#“how dare they have emotions and feelings and react accordingly” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

backjustforberena · 2 months ago

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Coming back to this to talk specifically about Rhaenys's reaction to Alyn (because stuff it, what else do I have to do in a lunch break?).

We've got the dichotomy of Corlys not wanting to talk about it and yet he's culpable and it's totally and utterly readable on his face, against Rhaenys who has the ultimate poker face and is sort of prodding to talk about it and does instigate that conversation. Which I love.

Also, dare I say, I don't think that Rhaenys is wanting to talk about it. I don't think she really does talk about it and she certainly takes the "out" when it comes because she can and it's not the time or place and all of that etc etc. It's just NOT a good time for anyone and there's probably such a maelstrom of emotions in her chest at this point in the conversation.

What we can infer is that she's known for YEARS about these kids and, just like Corlys, she's not addressed it. In all those years, she's not brought it up. It's just been there between them and we can't say or infer much more than that. This scene isn't her finding out about something and instantly being in a position to talk about it with utter candour. This is her feeling that they have to talk about it, now that Alyn is in such close proximity to their lives.

And she's not particularly candid when she does talk about it.

She's not explicit in what this issue is, at all. She doesn't say anything plainly. She just says "I know who he is" and that's it. Not: I know you're his father, I know you had an affair, I know there are two of them, I know all of this, how could you etc etc.

Is she forcing his hand, really, to get it all out on the table then and there? I don't know. I don't think so. I think she'd have taken what he would have given if he'd been more honest and open. I do think she'd have reciprocated because we know Rhaenys can pivot and react accordingly. But in this scene, she backs off. She's only going so far.

We've got this gorgeous quote from Eve Best:

"She never lets him know, really, to what extent she’s hurting because I think her heart is broken. That was so, so hard to hold that. I wanted to say to her, ‘Let him see how much pain you’re in! You don’t have to hold everything together. You don’t have to do all the work.’ This is a two-way thing. So I would say communication is key and allowing yourself to be vulnerable [are] my two pieces of advice."

And I always latch on to this because it shows that the communication issues between them are a two-way street. The core issue at hand is Corlys's fault OBVIOUSLY (he mucked up, he had the children, he had the affair or whatever you want to call it, that is all on him and not on Rhaenys whatsoever). But it's hard to resolve that issue not just because of his actions. Rhaenys is also having a reaction to it. She's also got all of her defences up. It's only through her pragmatic nature and the fact that she is also confronted with it... that she can then or that she has to then confront him about it.

And you look back at that dialogue between them and couple that with Rhaenys being absolutely intractable in terms of her body language and facial expressions - her being, if not unreadable, then untruthful - then it's clear what Eve's getting at. Rhaenys isn't being truthful in this scene or being as vulnerable as she would have to be to give Corlys a proper inkling as to her thoughts on that matter. She's not showing to what extent she's hurting. For completely understandable reasons, obviously. But it is still what it is.

I can imagine Corlys being bamboozled by Rhaenys in this. Not only can he not deal with it (i.e Addam and Alyn and his actions) or address it but he doesn't know how to address or even define his wife's reaction to it. You almost feel like he'd work better if he'd got what he expected (which is a shouting match). I don't think he knows where they stand, where he stands, what she is thinking.

And I don't think he knows or is prepared to do the work to get the answers to that because I don't think that she would, as well, give the answers easily. I think she'd push any effort of that away in order to maintain this facade and strength.

Of course, I say all of this, but Corlys should still darn well pick up what she's putting down. But she is being deliberately careful with her words. It's not her pulling him aside but HIM pulling her aside. She's not making this a thing, he is.

"I know who he is, Corlys. Alyn's past is no fault of his. He saved his lord’s life. He should be raised up and honored, not hidden beneath the tides."

You look at that quote and it's the bare minimum and it's completely, completely detached from the emotional stakes surrounding it. There's no emotion in those words other than what we get in the implication or the cadence of the delivery. And it's so heavy - "who he is", "Alyn's past", "his lord's life", "not hidden beneath the tides". There's so much there that ISN'T said by her.

She's not just treating Alyn in this pretty honourable way because it's a completely selfless move on her part. It does her some service as well. By treating Alyn in this way and approaching the issue in this way, which basically means treating him like he's anyone else or nobody special (i.e shameful), it's her forcing herself not to react. It's her trying to put forward this act and this shield that says she isn't bothered by it. And she so is. She's ridiculously bothered by it! As she should be!

Things that make me think during the 2x4 scene with Rhaenys, Alyn, Corlys:

Firstly, just a note, I love how she is at the dry dock. We know she's fairly comfortable there (she was there only last week and she's lived on Driftmark for decades) but it's just great to actually see her amongst the people she rules and serves, and see them bow in deference to her as their lady. Even that lack of acknowledgement of it is quite nice to see as she's just used to it, unbothered by it and not considerate of it, which suggests confidence and power.

Also HECK YEAH for Velaryon theme and using it for Rhaenys.

Curious as to what others think: do we think she goes to the dock to meet Alyn? My gut says no - she's there to see Corlys and the relevant information is to say that Baela's called her back. But there is something there. Plus, she's had all these years to seek him out and never has. I think she has a good idea of who she's going to meet, or is aware of the possibility, even if her purpose isn't to meet him, from the information she got from the captains.

And then she gets to the boat and he's right there. And he looks so much like Corlys, it's ridiculous and I think that puts her guard up. I think it's absolutely her guard talking when she makes him address her as Princess. It's putting a barrier, it's hiding in formality, it's taking strength from rank. There's a lovely little pause in between "and you are" and "Alyn".

But then she looks at him and there is a curiosity and a compassion, I think. This is the closest thing she's got to a clue or to any information at all other than the bare bones of it because she hasn't gone searching. Something that registered to me, instantly, is how Alyn is very, very unwilling to be there. He can't even look her in the eye.

AND THEN SHE PUTS HER HAND TO HIS FACE. And it's aching. It's so... gentle, and so light and it stretches out as he all but flinches but she's barely touching him. It's also not a caress, or strictly something for a loved one or a child: we've seen her do that and it's a closed palm to a cheek. There's a... I don't know, a clinical nature to it? As if she might turn his head to the side to get a better look: "But I was not told his saviour was so comely."

"YOUR MOTHER MUST'VE BEEN VERY BEAUTIFUL" - oooh that's such a good line delivered with so much feeling. It's the only real insight we get into Rhaenys's opinion or view of the affair at all. To me, and I am aware there are varies interpretations but this is what it means for me, it is Rhaenys saying: Only an extraordinary woman could have been enough. It's not a comment on Alyn's looks at all, because he looks like his father. It's about what this woman MUST have been like for Corlys to stray in the way that he did. And the idea that this woman must have been so beautiful and so wonderful is both a testament to the love Rhaenys and Corlys share (because it's not broken by something trifling or common or ordinary or mundane and it's not in Corlys's character to have done this) but also a testament to Rhaenys's pain. Because there MUST be this beautiful woman who was somehow greater than her and special and special enough to have taken a little piece of Corlys's heart (as she assumes).

And, I do just want to point out, that Corlys's affair isn't a reveal in this scene. This scene is not a discovery of his infidelity. Rhaenys has known for years. The hurt that she's feeling is not from the shock or the first reaction to finding out her husband has had an affair that has produced a son (two of them). It is the pain of an old wound, and the feelings dredged up by confronting the reality before her and the events before her.

This shot ^^^^. This. Look at it. Look at how that's set up. That's so interesting to me. I don't know what it is. Corlys being up there on the high ground, being like some sort of looming presence (because, of course, he is what connects these two characters) - but positioning him so that it looks like Rhaenys is the transgressor. Which, in a way, she possibly is, by confronting this issue and stepping over a line which is what this secret sort of has been for both of them. It's destabilising, for Rhaenys to suddenly be a part of that dynamic of Corlys and Alyn, or for Alyn to be a part of that dynamic of Corlys and Rhaenys as well. It's the worlds meeting and it's through her actions.

But also, the flip side of Corlys being some sort of "judgement", there's also the powerlessness. He cannot stop what is happening, only watch. Only interrupt, at most. Genie out of the bottle. Worst fears realised. You're absolutely scuppered, mate.

And then the sort of thud putting the arm down. The brief look of displeasure on her face. What might she have said or done, had Corlys not interrupted? We'll never know. But she sees something else - how Alyn reacts to the sound of his father's voice. The sheer lack of a relationship there, as he's dismissed. Her attention is on Alyn, throughout. Not on Corlys.

So Alyn goes and Corlys stands there like a man about to be judged. When she begins, and he gets, what I think he sees as confirmation that they are going to actually discuss Alyn, he moves her away from the ship and his men. He's prepping to defend himself, prematurely. And she's studying him even as she consents to being moved. Her eyes don't go from his face.

Hand on waist. Hand on waist. Hand on waist.

"You did not think to mention it?" Corlys, buddy, that is a prod (anger/pain) but that is also an opening (compassion/love). It's an invitation. One he rejects. But she's not a fool. So, she tells him plainly, she WHISPERS it: "I know who he is, Corlys."

The next bit is ripping Rhaenys's guts out. Know how I know? I know because Rhaenys, for the first time, isn't meeting Corlys's eyes. Not that she can, he's ducked away out of shame. But she's lowered her own gaze because she's retreated. Burying the personal for the pragmatic. Sacrificing the emotional for the formal and for the "right thing". Rhaenys is not okay with this. Rhaenys is forcing herself to do this. And there's the gorgeous fragility to her voice as she's saying about raising him up and saving his lord's (aka HIS FATHER'S) life.

Corlys strikes out like prey: attack first, then you have the advantage because he expects her to lash out, to be angry, to be using this against him in some way. It's very typical of Corlys (he does it the same when discussing the boys in 1x07). And she just looks so disappointed in him and hurt by him and, also, I think, a little hurt for him. Because she loves him. And he's not right.

I'm also always thinking about how Rhaenys manages to keep her own power in a moment or a scene and she absolutely manages to keep the power in this conversation, despite being "caught out", despite Corlys's accusations, despite also being hit with this symbol of past hurt and being the injured party in all of this. She keeps her own power by keeping her cool and denying Corlys the reaction that he expects. She's denying him the fight that he wants and the surrender he wants it to end with. He has no power in this conversation. She does, even if there's no winning to it.

But, ultimately, heartbreakingly, she knows she's not having the discussion. They're not going to talk about it or air it out. She's not going to get what she needs in that moment. So, she takes control again. And she physically moves and angles her body away from him. Rhaenys doesn't look at him again, all while she tells him of Baela and Dragonstone. Not until she says: "I suspect to try and draw us all back from the abyss" which is just sooo revealing of her headspace and all that she's holding and it takes Corlys by surprise.

Eve has said that Rhaenys's vulnerability surrounding Corlys feels very much like an earthquake for her. Literally not having the safety of the earth to rely on. I think that's highlighted here at the end because she doesn't have the support of her husband. He becomes "other" to her, no more than the men at the council. He questions her actions, questions Rhaenyra and doesn't understand what she's dealing with or what she's fearing and she doesn't have the time to explain it, admonish him or ask him for his help (luckily he does rectify this by showing up for her later in the episode, but it's a sad note to end the scene on).

#rambling for no one but myself

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embrassemoi · 3 years ago

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Surrounded by the Moon and Stars ✷ 29

Pairings: Sirius B, F!Reader, Remus L Warnings: Language, angst, insecurities, blood, darkish thoughts (self-hatred), fighting, violence Author's Note: heavy chap. if you’re having a bad day, take a moment, be kind to yourself and put off reading this until you feel better 💜

【 Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Playlist 】

Chapter 29: That Pet You Just Couldn't Keep

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Remus woke up to a bright, white light. He squinted, head lolling to the side of his lumpy pillow. The chair near his bedside was empty, saved from a pitcher of water along with a few potions Madam Pomfrey must’ve left for him, were placed on the stand beside his bed.

Something wasn’t right. Peter or one of the other Marauders were always there waiting for him after his transformations.

Too hot for a blanket in June, he ripped off his covers and noticed the bumpy, large material hiding beneath his nightgown. He licked his lips, letting air whistle down his dry throat while a sharp, burning sensation flooded his abdomen. Remus winched, groaning out while stretching to drink the potions and water. Although, as he brought the glass vials to his lips, he noticed that his arm was littered with scratches and bruises. Curious, he lifted the slit of the gown to see a large wrapping across his lower stomach and bruises in the shape of lopsided circles and rectangles travelling across his body.

Remus felt his face scrunch. Ever since the Marauders had become animaguses, he hardly sustained any injuries aside from the occasional limp or flimsy scratch. There was usually an absence of pain nowadays, not an overload of it.

What caught his attention was the scent of human blood. His senses were always heightened the week leading up to the full moon and the week following, so it was particularly strong. It caused his head to spin like planets performing a celestial dance.

Preoccupied with the scent, Remus didn’t notice someone slipping into the room.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” A fuzzy Peter came into view. He went to sit on the edge of his bed sporting a nervous look.

“Was wondering where you were.” Remus relaxed at his appearance.

“Yeah… Erm — been busy.”

Soon enough, another sharp pain stabbed at his abdomen again. “Fuck — what happened last night?”

Wormtail sucked in sharply as he wiggled in his seat uncomfortably. “I… something terrible happened. Bollocks, Moons — I’m sorry...”

Remus felt his spine prickle with needles. “What?”

“We should wait until Dumbledore or James comes back.”

“Dumbledore?!”

Ghostly pale, Peter was on the verge of fainting. Remus took another deep inhale. This time, he smelt blood, but it was coming off of Peter and a few other foreign scents lingered on him. Was that… Y/N? And… Snape? Remus scanned Peter, noticing the droplet of red on his shoes.

“Pete,” his voice dropped to an icy whisper, “Whose blood is that?”

He remained quiet.

Remus moved to prop himself up on the bed. “What happened?”

As Peter spoke, every word made Remus recline into himself and he was left unsure of how to feel. The overload of information put him into a state of complete shock. His vision faded in and out, suddenly feeling very cold and dizzy compared to the hot weather.

He distantly heard Peter trying to gain his attention but stared blankly at the metal bed frame.

“Say something,” his friend tried, sounding desperate. He didn’t even know how long he’d been quiet for.

Remus worked through the betrayal in nine steps. It helped make sense of his emotions. To categorize them — making it easier to file away.

1. Shock & denial

“No,�� he said, barely moving a muscle in his face. “That's impossible! Padfoot would never…”

Peter watched him pitifully. Remus’ eyes blinked rapidly, heart pounding. “I’m sorry.”

2. Process what happened (or try to)

“He… told… Snape?” He asked despite Peter repeating the story multiple times.

“Sirius was mad at Sniv — Snape, and he was provoked by —”

“I didn’t hurt him, did I? I didn’t hurt anyone?”

“He’s fine.”

“Then why won’t you tell me what happened to me? Why was I bleeding?”

He refused to look him in the eyes and Remus felt terror ebb it's way through his skin. “Answer me!”

“As I said, L/N and Snape got into a row… she heard Sirius tell him and she went to save him…”

“Don’t you dare lie to me.”

Wormtail took a deep breath. “You… nicked her a bit and James’ antler broke off in you because… he was trying to get you off of her…”

Remus was rooted in place. What Peter just said was unreal. His stomach twisted painfully. He blinked. “Y/N’s hurt? I hurt her?”

“Yes — no! That was Snape —” “Is she here? Did I bite her?”

“You didn’t and yeah but —” “Move out of my way.” He pushed himself up wobbly.

“You lot a lot of blood, sit —”

“Get out of my way!” He threatened. Remus pushed Peter to the side, clambered to his feet. Remus gripped the bed tightly and felt a few seams rip open and blood began to faintly seep through his white bandages.

He staggered around, ripping back the curtains until he saw Y/N. Limping up to her bed, Remus almost burst into tears when he saw her. She looked so tiny, curled up and engulfed in blankets and pillows. Her ankle was propped up, head bandage and skin dull.

It felt like Peter had poured a bucket of freezing cold water on him.

He hurt her. Almost got her and Snape killed or infected. Could have hurt Prongs and Wormtail…

He was a fucking monster.

He should be put down.

From how loud he was, running around the wing, Y/N’s eyes fluttered open. She attempted to stretch, groaning out in pain. But then, her eyes flickered up to him and she froze. Her hand shot up protectively to her chest and face as instinctively went for her wand but stopped. Genuine fear flashed through her, making Remus instantly want to cry. It felt like an eternity passed as she gripped her sheets and opened her mouth.

She was going to scream — to take him away — call him a monster — to cry or yell for Madam Pomfrey or —

But Y/N’s body relaxed. A tried smile twisted and gaze dissipated with fear, replaced with nothing but understanding and softness; she even went as far to touch his hand but Remus wrenched it back.

“Ta-da!” She croaked. “I lived.”

Remus didn’t smile, only staring horrified.

“Yeah, that was a hit or miss...” Peter interjected. He stood behind him, ensuring that if he fell, he’d be there to catch Remus. He continued to stare like she grew another set of eyes.

“What?” Her grin deflated. “Am I that irresistible?”

That pulled a breathy laugh from Remus as he shook his head. Why wasn’t she disgusted with him?

“Thank Merlin, you’re both awake.” All their heads turned to James’s floating head before he pulled off the invisibility cloak.

James moved to pull Remus into a large hug, whispering an ‘I’m sorry’ into his ear. He held him for a while before breaking off, going to embrace Y/N who wheezed.

“Ouch.”

“My bad, my bad!” He pulled back and slipped into bed with her. Peter forced Remus to sit on the edge of her bed while he stood.

A million thoughts ran through his head. He wanted to get away, to run — not even be in the same room as her. Remus wanted to think, to make any sense of what happened.

What the fuck happened? He couldn’t even process it.

She remembered everything, right? Surely she wouldn’t be this calm had she.

“Oh, wait — Lupin, are you alright? I swear a deer came at you last night.”

James chuckled out loud, breaking Remus out of his thoughts as he looked at him and Peter. “I guess there’s no point for secrets anymore.”

Y/N looked at them questioningly, her eyes squinting from the bright light before Peter went to close the blinds shut. James got off the bed, smiling widely at Remus and Peter got onto the bed instead.

“Ugh — Pete? James? What —”

A loud gasp ripped from her mouth as she jerked away from James who turned into a very large stag and Peter into a fat brown rat.

Remus could almost cry at how comical her face looked.

James was so large that he had to take a few steps back to prevent his antlers from poking one of their eyes out and Remus noticed that one was gone.

He felt sick again. A hand drifted to his stomach.

“Holy shit! Oh my god!” Y/N went to graze a finger on Peter’s fur before turning to James with shaky hands to touch one of his antlers and patting him on the head. She was speechless as her mouth open several times before forcing out, “You're really Bambi!”

James turned back, taking his glasses off to clean. “I wanted to be a lion — for Gryffindor, y’know.”

“You can’t choose, I wouldn’t be a rat.” Peter grimaced.

“They’re highly intelligent. Nothing to worry about.” James reassured and ruffled his hair.

“When did you guys learn to do this?”

“We’ve been at it for three years now. We finally were able to do it in August before school started.”

She shook her head, staring in awe.

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Dumbledore came to speak to everyone later that day.

Remus had been dreading it once he came into the wing and began speaking to Y/N, a buzzing sound filling his ear. All Remus was left to do was twiddle his thumbs, waiting and completely disoriented.

When he finally approached him, Dumbledore lost his usual twinkle in his eyes. He made sure to close the long vertical blinds and again, the room filled with a low buzzing sound.

“How are you doing?” He asked. Remus, had he been in the right mindset, would have prevented the scoff escaping him. Dumbledore didn’t react but continued. “Miss L/N is recovering well and Mr. Snape didn’t receive any injuries. Just a fright.”

Remus nodded, that was good, but he remained quiet.

“Snape’s been persuaded to act accordingly for the best interest of his fellow pupils and L/N gave her word.”

Remus choked back a laugh. Snape was going to, no matter what, let his secret slip somehow.

“You’re also exempt from the Transfiguration exams, both you and Miss L/N. You’ve both sustained a degree of varying head injuries and you’ll be graded on a cumulative from McGonagall.”

Dumbledore was forcing Remus to the edge as he bit down on his inner cheek. It was useless to listen to him. “Are you expelling me?”

“No. You should not bear any blame.”

“Dumbledore, no offence, but are you mental?” Remus sputtered adding, “I endangered four students last night.”

“Yes but —” “The next time we won’t be so lucky. I’m a monster, sir. I should be.”

The headmaster sighed. “Remus, give yourself a bit of credit. Think highly of yourself.”

Remus gave a dry laugh, almost baffled at how Dumbledore was acting. Did he just gloss over the fact he could have gotten students infected? He wouldn’t be able to live with himself had he. “How can I?”

“Well Y/N seemed to think very highly of you. She made you a very compelling case along with your friends, Potter, Pettigrew and Black.”

“Black’s not my friend,” Remus countered. He didn’t care about how rude he was being.

“Remus —”

“Is he expelled?”

“No.” The answer had Remus wheeling, anger spiking. “He’s not.”

“Why not? If it isn’t my fault, that I’m not to blame then why isn’t he? He told them how to find me.”

“I understand that this is a very difficult situation and rest assured, Sirius will be punished. I can promise you. But expulsion isn’t the answer.”

Remus refused to look at Dumbledore and he must've realized he was getting nowhere with him. He stood but before leaving, he gave a pitiful look.

“I have done terrible deeds, indulged in foolish pranks that I have lived to regret, but each has been a valuable learning experience. It’s a pity that it came to this. Learn in your heart to forgive, Remus. The world is already filled with too much hate.”

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June 16th, 1976

3. Sadness & pain

Remus had been avoiding the Marauder’s dorm. He’d gone as far as begging Madam Pomfrey (who’d taken pity because she knew what happened) to let him stay another two nights before getting kicked out. Remus always healed physically faster and his wounds were already healed by the third day. Pathetically, he’d been sleeping in dingy passageways or the prefects’ bathroom before relocating after being harassed by the ghosts.

Remus had a plan, avoid them; skip classes, get longer prefect duties, never staying in one spot for too long. He wouldn’t know what would happen if Snape saw him. Although, whatever Dumbledore told him, it kept Snape quite so far. But tonight, he got tired of Moaning Myrtle sobbing.

Before curfew, Remus made it a habit of visiting Y/N, who was still stuck in the wing; both out of guilt and because she was his friend, but he couldn't stay for long — seeing her like that made him wallow in guilt.

Similar to him, Lily had visited, along with the other girls, every day. Today, Lily stayed a little longer, bleeding into the time Remus usually dropped by. He watched as Lily whisper into her ear, causing Y/N to laugh and Lily blush madly as she sat snug by her side. Not wanting to ruin their moment, Remus went to leave before they had the chance to see him.

Remus had another pressing matter anyway.

He entered one of the nearest bathrooms to give himself some sort of pep talk and stared at the mirror.

You can do this. A voice echoed in his head.

Typically, memories from the full moon came back to Remus a few days or even weeks later, his brain usually too foggy a couple of hours after and even then, he would never fully remember everything. He vaguely remembered seeing a flash of Snape’s face and Prongs but Y/N’s screams were one of the clearer memories from that night.

“REMUS! PLEASE REMUS! STOP!”

Remus looked to stare at himself in the mirror. He observed the scar on the bridge of his nose, feeling bile rush up his throat at the sight.

He was a freak, littered with scars covering himself.

He was disgusting.

Ugly.

Pathetic.

Dangerous.

A monster!

4. Anger

Sirius Black had always been loyal, so what changed that night?

He needed to leave. It was no good staying here anymore.

Remus was shaking with rage, twinged with hurt. He paced outside of the common room door and had a few options running through him. Either start a huge fight with Sirius or just… ignore it.

Avoidance.

Maybe he could ignore Sirius forever? Impossible, surely. Sirius would get bored, anxious within a couple of weeks — that was too generous — a few days sounded right.

With his mind made up, Remus crept up to his room. He could hear the faint shouts of James and pondered about just sleeping in the common room or prefects’ bathroom. Even if he did have to listen to Moaning Myrtle.

Maybe because his senses were still coming down from its peak or James was just brash, but Remus didn’t even have to press his ear on the door.

“— done ENOUGH! — hear me? You better — why are YOU crying? You bloody — understand? Understand?! You will not talk — him — best friends my —”

The only person he's told he was coming back was Wormtail and it sounded like he told Prongs.

Remus didn’t care to listen anymore as he pushed open the door. Pete was sitting on his bed, eyes wide at Remus’ presence surrounded by unwrapped wrappers. He always tended to eat while stressed.

Sirius was looking down at the floor as James stood in front of him, scolding him like a child. But, his head shot up once he walked through the door. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see his eyes bloodshot, puffy and circles dark. He didn’t dare look at him.

Remus didn’t acknowledge them, instead moving robotically to the bathroom, changing into his holey yet comfortable clothes before scurrying off to bed, swinging his curtains shut before casting a silencing spell around.

He’d plan to adhere to his avoidance strategy. It worked so far.

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June 18th, 1976 | 1:29 am

“Psst… Moony.”

Remus turned over to face him. “What do you want Peter?”

“Just wanted to check up. You okay?”

“What do you think? Please, leave me alone.” And then closed his bed drapes.

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June 19th, 1976 | 11:37 pm

Peter had crept up to his bed again as Remus laid there awake, thoughts swarming him.

“I’m not in the mood. I’m tired.” He moved to turn over and forced his eyes closed.

Peter had been nothing but amazing. Always thinking about him and his needs but what Remus wanted most was to be alone and Peter's pity and worried features did nothing but make Remus feel like shit.

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June 21st, 1976

In life, there are few things that are certain. Getting older, death, taxes… No matter how hard we try, no matter how good our morals are or our intentions, we all will eventually make mistakes. It’s either as small as burning your food or writing the wrong answer down on a test, but you’re also going to fuck up pretty bad and hurt people. Say something — do something you don’t mean and it’ll end up with both sides hurt. If you want forgiveness, there’s multiple solutions to gain that back, but the two words — obvious, there, waving in front of your face — can be the hardest words to say.

“I’m sorry.” Black muttered for the hundredth time that night. His voice was pushing Remus to the edge as he kept his face straight. Dead. Not once taking Sirius’ shitty apology baits. He continued to stare down at his book, reading silently in his dorm. His teeth hurt from how hard he was clenching his jaw.

Remus was right, of course, he was fucking right. Black had grown anxious as he ignored him.

“I’m sorry.”

Remus never really considered himself violent. Sure, he’s gotten into rows that ended with a punch or hex here or there, but Remus didn’t have violent thoughts. If anything, he prided himself on not being a bonehead like Black and Prongs. But, it took every ounce not to beat the shit out of Black right there and then.

Bastard. Scumbag. You mother fucking betrayer.

Remus never liked not being in control. Not having it scared him too much, feeling more animal than man. He did everything to avoid being violent, the wolf was already violent enough and had too much control and Remus refused to let it dictate human him. There was already too much violence, he never wanted to contribute more.

He did everything not to be a monster. But it's like the wolf roared from deep within, scratching and begging to let him pounce.

Remus wasn’t violent — anyone who met him would vouch for that. Fuck, if he saw a spider, he would open a nearby window and release it. But now, he wanted to slam Sirius against a wall and wrap his hands around his neck and squeeze.

You piece of shit. Wanker. Twat. I want you to feel as much pain as I do.

“Moony, please let me explain —”

All the words suddenly blurred before Remus slammed his book shut, causing to become still and quiet.

Sirius trying to explain — excuse his actions — pushed him over the edge. Remus sent a venomous glare at Sirius, waiting for him to talk. His quietness made everyone uneasy.

Selfish bastard.

Any sympathy Remus held for him this past year, along with any logic, evaporated to the point where he felt a rabid thump spread through him. There was a desperation to relieve himself of it — lash out, scream, cry —

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,” the rest of the Marauders watched the scene, knowing not to get involved. “It was a mistake and —“

“A mistake?”

Sirius perked up at this. That was the only word he’d spoken to him since the incident. “Honest. I did it because —” “Shut the fuck up.” Remus stood, tall and loomed over Sirius. He could almost smell the fear off him.

He had never been so mad before.

“I — I… I,” stutters Remus. But instead of it being out of shyness or nerves, it was out of pure wrath that he wasn’t able to articulate his emotions properly. He took a deep breath in, attempting to regain control over his emotions but failed as he burned with deep, seething hatred. “I am the monster that mothers tell their children to keep them in at night.”

“Moony —”

“Don’t call me that!” His voice boomed so loud that everyone in the room had to take a step back and shrink down. Remus was always so reserved, only ever lashing out in annoyance close to the full moon but nothing more.

“Living up to your name, aren’t you?” There’s a sarcastic, bitter humour lilt to his voice.

Someone so in control of his emotions, someone with an unbreakable exterior, the only glimpses they’d ever seen of Remus losing control was him snapping at someone close to the full moon but would later apologize within mere seconds. But to see him like that… it was an intrusion, something the Marauders hadn’t ever seen or wanted to before.

“Please, just calm down so we can talk.”

Remus paces around the room. “You — y’know I’ve never understood why everyone lets you get around treating others like shit. First, it was Marlene, James, me, Peter, Lily and Y/N — we all let you get away with it. Outburst after outburst, we all sat back because you were going through shit. But I can’t? I’m not allowed to get angry?!”

Sirius wouldn’t look at him.

“Look at me.” Remus kept his voice low throughout the ordeal, only ever raising if Black interjected. “You coward, look at me!”

5. A lot of anger

He couldn’t meet his eyes so he settled to stare at the scar across his nose. It only angered him more as Remus picked Sirius up and pushed him against the wall as he fisted his shirt.

“I’m sorry.”

Sorry is nothing but a word to you. I gave you my most trusted secrets. I confided in you. I was there for you when you needed it. I loved and cared for you like my own brother but I was nothing more than a pet that you discarded when you got bored. You’re only guilty because of the repercussions you’re facing. Your guilt isn’t nearly enough. Bastard. I trusted you. You’re a Marauder. My best friend. I would’ve done anything for you. You fucking ruined it.

“You did this! You did!”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He laughs, mocking and loud, void of any emotion. “No, you aren’t. You’re never fucking sorry!”

Stupid fucking selfish arsehole.

“For years you’ve told me that you accepted me — cared for me — loved me like your own brother! That what I am — a-a monster — that it didn’t matter!”

“It didn’t mean anything, I promise! It was a shitty, fucked up prank —”

“A prank?! You used me as a weapon! A toy because how could anyone ever love a werewolf?” Remus’ voice was so low. “You’ve never respected me. If you had any, you wouldn’t have — you - wouldn’t....”

Everything came crashing on Remus at once.

6. The realization settles in

And after nine days, Remus Lupin had finally realized what Sirius Black had done. Before, everything he felt had been true but he hadn’t fully realized the gravity of what happened, as silly as it sounds.

Sirius turned his worst fear into a living nightmare.

In the background, one of James’ Quidditch posters, encased in glass exploded, shattering into millions of pieces from the amount of pure magic radiating off Remus. He didn’t even flinch at the sound.

James finally interjected, placing a hand on Remus’ shoulder. “Lay off him… He isn’t worth it.”

Remus eased off Black instantly. “You had no right… no right…” He pointed. Remus turned his face down as he felt tears build up.

“I trusted you,” he whispers. “Every bit.”

Remus stormed out of the dorm, going to sleep in the common room.

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June 22nd, 1976

7. Depression

When Remus finally let himself cry, he didn’t make a move to leave his bed. Even skipping meal times, leaving James or Pete to bring him food.

Everything felt suffocating, a gnawing feeling that made every part of him ache. Remus couldn’t handle anymore pain or emotions from ‘the prank’ as he felt himself slip into a temporary void.

He hugged his pillow tighter and closed his eyes once more.

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June 23rd, 1976 | 11: 37 pm

Remus had gone straight to bed again, effectively shutting up the rest of the dorm. James was ignoring Black, leaving Remus surprised that he hadn’t made a move to defend his actions. Nonetheless, he was appreciative still. Peter had been trying to appease everyone, not taking sides but still must’ve thought Sirius was in the wrong because he hadn’t talked to him much.

He didn’t ask James to choose between him or Black. Remus was never one for ultimatums but even then, it seemed like James picked him. He was beyond furious, seemingly more than Remus at this point who pathetically wallowed in his depression. He wouldn’t spare Black a second glance, wouldn’t talk to him, shut him down if he tried to speak to him. Hell, he’d even gone as far as to make it very clear to the entirety of Hogwarts that they were no longer friends, making sure to not sit with him, ever. Always choosing to sit by Remus.

They chose his side and a part of Remus felt elated to know they had his back.

This left Black alone, looking at them through tearful gazes. Remus had been ignoring all of them and they seemed to be understanding, avoiding crossing the wordless boundary Remus set in stone.

But, both James and Peter had been checking up on him nightly, always there and he could tell they were getting impatient.

When the lights went out, he heard James crept out of bed. Usually, Remus would find some sort of comfort in knowing who was approaching him, but now, it only left him feeling uneasy.

And then he felt the bed dip and James muttered out a spell.

“Hey, Moony.”

Remus didn’t face him. “Prongs?”

“Hey,” there was a loud sigh, “Do you need anything?”

What was he supposed to say? A hug? To talk? He’d much rather use his avoidance strategy, although he realized it left him alone with too many thoughts and nobody to confide in.

“M’good.” He felt James place a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll always be there for you. That’s what Marau - that’s what friends are for, no?”

Remus didn’t answer and felt James move to leave. But before he had the chance to slip out, Remus peeked his head from the drapes, announcing just loud enough for Sirius to hear.

“Thanks for saving all of us, James. You’re a true friend.”

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June 24th, 1976

People had their poisons.

Alcohol can make you forget. It blocks out everything and makes the rest of the world fade away until you can’t remember. People gambled to feel a rush, only to realize they dug themself into irreversible debt. Shopping, food, the high from risky behaviour…

But how we manage our poisons is up to the person.

People love to deny that they have addictions. They deny they’re hooked, they deny that they can’t put it down, they deny that they’re scared or want to stop. People only see what they want to see, believe what they want to believe.

And then the truth becomes muddled with lies that it’s hard to recognize the poisons sitting right in front of us. And all we want is more.

For Remus, his poison, his bright red self-destruction button, was smoking.

Granted, he never was a big smoker, typically only smoking when stressed or bored. But he still did it, filling his lungs with poison. But maybe he was wired like that. Besides, what werewolf lives past thirty? Might as well die revelling in the poison that brought him ease…

Remus conjured a ball of bright fire from his hand; fishing out a pack of cigarettes, slipped it past his lips and lit it. He inhaled, feeling the familiar, comforting feeling before dragging it from his lips, blowing out the thick cloud of smoke that left him wanting more.

He’d been sticking to his avoidance tactic strictly now. The Marauders were hovering over him, worry evident on their faces. A few times, Lily and James both invited him to sit. They never fought anymore, or at least in front of him, and it probably was his doing — a group effort into getting him to talk.

So even Lily knew something was wrong… Snape probably told her…

The door clicked open and Remus didn’t have to turn around to know how it was.

“Leave me alone. I’m not ready to talk.”

“Wasn’t gonna make you.”

He spun around, that wasn’t James or Peter. His face softened.

“Well… I’m not,” Y/N said simply, “But the others are about to.”

Remus groaned at that but Y/N smiled and turned around, ushering him over with a little wave. In one hand, she raised the Marauder’s map. “C’mon, I know a place and that they won’t be able to find.”

Remus was intrigued. He stepped out the butt of the cigarette, flicked it into the trash and followed her. Surely he’d already been there but being with Y/N seemed ten folds better than being around the other Marauders.

He followed wordlessly, passageways flying through his head but she never stopped by them. Instead, she climbed onto a ledge, slipping into an area under a large curtain. He followed, eyes lighting up in awe. He’s definitely never been there before.

“Get comfortable,” she said, flinging him a pillow and lighting a few candles.

They sat opposed to each other in complete silence. Y/N flicked back and forth, watching James and Peter scrabble around the castle looking for him. A few times, they passed by, each time leaving Y/N amused.

Remus tapped his leg anxiously. The question remained: Why wasn’t she disgusted with him? Why was she helping him? Why wasn’t she afraid?

Now alone together, those questions dangled on his tongue.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

She looked up at him, finally putting down the map. “Because you’re Remus.” She said, like it was the most obvious answer. “You’re not scary.”

8. Hold onto doubt

The answer irritated him. Another memory unfolded then and he blurted it out. “Why didn’t you cast any spells at me?”

Her brows rose, “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m dangerous.” His voice was bleak and cold. “Why can't you grasp that?”

She stays quiet for a long time, her head turning to look out the large window. Y/N watched the owls and labyrinth of ancient trees of the forbidden forest and Remus was painfully aware of time slipping by.

“Do you remember that night on the astronomy tower on Halloween? I said that there’s bound to be someone looking at the moon at the same time?”

It takes Remus a moment to remember, but he does. “Yeah. You said that it’s like you’re not alone.”

Y/N turns around to face him. “Exactly. You don’t have to be alone in this.”

He looked away, deliberating. “It’s one thing for me to be alone but then drag you and others down with me.”

“Remus, I’m not going to lie and say I wasn’t scared. I was terrified. I thought that was it.” He gulped. “But I could never be scared of you. The real you - the you right now. I don’t care about what you are. You are more than just a werewolf. I feel safe with you.”

The dark shadows surrounded them as she reiterated herself. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”

He soaks in her words for a while. This time, peering out the window as he breathes in deeply.

Okay. He decided.

“Do you want to know how I got —” he pointed at a scar on his upper forearm. “— this?”

She nodded her head.

“When James turned into his animagus form to show me for the first time, his antlers pierced my skin. I had to lie to Pomfrey and say I fell while playing Quidditch.”

Any invisible barrier between them crashed instantly as she smiled brightly and laughed. So infectious, Remus couldn't help but flash a real grin.

He never realized how beautiful her smile was.

“Oh, and if you ever tell anyone about this place, I’ll skin you.”

“I would never.”

Remus scouted over to her, pressing his back against the cool stone as they sat together in a comfortable stillness. But then she shifted, opening her arms wide. He lent in without hesitation and her arms flung around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace.

He felt salty tears stinging in the corners of his eyes and let himself soak in her warm.

He really needed that.

Over her shoulder, he returned to watch the stars.

9. Acceptance

Remus learned from a young age that it was better to keep people at an arm's length. Get too close, they’ll dig, find out his condition, fear him and run.

He hates to say it, but he’s not surprised that his secret slipped out. He got too comfortable, got too close... It’s just that the Sirius component was surprising.

But maybe it wasn’t surprising. Ever since the beginning of the year, especially since winter break, Sirius had been reckless more and more lately, and he probably should have seen it coming. He was wild as a result of being freed from the confines of his rigid upbringing.

Sirius Black was unpredictable.

Sirius Black was dangerous when it came to secrets.

Sirius Black was one of his best friends.

Sometimes betrayal is so profound that there’s no way to fix what was lost. The damage is done, irreplaceable, unfixable.

If Remus was sure of anything by the end of that week was that,

a) James Potter and Peter Pettigrew were still his best friends,

b) He almost killed Severus Snape and Y/N L/N,

c) Y/N knew his secret and despite everything, continued to talk to him, support him, be there for him — she accepted him,

d) His walls went up a higher, became stronger and insecurities ran deeper,

e) Lastly, Remus Lupin would never, ever forgive Sirius Black for what he did. Never.

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【 Next Chapter 】

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furiousgoldfish · 5 years ago

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Complex trauma from abuse can cause chronic exhaustion, and chronic pain. This means the recovery, aside from being filled with guilt, shame and rage, will include long time spent in bed, feeling to exhausted and pained to move, or do anything.

This is happening because trauma is hard on the human body, and your body will spend all energy just trying to fight it, or repress it, or process it. The emotional pain of trauma being processed is enough to cause physical pain, chest pain, pain in all of your joints, headaches; your body will be so tense you can end up in chronic back pain and muscle pain just from all the tension and inability to relax. Your mind will be re-living the past and your body will react accordingly, getting terrified, shocked, tense, and finally showing all the damage you couldn’t feel when the abuse was happening. Even if you felt nothing while it was happening, there was no way to avoid this, your body can’t keep the trauma hidden inside of you forever.

One thing common for recovering victims is to feel intense shame for resting, for spending so much time in bed, feeling sick and worried about their future because they can’t get it together enough, or can’t get their tasks done due to pain and detachment from reality. You’ve all experienced being shamed for resting, being blamed for your own pain, and told you have no value if you’re not productive and hardworking. However, none of this applies to you right now. You need to rest. This rest is for survival. This is comparable to recovery from life-threatening injury, you cannot be expected to function or shamed for being lazy if your body is broken and barely hanging onto life. You are surviving, and you need rehabilitation and care, not feelings of inadequacy or shame for still daring to be alive.

It’s alright for you to exist just to rest only. In rare moments you do manage to get up, it’s okay to just do soothing non-productive stuff. There is no limit to how much care you need right now and you are obliged to give that to yourself. If the chronic exhaustion is caused by trauma, it will get better, not fast, not all at once, but slowly, during months and years, your body will let enough trauma out to allow you to use some of your energy for yourself. It’s vital you rest and let the trauma do its thing, and then eventually you will get your body back.

#chronic pain #furiousgoldfish #chronic exhaustion #spoons #trauma #trauma recovery #bed rest #exhaustion #trauma symptoms #chronic illnesses #abuse symptoms #toxic guilt #toxic shame #resting #cptsd #abuse

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uuujeewriting · 4 years ago

Note

Hi!! I was just wondering on the post where reader was a yandere and how the boys would react, could you do something like a part 2 to it? Like where they find out the reason why reader is like this? Sorry if its not really clear and you don’t have to do it! Anyways have a good day :D

change you [albedo, childe, kaeya, diluc, xiao]

part 2 of ‘stop it’ where fem!reader is a yandere

tw: UNHEALTHY/TOXIC RELATIONSHIP, gore, violence, cuss words, manipulative behavior, obsessive and possessive behavior, murder and angst of course

albedo x fem! reader, childe x fem! reader, kaeya x fem! reader, diluc x fem! reader, xiao x fem! reader

a/n: just a reminder that this behavior should not be tolerated or idolized as it is not healthy nor is it acceptable. sorry this took such a long time anon! i’m clearing my inbox tonight since i’m finally done with school hehe. hope this is to your liking nonnie, sorry if the bits are too short !!

i would like to clarify that if any of these scenarios/hc’s of mine are similar to other writers’ works, it is unintentional and i apologize

albedo

after the incident that happened between you and his former assistant, he hadn’t left the lab and you inside it for days

he claims to others that something in his research had come up and he would be requiring maximum isolation for the next few days

or weeks

(absolutely believable considering the timely announcement of his deceased assistant)

“albedo..” the alchemist’s eye twitched at the ring of your voice, beckoning him to you

“shouldn’t you at least entertain me–your captive?” you sickeningly chuckle as you notice his annoyance

soon this turned into complete panic

“come on,” you cling onto his arm, “pay attention to me before i leave you with no assistants at all.”

the audacity, albedo exclaims internally

“do not tempt me to bind you to a chair until i find a solution, y/n.” he peers menacingly into you in a futile attempt to guise his fear

fear that you’d be too much for him to control

that he’ll lose you even further

you let out a ‘tsk’ as you take a seat beside the busied alchemist

“why are you even trying so hard?” a mumble escapes your mouth

perhaps he felt responsible

or maybe he does this to avenge sucrose

there might even be a slim possibility of him still loving you

but none of these answers felt genuine enough to reason

“frankly enough, i, too, question why.”

childe

your trip home was awkward

and that’s to say the least

fuming in utter disbelief and rage was your alleged lover, intentionally averting his gaze from you

he was trying so hard not you hit you, the only thing holding him back is that he didn’t want to stoop to your level

you were rather pleased with what had happened and flaunted this

“that went well,” you smile and raised an eyebrow as you eyed childe

“you have no heart at all.” his voice devoid of any emotion aside from anger reaches your ears

at this, you dare laugh amidst the tension in the atmosphere surrounding the both of you

“now, i wouldn’t say that! i did it for you, isn’t that enough to prove i’m just as human as everyone else?”

“you make me sick.” the harbinger spits

you aren’t too pleased with this

moving to his side, you pinch his cheeks, “come now, love. a little warning from me won’t kill them!” you attempted to lift the mood but all is in vain as you feel a wet drop trickle down from childe’s cheek to your hand

eyes widening at this. you finally pipe down at wait for his response

he grabs your wrist and yanks it from his face

“don’t you dare come near me every again, you’re the worst person i’ve ever been manipulated by.”

kaeya

to say that kaeya was disappointed is an understatement

what’s worse than catching your lover trying to murder some nun for inconveniencing him at the dead of night?

having all this happen and being a captain of the knights of favonius

“what in celestia’s name has gotten into you, y/n?”

oh, he was mad

no ‘baby,’ ‘sweetheart–’ not even ‘snowdrop’

you idly twiddle your thumbs innocently, as if you weren’t about to be charged for attempted murder in a few hours

“i thought it would make you happy.” you admit

facepalming to the highest caliber, kaeya sighs and manages to break a sarcastic smile, finding the entire situation unbelievable

“simply outstanding, l/n.”

uh oh, he used your last name

furrowing your eyebrows, you raise one, “you’ve never called me that, sweetheart.”

kaeya glares at you, “let’s put it like this–i’m trying my absolute best not to knock you out right now.”

“i still don’t see how i did anything wrong.” you cross your arms

the knight chuckles hoarsely

“oh, you will.” he states

and after that, he goes ahead to the acting grandmaster’s office

things are going to be pretty rough for you from now on

diluc

once he had found adelinde’s corpse in the vicinity and see how you disposed of her, he felt sick to the stomach

yet another one buried six feet under his

“do you like my gift, dearest?” placing a hand on his stiff shoulder, you look at the mess you made

“why, you-” he grumbled and grits his teeth

and the worst has yet to come

“once i have you behind bars for this, i’ll make sure you repent.” diluc states with his clenched fists

“oh, about that-” you laugh, “you can’t”

what?

“excuse me?!” the pyro wielder exclaims

“well, mister flawless reputation, i’ve already devised a plan beforehand,” you pause to slowly circle the man frozen in place

“elzer had put in records of cannibalism in adelinde’s files, since suspicion has been around for a while.”

damn the maids for having such loud mouths

“a simple statement such as ‘it was self defense!’ and it’d be fine.”

you were truly a force to be reckoned with when aggravated

even so, if he couldn’t have you put in jail, no way was he going to let you live alongside him any further

“pack your things.” he clenches his jaw and drags you indoors

“i’ll give you five minutes to take everything with you, and if you dare defy me this time, i’ll make sure you are dealt with swiftly myself.”

xiao

out of everything you could’ve surprised him with, why did it have to be this?

this wasn’t a pleasant surprise, no

he didn't feel any love from what you’d done, only the flames of fury engulfed the adeptus

“in what plane if existence did you think what you’d done is flattering?!” the yaksha yelled once you and him got to a secluded room in wangshu inn

“xiao, i wasn’t trying to be mean, she laid her eyes on you-”

“like every other being does! gods, y/n, you’re unfathomable.” xiao rubs his temples

inching closer to the trembling man, you atemtped to massage his throbbing head

your efforts have been dismissed with a swat of xiao’s hand as he growls at you

“don’t touch me, filthy mortal.”

“you make me sound like i killed someone,” you laughed it off which angered him greatly

“you almost did!” he reasoned and you tilted your head, feigning ignorance as if this wasn’t a huge deal

“listen, if you’re not going to act accordingly and attack everyone who even lays their eyes on me, do not try to call out my name,” he turns back to you before disappearing into mists of green and black

“i won’t heed to your call.”

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin headcanons #genshin impact x reader #genshin albedo #genshin kaeya #genshin diluc #genshin childe #genshin xiao #albedo x reader #kaeya x reader #childe x reader #diluc x reader #xiao x reader

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thelordofdarkreunion · 3 years ago

Text

Hidden Secrets

I am finally back! Sorry for the long delay without stories, but my life’s been rather hectic lately. I have hopefully compensated with a very interesting storyline I’ve wanted to write for a while now. Everyone has their secrets, and sometimes if they are revealed, things can come to a head...

“They say the only way to actually understand people is to see things through their eyes. It won’t matter if they’re dead, though.” -Thomas Drake

“What’s so wrong with loving an alien? What is so wrong with loving someone, caring for them, being with them forever, so long as both parties are sentient? Is it really such a bad thing?” -Admiral Adam Vir, in a speech to the Galactic Assembly on xenophilia

“In all my travels to thousands of worlds, I have actually never met a xenophiliac. I have, in fact, seen more Chaos cultists than xenophiles. However, I can tell you this. Xenophilia is a crime of unimaginable proportions. It is almost as bad as selling your soul to the Dark Gods themselves. It is something that no one, of any species, save perhaps the most absolute perverse of the Drukhari would even think of. Even then, said Drukhari would most likely be spurned by their fellows. It is a crime of such monstrosity that death is far too fair a fate for its perpetrators.” -Inquisitor Amberly Vail of the Ordo Xenos

Aboard the Omen

Three figures sat around a table. All were relaxed, slightly slouching in their seats. The lights were not the uncomfortable brightness of the medical bays or halls, nor the dim-lit spaces of the engine rooms or hidden maintenance gantries. It was a comfortable, cozy light, illuminating the fake wood of the table and the three that sat around it.

“How the hell did we get on this topic of conversation?” asked Admiral Vir, his face swirling a myriad of colors: the green of his eyes, blond of his hair, black of his eyepatch, and currently, red of his face.

“I’m not precisely sure,” drawled Commander Shepard, “But I believe it has something to do with our good comrade Quill over there complementing extra-terrestrial hips.”

“Hey! There is nothing wrong with pointing out that your chief engineer, despite wearing a face mask and enviro-suit all the time, is pretty hot. Perfect, well-rounded figure,” replied Quill, grinning and adjusting his long, red-brown greatcoat. “Though, it’s just an observation. I’m already taken. By an alien with just as good, if not better, hips.” Vir buried his face in his hands, and Shepard just sighed. “What I don’t get, though,” he continued, “Is why the hell Vir here is attracted to Sunny? Listen, Gamora and Tali are hot. They have ass.” At this, Shepard groaned loudly and joined Vir with his head in his hands. “I don’t get why you’re attracted to an eight foot tall, four armed, beaked, carapaced alien. Unless you’re into some pretty… interesting… things.” Vir looked over to Shepard.

“This is how this conversation’s going to go, isn’t it?” he said. Shepard simply nodded.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“I mean, no judgement if you are,” continued Quill. “I’ve done it with aliens a lot weirder than Drev. If you’re into that sort of thing… whatever thing a Drev is, that’s fine.” Vir simply sighed again.

“Jesus, Quill.” He looked around, staring at the ceiling for a moment before turning back to his companions. “Alright. Fine.” He cracked his neck. “You know what? You want me to ‘fess up, I will. I…” He trailed off for a moment, working his jaw and wringing his hands before letting out a breath. “I… like…” He noticed the expectant looks of the other two at the table. “Okay, fine, love… Sunny.” He threw up his hands, face an even deeper shade of red, if at all possible. “There. Said it. Please kill me.”

“Well. No offense Adam, but I wasn’t expecting you to start off with that,” replied Shepard.

“Neither did I,” murmured Adam. He looked over to Quill once more. “It’s not that I like Drev. It’s just that I like… her. I… She… Well…”

“C’mon Adam. Spit it out.” Vir sighed again.

“I love her. No matter who or what she may be. Not because she’s an alien. Everything about her being… her. If that makes sense,” he finished lamely. Shepard and Quill, though, both nodded along sagely.

“Yeah. It does,” replied Shepard quietly. “I… feel the same way. In a way.” He laughed. “I guess tonight none of us are going to have a way with words.” He let out a large sigh, and his eyes went distant, seeing things that existed a thousand miles away. “I… think I do love Tali. I think I do… but I haven’t even told her.” He gave another laugh, this one much more bitter. “I’m telling this all to you, but I haven’t even told her. I… just… I don’t want to hurt her.” He looked at his own scarred hands miserably. “I’m a Spectre, and I’m running the most dangerous mission in the galaxy, on an unauthorized ship, and I just… don’t want anyone to hurt her. And I don’t want to hurt her. So I haven’t said anything,” he finished.

“Yeah,” replied Quill, much more soberly than his teasing before. “I know how you both feel. I was a bit of a playboy for a while,” he grinned. His expression became serious once more. “But, after I met Gamora, and… was in a world without her, for a bit, I finally understood. What it meant. To actually love someone.” He gave his cocky smile once again. “Despite, you know, her being a super-assassin who can and has kicked my ass on multiple occasions.” Both Vir and Shepard laughed.

“You know, it’s funny how just talking can make you see things differently. Make the world seem better,” said Shepard. He grinned at Vir. “Thanks for inviting us over.” Vir looked at him strangely, frowning.

“What do you mean? You invited us. You said you wanted to talk, and talk on my ship.” Shepard responded with an equally puzzled expression.

“No, I didn’t,” he insisted. “You invited us here.” Quill nodded in conformation.

“Yeah. You invited us.”

“No I didn’t!” shot back Vir.

“Well if you didn’t, who did?” asked Shepard. Their argument was broken by a new voice, filled with righteous hate and vengeance, as cold as an ice-world blizzard.

“I did.” Quill, Vir, and Shepard started. They hadn’t even heard the door open. The imposing figure of Commissar Ciaphas Cain, clad in his heavy black greatcoat, boots, and cap, swirled through the door, holding his laspistol at the ready. Vir, being the one in most contact with Cain (Cain was stationed aboard his ship, after all), had heard stories from the Valhallan infantry about Imperial commissars. They had all said how lucky they’d been to have Cain, as many commissars were hate-filled, imposing men and women who ruled through sheer terror. Vir had laughed it off. Cain was calm. Cain was understanding. Cain was always one to look for a solution to any problems, and prevent people from fighting. Even when they had first met, when the Imperials, so unused to aliens, had tried to pick fights with the Omen’s crew, Cain had calmed things down. He was the perfect officer.

But now, Vir remembered the Valhallans’ stories. Cain fit the description of a commissar perfectly now. His massive height, the dark uniform, the eyes blazing with a hate that was so un-Cain like and outstretched laspistol made him a figure of nightmares from a totalitarian and xenophobic government. Xenophobic… Shit! Apparently, all three men sitting at the table had the same idea at once, and made a motion to rise. Cain tightened his grip on the laspistol, and flicked it clearly at each one of them in turn.

“Ah, un uh. Sit back down,” he hissed. “Hands on the table.” The three complied, lowering themselves back into their seats slowly. Cain kept the gun pointed at them.

“Cain?” asked Shepard hesitantly. “What’s this about?”

“I’m no fool,” replied Cain, “Though I think you believe me one.” His gloved fingers tightened on the laspistol grip. There was a brief pause as Cain glared at the three.

What made both Shepard and Vir such good commanding officers was their ability to read people. They were experts at knowing what people were thinking, and how to react accordingly. What shocked them both was the expression of pure betrayal behind Cain’s cold eyes. That was an emotion neither of them expected.

“I’d heard rumors, of course. Some tabloid drama, accusing humanity's greatest heroes of xenophilia, of all things.” Cain scoffed. “Disgusting, I thought. How dare they slander you so!” Cain’s voice dropped from anger to pure fury. “But then,” he hissed, “Then I heard more official reports. I heard your speeches. I saw pictures. I heard rumors not from some disgusting two-bit reporter, but from your own crews. I am not blind, though you might think me so. And this?” He waved his pistol around the room. “You were humanity’s best.” His voice dropped into a whisper, resonating with hurt and betrayal. “I gave you a chance. I thought it could not be so. I thought that even though you served with aliens, they were subservient to you. To humanity. But now I have proof. Proof of your degeneracy. From your own mouths. You confessed. I gave you a chance to say otherwise, a second chance, but you… scum,” he finished, too angry for words. He noticed their glances at the door and gave out a dark laugh. “Oh, no. There’s no one here to save you, traitors. I made sure of it.”

“So what now?” asked Shepard calmly, breaking the tension.

“Now?” replied Cain, laspistol still pointed at the three. “Now I kill you, as is my duty. I lock this door, and pretend there is some urgent conference I need you for. I tell Kasteen and Brocklaw to have Simone set a course to Watch Fortress Novus Galactica, and there the Inquisition will purge this ship, then return for the others. There is no escape.” Vir stood up, hands raised, fury on his face.

“If I’m going to die I’m going to get my say. I never did enough of that in life,” he said with a bitter laugh. He fixed Cain with an equally furious stare, looking at the double-headed golden eagles on Cain’s cap and lapels. Those eagles. Those god-damned eagles. “I’ve had enough of people like you. I’ve had enough of trying to explain myself. I’m not some sick fuck. I’m not a degenerate. I love an alien for who she is, not what she is. And if you kill me, then you kill me,” he spat. Cain smirked.

“So be it.” He was interrupted by a sound. A metallic click-click. A sound known by every member in the room. A sound known to almost every human and alien in existence. A sound known by all who ever watched human movies, or fought human armies. A sound that first came into existence in 1835 and was repeated every day, somewhere in human territory across nine galaxies ever since. The sound of a revolver hammer being cocked.

“Put the gun down, Commissar.” The voice of Thomas Drake was smooth. Unemotional, and uncaring at the drama unfolding in front of him. His matt-black revolver, held by his dark gloves, was pointed at Cain’s head. He was at a perfect distance, where Cain could not turn on him before being gunned down. Vir still stood, Shepard and Quill both seated, their hands still up or on the table. The only movement Cain made was to clench his jaw and extend his pistol arm farther.

“Drake,” hissed Cain. “I should have known. You knew all their secrets. You hid this from us!”

“Of course,” replied Drake. “Their actions are their own, though, and their secrets were not mine to give out.” Cain’s hand squeezed the pistol grip even tighter, his augmetic fingers balancing it through his rage.

“I can still kill them, Drake. I suggest you put your gun down before that happens,” he suggested, his voice tight. Drake laughed.

“Yes. One. Before I kill you. One squeeze of the trigger I can’t prevent. I can prevent two, though. But you won’t.” Drake’s voice was delighted, smiling wryly at a secret only he possessed. “You won’t because I know you won’t. You won’t because I know your secrets. I read your book! Your autobiography!” he announced with malicious triumph. “I know how your mind works, and I know that you don’t want to die on this ship, or anywhere else, especially for the life of one measly heretic. So you put your gun down, Commissar.” Cain struggled for a moment, his muscles clenching and unclenching, before he finally gave a disgusted snort and tossed his laspistol on the table. Vir, Quill, and Shepard let out breaths they didn’t know they were holding.

“So then,” sneered Cain. “What now, oh Captain Drake? You have already proven you won’t kill me, and they cannot be allowed to live,” he said. Drake merely smiled.

“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘To understand someone you must see the world through their eyes’?” he asked. The other four occupants of the room nodded, unsure of where this was going. “Well, that’s precisely what’s going to happen. Let’s see if you’ll kill each other when you know precisely how you each operate.” He gave a dark grin and gestured with his pistol at Vir, Shepard, and Quill. “Now. You three. Put your weapons on the table,” he ordered. The three stared at him in shock.

“But… why?” replied Quill. “You saved us,” he said, as if that explained his reasoning. Drake simply laughed again.

“I like to be the only one in a room holding a weapon. Especially in a situation as intense as this. Now. Guns on the table. Vir, you aren’t carrying a weapon. Shameful,” he drawled. “Your pistols, Quill, and the knives I know you have in your sleeve and boot. Your sidearm, Shepard.” The three complied, Drake’s revolver now pointed at them as Cain scowled at the situation. “Wonderful,” said Drake. He took a step back, walking through the doorway, and gestured at the four men to follow him. They complied grudgingly, still shooting death glares at each other. Drake put a hand to the communications device in his left ear, not moving his gun arm an inch. “Beam us up, Scotty,” he said simply. With a whir and flash, the five disappeared from the Omen, only to suddenly see the hallways of the Enterprise around them.

“So. Kirk and the Starfleet officers are in on this as well. Why I am not surprised,” stated Cain, looking at his surroundings with grudging simplicity.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” replied Drake. He lowered his pistol, finger coming off the trigger. “No one’s here, either. No help from the crew here.” He tilted his head to a large grey door. “In that room.” Looking warily at his gun, trying and thinking how to take it from him all the while, the four followed Drake’s command. The room was an empty expanse of darkness. None of them could tell its purpose or how big it truly was.

“What is this place?” asked Quill.

“It's called a ‘holodeck’,” replied Drake. “It is a room that is, essentially, a massive virtual reality. It’s usually used for some sort of training simulation programs, but this time, I’ve made sure it can read memories. Oh yeah,” he grinned. “It can do that. And that is what’s going to happen. We are going to delve inside each of our minds, and see what makes us all tick. Maybe if you see someone else’s entire life laid out in front of them from their point of view you’ll be less likely to kill them.” Drake took in their apprehensive glances. “Oh yes. I know. All of us have secrets. And I’m sure none of you really trust this. That’s why I’ll go first. Let us begin.”

There we have it. Cain can tolerate a lot of things, including working with aliens, but absolutely not romancing aliens. I shall continue this story line, with all of these characters giving their own horrible memories. As always, I own no one except Drake, and all characters belong to their original rightful owners. If you have any criticisms, comments, concerns, questions, or requests, feel free to tell me!

#magnificent scoundrels #writing #my writing #crossover #crossover story #mass effect #empyrean iris #guardians of the galaxy #warhammer 40k

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mc-critical · 4 years ago

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What are your thoughts on Ibrahim? For me it went from indifference and dislike in season 1 to liking in season 2 and becoming my favorite male character in season 3 tbh. Actually the only good male character by season 3 (season 4 has many other options too). He is probably the most complex and well written character and I really sympathise with him. His arrogance was his downfall but if Suleyman wasn't such a bitch it wouldn't have been lol. He wasn't wrong in that imo. He was a slave, a fisherman's son but his intelligence and skill took him farther than anyone else and it's not wrong to be proud of such a feat. He deserved the pride more than just about anyone, even Suleyman. What I dislike the most about him is his treatment of Nigar after their relationship ended. She's my favorite character and although their relationship itself was my favorite in the whole show (other than Nurbanu and Selim) it ended really badly

Ibrahim is one of my most conflicting characters on the series: one time I feel like I don't get the appeal, especially not the stans in one Bulgarian forum, he doesn't elicit such a strong emotional reaction in me as he does in others, but then once he hits an incredibly strong arc and I begin to analyze his character and all its dimensions, I come to love him for what he is and realize how much effort has gone in conceiving and developing him. He's certainly the most well-written male character that isn't a sultan or a prince in the entire franchise. (the sultans aren't the brightest, but the bar is so high when it comes to their writing. There isn't any of them that is badly written. The princes are also well developed, but now that I think about it, Ibrahim surpasses some of them as well!) He's delightfully fleshed out with every detail; his actions, while morally ambiguous at times, are very understandable and you can clearly see the deeper, nuanced reasons why he does what he does. His arc was a sight to see from beginning to end and watching it reach its inevitable tragic conclusion was heartwrenching. At a point he became so important to the narrative, whether it was intentional or not, that the show (or actually, S03B in particular, because S04 was absolutely fantastic!) began to lowkey miss something without him. He had such a strong presence that couldn't be matched by anyone else after him.

[To be brutally honest though, I find his dynamic with Hürrem in terms of screentime to be kinda overrated. Not that it's bad or anything, quite the contrary - their chemistry was great, they were consistent and fun to watch, they had quite a few great scenes that were definetly more than Hürrem and Mahidevran's, I dare even say this is one of the most solid antagonistic dynamics of Hürrem's writing-wise, but I just find it sometimes gets way too much credit? It's weird, I know.]

The most interesting thing about him is, without a doubt, his fatal flaw that I... actually don't think is arrogance. It's not up for argument that Ibrahim can definetly come off as arrogant, but the arrogance is rather a manifestation of his fatal flaw, not his fatal flaw itself. I believe that it's precisely his inferiority complex that is the root of his vulnerabilities: as you said, he's been only a fisherman in Parga, and his background is both a source of memories where he can recall his more "innocent" days with his family and a tough spot for him where he is consistently reminded of something that is already in the past after all he has achieved. He did want to return to Parga, to see who he used to be one more time, but after that it's as if he never gets a chance to forget, to put it behind him. He pretends he has forgotten, but that consistent reminder of how he has started seems to be constantly haunting him to the point he begins to remind himself of it. It's not only people like Figani, Iskender Çelebi or the other members of the divan in early S01 that don't let him forget, it's as if he himself doesn't want to forget. It's undeniable that he had climbed up to heights he wouldn't dream of and the role of a grand vezier needed getting used to and to be dealt with with care. On one hand, we could argue that he reminds himself of Parga as a way to preserve his moral compass, in a way, to realize when and how he has screwed up or remind himself of the limitations of how far can he go, for Süleiman is his friend and companion who he wouldn't want to disappoint. But on the other hand, the more he rose in the hierarchy, the stronger became a wish for him to exceed these limitations placed upon him by everyone around. Süleiman is able to give him everything if he wishes, so why not let it happen? Then he's going to prove to everyone, prove to his inner demons, this sense of inferiority that he, in fact, can not only become the most politically adept grand vezier there is, but a person who has his own country within the country and can rule it with ease. The political arena ultimately becomes a target of his inner conflict where he projects more power than anyone else, is most influential and does the best in order to gain the goal, not only to gain SS's approval, but show that, yeah, he can do his best for the role he's put in, fixating on the Ottoman country he claims to be a ruler of and his apparently endless rights. It turns into a coping mechanism where he can escape his past and background and he gets so sucked in it that his self awareness becomes less and less. That's where his arrogance comes from and I feel that if he didn't possess that complex of his, he would've managed things way better and had more self control, as a result. He was a very good politician in the show, setting in motion many good strategies (his strategy gave them the Mohacs victory after all), having a strong, pragmatic mind and many innovative ideas and if he didn't try his hardest to convince himself he's worth something that isn't just the story of the fisherman in Parga, Hürrem wouldn't stand a chance against him.

This inferiority complex is the reason for his infidelity, too. He loves Hatice dearly and he never expected that she of all people would do the very thing he dreads the most. Her pulling rank on him came as such a shock for him that it seemed he would never forget or forgive. It put infinetly more salt to the wound, deeply hurting his ego and the self-esteem he was just beginning to gain. That's why he let himself in Nigar's hands for so long, for she would only want to please him, for that relationship would have no limitations whatsoever and wouldn't restrict Ibrahim in any way. It was something that was his, something the dynasty would never touch or learn about. I love Nigar and Ibrahim's relationship, too. Principally, I'm not a fan of love triangles at all, but that one is a notable exception for how wonderfully, but crushingly psychological it is. It wasn't added in only for the sake of the drama, it was set up for very long and it was like the characters actually got there through their own actions and they had to truly face that struggle to flesh out and evolve. But there wasn't genuine love there, not in Ibrahim's part. That was his biggest weakness speaking, causing the illusion of love, not the real feeling of it. He wanted to preserve this relationship as the fisherman in Parga, but to me, it felt like he showed something more similar to his own confident assertions of the power of a grand vezier than actual regard for Nigar's feelings. It all was a lie he wanted to believe, because of his ego's denial, and he believed it so much he told Nico that Nigar was the person he truly loved in E51. And when he did get out of the lie (the monologue in E57), see how he reacts differently in front of her now - he turns off every single try of hers to give him affection, he reacted very badly when he learned she was pregnant, it was as if he wanted her to wake up from the dream and move on, too? And due to his inner conflict that perpetuates his arrogance grew even more in S03, he got over Nigar, but not over her child. Esmanur's birth made him return to and enforced his old habits that made him consider that child as another piece of solace, something out of the dynasty, also only his, trying so desperately to have her live with him and Hatice. The infidelity and the way he treated Nigar after he realized the error of his ways are ones of the worst things Ibrahim did, along with Leo (now, I get he wanted to knock Hürrem down a peg, but that was admittedly much for me.) and while I understand why these events and interactions came to fruition, I can't justify him for them.

I agree that had Süleiman not given him as much power, his inferiority complex would be highly downplayed, at the very least. He underestimated the possible consequences of Ibrahim's rise and it really doesn't look like he knows him as much as he thinks he does. Whether he did it to test him (SS's lasting reminders that Ibrahim gets closer to death) or because he loves him dearly and wants to embrace his potential ("I want you to use that mind only for me!") or both, it's like he gave him both too much freedom and too many boundaries at once. I mean, I understand why SS executed Ibrahim: his affirmations, no matter their backstory and how metaphorical they are, pose a definite threat for a padişah and along with his growing paranoia of betrayal, he couldn't be sure how far he was going to go anymore. It's as if Ibrahim crossed every line, openly acting like he controls the padişah and his state in front of the fellow pashas, efendis and ambassadors and that couldn't be controlled anymore. It's as if he had done his best efforts to bring him down to earth, but since none of it was working, he decided to act accordingly. The many "failures" of Ibrahim have been piling up in the narrative in the span of 81 episodes and I get why SS would finally snap for what was the final straw. However, doing so much unprecedented stuff for a grand vezier was bound to bring disasters for the padişah due to the chance in his mind that he would try to question or prevail over him, hence Süleiman should've realized that it was only natural one would want more and more. And that happened with S03 Ibrahim - he fought more and more with his inner demons, hence wanting to have more and more to be validated by the others and by his own ego that perhaps wouldn't feel satisfied regardless.

While his fatal flaw underlines his complexity, it also gets complimented by his many positive qualities: his love for Hatice was very sweet in the beggining and after the Nigar plot, it turned out to be really genuine - their reconciliation was very telling in that aspect; his relationship and loyalty to Süleiman deserves respect, even though his inferiority complex came in the way, he still would never give him up and never once lost hope in his recovery when he was in his deathbed and while that may become up for debate in S03, he would never openly stand against him and would gladly try his best to please him; his bond with Mustafa is amazing, too - I love how he practically raised that kid and gave him sound advice as well as his mother; that said, his relationship with Mahidevran deserves more appreciation and it is one of the most reciprocal and understanding, soft and "carefee" dynamics of the show; I love his dedication to his family and how he loves them as much and remembers them with the same fondness as ever before. In short, when going in depth, this multifaceted character has so much to offer, like, wow!

Okay, when I first watched the show, there was that point where I felt Ibrahim overstayed his welcome and I even wanted for Hürrem to finish him already (heh, those were the days! 😅) but now when I've rewatched and reexamined MC many times, I see that despite of his few negative traits, everything about this character flows so well and so organically and it's one of the characters in the series that have aged really well with time in my eyes. And I respect him so much for that.

#magnificent century #ibrahim pasha #ask #illusorybeing

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subukunojess · 4 years ago

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Roy G Biv AU lineup for Devil’s Playhouse

Wanted to practice drawing Max and bringing visuals before I forget them for later, I drew the many faces of Max as they are going to be in the third season version of the Roy G Biv/Seven Deadly Vices AU along with a bonus head.

Spoiler Notes under the cut

Okay (starting at Top left): Max, Murderous, Jealous/Pumpkin, Greedy, Gluttonous, Slothful, Prideful, Lustful, Superego/Narrator

As I’m watching bits and pieces of playthroughs in my free time, I really like the angst factor that season 3 is going through and wanted to kick it up a notch. There was this one fan art I saw of the narrator looking just like Max. And that got me thinking of things for my AU. Sure I have the Seven Deadly Vices fic to write along with some oneshots in between, but I wanted to tackle an AU version of the Devil’s Playhouse which would be canon divergent. Here are some of my ideas:

- The Seven Vices, after they disappear and go back to Max, are like the emotions of Inside Out. They are a part of Max and help him in certain situations or react accordingly.

- Throughout their adventures, they meet this strange guy in Max’s mind who looks like Alfred Hitchcock/Rod Sterling. Most of the group ignore him or don’t want anything to do with him. The only ones who seem to actually listen to him are Pumpkin, Prideful, and Greedy (the latter two to some extent).

- Pumpkin and Narrator are the two who bond as the two sane guys in a chaotic mind, promising that they can work together to help Max. Through misunderstandings and Max’s vice, the promise is broken and Narrator is betrayed.

- Narrator swears on ending it all while being in the background, subtly hinting everyone to act on their vices and keep using their powers unaware of what he has planned for them. Pumpkin, Greedy, and Prideful have suspicions.

- Near the end of episode 4 and throughout “The City That Dares Not Sleep”, Pumpkin realizes what Superego is up to and he reveals it to the other vices. Angst ensues between The other vices, Pumpkin and Superego, and Sam caught in the middle.

- For some reason, I had Jealous Max be the “sane voice of reason” in the first installment of the AU. With that, I ultimately have him be the “Ego” in Max’s mind. Basically, the Id wants to do what it wants, the Superego says no it’s bad, and the Ego tries to make a compromise, serving as the peacemaker. In Max’s case, Pumpkin promised to be peacemaker, but ultimately follows Id most of the time, ignoring Superego.

- Realizing this, Pumpkin feels terrible and tries to compromise (and not have Max explode) but Superego uses his words and power to turn Pumpkin into a monster and control Max.

- Narrator will be like himself in the game until he reveals himself to be Max’s brain and that’s when he transforms into his true self: Max.

- Now I have an idea on how the ending might go, but I don’t know how it will turn out.

And that’s what I have so far in the matter. Hope this is okay.

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duskandstarlight · 4 years ago

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Embers & Light (Chapter 21)

Notes:

Hi lovely readers, I hope you have all had a good week. Loved the comments from last week's chapter. It's so funny, because it wasn't one of my favourites, but it had so many of you feeling all the feels!

I know lots of you have been excited about the re-appearance of Az and I can promise that you get him first thing in this chapter.

For those of you invested enough to care, I'll be posting a few teaser sentences from the next E&L chapter every Wednesday here on Tumblr.

Enjoy! And as usual, let me know your thoughts :)

Chapter Twenty-One Nesta

The next two weeks went by in an extended blur — slow yet fast — as Nesta was thrown into training with an intensity that left her mentally and physically exhausted. Cassian hadn’t been joking when he’d told her he’d have her ready to slay with the longsword soon enough. Never before had he been so critical and sharp, not a sliver of a smile on his face each morning as he warmed her up through the guard positions in the sparring ring. Cassian would make her practice those moves until there was not a step out of place, before moving onto footwork and then actual swordplay, which always ended with Nesta hissing in annoyance when she made an error and left herself open for attack.

Despite that, Nesta knew she was learning faster than others. Nesta saw it in the way Cassian would push her harder still, even when she knew her moves were perfect. On occasion, Nesta would catch his eyes gleaming, utterly thrilled, as if her vicious thrust with the steel were almost the equivalent of her peeling off her clothes until she was wearing nothing but skin.

Staying true to her word, Nesta had asked Azriel to harness her ability to sense others emotions. Not a flicker of surprise had flitted across the shadowsinger’s face when she had told him about the element of her power, he’d only bowed his head in such an earnest way that Nesta had wondered whether he was pleased she’d asked.

The shadowsinger’s training approach hugely differed to his brother’s. Azriel used quiet, calm words rather than barked, fiery orders, but they were no less effective. For their first lesson, Azriel had taken Nesta to a rocky ledge wedged into the right of the mountain pass. It was a viewing platform poised above the sparring rings, which Azriel informed her was used mainly by the war lords and high-status families for the Rite ceremony and major festivals.

The clang of steel on steel rose up to meet them as the males trained. In the centre of it all was Cassian — a larger than life presence — his towering frame and huge membraneous wings making even the largest Illyrian’s appear inconsequential. Even from their height, Nesta could hear his abrupt orders as he worked the males with an intensity that dared them to defy him.

They didn’t. There was a begrudging respect amongst the warriors where Cassian was concerned that was easy enough for Nesta to identify. They had not forgotten how Cassian had fought in the war; how his sword had easily sliced through males as if they were made of nothing but air. His movements were like an intricate dance, his body always anticipating the next move, cutting down opponent after opponent as he led his army to victory. The Illyrian’s might not like that Cassian was a bastard, but they could not deny that he was exceptional in combat. So whilst they might sneer at him, they would watch him fight with eyes as sharp as a hawk, and when he corrected a males stance, they listened and adjusted their own technique accordingly.

“You know Devlon?” Azriel asked from behind Nesta, snapping her out of her reverie. He was standing a little back from her, giving her the space to adjust to their surroundings.

Nesta wondered if he knew about her fear of being caged or the panic that consumed her when things became too loud.

Narrowing her eyes, Nesta searched for the war lord, eventually finding him at the edge of one of the far sparring rings. Two hulking tattooed males loitered by his side. Ragar was one of them, and even from a distance, Nesta spied the pink, raw scar that jagged its way up his jugular and suppressed a shudder.

“Yes,” Nesta said tightly. “I know Devlon.”

“He’s your target,” Azriel told her. “I want you to try and sense his emotions.”

If anyone other than Azriel had asked her to do something so enormous and unachievable, Nesta would have snapped, but there was something about his calm nature combined with his deathly stillness that had her doing his bidding.

To her credit, Nesta had tried, but the noises were too loud for her to retreat into herself, even with the headband snuggled tightly on her ears.

“I can’t feel anything,” Nesta had told him shortly after five minutes of silence. Then she found herself confessing, “I don’t know how.”

Azriel shrugged as if her failure was inconsequential. He was leaning against the craggy rock wall, the green and blue of the snowdrops a stark contrast to his body, which was perpetually thrust in and out of shade. “Try Cassian. You’re around him the most, you’ve probably adapted to sensing his emotions unconsciously.”

Nesta had thrown Azriel a sharp look, but she did not correct him. He wasn’t wrong, after all. So she clipped instead, “Some would say that’s an invasion of privacy.”

Azriel’s lips tugged up at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps. Given that the Solstice luncheon is in three weeks time, I don’t think Cassian will mind.”

Nesta had studied the shadowsinger for a moment. His body was wreathed in shadow but his face was unobscured. It meant that Nesta could see the hard lines of his face. Azriel looked like he had been carved out of marble by the finest sculptor: his jaw perfectly chiseled, his cheekbones well-defined, his eyebrows elegantly arched to frame hazel eyes that were close to Cassian’s in colour, but not quite right.

“You already know what he’s feeling?”

The corner of Azriel’s lips had twitched again. “I can’t read subtle emotion, only a spike when someone reacts strongly to something and I need proximity to do it. But,” Azriel continued, a rare secretive light blooming behind his eyes as he looked out to his brother in the sparring ring where he was demonstrating spear technique with another Illyrian, “I don’t need to tap into Cassian’s emotions right now. I can already tell.”

He settled his gaze back on Nesta, but they were encouraging rather than hard. “Try,” he urged her, with a smoothness that reminded Nesta of the chill of the midnight blue sky.

Closing her eyes, Nesta forced herself to take a slow, deep breath. She knew the scent of Cassian like it was woven into her DNA — pine, musk and fresh air — and she flung herself out like a fisherman casting a net, searching for him amongst the crowd. Emotion crashed into her with the force akin to a final blow as she let that icy wall around her own emotions thaw. She wanted to curl up into a ball and howl from the intensity of it all, but she forced herself to remain standing, even though it hurt. Nesta flitted through it all — the anger, awe, fury, irritation, calm, jealousy, and begrudged admiration of others — until she located him. It came with such sudden ease that Nesta wondered if it had found her rather than the other way around — the concern and sharp anger — that settled like a weight in the lining of her stomach. The sensation was undeniably Cassian. She knew it in her bones.

“Stop.”

One quiet, chilled command had Nesta opening her eyes with a shuddering gasp. She clambered to stack up those ice blocks until she felt numb and completely devoid of any feeling. The contrast to moments before was worse somehow, as if she had been seeing in colour but now she only viewed everything in shades of black and white.

The first thing she noticed as mud, pine and grey sharpened her vision was Cassian looking at her with a wild sort of concern in his eyes. Despite the distance, Nesta felt as if he were there with her, reaching to rest his palm against her cheek and bring her back. He had spun to stare up at them, as if he had known where they were the entire time. In his hand, his spear was poised and ready, as if he were planning to launch it through the skies to put an end to an approaching attack.

Adjusting her gaze, Nesta stared over Cassian’s shoulder to stare at the warrior he had been sparring. The male was panting, his wings heaving as he took the moment’s reprieve to catch his breath before Cassian no doubt threw himself at the warrior again.

“Good,” Azriel praised after a beat. “Did you feel anything?”

“He’s angry,” Nesta replied shortly. She didn’t add how she’d felt his concern, she didn’t think it necessary and if Azriel was half as good as others had insinuated, then he knew that already.

Even though Nesta knew Azriel must have felt Cassian’s surprise, he did not voice it. He only asked, “And how did you do it?”

Nesta fought the pink that wanted to blush across her cheeks. Instead, she raised her chin as her eyes narrowed and her entire body tensed, prepared battle. “I dropped my protective shield.”

It was a huge concession but Azriel did not judge her for the permanent cage she kept on her emotions. There was no softened expression or gentle words, only understanding as the shadowsinger nodded. “To sense what others feel you have to let down your own guard. You can’t expect to feel others if you can’t feel your own. Magic is always a balance — give and take. For Cassian and I, our magic and siphons allow us to fight with more precision, but by doing so, we drain our energy reserves. With your ability to sense what others are feeling, you must give a part of yourself, too. It is the same for me; my shadows can filter through the darkness for the feelings others hide, but only if I allow myself to become vulnerable.”

That explained the expressionless face of marble and the shadows that hid Azriel from view. Like Nesta, Azriel preferred to fade into the background; to observe rather than to be observed. There were similarities between them that Nesta could not deny. Perhaps that was why he did not irritate her like others did.

“I have detected others emotions without dropping my shields before,” Nesta told Azriel, remembering Mas’s pain as she slipped on the mountain and Cassian’s guilt after the kerits had attacked.

Azriel nodded. “I suspect when emotions are particularly high they manage to pierce through whatever shields you have in place, especially those you interact with on a day-to-day basis. Basic, more subtle emotion will come at a price.”

Nesta’s expression hardened. To let down her icy shield that protected her from feeling too much had been an unwitting battle she had endured all of her life. One of the cruellest things from being Made was that Nesta’s ability to feel had increased two-fold. She suspected that was why her battle trauma was worse than others: why the deaths of loved ones pierced her heart and rendered it with holes whilst others appeared in tact; why Cassian made her want to rend the sky apart. Nobody had ever made Nesta feel as much as he had.

“You’re clever to have put a protective shield in place,” Azriel told her, breaking her out of her train of thought. “When I was younger, I struggled with my ability to feel more than others. It took me many years to understand how to master my shadows and accept them as an extension of myself. Now, I would not let them go, not for anything.”

His expression had hardened. Nesta knew a little of Azriel’s upbringing — the bare bones from Cassian, who had mentioned it in passing during their training sessions — but not enough.

Azriel had endured cruelty beyond Nesta’s wildest imaginings. His scarred hands were testament to that. And to think that for years the shadows had been his only friend; until he had decided that he would allow them to wind through his magic, like two strands of a rope. Was that not what Nesta had done when she carved a piece out of the Cauldron to take for herself? When she had heard that awesome, archaic voice call to her in the dark, her body churning up inky water onto the rocky ground, her lungs heaving. When that flicker of light had grown in the midnight black, shining like a newborn star.

“Do you think it’s possible,” Nesta had asked, wanting to push that memory far, far away, “for me to learn how to read others emotions well enough before the luncheon?”

The way in which Azriel was wreathing shadows between his open fingers indicated to Nesta that she had not been wholly there for a while. He did not comment, only gave a curt nod of the head. “With some determination, I believe we can have you reading others emotions in three weeks time.” Azriel came to stand beside Nesta. He smelt of night-kissed mist and cedar. “I do not envy you going to that luncheon.”

Nesta raised an imploring eyebrow and resisted crossing her arms over her chest. “What does that mean?”

Hazel eyes scanned the sparring rings below them. “Cassian tells me you experienced first-hand how unpleasant Devlon can be.” His lips quirked up at the sides. “I wish I had been there to see it.”

Nesta’s snort was soft as she remembered how Devlon had recoiled at her flames. “The other war lords are really that bad?”

“It’s not how I would choose to spend Solstice,” Azriel admitted. “The tensions between the war lords are always high, but putting them all into one room together, especially at Ironcrest…” He grimaced as he trailed off. “Lord Marsh has not hosted the Solstice luncheon for at least a century. It has us all wondering whether it was him that decided to hold the event at his premises or whether it was his son’s influence.”

“Brutes,” Nesta said darkly. Azriel’s eyes lit with what Nesta dissected as amusement. “Cassian says they have pulled forward a meeting? About the Rite?”

Azriel nodded. “Yes. The Rite is in the Spring. Every year the war lords come together to talk through arrangements and for each camp to put forward their contenders. It is not normally held until the new year, but Marsh has suggested hosting the meeting after the luncheon, especially given that Ironcrest are hosting the ceremony this year.”

“You think there’s something untoward going on?”

Azriel shrugged. “Perhaps. It’s an unusual move. Illyrian’s are steadfast in their habits and are not usually open to change. The good news is that it gives you more time to hunt for the sword and identify whether it’s authentic.”

Nesta noticed that Azriel had not associated himself with the Illyrian’s. She did not blame him given how he had been treated. Nesta did not like to spoken of in relation to the Cauldron either.

“I want you to repeat what we have practiced every day,” Azriel told Nesta just before he had melted into shadow, his gaze on the horizon; at the sun which was a line of orange before it disappeared entirely to give way to dusk. “Find a target and work on only engaging with their emotions. I will be back in three days. Make them count.”

Nesta had refused Azriel’s offer to take her back to the bungalow. Instead, she had walked down the rocky steps to the training rings, only to find a sweat-soaked Cassian waiting for her.

They had walked back together in companionable silence, Nesta pondering Azriel’s advice; that it would be difficult to allow herself to feel everything all at once. Little and often was the key, he had told her with an apologetic smile, with lots of rest inbetween. Lowering her guard after a lifetime of shielding them was akin to a deaf person suddenly gaining their hearing back — overwhelming.

Azriel was not wrong. Drained from the intensity of the practice, Nesta had been so exhausted that she had all but crawled onto the couch once they had arrived back to the warmth of the bungalow before she had fallen straight to sleep.

She had dreamt of Cassian. Not of the their final moments in the war, but flashes of moments from the day of the kerits — thoughts that she would have usually pushed to the far reaches of her mind: of the way Cassian had looked down at her on his knees after they had defeated the beasts; the comforting scrape of his callouses as he rested his palm on her cheek; the feel of his fingers winding around a tendril of hair; how he had stared down at her with an intensity she should not have allowed, let alone felt…

But Nesta had been unable to look away as those bright hazel eyes had darted to her lips for a second too long. Between them, Nesta had heard his heart beating too fast against his ribcage; the insistent thump against strips of bone resonating in her ears, wrapping around her own wild rhythm. A phantom hand had wound through her hair, and she’d had to catch herself as her chin started to tilt upwards of its own accord…

The pull had been so intense that Nesta had been relieved when he had broken the spell. It was the draw that she had once accused of being Faerie magic. Now she knew it was not that at all, but a magnetism strung between them that she still could not shake. It called her name, begging her to close the distance, and Nesta had woken from the relived moment panting, her fingers slick with desire and a flood of relief when she realised that she was in her bed with the door firmly shut rather than in the living room.

Nesta had been having that dream regularly ever since, amongst others. Males with no faces, large calloused hands dragging over bare skin, lips and tongues pressing kisses into her skin… The visions kindled a gentle fire in her that licked pleasantly through her core, and Nesta often woke humming with a different sort of energy that had previously had her pinning down the nearest male to chase that waving crest of an orgasm.

“I thought we should head to Spearhead for training today,” Cassian told Nesta that morning, as they stood by the front door ready to leave the house.

Nesta caught the headband he tossed at her with ease and settled it over her ears. She never left the house without it.

Cassian looked unusually well-rested, the dark smudges having all-but faded beneath his eyes. He must not have had any nightmares recently if he was sleeping well, but Nesta knew it would be short-lived. Since they had been co-existing together, she had witnessed Cassian flit between wellness and sleep deprivation within the blink of an eye.

Nesta pulled on some long, knee-high boots that would protect her in the snow drifts. “We don’t have to go there,” she told him.

Cassian shot Nesta a sideways glance. “If your power is influenced by emotion, we need to practice in a place that effects how you wield it.”

He cocked his head at her, trying to dissect the inner workings of her mind. Something swept over his expression that looked like disappointment. “Do you not want to fly?”

Refraining from rolling her eyes, Nesta said shortly, “I thought you might prefer to train somewhere else.”

The way Cassian’s eyes softened was so slight Nesta nearly missed it, but she felt it in her core. “I make a point of going back from time to time,” Cassian assured her. Then he added, “It serves as a reminder.”

They stepped out into the frigid cold. Windhaven was covered in a fresh blanket of snow, a storm having hit days before and rendering the mountain pass sparkling white. They had literally had to dig some of the tents out of the snow and Nesta had been so terrified for the orphans and widows that she had made Cassian fly her up as soon as weather had eased up. They had spent the day helping the widows camp to function again. It had pained her that she could not control her fire enough to melt the snow for them, but Cassian had warned her that it could only be used on certain parts of the camp anyway. So Nesta had picked up a shovel instead and helped to shift as much of it as possible whilst Cassian disappeared to melt the path that ran up the mountain.

Later, she had braved the camp fire to curl up with Roksana and a few of the other orphans, using her body warmth to thaw their frozen limbs as she recounted story after story until Cassian had come to take her back to the bungalow.

She had kept her promise to him about venturing out into the camp after dark.

The wind stung as Cassian got them airborne, but then he slid a shield over them in a sheath of red light and the air became still and quiet. It didn’t stop it from being any less cold and Nesta held back a shiver, not wanting him to notice how weak she was being.

But after ten minutes of being in the skies, that resolve had all but faded. Her fingers and toes were so numb she considered that they might fall off.

She scowled. “Are you going deliberately slow?”

Her accusation rang up between them but Cassian only cast a slow look down at her. The movement was deliberate and it had her temper spiking. “Why?”

Nesta’s scowl deepened. “Because it feels as if we are barely moving.”

Cassian cocked a taunting eyebrow. “Be careful Nesta, I’ll throw you into a dive if you keep goading me.”

A snarl unleashed itself from her throat but Cassian only barked a short laugh. “Is this your convoluted way of telling me to go faster?”

Nesta made an unimpressed sound. “All I’m saying is that despite your fancy magic I am still freezing and it would be nice if we made it to Spearhead before noon.”

Another laugh — delighted this time — and Cassian picked up the pace with a few strong flaps of his wings. His eyes were begging for some verbal sparring as he looked down at her. “I’m starting to think you’re getting used to being in the sky, sweetheart.”

Nesta shrugged, refusing to rise to his taunt. Instead, she cast her gaze down to the snow-kissed landscape. Up this high, it looked stunning rather than brutal; a glittering, blank canvas. “It reminds me of riding,” she admitted. That peaked Cassian’s interest. He flung his wings out wide so they soared for a moment longer. Even still, the movement was faster than it had been before her accusation, and the wind roared around the shield he’d put in place. “You used to ride?”

Staring down at the feathered snow-capped pine trees of The Steppes, Nesta dipped her chin. “Before we lost everything,” she said vaguely, but as the memory of it hit her, she found herself snorting abruptly.

Cassian’s lips twitched. “What?” he asked.

He was concentrating on the path ahead of them, and from her view point, Nesta could see every one of his dark eye lashes. They were crusted with ice. This high up, the cold was even more punishing than in the mountain pass. Nesta had no idea why Cassian didn’t extend his shield to cover his entire body. It probably had something to do with the Illyrian’s tendency for self-punishment.

In order to distract herself, Nesta snorted again. “My mother only wanted me to learn side saddle — to ride like a lady,” she explained shortly, “but I used to sneak down in the mornings and gallop across the fields before she was awake. It made me feel alive. Flying is the closest I’ve come to that feeling — the rush and freedom of it.”

It was true. Not at first — not when Feyre’s arrogant mate had sped fast enough to make her vomit — but much later, with Cassian, Nesta had come to hunger for the skies. Flying was exhilarating, Nesta had found, and she wanted more. She wasn’t sure she’d ever like it when Cassian dove, but when he speared through the air, his wings tucked in tight… it made Nesta feel awake.

“And nobody knew?”

Cassian’s voice broke her out of her reverie. She gave a disinterested shrug, making sure the movement was small so Cassian didn’t lose his hold on her. “My father, I think, but he never told anyone and he was often travelling. I bribed the stable boy to teach me to ride properly.”

Wicked amusement loosed a hand over Cassian’s face. “What did you bribe him with?”

“He used to frolic in the hay with a girl — I caught him when he was supposed to be working.”

A sound of amusement rang in the back of Cassian’s throat, as if he were imagining a young Nesta bargaining and threatening a stable boy years older than her to do her bidding. But he only asked carefully, “You were close to your mother?”

That was not a subject Nesta wanted to discuss, so she shut him down. “I wanted to be.”

Cassian nodded in a way that told her he understood. “And would you ride now, if you could?”

Nesta cut him a quizzical look. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Although I would need to relearn. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the saddle.”

The attention had been on Nesta for too long and her skin was itching with interrogation. Even though it was her who had brought it up, she felt exposed in a way she no longer felt comfortable with. Mentally, she stitched up the wound until she felt calm again. Cassian remained silent, as if he knew that she could not continue.

Eventually, she turned the tables — a deflection and… curiosity. “Do you remember your mother?”

A surprised pause but no sensation lined Nesta’s stomach. He was getting better at catching them; reigning them in so she would not sense them. Sometimes he managed it, other times he didn’t.

“Barely,” Cassian said finally. He did not look down at her and Nesta wondered if speaking about her was precious to him; something he did not usually voice out loud but preferred to keep inside. Nesta understood, so she stared resolutely at the landscape rather than him. “I remember her voice and her hands as we sat around a camp fire. She used to sing to me. This… Illyrian lullaby. I can barely remember it, only a few lines.”

“What were they?” Nesta’s voice was too soft, too quiet, but she knew somehow that Cassian had never told anybody this before. That this information was just as precious to him as Heroicis.

She sensed rather than saw Cassian’s frown. “It sounds better in Illyrian than in translation.”

“Say it in Illyrian then,” she said. Her voice was not demanding but encouraging. A rarity for her.

Cassian seemed to sense it too, because after a slight pause, he dropped into Illyrian with an ease that made her shudder. She listened to the quiet intensity in which he spoke; the gentle lilt in his voice that was almost trance like. She had no idea what it meant, but she felt tears rise to her eyes before she could stop them.

Cassian didn’t notice. She could tell he was still frowning as he finished. “It doesn’t sound right,” he said, slipping back into the common tongue. “It’s supposed to be sung not spoken, but I don’t remember the tune.”

But Nesta would not allow him to taint the words — the words that clearly meant so much to him. She reached her hand up to curl around his shoulder. He looked down at her in surprise.

“It’s beautiful,” she told him with a reverence she reserved for no-one. “Will you translate it for me?”

Nesta wasn’t sure if Cassian saw the silver lining her eyes as his dark eyes scoured her face. Eventually, he nodded simply in answer, and when he spoke, all of the hairs stood up on her arms as a shiver ran down her body.

“Goodnight my warrior heart, Soon Mother won’t hold you fast. One day she will watch you go, But she’ll search high and low, For the twin stars in the night.”

The moment afterwards stretched between them as Cassian banked slightly to the right, his eyes flitting up to view the course ahead. Forest green in dusted white made way to craggy snow-capped mountains, and then beyond that, a pointed stretch of flat mountain pass — Spearhead.

“Have you tried to find out the rest of the lullaby?” Nesta asked when she was certain her voice would not waver.

“Not really,” Cassian admitted. “I asked Rhys’ mother but she didn’t know it. Some lullabies are native to camps and the females… well, they’re scared of me, because of what I did. And… it’s something that I’ve kept for myself for a long time. To speak of it too often made me feel as though I had to part with a piece of it.”

“But would you like to know? If the information was there?”

“Yes,” Cassian said quietly. “I’d like to know.”

Then, as if he too has exposed too much of himself, he said in a voice that was far more conversational and indicated an end to their discussion, “Other than that, I don’t remember much of my time before Windhaven.” Cassian started their descent. He was still moving with greater speed. The rhythm seemed natural for him, and Nesta wondered just how often he had been holding back from tasting the skies as he liked for fear she would give him hell. “All I have in my memory is cold, mud, hunger and too-small fires.”

Nesta nodded even as a lump formed in her throat. She knew what it was to starve and feel unimaginable cold, but to think of Cassian as a little boy cradled against his mother’s chest made the ice want to crack inside of her. She knew what it was to huddle against bodies for warmth so you didn’t freeze to death; she had done that with her sisters night after night, even though the gesture had only ever brought the knowledge that she would never warm up.

Cassian glanced back down at her, and in his eyes she saw a shared understanding that bound them together: You know what it’s like to be starving and cold with no promise of warmth.

“The snow will be deep,” Cassian warned Nesta as he set her down on the boulder in the clearing she had previously burned. “Let me clear some of it so we can spar. I will not be responsible for your frostbite, not when I know how much hell you’ll give me for it.”

Nesta snorted but did not disagree with him. She watched Cassian carve out a training ground for them and tried not to shiver. It was obscenely cold this high up and the wind was so sharp it stung her skin with a ferocity that made her thankful her headband was tight around her head. She was wearing sheepskin leathers, with thermals underneath and knee high boots that Cassian had eyed a little too long when she’d first worn them.

Despite all of her clothing, Nesta’s body still wanted to shake.

She had been slowly and surely been putting on weight, and whilst her cheeks had started to fill out, Nesta wished she’d taken Cassian’s many offerings of second helpings — the extra body fat would be a blessing right now…

A flare of Cassian’s siphons caught her attention as the air hung quiet around them yet again.

“We won’t hear one another otherwise,” Cassian said in explanation. “And,” he added with a feral grin that did nothing to hide the concern layered beneath it, “your lips have turned blue.”

His grin widened at Nesta’s hiss, but he held out a hand to help her down. She batted him away before reluctantly realising it was too far and allowed him to bear her weight as she jumped into the sludgy snow. From the first impact, Nesta felt the cold seep through the thick soles of her boots and creep into the fur lining.

“I want to try something new today.”

Nesta narrowed her eyes. “If you are about to make a sexual advance as a disguise for warming me up, I advise against it.”

Cassian’s canines flashed at the same time his hazel eyes sparked. “Don’t give me ideas, Nesta. I could think of some fun ways to warm you up.”

Nesta snort was unimpressed as she flicked her eyes to the sky. “So predictable,” she sniped. When she held her fingers up, they sparked silver fire. “I can think of some ways to warm you up, too.”

Throwing back his head, Cassian laughed. It was a rough sound, but Nesta heard it for what it was — a distraction. The last time they had visited this mountain pass, Cassian had been in a foul mood and Nesta had been no better. It hadn’t been helped by the memory of pain and suffering that had wound its way from the ground and into Nesta’s blood, until her stomach had been churning with it. Already Nesta could feel the same thing happening; a vibration in her limbs as the energy of years-worth of torment rushed to meet her power. And Cassian… well, being here must be awful for him. Just the knowledge that his mother dwelled here in an unmarked grave made Nesta want to rend apart the sky from the agony of it.

Unclipping a siphon from his armour, Cassian cradled the jewel in the heart of his palm. “I want you to wear this.”

Nesta stared at him in disbelief. She couldn’t have heard him right. “Excuse me.”

Cassian’s lips briefly tightened into a thin line. His mood was darkening by the second and from the slight sensation lining her stomach, she could sense trepidation. This was not a decision he had made lightly.

Yet he stretched his arm out towards her anyway. “Take it,” he ordered, in a way that told him he would not change his mind.

Nesta took the siphon from Cassian. She expected the stone to feel heavy and lifeless in her hand but it pulsed as she touched it; warm, as if it were a steady, beating heart. That heat travelled into her palm… into her veins… until it met her singing power. The siphon glowed as deep as blood as her silver mist curled around it in greeting.

Nesta’s head snapped up to look at Cassian in shock. His eyes had turned hard and unyielding but there was also a light in them that had not been there before. The siphons on his armour were also glowing, as if they too could feel the thrum in its counterpart.

“Siphons store magic,” Cassian told Nesta. His voice had dropped impossibly low — intense. “I’ve wondered for a long while if your magic would be compatible with them.”

Nesta’s eyes widened at the confession — at the gravity of what he was admitting. Once, when she had been very bored and had run out of books, Nesta had dipped into the first few pages of Cassian’s book on siphons, so she roughly knew how they worked. She also knew that Cassian had needed seven to hold the enormity of his power — that if he were to have too few, his Killing Power would blast them to nothing but red dust.

“I could have shattered it,” Nesta snapped. “Are you insane?”

“But you didn’t,” was all Cassian replied. His hands came to her shoulders, steering her so she was facing the clearing of ashen tree stumps and black landscape that should have been pine and stone before she had unleashed hell on it. “Your magic works differently to mine. It is not designed to simply kill. How does it feel?”

“Fine.”

More than fine. Nesta felt as if her skin were singing, her power flowing into the stone as if it were running through a filter. It did not clamber or claw like it usually did; it only filled up the stone like it were an extension of herself. The rest of her immense magic remained in her veins. And Nesta felt stronger… much stronger.

“Illyrian’s use siphons to make our raw magic more precise,” Cassian told her. His voice vibrated against the shell of her ear. He was still holding on to her shoulders, his hands warm despite the immense cold. “We know that you do not need siphons to master your magic, but I thought you could practice using one of mine so you can feel what it is to be in control. If you get a sense of how it feels, I am hoping that you will be able to slip into it more easily when the time comes to practice without one.”

Sensing Nesta’s confusion, Cassian elaborated, “Think of it like the training wheels of a bike. You use them to get a sense of balance, but eventually you have to take the wheels off and master it alone.”

Cassian reached over Nesta to take the siphon from her outstretched hand. Without it Nesta felt light — untethered. The loss was too keen for something she’d only just touched, and from the way Cassian tensed behind her, she wondered if he had sensed it too. Blinking, Nesta turned to see Cassian reaching into his tunic pocket. He brought out a thin corded rope and thread it between the two hooks at the top of the jewel before tying the rope tightly at the ends. He looped it over Nesta’s neck before she realised what was happening.

Nesta stared down at where the ruby rested against her sternum and then back up at Cassian.

“Tuck it beneath your leathers to keep it safe,” Cassian told her.

Nesta didn’t argue. Somehow she knew the gravitas of the moment. Without Cassian’s siphons — his refined Killing Power — he believed himself wholly unworthy. Yet despite the importance of those stones, he was lending one to her. He had risked her shattering it. So Nesta coaxed the makeshift necklace beneath her leathers until the stone touched bare skin.

“This is the closest you will ever get to touching my chest,” she clipped coldly, trying to ignore how the heat from the ruby was seeping into her skin, the sensation deliciously warm.

Cassian’s laugh was deep and rich. “We’ll see.”

“You will not,” she snapped, even as her skin burned with the intent behind his words.

Cassian dared to wink at her as he stepped back. With a flare of ruby, a target appeared in the ashen clearing ahead of them.

“We’ll use the siphon as a way for you to practice settling into a sense of calm,” Cassian told her, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. The change in his voice told her that he was done playing. “Us Illyrian’s call it the Killing Calm; when everything goes deadly still in your head before you enter battle. Does that sound familiar to you?”

“Yes,” Nesta admitted begrudgingly. It was what had happened with both Devlon and Ragar and his cronies. Cassian nodded in understanding. “I thought so. When you’re angry or overwhelmed, you expel your power in one go. By settling into a sense of calm, we can teach you to master your magic. The siphon will allow you to do that. Let’s practice.”

Nesta hit the target every time. She started by striking the outer edge, but by the end of their practice Nesta’s power was burning holes through the bullseye with a precision that even had Cassian nodding in admiration.

“And all the trees are in tact,” Cassian mused after he’d told her to rest. “We need to work on finessing your flames, but that was a good start. I suspect the memory of emotions from the camp is effecting your control.”

It was true, whilst Nesta had hit the target every time, she had also blasted it to smithereens with each impact. Cassian had replaced them with a casual flare of his siphons, and although Nesta had become a little better over the course of the session, the pain and agony that hummed through her veins had overloaded her magic so that it roared.

Slamming up layers and layers of shield had done nothing to mute the sensation. Despite the siphon, Nesta’s power was constantly replenished and raring to be expelled. In the end, Nesta had given up, allowing her power to blaze through the air with a precise sort of havoc that had Cassian’s eyes gleaming and a muscle feathering in his jaw; as if he was waiting in thrilled anticipation to see what she was capable of at the same time he was hoping she would master it.

As if sensing that Nesta still felt restless, Cassian magicked some longswords and put her to work.

Fighting with the longsword made Nesta feel powerful and strong, but today she was unstoppable, an endless energy pounding through her veins. A month ago, when they had first started training with the sword, Cassian had made her begin with a wooden replica. He had quickly realised that her enhanced strength meant that she could wield the real thing with little difficulty. For all of her starvation, Nesta found that eating regularly had allowed her to slip into her inner strength with an ease that had astounded her. It had not surprised Cassian. He had only observed her bring the sword up into ochs before switching through the guard drill he had taught her with a fierce sort of respect that had made her take stock.

After Cassian could no longer critique her guard drills, they began to spar. Each clang of her steel against Cassian’s only made her feel stronger. Today, on this agonised land, Nesta was faster in every sense of the word — her body as sharp as her mind — and she and Cassian fell into a rhythmic sort of dance, their puffs of breath clouding the air around them.

That’s when it happened. Somehow Nesta forced Cassian into the defensive, and when he had thrown her off of him and feinted to the left, Nesta had read him like the page of a well-worn book. She seized the opening, thrusting forward to strike him clean in the side. Cassian’s eyes widened just as her steel struck his armour.

They stopped abruptly. Nesta’s lungs were burning with the effort but her veins hummed, and the siphon beneath her leathers pulsed as Cassian’s flared. The sensation was like another heartbeat.

Her mouth twisted into a wicked smile of its own accord, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as Cassian’s jaw went slack. She had struck him. She had struck him. And in her stomach wasn’t Cassian’s sense of disbelief, but admiration and pride.

“I believe that was a clean hit, Lord of Bloodshed. Remind me, how long have you been training as a warrior?”

The snicker that left Cassian did not mask the awe that had fallen across his dark features. “A humble warrior doesn't gloat, sweetheart.”

Nesta snorted. “Then it would seem I am not a humble warrior.”

Cassian laughed. His pupils were still blown wide; light brown interspersed with green, like forked lightning through chocolate. This was not like the laughter she usually heard. This was completely unchained and joyous. It melted into the atmosphere, into the stone; a fraction of light within the dark.

“I should have known you wouldn’t be modest,” he told her. “Will I ever hear the end of this?”

“No,” Nesta replied.

Her lips had fallen slightly, but a rare amount of amusement remained across her features. The sensation made her feel lighter… less heavy and manicured. It was not something she’d let anyone privy to. But she supposed Cassian had seen all of her now. And he had not run. He had made mistakes, just as she had. Both of them were stumbling on new legs after the war but they were trying to find alternative paths for themselves. When Nesta searched deep inside herself she found that there was no resentment, not today. Maybe tomorrow… but for now. She looked around them at the unencumbered view; the sky streaked with pastel hues, the sun glowing impossibly large so that everything sparkled, making the snow appear as if it were alive.

Cassian was watching her with an expression that she could not dissect. So she wrinkled her nose and asked, “What now?”

With a wave of his hand, the longswords vanished.

She quirked a questioning eyebrow at him, but Cassian only winked at her with a devilish grin that made her blood boil beneath her skin.

Instinctively, she glared at him. Anything to get rid of the unwanted heat that felt like a brand.

“Training with the longsword is essential, but every Illyrian chooses a speciality in combat depending on their strengths,” Cassian told her. His smile had turned smug, which told her that he knew she was flustered. He waved a hand and a weapon’s rack appeared out of thin air. “Choose a weapon,” he ordered.

Nesta crossed her arms firmly over her chest. It was a small act of defiance. “I’m not Illyrian.”

Cassian shrugged. The gesture was relaxed, but his next words were serious, “Then who are you, Nesta?”

“You should be asking, what am I?” she parried, hoping to deflect the question — to watch his eyes gleam.

But Cassian only snorted and waved a jewelled hand. “What are you? Who are you? Who do you want to be? How will you stake your legacy? These are all important questions in Illyrian culture. Illyrian’s believe that you carve your own individual fate — that you can decide how you want to be remembered. Every mistake in the sparring ring is a valuable life lesson. They look forward not back.”

Cassian loosed a breath at the stubborn expression on her face. “You don’t have to choose a weapon if you don't want to, but I have a feeling that the longsword isn’t your calling.”

Nesta’s nostrils flared. “Are you saying I’m bad? I just struck you, if you don’t recall.”

“No, if you continue your training you could be excellent if you wanted to be,” Cassian replied. The remark was off-hand but Nesta knew that was a compliment beyond reckoning. Cassian might be kind, but in the sparring ring praise was hard to come by. Ok, Again and That wasn’t half bad, were the best Nesta usually received during their training sessions. When he was particularly pleased, he might throw in a Good, but for the most part Cassian was hard-faced and serious.

Nesta tried and failed to hide how the praise affected her, even as her skin started to heat.

But for once, Cassian was not paying attention. He shook his head, as if he were emptying his head of thoughts. “I just have a feeling that there is a better weapon for you,” was all he said eventually. “Would you like to choose?”

Nesta studied him for a moment. There was no mockery in his gaze, only sincerity. She did not respond, she only stood up to the rack and took in the weapon’s before her

Her eyes slid over the knives, her gut only twisting slightly in response — a sign of how far she had come — the spear, the mace, the crossbow, the war hammer, and sword after sword after sword, until finally her power leapt and rubies pulsed. Reaching out, Nesta traced the curve of the bow with her fingertips, feeling the intricate carvings similar to the black tattoos that marked Cassian’s skin. It was beautiful and deadly and hers.

She turned to Cassian with an expression that told him he was not to argue. “This one.”

To her surprise, Cassian just nodded. There was no mocking, he only nodded to the bow, urging her to take it.

Her skin hummed as she picked it up. The bow was larger than any weapon she had handled before, but somehow it did not dwarf her frame. The wood was polished and smooth, the curvature of it similar to her upper lip. It felt like an extension of herself, just as Cassian’s siphon slotted into a carved out piece of her that had remained empty, waiting unknowingly.

“How does it feel?”

“Right,” Nesta said simply.

Cassian nodded. The movement was short and decided, as if her words set it in stone. “Good. We’ll incorporate it into your training.” He waved a hand and the bow vanished along with the weapon’s rack. “Let’s go back to Windhaven.”

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