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bouwrites · 2 years ago

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Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 28

Glowing Ember

Ao3.

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“I apologize for making you wait,” Edelgard says politely, sitting down in her seat. Once more, Veery is with her in their isolated tea party location, where they can speak with less fear of being overheard (courtesy, mostly, of Hubert).

“It’s no problem,” Veery says honestly, smiling as she joins him at the table. “You’ve been very busy lately. But you’re an important person, so I get it. It’s really no inconvenience to me.” Truthfully, he enjoys the quiet moment of simply waiting for her to arrive. It’s rare, since Edelgard is nearly always perfectly punctual, but Veery sees her come and go from the monastery, sometimes leaving for days at a time, so he assumes she has a lot of things going on. Whatever else Veery may be, one thing he definitely is, is patient.

He’s also not very great with time, so he honestly doesn’t know how long, exactly, he’s waiting. But that’s just all the more reason why it doesn’t matter to him. He’s just glad to have tea.

Tea is very good. Way back when Lorenz first introduces him to it, Veery doubts he’s going to enjoy it much beyond the tea party itself – the interaction with another person – but now… he likes it. He’s still not very picky, and he still doesn’t notice half the subtle flavors that Lorenz and Ferdinand go on and on about, but it’s nice to just sit and enjoy a cup, even if he doesn’t have someone to talk to.

Actually, sometimes, he does that because he has no one to talk to – or because he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, rather.

“Oh, you noticed?” Edelgard asks. “It’s true, I have been kept very busy recently. I wanted to speak with you earlier, but things simply kept taking my attention.”

Veery hums quietly. “That must be difficult. I don’t think I could handle having to deal with so many responsibilities and people all the time.”

“Ha,” Edelgard huffs, shaking her head. “I think you would do better than you suspect. In fact, I am quite certain that if you were a noble, your people would prosper.”

“I doubt that,” Veery says.

“It’s true. You have a kind heart, and you would not be corrupted by power,” Edelgard says. “And you are a visionary who would not allow your ideals to be compromised easily. Managerial skills can be taught, but those values cannot. You would become a great leader.”

Veery wrinkles his nose. “I’m still not a visionary, and I’m still selfish. Maybe not- not ‘hoard all the resources and make my people suffer’ selfish, or ‘get my rocks off from asserting authority’ selfish, but I’m always going to prioritize myself over everyone else.” He smiles. “Ferdinand and Lorenz say that the nobility should serve their people. I’m… not cut out to be a servant.”

Edelgard snorts. “Neither are most nobles.” Veery can’t help but snicker at her response. “Still, it’s a shame that you would hate it so much. I truly do believe that you would do it well. Although… perhaps part of that is because you would hate it.”

“Maybe,” Veery admits. “I think I heard somewhere once that those eager to use power are the ones who least deserve to have it.”

“Hm. And do you agree with that?”

“Well, sure.” Veery shrugs. “I think it’s mostly talking about influence over others, rather than, you know, strength power. Anyone who wants to control others is… probably going about it the wrong way, I think.”

“Oh?” Edelgard asks. “And what if they are using their power to control the evil? Is it wrong to eagerly use power to suppress such gruesome deeds?”

Veery frowns. “…You’ll never hear me say that you shouldn’t protect people. Ultimately, when it comes down to it, I’m going to protect myself and… if I can, I’ll protect the people I love, too. But… this question isn’t about the protection, don’t you think?”

Edelgard raises a brow. “What do you mean?”

“You’re asking if it’s wrong to assert your authority over people to protect them. And…” Veery bites his lip. “That might be necessary, at times. But why do you need to protect them in the first place? I’m not… the most educated on the subject. I can only go by what I’ve seen. But I saw Rhea execute the officials of the Western Church, and then I saw them retaliate with more violence. Going in and forcefully putting them down may have been necessary, but I can’t help but wonder whether it was preventable.”

“So, rather than controlling others to make them obey the laws, you think it is wiser to convince them instead? Simply approach them in good faith and everything will be better?”

Veery shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. You can’t know until you try. I thought you humans would kill me as soon as I tried making contact with you, and honestly, my first meeting went way worse than I expected, but now… I have family here. People’s beliefs can change, if they have reason to. I just think that swaying people to your side, rather than forcing them, is both more peaceful, and will probably get you better followers.”

“And if they cannot be convinced?”

“Find another way,” Veery says simply. “There’s always another way. The only time you lose those other options is when the fight has already started.”

“Hm.” Edelgard closes her eyes, sipping her tea. “I can’t pretend I’m surprised by that answer. And I won’t deny that there are other ways to resolve things. Still, there are situations in which force is the best way.”

Veery purses his lips. “Define ‘best’. I’m not sure I can agree with that.”

Edelgard hums thoughtfully. “…Let’s say that people are suffering. There is a fundamentally flawed and unfair system in place which is enforced by a powerful tyrant. No stepwise attempt to change would be enough. Even if you manage to change the system, you go too slowly, and many more people suffer under it. Revolution is the obvious path, then, would you not agree?”

Veery frowns and holds his tail carefully. “Revolution?” Veery asks. “And how many people die in this revolution?”

“How many people die under the system you’re fighting?” Edelgard counters. “Even if the revolution is bloody, it is the quickest path to change, and will result in fewer needless deaths overall.”

Fewer needless deaths, huh? Generally, Veery agrees with that sentiment.

“Think of it this way,” Edelgard says softly. “Your dream is to find peace between humans and the agell, is it not? That dream is impossible in Fódlan so long as its religion continues to preach the isolationism we are known for. There is no circumstance that the faithful, who think that outsiders are beyond the goddess’ sights, will accept life with agell so easily. You know this well. The same is true for those of Brigid, Duscur, Almyra…” Edelgard shakes her head sadly. “But you, being non-human, have the worst of it. Will you change the minds of the church and its faithful in your lifetime? Will you manage to counter church doctrine so wholly that all of Fódlan agrees to the change? Or does it make more sense to remove the church entirely, for a world that is better for all?”

Veery furrows his brow. He really doesn’t like this line of questioning. But… she has a point. He himself has said before that he doesn’t think his dream is possible with the Church of Seiros as it is. Something has to give. It’s only a question of what, where, and when.

Even so… “I never expected to see my dream come true in my lifetime to start with,” Veery admits. He smiles ruefully. “Or did you forget that I had every expectation of dying here, changing nothing, knowing that, soon enough, the agell will be extinct?”

“I had not forgotten,” Edelgard says simply. “That is simply such a ridiculous sentiment that I am choosing to ignore it. Someone of your strength and wisdom should not be prepared to roll over and die so easily.”

Veery chuckles. “Oh, I have no intention of dying. My highest priority is always my own survival. That doesn’t mean the odds are good for me.” He shakes his head. “But the church… You’re right. I don’t think my dream is possible with the Church of Seiros in place as it is. Not in Fódlan, at least.”

“Are you content with your dream coming to pass in Albinea only?”

“Honestly? Yes,” Veery says. “All I want is to live alone in peace. If peace can exist in Albinea, then I can exist there. I don’t need to change Fódlan. In fact, that was never the goal. My only motivation for doing so even now is… well… you. All of you who I’ve met here who I’ve come to love.”

Claude’s dream is bigger, Veery knows. It’s the same as Veery’s but so much more ambitious. The world together. No more boundaries, no more walls, no more outsiders and insiders, just one, big, mixed, gloriously diverse people, all respecting each other’s differences and celebrating them rather than condemning them.

Claude is also much more likely to pull it off, despite his dream being so much grander. Claude is just… like that. So smart and capable that Veery thinks that if anyone at all can do it, Claude can. Veery doesn’t have much hope for his success in the first place, so having someone so much more capable to support is a blessing for him.

So, Veery does want to change Fódlan. Because that’s Claude’s dream and Veery decides to support Claude’s dream. But personally? He’s content with Albinea. He likes Albinea, cold and scarcity and all. It’s his home, so if he can pull it off there, even if nowhere else, he’ll be happy.

His dream is, after all, purely selfish. The dream of bringing peace, of everyone getting along and living together isn’t his true dream at all, but rather the route he thinks is best to achieve his true dream. And that is simply to live in peace, unbothered and – most importantly – unafraid.

“I just want to stop feeling so afraid,” Veery says honestly. “The path I take to get there… that dream of mine is just the route I decided on.”

“…I see.” Edelgard inclines her head. Even now, with so many of these conversations over tea with her under his belt, Veery has no hope of identifying just what in the world is going through her head as she examines him so critically like this. “Thank you for answering those questions. If you don’t mind, I did want to use this time with you to ask about what happened in the Sealed Forest, as well.”

“I’m getting used to answering those questions,” Veery sighs. “What did you want to know?”

Edelgard pauses only a moment, narrowing her eyes slightly. “What really happened in that forest? You saved our teacher and Petra, but… that strange glow about you, the pain you were in… everyone is saying that you were touched by the goddess herself.”

“That’s… the leading theory,” Veery admits. “I’ve told this to pretty much everyone by now, but… I honestly thought it was one of the first gods, Chaos, at the time. In hindsight, I think it was more likely Fódlan’s goddess, but the point is that unless she comes out and tells us I don’t think I can ever be entirely sure.”

Edelgard furrows her brow. “Veery…” she says carefully. “Are you hiding something? You’re… not a very good liar.”

Ah, of course Edelgard can tell. But he doesn’t lie! That’s true… except that Sothis has come out and told them. Veery sighs, biting his lip and holding tightly to his tail. “I… there’s more to it that we figured out after,” Veery admits. “But that’s just between me and Claude. I’m not allowed to tell people about it, so… sorry. I didn’t lie, though. All of that is the honest truth.”

Veery leaves out Professor Byleth, in hopes of throwing off suspicion. Although… as long as Edelgard doesn’t know about Sothis’ heart being inside her, Veery doesn’t think Edelgard will figure too much out.

Edelgard hums. “I see. Very well, then. I will not press you to share what you’ve been asked to keep secret. I am surprised that you will simply keep secrets because Claude asks you to, though…”

“It’s not just because he asked me to,” Veery says honestly. “I trust his judgement. With stuff like this… a lot more than my own, frankly. And he takes the time to explain why he thinks it should be secret when I ask, so it makes sense to me.”

Edelgard smiles. “Yes, that does make more sense. Still, I would appreciate hearing what you can share about the encounter.”

“Sure,” Veery says. “But there’s not really that much to say. I was trying to heal Professor Byleth, but that poison made it impossible. I heard a voice. It told me… be strong, and everyone will survive, and then… uh… burning. From what the others told me, it looked pretty much like it felt.”

Edelgard winces sympathetically. “I see. And the… glowing?”

Veery shrugs. “I didn’t notice any glowing. Once the… goddess, or whoever, got into my heart, I was able to use their power.”

“Got into your heart?”

Veery frowns. “It’s like…” Does Edeglard know about the Crest Stones? Gods, Veery actually forgets whether she’s in on it or not. He thinks… she isn’t? It’s only the students who went to Zanado, right? The rest only know the bareboned minimum. “Wait…” he says. “Did… did we not tell you?”

Edelgard raises a brow. “Tell me what, exactly?”

Veery withers under her imperious gaze, fondling the end of his tail nervously. “I… well, I guess it was a secret, but…” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. All the Deer know, so I guess I forgot that no one ever told you.” Edelgard stares silently, awaiting him. Veery coughs awkwardly. “I, um… my heart is… well, there’s a specific part of my heart – for us it’s basically synonymous, but it’s biologically just a part of the whole – it’s where my power comes from. It’s… why I can shift.”

Edelgard frowns. “You have an… extra organ that allows the shifting?”

Veery nods. “Essentially. It does more than that, too. It’s sort of a… magical center. Or focus of sorts. It’s where the agell believe the soul resides.”

Edelgard makes a face. “And where does the soul reside in those without those organs?”

Veery shrugs. “The agell don’t like humans much more than humans like the agell… Anyway, I don’t believe that regardless, but… they can… resonate with others like them. We can, that is. So long as I’m touching them, I can share my heart with other agell, and listen to their hearts in turn. In Fódlan, you call that… er, organ, a Crest Stone.”

Edelgard’s eyes go wide. “Crest Stone? You mean to say…”

“Crest Stones are agell hearts, yes.” Veery nods, not thinking much of telling her. Edelgard is his friend. Honestly, he’s surprised that she doesn’t already know. Between Dorothea and Linhardt both being in on it, he’s sure someone as sharp as Edelgard will know about it – or at least that Hubert will weasel the information out somehow, maybe by going through Linhardt’s notes, and report it back to her. “They retain feelings even after death. I can still listen to them even as they are. The big ones,” Veery continues, “the ones that are in those Relics, are from dragon agell. Mine is… quite a bit smaller.”

Edelgard furrows her brow. “That would mean that… you have a Crest.”

“Mhm.” He nods. “I’m still not a hundred percent sure what a Crest even is, but Professor Hanneman’s doohickey says I do. Linhardt bugs me about it enough that I certainly hope I do. What a waste of time, otherwise.”

“So that is why Linhardt is so obsessed with you.” Edelgard sighs, shaking her head. “That started so long ago, though. You mean to say that you’ve known all this time? When did Linhardt… not long after you came back from the mission to retrieve the Lance of Ruin, am I wrong? You’ve kept your Crest a secret for all this time?”

Veery shrugs helplessly. “What am I supposed to do? Go around saying that an agell, and a foreigner, has what is supposed to be gifted to people by the goddess herself? Besides, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want the attention in the first place, and I don’t really care about it, so… I just didn’t really think to talk about it. Besides, I forgot that some of you don’t know. Everyone found out during that trip to Zanado, and I guess I assumed that it spread.”

Edelgard chuckles. “Actually, not a single person would speak of the events of that day. I asked Dorothea many times, even Hubert tried, but she adamantly refused to say anything. She said that it is your business. I suppose, with everything else that happened, it slipped my mind, as well, and I forgot to ask you directly.”

Veery smiles. “It’s unlike you to forget things.”

“Do not tease me!” Edelgard protests, smiling despite herself. “But… if Crest Stones are agell hearts… how did humans get Crests?”

“I don’t know,” Veery says honestly. “I suspect at least one instance of taguel, but I seriously doubt all of you Crested humans are taguel yourselves. …Remember when we first talked about the taguel? Where the word came up?”

“Ah. The War of Heroes.” Edelgard nods. “The selfsame war in which Crests and the Heroes’ Relics associated with them first appeared.”

“Right.” Veery nods. “My current theory is that there was a dragon tribe somewhere. I don’t know where. Close enough that the humans could kill them. Maybe they took part in the war and just fell, I don’t know. Either way, the humans took a bunch of them, stole their power somehow, and made their bones and hearts into the Heroes’ Relics.”

Edelgard frowns. “How… gruesome. Who could do such a thing?”

Veery snorts. “Anyone with enough motivation. Agell usually aren’t, uh… well, usually all humans take is the fur. But I know for a fact that there are Albinean weapons made of agell bone. They aren’t common by any means, and they don’t make use of our hearts, but…” He shrugs. “It happens.”

“Ugh.” Edelgard wrinkles her nose, disgusted with the idea.

“Actually, and this is just a guess, I think it was probably Solon’s group.”

“Solon’s group?” Edelgard raises her brow. “You suspect their involvement in the War of Heroes? Suspect that they are responsible for what the Church of Seiros claims the goddess did?”

Veery shrugs casually. “Solon told me that it’s a shame we survived, as if his people had something to do with us nearly going extinct in the first place. And they have such strange technology – I don’t think we’ve seen hardly any of it. If anyone could kill a dragon tribe and turn them into those twisted Relics, and somehow give those Crests to humans as well… They’re a more likely culprit than the normal Fódlanders of the time.”

Edelgard’s gaze is piercing, fixing Veery to his seat. “I see,” she says. “That does indeed make sense. I have to wonder, though… the Sword of the Creator and the Crest of Flames…”

Veery shrugs again. “The goddess’ bones and Crest, probably. I told you, for agell… all the gods except for the first gods are technically just exceptionally powerful agell. There is a clear division between divine and not, but biologically we’re the same.”

Edelgard shakes her head. “If that’s true, then the goddess would have to be dead.”

“Well, yeah,” Veery concedes. “Real convenient for the church that she was betrayed and went to go nap in the heavens then, isn’t it?”

“True, but I was thinking about her supposed intervention in the Sealed Forest. How could she have lent you her power if she is dead?”

Oh, shit. Veery says too much, doesn’t he? “That’s… sort of exactly the secret that Claude and I agreed not to share. Sorry.” Honesty is the best policy? Veery bites his lip as he looks over to Edelgard.

Who inclines her head ever so slightly, and concedes. “Very well. I can only assume that if you and Claude both are convinced it’s the most likely possibility, that whatever your reason is makes sense.”

Thank the gods. Her expression is still completely unreadable, but Veery breathes out in relief regardless. “Anyway,” he says. “So, yeah, the goddess connected to my heart. That’s how I was able to use her power. But it was… way too much for me. There’s a reason we distinguish between gods and mortals, even among the agell. Just using her power that much was… well, you saw. I assume the glowing had to do with either the goddess in particular or just the overflow of power itself. Pretty much any other mage here would likely have a better idea than I do.”

Edelgard hums. “Curious… from what you’ve just shared, it sounds like you have possibly the most reason to hate the church of anyone. And yet… you do not seem to hold much disdain for it.”

Veery frowns. “I don’t like hating people,” he says. “I hated one person – Solon – and I felt bad afterwards. Besides, hating whole groups of people is exactly how we get into this stupid cycle of everyone hating each other for no reason. I don’t hate the church. I don’t trust most of the monks, and I definitely don’t trust Rhea, but… distrust keeps me alive. What does hate do for me?”

Edelgard actually laughs. “Most people cannot simply choose not to hate,” she says. “It isn’t about what good it serves; it is simply how you feel. I do see your point, though. Still, I find it ironic that the goddess chose to act through you of all people.”

“Trust me, the irony is not lost on me,” Veery says flatly. “Part of the reason I thought it was Chaos rather than your goddess in the first place was because Chaos would be having the time of their life watching this ridiculous situation.”

Edelgard giggles but sobers quickly. “Tell me, Veery. If the opportunity comes…”

Veery raises his brow, curious and leaning in, but Edelgard sighs and shakes her head.

“Never mind,” she says. Smiling once more, she meets Veery’s eyes. “You, Professor Byleth, Claude… I respect you all a great deal. Every one of our peers has my respect. I do hope we will continue to get along, even after our days at the Academy come to an end.”

Veery can’t help but grin. “I wouldn’t worry too much. We’re all friends, right? If you, Claude, and Dimitri all keep getting along, I look forward to the Fódlan you three can create together.”

Edelgard seems almost surprised by that, and then her gaze becomes unfocused and turns to her tea. “Yes…” She closes her eyes. “That would be wonderful.”

Marianne’s hand is cold against Veery’s bare skin. The hair on his chest provides some protection, but in this form it’s so much thinner than his fur.

Not that Veery’s complaining. He likes the cold. Well, he likes it when it’s this feeble, anyway. “Deep in the long night in an Albinean winter” cold really should have its own classification beyond “cold” but even now with so much practice with Church Common Veery can’t think of a word that will cover that feeling.

“Well?” Professor Manuela prods gently.

“Um…” Marianne pulls back, ducking her head to hide behind her bangs. “I don’t… nothing feels… wrong, but there is something different. Maybe it’s just my imagination…”

“No, no,” Professor Manuela chides. “You should trust yourself with things like this. Take a moment to think about it, and then share your thoughts.”

Marianne does. She clasps her hands together, keeping her head as low as possible, for a long, long minute. “I… It feels like…” she starts, trailing off. “Veery has always felt like… a tree in the snow. But… there are embers there, now, too.”

Well, that explains jack shit. Veery sighs. “That makes sense,” he says, because for as unhelpful as Marianne’s description is academically, she’s not wrong. It takes him a long time to realize it, because he obviously doesn’t have the experience of feeling it in other people, but magic is different in different people. Because he’s relatively new to it, he’s not that great at sensing other people’s magic yet – though he’s improving thanks to training specifically for medical situations like his – but he knows that Lysithea’s magic sure as hell does not feel anything like his. Nor does Sothis’ for that matter.

Veery’s magic is just an extension of his body. It moves like muscle, bites and tears and punches just like he does when he uses it. Lysithea’s crawls and permeates and thrums. Sothis’ burns. Veery has no idea how much of that is his magic being his and theirs being not his – that is, he doesn’t know if others feel their magic the same way he feels his, or if they’ll feel his magic the way he does, but he does suspect that it’s generally the same so long as one person isn’t native to it. So, his and Marianne’s experience of Sothis’ magic is probably alike.

A tree in the snow. Interesting description. Obviously not what Veery would say, but he supposes that it’s not entirely wrong. Veery just doesn’t think in… scenes like that. His descriptors of these magical impressions are mostly verbs rather than nouns.

“The goddess is powerful enough to leave remnants of her power all over the place,” Veery says. “Zanado, the Sealed Forest, Garreg Mach… I’d be surprised if some of it didn’t get stuck with me. And the goddess’ magic definitely… burned. Embers make sense.”

Marianne winces, but Professor Manuela just nods along. Linhardt nods, too, saying, “That’s true. One would hardly expect you to channel the goddess’ power and come out the other side completely unchanged.”

“I mean,” Veery says haltingly, “I am unchanged. In the ways that matter.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, young man,” Professor Manuela says, laying her own hand over his chest to check him with her magic. “Now no spells. Just try to push some magic out”

Veery flexes the magic inside of him, the now-familiar exercise flowing the magic down his arms and out his palms. It’s actually kind of relaxing. Almost meditative, in a way, to just sit still, without anyone bothering him, and focus on the feeling of his muscles and his magic in tension and at rest. It brings an awareness of his body and, importantly, his magic reserves, which needs to be checked on in such a manner in the middle of battle to avoid overtaxing himself. The mindfulness makes that check easy, and nearly automatic. Plus, it’s just nice.

Of course, a bunch of healers feeling him up to examine that magic in the same way is significantly less relaxing. Still, the action itself is nearing on thoughtless to him since he’s so used to it now.

“Hm.” Professor Manuela hums. “Interesting. Shift please, and repeat.”

Veery shifts, allows Professor Manuela (and Marianne, and Linhardt) to reposition themselves with their hands in his fur, and then flexes his magic once more, pushing some out this time through the expulsion point in his mouth.

“Good,” Professor Manuela says. “Now back and repeat once more.”

Obediently, Veery shifts back and goes through the exercise again.

Professor Manuela nods for a moment, and backs off from him, standing straight. “Does anything feel unusual for you?”

“Nope,” Veery answers honestly. “I feel just like normal.”

“Good.” Professor Manuela nods. She quickly then finds a needle and pricks her finger with it. “Now attempt a healing spell.”

With the actual most basic practical healing exercise, Veery doesn’t even need to touch her hand anymore. There’s no way he can heal from a significant distance like Mercedes, Marianne, and Linhardt, but even so all he really needs to do it wave his hand over Professor Manuela’s and she’s healed.

“Students?” Professor Manuela prompts, after she’s satisfied by his work.

Linhardt sighs. “It would seem that, aside from the goddess’ magical signature remaining in Veery to some extent, he’s unaffected by what happened.”

“So it would seem,” Professor Manuela says with a nod. “Take it very easy as you work on your spellcasting again, Veery. Remember, magic is no different from muscles in that you need to work back into it when you don’t use it for some time, or when something gets damaged. But otherwise I’m going to clear you for training.”

“Oh! Good!” Veery grins. Not training isn’t honestly that much of an inconvenience for him. He spends most of his time with books or simply relaxing anyway, so it’s not world-shattering like it would be if Felix were in his position. Truth be told, Veery doesn’t even like training. He doesn’t like fighting, so training isn’t all that different.

Well, Faith training is better, but magic training tends to be more like a research group than a fight club, and Veery is just always going to prefer the former over the latter.

Even so, being cleared means he’s in full health again, and that’s always a good thing.

Veery might be dreading meeting Leonie and Petra again, knowing that they are going to work him to the bone now that they’re allowed to, but still, he is eager to be a bit more active again. It’s nice to exercise regularly, and for all the fighting it involves, Leonie is an excellent workout partner.

But before he hurries outside to enjoy the rest of the day now knowing that he’s allowed to do whatever he wants again, Marianne quietly stops him, and asks, once no one else is listening, to speak in private.

Naturally, Veery jumps at the chance to have another tea party. Marianne looks nervous and serious – though that’s not particularly new – so he invites her into his room where they can have tea without anyone watching them.

And he gets to use his tea set! Tea sets are expensive, but Veery doesn’t really need much money anyway, and Anna is kind to him, so even though it takes him a while to acquire one, he doesn’t think twice about spending nearly all of his savings on it. Not that this is a new purchase by any means. He gets it by the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, and then mostly because someone feels guilty when the Death Knight stabs him and pays him a substantial mercenary fee for his assistance in finding the guy in the first place. (Maybe Seteth? Veery is pretty sure Seteth is in charge of money, anyway, so it seems likely, but also he never actually asks.)

Then again, Veery has a shaky grasp of what normal prices for things are anyway. Anna is a money-hungry dastard, but no one can accuse her of being unfair, so Veery kind of takes it on faith that she’s charging him normal prices.

Not that he minds if she overcharges him because, again, money is useless to him so long as he keeps eating free. Plus, where else is he going to go? The other merchants in town that refuse to serve an agell? Either way, he budgets literally only insofar as he’s inclined to visit Anna a few times a month rather than spend everything he has in one trip. (And even that isn’t actually counting. He just separates his money into a few vaguely even-sized piles and lets Anna figure out how much he can buy – again relying on her good faith, but also again, money is useless to him and she seems to treat him as some naïve baby in need of protection anyway so it’s probably fine.)

(He can’t exactly counter the naïve argument. Even he knows how stupid he is with money – he’s just not good with numbers and really doesn’t care enough about money to bother when it doesn’t actually hurt him that much to be ripped off anyway.)

Regardless, Veery likes his tea set. If he can find a way to bring some or all of it to Albinea with him, even if it just ends up in a cave somewhere (which is likely) he’ll probably do so. Veery isn’t the sentimental type, and especially doesn’t hang sentiments up on objects, but he really likes tea and he’s hoping that, somehow, he can figure out how to get it up in Albinea.

He has… a few ideas. The leading ones at the moment are growing Albinean teas – but then he’ll have to learn the process of getting the leaves ready to steep – and thievery. And it won’t be the first time Veery steals something, so… who cares if some tea goes missing every once in a while?

“U-um…” Marianne murmurs when Veery finishes setting up.

He grins. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

Marianne’s voice comes out stilted and so quiet that Veery isn’t sure a human would hear her even in this little room. “How… serious were you the last time we talked about my… Crest? When you said that- said that Maurice- that I might be… taguel?”

Ah. Veery bites his lip. “I mean,” he says, “I wasn’t joking. I don’t think, at the time, I fully believed it, but actually I’ve done more research since then and… I think it’s pretty likely.”

Marianne nods slowly. “And if you’re right… then my Crest really isn’t cursed?”

Veery frowns into his tea for a moment, debating what to say. “I… don’t know enough about Crests. I can think of several explanations for why you might have observed a curse, despite it not existing, but… you really should be asking Professor Hanneman about whether it’s possible for a Crest to be cursed. I don’t buy it, but I won’t pretend that I know enough to say that it’s definitely not,” Veery says softly. “Did you end up asking Professor Hanneman about that?”

“I…” Marianne chokes up for a moment but manages to nod. “I did. He says that… I should accept it. That… if I allow its power to come forward, then it will open itself to me. I should… I should be able to control it, even if it is cursed. Although… he thinks it’s probably not.”

“If Professor Hanneman thinks so, then I think that’s probably the best thing you can do. He is the expert.”

“…That’s true.” Marianne stares at the table, letting her bangs cover her face. “…I don’t- um…” She takes a big breath and screws up her face. “The goddess… I… every day, I prayed that she’d take me to her. My life is only a burden to others, so I wanted her to… I’m sorry.” She sniffs.

Veery has… absolutely no idea what he can say to her right now. In a lot of ways, he feels tiny and judged, like when he sat with Ashe in the cathedral way back when he first arrived at Garreg Mach. He’s not good enough with words or people to know what to say to something like this, so all he can do is… sit here. Be company, if Marianne decides to appreciate it, or stay away if she needs solitude.

Like with Ashe, like with Professor Byleth, he feels so small and useless facing Marianne right now. He wants… to make her feel better.

“I…” Marianne continues, oblivious to Veery’s twisting gut. He doesn’t blame her. Her problem is so much worse. “I thought a lot about what you said. About me… maybe being taguel. And your song, before the ball… I was never brave enough to ask, but that was…”

Veery nods carefully. “About the taguel, yes.”

Marianne bites her lip. “I thought so. You gave them a happy ending. I… I don’t know what you were saying, but I know that. Somehow the idea of being- of being and taguel and not cursed is- it’s hard but not hopeless.”

She looks down at her lap, trembling violently, but Veery can’t do anything to comfort her right now. “And… in the Sealed Forest… when I saw- I saw- saw the goddess… her hand at work directly. You were… You were hurt.” Marianne needs to take a moment, uninterrupted, to collect herself a little more. “I didn’t know what to think. The goddess worked through you, but… she almost killed you. I don’t know if the goddess hates the agell, like some of the monks say, or if you’re favored by her, or if…”

Marianne shakes her head. “I wished that it was me. All I could think was ‘not him’. Your life has… purpose. You mean something. I… would have given anything to do the goddess’ work and be taken to her side. Be useful for once, and then have my prayers finally answered.”

“Marianne…” Veery looks upon her and feels his heart break. How can she think such awful things about herself? Veery always knew she isn’t kind to herself but… this is beyond anything he expects.

“So.” Marianne steels her voice, taking on more resolve than Veery thinks he ever hears from her. Her gaze is hard, determined, and rises to meet his. “I’m supposed to attend the revelation with you and Professor Byleth. I… I don’t want to face the goddess this… pathetically.” Her gaze falls once more, but she makes her point loud and clear.

“I’m so useless that even the goddess can’t find a single use for me.” No matter how Veery tries to protest, he can’t force any words past his throat. Marianne trudges on, oblivious to his attempts. “But… but I have faith in her. If she won’t answer my prayers for so long… there must be a reason. So, I thought… maybe… I just don’t know my purpose yet. Between you and Professor Hanneman… Claude and Professor Byleth… and Hilda and the others… maybe… maybe you’re right.

“I want to figure out how to use my Crest,” Marianne says firmly. “I don’t want to be a burden to others anymore. I may not… I don’t think I’ll get far enough by the revelation to show much progress, but I want to face the goddess and show her that I’m trying. That I haven’t… given up.” She sniffs, chokes back a sob, and says, “I want to show her that I don’t want to die anymore.”

“So…” Her voice cracks as she struggles to keep herself under control. “Please… help me. I know it’s selfish of me to ask you to help me. Especially when I know that just being around me could hurt you. But I just… I want to make any progress. So that I can face the goddess when the time comes.”

“Marianne…” Veery says. What… can he say to her? How can he possibly comfort someone who is feeling… all of that? There isn’t much he can do, except… “All you need to do is ask, Marianne. I’ll help you however I can.”

“…Thank you,” Marianne chokes out. “You… you’re so brave. I know that you’ll tell me that Professor Hanneman can help me a lot more with learning how to use my Crest. But… I want your help, too. You… tell us often that you never expected to make any progress towards your dream. That you… thought you’d die here. But… you still came and are still trying anyway. How… how are you brave enough to do that? How can you move forward when you know it’s pointless?”

Veery shifts a little in his seat. “Well… it helps to remember that nothing is certain. Until it happens, there are always other paths to take. I can’t know for certain how humans are going to treat me until I give them the chance to interact with me at all. Past that… I don’t know. Actually, Professor Manuela called that Faith. I just… there’s something I have to do, something I can’t live with – in the case of me coming here, it’s that I can’t stand living in fear all the time, and I think the best way to solve that is to… get rid of the source. If humans and agell start getting along, I won’t have to fear humans anymore. So that’s what I needed to do, and I know that I can only control myself, and that no one will solve my problem for me, so I have to do something if anything is going to change. Even if I don’t know what. That makes moving… not so difficult.” He shrugs. “It’s hard, it’s scary, but… it’s simple.”

Marianne nods slowly. “…I see. So… even if you think it’s impossible… you keep moving forward anyway.”

“It’s better than stagnating,” Veery says. “When you stagnate… when you let things hold you back… that’s how you get… generation grudges, like everyone hating each other just because we’re different. That’s how you get trapped. I’d… I’d rather walk willingly into a chance at getting past everything than let myself get trapped and have no chance of survival at all. Sitting there in the cold, in my fear… I was going to die sooner or later. It’s not my policy to invite death any sooner than it has to come, but… on this path, even if I don’t think I’ll ever reach it, there is a chance of me making it through and finally living in peace. If I just stayed there and let my fear control me… nothing would change, and I would die for sure.”

“I won’t die, either,” Marianne says, though her voice wavers. “I’ll… I’ll take a chance. I’ll be brave, so that I can face the goddess just like you do. You’re right. I… like this, I’ll never be useful. My life will always be without purpose. At least… at least if I die trying to find that purpose… trying to be useful… maybe the goddess will forgive me.”

#write #fanfiction #FE Fanfiction #Fire Emblem Three Houses #fe3h

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nefertittythegreat · 4 months ago

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My thoughts didn't fit in a reply but here's my rebuttal:

Ooo some really good stuff here! Really got my brain juices flowing. Ok, here's what I disagree on. I don't believe that narrative wants us readers to believe he's perfect. In fact, it's pointed out many times that he's not. it's Myne who believes he's perfect. Kazuki is actually really good at making us believe whatever Myne believes. In context to Yogurtland, she's often wrong, and she's not a very reliable narrator. Myne has a tendency to put the people she considers family on a pedestal(look at how she regards Tuuli) and this especially true for Ferdinand. And between her and Ferdinand's accolades in the academy, the younger generation has no choice but to believe he is the unattainable perfection they should strive towards but I believe most of Ferdinand's peers and the older nobles know better.

You spent a good portion of the post comparing Ferdinand to various characters, specifically villians. I believe, in this case, the comparison to be a false equivalent because Ferdinand is not a villain. He does not hold the same place in the narrative as the characters you mentioned and therefore they can not be compared. Other characters like Lelouch(Code Geass), Sasuke Uchiha(Naruto), Revy(Black Lagoon) and Hiei(YuYu Hakusho) are more similar to Ferdinand and the place he holds in the narrative and more comparable. But I understood your point with your comparisons, these villains have done unspeakable things and you still like them better than Ferdinand. But why do you like these villains? Why do you find them interesting? I can tell you personally from the ones I know about(Danzo, Orochimaru, and Akito) I don't find them interesting at all. Hurt people hurting doesn't interest me at all, and I could care less about your sad poor little meow meow backstory if you're not an interesting character to me.

These characters have done something in story that caught your eye and Ferdinand didn't. Or the fandom’s woobiefication of him has caused you to go from neutral to dislike. I won't speculate, its up to each person to inner reflect on their thoughts. So are we supposed to like Ferdinand? Yes and no. We are supposed to love him because Myne loves him(here comes Kazuki again with the POV hypnosis)He quickly jumps up to family with Myne through their interactions and as she has to navigate the world of nobility he becomes her only confidant. And this is all before we get his Backstory or well the worse parts of it. We are already supposed to love him. His backstory isn't supposed to endear him to us anymore because like Myne we have long since loved this Strange little man. That despite his flaws, His rudeness, his cold demeanor, his harsh words, we love him anyway. His Backstory only puts into context some of his more odd behaviors. And make the sting of of his leaving Ehrenfest even more painful.

Ferdinand's main sin is really just being an asshole. Personally, I still believe he'd be an asshole if he had a well-adjusted childhood, but that's just me. I love Asshole characters, characters who are just mean for the sake of being mean(I mean I've been in love with Sasuke Uchiha for 15 years if that puts into perspective) and his unlikeableness just makes him all the more appealing to me. I wouldn't call his behavior abusive but I would call him hard-headed and short-sighted.He doesn't listen. He's incapable of listening to anyone whose name isn't Rozemyne(and just barely so)because he thinks he's always right, and too be fair he usually is. In this post you hint that he hurts because he has been hurt, but I don't believe that to be true. Its far too sentimental for Ferdinand. He accepts his past as fact. And while it explains some of his behaviors he doesn't really dwell on it like Akito does her Mothers's abuse and Shigure’s “betrayal”. She hurts because its all she knows. She wants to feel powerful so she makes those around her feel powerless. Ferdinand doesn't need to feel powerful, he doesn't belittle to make himself bigger. He is already powerful and he knows that. The reason he so often punches down is because you do not meet his standards, he does not care where your from or why you don't meet them but if you don't he will let you know. He's that asshole professor from uni that you could never hope to impress. You could write an award-winning article, praised by all and the dick would still only give you a C+. He’ll never change too, and just your luck he’s tenured and you have to take 3 of his classes. I'm not saying these are good things, but I am saying this is 100% purposeful. These flaws are permanent because that's not what he learns during the course of the series. What he learns is to let himself live. Ferdinand has lived his whole life for someone else. This also explains his passivity. I've written before that Ferdinand lacks ambition and for a character so talented and capable and hyper-competent its rare to see, especially when it's not the main character. This is what makes him interesting to me.

I hope you understand why me and maybe some other people like Ferdinand. I mean I'm just a masochistic freak who likes men who will be mean to her but he has other good qualities too. He's not perfect or nice but he's Ferdinand and that's what I like about him 🥰

Thoughts on ferdinand?

Short answer: Don't like that guy.

Beyond this point is the body of the post where I may rail on your favorite character. This post is clearly-labeled and easy to avoid. If you choose to read on despite me making it clear what my opinion is, you do not have to right to vague me in a condescending manner as you may or may not have done with another post of a similar kind. Just avoid this. It's not that hard. I'm making the fandom ecosystem a little more varied, is all. Us Detlinde fans, Sylvester lovers, and Raublut sympathizers have had to sit and bear with it as the fandom paraded our faves and hurled shit at them. If we have had to endure that, surely you can endure One (1) post that criticizes your fave who is widely loved by everyone else and is also put under a cut. Don't start insulting me for criticizing a character when you've gotten mad at me for responding to insults with anger.

Surely a fandom that condescended to us for reading something we disagree with will understand the point I am making here :)

Aight now that that's out of the way, I can finally get to the meat of the post for all the big-brained people who chose to continue.

Reasons why I think Ferdinand sucks have been touched on in these posts (A B) so I don't really have all that much to say about that outside of reiterating what those posts said.

I tried, y'all. I tried so hard to like him. Everyone else loved him and I wanted to see what they were seeing.

But I couldn't.

He's an abusive jackass who doesn't see that the people around him do love him, can't be allowed near children, doesn't bother lifting other people up he just expects them to be already good. His memory trip with Myne changed nothing about how he saw her or other kids “her age”. He doesn't even seem to like most parts of her, he just seems to like that she's on his level and that she'd protect him.

And the problem is that. I wouldn't hate him nearly as much if only the story or the fandom acknowledged his dickishness. It's not that I'm unfamiliar or can't handle heavy topics, either— I am a victim of lifelong abuse in a country that's been on fire for as long as it's existed. I Been Knew, buddy.

Vincent Nightray from Pandora Hearts is a misogynistic little prick who lies and tricks and betrays people to get to his goal. He may or may not also be a transphobic allegory. But I love him! He's one of my favorite characters from the manga! How could this be? Because his flaws matter. Because both the story and the audience understand that he's not just the poorest little man. He kinda is, but I love him because he's a messy character full of flaws. It makes him interesting. Also because his struggles and storyline involving guilt and suicidal ideation resonated deeply with me.

I absolutely fucking adore Sohma Akito from Fruits Basket. She is so fucking abusive to so many characters and… the story knows that! It acknowledges that! She's, like Vincent, a fucking mess! But the way her backstory explains her entire thing but doesn't excuse it, the way she's such a realistic exploration of abuse both as perpetrator and victim, is so interesting! She's so interesting! Fruits Basket as a whole is just. It's good. It's excellent. It even has a counselor and an artist analyzing the symbolism, art direction, and psychology of the characters on YouTube. You should give that podcast a listen. It's by the channel ThoughtBubble. (Ferdinand's “trauma” could become a realistic exploration of the consequences of such a fucked up life, how he passes on the hurt to the younger generation, if only the story let it but… everyone just uses that trauma card to woobify him and excuse him and go “oh poor Ferdinand” on him like a pity party, which I don't like. Again, the potential is there and I could like it, but the way the fandom treated his trauma is so viscerally off-putting to me that my faith in his potential plummeted and I “hate” him by their definition instead)

How about Orochimaru? Irredeemable terrifying bastard villain WHO TRAFFICKS AND EXPERIMENTS ON CHILDREN. There's discussion of how the military state exploited him and he went off the deep end and it was excused when it still benefited the state but became a crime as soon as it became for himself, but largely people agree that he cannot be excused. And he's one of my favorite fucking characters.

Shimura Danzo? Y'all don't need a primer on that fucker everyone hates him he's terrible he's problematic and I love him. One of the characters of all time.

How about Senju Butsuma? Specifically, the rendition of Senju Butsuma in a fic written by my friend. He's still abusive, he literally has a scene of beating the crap out of his sons on-screen in the fic— that scene triggered me by the way but it just goes to show how well-written it is, my friend the author specifically mentioned that he didn't want to trivialize abuse but also didn't want to turn it into a sympathy-bait pity party for the Senju brothers— and? He's my babygirl. He's everything.

Prospera Mercury? Fucking war criminal milf with Issues? She uses both her children as weapons even as she claims she's doing it all for one of them? Massacres people? And? I love her????? She's so messy she's got Problems she's not good for her daughters. And that makes her infinitely delicious. Easily one of my favorites of all time.

So it's not that I hate characters who are jackasses. It's not that I hate flawed, messy characters. I love them! I love them even when canon doesn't. I love them even when the fandom doesn't. I would never try to excuse or absolve them (I mean, I'd like to see any of you try to excuse Danzo??) I try to give these characters the justice they deserve when I'm discussing them with people. But I… can't do that with Ferdinand. Any discussion of his character in a way that doesn't fit their very narrow view of “the biggest victim in the world who is also the strongest most badass man ever” immediately gets clotheslined into “hate”. Even the mildest of criticisms, even the most politely-worded posts get misinterpreted, misconstrued, and ultimately declared as senseless petty hate. Heck, even people who like him a lot get shunned and ostracized from the fandom if their interpretation is too different from the Fandom Majority's! So yes! By the fandom's very definition, I hate him! I hate him most immensely! I hate the parts of him that the narrative and the fandom choose to highlight as opposed to the more interesting bits! I hate that he takes up all the oxygen in the room whenever anyone discusses Veronica's abuse and her victims! He's not the only victim, but everyone acts as though he is!

So yes, tldr: I hate him. If only he could've been written by a better author like Mochizuki Jun or Takaya Natsuki. Fuck, even as much as I gripe about Arakawa Hiromu, even she could've handled him better.

#ascendance of a bookworm #all of my love #its just its been forever since I had any riveting conversations #and yes I did write this in the middle of cleaning my apartment for my cross-country move

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all-about-cr7 · 3 years ago

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Some post-match reactions

🗣Cristiano Ronaldo: "It's my job"

youtube

"We knew we had to win. The team was a little nervous, especially in the first half.

"The fan s pushed us a lot, which is what we need when we are a little bit down, when the team is not playing well.

"After Telles' goal we believed. Here in this stadium, with the history it has, it is possible to do it.

"I said to the players in the tunnel before the second half that we should believe. And it’s good. I score a goal in the 94, 95 minutes which made me feel very happy.

(On his goal and Jesse Lingard’s role) “My purpose was to pass to him. But he gives it back, I don’t know if he tried to give it back, but he gives me the ball and I shoot. I had at least one chance in the game, so I did my job.”

"The game tonight was not my best, but sometimes I play good and I don't score, and today I played not so good and I scored.

"We knew that if we don't get the points today, it would be tough to go through to the next stage. But now everything is possible and we believe to go through.

(the love of the fans) "This is why I came back, I missed this club a lot. I made history in this club and I want to do it again. I say thank you to all of them, not only for myself, but for pushing the team, which will be very important. Another chapter, yes."

🗣Ole Gunnar Solskjaer: "That is just what he has done throughout his career"

"He has an impact on everyone - the crowd, the players, the whole club.

"He’s done that so many times. You saw him against Ireland a month ago and he missed a penalty early, didn’t touch the ball much but scores two great headers in the last two minutes. That is just what he has done throughout his career.

"He is so strong mentally. He just stays in the game. I have seen him all day today; the way he has built himself up for this game, how focused he has been and, when he gets that one chance, it is a goal.

He had a couple of half-decent headers in the first half that could have ended with chances, but the true mark of a very, very good finisher is that he keeps calm when the chance arrives.” (x)

🗣Villareal player Juan Foyth: "Well, he's Cristiano Ronaldo"

"Cristiano Ronaldo only got one chance ... Well, he's Cristiano Ronaldo" (x)

🗣 Rio Ferdinand: "He's there for the big moments"

"He texted me tonight saying ''I didn't' play well, but I knew I'd score. That's the belief that he has. The other players are feeding off it. It's a great place to be.

"United's performance today wasn't great, it wasn't at the level Ole wants it to be. But when you need a goal, a moment to galvanise the squad, the stadium, the fanbase, Cristiano Ronaldo steps up.

"He wants to be that guy the chance falls to. His goal record says it all. He's there for the big moments. He's a big part of that too.

"When you have a player like Cristiano Ronaldo, the players in the dressing room are given life. There's a lease of life, belief, because they know if the chance comes, he will put them away.

"It gives you that ability to be relaxed. It was the biggest thing in our team. When you get under even more pressure and you can see the clock ticking, you don't panic. We were very composed because we believed the chances would come." (x)

🗣Usain Bolt: "I thanked Sir Alex for bringing him back"

"Ronaldo helped to build the club and it was wonderful when he was here, the energy. So I'm happy he's back.

"I just saw Alex Ferguson inside and I thanked him for bringing Cristiano back, so I'm happy about it.'"(x)

#cristiano ronaldo #manchester united #ole gunnar solskjaer #rio ferdinand #usain bolt #sir alex ferguson #interview #Cristiano quotes #quotes about cristiano

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suburbanbeatnik · 4 years ago

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The short and very miserable life of Napoleon II, aka the Eaglet, aka Franz, Duke of Reichstadt: PART TWO

Although the beatings had ceased, Franz’s life continued in refined isolation until his fifteenth year, when his cousin Franz Karl married the beautiful and charming Sophie of Bavaria.

She was only six years older than he, a fine, pretty girl of sweet features and merry lips, with light chestnut brown hair arranged in great loops on her temples. She had done away with the stiff sumptuousness of her apartment at the Burg, and refurnished it in a more intimate atmosphere. In her salon, with its mahogany furniture covered in yellow velours and minus the usual gilding. Reichstadt would often come and sit beside her, looking through the pictures in her albums while she would paint, or play graceful Italian airs on her piano. And they would talk. She sided with him when things went wrong, pitied him, loved him. She was the only one to whom he could talk to with an open heart. Thanks to Sophie, in those troubled years of adolescence when the child is disappearing and the man is trying to find himself, he had at last found what had been refused him for so long: a friend. [Aubry pg 140]

Franz was growing into a handsome young man, with his mother’s blue eyes and blond curls, but his father’s striking bone structure and deep-set eyes, and the emotional Bonaparte temperament. Though he was robust and “glowing with health” as a baby, by the time he was an adolescent he became more frail. Doctors said he had a “scrofulous tendency,” which was 19th century medical gobbledygook for some sort of disorder connected with the lymphatic glands. It seems to me that this kid was isolated and beaten for years, and suffered from pretty severe depression— on top of that, he didn’t eat (Aubry records that he had “a poor appetite”). Throw in an inherited tendency from his mother to have lung trouble, I’m not surprised he struggled with illness going forwards.

Apart from Sophie, there was no one to really look out after him. She encouraged him, his interests, his passions, his keen desire to be a soldier, his love for his father and of France, helping undo all the years of Habsburg brainwashing. As the years passed, he even learned how his father’s executors were continually frustrated in trying to pass on the legacy his father had tried to leave to him. “They had been kept away, or driven away: or else the relics they had brought had been politely taken from them and stuffed away into strongboxes, thus cheating the son of the only material inheritance his father had left him. Who had so ordained? Metternich, none other!” [Aubry pg 154]

Metternich, the true ruler of this not-so-holy and not-so-Roman empire, was the one man who had schemed and plotted to keep Franz so isolated and alone. Metternich, and this is no exaggeration, hated every atom of Franz since he was a baby, and he never let Franz forget it. Franz was under police surveillance at all times: the Chancellor had the Corsican’s son in his grasp, and would not lose him. He wouldn’t even allow the young man contact with his own grandmother, Letizia, Madame Mère, now eighty years old and blind from cataracts. He wouldn’t even allow a single letter— a single sentence.

That statesman, who had a government for a soul, had made Austria a prison for him instead of the home it should have been! Metternich had been his father’s enemy; he was his enemy too, and always had been! The young man felt the hostility underneath the Chancellor’s icy courtesy, and he hated him. Altogether without basis in fact are those accounts of numerous conversations between Metternich and the Duke of Reichstadt during this period. Prokesch maintains that the Minister talked to the Prince just five times in seventeen years. Far from seeking to influence the Duke of Reichstadt during this period, Metternich avoided all contact with him. He hated him as he hated his father. The likeness to the Corsican which he found again in the young man’s features offended him like an insult. He could not bear the sight of that forehead, the sound of that voice. At a Court reception on the evening of the Duke’s eighteenth birthday, the Chancellor paid the obligatory compliments and turned away hastily. Those who spoke to him immediately afterwards found him more distant than usual. As soon as he could do so without attracting attention, he left the palace. [Aubry pg 162]

After years of being force-fed Austrian propaganda, Franz had started reading as much as he could about the greatness of Napoleon— obsessively reading Las Cases’ Memorial of St Helena, which he found on one of the top shelves of the library. Imagine his feelings when he read his father’s will for the first time, discovering what affects and relics were left to him, but which he would never see, thanks to Metternich’s machinations (and Louise’s clumsy attempts to lay claim to Napoleon’s inheritance, which had sabotaged the work of the executors in the first place, did not cease until 1837). Franz, fascinated with his father’s campaigns and personal history, threw himself into his studies. Through books, he vicariously experienced Lodi, Arcole, Marengo, the Pyramids, Jena, Austerlitz… He became drunk with the glory of the past. A spell had been cast, and Franz became determined to make his father proud of him. When one of his tutors began to lecture him on his father’s shortcomings, Franz replied impatiently:

“The actions of great men are not to be weighed with ordinary scales.” [Aubry pg 156]

Franz was slowly shedding the relationships of his childhood. When, upon Neipperg’s death in 1829, he had discovered his mother had contracted a morganatic marriage with the one-eyed Neipperg, he “felt deeply insulted and humiliated.” He was enraged enough to discover just that: of course, keep in mind he had no idea that she was sleeping with Neipperg and had given Franz two illegitimate half-siblings while his father was living with the rats on St. Helena. I doubt he would have ever talked to her again if that was the case. Even without knowing that, he withdrew, “his letters were less affectionate and he mentioned her name more rarely. She had been expected at Schoenbrunn for the summer. Her son learned with relief that she preferred to take a cure in Switzerland.” [Aubry pg 160]

Of course, Louise kept doing her thing, weeping for Neipperg over “gay dinner tables and at the opera,” being annoyed whenever the name of Napoleon reached her ears, and then finding “a substitute for the one-eyed general in the person of the Count de Bombelles, at first Grand Master of her Household, then her lover, and then finally her third husband.” [Aubry pg 161]

Meanwhile, for years Franz had struggled with depression. The July Revolution had happened, with the kind and comfortable Louis-Philippe installed on the throne, and even though the King of Rome was still a popular figure in France, with perhaps a chance to ascend the throne, Franz was still, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner. And the older he got, the more obvious this became. Suggestions to become a monarch in Poland or Greece were pushed asides by Metternich. Attempts by his uncles Lucien and Joseph to discuss Franz’s future with Metternich were completely blocked. All he wanted to do was to start his military career, and make himself useful, but he couldn’t even join his regiment, or even visit his mother in Italy. His health was floated as the reason why he should stay inactive, but Franz doubted this was the only reason. Bouts of rage alternated with deep sloughs of “sadness and tedium,” and he could barely summon the interest to hold a conversation. Not surprisingly, his mother lacked sympathy. In 1830, when Louise was summering in Baden, taking the waters, she “rebuked him for his apathy. She could not understand why her son could be ‘so little like other young people.’” [Aubry pg 181]

It grew worse a year later. Italy was on fire with the revolutionary activities of the Carbonari, and Louise had fled Parma in fear of her life. Franz pleaded with his grandfather to let him go rescue her, but Metternich intervened. Let the son of Napoleon, the King of Rome, go to Italy, where his father won his own fame? Of course not! Emperor Francis gave into Metternich, and poor Franz was left feeling torn between misery, fury and desperation. Even Prokesch, his best friend apart from Sophie—a major in the Viennese army, a loyal soldier, scholar and diplomat who had worked for Metternich, but had defied him on a few occasions-- couldn’t calm him.

His despair was palpable. He knew he would spend his entire life bound and trapped, with Metternich as his jailer.

The young man had sealed himself up in a silence that was almost complete, venting his feelings at the most in talks with Sophie and Prokesch, during which he expressed many severe judgments on members of the Imperial family. He loved Sophie and he had an affection for his grandfather, but he did not like the Empress, fond as she was of him. He thought the Archduke Ferdinand, heir-apparent and King of Hungary, was a ninny. [Editor’s note: Ferdinand was actually a brain-damaged hydrocephalic epileptic who couldn’t even consummate his own marriage with his wife Maria Anna, married in 1835.] He hated the Archduke Franz Karl, Sophie’s husband, calling him deceitful, mean and vulgar. Table conversations at the Hofburg were stupid, the Court life was cheap and in bad taste. Comparing himself with those pious, submissive and conceited Archudukes and those ugly, insipid Archduchesses, he felt himself of a superior race. He even said one day— and Prokesch recorded the words in his secret notes:

“If Josephine had been my mother, my father would not have gone to St. Helena, and I would not be languishing in Vienna. My mother certainly has a kind heart, but no backbone! She was not the wife my father deserved!”

And he added, burying his face in Prokesch’s hands:

“You do not respect her, do you?”

And Prokesch replied:

“She was what she could be. The woman your father deserved for a wife did not exist. But he chose her, and she is your mother…”

Reichstadt was now weeping, and a long silence followed. [Aubry pg 207]

And that was when he seriously began to think about escaping.

While the two began to consider exactly what they could do, Franz decided that he had had quite enough of the chaperonage of Count Dietrichstein, his head tutor. This was the man who whipped him when he was five, who thrashed him when he was ten, who drilled him for countless hours on his German and his Italian translations and all the minutiae of court etiquette. He claimed to be utterly devoted to the young prince. Maybe he was, in his own weird way. But Franz was spreading his wings (or at least attempting to— even when he was 20, his imperial grandpa was still prone to treating him like a child, forcing him to dine with him in austerity if his own personal dinner parties became, in Francis’s opinion, too extravagant). In addition to the sensible and devoted Prokesch, Franz had befriended a few other young men, rakes and dandies all, like Neipperg’s eldest son and the young Esterhazy. Franz was gorgeous, brooding, romantic, and with perfect manners, and the women were obsessed with him (a Polish nun who had never met him but only saw him from a distance once swore undying love, even writing letters to this effect).

There was one woman that Franz danced with at a masquerade ball, a certain Naudine Karolyi, black-haired, handsome and bold, and not only did they manage to dodge Metternich’s spies, but they exchanged a lot of letters. This was 1831, and he was 20. But Dietrichstein soon found out about the correspondence.

At any rate, he strode into the Duke’s room, began rummaging through his desk, and finding a drawer locked, commanded him to open it. Reichstadt did not dare refuse— he obeyed, and his governor saw before him a pile of letters from Esterhazy. He opened a few, ran through them, and turned around livid with anger:

“What?” he cried. “You have a love affair?”

“Yes,” replied the prince coolly. “You can see with whom.”

“Do you write to her directly?”

“No, sir.”

“Then through an intermediary? Someone I know?”

He was besides himself with rage and almost shouting. Other persons had just entered the room and stood looking on in surprise at the strange scene. Reichstadt begged the Count to calm himself.

“Come downstairs with me,” he whispered. “You shall have all the letters afterwards, I promise you.”

The Count mastered his anger and went down with him to the Emperor. On the return, the Duke scrupulously handed him the entire correspondence, and it was forthwith consigned to the flames. [Aubry, pg 212]

But this didn’t stop Dietrichstein from trying to intercept Franz’s personal letters. At one point he saw that Esterhazy called him “the old woman,” and Dietrichstein was “extremely hurt.” He tried everything he could to break up the friendship from that day on, but didn’t succeed, as Franz could be extremely stubborn and loyal to a fault.

The affair with Naudine didn’t go anywhere, but there were others— there was even a reputed bastard daughter who later called herself the Comtesse de la Pommiere— but no matter what happened, his heart belonged to Sophie.

* * *

I’m cutting this off here, because LONG POST IS LONG, but more angst and drama will be coming with the next post!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

#napoleon II #sophie of bavaria #franz duke of reichstadt #l'aiglon #eaglet #octave aubry #marie louise #napoleon #napoleon bonaparte #count dietrichstein #metternich #austria #habsburgs #prokesch #king of rome #this poor kid #fucking habsburgs jesus christ

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lilith-of-rivia · 5 years ago

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The Blacksmith’s Daughter

Masterlist

Pairing: Geralt X Reader

Word count: 3,259

Warnings: Swearing, slight dirty talk, mentions of death, gross wound

Summary: The blacksmiths daughter in the upper northern kingdoms, is the only reason Geralt of Riva trusts to not only fix his weaponry but his wounds. He travels long and far to see the half mage, every year. During the many years he comes to visit her town, she grows feelings (love like feelinsg) for the creature. one particular visits she realizes she can no longer hide these feelinsg from him. [possibe part 2 if interested]

My father only had one child before my mother died. My mother was someone he always referred to as his soul. The light of his life. She died when I was just a babe. He never remarried, saying he’d never disrespect the love of his life. My mother was a mage. The healer of our village. Her powers passed in some aspects down to myself, but not enough to be considered a full mage. I gained the ability for immortality like my mother, unless by blade or beast. My eyes were different from those around my small town, bright emerald green. My father loved my eyes; “Just like you lovely mother my deer.” He always said to me.

Even with the limited magical abilities I possessed I chose to help my father in his smithing shop. I started when I was 16 that was nearly 30 winters ago. I haven’t aged much past 24. Making all the locals continuously fight for my hand. My father never wavered tho. Knowing I wanted to marry for love.

Over the last 30 years I've become one of the most well known smiths in the upper northern kingdoms. I've been called upon to make weapons for the mightiest King’s, even the Lioness Calanthe herself. My blades were well known across most major cities. I had apprenticed many young men to help and the money I began to bring in, made it able for my father to retire about 10 winters ago. My craft did not only extend in my weaponry but also my herbal skills. I was responsible for training the town healers and herbalists. My mother's talents passed onto me. I was a force to be reckoned with.

“Y/N?” My youngest apprentice, Apollo called to me from the front of my shop. Placing the sword I had been sharpening on a shelf I walked to him. I was covered in soot and dirt, my long [hair color] hair resting in a messy bun atop my head. My hands were covered in thick leather gloves that my father crafted for me many years ago to protect my fragile hands. As I approached the window that my customers spoke to my workers threw I saw a man. He was tall, much taller than myself and even Apollo. Apollo was a strong young man, about 6 '1 a decent build, still looked like a boy. But this man made him look like a child. His shoulders were broad and his hair was a striking silvery grey. I knew who he was, all too well.

“Ahh Geralt of Rivia. I thought you were long dead.” My words were followed with a soft chuckle, as the corner of his lips twitched up in a small smirk. His Bard at his side beamed at me.

“Good evening Y/N. How wonderful to see you!” Jaskier said smiling. I took my gloves off my hands along with my messy apron, glancing at Apollo. He’d never met the famed witcher before.

“Apollo be a dear and go finish with Lord Ferdinand's items. He’ll be back soon to collect them.” He nodded his head before walking back to the forge along with my other two apprentices. I opened the small door to the side of the window and stepped about of my shop, the cool Autumn air chilling my warm skin after being over a hot forge for hours.

Jaskier was the first to approach me, bringing me into a tight embrace. I gladly returned the gesture. I pulled back to examine the bard.

“My how you still have yet to age. Always shocks me.” He laughs and pulls out his prized dagger. He had won it in a game of poker many years ago from a lord. The blade alone cost more than anything he possessed. He didn't need the protection. Due to the brooding witcher he always traveled with. I had mended it and only I had mended it. He never trusted another with his blade. Just as his counterpart.

“It's in need for a good sharpening, maybe a polish to the handle? As always you’ll be paid for with not only my coin, but my recommendations as we travel.” I smiled and took the dagger from him and placed it in my belt before tuning to the brooding witcher.

The relationship we shared was like one I didn't share with any other. When he came through my town, I not only fixed and mended his weaponry but also his wounds. I was no longer an active healer. Unless it was for one particular witcher with a pair of striking golden orbs that could pear into the depths of my soul. He could pry out any secrets I never told anyone. Even my father.

My father loved Geralt. Always made comments about how I should pursue him whenever he came to town. Foolish old man thinking a witcher of Geralt’s status stopping for a blacksmith's daughter. Even one of my caliber. Many years ago he traveled with a mage named Yennifer, I adored her when she came with him. An adoring young thing, always willing to teach me new ways in medicine.

They were lovers for many years until they drifted apart. Yennefer found love in her first mate Istredd. They married a few years ago. Occasionally Yennifer would pass through and we’d catch up over a pint of ale, and she'd tell me of her travels looking for a cure to her empty womb. I pitied the woman, she desperately wanted children.

Knowing women of Yennifer’s caliber were who Geralt went for always made me hesitate from telling him my true feelings. I had fallen madly in love with the witcher. He stayed weeks at a time some years in my town, killing monsters in closer towns and being our own personal Witcher. The townspeople loved him, contrary to many other villages and cities.

“How many wounds am I healing today, wolf?” I asked as I approached him, his small smirk formed into a genuine smile as he embraced me. My arms around his broad shoulders as he bent to hug me. I could feel him grimace under my touch as my chest pressed to his own. I pulled away with a soft frown before lifting his shirt softly. Revealing a large deep gash spreading from his upper chest to his pant line. The gash was angry, yellow pus now oozy in certain areas. My brows lifted on my forehead in shock.

“You bloody idiot. How long has this gone untreated?” I asked quite harshly as I walked back into my shop, gathering my cloak and notebook full of orders to fill. I placed Jaskiers Dagger on a shelf.

“I’ll see you lads tomorrow, don’t forget to lock up tonight. Send for me if you need it.” I called my three workers in the back who all smiled and nodded before refocusing on their tasks.

I walked back out to the two men who were waiting for me. I shot a glare at Jaskier. “You let him walk around with an infection like that ?” I snapped as we started walking to the edge of town, passing the tavern and inn they both had spent many nights in.

“He refused to see anyone other than you, we’ve been traveling to see you for three consecutive days.” I directed my glair to the witcher who had a sly smirk on his lips.

“It's not that bad you drama queen.” I scoffed at his words before reaching over and brushing my fingertips along the cufeather-light. He hissed in pain and nearly doubled over.

“Yeah not that bad. You idiot loaf.” We walked at a quick pause up a small road from the main, up to my small cabin on the outskirts of the forest. I opened the door placing down my belongings before, sitting Geralt down on a chair in my kitchen. Jaskier on the other side, his hands on the book that had set there that I read in the mornings.

I rushed around my kitchen grabbing the herbs and viles full of oils and serums. I grumbled to myself at the stupidity of the witcher while I filled a pail with clean water. “Shirt off.” It wasn't a question or anything he could argue with. I knew he wouldn’t. I could hear his grunts of pain as he peeled his black shirt off. Once the pail was full of water I grabbed a box full of fresh wrapping and set everything on the table as Jaskier read unbothered.

I crouched in front of Geralt, my fingers tracing the angered skin surrounding the gash. I inhaled deeply, the scent of the wound filling my nose. It was badly infected but nothing I couldn't fix.

“Werewolf?” I asked, knowing I was right. The smell of the wolf’s claws being the first I could smell.

“Yeah, a real fucker too. Nearly broke my blade.” He hissed, In part of his anger at his last hunt, and due to the stinging of the alcohol I had poured on the clean cloth dabbing and cleaning the wound. His muscles contracted under my touch. I sighed but continued my work, spreading a lavender oil over the outside of the gash, soothing the skin. I grabbed a jar scooping out a helping of a cream made of hemlock and musk mallow to help the infection. After a thick paste was covering the gash I placed a few pieces of gauze over it keeping it protected. Once I was finished I looked up at the witcher, who was watching me intently. His amber eyes are boring into my emerald ones.

“I suggest you stay here a few days, till you’re healed more. So I can keep an eye on that infection.” I said with a soft smile. He grabbed a pack off his hip and placed three coins on my table, making me shake my head.

“Geralt, keep it I-“

“You just used so many fucking things on me. Take the money. Replenish your stock.” I rolled my eyes taking the coin from the table and putting it in my pocket, knowing I’d be giving it to the needy in town. I had plenty.

Jaskier placed the book he was reading down and smiled.

“Know that the broot is no longer dying, care to get some ale?” He asked, making me laugh.

“Let me see your sword first.” I was the only person on this plant that he allowed to touch that beloved sword. He pulled it from its sheath and handed it to me. I looked over the blade, seeing the dullness, and how fragile the silver was.

“Lucky for you, we replenish our silver last week, I have plenty to fix this blunt blade.” I placed the sword back in its sheath before placing it on a hook on my door. I walked back over to Geralt, taking his chin in my hand making him look up at me from his seated position.

“If you ever come to me with an infection like that again. I will kill you instead of heal you.” My threats fell flat, I knew that. He chuckled softly before kissing my hand softly.

“Thank you, my dear, Y/N. I already feel better.” I smiled softly and looked over at Jaskier who was just watching with an exasperated expression. He knew we had a weird relationship and truly couldn’t understand why we never became anything more than friends.

“How about that ale?” He said after clearing his throat. I nodded, grabbing his shirt from the floor and helping it back over his head. The men left their items in my home after I insisted they stay with me instead of going to the inn. And we were on our way to the bustling tavern. Filed with laughing people celebrating the end of the week with the sweet peach ale our town was best known for. Geralt and Jaskier found a table as I went to thbarkeep.

“Ahh Y/N!! How are you, my dear?” He asked as he filed the tankers with the cold bubbly ale.

“Quite well August thank you. Hope your ax is doing better?” I asked, speaking of the ax I had fixed for him less than a month ago.

“Oh works wonderfully!” He smiled sweetly at me passing me the tankers and I pulled out the coin but he held his hand out.

“First rounds on the house.” I smiled and nodded at the man grabbing the tankers turning my back to him and walking back to the two men I left. As I approached I saw Annabel. A quite permisquess young thing, not that it was my business what she did with her body, all over Geralt. I felt envy course, threw my body as she groped his chest. I saw his face contort in pain as she brushed her hand down his chest, and he gently pushed her back, but of course, she didn't get the message. I walked up behind her, setting the ale on the table firmly before taking her wrist in my hand spinning her to face me.

“He is hurt, a massive gash, infected puss all over the bandages. Stop. Touching.” My voice was harsh as I glared at the young woman. Her head dropped as she walked away from me in a hurry. I let out a huff as I sat next to Geralt. I could almost feel his smirk as he looked at me. I lifted the tanker to my lips sipping the sweet ale as did Jaskier who was also smiling at me.

“I'll stab your eyes out of your head if you keep looking at me like that Bard.” I spat and he rolled his eyes standing with the ale in his hand looking over at a group of young women.

“I’m going to party, but now I’m also leaving you two alone too” He pointed his free hand in between the two of us, “figure out what the hell you are. Don't wait up.” He left us as he walked to the group of women ready to brag about his adventures with the feared witcher. My cheeks were warm at his words, as I gulped down more of the ale, ignoring Geralt’s persistent gaze as he drank his ale.

“Any idea what Jaskier may be talking about, dove?” He asked, his arm now draped around my chair, his fingers brushing my arm lightly.

“Don't get any smart ide,as Witcher, you're in no place to fuck with a wound like that.” I didn't look at him.

“No one said anything about fucking dove.” That godforsaken nickname made my nipples harden. And my cunt moisten. I finally turned to him, he was inches away from my face. His ale is now on the table. His hand gently cupped my face.

“I’m serious. Even if I wanted to, you cant. It could break the scabs forming.” I couldn't help but lean into his warm rough calloused hand. My hands were similar in feel due to my craft.

“I never mentioned fuking dove, but if you really wanted to. You’d be my first pick.” His lips were inches from mine. My breathing became more erratic at his words, my heartbeat was quickening. He chuckled softly. Inhaling deeply.

“I can not only hear your heart but smell your arousal, my love.” I bit my lip softly and closed my eyes gently. I wanted to, more than anything. But I couldn't just fuck him and ignore the love I felt for the man.

“You’ll leave soon Geralt. And my heart cannot handle it.” It was now or never. I pulled back a little looking in his eyes. “I've been in love with you for many many years. You coming threw and staying when you do is the happiest I am all year, but I know you do not feel the same. I can't fuck you and then watch you leave. You may leave now and never speak-“ I didn't even have the chance to finish my rambling because his lips were pressed to mine. His hands now both on my cheeks. His lips were rough and tasted sweet. It lasted mere minutes. Before he pulled away.

“I will always come home to you, my dove. If you’ll have me.” He said with a smile. My heart was beating faster again. His hands were now holding my own.

“I've never been good with words, but there is a reason I only trust you to tend to my wounds and my swords. You are not just another woman to me. I need you in my life. If you’ll have me, I'll always return to you after every hunt and If I’m needed far, you’ll come with me.” My eyes were welling with tears at his sweet words. It was all I ever wanted him to say. This time I pressed my lips to his. It was softer than before, longer. Full of more passion. More love than any kiss I had ever shared.

“I’ll always take you in your stupid bafoon.” He chuckled softly at my words and leaned back placing his arm around my shoulders again, his eyes scanning the crowd, landing on Jaskier who was singing his least favorite tune. But even the hated song couldn't damper the Witcher’s smile.

“You’ll now need to ask my father for his blessing if you plan to take me with you,” I whispered, nodding my head to the direction of where my father was seated, talking to his companions laughing and joking. Geralt cleared his throat and got to his feet, his fingers laced on my own. He led me through the crowd.

“Mr. Y/L/N?” Geralt asked, his shoulders pressed back as he stood behind my father, his hand not leaving my own. My father turned, saw our hands then the face of the man I was with.

“Geralt!! So good to see y, ou my boy!” He stood and patted Geralt's shoulder.

“How’s the hunt these days?”

“Very good sir, I um... actually have a question for you.” My father smiled and looked at me. Winking.

“What's that lad?” He asked.

“Can I have your blessing to take your daughter's hand in marriage?” I nearly choked on my own spit at his words. My heart is now hammering out of my chest. My cheeks bright red as I squeezed his hand. My father laughed and threw his hands in the air.

“Finally!! A more than worthy suitor for my dear daughter!” The men behind him cheered a few men in the bar looking over eyes burning into Geralt in jealousy.

“You are the only one for my daughter's dear boy. My dear wife Gladdis wouldn’t have been happier. You protect my daughter. With your life. And you have my blessing.” My father stuck his hand out and Geralt let go of mine to shake it.

“I’d die before a hair is harmed on her head, sir.” My father laughed.

“So it will be a wedding in the future! A round on me for everyone!!” The tavern cheered and my father hugged me, kissing my cheek before whispering, “I Told you,my dear. And you thought I was wrong.” I laughed softly and hugged him tightly. An arm wrapped around my hip. Jaskier cheered and started to play a tune on his lute. Geralt bent down his lips by my ear.

“I love you to the moon and back, dove.”

#geralt x you #garalt imagines #geralt x reader #witcher ciri #witcher yennefer #the withcer #geralt #geralt of rivera #imagnes #geralt imagine #geralt fanfic #witcher netflix #geralt x yn

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lysissisyl · 4 years ago

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Written for you...💜 @patricia-von-arundel

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

The person I’m supposed to be

The night was cold and the wind blew strong on the balcony. Edelgard considered wrapping her cape around herself, but she decided not to. It was nothing she couldn’t handle, and it kept her grounded, it helped her think more clearly. The war was almost over, and she could understand Dimitri better now. She had found her own personal ghosts after all.

She thought about the small town they had gotten across in the morning. It was so silent... Everyone had stopped and she had thought it was a sign of respect for their Emperor. She had spent a few minutes wondering if she was supposed to say something; thank them for their support, encourage them to walk towards brighter days together, even just tell them that they could get back to work if they were busy, that such reverence wasn’t needed. Then, she had seen them. A mother and her children. The woman had averted her gaze, like the others, but the kids were staring at her, eyes widened in fear, the exact same look her younger siblings had when they heard the gate to the dungeons opening, and they knew one of them was going to be taken. Terror.

She had almost stopped to tell them they were safe, that she meant no harm to the innocents, that she was fighting for their future. But...was she? Will those kids survive the war? They looked hungry and weak. She knew both. Could she win fast enough for them not to starve? How many did already? Edelgard thought about Dorothea, about how she had been taking care of all those children in the past five years. What would she think of her? She was so aware it was impossible to bring a change without deaths and pain, that she had almost forgotten how helpless it felt. No, she wasn’t helpless anymore...

“El?”

Byleth had come in again without asking. How long had she been there? She took a breath in, to regain control. “Is something the matter?”

She already knew the answer from her voice, the way she called her. Not the tone a mercenary would use to get someone’s attention to discuss a plan or the one her teacher would have used to inform her of a threat. Personal, kind, and...cautious. Did she look weak?

“I should be asking that.”

“Why? Do I look upset? I was lost in my thoughts, but I’m available if you have something to discuss.”

Byleth stared at her for a few seconds too long, so she turned her back to her again, before her mask could crack.

“Something is bothering you.”

A statement, not a question, therefore no answer was needed. Edelgard kept looking out the window, and Byleth leant on the railing on her left.

She couldn’t keep it in. “How do you know you’re a good person?”

“A good person?”

“Everyone seems to know. To Petra it’s fighting for her people, for both peace and respect, improving herself to be a better leader. To Dorothea it’s taking care of others and giving them what she couldn’t have and no one should miss.

To Ferdinand it’s being a true noble, someone who will defend his and his comrades’ honor, being an example for the people around him, making sure that his existence and his actions make the world around him shine.

To Hubert, it means serving me well, protecting me, sticking to his duty, doing what has to be done for my plans to succeed, no matter what it is. But I’m the one making those plans. So the question stays.

Everyone is following me, walking the path I carved for myself. I know I’m doing what has to be done. I have no doubts about my fight, but...am I a good person, my teacher?”

“What is a good person to Edelgard?”

Edelgard remained silent for a few moments. When she spoke again her voice was softer than before. “Someone who does what is right. Someone who won’t let people suffer and look away. Someone who won’t choose the easy road not to make they’re hands dirty. Someone who won’t be so self indulgent to believe that not making it worse will be enough. Someone who will fight to fix injustices. Someone who is feared by the abusers, by those who have been corrupted by their own power, and will use theirs to protect those who can’t fight for themselves. Someone I should be. And I struggle to be. Because...there are things I...want.”

Her eyes were staring at Byleth’s now, with a look far different from anything she had ever seen on her face.

For the first time, silence wasn’t a choice. She just didn’t know words to answer that look.

Then Edelgard’s gaze shifted to the gardens below again. “I knew my path wasn’t going to be an easy one. I thought I would have walked it alone and I knew from the start it could cost me everything. I thought I was prepared. For all the sacrifices...”

“You were prepared as long as the sacrifices were yours.”

“I knew people would have died, enemies, allies and innocents alike. I knew many would have called me a monster. I was ready to become one.

...

Did I?”

“You know monsters, El... They aren’t afraid of themselves.”

“I’m not afraid. But I made the wrong people afraid.”

“They don’t know you.”

“Do you?”

“I know you like sweets, and the feeling of the wind on your skin. I know you always watch your friends’ backs in a fight, and then pretend you didn’t notice the soldiers charging at them. I know you go pet the horses and wyverns after the hardest battles, like you used to pet the cats at the monastery. You gave them fish too, didn’t you? That’s why I could always spot one outside your room.”

“It would have been a shame to waste it when I wasn’t hungry.”

Byleth showed her one of those faint smiles of her. “It sure would have.”

“In the past I told you that, if I were alone, I might have lost perspective and become a harsh ruler, with a heart of ice. There is more to it now. As long as you’ll stay by my side...I’ll know I’m still acting like the leader I’m supposed to be. I may not know the answer for myself, but I know who you are.”

“I don’t know if I’m a good person. I’m protective of my friends and I try to be kind to people in general. I wouldn’t hurt anyone without a reason, but beware if you give me one. I probably have more blood on my hands than you have on yours.“

“This isn’t what I meant to say. My apologies for troubling you.”

“You didn’t. I don’t know, but it doesn’t make a difference to me. If I’ll be alive, if the people I love will be alive and we can smile together, I will know I made it right.”

Edelgard attempted a smile. “Maybe a part of me wants the same, but this is not the time for me to indulge in such thoughts. There is no answer to my question after all, is there?”

“Yes”

“What?”

“You are a good person, Edelgard. To me. To all those who know you and chose to follow you. But “good” is just a word and not something to bleed for. You said it twice, but there is nothing you are supposed to be.” She pulled back and offered her hand, inviting her to head back inside together. “It’s a cold night and we have plans to make. Let’s end this war, shall we? So that “happy” will be all you need to be.”

#RedInk #Edeleth #Edelgard #Byleth #FE3H #I really hope you’ll like it

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luthienebonyx · 4 years ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Friday's Child - Georgette Heyer, HEYER Georgette - Works Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gil Ringwood/Ferdy Fakenham, Anthony "Sherry" Sheringham/Hero Wantage, Isabella Milborne/George Wrotham Characters: Gilbert Ringwood, Ferdinand Fakenham, Anthony "Sherry" Sheringham, Hero Wantage, George Wrotham, Isabella Milborne, Chilham (Friday's Child) Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, Past unrequited love, Eventual Requited Love, Pining, Idiots in Love, just generally idiots, Friendship, Romance, Marriage, Pregnancy, Comedy, Romantic Comedy, a teensy bit of angst, The Season, Christmas, Road Trips, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, On Purpose, hedgerows, Jealousy, Hurt/Comfort, Regency, obviously, elaborate descriptions of clothing, Minor Original Character(s), Across a crowded (ball)room, What Happened After, Post-Canon Summary:

The tale of a memorable and eventful six months in the life of Mr Gilbert Ringwood, Esq., following the marriage of his friend, Lord Wrotham, to Miss Isabella Milborne in June, 1817.

Okay, so this is my YULETIDE AUTHOR REVEAL, and there is quite a story to this one. Fair warning, this is an EXTREMELY self-indulgent post.

Every single story I've written for Yuletide over the years is one that I probably wouldn't have otherwise written, and every single one of them has also wound up being amongst my personal favourites of my own work. I've loved writing all of them. However, the story I wrote this year is one I've been talking about writing for quite literally twenty years, but the history of it goes back even further. So, sit back, and I'll tell you the tale of the long path that eventually led me to writing That Greek Thing.

Some years ago (Shall we specify that it was the ninth decade of the Twentieth Century? Yes, I think we shall!) there lived a girl who was at that rather difficult age when she was no longer a child nor yet a young lady. This girl, whom we shall, for the sake of convenience, call Miss L, lived in a village by the sea in a far distant, Antipodean land. She was a quiet, bookish beanpole of a girl, almost a bluestocking - the sort of individual who lived rather too much in her own head, in fact. One day, as Miss L browsed the offerings on the secondhand book table at the annual fete of the local church, she chanced upon a volume, sadly dog-eared and with a long crease right through the front cover, titled ‘A Civil Contract’ by Georgette Heyer, which had clearly become surplus to its previous owner's requirements. Miss L had recently read and loved Miss Austen's ‘Pride and Prejudice’ for the first time, and it was immediately obvious to her that Miss Heyer's work was set in a similar time period.

So Miss L bought A Civil Contract, and read it, and laughed heartily at the various supporting characters such as Mr Chawleigh, but her youthful heart found the arranged marriage central to the story rather more serious and subdued than she had been expecting. It was not really the book she had expected it to be, but it tugged at her memory, so when she was next perusing the titles at her local library and she chanced upon another title by Miss Heyer, she resolved that she should give it a chance.

She loved this book - though which one it was, exactly, of Miss Heyer's many works is lost to the mists of time - and thus was born a great and enduring literary love.

Miss L noted the very long list entitled "By the same author" at the front of ‘A Civil Contract’ and embarked upon a most determined pursuit, proceeding to haunt fetes, book exchanges and other such faintly disreputable premises in which secondhand books were to be found, in search of Heyers she had yet to read. Dear reader, you must remember that this was long ago, and if it was not quite before the Internet itself, it was certainly well before the advent of the world wide web. One could not simply conduct a quick search and download a book into one's own hands in the space of a few minutes. One could not even easily order books, except through the auspices of an official bookseller - and Miss L was young, and sadly short of funds.

So Miss L hunted most carefully, and over the next several years amassed a collection of all of Miss Heyer's novels set in England during that period between 1811 and 1820 known as the Regency. However, Miss L never met another soul who would admit to having even once read any of Miss Heyer's works, though clearly such persons must be out there somewhere - for otherwise, where would all the books in Miss L's collection have come from? So Miss L continued, hugging Miss Heyer's works to her as her special secret. She read other works set in what was then becoming known as the Regency romance genre, but they were as pale copies of Miss Heyer's sparkling and beautifully researched originals, and she soon lost interest.

Miss L grew older, and assumed the life of a young lady, and other considerations took up much of her time and attention. However, she always returned to Miss Heyer's novels eventually, greeting them like old friends who would never fail to make her smile in the midst of troubled times.

Things continued thus until the closing years of the century - and, indeed, the millennium - when Miss L one day stumbled upon that wondrous community known as online fandom. The fannish life soon consumed much of her time, and she read a great deal of "fanfiction" while also, hesitantly, trying her own hand at writing and sharing offerings of her own.

And then came a most unexpected occurrence. Miss L was reading through the daily bulletin from her favoured Xena: Warrior Princess/Hercules: the Legendary Journeys slash Mailing List, when lo, she espied a most intriguing subject line. It proclaimed, very simply: "FIC: Regency Fuck (1/?)".

Here we shall pause a moment to explain that while, in these modern times, the genre known as the Regency AU is quite well-known in fandom, at that time, more than twenty years ago, this was not at all the case. AUs themselves were not near as wide-spread a phenomenon as they are today, and Miss L had never in her life even considered the possibility of the existence of such a thing as a Regency AU - and yet there it was, before her.

She read the first chapter of Regency Fuck most quickly, and then went to see what other members of the Mailing List might have made of it. The chapter had been received in a most positive light, but everyone else searched and failed to find exactly the right description to do it justice. Most compared it to Miss Austen's work. However, Miss L knew something that all the other members of the Mailing List (except ONE other, clearly) did not: Miss Heyer's very first novel set during the Regency period had been entitled Regency Buck. Miss L had squealed with joy upon reading the first chapter of Regency Fuck, for it was not merely a story set during the Regency but rather, and most clearly, one set in Miss Heyer's very particular version of that period.

So at last Miss L gathered her courage and sent an email to the author. Its exact contents are also lost in the mists of time, however the general gist was: SLASHY GEORGETTE HEYER?! - to which the author of Regency Fuck replied, just as ecstatically: YES!

Thus began a correspondence about gentlemen in tight breeches that continues to this very day. The author of Regency Fuck, whom we shall call Miss Damerel - actually, no we shall not, for as everyone with any proper understanding would know, Damerel is a title NOT merely a surname. Therefore, we shall refer to her henceforward as Lady Damerel. (In any event, Lady Damerel was not then yet going by the pen name Damerel, for in that case Miss L should have been left in no doubt whatsoever about which of Miss Heyer's heroes Lady Damerel numbered amongst her veriest favourites.)

So Miss L and Lady Damerel continued their correspondence as Regency Fuck grew longer and longer, and it was no doubt at about this time that first mention was made of Miss Heyer's 1944 novel Friday's Child, and in particular two of the primary supporting characters, Mr Gilbert Ringwood and the Honourable Ferdinand Fakenham, and how very easy it would be to slash them.

"Someone should write it," Miss L opined.

"Yes, someone should," Lady Damerel agreed.

"I should probably write it," Miss L continued.

"Yes, you should," Lady Damerel said, with great eagerness.

However, Miss L did not write it, though she continued to mention the idea of it every now and then in the years that followed. And a great many years did follow. Miss L and Lady Damerel drifted in different fannish directions, but their friendship remained true - for who else in the world could quite understand their twin mutual and abiding loves for Miss Heyer's works and gentlemen getting each other out of their tight breeches?

Some eight years after their first acquaintance, Miss L journeyed to Great Britain, where she met Lady Damerel in the flesh at last. They travelled together to Bath, and spent a most diverting time there, imagining this or that of Miss Heyer's characters walking the streets, taking Georgian elevenses at the Pump Room, and drinking rather too much of a mysterious white liqueur (which they had discovered in a local tavern) in the evenings at their hotel.

At the end of their time in Bath, they parted sorrowfully, knowing that it would be long before they set eyes on each other again, and went back to their lives. Of course, the correspondence continued, just as before.

At around this time, Miss L first took part in the great fannish holiday time tradition of Yuletide. She was quite overwhelmed to discover that asking for a Heyer story was an option open to her, but she gathered her courage and did ask for such a thing, and received a most delightful story based on The Foundling as her gift. In later years, she received other beautiful little Heyer stories at Yuletide, but she could not quite find in herself the mettle, or perhaps the presumption, required to offer to write Heyer fic herself - for what if she could not do it justice?

Miss L did write Regency AUs in a number of fandoms in the years that followed, however, and she enjoyed the experience very much. She then fell away from writing anything at all for a number of years, and began to wonder if she would ever write fanfiction again.

She was, naturally, quite in the wrong in making this assumption, and in mid-2019 a new fandom set her to writing great screeds again. However, the very first thing she had written that year was actually a drabble - a story of exactly 100 words - using characters from Miss Heyer's Frederica in filling a request for Miss @thisbluespirit, in a small fandom challenge in which they were both taking part. It was a small step, but a very important one.

That year, Miss L took part in Yuletide again for the first time in some five years. However, it was not until the end of the following year - that damnable year, 2020, of which we will not speak further - that Miss L finally decided that THIS would be the year that she would finally write a full-blown Heyer fic. She signed up for Yuletide, offering nine fandoms in all, but rather stacking the odds by ensuring that seven of those fandoms were Heyer novels. It seemed as if Fate must have taken a hand when she received her assignment and discovered that she had been matched with her recipient, Miss @afterism, for none other than Miss Heyer's Friday's Child. Upon investigating further, she discovered that Miss Afterism was particularly fond of Gil/Ferdy - and so, at last, Miss L embarked on writing the story that she had been considering for so long, some 35 (or perhaps even more) years after first reading Friday's Child.

Dear Reader, she ADORED writing this story. She did, of course, e-mail Lady Damerel posthaste to let her know that she was at last writing Gil and Ferdy's story. She was also anxious to share with Lady Damerel - because she knew that no other of her acquaintance would quite understand - how she had quite burst out laughing when, while walking her dog - who is, of course, named Lufra after the family dog in Frederica - one day she had realised that this story could only be titled That Greek Thing.

And so at last That Greek Thing was completed and posted and, on Christmas Day, the Yuletide collection was revealed. Very fortunately, Miss Afterism was very happy with That Greek Thing. Lady Damerel also squeed in a most unladylike way about it, and others also commented with words of approval.

Miss L ventures to believe that this story is actually the story that she wanted it to be, and hoped so very hard that it would be, and she still cannot quite believe that she has written it at last. Of everything she has ever written for Yuletide, it is the most special to her.

She thanks you very much for reading both the story - if you have done so - and this most self-indulgent narrative.

#yuletide #author reveal #georgette heyer #friday's child #fannish history

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dasphinxone · 4 years ago

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I hope I'm not too late and asks are still open. But I wondered if you had any more thoughts/ideas/scenes/etc for the Mummy au? I totally love your contribution of Booker and Nicky as brothers and what that dynamic would look like. BAMF!Nile and Librarian!Booker give me life. Thanks for all your wonderful au ideas and fic!

Oh man, you are NEVER too late for Asks and they are currently open! In the meantime, allow me to ramble about my PURE AND UTTER LOVE FOR THE FRASER/WEISZ VERSIONS OF “THE MUMMY.”

You see, I had a mad HUGE crush on Brendan Fraser when the first one came out. Except it turned out that the entire damn cast was so beautiful (OMG, the Oded Fehr hotness. So glad they brought him back for the sequel). They all have wonderful chemistry too, and rather similar to the group dynamics of The Old Guard.

On top of that, I have always maintained that it’s Evie who is the real protagonist of the movie. Everyone else stays pretty much the same to their characters as when we’re introduced to them. Meanwhile, it’s Evie who goes from librarian to adventuress. She is thrown into all sorts of situations where she can prove to the world that librarians are just as damn smart and necessary as the brawns of Rick, the cunning of her brother Johnathan and the honorable warrior of Ardeth Bay.

It’s also Evie who comes out of the other end of the wild-ass adventure a changed person. It’s even more obvious in the sequel, where she takes a level in badassery. The best part about that? Rick adores her for it and they are clearly in a happy marriage versus the tired trope of married couples being all bitter.

(I pretend the third movie NEVER HAPPENED, you hear me?!)

ANYWAYS, As Evie and Jonathan grew up rich (the museum curator clearly says to Evie that the only reason he puts up with her is that her parents were the largest donors to the museum), I figure Booker can grow up pretty wealthy too.

Sébastien le Livre is an only child who spends his life around his Action and Adventure!French Parents who have moved to Egypt to be archeologists. While they are world famous archeologists? They’re not the best parents. For they drag Sébastien along on their archeological excursions because they don’t know any better. So Sébastien spends all of his childhood time around his parents and their eccentric adult friends. Yes, they should have sent Sébastien to boarding school, like other rich folks of their time. But what kind of boring-ass education is that as compared to going out into the real world for field study?

Sébastien’s field experience makes him brilliant child. Yet it also turns him into a socially awkward little boy. He’s rarely around other kids or attending school since he out on digs with his parents. On top of that, when his parents can’t bring him on digs, they leave him home in their great big house with his nanny, tutor and the servants for company. Since Sébastien doesn’t have kid friends, he’s always taking in stray animals, rescuing birds that fell out of their nests and doing precious sorts of things like that. He also LOVES reading. He’s fluent in French, English, Latin, Greek and conversational Arabic. Oh, and he can also read hieroglyphs with ease.

Again, Sébastien is a weird kid.

When Sébastien is around say, nine or so, he catches seven year-old orphan Nicky in the parlor of his and his parent’s grand house breaking in and trying to steal things. His parents are out of town on yet another dig, so Sébastien’s randomly wandering around the house by himself. Instead of panicking, Sébastien just invites spooked Nicky to kitchen for tea and sandwiches out of the sheer delight of having another child to talk to. Thoroughly used to Sébastien and his soft spot for strays, the kitchen staff sits the two boys in the corner and lets Nicky wolf down whatever he wants. Nicky eventually leaves after Sébastien swears he won’t tell his parents about the stealing. But only if Nicky promises to come back tomorrow to hang out with Booker.

Nicky actually shows up the next day. Mostly due to the promise of food. While he thinks Sébastien is clearly odd, he also realizes he’s just as lonely as he is (after all, street kid orphan Nicky hasn’t survived this long on his own without being able to see people for what they truly are). But whereas Nicky is aggressive with acting out due to his abandonment issues, Sébastien tends to implode on himself due to his own parental abandonment issues. Basically, they balance each other out.

Three weeks later, Sébastien’s parents come back from their latest dig down in Alexandria. They find Sébastien playing with this street kid out on the extensive grounds of their estate. Shocked at seeing their usually quiet and withdrawn son having a blast with this Italian ragamuffin of a child, due to being the impulsive types, Booker’s parents decide to adopt Nicky. So Sébastien gains a new brother. No matter that they’re not related by blood, Nicky is his brother.

Since Sébastien loves to read, he enjoys reading out loud to Nicky (who is nearly illiterate since he’s an orphan who never had formal education before being adopted). While Sébastien and Nicky have their own rooms at their parents’ estate, Nicky will often sneak into Sébastien’s room at night so that his older brother can read to him. Their nanny usually finds the two boys asleep together with a book sitting between them. Sébastien also helps Nicky learn to read far better than their tutor does. Mostly because Sébastien is so patient with his new little brother.

It’s because of this that Nicky comes up with the affectionate nickname of “Booker” for his new big brother.

Booker graduates from boarding school and attends The Sorbonne back in Paris. While he misses Nicky something fierce, everything will work itself out because he’ll be graduating from The Sorbonne at the same time Nicky will be finishing boarding school. That way, they both be archeologists together and follow in their parents’ footsteps. Booker plans to focus on the research side of things from either libraries or teaching. Nicky plans to actually go on digs and bring back things for Booker to study and catalogue.

Booker does eventually get sent off to British style boarding school in Cairo, as is expected of a wealthy child of his class. A couple of years later, Nicky is sent off to the same boarding school.

Nicky's always getting into fights. Mostly due to the other kids bullying him for his accent, heritage and defending Booker against bullies too. The only reason Nicky doesn’t’ get kicked out is because Booker is able to charm the teachers into looking the other way (remember, he was around mostly adults before he started attending school) when it comes to punishing Nicky. Also, their parents donate a ton of money to the school.

Except the Great War breaks out the same year Nicky graduates from boarding school. He signs up with his school chums for “a great adventure,” like all of the other young men of means did in the opening days of the war.

However, Booker refuses to come along. He’s studied history all of his life and intellectually knows how terrible war can be. As far as he’s concerned, the war is stupid. People are going to get themselves killed over all of these royal families of Europe who refuse to apologize to each other over the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand. He’s certainly not throwing his life away to get shot at, thank you very much. Besides, he didn’t grow up with much in the way of friends or camaraderie among the other boys while he was away at school. So he doesn’t feel like he’s going to miss out on anything.

Nicky thinks Booker is a coward who has no appreciation for a right proper great adventure. Booker thinks Nicky is a headstrong fool who doesn’t value the opportunities their parents have given them. They part ways on bad terms.

Booker eventually relents and writes to Nicky whenever he can. However, he never hears from his little brother. The only way he knows Nicky is alive is through their parents, who Nicky constantly writes to in Cairo. At the same time, Booker doesn’t return to Cairo because it would remind him too much of how much he misses his brother. So he throws himself into his work at the Egyptian Antiquities department of the Louvre. He also tries to ignore the raging war moving closer and closer to Paris.

Wars come and go, antiquities do not.

Except Nicky suddenly goes missing during the Battle of Verdun.

Still in Paris, Booker is dealing with his side of suffering through the war as a civilian. He suddenly gets frantic word from his parents (who still live in Cairo) that Nicky is MIA. The panic immediately starts to set in. He regrets that he didn’t do more to communicate with his little brother while he was away at war. To assuage his guilt, he goes down to the war office every single day to find out where the hell Nicky is.

After a few frantic weeks, Nicky turns up alive but injured. As a result, he’s evacuated to a Parisian hospital. Booker takes a sabbatical at the Louvre to attend to his beloved brother there. Nicky almost dies of an infection but pulls through. Too weak to go back to fighting, Nicky is honorably discharged and goes to live with Booker to convalesce.

Nicky’s not the same vivacious, passionate young man he was before the war. He’s the only one of a handful of his unit to survive both death and not losing a limb or having parts of his face blown off. So there’s the survivor’s guilt. He constantly has nightmares about his time on the front and in No Man’s Land where he wakes up screaming. Bouts of rage and grief hit him without warning.

In order to deal with the crushing swirl of ugliness that’s festering within him, Nicky starts spiraling. He starts heavily drinking. He skips meals. He starts hitting up gambling dens and whorehouses that can make your every wish come true in Paris.

Booker has no idea how to cope with it all. So he once again throws himself into his work. He feels disgusted with himself for silently judging his brother’s actions all while he absolutely has no clue how to deal with his own guilt of not being by Nicky’s side during the war. Perhaps it would have been better to have died together than exist in the sea of darkness they are trapped within now.

Within two years, the war is over. Everyone celebrates only to see the rise of the Spanish Flu Pandemic. It ends up killing Booker and Nicky’s parents, who die within days of each other back in Cairo.

Now, Booker and Nicky are alone in the world and with only each other to depend on. Wanting to escape all the pain they’ve seen in Paris, they head back to Cairo to put their parents’ estate in order. Since their parents split their inheritance evenly between them, they’ve inherited a hell of a lot of money. At the same time, money doesn’t fix their psychological problems.

Yet while they both have a difficult time dealing with their parents’ death and each other’s war trauma? It turns over a new milestone for them. For it allows Booker and Nicky to make their peace with each other since they're the only ones left of their family. They vow that they’ll try to go back to their dream of working together as an archeologist team.

Unfortunately, it never happens. Nicky is still dealing with the PTSD and acting out. Booker tries to manage his brother’s psychological issues and balance his work at the Cairo Museum. Problem is, it’s a job he knows he only managed to secure out of pity since their parents were the largest donors to the museum. The nepotism stings and makes Booker feel inadequate. All despite that he's a damn good researcher and brilliant at languages and hieroglyphics.

Booker once again throws himself into his work at the museum. He has no social life, rarely goes out for fun and no relationship lasts for more than a few months at a time. For he’s grieving his parents and the shell of a man Nicky has become. Meanwhile, Nicky drinks, gambles and whores his way through Egypt in between digs with folks no better than grave robbers. But he always comes back home to stay with Booker in the nice house they own together.

Booker is always there for Nicky and vice versa. No matter how hard it gets for both of them to deal with the losses in their lives, they are and will always be brothers to the end.

And then one day, Nicky finds Booker in the Cairo museum after he’s been rejected by the Benbridge Scholars yet again. All after Booker’s ruined the library and knocked over all the bookshelves after he nearly killed himself trying to get off that damn ladder while filing away books.

Nicky reveals to Booker an odd little box that he found on a dig down in Thebes. Turns out the box contains a map to the lost city of Hamunaptra…

#Book of nile #my asks #booker le livre #nicolo of genoa #the mummy au #booker x nile #the great war #sadness #because even in AUs we gotta have that angst #fanfic #fanfiction #the old guard #why are my answers to my asks so damn long tho?

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gascon-en-exil · 4 years ago

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I suppose you can call me "villain Dimitri anon" now, but I actively dislike Azure Moon for the narrative perks that you and other fans insist it has, but I can't see. What back and forth does Dimitri have with his retainers that aren't confined to supports? There's just Gilbert, Rodrigue, and Byleth ignoring the one-eyed elephant in the room.(1/2)

What support network does Dimitri have? A bunch of badly abused subjects at the end of their rope who don't have the guts to abandon him or give him a wake up call. Dimitri's redemption in the rain makes zero sense as the scene progresses, and outside of some lip service in a support, he's so cured of any trauma that not even getting the truth about Duscur fazes him. What's worse, this redemption is the main idea of the route. (2/3 now)

The back and forth is in reference to how the army in AM feels directionless and disagrees on whether they should liberate the Kingdom or rescue Rhea first. This gets references both in story cutscenes and in the exploration of dialogue of numerous characters, heavily reinforced by many of these same characters remarking on how off-putting Dimitri’s behavior is. This stands in contrast to CF never questioning Edelgard’s actions even as they’re far more systemically terrible with the work of Hubert and the Agarthans behind the scenes; even VW offers a number of scenes and exploration content of characters questioning and critiquing Claude’s actions. Felix’s mini-arc outside his support line with Dimitri is the clearest example, because he’s the loudest voice of opposition and because if you trigger their supports some of the dialogue changes to reflect that, while Rodrigue plays a predictable but workable role as the doomed mentor figure whose death forces Dimitri to confront how his obsession with revenge is hurting the people he loves. This is all unfortunately somewhat undermined by Byleth’s presence and the need for self-insert romance, with them supplanting Dimitri’s established support network and worst of all leading to Dedue being killed off by default and then never re-integrated properly into the story lest his intimacy with Dimitri pose an obstacle to the expected lord/Avatar romance (that can’t even be pushed in the same way that Edeleth can in all routes, incidentally, because Dimitri can’t S rank m!Byleth). This is a genuine problem in AM, but curiously it’s one that I see brought up almost exclusively by fans of Dimitri and his route rather than those who hate AM and/or rail against Dimidue as an allegedly racist pairing.

None of the other Blue Lions gets a single meaningful word in in the main story cutscenes. You can get some character development for Ingrid, Sylvain, and Felix in monastery dialogue and DImitri's supports and that's it. Not to mention, gameplay-wise, dealing with Dimitri is just no fun, and there's no choice to get fed up and leave. With all of Crimson Flower's problems, at least you had to actively choose to go on that route. (3/4 now)

I wouldn’t say that’s all that different from how the other routes handle their chorus of minor characters, especially CF which again minimizes any sort of friction the Eagles might have with Edelgard even when she’s outright lying to them. There’s a reason that SS is sometimes cited as a better characterization showcase for the Eagles other than Edelgard and Hubert, particularly for Ferdinand who actually gets to be the contrarian #3 on that route. Gameplay is more subjective, although I’d rank being unable to instruct Dimitri or have him engage in monastery activities for four calendar months is more than offset by CF being exactly that many months shorter than AM or VW. Also, in terms of building characters Gilbert is far, far less of a pain in the ass than Jeritza, and I say that as someone who’s painstakingly gotten every character in the game to all ranks at S+ and all classes mastered over many NG+ runs. Having to pick CF is also an inconvenience that screws with the flow of Chapter 11 since you need to waste a battle weekend going to Edelgard’s coronation lest you miss out on instruction weeks or later weekends doing it at the start of the month. It’s kind of a moot point to argue about this anyway as the Deer have it the best when it comes to unit development, with neither of these restrictions as well as the longest route and no Part 2 exclusive to worry over.

Crimson Flower had a "big picture" war story, Verdant Wind had good character balance and exposed the truth about the player character. Azure Moon was just all DImitri. Not to mention, my own political philosophy and real-world history interests make me biased against Dimiri and his stance. (And no, I'm no fan of dictators, just not of a fan of Fearghus-style feudalism) (4/5)

I do like redemption stories. But I've seen them done better elsewhere. Dimitri's character is interesting, but his route isn't. All routes on Three Houses have problems that I nitpick about, but as thing stand, I can support Claude and Edelgard in achieving their ideals, i cannot in good conscience support Dimitri as king. Nurse him back to sanity, maybe, but put him in charge of other people's lives? No. (end)

Eh, SS is the route you’re looking for if you want the full story of Byleth’s origins and their connection to Rhea; VW’s endgame exposition dump is more about the true origin of Crests and Relics and general worldbuilding which is why I’d call it the big picture route over CF which kicks one of its major antagonists to an offscreen postgame. I also question why you single out the quasi-feudalism of Faerghus when that’s the established standard for all of FE and for most of the fantasy genre overall. Fire Emblem is notoriously reactionary when it comes to its politics, such that Dimitri’s solo ending suggesting the beginning of a participatory government might be the single most concrete move toward democracy of any lord in the series. Even as tiny a step as that is it’s more than can be said for Edelgard not delivering on her rhetoric of abolishing the nobility and...whatever she plans for the church (since she vacillates on whether she’s fine with the Seiros faith but only takes issue with the church or whether she thinks humanity has no need for gods, and the only CF ending that re-establishes the church has it run by the state which is some prime dystopian stuff). Claude similarly suffers in that his plans remain ongoing at the end of VW and lack any concrete shape beyond opening the borders and forcing people of different nations and cultures to interact and get along - a well-intended idea, but not one that will lead to serious change without a lot of work and oversight.

Dimitri lacks such grandiose ambitions, and once he’s moved beyond his need for revenge his goals center around alleviating the suffering of the Kingdom and of his loved ones, but on a meta level that’s kind of all he needs to do. One of the reasons that AM’s story structure is more coherent and well-paced than that of the other routes is that it’s extremely well-trod ground for IS: “blue lord takes back invaded homeland from red emperor with the Power of Friendship” is the standard FE plot going back all the way to Marth, and Dimitri’s biggest deviation from that model is the somewhat realistic depiction of his struggles with mental illness. That’s probably why many longtime veterans of the series favor AM, because we know it’s the type of narrative IS excels at and we’re not expecting anything more politically revolutionary. Hell, the proto-democratic ending was as unexpected to me as Dimitri’s strong queer notes...which is why I prefer him over the other two incidentally, not because of his politics which are just fantasy boilerplate of a good king being restored to his throne, and there was much rejoicing, etc. There are gender-based readings of AM that I and others have made, not to mention people who enjoy the homoromantic push and pull of Dedue and Felix on Dimitri and how those relationships develop against one another, and I think it’s telling that those unconventional analyses of Three Houses’s most typical lord and most typical route are still more plausible than all the additional motivation and setup you’d have to throw in to make Dimitri a proper villain, or even just an antagonist for the length of more than one chapter.

#Fire Emblem #FE16 #Fire Emblem Three Houses #Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd #Azure Moon

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crowsnests · 3 years ago

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taste of certainty - part three

Fandom: The Arcana Pairing: Julian Devorak x OC Apprentice (Syran Elkas) Tags: friends to lovers; modern times au; friend group dynamic; slow burn; pining; really just Julian being Julian and Syran being Oblivious Words: 7453 Warnings: mention of anxiety, migraines, insomnia, alcohol

part 1 2 3 4 5

playlist

I see the walls that are torn and bent The tug of war in the now, not yet Holding back what they can contain Can you tell me why I feel this way?

- trust; half-alive

III. sweet hurricane

Wednesdays are chill enough workdays, usually. It’s when Miss Eirsdottir has the least meetings, so Syran gets to calmly sit at her desk, processing new proposals and arranging schedules.

Not this Wednesday, though.

Miss Eirsdottir has Syran basically assist Varya in running all sorts of errands: moving from one side to the building to the other, carrying boxes of products for her to review, making sure the interns get the right coffees for the guests in the meetings, rushing to bring important folders to the PR office, assisting in said meetings. Varya is nice and helps Syran feel more at ease with the amount of workload, but it’s still quite stressful.

Syran forgot the days close to the launch of a new product could get so hectic. Her recurring migraine starts to make itself heard.

In the midst of it all, she gets a moment to catch her breath, during her lunch break. She goes and sits outside, despite the cold, on a bench in the courtyard inside the building. As she unfurls her lunchbox – a chicken sandwich, a carrot, and a bunch of blueberries – Asra and Pasha join her at the bench.

“Well, you look like shit,” Asra says, not even bothering with formalities as he sits down and opens his ricebox. A spiced scent trails out from it.

“Thanks, feel like it, too,” Syran answers, then bites into her carrot. Her head is pounding with pain and the nausea that comes with it doesn’t make her food look all that appealing, but she’s used to it at this point. She vaguely explains the reason for her exhaustion, her two friends nodding in understanding.

“Yeah, this week is tough, huh?” Pasha looks concerned as she takes out her lunch from her bag. A clear box with pasta in it and some orange juice.

“Yeah, pre-release is hell up in management,” Syran sighs.

“Well, at least you get to have fun next weekend! It’s gonna be a blast.” Pasha winks.

Syran looks at her confused, blinks a couple times, her brain slowly moving its gears together.

Asra looks at her pointedly, mouthing something.

Syran can’t decipher it, but a light goes on in her brain nonetheless.

“Oh shit, it’s your birthday! Yeah! Can’t wait for that!”

“You and Nadi always know how to throw a good party, I’m excited,” Asra smiles, bright eyes wrinkled up in joy. He does love partying.

Pasha laughs, then goes on to describe how she’s planned this carefully, how the theme is Vintage Masquerade, or something, and how she can’t wait to see everyone’s costumes. Asra engages with her eagerly, giving advice for decorations and getting excited over the food.

There and then, Syran realises two things.

One: she has no fucking clue what to wear to something like that.

Two: she’s supposed to see Ilya today and get Pasha a present.

As if summoned, her phone goes off. Ilya’s name on the screen makes her insides squirm but she opens the text trying not to arouse suspicion.

dr. hulian - 13:12 Do you think Pasha would like this?

Attached to the message, there’s a picture of a– well, a skull, looking pretty real and being held by what’s clearly Ilya’s hand. Syran finds it a little eerie, but she can’t hold her smile back.

To: dr. hulian - 13:13 Mmmh, maybe if you decorated it a bit?

She starts eating her sandwich, itching to get a reply, but acts as if it’s nothing. She gets back into the conversation with Pasha and Asra, trying to get distracted. Asra is now suggesting he could give tarot readings to the guests for a little bit during the party, Pasha seems elated at the idea.

Then, Syran’s phone vibrates again.

from: dr. hulian - 13:16 - You mean like this? - His name is Ferdinand, by the way

This time, the skull has a thin golden scarf with an intricate flower pattern tied all around, complete with a fancy bow on top. It’s ridiculous and endearing at the same time. Syran tries to stifle a laugh.

To: dr. hulian - 13:18 - hell yeah, ferdinand looks perfect in that, love it - where did he get that, looks extremely fashionable

from: dr. hulian - 13:18 - We stole it from nadia’s bag while she went to the bathroom. I suspect mere seconds before we get punished for our crime. - oh no, she found us

Syran laughs again, this time she can’t hide it as she types a reply.

To: dr. hulian - 13:19 - Just blame it on Ferdinand! i’m sure she’ll understand

“–kay, what’s going on, Syran?”

“Huh?” She blinks up at the two pairs of eyes scrutinising her.

“Who’re you texting?” Asra looks smug, ready to pounce.

“Looks like a pretty nice convo you’re having there.” Pasha adds, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hand.

Syran scrambles for a reply. There’s no way in hell she’s going to be honest with them on this, not today.

Or ever, probably.

“Just– Ran. She was showing me her dogs, back at home,” She smiles at the end, desperately hoping to sell the lie.

Pasha lights up at the word dogs, but Asra doesn’t seem convinced.

“Really? She never mentioned dogs to me,” He narrows his eyes.

“Oh, yeah, she has two mixed breeds and– and a parrot.”

I mean, it’s not as much of a lie as a past truth. Ran used to have two dogs and a parrot in her old home. Now it’s just one of the dogs, who’s gotten pretty old, too.

“That’s cute! Can I see?” Pasha eagerly leans over to glance at Syran’s phone, now sitting face up on the table.

“Uh– I– I guess–” just as Syran tries to make something up, the phone goes off again, this time with a call. Ilya’s name flashes on the display for everyone to see.

Syran just stares at it, startled.

“Well, aren’t you going to answer?” Asra suggests, teasingly.

Syran chuckles nervously, then reaches for the phone.

“Hello?”

From the other side there’s noises and two distinct voices arguing, albeit muffled. None of them talking to her.

“H– hello?” she tries again, this time genuinely confused.

“–ust for a second! Don’t get mad at me, come on–”

“–you should know better than to steal from me, Ilya,”

“Come on, Nadi– ust a joke!”

“–going to have a better excuse– this was a gift!”

Asra and Pasha lean closer to try and hear what’s going on, but Syran swats them away.

“Must be a butt dial or something,” she mutters, just as Ilya keeps talking and exclaims an apology.

Pasha rolls her eyes. “Is it my brother?”

As Nadia seems to reprimand Ilya more, Syran nods, looking confused enough for her friends to frown with her.

“– an excuse to talk!” Ilya’s exclamation gets Syran's attention.

“You’re a lost cause, Devorak,” This time Nadia’s voice is a little more clear.

“I know,” Ilya says.

When they go silent Syran tries again.

“Uhhh, hello?”

More noises. Something scrambling by the mic.

“Oh, shi– goddamn– hello? Syran? That you?”

“Yep,” She deadpans, avoiding Pasha and Asra’s eyes, “In the flesh.”

“Uh– did you– did you call me?”

“I believe you called me, Ilya,” she arches an eyebrow.

On the other side of the table, Pasha is making a kissy face and hugging herself, then mouths the word smooch. Next to her, Asra snickers. Syran rolls her eyes and turns on her seat, her back facing them.

“Ah. Right. Well, that was– not intentional. I was– discussing, with Nadia, you see.” Ilya utters, embarrassed.

“I figured,” Syran laughs, “Pretty important discussion, it seems.”

“Uh– did you hear much of that?”

Syran could barely understand, really. “Nope, mostly that Nadia’s mad about your theft.” She smiles.

“Yes, indeed. But Ferdinand and I will be okay,” He laughs, clearly more relaxed. “We fought hard and we lost our treasure, but we came out of it unscathed.”

“That’s not true–” Nadia chimes in from somewhere next to him.

Syran can’t help but laugh louder at Ilya’s theatrics this time, “Well, I’m glad you’re alive, at least.”

She is also glad that her friends can’t see her face right now, because it would be so, so, incriminating.

“So, uh, well,” Ilya continues, “Since we’re here, I was– I was wondering if you’re still on for later? For the– uh– secret mission?” Syran smirks at the way he whispers it, not subtle at all.

Suddenly aware not only of the pair of devils behind her, but also of the fact her and Ilya’s mission involves a surprise for one of them, Syran tries to not give herself away. She also probably needs to close the call, before she makes things worse for herself.

“Yep, yep, sure.” She says, quickly. “No worries.”

“Oh, great, so I’ll come–” Ilya starts.

“Yeah, work’s definitely busy today!”

“Uhm, okay, so– does that mean–”

“No, it’s fine!” Syran exclaims, trying her best to act convincingly. “Well, good luck with your– things!”

“Okay, bu–”

Syran hangs up before Ilya can finish.

“Wow,” Asra says from behind her.

Syran breathes in and takes a moment to turn back towards them, then hides her face in her sandwich.

“You two were straight-up flirting,” Pasha says, smile on her face.

Syran talks with a bite of sandwich in her mouth. “Do you even know what flirting entails? Because that was not it. That was a normal conversation. If that was flirting, then I’d be flirting with all of you. All the time. That’s not flirting.”

Cool, now she's talking way too much.

“Ah, the sweet taste of denial,” Asra sighs, dramatic and starry-eyed.

“Seriously, you guys are delusional.” Syran gives one last bite to her sandwich. “That was just an accidental dial, nothing more.”

“Yes, but why, oh, why, I wonder, was it to you? Were you so high up in his recent contacts?” Pasha squints at her, sly.

“You’re reaching. We all have a groupchat together, it could have been for any reason. You know how clumsy Ilya can be.” Syran shrugs, praying that they’ll let her live. Seriously, she does not deserve this torture. “Why are you guys so obsessed with this anyway?”

Pasha and Asra exchange a look, then they both lean back, in sync.

“Okay,” Asra states. He narrows his eyes and crosses his fingers on the table like he's a renowned detective, or something. “Let’s assume you’re right.”

“Which I am–”

“Did you mind, though?”

“What?”

“Did you mind that Ilya butt-dialed you?”

“What sort of question is that?” Syran widens her eyes, taken aback. Really, why are they so stubborn.

“Just answer, perp!” Pasha points a finger at her. Now it really feels like Syran is in an interrogation room.

“I have nothing to answer, because that is a stupid question.” She closes her lunch box with finality, looking straight into Pasha’s eyes.

“Admit it!” Asra slams a hand on the table, “You enjoy talking to him!”

Syran groans, exasperated, “Of course I do, he’s my friend! It would be mean if I didn't!”

Pasha and Asra smile at each other, “We got her, chief.” Pasha says.

“You got nothing,” Syran glares at them, “I’m going back to work.”

She gets up and gathers her things, ignoring the chorus of booos coming from her friends.

God, she loves them to bits, but they can be so annoying at times.

🂱

Somehow, she manages to slither away from the others and get back home safe.

After having sent Ilya a few explanatory texts and having agreed to meet at a cafe nearby, she finally takes a look in the mirror.

She really does look tired. Without distractions around her, the migraine is harder to ignore. She takes a relief pill and washes her ruined makeup, her face feeling cleaner. The heaviness of the day is starting to take a toll on her, she can feel it in her muscles.

When she checks the time, she realises that she’s going to be late if she doesn’t hurry up.

Quickly, she reapplies her makeup as best as she can, then throws on some clean and more comfortable clothes.

Persephone meows at her from the foot of her bed; it’s almost as if she’s smirking at her, knowing more than she lets on.

“Oh, not you too,” Syran pleads.

🂱

When she arrives at the cafe, Ilya is waiting by the entrance, casually leaning on the wall behind him. She takes a moment to look at him while he’s distracted by his phone, all perfectly styled auburn hair and dark clothes. She hates how good he looks.

(She doesn’t hate it, really, but she’ll die before she admits it.)

When he meets her eyes, a big smile sparks on his face.

“Hey,” she waves. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Hey,” he echoes, “Not at all.”

“Shall we?”

“Ah, yes, uh– should we get some coffee to go, first, since I owe you that?” He smirks, but then his eyes glance down to the side straight away. “That’s if– if you want, of course.”

“Sounds great!” Syran nods, delighted at the thought of a hot beverage in her hands.

The cafe is cozy and warm, most of the tables are filled with people chatting or working on their laptops.

As they wait in line, Ilya and Syran talk a little about their days, how Ilya’s research is driving him insane, how Syran’s boss gave her a hundred errands until late.

“Yikes, that must be tiring,” Ilya says, concerned, as they wait for their drinks.

Ilya has ordered a black coffee with a splash of milk, Syran has opted for a matcha latte. She likes coffee, but on days like this it makes her a little too jittery.

“Yeah, I mean, no more tiring than any other job. Plus, I learn a lot. Miss Eirsdottir is tough, but she’s brilliant.” Syran finds herself fiddling with her hands. “Hopefully one day I get to do more of the parts that I really love, though.”

Ilya smiles down at her, handing her the drink. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes Syran feel light. “I’m sure you will.”

Finding a present for Pasha isn’t as easy as they thought. They scurry through shops, trying things, looking at clothes, bags, books, videogames, jewelry, vinyl records– they contemplate wine at some point but realise Nadia would like that more. Then they go back to books, but nothing seems right.

Syran would lie if she said she isn’t having fun, though. Despite some moments where she really wishes she could hide her blush, she and Ilya fall into a rhythm made of jokes, laughter, chatter, and comfortable silences.

It’s nice. Really nice. It's. You know. Friendship.

Eventually, they walk by a window that’s displaying a various array of scarfs, ranging in colours and materials.

Syran does a double-take and spots a muted orange one that makes her think of Pasha immediately.

“That one!” She exclaims pointing at the glass.

“Huh?” Ilya seems taken aback, interrupted in the middle of his story on how he once got his hand stuck in a vending machine.

“Look at that scarf, isn’t it perfect for Pasha?”

Ilya squints at the glass, trying to figure out what Syran is pointing at. “The orange one?”

“Yep! It looks so pretty!” Syran turns to him, beaming, “We should go see it!”

Ilya nods, smiling back.

The scarf turns out to be even better than they thought. It’s made of soft and light cotton, with a delicate golden pattern woven on the edges. Ilya seems elated, saying that she will love it, right? Will she love it, Syran? I think she will.

Syran smiles at his excitement, glad to see him happy about the choice. The clerk wraps it up in a beautiful gift box, eagerly explaining how the cotton is of a refined but durable quality, it makes for perfect everyday use, but also works really well for more elegant events. Ilya listens intently, as if he’s trying to remember all of it to then tell Pasha.

Ilya has a big smile plastered on his face as they exit the shop, then he turns to Syran and hugs her, all-encompassing. She’s startled, but she gingerly hugs him back.

“Thank you so much, seriously,” He mutters in her hair.

She really really hopes he can’t hear how loud her heart is beating this time.

It’s not a crush.

Is it?

When he pulls back, they’re both a little flustered. “Ehm– I mean, yeah. Thank you.”

Syran is still trying to regain herself from the sudden hug, but something in Ilya’s tone makes her wonder.

“Can I ask you something?”

Ilya seems a little surprised by the question, but nods nonetheless. “Sure.”

“Why were you so worried about this? Besides the regular stuff you told me, like. What are you really worried about?” More than out of curiosity, Syran is asking because she can sense that there’s still something bothering Ilya.

He blinks, eyes wide. Then he looks down, as if caught in the act.

“Well– I– to be honest, it’s been a little tough lately, and the work at the university isn’t helping. So I haven’t been able to be there for Pasha as much as I’d like.” He sighs, but Syran gives him time, sensing that’s not the whole story.

He looks at her, visibly worried now. “And. Well. Pasha and I have– not always been close. Our parents divorced when we were fairly young and we took different paths after I graduated high school. I left, wanting to get away from it all, and she stayed. I made mistakes, resented her for it. We argued a lot, eventually had a big fight, and– didn’t talk for a while after that. It didn’t feel good, but I was reckless and hurt and too prideful.”

He looks so sad Syran can’t help but reach out to hold one of his gloved hands. Then, he smiles, although a little bitterly. Syran thinks she sees tears in her eyes. Her heart drops to her stomach.

Ilya continues, “I mean, we fixed things in the past years and now that we live in the same town it’s great, but– I still feel like there’s an unspoken distance. I fucked up so many times before–” He cuts himself off, like it pains him to go on. “So– yeah, I just want us to get close again– I feel like I need to make it up to her, somehow.”

He blinks the tears away, chuckling nervously. “God, you must think I’m an idiot.”

“What– no!” Syran’s chest is tight. She never imagined Ilya had all of this inside. She knew there was some sort of situation between the two of them, but Pasha never liked talking about it much.

“I–I think you’re very thoughtful. And mature for wanting to own up to things. It’s heartwarming to see how much you care,” She continues under his cautious stare. “Look– I don’t know, maybe it’s not my place, but I don’t think you need to make anything up to her. You’re a wonderful brother and person. Look at how much thought you’re putting into this! Whatever happened, I am– I’m sure she knows how much you love her. I can see how happy she is to have you back in her life, too – well, in between all the bickering.”

Ilya laughs at her last words and she joins, happy to see him smiling again.

Then, her gaze softens. “I think you will be just fine. You are trying really hard, you should give yourself a break.”

Ilya smiles, gentle. Then, he seems more relieved. “Thank you. You’re– uh. Quite good at pep talks.”

She winks, “I know.” She can’t help but squeeze his hand a little. He squeezes back. Syran feels a little dazed and her chest feels a little tight, her and Ilya exchanging a soft gaze.

She’s so fucking gone, it’s no use ignoring it.

It might just be a crush.

Then, Ilya’s eyes widen, and he gasps. “You still need a present!”

“Oh, yeah,” Syran realises, waking up from her thoughts, “We don’t have to get it right now, though, I can always–”

“Nope, you helped me, now it’s your turn! Let’s go!”

He drags her through more streets like he’s a kid on a mission, it makes Syran laugh. They stop at various shops, once again searching for something perfect.

She can’t deny it, though, there’s a newfound feeling between them, maybe one of strengthened trust. They’re both laughing more, feeling more comfortable with each other than before.

Finally, a small antique shop catches Ilya’s eye. Syran walks back to look at the window with him.

It’s filled with various objects, old pocket watches, silver paraphernalia, old vases and pots, ragged dolls. Ilya seems enthralled by an old model ship, perched precariously on a small shelf.

“My grandma used to have one like that in her house,” He smiles, fondly. “I demanded to play with it whenever we visited, but she always told me it was too delicate to even look at, let alone touch.” He laughs. “I’d get all whiny then, but I get it now.” He turns to Syran, almost a little sorrowful.

“Some things are just too delicate to be reckless with.”

Syran blinks at him, ignoring the blood rushing to her ears. She turns to look at the ship again.

“I don’t know,” she says, “It looks pretty sturdy to me. It might not be ruined, but now it’s sitting in a dusty display.” She turns to him and shrugs. “Isn’t it better to enjoy things while they last, instead of holding back? ”

She’s not sure they’re talking about the ship anymore– Ilya’s gaze on her makes her breath hitch in her throat.

She turns to the window again, flustered. As she stares intently, she realises that there is a little jewelry display on the bottom. In the midst of overly ornate rings and delicate pendants, she notices what looks like a brooch.

“Hey, what do you think of that?” She points at it, hoping that Ilya will see it amongst all the things.

He leans over her shoulder– too close to her, it takes all her might not to wince, ignoring the butterflies eating at her stomach. “Which one?”

“The– uh– the little brooch with the flowers?” She looks closer. It seems like real dried flowers encased in resin. They’re small and of a pale yellow, with a few crimson ones, on a white background. A delicate pattern made of golden metal frames it.

Ilya gasps, “That looks wonderful! It might go well with the scarf too!”

Syran agrees, although she hadn’t thought of that. She swallows, then suggests they head into the store.

As she talks to the owner, Ilya looks around the shop, curiously admiring the various displays. The brooch is even more beautiful up close, and the shopkeeper explains to her how this is special and one of a kind. Promises that she will give Syran a good price for it. She thanks the woman, and asks if she can wrap it as a gift.

“No problem, dear,” The lady says, reaching for a little red satin bag. As she fills it with some cotton to shield the brooch, she glances up at Ilya, who’s now looking at a small display of old books.

“Those ones are almost all first editions, you know,” she tells him.

“Oh– really?” Ilya turns, eyes filled with wonder. “They seem well preserved!”

“Of course,” The lady nods, delicately putting the brooch inside the bag, “I only get the best quality things.”

Ilya laughs, then moves onto another window. The lady slowly ties the bag with a textured ribbon, “Your boyfriend’s got a good eye,” she whispers.

Syran’s eyes widen, and she starts to stutter. “Oh– n– he’s not– we’re not together– he’s not my boyfriend.” She matches the shopkeeper’s tone, hoping that Ilya hasn’t heard them. Luckily, he seems too enthralled by the various objects to notice.

The lady throws another look at Ilya, then raises an eyebrow with a sly smile. “Are you sure?”

Syran doesn’t know how to answer for a second. Then she nods, slowly. “Yeah, uh. I am.”

When they leave the shop, Syran sighs in relief. Partly, because she’s got a present she’s really happy with. And also because she’s out of the shopkeeper's enquiring gaze.

“Happy?” Ilya asks her, smiling.

Syran looks up at him, startled. “Ye–yes! Very! I really hope she’ll like it.”

“Oh, she will,” he reassures her.

As they make their way back, Ilya starts wondering about what to wear at the party.

“I mean, I love her, but what sort of theme is Vintage Masquerade? Like, couldn’t she pick something simple? I don’t know, casual party attire?”

Syran laughs, although she agrees. She has no idea what to wear either.

“I mean, you kind of got it easy, you could throw on some slacks, a shirt, and some suspenders or something. Or a vest. Those are vintage.” She shrugs. She doesn’t know much about this stuff, really, but she does like dressing up. That is, when the theme is clear and easy.

“I guess– not even sure I have a vest, though,” Ilya ponders.

“Well, hey, you’re going to have to ditch your bomber jacket anyway.”

He gasps, fake offended. “Excuse me, this is my piece of resistance! Keeps me warm and looks amazing!”

Syran laughs it off, “Sure, but– still doesn’t quite hit the mark, does it?”

Ilya huffs like a pouting child. It’s endearing. “Whatever, I’ll figure something out, I guess.” Then he turns back to Syran.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What are you gonna wear?”

Oh. With all the business of the day, she had forgotten to look for clothes or even think about it. Again.

“Uhmm–” She thinks back to her wardrobe. Mentally scans through her more formal things.

“Dunno– I guess I have a lilac dress I could wear? It’s kind of vintage? It’s the best I can do, honestly.” She huffs a small laugh, but the more she thinks about it the more she thinks the dress will be fine.

It’s made of a light and flowy material, with a high neck that closes with a few small buttons, leaving a drop–like window on the chest. It’s a delicate dress, but the knee-length skirt and cut are vintage-inspired, at least.

“That sounds nice,” Ilya hums. “Now we just gotta find some masks to go with it,” he sighs.

“Oh, well, we have about a week for that, at least.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Ilya frowns as if he’s trying to think where he could possibly find a mask.

“Although I think Pasha said there will be an array of masks to choose from at the party? Nadia knew a place or something, I think it’s to prevent people from showing up without one,” Syran realises with a smile, thinking of Pasha’s resolve and Nadia’s attention to details.

“Well, one less thing to worry about then,” Ilya sighs. “Although I hope to find one that works with my look. I’m a man of fashion, after all.”

“You could always make one,” Syran cackles, playfully hitting his arm. “And you didn’t know what to wear until I told you!”

He laughs back, teasing. “Hey, doesn’t mean I can’t dress at all!”

Syran’s smile only gets wider. It stays like that even after they’ve parted ways.

🂱

Syran doesn’t know how she got roped into this.

It all started with Asra and Nadia inviting her out for a few drinks– sure, it’s a Friday night, what’s a cocktail going to do?

So she got ready, wore one of her favourite outfits just as an incentive to feel more like going out, and met Asra at their usual place.

Except, when she arrived at the Raven, Asra and Nadia weren’t the only ones sitting at the table. A familiar head filled with auburn hair was sitting next to them, too.

Syran joined them, all smiles and greetings, and then dived immediately for the bar– anything to escape Asra’s knowing smile, Nadia’s attentive eyes, and Ilya’s annoyingly pretty face.

The bar isn’t too crowded, but thankfully still enough for her to blend with the people around her. She leans at the counter, waiting for a familiar face to greet her. Tonight Joon is working, which makes her smile. Since she and Asra have been coming here, he’s quickly become friends with them. She orders and idly chats with Joon as he makes her drink.

“Getting the usual?” A deep voice startles her.

Oh, she really can’t escape this shit.

She looks up at Ilya, who’s smirking at her. She does feel more relaxed around him now, but there are still moments like this, where he sneaks up on her and all of her blood rushes to her cheeks. To add insult to injury, Syran’s eyes can’t help but trail to Ilya’s outfit. He’s wearing a sleek black turtleneck that fits him like a glove. She doesn’t know if she hates this more or the shirts with the unbuttoned tops.

She turns back towards the bar, “Yep. Oaxaca old-fashioned all the way, baby.”

She taps her fingers on the wood and leans a little forward to look behind the counter, where Joon is just about to hand her the glass.

She grabs it with a smile, carefully taking the first sip. “Ah– you’re the best, Joon. Thank you.”

“Anytime, dear,” Joon winks at her. She loves him, honestly, and not only because he’s nice and handsome. He genuinely makes her laugh and has helped her more than a few times when unpleasant patrons have bothered her.

“Well, good, because I’ll definitely be back for another one,” she smirks and winks back.

Joon laughs, then turns to Ilya, “what can I get you?”

When Syran looks up at Ilya as she takes another sip from her glass, she notices the weird expression on his face. He’s almost frowning at Joon, but she brushes it down to his bushy eyebrows. He can unintentionally look like he’s glaring at people, when the light is right.

Then, he turns to Syran with a sly smile, “You know, I’ve never had an Oaxaca old-fashioned.”

She swallows, then puts the glass down, “You should! The ones Joon makes are god-tier.” Syran suggests excitedly.

Ilya seems to ponder on it for a second, “Mhh– but what if I don’t like it?”

Ilya’s never struck Syran for the indecisive type. But then again, maybe he just really wants to get a good drink right now. He seems to come to a realisation, just then.

“Ah– what if I tried yours?” He asks, genuine, but with a weird glint in his eyes. Syran did not expect the question, it leaves her a little dumbfounded.

“S–sure, why not–” She hands him the glass, and he grabs it, eagerly.

“Thank you,” Ilya proceeds to take a small sip from the glass, and Syran can’t help but notice that’s almost where she drank from, his lips dangerously close to the subtle stain of her lipstick.

Syran throws a glance at Joon, who’s patiently waiting for them. He shoots her a questioning look, raising an eyebrow. She just kinda shrugs.

Ilya puts the glass back on the counter, “That’s actually really really good.” He looks at it like he’s surprised.

“Told ya’,” Syran smirks.

When they get back to their table, equal drinks in their hands, Nadia and Asra are animatedly engaged in conversation. They kinda stop when Syran and Ilya arrive, turning to them with coy smiles.

Asra notices the drink in Ilya’s hand and then gasps, “Wow, she convinced you? She’s been trying to get me to drink that since forever.”

Syran rolls her eyes, “I gave up, you clearly only like extremely sweet shit–”

“And happily so,” Asra mocks her, then turns to Ilya again. “You actually like it?”

Ilya nods as if he doesn’t see what the fuss is all about, “Yeah, it’s really good.”

“It’s not as bad as you make it to be, Asra,” Nadia chimes in.

Ilya shrugs, then takes another sip. Syran can’t help but smile proudly at Asra, like she’s won an ongoing battle between the two of them.

“Well, it’s good to see you both have clearly similar tastes,” Asra says, before carefully drinking from the straw in his tall glass, filled with a bright pink cocktail. Both Ilya and Syran widen their eyes.

“Ah– guess so,” Ilya chuckles.

“Yeah,” Syran mutters, glaring at Asra. “Anyway, you guys noticed how they changed the backlight of the sign behind the bar? I actually like it better now,” Syran starts, trying to sway the conversation.

Maybe it’s not as graceful as she’d like, but it works. They all start talking about the bar and its decor, how they’ve always loved this place; time passes by and soon they’re all a little flushed and tipsy, except Nadia, who’s the designated driver for the night.

Then, at one point, Asra’s eyes trail behind Syran, and they widen in shock.

“Oh shit,” He says, crouching down as if to hide behind his drink. Nadia puts a hand on Asra’s back, concerned.

“What?” Both Syran and Ilya turn towards where Asra looked, trying to figure out what happened.

“Don’t look, you idiots!” Asra whispers, angry. “Valerius is here! Shit!”

Syran then realises, “Oh, fuck, really? I thought he didn’t come here anymore!”

“Yeah, well, he’s by the counter. Shit, fuck!”

“Who’s– uh– who’s Valerius?” Ilya asks, clearly confused.

“Asra’s awful ex,” Nadia explains, “he was an asshole and we all hate him, viciously.” She’s got fire in her eyes, and Syran knows she is mirroring it herself.

“He fucking– he cheated on me and then said it was my fault. It was– it was fucking awful.” Asra looks like he’s about to cry. Syran wants to reach for him and hug him. She knows Asra’s wound is still fresh and knows how hard it was for him to move on from the hurt.

Ilya sneers, “That’s disgusting.”

“Damn right,” Nadia adds, glaring towards where Valerius is.

“Hey, it’s okay, we can leave if you want,” Syran reaches out for Asra’s hand, trying to reassure him.

He shakes his head, sneaking another glance, “Then he will have won. Again.”

“No, he will not,” Nadia declares, “If he says anything we’ll beat the shit out of him. Fuck, even Joon will be on our side on this.”

“Nadia’s right,” Ilya adds, “Plus, I’ve dabbled in bar brawling before.”

It makes the table laugh, if a little, but it lightens the mood. It doesn’t last long, though.

“Shit– is that? Is that Lucio? Are you fucking kidding me?” Asra says, now even angrier than before.

“Oh, hell no–” Nadia goes to get up, but Asra holds her down.

“Nadi no, I just– I don’t want to see them.”

“Do you want me to drive you home?” Nadia asks. Asra nods, gingerly.

“That’s cool, Asra, we can go–” Syran starts.

“Not all at once, though–” He says, resolute. “I don’t want to draw attention.”

There’s a joke Syran could make there about how Asra doesn’t exactly blend in the crowd, with his flashy fashion and white hair, but she knows that wouldn’t make him laugh right now– clearly, all he wants to do is disappear.

“How about this,” Nadia says, turning towards Syran and Ilya, hand still on Asra’s back, “I’ll take him home and you guys enjoy the rest of your drinks. You’ve barely started these glasses, while we’re almost done. You call me when you’re finished and I’ll come back to pick you up, okay?”

“Nadi, you don’t have to–” Ilya starts, but she waves a hand to interrupt him.

“It’s no problem, really,” she smiles kindly, “You guys just enjoy the night, yeah?”

Syran looks at Asra, now clearly on the verge of tears. Whether they’re from hurt or anger, she can’t tell. Probably a mix of both. But he knows what she’s about to say nonetheless.

“Don’t worry, S,– I’ll be okay, yeah? I asked you to come out, it’s just fair that you enjoy your time. Seriously.”

Syran nods, resigned, knowing how stubborn Asra can get. “Okay but–”

“I’ll call you later, promise.”

“Promise,” Syran retaliates. A concerned frown doesn’t leave her face, even as Asra and Nadia carefully slip out the table, then towards the end of the counter, well hidden from Valerius’ attention. Syran spots Nadia talking to Joon, probably asking him to let them out through the back.

And just like that, Syran is left at the table alone with Ilya, both of them in awkward silence, staring at their drinks. Finally, Ilya speaks.

“I’ve never– I’ve never seen Asra like that.”

Syran looks at him, notices the worry in his features as he twirls the glass in his hands.

“Yeah, he tries to hide his feelings, when he can, the idiot,” she smiles bitterly; stars know how many times she’s tried to tell Asra that bottling it all up doesn’t help anyone.

“I can understand that,” Ilya looks up at her. “I hate to pry but– who’s–”

“Lucio? The guy Valerius cheated with. Also, Nadia’s ex of like–” She tries to do mental math. “Four? Years ago?”

“Yikes,” Ilya just says, taking a big sip of his drink.

“Yep– it’s– a lot.” Syran sighs, “We thought he was going to be out of our life after Nadia broke up with his ass, but– guess not.”

She inhales, exhausted only at the thought of all that happened in the past. Things were definitely messier than now. She takes another swig of her drink.

“Well–” Ilya smiles, putting his glass down, “what if we did something about that?”

The glint in his eyes is mischievous, and Syran raises an eyebrow from behind her drink.

“What do you have in mind?”

🂱

Pranks have never been something Syran thought about. Never felt the need to fill someone’s shoes with toothpaste, or hide a fake spider in the bathroom, or whatever it is that the kids do these days. She always felt bad for those people in prank videos that get visibly hurt.

But this– she didn’t mind this one bit.

She and Ilya are running out of the bar, lungs filled with laughter, as Lucio and Valerius’ screams fade behind them. They run long enough until their legs give up, and even then, they find it in themselves to keep laughing.

“Jesus– their face– priceless!” Syran heaves out.

“I told you–” Ilya adds, big smile not leaving his face, eyes all crinkled up and blush on his cheeks. “Cranberry juice always works–”

They haven’t done anything that spectacular, really, but Syran will realise this later, when the adrenaline has rushed out of her. Right now, spilling juice on those two idiots’ white clothes and making Lucio trip on his ass was enough to make her night.

“Didn’t expect you to punch Valerius, though,” Ilya grins at her, as if impressed.

Yeah, and that too.

“Me neither– I don’t condone violence, but–” Syran finally feels her breath coming back to her, “–but, god, he deserved it.”

“Sure did–” Ilya laughs with her, adjusting his coat.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, all smiles and excitement, rush of electricity that Syran hadn’t felt in a while. Not like this.

“Well–” Ilya starts, “Maybe we should– uh. Go?”

“Yeah– I could call an uber?” Syran suggests.

“Actually, I was more thinking, like– I can walk you home, maybe?” He seems almost scared to ask for a second, but then his features relax. “Honestly, I feel bad calling Nadia now and it might be good to shake the alcohol off.” He looks up at the clear sky. “It’s a nice night, anyway.”

He’s right. It’s hard to see stars from the city, but the moon is bright and beautiful.

Syran doesn’t quite know what to say, though she agrees with not bothering Nadia. She is probably busy taking care of Asra right now, and that reassures her a lot. But Syran’s house is a good thirty minutes walk away, not to mention that Ilya would have to walk back through the city for more than that.

“I– I don’t know. It’s a long way for you– and it’s late–”

“Syran, I assure you that I’ll be fine, I like walking.” He chuckles, “If anything, I know you will punch whoever gets in our way.”

Syran laughs, although a little flustered under Ilya’s endeared stare. “Yeah, I’m basically a pro wrestler now.”

They end up chatting along the way, although the cold winter wind catches up on them, but they don’t mind that much. They’re too distracted by their conversation to think about that.

Getting to know each other like this, casually, with no pressure, without inhibitions, has become natural to them. They get to talk about things that they never addressed, make jokes that seem so dumb and niche they are surprised when the other laughs.

Ilya was the last one to join their group of friends, so she can imagine he felt a little distant from everyone else at first. But it’s been over a year now, and the group feels really solid, like pieces of a puzzle fitting together with harmony.

Still, Syran always felt like her and Ilya never really got to talk much like this, just the two of them. And maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the way Ilya makes her feel at ease, but she doesn’t feel as skittish around him anymore.

Sure, her heart still jumps when he laughs, and any little brush of their arms makes her breath hitch, but– but– there’s not much of an excuse for that, other than she’s clearly got feelings for him.

It is a crush. A heavy one at that.

But she can live with it, she can just enjoy their friendship and not act on them.

They are close to her building when they are laughing at a story Syran is telling, of one time where she and Asra got lost in a park and thought a ghost was haunting them.

“I swear, Asra tried to act all brave, but–” in the middle of the phrase, a strong fit of pain hits the side of her head. She had managed to ignore the creeping migraine until then, but suddenly, it feels like her brain is about to explode. She holds a hand to where the pain is, eyes shut and slightly crouching forward.

“Syran? You okay?” Ilya reaches a hand to her shoulder, tone immediately shifting to heavy concern.

“Yeah– just– I get migraines– sometimes,” she mutters through the pain.

“That’s not good,” Ilya says. “We’re almost to your place, you think you can make it?”

“Ye–yeah– sorry–”

“Why are you apologising? Had I known, I–”

“Don’t want you to worry,” she utters, finally feeling like she can open her eyes a little, “I’m used to it.”

It does nothing to ease Ilya’s concern though. If anything, he seems to worry more, reaching to fully encase Syran in his arm, supporting her as they walk.

“Really, I’ll be okay,” she says.

“Yeah, I’ll believe that when you’re home and feeling better,” He scoffs, his hand rubbing up and down Syran’s arm. “Don’t forget I’m basically a doctor.”

It makes Syran laugh a little, “Right, Doctor Devorak, ready to help.”

“Is that a mocking tone I’m sensing, Miss Elkas?”

“No–” Syran says, teasing, although through the pain, “I wouldn’t dare.”

Ilya laughs, then seems to hold her tighter. “Almost there.”

They finally reach her building, and she gingerly gets out her keys to open the door.

“Thank you,” she turns to say goodbye to him, “Get home safe.”

But he just stares at her. “Didn’t I say I’ll stop worrying until you’re home?”

Syran chuckles, “But I am–”

“Yeah, I meant home home. I’ll take you up–” then he widens his eyes, catching himself. “That’s if– if you’re okay with that, of course.”

Syran thinks about it for a second, but the pain is too strong to argue right now. She just nods and mutters a okay, and goes to let Ilya through before her.

Sometimes things just don’t go as planned, though.

As she’s about to follow behind him, something hits her shoulder, and hard. She turns just in time to see someone running past her, then she loses her balance and hits the floor.

The last thing Syran sees before passing out is Ilya’s hands reaching for her.

#an writes #fic writing #julianxapprentice #julianxsyran #julian devorak #portia devorak #ilya devorak #pasha devorak #nadia satrinava #lucio morgasson #asra alnazar #muriel #the arcana fic #the arcana #part 3

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