabriel knew that Sam had a point: since healing an injury on Sam’s hand two weeks previously, after a witch and her miniscule but bloodthirsty familiar had attacked him, Gabriel had been exhausted.

Even so:

“You really don’t know much about these sons of bitches,” Gabriel reminded Sam, trying not to sound like he was pleading. “And I’ve seen them before; I would be able to take one on.”

But Sam held firm. “You’ve already done plenty to help us along, all right? You taught us more about the satori than Wikipedia and all the Japanese folklore books combined. We don’t need you to fight; we just needed that guidance. Okay? You really aren’t ready for this. And I’m not saying that to try and make you feel bad. When you’re stronger, I won’t make you stay put. Promise.”

“In other words, I’d slow you guys down.” Before Sam could protest, Gabriel added, “Fine. You’re hardly off the mark, so fine. I’ll entertain myself while you go hunt down your furry lunatic. Remember, get a good swing in, and if it doesn’t know what’s coming then you’ve got yourself an extra three seconds or so to avoid being eaten.”

Sam nodded, pretending Gabriel hadn’t told him this already. “Sure thing.”

“Did you meditate? Clear that noggin of yours? The satori feed on thoughts. Especially complex, contemplative thought.”

“Dean and I both meditated.”

“Like I said: complex and contemplative. I’m not as worried about Dean.”

Sam glanced down at his watch. “Gabriel, I’ve got to go. But while we’re gone, put your feet up. Let yourself relax for a while. I promise we’ll be okay.”

“Did I say you wouldn’t be?”

Sam smiled, and just missed the raised middle finger cast behind him on his way out the door.

Gabriel waited for the engine to fade before he checked his pocket to ensure the room key was there.

Yes, he was worn out; yes, he was low on grace; and yes - he had enough sense to understand that Sam had been generous in allowing Gabriel to come at all when he was sure to slow the others down. Nevertheless, it was true that Gabriel knew these creatures better than Sam did: he’d dealt with them more than once when they had free reign over the Central Pangean Mountains, long before humankind could take advantage of any opportunity to mess with them.

Gabriel was familiar with what scant literature was accessible to the public these days; and no matter how many times he insisted that not only were these monsters more cunning than the Winchesters’ average prey, but quicker and more ferocious, neither of them took the warnings seriously.

“I’m not questioning whether you can take them on,” Gabriel had told them. “I’m just trying to get you to believe me when I tell you that you gotta prepare for more than you’ve been able to read up on.”

“So tell us more,” Dean prodded, watching him in the rearview mirror.

“I told you all I know! It’s not like I’ve ever sat down to have lunch with one. But I’ve seen what they can do to humans, and …” Gabriel paused, remembering. “A couple of times I was able to chase them off.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “And the other times?”

Gabriel waved a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t matter.” He didn’t want to admit that the “other times” had seen him standing out of sight, watching the carnage and unwilling to get involved. “I just hope you had good reflexes in Little League.”

“We’ve got everything we need,” Sam assured him from the passenger seat. “Plenty of options in the trunk.”

“I’m not worried about what weapon you use. What matters is how fast you can swing it. The goal is to take the sucker off guard, not to destroy it.”

“Then what’s the point of this trip anyway?” Dean demanded.

“See, Sam? Your brother gets what I’m trying to say.”

“As long as we can chase it off,” Sam reminded them both. “Look, Gabriel - I hear you. We don’t know how to kill it. So we’re going to immobilize it.”

“Right.” Gabriel sat back and closed his eyes. He could feel a headache coming on. “With your fancy-pants spellwork.”

“Rowena told us - ”

“Rowena knows how to chase them into isolated sprawls of water. They can’t swim, and that’s all well and good, but what happens after that? Did she do a follow-up study? For all we know, this could be the same one she took down all those years ago. You want me to page the coral reefs, see if they found a mangy corpse over yonder?”

Sam sighed. “You’re just gonna have to trust us. We’re doing the best we can.”

“I know. That’s why I insisted on tagging along.”

Outside of the motel, Gabriel halted, breathing in the mountain air. Not for the first time, he was discombobulated at the subtleties his near-graceless body picked up in a way it never would have before: the way this oxygen was thinner than that of Kansas, the chilly tickle of fall as background noise in the latter half of summer. These minute changes affected him in strange ways, altering his heartbeat and sometimes making him feel as though he was surrounded by unfamiliar presences.

He began walking. It had been a long time since he’d set foot in the Uinta Mountain ranges. Memories flickered at the back of his mind - memories that might have taken place prehistorically or may have happened a mere few centuries before. It was hard to tell sometimes which memories fell where, considering that his time with Asmodeus was a history in itself that felt both very old and very fresh.

That’s how it works when there’s no end in sight, he thought, making his way down the road toward the mountains themselves, where he knew the monster would be lurking.

It was an hour before he got a text message from Sam. Nothing yet. Probably gonna be a few hours.

“Cool,” Gabriel said to the mountain air. “Because this won’t take me long at all. Good thing one of us knows what we’re doing.”

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been on rolling, open grass like this. Lebanon was beige; the mountain ranges were a pure, warm green.

He wished he could move positions the way he used to. It was conceivable that he might manage some distance should he attempt to fly, but there was no point in wasting his energy on that, especially since he wasn’t sure whether he had the grace he needed to take this creature down. He couldn’t remember having ever seen one killed another way; all that could be done, it seemed - at least for humankind - was to frighten the satori off with whatever object an unwitting traveler could swat at it.

What Gabriel had wanted to say to Sam, and hadn’t, was: “If it’s a choice between you getting clawed to death and turned into a meal and me taking myself out with a last gasp for grace, why are we even debating?”

How’s it going? Gabriel texted, and Sam wrote: I’ll let you know when we get rid of it.

That terse reply, indicative of irritation (although Gabriel, sensitive as he was these days, knew he wasn’t a good assessor of others’ emotions), was nothing compared to what he would face when Sam found out he’d tried to tackle the satori on his own. The real upside to Gabriel not making it through this in one piece was that he wouldn’t have to deal with punishment.

Sam’s not going to punish you, something inside of him retorted, but he focused on taking one step after another. He was tired, but he could feel that his grace was present. Maybe healing Sam’s hand had stimulated it.

Doesn’t matter. Just gotta get this done.

When he felt the satori, his neck prickled and his heartbeat sped up. It seemed that his ability to sense unwelcome supernatural presences had either never left or been reignited at some point in the recovery from his time in Hell.

Or perhaps he was attuned to predators lying in wait.

“Come on,” Gabriel called. “Eat me.”

All birdsong ceased as Gabriel turned around.

The creature stared at him and smiled.

“You’re gross,” Gabriel told it. “You look like if the offspring of Mr. Potato Head and an orangutan got its finger caught in an electric socket.”

The goblin-esque animal-thing only grinned wider. Its eye sockets were still and hollow in a furry face.

When it spoke, its voice was high and tight as if it had inhaled from a balloon, and the words came rapidly:

“The blackness thickens,” it said. “No one will be here for long; it’s all pretend. Not one of them wants you; not one of them cares. It’s a good thing you came along to destroy the enemy: make yourself useful and perhaps they’ll let you stay. Ask nicely and they’ll allow you to keep stealing from them.”

Gabriel’s skin crawled. “What are you doing, you mangy freak?”

“It has not been able to read your mind before,” the beast replied. Gabriel, who could only assume that “it” meant the satori itself, could no longer tell whether it was actually looking at him or whether those grotesque holes were sightless. The horrid animal looked dead. “You used to be an angel. When you were more than this, it couldn’t get into your head. But look: is this not proof of what you have become?”

“I’m here to - ”

“And yet if you use what little grace swims in your near-human flesh, what use will you be? Perhaps it is time; the hour has come to show that you’re a failure, and they’ll have the excuse they so sorely need to throw you away. It can eat you, too; if you are human, and it can read you, then it can swallow you as well.”

Gabriel stepped backward.

Chill out, he told himself. The son of a bitch is screwing with you.

“The son of a bitch is not screwing with you,” the creature said. “Your memories - I smell them on your breath.” The satori cackled - harsh, like retching. “You fear that he is still inside of you. Who would have thought that you, once so esteemed and powerful, might buckle? Paralysis maintains its grip upon the creature you once were.”

Paralysis indeed, Gabriel thought as he found himself struggling to respond with either speech or movement.

The creature gave its choking laugh again. “You see? You are frozen. It knows. It knows better than anyone.”

“Wrong.” Gabriel steeled himself for either overwhelming exhaustion or worse. He felt a pang of annoyance that he couldn’t do this the way he used to. “No one knows better than yours truly.”

The flash of grace hit the creature hard, and Gabriel felt some of it ricochet back to him. It hurt, but wasn’t enough to knock him over. That came only after he saw the satori crumple to the ground, its eye sockets just as lifeless as they had been a few seconds before.

Gabriel found his face pressed into the dirt. Every muscle ached in a peculiarly human manner.

He experimented with standing up and found that, although it was a sluggish process, it wasn’t impossible. He was dizzy but he could walk.

He took breaks here and there to lean against a tree and catch his breath. The birds had started singing again.

During one of these brief siestas, he sent a message to Sam:

I know you’ll hate me and I don’t blame you but I squashed the big furry toad thing.

A few moments later, Sam replied: Where are you???

Almost to the motel.

What were you thinking???

Gabriel didn’t reply. Sam sent another message only a few seconds after that: We can find you if you stay put. Don’t move.

I’m almost back; calm down.

He could picture Sam closing his eyes and inhaling, trying not to show that he was frustrated.

Are you sure? Sam asked.

Yes. Chill. I’ll meet you there.

He didn’t check the messages after that.

Gabriel arrived first. The motel room smelled like coarse carpeting and the salami sandwiches Dean had eaten in Gabriel and Sam’s room several hours before.

Gabriel groaned and lay down on one of the two beds. He wished he could fall asleep then and there, but he knew he was about to be in trouble.

“You didn’t even take a weapon?” Dean cried when the brothers returned. “You were just banking on being able to lasso him with possibly nonexistent angel milk?”

Sam strode over to the bed. “Did you really - ”

“I’m sorry. I know. I didn’t want you to get slaughtered by something I knew I could get rid of for you, okay? Sue me.”

Sam cupped his hands over his face and exhaled. “Did it do anything to you?”

“No.”

“It didn’t hurt you?”

“If it had, then my answer would’ve been yes. I’m fine, Sam. I’m good. And I knew you’d be upset with me, but I would rather you be mad than dead.”

“I’m not upset with you; I just - you should have told me you were going to risk your neck like that.”

“Well, I asked your permission to risk my neck and you said no! What was I supposed to do, Sam? What’s done is done and we’re all still freakin’ alive, so go shower and stop yelling at me.”

He knew that Sam wasn’t yelling, but to Gabriel it sounded dangerously close.

Sam glanced at Dean.

“He’s an idiot,” Dean announced.

“Come on,” Sam snapped. “That’s not helpful.”

“Neither was going after a monster without telling us first.” Dean glared at Gabriel before making his way to the exit and slamming the door behind him.

“He’s worried, that’s all,” Sam said.

“Yeah, he’s all in a tither over my safety. I could tell by the way he tried to disembowel me with his eyes.” Gabriel shoved his face into a pillow and groaned. “I know, okay? I do. I really - I mean - look, I’d be royally pissed too, but I was doing what I thought was best. I’m not sorry for that.”

“I …” Sam struggled for a moment, but all the fight seemed to have left him. “I’m glad you managed to pull it off. Just don’t do it again.”

With an effort, Gabriel sat up. “I’m not interested in standing by anymore.”

“We’ve had this talk already: you don’t owe us anything.”

“Fine.” Gabriel flopped back down. He hadn’t removed his shoes. “I just knew what had to be done in this instance. It can’t be taken back now and I’m glad you’re not dead.”

He shut his eyes, then felt the mattress sink under Sam’s weight.

“I’m sorry,” Sam told him. “It’s only that - ”

“Don’t be sorry.” Gabriel kept his eyes closed. “I knew the reaction I was in for. As if I didn’t run through this a thousand times in my head. You disowning me is more appealing than me having to dig your grave.”

“I wouldn’t disown you. You know that. I’m not mad, and if I was - ”

“You are mad. But frankly, I figured you’d be a lot worse than this.”

“You really don’t trust me, do you?”

Gabriel opened his eyes and squinted up at Sam. “I trust you. You obviously don’t have enough faith in me to help you when you need it, though.”

Sam stood up. “Maybe let’s have this conversation tomorrow.”

“No need. Go clean yourself up.”

“Take off your shoes.”

“Too tired. Not conscious.”

As he was drifting off, he felt Sam untying his sneakers.

There was little dialogue during the long trip home the following day. Dean was still tense, which surprised Gabriel, who had been ardently convinced that Sam would be furious and Dean would be relieved. Dean wasn’t worried about whether Gabriel lived or died, and someone had taken care of his dirty work for him.

There was, of course, the possibility that Dean was upset over being denied a triumphant capture. But Gabriel wasn’t particularly concerned about Dean’s feelings in this instance. What mattered was that he and Sam were both alive and well.

Gabriel slept most of the way home, and his dreams were full of eyeless beasts clawing at his face and digging soiled ape-like paws so harshly into his skull that the pressure became too much and he grew blind. In the nightmares, he tried to scream at them, but couldn’t make a sound.

There was nothing he could do, because they already knew he was afraid.

He was stiff and clammy when it was time to climb out of the car. During the extraordinarily long journey (probably not so extraordinary for them, Gabriel realized), Sam had taken Dean’s place at the wheel and Dean was staring sullenly out of the window.

“Okay back there?” Sam asked.

Gabriel nodded.

“Here - ” Sam made his way around back to open the door and help Gabriel out.

“I’m fine,” snapped Gabriel. “I can move on my own.”

He immediately felt guilty for his tone of voice, but the dreams wouldn’t leave him.

“What’s wrong?” asked Sam. “Hey, you’re all sweaty and shaky.”

“Tired from using up my grace. Think there’s probably none left.” Both halves of his explanation were true. There was no need to explain that the nightmares had made it worse.

He shoved himself out of the car and Sam reached out a hand to steady him. Gabriel stepped away before Sam could touch him.

“Gabe,” said Sam, “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“I’m not.”

“I can tell when something’s wrong with you.”

Gabriel clenched his jaw. “Is that so?” He straightened himself and made a concerted effort to walk evenly and steadily up to the door and down the stairs into the bunker. He stumbled toward the bottom step and Sam grabbed his shoulder.

Gabriel wrenched himself away. “Jesus, Sam, I’ll tell you if something’s wrong!”

“Okay!” Sam looked alarmed. “I just - okay.”

Gabriel ignored the shame that accompanied his outburst. Sam didn’t deserve anybody shouting at him, but there could be no denying that he was right: Sam had seen Gabriel in various states of distress and knew what it looked like when he wasn’t well.

He turned away, making for his bedroom; then he paused and looked back at Sam.

“I just need a little rest,” he said. “That’s all it is. I’m on edge, all right? But I’ll be fine.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Go. Get some sleep. I’ll bring you something to eat later.”

“All right.” Gabriel wasn’t sure he would be able to eat, but there was no reason to make Sam more suspicious. “I’ll see you later.”

He didn’t look back this time.

That week, Gabriel made it a point to eat in front of them - especially Sam - at least once a day. He wasn’t unable to eat, and mostly it wasn’t a necessity; usually, however, he didn’t have any appetite. Besides that, hunger made him feel guilty, and sometimes he had a hard time eating without an immediate recollection of being held down and force-fed during his time with Asmodeus.

If Sam noticed that Gabriel was eating more, he didn’t say. Gabriel tried to let his mind go blank during mealtimes. Asmodeus often crept in, and he must have looked a certain way when that happened because Sam would frown.

Not one of them wants you; not one of them cares.

Gabriel forced himself to swallow, privately willing Sam to stop watching him, desperate for control over his own mind.

Is this not proof of what you have become?

Not even Sam ought to have access to his innermost thoughts and memories - not anymore.

Meanwhile, Dean’s behavior had settled into some semblance of normalcy. Gabriel had never been more thankful for his indifference; he had never taken such joy in the absence of intuitive empathy.

Then there was Castiel, who seemed mostly inclined to leave his brother alone. He sometimes looked puzzled - although that wasn’t unusual for him - but he didn’t say anything.

If Jack had any suspicions about Gabriel’s newfound stoicism, he didn’t let them show. He was cheerful and inquisitive as always, and yet - maybe from spending so much time with Cas, or perhaps because he had learned neither how to express his compassion nor how to block it - there were times he too appeared confused, not sure what to make of his uncle.

“Why are you looking at me like that, kid?” Gabriel asked him one evening.

Jack replied, “How am I looking at you?”

“Like I’m still brushing off loam from the uncanny valley.”

Jack didn’t know how to respond to that, and the subject didn’t come up again.

The four of them were sharing dinner one night when Gabriel made his decision.

“Hey,” he said to the others. “You guys all need to chill right the hell out, okay?”

Everyone turned to stare at him.

“Every time I take a bite,” Gabriel elaborated, “At least one of you watches me like you think I’m going to burst into flame. Or tears. Maybe that was warranted at one point, but I’m starting to feel like there’s something stuck in my teeth and nobody wants to tell me.”

“Your teeth look fine to me,” said Jack.

“Look,” Gabriel went on, “I get that I kind of wore myself out back in Utah, but can you fellas please stop watching my every move with those confused looks on your faces?”

Sam appeared taken aback. “Is that what we’re doing? I guess I was just …”

Slowly, looking him in the eye, Gabriel forced himself to take a bite of the pizza Dean had crafted. He had tasted it before, and although it was exceptionally good, Gabriel had a hard time with the richness of it. Had it been up to him, he would have steered clear of meals that were meant to make a person feel full. This was the first time in the last week that he had fully committed to this sort of sustenance; before that, he’d been able to get away with lighter fare.

The fact that Gabriel was able to dismiss the taste and weight of the food, that he was able to bring his mind elsewhere and ignore the spasm of nausea he had anticipated when he sat down, was encouraging.

“You were just what?” Gabriel asked when he’d swallowed.

“Uh …” Sam blinked. “Nothing. Sorry.”

“You’re used to me being a swooning maiden,” Gabriel countered. “Right now I feel fine, and your constant inspection is nothing short of creepy.”

Sam furrowed his brow, but nodded. “All right. Sorry, Gabriel. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Gabriel took another mouthful, swallowed, and said: “Who knows? Maybe using my grace to wipe out the monster was just the kick in the pants I needed to get up and running again. I mean, hey, if I have it in me to off a predator from Jim Henson’s fever-dream, maybe I’m not in for the permanent misery that seemed inevitable before he and I faced off.”

Sam smiled, looking more at ease. “Yeah. I guess that makes sense.”

“Hey,” Dean interrupted, “You including me in that accusation? You and I have been having a great time.”

“That’s true,” Castiel agreed. He hadn’t taken any pizza, but was enjoying the company. “I’ve never seen the two of you get along so well.”

“Right?” Gabriel sat back. “So what do you have to complain about, Sam?”

“I’m not complaining, Gabriel, really.”

“Good. Because if you’ve got something to say, you can say it to me.”

For a moment he was afraid Sam was going to shout at him, although Gabriel knew that when he’d dared use that tone with Asmodeus, he deserved whatever response came his way.

Instead, he saw Sam further relax. “All right. I will.”

Sam was watchful during the remainder of the meal, although it was possible that Gabriel was only imagining as much. Sometimes he thought he felt Sam’s eyes on him, but when he looked over, Sam was just enjoying the food.

After dinner, Dean crooked a finger at Gabriel. “C’mere a minute.”

Gabriel followed him into the hall.

“What’s going on?” Dean asked, which surprised Gabriel.

“Nothing,” he replied.

“Look, I’m not complaining. I like you like this. But last week, before we left for Utah, you were afraid to ask for a napkin - and that’s even if you took five minutes to eat without Sam practically forcing it down your throat. So what gives?”

“Nothing,” Gabriel said again, wishing Dean had used different hyperbole. “Why are you harassing me about this?”

“Well, maybe if I knew what I was harassing you about it, we wouldn’t need to have this conversation.”

Gabriel stiffened. He felt betrayed. He had trusted Dean to be ignorant and unconcerned.

“I don’t know what you think you’re seeing,” Gabriel told him. “All I know is it isn’t real.”

“Maybe Sam should be the one to decide that.”

“Oh please. What’s Sam got to do with anything?”

Dean remained stone-faced.

Gabriel hardened his voice. “No one’s bothering Sam about anything. What, have you consulted him how to fix whatever imaginary problem you’ve got keeping you up at night? Asked him how to rewire his favorite disaster?”

“No,” said Dean, “Because I’d never hear the end of it from this new version of you.”

“What ‘new version’ of me? I can’t figure out if I’m being insulted.”

“Look, all I know is people don’t change like this overnight. Not without a reason.”

“Good thing I’m not people, then,” Gabriel snapped.

Dean shook his head. “Like I said, man, I don’t know what’s going on with you. Maybe it’s none of my business; I just figure you should ask Sam for help if something isn’t right.”

“I - ” Gabriel faltered. “You don’t want me to bother Sam about this, do you? Not that there’s any - but if there were, if I was - look, no one’s asking Sam for anything, okay? There’s no need, and if something was wrong with me, then he doesn’t need to do anything. Poor sap’s done enough for every lifetime he’s been put through.”

“I think he’d wanna know.”

“What would he want to know? What do you think the issue is here?”

“Well, if I knew, I wouldn’t’ve thought to bug you about it. But fine. Maybe my intuition is off.” He turned to leave, but then paused and looked back at Gabriel. “Sam would never forgive himself if you felt like you couldn’t tell him something, though.”

Gabriel stared at him. Then, more timidly, he asked: “Are you sure you haven’t mentioned anything? About … about whatever you think you see?”

“No. Should I?”

Gabriel shook his head.

“Look, Gabe,” said Dean, “He worries, but at the same time, he really wants to see you get better. He might be pulling the wool over his own eyes about this. If something happens to you and he thinks he could’ve done something to stop it, neither of you is going to be okay.”

Gabriel didn’t respond.

“I’ll see you later, Gabe,” Dean said, and left him standing in the hall with his heart beating twice as fast as it had been during dinner.

With static humming in his mind, Gabriel went back to his own bedroom. He shut the door and lay down on the bed, puzzled and frustrated by the sudden tautness in his throat. He ignored it.

He felt as though he had just been scolded, although he was reasonably confident that no such event had taken place.

Paralysis maintains its grip upon the creature you once were.

It occurred to Gabriel then that even he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing. He allowed himself a brief indulgence in the notion that Sam really was under the impression that, for the first time in months, nothing was so wrong with Gabriel as to require immediate attention. He wondered if they could be friends without the ongoing dynamic of victim and savior, although he knew Sam would have scoffed at such a description.

Then he considered the practical implications of remaining here when he had just taken such a hit to his grace supply. He had reason to believe that it would come back - he had been entirely without grace more than once, and it always came back - but the amount of time that would take couldn’t be predicted. If he was to stay here, in the bunker, he had to have grace sooner rather than later. He remembered being without grace in Hell, and wished he could forget the punishment for such a crime. Now, in the bunker, he might not be penalized so much as …

Well, uselessness was a punishment in itself.

The hour has come to show that you’re a failure.

Gabriel sighed and closed his eyes.

They’ll have the excuse they so sorely need to throw you away.

No dreams, no nightmares, no tossing and turning: this slumber was quiet and pure.

But the next thing Gabriel knew, there were two voices calling his name; one he recognized immediately as Sam’s, and the other took him a few seconds to identify as that of Castiel. He couldn’t make out the words, and then he realized he couldn’t fully open his eyes; they had grown too heavy.

Panic set in as someone lifted him upright. He didn’t even have the strength to go rigid, let alone any power to fight back.

“Gabriel.” Sam was speaking to him in a low, hurried voice. “We’re not going to hurt you. Just wake up, all right?”

Gabriel wrenched his eyes partway open. The room was hazy. He took shallow breaths.

“Geez,” Sam told him. “Gabe, buddy, we couldn’t get you to wake up.”

Gabriel tried to ask, Why? but couldn’t make himself speak.

“It’s almost two in the afternoon,” Sam told him, “And when I came in to check on you, you just …” He trailed off.

“Wouldn’t move,” Castiel finished.

Gabriel leaned back against Sam.

“What’s going on?” Sam pressed. “I’ve never seen that happen to you before.”

When Gabriel managed to reply, his voice was hoarse. “I’ve fainted plenty.”

“This is different. Hey, keep your eyes open for a minute; we thought - ” Sam paused. “We just didn’t know what was going on.”

“Tired,” Gabriel slurred.

“This goes beyond tired, Gabriel,” said Cas.

“My grace … it’s …”

“It’s what?” Sam prodded.

“Dunno. I …” Gabriel tried to ignore the pounding in his head. “Killing the monster, the satori - ”

Sam and Castiel waited for him to continue. When Gabriel’s breath began coming a little more easily, he finished, “Maybe took some fight out of me.”

“This is why I told you not to come.” Sam didn’t sound angry - just worried, even afraid. “I know you were trying to help, but Gabriel, you were the one who said how vicious those things are. You’re not ready for something like that.”

“Through no fault of your own,” Castiel added.

Gabriel tried to push himself off of Sam and found that he was too weak.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked him. “Does anything hurt?”

“Why?” The question emerged, at last, without Gabriel even thinking about it.

“What? Why what?”

“What good’re you gonna get out of knowing what’s the matter with me?”

Sam shifted so that Gabriel was lying with his head on Sam’s lap instead of bent at an angle against his chest.

Castiel spoke up: “I suspect that Sam is simply trying to remind you that you’ve become an important part of his life, and he doesn’t want to see you suffer.”

“Well, whoop-dee-doo.”

“Gabriel …” Sam checked for a fever, then pushed stray locks of hair from Gabriel’s eyes. ���I don’t understand. You seemed okay last night.”

“I’m still okay.”

“That’s obviously not true,” said Cas.

“Can you try and sit up?” Sam asked.

“Maybe.” He let Sam shift away and prop him against the pillows. As he watched Sam step back, face pale with concern, he had a moment’s doubt about his own pride.

Sit back down, he wanted to say, or I wouldn’t want to touch me either.

He closed his eyes.

“No,” Sam commanded. “Gabriel, don’t. Not yet. I want you to stay awake for now.”

When, and how, had this suddenly become too much? He knew how to frolic in lies. He knew how to make personal falsehoods into very real truths; pretending until he was no longer play-acting was a familiar process.

Why now, then, did he feel his throat tighten as he stared down at the blankets?

He was committed this time, though. He was well-versed in the warning signals of a breakdown and understood that there was no benefit in acting like a child. Sam had seen and dealt with enough, and Gabriel had debased himself so often that he couldn’t imagine anyone harboring even a modicum of respect for him at this point.

That was fine. He needed to learn not to care so much about his reputation at the bunker.

“Cas,” Sam said, “Maybe …”

“Yes. Of course.” Gabriel felt his brother watching him. “If you need me, I’m nearby. Although I suspect you know what you’re doing, Sam.”

“Thanks. I think we’ll be okay.”

Gabriel heard the door close.

“All right,” Sam said, “I know you don’t like to be coerced into talking to me, and usually I’d let up a little, but if you’re sick you need to tell me.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what happened just now?”

“Beats me. But what do you expect?” Gabriel spoke more smoothly now, but directly to the blankets. “I used up all my grace on the satori. Can you blame me for being a little out of sorts?”

“No, of course I don’t blame you. But I’m not talking about your grace. Or at least I don’t think I am.”

“Yeah? What do you think we’re discussing here, then?”

“I don’t know.” Sam looked helpless. “You seemed fine yesterday, and now you’re - I mean, how did you go from that to this? This whole week you've been ... I mean ... I don't know. I thought ... ”

“Am I not an open book to you anymore? Good.”

“What?”

“There’s no reason for you to be inside my head. There’s no reason for you to - to know any more about me, or what happened to me, than you already do.”

Sam was silent.

“I see through your strategy, Sam,” Gabriel added, still staring at the blanket. “I - when you’re quiet, you want me to talk.”

“I’m just worried.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear, and I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what I can do to make you feel better about this whole thing.”

“About what whole thing? About you trying to get well?”

“Pal, if that’s what you’re looking for - for me to get back on my own two feet - then what are you complaining about? Obviously I’m better. I haven’t cried or thrown up once since we got back, and I don’t see how that’s a questionable development.”

“No, I mean, it’s not, but - ”

“But what, Sam?”

“It’s not. Really, it isn’t.”

In the moment of silence that followed, Gabriel felt such an urge to speak, to tell the truth and recount exactly what had happened in the mountains, that he tore his gaze away from the blankets and met Sam’s eyes. He now had a choice: he could say something about what had taken place, or he could lose control of himself altogether.

If there was a third option, Gabriel didn’t see it.

“I don’t want to give you a whole novel about this,” he said. “My head is killing me.”

Sam nodded.

Gabriel hesitated for a few moments longer. Then he took a deep breath and began: “When we were out in Utah, and I took down that creeptastic freakazoid, it - you know - it did what it does. It found some way into my brain, and yammered on and on about my every thought. Which wouldn’t have been a problem in and of itself if I hadn’t - if I wasn’t - well, before, when I faced one of them, it couldn’t read my mind. I was an angel and it couldn’t get in. So what does that tell you, Sam?”

Sam looked blankly at him.

“Come on, Mr. Ivy League,” Gabriel pressed. “This is measurable proof that right now, at least, I’m more human than anything else. Plus, I’ve already got one monster in my head. I don’t need another psychic bedfellow. You mean well, I know, but - but don’t you think, Sam, that you being the way you are to me might be holding me in one place? Or making me an easier target, instead of building me back up to what I used to be?”

“I’ve never thought that.”

“Well, does this change your mind? I just wrote you a whole thesis.”

“Gabriel, if you didn’t have any power then you wouldn’t have been able to take that thing down in the first place.”

“And look at how that turned out. I can barely move.”

“That’s because you haven’t given yourself a chance to recover.”

“How was I even supposed to know I needed it? I’ve been fine this last week.”

“Have you?”

“Yes!”

"I sort of wasn’t talking about the satori.”

“Oh for the love of all things holy and unholy, Sam, stop being so dramatic. I’ve had plenty of time to tunnel my way out of this.”

“Did you get through the whole week without a flashback or nightmare? You seemed like you felt pretty good. I … should I have checked?”

The guilt in Sam’s voice made Gabriel wish he’d stayed unconscious. “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I said no, Sam.”

“You’re not well.” There was horror and distress on Sam’s face now. “I thought - ”

“Christ, Sam, relax.”

“Why didn’t you - ”

“Because this is on me, Sam! It always has been. And that’s almost beside the point. Geez, you know - you really need to make up your mind. Am I meant to improve by eating more and learning to calm myself down, or am I supposed to hold you like a security blanket every time my engine misfires? Which is it, Sam? Should I be strengthening the muscles that Asmodeus deflated or should I keep letting you man the ship when a storm kicks in?”

“Gabriel …”

“Answer the question. I’m serious. I can’t solve this equation no matter how creative I get with it. What am I supposed to do? For me, for you, for everyone here? I need an answer and maybe you have it. I sure as all get-out have no idea what I’m supposed to do or where I’m supposed to go without messing something up.”

Gabriel thought Sam looked like he might cry. “I guess it depends.”

“No, see, that’s not how this works. Because if this was a case-by-case endeavor, one of us would have found the balance by now. No, Sam, I don’t feel good. Why’s that? I don’t feel good when I’m alone; I don’t feel good about how I act when you step in. There’s no winning for me, and for you there’s just constant sacrifice that never leads anywhere. There’s a right and a wrong answer here, and if neither of us can figure it out, then I don’t know what to do. Just stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop - stop trying to make me showcase my emotions. Maybe it works for you but it doesn’t lead to anything good for me; all it does is make me feel ashamed.”

Sam seemed at a loss for words. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “I’m not trying to make you do anything. Gabriel, I think you should just do what feels natural. If that means pretending everything’s okay, then - then fine, I guess, except I don’t think that’s what you really want.”

“Well, I don’t know what I want; as far as I’m concerned, I don’t want anything except to be more like an angel and less like a toddler.”

“I don’t think of you that way. You know that, Gabriel.”

“Sure, fine, but let’s not sugarcoat the fact that I am the way I am, and the responsibility is on me to change.”

Sam looked away, contemplating. Then he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about what happened with the satori?”

“Because then I would’ve gotten worked up about it and so would you. You would’ve been worried about me.”

“I’m worried about you anyway.”

“Yup, I missed the mark on that one. What else is new?”

“So you think - ”

Gabriel shoved himself properly upright. “Stop it, Sam! For the love of every damn good thing left in this world, just stop it! Stop trying to coach me into a breakdown!”

Sam looked aghast. “I’m not!”

“So what are you after? You want to help? Do you want to keep me in one piece or break me into a thousand? I never know with you anymore; it - ” Gabriel took a shuddering breath and began to cry. “You know exactly what you’re doing. I’m not here for you to play with me, Sam!”

Sam stood up. “Gabriel - ”

“Is this what you want?” Gabriel raised his face so that Sam could see the tears. “You think that bullying me into showing my feelings is going to lead to success? I don’t like myself like this! I don’t want you to see and you keep on trying to open me up just like he did! Stop it, Sam! Stop it!”

“No, no - hey - ” Helplessly, Sam took his hand and Gabriel tore it away. “I - Gabriel - should I get Castiel?”

“No!”

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Neither do I!” Gabriel pounded the mattress with his fist. “So stay, because I need you here, and I hate you for that and I hate me for that too. I hate all of this!”

“I know you do.” Sam’s voice shook. “But you haven’t done anything wrong. Maybe I have; I don’t know. But none of this is your fault. I’m so sorry if I messed up.”

“You didn’t! I did! I don’t know! Stop it!” Gabriel took frantic breaths, tasting salt where the tears met his lips.

“You said I was like him.” Sam sounded weak. “If I ever made you feel that way, it was an accident.”

“You’re not like him; you - you’re trying to do something to me, and so was he, and I don’t know how to tell the difference between you pushing me to bleed out in front of you and him ripping me open with his bare hands!”

“I had no idea that’s what I was doing!”

“Because you’re - Sam, you’re - ” Gabriel found himself unable to breathe for a moment. When he managed it again, he said, “You’re not evil.”

That seemed to perplex Sam. “I hope not.”

“Of course you aren’t. But do you have any idea what that does to me?”

“I … no, I guess I don’t.”

Gabriel didn’t know either. He ground his teeth against the urge to scream.

No one will be here for long; it’s all pretend.

“I wasn’t like this before,” he said.

“That’s because you weren’t trapped in Hell before.”

“You’ve been trapped in Hell! And you’re nothing like this! Talk all day about how you need help, about how you have your bad dreams and your breakdowns - but you’re nothing like this, nothing like what I turned into.”

Not one of them wants you.

“That thing knew,” Gabriel wailed. “That thing knew exactly what I believe, exactly what I’m afraid of; that thing got into my head in a way even I can’t get into my head! I don’t have any control anymore, Sam - none.”

Not one of them wants you.

“That creature thought I was human, Sam,” Gabriel whispered. “Feeding on your kindness hasn’t done anything except squash me.”

Not one of them wants you.

“I know I can’t really understand what it’s like, exactly,” said Sam, “But what scares you so bad about being human? Especially if you know you aren’t, and your grace always comes back - even it’s on the slower side.”

Gabriel shook his head. “It’s not about the grace.” He swiped at his cheeks with his palms. “It’s about this.”

“About …”

Gabriel looked at him. “Do you know, and you’re just trying to get me to say it?”

“No! I’m not trying to make you say anything.”

Gabriel wasn’t sure he believed him, but lacked the energy to argue. “Well, then it’s about - it’s about the stuff in my head, and how I seem to be open season for anyone who wants a shot, for better or worse. In your case, it’s for the better; you don’t want to hurt me, or at least I don’t think you do. But you still know. You still see inside of me, and I’d give anything at all for a little emotional opacity. I’m weak, maybe as weak as I was in Hell.”

“No.”

“At least in my stupid cage I had a consistent idea of what the next day might bring. I anticipated chaos. He’d destroyed me, on purpose, for fun - so after a little while, I didn’t have to pretend I was holding myself together. Giving up the effort was easy enough; I had no choice. Well - no - unless I did have a choice, and made the wrong one. But he had power over me and I was used to being hurt. I didn’t have to play at not being vulnerable. It’s not like that anymore, Sam.”

“Shouldn’t that be a good thing?”

“You’d expect so, wouldn’t you? Me too. I’ve lost track of what’s good and what’s bad. So it’s not my grace I’m worried about. Or - no, that’s not true. I do worry about my grace, because I don’t know what the heck I’m supposed to be without it. It’s more like - it’s that worrying about my grace is almost a luxury right now. If I get to lose sleep over how much grace I have instead of how easily I get scared and lose control of myself, I count myself lucky.”

Sam frowned, trying to grasp what Gabriel was telling him.

Sometimes Sam understood, and sometimes he couldn’t relate. In this case, Gabriel suspected, Sam was at a loss because at no point in his life had he ever known genuine autonomy. With Gabriel, it was different: independence and secrecy were everything to him.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel muttered. “I know I don’t make this easy for you.”

Sam was silent for a moment longer, then asked: “Can I tell you something?”

Gabriel froze. This wasn’t the first time he’d become immobile over the possibility of Sam explaining that no, he really couldn’t do this anymore. Perhaps this was the paralysis to which the satori had referred.

“It’s nothing bad,” Sam added hastily, in yet another demonstration of how naturally he could read Gabriel. “I just wanted to say that I don’t look down on you for being affected by your time with Asmodeus. Of course you freak out sometimes; who wouldn’t? And don’t say anything about me," he added as Gabriel opened his mouth. "I’ve been out of Hell a lot longer than you, and you were gone for so long … there’s a lot you didn’t see.” Bitterness crept into Sam’s voice. “Anyway, you can’t help what this has done to you. But hey, you know who would judge you for struggling? Asmodeus. Not me. Not any of us, but especially not me.”

Gabriel tried to respond, but there was no way to speak around the tightness in his throat and chest. The sincerity in Sam’s voice hurt him.

Finally, he managed: “You set that up to sound so dramatic.”

Sam smiled. “Sorry.”

Neither of them spoke for a while after that, although the break in conversation felt natural, not awkward.

Gabriel was fighting sleep when Sam broke the silence. “You’re convincing, you know that?”

“I’m what?”

“The way you just … slipped into your old role. I was surprised, but it didn’t seem forced. The way you spoke up for yourself at dinner last night was impressive. Normally you would’ve been scared of getting in trouble.”

“Hm.” Gabriel considered. “Well, I’ve said it before, Sam: I don’t know who or what I was before Asmodeus. Something changed; that’s all I can tell you.”

“And I was thinking - you know, even before we got back from the mountains, I saw something different. You pushed to come, and then you broke your promise about staying in the motel. I don’t know, maybe I’m off, but that’s a decision you might not have made before.”

“It was important. If something happened to you because I was too afraid to help, that would’ve been punishment on its own. It was a no-win situation so I took the option that I knew would keep you alive.”

“But you probably weren’t so sure about whether you would come out okay.” There was no accusation in Sam’s voice; he was merely making an observation.

“No,” Gabriel agreed, “I didn’t.”

Sam went on, “And it says something, doesn’t it, that you were able to put on such a good act? That’s an old talent that maybe you haven’t tapped into in a while.”

“It must not have been as good as you say, because your brother picked up on it somehow.”

Sam looked surprised. “When?”

“Last night he cornered me about how it isn’t standard to switch from empty to full in such a short span of time. Said I should go to you if I needed help.”

“Wow." Sam blinked. "I guess I don’t really know what to make of that.”

“Well, to me it means that some lucky winner always has access to my cesspit of a brain. Whether that’s you, or Dean, or Asmodeus, or a mountain-dwelling monster.”

“Oh geez, Gabriel …” Sam reached out to squeeze his shoulder. “It’s not like that, buddy.”

“Of course it is. Everybody gets a piece of me if they want it.” Gabriel turned his eyes to the sheets again, fighting tears. “And when I wasn’t whatever I am now, the satori couldn’t get into my head. Like I said - proof, Sam. Proof so concrete you could draw chalk around it. Proof.”

Sam shook his head, but didn’t seem to know what to say.

“I can’t stay awake,” Gabriel muttered, because it sounded more reasonable than When you look at me like that, you’re proving my point. “Can I rest a little bit?”

Sam hesitated. “Let me wake you up in twenty minutes. Just to make sure you’re not out cold again. Then, if you’re okay - another hour, and we can take it from there.”

“Fine.” Gabriel hated the idea of being shaken awake in such a short time, but hadn’t the stamina to argue.

Sam helped adjust Gabriel’s position so that he was lying down, then pulled the blankets around Gabriel’s shoulders. He didn’t move to leave.

If this was an instance of Sam being able to read him too easily, he didn’t want to know.

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr | Also on AO3

Chapter 59: Statement of what comes now.

[CLICK]

[PANTING BREATHS, ECHOING SLIGHTLY, THAT SLOWLY EVEN OUT]

JON

Wh-what…what…?

Martin! Martin, where—where are you? I can’t—oh, God, I can’t see anything, I can’t—did that—

(in a different tone of voice) Martin? Are you here?

[ECHOING SILENCE]

JON

…Okay. Okay, this—this isn’t reality. This isn’t—he’d be here if I was—

Right. Okay.

(more loudly) Hello? Hello, is anyone out there?

[MORE SILENCE]

JON

W-wait…wait, is that—there’s something—okay, okay, I’m not blind, it’s just…dark. I can cope with that.

Right, okay. Think, Jon. After what you just did…if you’re not in the Institute, if you’re not in the world you’re used to, then you’re probably…somewhere else. So things are going to follow dream logic, right?

Right. Dream logic. (sigh) So I suppose I go looking for a switch.

[ODD CHITTERING, BUZZING NOISE THAT SUDDENLY STOPS]

JON

Oh, for—there has got to be away around this. No light switch, no walls, and I don’t trust the floors, so…

What am I supposed to do, say “Let there be light”?

[LOUD THUNKING NOISE, LIKE SOMEONE SWITCHING ON STAGE LIGHTS, OR AT LEAST A SPOTLIGHT]

JON

Seriously?

(frustrated sigh) Well, at least I can see now. I—wait. What in the—who’s there?

[A VOICE BEGINS SINGING SLOWLY, FAINTLY AT FIRST BUT SLOWLY GETTING LOUDER]

ANNABELLE

One elephant went out to play Upon a spider’s web one day She had such enormous fun She called for another elephant to come…

JON

You have got to be kidding me.

(resigned sigh) Right, here we go…

[ODD NOISE STARTS UP AGAIN, PUNCTUATED BY STICKY RIPPING SOUNDS, FADING IN AND OUT AS IF RESPONDING TO PRESSURE…OR FOOTSTEPS]

ANNABELLE

Hello, Jon.

JON

Annabelle Cane. Why am I not surprised?

ANNABELLE

You don’t sound pleased to see me.

JON

Let’s just say yours is not the first face I wanted to see when I woke up.

ANNABELLE

I have good news for you, then. It isn’t. You’re not awake.

JON

Oh, you can invade dreams now too, can you?

ANNABELLE

You aren’t asleep, either. And I think you already knew that.

JON

Oh, goddammit.

[A MOMENT OF SILENCE, SAVE THE FAINT ODD CHITTERING NOISE]

JON

…Wait. That noise, that’s—

And it gets louder every time we—

[CHITTERING SUDDENLY GETS LOUDER, WITH A FEW CLEAR WORDS HERE AND THERE, THEN FADES AGAIN]

JON

Are these tapes?

ANNABELLE

A fine material to spin a web with, don’t you think?

JON

It’s you.

A-all this time, all these—the recorders, the, the tapes…it’s all been you?

ANNABELLE

Well, not all me. Not all of it, anyway.

The Mother of Puppets has always collected stories. There are more reasons than one it’s called spinning a tale, you know. And spiders…it’s so hard to keep them out of places. People don’t generally call exterminators for them. Not for only one or two, and not if they don’t seem dangerous.

So yes. The Web has been lurking about the Magnus Institute, and the Archives, nearly as long as there has been an Institute. Listening. Drawing from the stories. Weaving a tapestry that tells the history of the world…and its future.

But this web? This one is mine.

JON

The tapes I recorded…

ANNABELLE

Oh, yes. All the tapes since you became the Archivist are here. Listen to this!

[A SQUEAL, THEN A CLEAR PLAY OF THE TAPE FROM MAG 000.2 - PRE-LAUNCH TRAILER]

ARCHIVIST ON TAPE

It’ll get you too. You can stare all you want, make your notes and your inquiries, but all your beholding will come to nothing. When the time arrives, and all is darkness and butchery, you’ll wish you had stopped listening and run.

[ANOTHER STICKY SOUND, LIKE SOMEONE PULLING OFF AN ADHESIVE BANDAGE]

JON

(shocked) That—that was—I only did that one as a test, to—to see if the recorders would work…

ANNABELLE

And they did. Admirably.

Go on. Try one.

JON

Look, I don’t—

ANNABELLE

You’re curious, aren’t you? You want to know.

There is no time here. Not really. No hurry. No pain. Nothing can hurt you if you indulge your curiosity a little bit. And it might not be so easy to believe once you leave.

Pick a strand. All you have to do is touch it, like so—

[ANOTHER SQUEAL, AND THEN ANOTHER RECORDING BEGINS TO PLAY FROM MAG 22 - COLONY]

MARTIN ON TAPE

—wasn’t anything to do with spiders that ended up after me. Almost wish it had been. (nervous laugh) I like spiders. Big ones, at least—

[RECORDING CUTS OFF WITH STICKY SOUND AGAIN]

ANNABELLE

—and you can hear them.

JON

He doesn’t anymore, you know.

ANNABELLE

Like spiders? Oh, believe me, I know.

I don’t think he’s liked them since he found out what happened to you. Not that I can blame him, of course. How do you feel about clowns these days? Or being alone?

JON

I—

ANNABELLE

Go on, Jon. Touch one. It doesn’t have to be…fresh.

JON

Why are some of these—

Is that…ash?

ANNABELLE

Dust, mostly.

(considers) Well, some of it might be ash. It depends on why that section of web isn’t used anymore.

JON

(tartly) I didn’t know being obscure and mysterious was in the Web’s domain.

ANNABELLE

It is if you want to manipulate somebody who’s addicted to knowledge.

Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not trying to manipulate you. It’s just a habit at this point, really.

JON

…Fine.

[A COUPLE OF CAREFUL STICKY, CHITTERING FOOTSTEPS, THEN A SOFT SQUEAL BEFORE A RECORDING SHARPENS IN, FROM MAG 134 - TIME OF REVELATION]

PETER ON TAPE

What does—puzzle me though, and I mean that genuinely, is—why you were piling tape recorders onto the coffin while Jon was in there.  (brief pause) It’s a question, Martin, it’s—it’s not an accusation.

MARTIN ON TAPE

I don’t know. And I just – felt like it might help. He’s always recording, and I thought it—it might help him…find his way out.

PETER ON TAPE

Interesting. Were you compelled?

MARTIN ON TAPE

I don’t know. Maybe? I-I, I definitely wanted to do it.

[RECORDING FADES OUT ON THE LAST WORD]

JON

(shocked) Th-that, that was—that hasn’t happened, that didn’t happen…

ANNABELLE

This time.

JON

You knew? When, when I met you at Hill Top Road, when you…you knew I’d come back from the future.

ANNABELLE

Of course.

You and Martin, your Martin, you came back after Jonah Magnus made you end the world. The Keeper of the Light led you to a door, that led you through some halls, that led you to another door, that led you…back. To get—

JON

—a second chance.

ANNABELLE

A second chance? Hardly.

JON

And just what is that supposed to mean, exactly?

ANNABELLE

Only that.

JON

…Fine. F-fine. Be mysterious and vague. See if I care.

[ANNABELLE LAUGHS KNOWINGLY]

JON

How do you know…the tapes. You just told me you’ve been listening to the tapes. Martin made his statement about those halls—

ANNABELLE

But you didn’t.

You haven’t talked about what your journey was like to anyone, have you? Not even Martin. He knows you came through the same halls, but not what you saw. He doesn’t know that for you, there were no colors and no changes, that every hallway was the same and there was no way to tell when you were getting closer, until you reached that long tunnel.

The one with the glass walls and ceiling, like an underwater aquarium. With dark shapes you couldn’t make out pressing against the outside, trying to get your attention. With thousands of whispering voices, over one another, so hard to make out, pleading, promising, coaxing. Offering you anything you desired if you would only make it stop, blaming you for their suffering, demanding how you could just walk on by as if—

JON

Stop.

ANNABELLE

You didn’t know you were recording, either. You’ve grown so used to those recorders that you didn’t even notice them anymore. And yet, I was listening.

JON

You were—what?

Y-you—you’re from the future, too!

ANNABELLE

Mm. That’s more complicated than you think it is.

JON

How did you know what we were doing?

ANNABELLE

Because I set it in motion.

JON

…You…you what? Those halls, that—that portrait gallery, that—

ANNABELLE

Which one?

JON

Which—both of them. The ones that—that Martin had to face.

You said you listened to the tapes, you—

ANNABELLE

I did. And I was…shadowing you both, I suppose.

You never wondered how I was at Salesa’s, did you? Not why I was there, how I was there.

JON

I…to be honest, I don’t remember much about those days.

ANNABELLE

I don’t mean while you were there. I mean after. You never thought about how I could have ended up outside my own domain, let alone outside the Apocalypse altogether.

JON

I tried to think about you as little as possible.

ANNABELLE

(heh) I’d be hurt if I didn’t understand completely. I suppose if I’d been lucky enough to escape the Spinner of Webs, I’d want nothing to do with any of her children either.

But you know the rules of the Apocalypse, Jon. It never occurred to you to wonder how a Watcher could stray from their domain?

JON

Martin did. And Helen. They both—

[STATIC CRACKLES; IT’S THE ARCHIVIST’S STATIC, BUT IT SOUNDS UNUSUAL IN A WAY THAT’S DIFFICULT TO PINPOINT]

JON

The Distortion never truly left its domain. Never went far from its doors. And while the domains we saw Helen in were seemingly those of other fears, they all had at least an element of the Spiral in them.

Martin was in the unique position of being both Watcher and Watched. He had the domain he oversaw, small though it was, but he was also, perhaps, the only sufferer in a domain that belonged to me as me and not me as the Eye itself. He could walk the world unharmed because what hurt him was watching my pain and power grow in equal measure, the suffering of not knowing what I would choose in the end.

And you…

Your domain was like Daisy’s. It was the other domains, woven through them like a silken thread, a subtle tug of manipulation. It was the tapes that kept recording our journey and the tugs that led us to people we tried to help or conquer and a thousand tiny maneuverings to keep us moving ahead.

[STATIC FADES; JON GASPS SLIGHTLY]

JON

That…that shouldn’t have felt like that.

ANNABELLE

You’re a bit far from the Eye here. But to be fair, so am I.

JON

We’re in the middle of your fucking web!

ANNABELLE

But my web. Not the Web.

Any power the Mother of Puppets has here is residual, and comes through me. Any power the Ceaseless Watcher has here is residual, and comes through you. I brought the web to show you, to help you understand, but it doesn’t belong here any more than we do.

JON

You were—you were manipulating those tunnels. To…what? Slow us down?

ANNABELLE

To help. Well, you didn’t need it, but Martin…

JON

Martin is stronger than you think.

ANNABELLE

Do you know whose domain that was?

JON

The Spiral’s. Of course.

ANNABELLE

And the Eye. Together.

Together they hung that gallery of accusation, the paintings that all seemed to hold Martin responsible for their deaths. His friends, his family…strangers he never met but felt responsible for. Its purpose was to keep Martin lost—disorientated and in crippling pain and anguish. Forever.

If he had kept going down that corridor, he would never have found the door to the past. And the Keeper would never have been able to find him. Both of them had too much of the Lonely in them—just enough to keep them both isolated and searching. If they didn’t know where to meet.

JON

(whispers) My God.

They—they knew what we were trying to do. Of course they did. And they didn’t—

ANNABELLE

It’s not about foresight. Neither of them really have that. That domain was a mix of the Spiral and the Eye. It’s just what it was designed for, that’s all.

JON

That’s all? It was more than enough.

So which did you—

(with horrified realization) The paintings of me. You did that.

ANNABELLE

To remind him.

JON

Of what, for God’s sake?

ANNABELLE

In part, of what he had to prevent—what he had to stop from happening. What you’d been through and he had to make sure didn’t happen. In part, it was letting him experience your pain. He’d heard what you went through, of course, but to actually see it…in so many ways, that would make it worse, and make his determination stronger.

And, of course, part of it was just putting you back in his mind over everyone else. It was the last little…anchor tethering the two of you together, to the past. Something to keep him present so the Keeper could find him.

JON

And show him that last painting. Thankfully.

Did you know about that one?

ANNABELLE

I put that one there, too.

Surely you didn’t think the Keeper knew enough to have done it.

JON

I—n-no, no, but—

Why?

ANNABELLE

Why show it to him?

JON

Why that moment?

ANNABELLE

Because it wasn’t on tape.

I left you alone while you were in Scotland, up until the end. You two deserved a few weeks…unobserved. Alone together. To figure out what you are to one another.

Actually, I had quite a job keeping the Distortion distracted so it wouldn’t pop in and interrupt. It was something of a challenge.

The first time, anyway.

JON

The first time?

ANNABELLE

Oh, we’ve done this dance before. In its fashion.

JON

What dance?

ANNABELLE

The Apocalyptic Tango, I think Martin called it once.

[JON SIGHS IN EXASPERATION]

JON

Do you ever give a straight answer? Or tell the truth?

ANNABELLE

I’m hurt! I’ve been nothing but honest with you this whole time.

JON

(dry as the Sahara) And the other times?

ANNABELLE

Mostly you wouldn’t have believed me.

I did try a time or two. You always insisted it wasn’t possible, or that there must be some sort of catch. You only believed me once, and even then, I don’t think you believed. You simply wanted it to be true.

JON

Are you trying to get me to compel the truth out of you?

ANNABELLE

The way you did Peter Lukas? Or…which one was it? Breekon?

You don’t need to force it, you know. All you have to do is…ask nicely, and I will spin you the tale.

JON

…

Statement of Annabelle Cane, regarding the Web’s plan. Recorded direct from subject…ah…

ANNABELLE

At the end.

JON

…Statement begins.

ANNABELLE

This is the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

These are the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the hand that pulled the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the Mistress that bore the hand that pulled the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the web that cradled the Mistress that bore the hand that pulled the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the blade that cut the web that cradled the Mistress that bore the hand that pulled the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the hero that wielded the blade that cut the web that cradled the Mistress that bore the hand that pulled the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the story that begged to be told of the hero that wielded the blade that cut the web that cradled the Mistress that bore the hand that pulled the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

Again, and again, and again, and again.

So few of the things that are Fear are gifted with foresight. The End, of course, knows what will come, because the End is inevitable. All things end, sooner or later. The Web cannot see the future but it can see…patterns. The threads of a story, and what they will be when they weave together.

When the Mother of Puppets first saw the crack beneath Hill Top Road, she thought she understood what it was. A hole in reality, a portal between universes. Places where fear had not touched, where it was not known. But then she saw it for what it was. A crack, not in space, but in time. A way to move between moments. And she began to plan For she saw the threads, and she knew that someday, someone would end the world. And when that happened…eventually, all would end. Even fear cannot last forever, in a world where nothing new is born. Eventually, all must end.

Her plan has been the same, for years. Generations. Choose a champion, mark them young. Put them in the path of a fear, and wait. Then, should the world end at the hands of that fear, tug that champion to cut the strings of fate and send all bound up in it through the crack…and back in time. Back in time enough that they could stop it.

And really, it should have worked.

To a point, it did work. Again, and again, and again, and again. Jonah Magnus sent you his ritual, you read it, the world came to an end. You tried to repair it. You walked to London…and there it got complicated.

The trouble is the Spinner’s plan depended, in the end, on your choice. We told you that you would have had to simultaneously blow up the Archives and stab Jonah Magnus, and then all would have been thrown back in time. In truth, that would not have worked—not if Jonah was still the Eye’s Pupil. It had to be you. You had to choose to take his place…and then have the tethers cut. Then, and only then, would you be sent back with the knowledge to alter things.

Sometimes I told you the original story, that it was a crack in reality and would send all the fears somewhere else, or scatter them across worlds. Once or twice I told you the truth. As I said, it was so hard for you to believe me, regardless of what I spun. Mostly you thought I was manipulating you, lying to you, trying to get you to doom a thousand other worlds. Occasionally you thought it would end the world faster. Only once did you believe me—in a time when I came to you in a cabin in what was once Scotland, a time when I knew you would not act if you did not know you could turn back time, a time when the man you loved turned back for his umbrella and understood what he was hearing and tried to save you and the world.

JON

No…

ANNABELLE

It never quite worked, in the end. Time and again, the strings would be cut, the world would snap back…and time and again, we would retread the same paths. Over and over. So little I could change, so little I could do differently before the Apocalypse and I tried to find a new way to get you to be in position to be dragged back.

Finally, finally, it happened. You tried to take Jonah Magnus’ place, to hasten the end and starve the fears…it would never have worked, of course, but you tried. Martin anticipated it, though, he tried to stop you before you killed Jonah, to delay you while the others lit the fuse. You were faster than he thought, though, and had already become the Pupil of the Eye. You told him to go. To save himself. But Martin would not leave you, despite the danger. Rather than watch him die for nothing, you told him to cut the tether. And he did.

It worked the way the Web intended, of course it did. But for you to remember and be able to fix it, you would have both had to be alive when you came through at the other side. Even one of you would have been enough. But when I woke again and plucked the strand of the Web, I could hear that neither of you remembered.

Neither of you had survived.

[JON MAKES A PAINED NOISE OF DISTRESS]

ANNABELLE

It was then that I realized that Mother’s plan depended too heavily on precise timing. She wanted me to try again, of course. Strangely enough, the Fears never knew it had happened, not even the Web. But she reminded me, again and again, about her plan, told me what strings to pull.

This time, though…this time I thought I’d try something a bit different.

I did what I have done every other time. I stayed with Salesa, I spoke to you both. I followed your progress through the tapes, and when you disappeared beneath the tunnels…I acted. As I promised him, I killed him, and I took his camera. I brought it to London, to the Institute…to the Panopticon. But this time, I brought it up to the belly of the beast. I took it to the office of Jonah Magnus.

The camera wasn’t strong enough to dispel the entire Apocalypse there, of course. But it created enough of a hole to break Jonah free of the Eye’s hold.

He was as pleased to see me as you might expect. Demanded to know what I was doing there. And I told him. I told him I had come to warn him.

JON

What?!

ANNABELLE

I told him that his precious Archivist was far from resigned to this new world he had brought about, that he was coming to stop it. To stop him. I said that you were bringing Martin with you and that you had a plan, and if he wanted to continue his reign, he’d best do something to stop it.

JON

Did you have any idea what that something would be?

ANNABELLE

Patterns. Of course I knew.

Jonah would never have harmed you, even if he could have; he still hoped to get you on his side. As you learned tonight. On the other hand, he would have known, or at least guessed, that the only thing stopping you from joining him was Martin. And even if he couldn’t hope to win you over by separating you…he would at least have found a way to use that bond against you.

JON

(shouting) Martin could have died because of you!

ANNABELLE

Perish the thought! My dear Jon, do you know know how many times I’ve been through this loop?

Even when I filled him with spiders, there has never been a time you could bring yourself to harm him in the slightest, let alone kill him. Faced with a choice between letting him die or getting revenge, I knew you would save him. Of course he wouldn’t have died.

[JON SPUTTERS INDIGNANTLY]

ANNABELLE

And I made sure you had somewhere to recover. I had already nudged the Keeper towards that door.

He couldn’t have done it, of course; he was too tightly bound to the Light—not the Lonely, not the fear he watched over, but the Light itself. If it fell, so would he, and he cannot leave it for long. Even if he had come back, he would have been unable to make a difference in anyone’s past. But of course he thought of the Archivist. His godson. And when you thought Martin might be taken from you, you experienced the precise fear that summoned one of his doors—the fear of being forever separated from the one you love.

Perhaps the original plan would have worked eventually. Perhaps someday you, or Martin, or both of you, would have survived long enough to awaken in the past and remember. But I think it’s better this way, don’t you? Much more…direct.

And look how much you’ve spared the others from.

JON

The others—G-Georgie, Melanie, Basira—in, in that timeline, the one Martin and I left. Did they…what happened to them?

ANNABELLE

The Keeper and I took care of that. Don’t worry.

After he saw you safely through, I introduced myself to him and told him what needed to happen. He fetched Basira and took her to the tunnels beneath the Institute, and then I came myself. I told them what Jonah had done, what you had done, and what they needed to do.

I gave them the choice. The same one I often gave you. I told them they could either…let things stay as they were, allow things to die out in time, and keep apart from it, or end it. Take out Jonah Magnus and blow up the Institute simultaneously, and send all the Fears back in time as well—the Fears, and any of us too tightly bound up in them to survive without them.

I know you won’t believe me, Jon, but I never influenced them to make the choice they did. Basira did ask me what they usually chose, and I did tell her that I had never known them to choose anything other than one option, but I didn’t tell her what it was. I knew it would be important for you to know that, whatever they chose, it was their decision and their decision alone.

JON

(heh) I can’t imagine Melanie not choosing the option that allows her to kill Elias.

[ANNABELLE LAUGHS]

ANNABELLE

Neither can I. And she didn’t choose differently.

As I understand it, Melanie made her way up alone—being blind, of course, the fearful things on those stairs could not affect her—while Basira provided a distraction and Georgie lit the gas aflame. Melanie took the camera and aimed it at Jonah Magnus to bring him down, and then while he tried to belittle her, she stabbed him, just as the building blew.

JON

And then what happened? Did they survive?

ANNABELLE

I don’t know. But they succeeded, or I wouldn’t be here.

JON

…

How many others has the Web done this to? Tried to—manipulate into a savior?

ANNABELLE

Oh, I don’t know. Hundreds?

Most of them would have failed. Many never made it beyond her. I was one of them, actually, a child tested out but ultimately found lacking, although I was the only one I think she would have trusted with this. But you…the Mother of Puppets saw the threads of your life. So many Fears noticed you as a child that you were bound to fall afoul of one of them eventually. And as soon as she realized where Jonah Magnus’ thoughts were trending, and where they would eventually lead, she knew that you would be a perfect candidate to complete the ritual in the end.

So she chose you. She lured you in. And you resisted her pull. She knew then that you would be the only one strong enough to succeed.

JON

I only survived because someone else took my place! I would have died if he hadn’t—

ANNABELLE

My dear Jon. Has anyone meant to be claimed by a power ever actually handed away a book or an artifact willingly?

Had you been meant to be the Spinner’s in the end, Mitchell Hopkins would never have been able to take that book from you, let alone read it. Mister Spider was a test, a test that you passed.

A test I never would have.

JON

…

…Was that his name? Mitchell?

ANNABELLE

It was.

It is.

And now you know everything.

[A FEW MOMENTS OF SILENCE, SAVE THE TAPES CHITTERING IN THE BACKGROUND]

JON

I—I suppose I should be grateful that we don’t remember all of…these. All these…cobwebs.

I’m damned grateful I don’t remember—

ANNABELLE

I must admit, that was a bad one.

JON

Getting through that…it was hard enough with Martin. I don’t—I don’t see how I did it alone.

Especially after—especially knowing I—

Did I know?

ANNABELLE

…

You spent far longer at Salesa’s that time than you did any other time. In the end, I had to go with you almost all the way to London.

…Yes. You knew.

Not at the time. Not when it happened. But the Eye made sure you Knew the details in the end. You ran into Basira and she asked where Martin was—

JON

—and the Beholder forced me to describe it.

ANNABELLE

You said yourself, more than once. None of this has ever been to the benefit of humanity. Or any individual human.

JON

Or whatever I—whatever we are.

ANNABELLE

What defines a human, anyway? The limitations, or the abilities?

We can do more than what an ordinary human can. But we can still do all the things that an ordinary human can, too. We think. We feel. We love, Jon.

As far as I’m concerned, that makes us human.

JON

…Who do you love, Annabelle?

ANNABELLE

I was the first to hold him. Did you know that? I was staying with Harry and his wife while I was at university, just before I took part in that study. They wanted someone to read to him before he was born, so he would learn the stories. Harry worked late, trying to make a better life for them all, and Elizabeth…well, she was blind, so she could tell stories fine, but she wanted him to hear books too. Every night, after dinner, I’d sit and read to her belly. He came early and Harry didn’t get to the hospital in time, so after Elizabeth, I was the first one to hold him.

Harry picked out his first name because he knew I hated that book. Elizabeth softened it by picking a middle name after me, but…she always called him Charlie. I think she knew, even then.

A couple years after I became part of the Web, the Desolation took Harry, probably to spite me, but…Harry was never the one I cared about. Elizabeth, at least, died as peacefully as anybody can. It may not have been pleasant, or timely, but at least it wasn’t to serve a power. Just bad luck.

…

Get him away from that grandmother of his if you can, will you?

JON

One of us will.

ANNABELLE

That’s all I ask.

JON

Well, I—I suppose, in light of all that’s happened…it’s the least I can do.

ANNABELLE

You believe me, then?

JON

It happened. It’s over.

Whether once or a hundred times…it happened the way you said at least once. And we won. That’s enough for me.

…Yes, Annabelle Cane, I believe you.

ANNABELLE

For what it’s worth, Jon, you did all the hard work on your own. You and Martin, and…the others. In your time and this. All I did was get you here.

JON

The others…

(sharp intake of breath) Oh, God. The Unknowing. Has it—have they—I-I can’t, even if we were in the Panopticon, I couldn’t See it. But you—there, there were tapes.

Are they…?

ANNABELLE

That one. I think.

JON

You think?

ANNABELLE

It added itself to the web just before you got here. It’s either theirs or yours.

[BRIEF PAUSE, THEN THE SQUEAL OF TAPE BEFORE A RECORDING PICKS UP - FAINT CIRCUS MUSIC, THUMPS AND TAPS THAT MIGHT BE SOME KIND OF FOOTSTEP, FLOORBOARDS CREAKING, SHALLOW BREATHING, FABRIC RUSTLES]

PRESENT ARCHIVIST ON TAPE

I love you.

PRESENT MARTIN ON TAPE

I love you.

TIM ON TAPE

I love you.

Tell me when.

[DEEP BREATH]

PRESENT ARCHIVIST ON TAPE

Three…two…one…

[MORE FABRIC RUSTLES, DETONATOR CLICKS, EXPLOSION BEGINS BEFORE ABRUPTLY CUTTING OFF]

JON

Oh, God.

ANNABELLE

And to think I thought you had a terrible sense of timing.

JON

At least they said something before—

O-oh, God, Tim. Tim—you know as well as I do that in my time, he—and I—were they all in the middle of that?

ANNABELLE

More or less.

They didn’t walk into the Unknowing, at least. Martin listened to what you told him and wouldn’t let them open any doors. But it had to be blown up from the inside to be sure of getting all the charges. Your counterpart and Martin’s wouldn’t leave Tim behind, however much he tried to make them.

JON

What happened after that?

ANNABELLE

I don’t know if there is an after that yet.

JON

And we’re back to the cryptic bullshit.

ANNABELLE

On the contrary. I said exactly what I meant.

We aren’t exactly anywhere right now, or any when. This…place…I wouldn’t call it a domain, but it exists outside of both time and space. The rules are different here. Time, if it passes at all, passes differently.

They might have just pressed the detonator. They might have pressed it hours ago, or days ago.

JON

(dismayed) Days?

ANNABELLE

All I can say is that wherever, whenever they are, they are out of reach of my tapes. And your sight.

Fortunately…I know someone who can give us those answers, even from here. Maybe especially from here.

JON

Who else is here, for God’s sake?

[ANNABELLE SINGS THE NEXT LINE IN THE SAME SLOW, MEASURED VOICE AS BEFORE]

ANNABELLE

Two elephants went out to play Upon a spider’s web one day They had such enormous fun They called for another elephant to come…

[STICKY FOOTSTEPS APPROACH OVER THE TAPE WEB]

OLIVER

Hello, Jon. It is all right if I call you Jon?

JON

…Oliver? Oliver Banks?

OLIVER

In the…well. In the manifestation, I suppose. I don’t know if any of us is here in the flesh.

JON

(disbelieving laugh) You’re…not quite what I expected.

OLIVER

Is that an invitation for me to comment about how Death so rarely is what we expect, or a manifestation of you wondering why Martin would possibly be jealous of someone like me?

ANNABELLE

If you knew either of them a little better, you’d know Martin’s reasons for being jealous are almost entirely in his head.

Also, he’s never met you.

OLIVER

Mm, true. We always seemed to miss one another.

JON

You—hold on. You’re from the future as well?

OLIVER

Like you and Annabelle. Well, more like Annabelle, I suppose. You had to be the Pupil of the Eye before you were tangled enough to get dragged back with the Fears. Me? Without Terminus, I’m just…dead. And we’ve already established that that’s not where I want to be.

JON

…Did you know? When you came to the hospital?

OLIVER

That we’d done this before? Of course. I long ago stopped being surprised at what you would choose.

JON

Then for God’s sake, why—

OLIVER

Because you had to choose, Jon. It was always your choice.

Think of it as a crossroads. You stood at a fork in the road, where one path would take you back to life and the other would take you on to, well, whatever came next. The trouble was that the signposts were covered.

You could have chosen without knowing which path was which, but that’s not your way. Not when you know enough to know that one was…mm, wrong, shall we say? One would have led you where you wanted to be, one where you didn’t.

JON

I didn’t want to die.

OLIVER

There’s a difference between not wanting to die and having something to live for.

JON

(deep breath) Right, well, I definitely have something to live for, so I’ll be going now.

Uh, how do I get out of here?

OLIVER

Ordinarily? You don’t.

JON

What?!

OLIVER

This is Terminus’s realm. Well, sort of. A little pocket on the outside edge of it.

JON

Another crossroads.

OLIVER

Mm, not so much. More that you’re standing in the middle of the path.

JON

So which way is back?

OLIVER

Life is a journey traveled in one direction only.

JON

(tartly) Yes, well, so is time, but here we all are.

I’ve already chosen to live, Oliver. (with slight malice) Can I call you Oliver?

OLIVER

(not rising to the bait) This isn’t a place where you get to choose.

JON

…So you’re saying that’s it.

After all that, after everything I—everything we did…this is the end. There’s nowhere else for me to go.

ANNABELLE

How many times have you walked out of another entity’s domain? Not counting the Apocalypse. We’ve already talked about how that doesn’t count.

JON

I…twice. The Buried and the Lonely.

Three, I suppose, if that crossroads counts.

OLIVER

That was a metaphor. You were close to Death, but not its realm. If that makes sense.

JON

Not really.

ANNABELLE

The Buried and the Lonely, then.

What brought you out?

JON

From the Buried, it was the—the tapes…it was Martin putting those tapes on top of the coffin. W-weaving me a rope…or a ladder.

The Lonely was simple enough to leave. The way out was together.

ANNABELLE

With Martin.

JON

…Yes.

ANNABELLE

Exactly.

Not all strands of a spider’s web are to capture or to control, you know. Sometimes, they are simply…to anchor.

JON

…

…That’s why you offered to bind me to Martin. It wasn’t about—it wasn’t for strength or power at all.

ANNABELLE

Not to defeat Jonah Magnus, no. There’s more than one kind of strength, more than one kind of power. I did tell you that you would need it to survive what was coming.

JON

It brought Martin back when Peter Lukas visited the Archives and he almost got swallowed by the Lonely again. It—it grounded me, kept me from losing control while I was taking down Jonah.

And now…

ANNABELLE

It can guide you home.

[OLIVER LAUGHS]

OLIVER

You know, people always talk about some legendary “red string of fate”, but I’ve never actually seen a real one before.

Let alone one woven from cassette tape.

JON

You knew I had that tether from the beginning.

OLIVER

Truthfully, I didn’t think it would work. Plenty of people have things they think are tying them to life, but they aren’t strong enough to resist the pull. Most threads snap.

JON

Not this one.

I made Martin a promise. And I never break my word.

OLIVER

A good thing, when your tether is almost literally made out of your words.

JON

Ha, ha.

…Wait. B-before I go…the Unknowing. Are they—she said you would know.

OLIVER

It’s over. It worked. They brought the house down.

A lot of tormented souls set free, all at once. Quite the rush, really.

JON

The three of them—my counterpart and Martin’s and Tim. What happened to them?

[OLIVER SIGHS]

OLIVER

Two of them will be fine. Some cuts and bruises, but they’ll be up and about sooner rather than later. They might already be up and about. Time’s difficult to discern here.

The other…I suspect I’m going to need to pay a visit at some point. Clean off those signposts.

JON

Don’t wait six months.

OLIVER

I shouldn’t be more than a couple weeks behind you.

JON

…That’s less comforting than you think it is.

OLIVER

Then it must be terrifying, because I was definitely going for ominous.

[JON SIGHS…AND LAUGHS RELUCTANTLY; ANNABELLE AND OLIVER LAUGH TOO]

JON

I suppose we’ll meet again, Annabelle.

ANNABELLE

…No. No, I don’t think we will.

JON

Tired of me already?

ANNABELLE

I was watching them for you. Not just through the tapes. I was lurking in a corner of that room.

I don’t know that I made it out.

OLIVER

(gently) You didn’t, I’m afraid.

Your choices are more limited. Stay here with your web…or see what comes next.

[A SHORT PAUSE]

JON

We’ll keep the recorders going.

In case you’re still listening.

ANNABELLE

…Tell Charlie his aunt loves him very much.

JON

I will.

Oliver…don’t take this the wrong way, but if I ever see you again, it will be too soon.

OLIVER

Death always comes too soon.

JON

That was definitely not meant for that aspect of you.

OLIVER

Fair.

ANNABELLE

Have a good life, Jon.

You and Martin deserve it.

JON

If I may borrow from another…may you find your rest where no shadows are cast, and no eyes may see you slumber.

ANNABELLE

(audibly smiling) From you, Jon, that is a true blessing.

[DEEP BREATH]

JON

Right. Hold on, Martin.

I’m coming home.

[CLICK]

[narcissasdaffodil]

Femslash February 2021

Day 2: Tears

This one is also for the 6 month anniversary of LCBC, I’m using multiple prompt lists x Here’s the A03 link if you prefer reading on there x

It’s unexpected, mostly. When you give your entire heart to someone, you don’t expect them to stamp on it. Marisol found herself replaying the same section of the episode over and over, watching Lottie getting ready to leave.

On screen, the door opened and a tall redhead ran through, and hugged her from behind.

“You can’t leave. I seriously won’t let you. What am I going to do without your witchy love to support me?” Just the soft voice of the redhead breaks Marisol’s heart again. Aderyn Bevan had stolen her heart from the moment she had arrived all those months ago. She had tried to make relationships work with everyone but her mind always came back to her.

When they finally got together, she was so happy. It hurts to remember those memories, but she doesn’t have a heart to break any more. She feels it beating occasionally, but feels so entirely numb.

She forces herself to turn back to the TV, her eyes drawn in by Aderyn, even now. The musician had played her like a fiddle, and managed it effortlessly. Pretending to be in love with her despite holding a small crush on Lottie persistently. Despite taking your side during Roccogate, you could tell how much it hurt her to do that. Going against Lottie wasn’t something she could do without guilt.

“I wish I could stay too, you know. Seeing you and Marisol together, made me realise something. I’ve been sitting on these feelings and pretending they don’t exist, but…” Lottie’s cut off by Aderyn pulling her close and kissing her on the lips. Lottie gasps in surprise, but kisses her back, her arms wind around Aderyn’s back and pull her close. They only separate to breathe and stare into each other’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, was that too forward of me? Have I seen something you didn’t?” Aderyn watched Lottie with wild eyes, strands of hair escaping from her elaborate braided bun. For someone who usually looks so polished, to see the mascara tears trailing down her cheeks and the hair slowly escaping and coming loose in wild auburn curls, felt so strange. Come to think of it, Aderyn had always kept part of herself hidden around you. It was only Lottie, and Lucas who she let herself loose with. You were just left with the public image version of her, the one who kept all emotions hidden and solved all problems with a wide smile on her face. Elisa had warned you about her, said she was far too good to be true. But she had everyone else wrapped around her little finger, so there was no hope for you, really.

Fresh tears spilt down Marisol’s cheeks and she let them go. Her flat was such a tip currently, pizza boxes stacked in piles on every available surface, and tissues. She was usually so neat, but the current situation had left her unable to clean up her own stuff, she had become such a mess. She no longer cared about her flat being a mess, she had barely been out recently. She only went out for the essentials and nothing more. Her phone beeped and she left it on the table, not having the energy to move from the sofa.

“No, of course not. I feel it too. But what about Marisol? I know I left it so late to even say anything, and I have to leave soon. I just never thought you might like me in that way. And can you promise me something? Win, and we’ll work out what’s happening from there,” Lottie squeezed her hand before letting go. She grabbed her suitcase and they left the room together.

Marisol fast forwarded the rest of the episode, not able to see herself and Aderyn together, and in love. Or was she even in love with you? She didn’t accept to be your girlfriend, and looked...uneasy when you said ‘I love you’. Did she just lead you on and were you too blind to see it?

Her flat turned silent as the episode finished and she turned off the TV. She sat in the silent dark room, unable to convince herself to move. We were something, don’t you think so? You’ve turned from someone who as a rule doesn’t listen to Taylor Swift and hates too much noise to needing noise all the time and having a full playlist of sad Taylor Swift songs. Anything to prevent your thoughts from spiralling. But you were the same after Olivia, so of course this happened again.

Her phone beeped again and she continued to leave it. She was in the Islanders group chat, but struggled to see everyone so happy. Everyone found their person, even if they didn’t always leave with them. Hope and Lucas were together, which fit far better than Hope and Noah. Noah himself was with Priya and those were just the people she remembered. She struggled to stay in touch with most of them and could feel them slipping away from her. Hope and Bobby were the only ones who keep contacting you, but they’ll give up eventually. Priya was always saying that she was the outcast, but that was more like you.

As for her, she who cannot be named, the little bird was enjoying life with Lottie. No sign of an apology, or anything to even explain what happened. You were the first person to give her that nickname. To call Aderyn little bird, which started as a joke. To her, you were the sunshine, she took that from your name. Now you can’t even see the sunlight without thinking of her.

She snapped herself out of her head, the loud knocking coming from the door making her jump out of her skin. The knocking didn't appear to stop, so she stood up and slipped her feet into her slippers and made her way to the door, retrieving her keys as she passed the key bowl. She slid her keys into the keyhole and opened the door, to see Bobby and Hope on the other side. She tried to smile, but fresh tears spilled down her cheeks and she stepped backwards into her flat.

“It’ll probably be better if you come in, don’t particularly want to be a mess out in the hallway. Excuse the mess, I didn’t plan for guests,” she laughs slightly. She was such a mess she didn’t feel like pretending otherwise, and she was relieved they didn’t comment on it.

They followed her, Hope closed the door behind her and locked it. She put the keys back in the key dish as she passed it.

“I’ve been very worried about you. You haven’t been answering any texts or phone calls, I know that the...situation with Aderyn must really hurt,” Hope moved forward and puts her arms around Marisol, giving her a hug. Marisol sniffed, and let out fresh tears into Hope’s shoulder. Hope stroked her back, and held onto her. The small attempt at comfort helped her relax a little bit, and eventually they separated.

“T...thank you. I keep wondering if you’re going to give up on me eventually. If you’re going to leave like she did. I don’t even know what I did wrong, why she chose me of all people’s hearts to break. She had the pick of everyone, even Bobby. As for Lottie, after last time she kissed Gary and there was all that backlash, you’d think she’d think twice about starting another kiss gate. Trust my luck to be fucked over twice,” her eyes flash in anger as she looks over to Hope. It’s a relief to feel something other than heartbreak, or numbness.

“It was far from your fault. It was her choice to make, entirely. I won’t give up on you, and that’s a promise,” Bobby nodded from next to Hope.

“And same for me, too. I don’t support either of them with that decision. I’m pretty certain Aderyn knew all too well what she was doing. She appeared too good to be true, I got ensnared myself by her. Don’t blame yourself for that either. You deserve better, I know that,” Bobby took her hands in his and squeezed them tight.

“What about Gary? How did he take this? Considering how he was together with Aderyn for so long, until I coupled up with her, this must’ve hurt him too…” she wiped her eyes with her sleeve and looked back at them.

Bobby sighed.“About as well as can be expected, really. It was a surprise for him too. And both of them are just pretending they did absolutely nothing wrong, and have moved to California to get away from all the backlash. The rest of us are very much there for you, though. You deserve so much better.”

“Elisa warned me and all. She said Aderyn’s far too good to be true. Yet I was too stubborn to listen. Not only that, but she was always hiding stuff from me, so I guess I expected it...anyway, I could do with a distraction. This is going to sound pathetic, but I keep replaying that kiss, and noticing something. How different she seems with Lottie, how much more free and happy she is. But an apology would be nice, but of course that’s too much to ask…” Marisol bit her lip hard and blinked. She ignored the tears reappearing and moved into the kitchen. She stared at the mess, sighed softly, and turned back around.

“Do you fancy pizza? My treat,” Hope winked at her. “I’ll even get ham and pineapple. Even though I can’t stand it,” Marisol’s eyes lit up and she grinned.

“Sure. But maybe split it, so half ham and pineapple, and half ham and mushroom. As you like mushrooms, right? I would make something, but…” she gestured towards the mess in her flat. It’s weird you no longer care about the mess, but oh well.

Hope retrieved her phone and started to order pizza.

“I’ll help with the mess, if you’re comfortable with that,” Bobby said from beside her.

“Thank you. I’ve been meaning to tackle it. But don’t have the energy, for obvious reasons,” she gave him a wobbly smile.

Once Hope finished her phone call, the three of them started tackling the mess. The stacks of boxes are nearly taller than Marisol herself, and as she started to see the countertops beneath the mess she breathed a sigh of relief. Nearly normal again. Hopefully soon you can heal.

She heard a knock at the door and Hope scrambled to answer it, getting there before Marisol and paying the delivery person.

“I did say I would pay. Now you need to relax. Maybe we can find something on TV?” Hope moved with the boxes and drinks towards the sofa, and Marisol and Bobby followed suit.

Marisol retrieved the remote and switched on Netflix. As they choose something to watch she feels a smile settle on her face and relaxed, focused on her food and the pleasure of having company. Maybe you didn’t find love in Love Island. But you found something more valuable, friends for life.

[crazyclownthanos]

White Clover

Page 1: Passing the baton

Words: 3823

The Clover Kingdom

The title of 30th wizard king, now belonging to an orphan who grew up in the forsaken realm, who had no magic and better yet was a devil host

Asta achieved his long life dream and he couldn’t be more happier

Standing on the clover castle balcony with his wizard king crown on his head and his signature smile

Right beside him was his fiancé at the time Noelle Silva who was given the role of one of the many advisers

Standing on his left side Secre Swallowtail or known as Nero in simpler times,another adviser to the wizard king

Along with Finral Vaude, another advisor to the wizard king

Together with Noelle was Mimosa Vermilion known to be clovers best healing mage

The whole entire kingdom was there to watch

From the noble realm

From the common realm

From the forsaken realm

All the citizens were there to watch

Sister Lilly, Orsi, Nash, Recca, Auru and Hollo were standing on one of the castle towers. smiles all around, cheering and some tears from father Orsi.

House Vermillion, House Kira and House Silva stood proudly watching the ceremony. King Augustus was actually bothered to watch the ceremony but all the swine did was sit and squirm in his throne. Some people don’t ever change.

All the captains stood proudly with their squads and robes on

The magic knights all yelling praises and singing for joy

Drouot within the crowd crying happy tears proud to see that boy grow up and soar over the years

The diamond kingdom mages showed up too

Mars

Ladros

Ragus

Broccos

Yagos

Galleo

Mohawq

Human Fana

All showed up to show their support to Asta

The seabed temple folks also saw

Gifso

Gio

Kahono jumping up and down screaming to see Noelle on screen.

Kiato

And the rest of the citizens

The Witches Forrest were also able to watch the ceremony

The elves were invited too. Patri, Elf Fana, Vetto and Rhya watched from the top of one of the buildings filled with joy

The newly crown spade king was just arriving landing right beside Asta with his crown and not to forget Belle still sitting on his shoulder

They didn’t say anything to each other but only smiled. Yuno and Asta shared one last bump fist

The journey ends. A new era starts......

A story of a new devil

This story starts off in a library, dusty books in sight, lightly lit candles illuminating the space, a chalkboard in sight and in front of the chalkboard was a wooden table and chairs

Two boys, one standing in front of the chalkboard and the second one sitting on one of the chairs

The first boy apperance was thin and fair, he was wearing a black turtle neck hemmed to his hips, along side white pants and an over sized wool cardigan. Cherry colored triple bangs and eyes of blooming sakuras seen from a distance

The second boy had two light grey braids on the left side of his head tied up in in a ponytail with bangs on the ride side sprouting out. Heterochromia irises of blue on the right and purple on the left. Wearing long puffy sleeves faded blue shirt connected to circle pins with the house Silva emblem splatted on, having a bit of a hole appears above it on both sleeves and on both side of hips, a lilac slash tired around his waist with the knot on the right side, navy blue pants along side pockets with the same pin at the ankle and the hole above.

Please meet

Ace Silva! The youngest of the Ideale Branch

And

Reagan Silva! The second son of the main Silva branch

“When making a paper crane you need to pull the wings, but not too hard!”

“Ta-da!”

Placing the paper crane on the table Ace gleed with Joy considering it was his 1000th time making a paper crane.

Meanwhile Reagan on the other hand was still struggling doing the top fold, his cheeks were turning red out of embarrassment

“You’ll get the hang of it!” Ace remarked hands on his hips smiling ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat. Hearing someone slam the door open frightened Ace causing him to fall on the ground and duck for cover.

Three people walked inside two girls look around the same height, and one male taller than the two girls

“Yo-ho! Regan, Ace!”

Please meet the next generation of Silvas

Be mentally & physically prepared

Seriously.

There beasts.

Haskell Silva.

Nozel Silva’s first son and the heir of the royal Silva family. A hyperactive 20 year old and a 1st class senior magic knight of the Silver Eagles squad. Currently rocking ankle length blonde hair to the ankles tied up in low length ponytail with bangs out. Wearing a sleeveless tight shirt of yellows and golds showing the design of a golden eagle in the middle and golden rays of the sun symboling the eagle, white pants and calf length white boots with golden edges.

Next was Nozel’s first daughter, claimed to be one of the finest ladies in the kingdom. A cunning lady who went by the name Nereida Silva. A rookie member of the Black Bull who got into the squad by persuasion by her aunt, Noelle. She had the facial features and silver hair, a normal Silva appearance (though unlike her yellow eyes that textured her irises) tied up at the buttom and pinned up by a clip with a somewhat curly fringe the swooped up a bit. Wearing something similar to Haskell but instead of the golden edged boots it’s dipped in a silver color altogether. Her tight singlet that caressed her skin in a purple color.

The last one of the bunch

Josslyn Silva.

The eldest of the Ideale branch.

Told to be one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom, blessed with mint green eyes like her grandfather, pink luscious lips, quite noticeable and long cherry blossom hair that was normally tied up in a high ponytail along with her bangs that covered her forehead and hair spilling out at the front. Complementary to Nereida and Haskell she of course rocked the silver edged boots, white pants and a pink tight top.

“A-ah! What bring you guys here? I thought you guys were meant to do your intense trial or something else...” Ace murmuring his last couple of words, peering his pink eyes at the three

“I’ll comment and say Haskell was a walking fire hazard in today’s sparring session.” Nereida shared a smile making it look like nothing happened at all.

“Now we’re punished to read all books on magic tool history.” Josslyn cocked her head towards her younger brother.

A vein popped out of Nereida still fuming with rage knowing she got punished for something she didn’t do though appearances such appearances had no effect on her smile.!

“Oh I’m sorry Regan and I will take our leave” Ace stumbled on his words picking up the pieces of the paper he walked to the door expecting Regan following right behind him

“Rega- Aaah!” Ace let out a girly scream seeing Regans face turn purple from being suffocated from the squeeze of Haskell’s biceps

“HASKELL YOUR GOING TO KILL HIM~!” Ace mustered all the strength he could to let Reagan have atleast one breath of air pass his lips. Unfortunately it had no affect on Haskell, the guy was just too buff not like Asta buff just the unequaled type of buff.

Noticing the tears swell up in Ace’s eyes he took note of the state Reagan was in and joined the panic feast

“AAAAHHH WHAT DID I DO?!” Letting the poor six year old rest on his back, Haskell had no other option but to perform cpr on him.

Performing at least 60 chest compressions per 30 seconds, Haskell and Ace haven’t even checked for a pulse better yet done mouth to mouth.

The sound of a sharp inhale was a wave of relief crashing over Haskell and Ace.

“AAH! MY SWEET BROTHER BLOODHOOD YOURE BREATHING AGAIN~!!” Haskell shaking Reagan by the shoulders, waterfalls spilling down his cheeks. Concurrently Josslyn and Nereida stood there witnessing the turn of events not even changing their facial expressions

Squirming around the young boy Reagan sat there dumbfounded still picking up the pieces on what just turned.

Exhaling sharply, Josslyn stepped one foot forward resulting in both Ace and Reagan sitting on their assess kicked out of the room.

Somewhere outside Clover castle, busy by a chain of stalls selling fresh produce and in an alleyway a red fox growling its teeth at some crows over a crushed rotten apple. Successfully the red fox scared the crows away able to eat the apple without disturbance.

A gust of wind came along not disturbing the red fox but the newspaper blown right in front of the apple. Looking at the newspaper the front cover was in view displaying the new generation of Silva’s all standing, hands behind their backs, legs straight plus posture and not to forget their serious expressions. Wrinkling the red foxes expression somehow it didn’t happen to wrinkle on the last boy with the red hair on the left instead it only tilted it’s head. As the red fox shifted its head to the visible sign of the House Silva emblem.

Back at the Silva palace Ace and Reagan walked down the corridor going pass all the Silva’s portraits that came before them, their luxurious silver hair was never out of sight, they had forgotten they were the first generation of Silva’s that all possess their own individual hair color, the pressure was definitely on for them. At the rate their generation is going the pressure might be able to kill them knowing that both Ace and Reagan have not manifested a magic attribute yet, always the word “yet” has to taunt Ace, other children his age are already performing and practicing magic.

“Grandmother......” Reagan said in awe

Hearing those words Ace tapped back into reality seeing that both him and Reagan approached the portrait of Acier Silva looking all beautiful, Ace could only bite his lip in shame, knowing that this was the woman he was named after, he wasn’t reaching the expectations of royals, he wasn’t out there with his cousins using magic neither doing his duty as the bridge between royals and peasants making a difference.

Why wasn’t he never good enough.....?!

Ace’s hands started to shake, noticing this Reagan took Ace’s closest hand to him and started to pet it attempting to give it warmth. Taking his hand out of Reagan’s grasp, Ace held them together forward and bowed deeply altogether with a sad face for a few minutes. Standing back up he turned to see the stern expression of what Reagan was making, squeezing his fists right near his face, quivering his lip and his eyes look like they were about to pop out of his head. Ace almost felt if he we’re to poke his cheek he would explode. Lifting up his hands in surrender, not knowing what he could do next. “R-Reagan d-do you need to go p-p-potty?” Reagan took back his composure, he stopped squeezing his fists, took them to hip level and made hand gestures to Ace ordering him to get onto his height level. Somehow Ace cleary understood what Reagan was communicating and did what he got told. Now kneeling right in front of Nozel’s second son, Ace was not prepared on what was going to happen.

Reagan slapped him.

Before Ace could recover from the first slap a mountain of slaps came flooding in.

Screaming Bloody Mary for a good 5 minutes. Reagan finally finished. Sitting on beaten up Ace’s stomach, huffing and huffing before speaking out to him one last time. “Now have you learnt your lesson?”

“A lesson?! How is this a lesson! You just continuely slapped me without say?!” That’s what Ace really wanted to say. Instead he just breathed out, saluted him and replied back. “You got it captain Reagan.”

Reagan nodded his head in approval. Getting off his stomach. Reagan starred at the glass door near by echoing the songs of spring. “Hurry along Ace! It’s time we go outside.” Pointing to the glass door leading to House Silva’s garden. Ace lifted up his head (still red slap marks kissing his face) scrunching his nose in confusion.

“But why?” Ace questioned. Replying to the question, Reagan had already walked over to the glass door and tried to grab onto the door handle.

“Oh.”

He had to open to door for Reagan. Forgetting that Reagan was shorter than the average six year old male and the door handles around the palace tend to be far higher.

While Reagan was running around the garden on a quest to find as many bugs as he could. Ace spent his time laying on the grass, face down and pretending he wasn’t listening to a kid on crack. Feeling the sudden pain of an object hitting his head, Ace lifted his head off the grass to search on what could of strike him. His eyes couldn’t pick up anything unusual, maybe it was just the pain of the slaps finally coming to fry his brain. Scanning one more time Ace finally saw what it was. An acorn? Sweeping the acorn off the ground Ace held the acorn in both his hands, lifting up his upper body to take a proper look, the acorn was just another ordinary acorn but what felt odd about it that squirrels don’t even take habit around the capital, usually their spotted in places like the woods.

The curiousity caused Ace to take a closer look around the garden to see if maybe Reagan had shifted from scouting bugs to acorns instead. Wasn’t the case at all. Instead of a kid on crack Ace had spotted a baby red fox using it’s amber eyes as a somewhat attempt of brainwashing him. This wasn’t the first time Ace had crossed paths with a red fox, you can spot them sometimes, never in packs but just a single red fox always startling Ace somehow.

A few blinks was traded among the two, soon enough Ace passed on a small smile and wave. The red fox maybe had mistaken the small gesture as a way to tell the fox come fourth. One paw in front of the other Ace did wonder where did the red fox came from. Maybe it was the adult foxes baby? But shouldn’t it stay close to its mother? Finally in arms length, Ace sat up cross legged and let out an open hand for the baby fox to get a closer sniff on his scent, it all went well until Reagan decided to run pass still continuing to scream. The scream had startled the baby fox causing it to hide behind Ace. Evoking Ace to crackle a chuckle he simply laid a hand on the foxes head, while he continued to chuckle with his other hand over his mouth. This brought back a memory of the times whenever he would get scared and hold onto his mother’s leg or hide behind her dress as hypocritical it sounds. Maybe this was the feeling Nebra got whenever Ace would do this

The baby red fox came back around with pleading sounds of joy that only worked Ace over more. Starting to come closer the baby fox began to lay its head on his lap for comfort. Not wanting to wake up the baby fox Ace sat there only focusing his eyes on the sleeping fox.

Regrettably that soothing peace didn’t last long. Reagan came up to Ace holding bugs that he dug up, together with dirt in between his fingers. This time the fox ran out of sight as soon as the oath approached. Ace pulled a face of disgust stirring his head away from the sight.

“Something the matter Ace?”

“Uh. Not really actually.” Ace held the barf in his cheeks.

“You look sick...wanna go see Mimosa?” Dropping his hands. Having the tone of a concerned mother.

Ace cocked his head the other way not wanting to see the sight of his hands again.

“No thank you! Really appreciate it but I think I’ll be fine.” Just when Reagan was going to say something else the scent of gasoline hit them like an arrow.

“Is that the smell of gaso-“ Ace didn’t even finished his scentence. The damage had already been done. The three tater tots had successfully blown up one of their families libraries and some areas outside the library. They can already imagine the headache in front of them.

“Oh come on you old meanie! Is hitting us THAT necessary?!!” Haskell yelped just after gotten a smack a head from one of Nozel’s Mercury stick thingos.

Haskell, Josslyn, Nereida plus Ace and Reagan was currently getting interrogated none other then the head of the family. Nozel Silva, for damaging their “beloved” library.

“Indubitably it is. I could punish you 5 far worse but by all means I’ll keep you alive for now.”

“Oooo you’re so intimidating Mr frostbite~ What are you going to do to that library? DIG IT A GRAVE?” Haskell was getting sharp with his words, he wasn’t the compulsive type though if you were to trigger that all you could do was pray and hope for the best.

That triggered Nozel. The air became thin and the room began to shake in an attempt to scare these children.

Unsuccessfully his plan didn’t work out at all. These children weren’t fazed in the slightest bit. Haskell stood there crossing his arms and tapping his foot, Nereida only stood there with no facial expression expressed and Josslyn could only stare at the ugly paperweight on Nozel’s desk. Meanwhile in Ace and Reagan case they couldn’t even detect mana at all, not to forget this rapid cold feeling wasn’t the first time they had felt it.

As soon as the room felt more lighter Haskell had a bucket of insults ready to missile at his father, however Nozel was able to summon a piece of mercury taped to his mouth to keep him shut.

“At this age of your lives. You three should know how to maintain your magic and keep it away from harms way.” Walking past all Silva’s like they were at military camp.

Nereida lifted up her hand to say something.

“I competely agree with you father, but if you will I need to comment that it was all Josslyn’s and Haskell’s fault. You see Haskell kept on mocking Josslyn and you get the idea that Josslyn is quite short tempted. To flourish her anger she activated one of steamed based spells to fill the area of gasoline so on and so forth.” Ace sometimes wondered how Nereida can stay efficient.

Josslyn rolled her eyes. Haskell was trying to shout profanities with the mercury still taped to his mouth. “Thank you Nereida. I do appreciate your truth. Momentarily I assure its all time you five gets some shut eye for tomorrow’s event.”

All of them except for Haskell saluted and 4 of them made their path outdoors in the meantime Reagan rushed to his fathers side. Ace whispered to Nereida covering his mouth “wait. I still don’t understand why Reagan and I were dragged into this.”

“Better not to question it.” Nereida replied keeping her hands behind her back. Ace slopped forward looking forward to the comfort of his pillow.

The baby red fox ran through weeds in the moonlight. Stopping at a rock placing both paws onto the rock. Then the impossible happened. A illuminating red glitter had taken shape over the fox. The red fox shifted into a baby red fox to an adult red fox. Gawking at the offical royal magic grimoire tower in front of it.

Tick-Tock

Tick-Tock

Tick-Tock

CLING

It was already mightnight. The grandfather clock had sure done its job waking up Ace. Reaching out towards his bed side table for his glass of water but this time as he picked up the glass and lifted it towards his lips no water dropped down.

“Dammit.” He had ran out of water. He had two options. Go downstairs to refill the glass or two swallow his own saliva. He went for the first option. Getting out of his comfortable position, Ace walked down stairs wearing a white shirt and grey sweatpants. Walking down silently, wary not to wake up his parents or sister. Refilling the glass cup he had caught something phenomenal.

The semita blue butterfly. A rare butterfly that glows, which can only be founded during darking hours. He wasn’t letting this chance slip through his fingers. Taking a big sip of the water he started to walk towards the butterfly. Unlike other butterflies that would fly away if they spot danger, many have stated that the semita blue butterfly dosen’t fear danger.

Following the butterfly through the double doors outside the sleeping quarters of the Ideale branch. Pass the portrait of his grandmother. Flying through the main kitchen. Cursory every corner. Making it to the outdoors where Ace never stopped chasing the butterfly. Even when approaching the royal grimoire tower he didn’t take his eyes off it. The butterfly was his goal.

But a slight problem occurred. Reaching the insides of the royal grimoire tower the butterfly started to fly up out of Ace’s reach. To describe the interior of the grimoire tower it was not like any other grimoire tower scattered all over the kingdom. There was windows near the top displaying crystal shaped windows, circling that part. Most fascinating there was floating book shelves carrying books.

Ace had no facnation checking the place out. All he wanted was to get one touch from the semita blue butterfly.

Reaching out his right hand trying to grasp the blue butterfly, his eyes went wider and wider.

He lost contact for a minute then somehow a miracle transpired.

A blue arrow shot out of his palm.

And not like an arrow you find in a bow and arrow. The symbol arrow.

The blue arrow came streaming out of his palm, the length continued to grow as it went up. The blue arrow punched one of the floating book shelves resulting in some books losing balance and to fall off the shelve, flying towards the ground. One of them happened to come flying down to Ace. Covering his head with his hands pleading that the book will somehow move. Taking one more good look at the book as it’s about to hit him. The book stopped. Floating in the air. Wait did he saw a thumb by the spine?!

Taking the book out of his sight Ace flexed his head towards the book direction uncovering a man twice his height, pale skin, black split hair on an angle and pericing red eyes.

“Nice to finally meet you. Ace”