#AND NOT SOME UNSPEAKING MONSTER WE SEE LIKE TWICE???

[tortoiseguy]

LESBIANS IN MHWILDS

[gentlemancrow]

idk if you’re still taking requests so no pressure but maybe jmart 18 about jon’s scars? or,,, honestly however you wanna interpret that lol

Hehe bet you thought you weren't getting one. But of COURSE you're getting one! <3 HERE YOU GO!! Sorry it is late I am not a fast writer haha! This was a VERY interesting one to interpret and I got a little wonky and metaphysical there for a bit WHICH I LOVE and THE IDEA MIGHT HAVE BEEN A BIT LONG FOR A DRABBLE BUT! It's soft and I'm soft and I enjoyed this one SO SO MUCH ; w ; I hope you do too!!

Jon had Seen enough. Martin had decided that long ago. He had witnessed enough, been forced to witness enough, been the vessel into which literally everything had funneled into in an unrelenting typhoon of unspeakable, unfathomable horrific knowledge comprehensible only to him long enough that he damn well deserved the luxury of imperception. He had earned the right to not notice when Martin accidentally bought the wrong brand of chai, the one he insisted tasted like someone rubbed a stick of cinnamon on plasterboard and jammed it in a cardamom pod, but honestly tasted just like the one he preferred. The universe, whichever one they happened to be in now, owed him not realizing the buttons on his cardigan were one off until they were about to head out and Martin had to fix them, fingers humming with the warmth of him lingering in the cashmere every time. He deserved to forget his keys and then also have to go back to check that their flat door was locked twice, just to be sure. He deserved tossing cabbage in the trolley at the market, only to get home and realize it was a head of iceberg lettuce instead, and also he had completely forgotten the onion anyway so back he would have to go. Tiny and insignificant, patently human foibles that any normal person might tally up to a really rotten day overall and gripe about over a glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape he had won as gleaming, pyrrhic badges on the ruins of his humanity yanked back from the claws of the yawning, devouring dark matter of the cosmos and stitched painstakingly back together with love.

But mostly Jon deserved to not notice the way people looked at him.

He need not see the painted-on expressions of strangers that ran the gamut from quiet pity, to voyeuristic curiosity, to outright revulsion that Martin could not help but see everywhere they went. They had no idea. Not even the slightest inkling of what, exactly, had composed that magnum opus of horror and pain scarred resplendently on his flesh, his bones, his sinews and synapses. To even try know was to go mad, the mind looping through and around and between consciousness and logic and love and fear and philosophy and metacognition until it squeezed into an ouroboros black hole singularity of dense unknowing that collapsed in on itself and perished in cataclysm. They had merely gotten lucky that being extruded through the plumbings of creation seemed to straighten out their fibers enough to be woven back into the fabric of reality, but they were too kinked and snagged and gnarled to ever lay fully flat again. And that was why they stared.

The invasive beings of Jon and Martin had come to mutual terms with it long ago, but they also knew they would be forever incongruous with an innocent world, with a world where they did not belong and that collectively looked at them both like an ontological cancer, benign but festering and ugly. They would never know the thing that crouched behind the stars with pointed knees and elbows that even then, groped to find their new world in the lightless vast, and Jon deserved to not perceive any hints of that either. He deserved their quiet, their peace, their wordless human acceptance.

Jon deserved to be innocently chewing a periwinkle-painted thumbnail in front of the ice cream counter, just as he was that gossamer spring afternoon, turning woeful and forever mismatched brown and green eyes at his husband and asking if he should get mint chip or rum raisin before deciding, actually, could he have a sample of the salted caramel ribbon first? He pointed eagerly at the various frozen tubs behind the glass with his gnarled right hand, where the fingers never did quite open or close properly again, and missed in his wonderment at the veritable cornucopia of sweet delights available to him the mingled look of pity and horror on the cashier’s face as she doled out samples at his request. Martin lurked protectively behind, silent, sentinel, seeing it all, a hot brand of fury boring its way through his chest as he glared icy blue daggers at the clueless young woman, who only compounded her crimes by complimenting the permanent white forelock in his ginger curls as she took his order.

Martin snatched his double scoop of rocky road and pralines and cream out of her hand with a withering scowl and said nothing. Jon, frowning in the dread shadow of Martin’s hushed wrath and finally deciding on just the mint chip, took it upon himself to pay while the poor young woman skirted around both their gazes. They took their ice cream to enjoy in the balmy sun on the metal patio tables outside the shop under a cloud of unspoken insults and slander which Jon was more than happy to pop open the conversational umbrella beneath before the downpour.

“Something wrong?” he asked solicitously.

“Nope. I’m fine,” came the curt answer, suspiciously also lacking in eye contact as Martin stabbed his pink spoon into the rocky road.

Jon’s mismatched eyes narrowed shrewdly. There was one thing that never escaped his notice, even now, and that was the painfully obvious way Martin always broadcast his inner hurts and the physical language of his turmoil he had become fluent in over the years.

“Okay, yes you are probably fine. And I’m guessing it has nothing to do with you actually, because you’re angry and you rarely get angry on your own behalf, which means it’s probably something to do with me or some perceived slight. What happened in there? Did someone make a snide remark about my eccentric ice cream selection? The long skirt on a warm spring day? Oh, no, I’ve got it. It was probably the earrings, yes? I knew I should have gone with the feathers instead of hoops, matches the outfit much better.”

The corner of Martin’s mouth quirked up in a hapless, crooked smile as Jon coaxed a laugh out of him, and he looked up into his gaze adoringly to grant him unspoken conciliation.

“No, no not at all. Nothing like that. It’s nothing, love. It’s not a big deal. Just low blood sugar or something. Just eat your nasty mint chip or rum raisin or whatever that unholy concoction is,” Martin snorted, gesturing at his cup.

“Liar,” Jon crooned with loving reproachment, reaching out to thumb a little bit of rum raisin on the tip of Martin’s nose as punishment.

Even breathed with such unfettered, undying affection, Martin hated that word. He hated how transparent he still was to the man he loved, how much he still truly saw him, saw through him. At least all it took to compel him now was a little melted ice cream rubbed clean off his nose and a winsome smile with love-puddled green and brown eyes.

“Okay, okay… fine,” he admitted with a resigned smirk and a sigh, “I don’t like the way they look at you. Okay? That’s all.”

Jon’s brow knitted together curiously.

“Hmm? Who? What do you mean?” he asked.

“Everyone!” Martin finally effused in frustration, “Everywhere! They look at you like you’re… like you’re damaged goods! Like you’re some pitiful beaten animal on the street, or worse, like you’re some sort of- some sort of um…”

“…Monster?” supplied Jon, lips pursed and lids drooping.

“…I wasn’t going to say that,” Martin stammered.

“What other word is there?”

“Fine, they look at you like you’re a monster. They take one look at your face or your throat or your… your hand. And I can just see it on their faces. They look at you like you’re a monster, and I hate it. You don’t deserve that. You never did! They don’t even know you! They don’t know what happened to you…! And sorry, Jon, but I get angry about it because it’s not fair, and I can’t exactly go about lobbing right hooks into the faces of everyone who even looks at you cross-eyed, now can I? Much as I’d like to…"

Jon went quiet as he listened, dabbling first in the rum raisin, then indulging in a little mint chip chaser, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully as he nibbled on the plastic spoon.

“Is that what you see?”

The color rolled out from Martin’s freckled cheeks along with the very spirit from his eyes in a fog, his entire mien awash in pallor.

“What? How could you say that to me? I would NEVER think that about you, Jon! How could you ever think I would think that? I-I know I said some awful things in the past about your scars, but I-“

“No no! Martin, no! Of course not! I know you would never!” Jon cut in, reaching across the table to snatch his hand and squeeze it reassuringly, rubbing his knuckles and over his wedding ring, “You misunderstand! I was asking if that’s what you see in their eyes?”

Martin clung to Jon’s hand, heart palpitating and breath easing.

“Oh…” he blurted dumbly, flushing with lively hues of reds and golds once more, “I-? Of course I do, what else could it be?”

“I don’t see that. I don’t see that at all,” Jon answered simply, “It’s… hard to describe but, damaged goods, disgust, morbid curiosity, those are all… Hard things. They have sharp edges. And when people here look at me, I don’t feel anything hard or sharp, it feels… soft? It feels gentle.”

Shaking his head, Martin frowned.

“Gentle? How is openly gawking at someone’s scars in any way gentle?”

“It’s just a feeling I have. I suppose,” Jon mused, thumbing at his beard with his free hand as he constructed an analogy that would make sense in his mind, “Mmm… Think of it like this. Humans, life, we’re all very visually oriented creatures, right? We respond to visual cues in our environments that are universally understood. We wear these rings so that everyone knows we belong together, just the same as bright colors usually mean poison, or how specialized feathers, or horns, or dewlaps and the like let others know they’d be a good mate, or how some things look like eyes or like entirely different creatures to scare off predators, and so on.”

The creases in Martin’s forehead only deepened in confusion.

“Okay sure, but scars aren’t a natural adaptation? We don’t look at scars the same way we look at pretty eyes on a moth wing or something.”

“I know that, that’s not what I’m saying,” Jon reiterated tenderly, “What I’m saying is I’ve always felt like my scars are a visual cue, but one that says to others ‘treat me gently’, because clearly I haven’t been. And it’s… well it’s been quite nice. You were about to tear that poor girl’s head off, but didn’t you see how she not only gave me about six samples when the sign clearly said two per customer, but then she also gave me the rum raisin ‘by mistake’ and then conveniently forgot to charge for it?”

“Wh-did she?” Martin gasped in shock, rewinding the transaction to remember that indeed, Jon had only asked for mint chip, but there was clearly also a generous scoop of rum raisin in his cup, ”She did… No I… I guess I didn’t notice…”

Jon let Martin’s hand go to cup his cheek pointedly in his scarred palm, running his thumb over the soft curve of his cheek and the spray of his ruddy freckles comfortingly.

“You want to know what I think? I think what you perceive as disgust or aversion or even pity is just fear, like you had. Fear of pain, fear of disfigurement, of fallibility. People are always afraid of seeing what can become of their mortal bodies, but that has nothing to do with me, or being disgusted by me. People are, at their cores, good and gentle, Martin. I know they are, we both do. They see me, my cane, my limp, my hand, my gray hair, my face, and they don’t even ask, they just know, on some primal level, that life was not kind to me. And so in some tiny way, like free rum raisin, they almost always try to give something back to me.”

Jon had known. He had noticed. It had never escaped his perception as Martin had assumed. Jon had known all along, but it was only Martin who still saw daggers in the smiles of strangers while he had taken the last vestiges of his powers irrevocably branded on his body and soul and sowed something delicate and beautiful and blossoming in his new earth. Martin had made a weapon. Perhaps no less delicate and beautiful, but still cold and sharp and deadly. The razor white edge of the sun through frigid fog.

“I’m so sorry, Jon,” Martin choked, his throat pinching shut with the threat of tears, “I-I had no idea…. I-I only thought…”

“It’s alright, please don’t cry, darling, you have nothing to be sorry for. I understand. You only thought you were protecting me. I protected you for so long, when you were desperate to do the same for me, to save me, but had no power to do either. Now you’ve got your turn to do the protecting in earnest, and honestly, it’s a… can I- can I say hot? Can I say it’s a hot look on you? Or is that weird?” Jon asked, tips of his ears blushing coyly.

Martin managed a laugh as he sniffed back the tears and thumbed both sets of lashes dry under his spectacles.

“It’s a little weird for you, in particular, to say it, just because it’s you. But I’ll take it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Perhaps then, Martin thought as Jon leaned over their whimsical little metal table outside an ice cream parlor by a park with a striped canopy above them and birds singing and kissed his tears away and then kissed his lips into a smile, that sharp things needn’t always be weapons. Perhaps his sword was, in reality, a spade, or a hoe, something to tend and nurture the new and fragile happiness Jon had tilled. Gentle things deserved gentle protection, and he was still going to devote every iota of his being to protecting Jon until the end of their days. After all, as they finally got to enjoy their slightly melted ice cream, Jon still dribbled a bit of rum raisin down his beard and carried on none the wiser. Martin let him go on like that, blissfully unaware, talking about Polyphemus moths and the myth of the cyclops and something about someone going about as Nobody, until he finally reached out with a napkin to attentively wipe it away.

Other than a gracefully paced ‘oh, thank you dear,’ Jon never missed a beat.

[iiwontgiveuponmilkk]

Prison World

Kai Parker x reader

*not my gif

A/n: Soulmate au. I got this idea from two fanfics I read. Currently unedited with a horrible summary :/

Summary: Y/n can’t control her magic and with her link to Kai it doesn’t take long for the Gemini coven to find her

Word count: 2259

Warnings: none?

*1994*

Y/n never quite understood the tattoo that magically appeared on her rib cage. Just under her breast was the Gemini symbol and the initials MP in oddly neat writing. It was the mark of her soulmate. The tiny marking made her oddly curious. It wasn’t unusual for supernatural beings to have a soulmate mark. In fact, only the supernatural beings got them, but they rarely showed up at the age she received hers. She was only fifteen when it burned itself into her skin. That night was also the first night she discovered that her magic was beyond her control. The loss of her grandmother nearly flooded Mystic Falls. Twice. So of course, it didn’t take long for the Gemini coven to find her in 1994. The coven had discovered Malachai’s mark before sending him to his personal prison world. All they had to do was wait for another cosmic event to send the twenty year old into the prison world as well. 

Arriving in the prison world felt like she had been sent to hell. Y/n was all alone, and incredibly confused. She searched for hours to find someone. She even went home, but no one was there. Y/n had no idea what was happening. Was she dead? Mystic Falls was completely empty. It was just her, all alone. Y/n was so confused and slowly starting to panic. She searched the house, trying to figure out what had happened. When she entered the kitchen, her attention was immediately drawn to the cup of coffee and the morning paper on the table. Her dad always read the paper before work in the morning. She picked up the paper. May 10th. This paper was over a week old. How could she be here? She began to read through the paper. There would be an eclipse today. She looked up at the clock. It was in exactly two hours. 

*1997*

Living in this world was, well, it was hell. Y/n had spent three years alone. At first, she spent her time trying to figure out why this place had been created, who it was for, and why she was here. She had two leads. One in Mystic Falls. Another in Portland. She spent a lot of time in Mystic Falls. Partially to investigate what happened at the Salvatore boarding house, and partially so she could be close to the only thing she had left. Her family home. But eventually she convinced herself to go to Portland. She was terrified of what, or rather who, she might find there. A part of her knew she would find him there the second she connected the dots. Parker family. Portland, Oregon. Massacre. Her mark.  This world had been created by the gemini coven for Joshua’s son. Malachai Parker, her soulmate. That’s why she was here. Her soulmate had killed four of his siblings. Her soulmate mark had gotten her into this hell. She was stuck here to make sure he could never access the real world.

 Y/n had packed her things and was off to Bell’s for snacks. Then it was off to Portland. She found herself racing across the country in a blue camaro, courtesy of a Bell’s customer who left the keys on the dash. She had a road map with her. She had carefully marked the easiest route from Mystic Falls to Portland. Yet she always found herself lost. Y/n kept missing her exits as her mind raced with what was going to happen to her. What would he do to her? He couldn’t kill her. Well, he could, but she would come back when the world reset. She was worried what he could do if he had magic. If he was stronger than her, she wouldn’t be able to stop him. Her four day road trip ended up taking her twice as long. She couldn’t count the number of times she had gotten lost. When she finally arrived in Portland, she pulled into the first gas station she saw. There had to be a map of the town, or at least just the state. She dug through the maps until she found what she was looking for. She began setting up to do a locator spell. She was pulling candles out of her bag when she froze at the sound of the door opening and the bell above it jingling. She slowly stood up, turning to face Malachai. 

“Hi. I’m Kai. I’m a sociopath.” The man smirked at her.

____

When y/n woke up, she was terrified, but nothing was happening. Her magic was gone. She had no idea where she was. The room she was in looked like it belonged to a teenage boy. Y/n turned her attention to herself. Her hair was still wet, but she was in dry clothes. She panicked looking down at the shirt she was wearing. It wasn’t hers, and neither were the sweatpants she was wearing. Had that man changed her clothes? Why did he take her magic? And what did he want with her? Her head was spinning. She had to get out of here. She quietly shuffled to the window and opened it. She tried to pop the screen out, but she had been spelled in. Her heart felt like it was in her throat with how hard it was beating. She slowly made her way to the door, finding that it was unlocked. She was hoping that she hadn’t been spelled into the room, and luckily she hadn’t. But that meant she was spelled into the house, and she didn’t have her magic. She slowly moved through the house, trying her best not to make any noise. She was almost down the stairs when the next step loudly creaked. Her breath caught in her throat as she heard footsteps approaching. “G-get away.” She stuttered out. Y/n felt hopeless without her magic. Kai stopped in his tracks, looking at her. He almost found her state comical. He knew he wouldn’t have stopped if he hadn’t seen her soulmate mark. His initials. His handwriting. His “coven”. He put his hands up, sighing almost as if he was annoyed by her behaviour. Y/n stared at this man, her voice caught in her throat. Neither of them moved for what seemed like hours. Finally she spoke up. “Why did you take my magic?” Her voice was quiet and still seemed panicked. “Well, you see, I don’t have any magic of my own. And you seemed to be bursting with it so I thought I’d take some. I know, what an abomination.” He rolled his eyes, but then continued. “Your magic will be back before you know it. You’ll be all juiced up after you rest.” Kai seemed to be bored with her. “You know, I was going to keep you here as a little magic battery, but then i saw your little mark and I had to laugh.” He chuckled, his eyes never leaving her. Y/n felt like she was frozen in place. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. “The universe is so funny. Of course my soulmate would be someone who is overflowing with magic when I don’t have any of my own. And of course my coven would send you here. God, how dumb could they be.”

*2003*

Y/n had come to know Kai in ways that she didn’t think she could. She knew what he had done to his family. He was sent here to be punished for his crimes. She was sent here due to their soulmate mark and bond. She didn’t think she could grow to trust the monster she had met in 1997. She didn’t think she could ever think of him as anything but a monster, but here they were. Kai was making Christmas dinner with her sitting on the counter, and definitely in his way, but he wouldn’t tell her that. Over the past six years, y/n had learned of Kai’s past. How his family treated him for being a siphon, something out of his control. How he was seen and treated as an abomination. How he wasn’t allowed to touch anyone for his entire life. Her heart almost aches for him. A part of her could understand him, but another part, in the back of her head, clung to the fact he had done atrocious and unspeakable things. Yet she still found herself climbing into his bed when she couldn’t sleep, holding his hand when she was starting to lose control, and even almost kissing him on multiple occasions. “You know, I’m starving.” She spoke up, looking up from her book. The aroma in the kitchen was causing her to salivate. “Dinner will be done in thirty minutes. Please don’t get hangry. I’ll have to restart the whole meal if you bring this house down on us.” He joked, causing her to glare at him.

Y/n laughed at the sight before her. Kai asked if he could “borrow” some of her magic to do the dishes. She agreed, knowing it would at least be amusing to watch. And it was. It was also an absolute mess. Kai had dropped multiple dishes, shattering them. Only uttering a small “oops” each time before trying to concentrate on his task. He loved hearing her laugh, and as much as he hated to admit it, he loved being around her. He wasn’t sure why his coven had sent her here, he knew it wasn’t for him. They probably thought locking her away was the only way to make sure he never got out. He stopped wondering why she was here two years ago. That was the first time that he opened up to her. He had chosen to basically ignore her for a long time, but she almost brought a house down on them with an earthquake, crying that she felt so alone and just wished she was dead. He tried to blame the mark for how he felt about her after he started to grow close to her, but he knew that wasn’t true. Some people live their entire lives without finding their soulmate. Some supernatural beings never even got one. Some got them after being alive for three hundred years. It wasn’t the mark, but he just wanted something to blame for these feelings he was having. Kai could barely believe someone could know what he was and not think he was an abomination. But there she was, laughing as he failed at washing dishes with magic.

“You know, I got you something for Christmas.” Y/n mumbled, pressed to his side and wrapped in a blanket with him. They were sitting outside, star gazing. Y/n had wanted to sit outside and look at the stars every Christmas night. Last year, she finally told Kai that her and her parents used to do this every Christmas after everyone had finally left to go home. “I thought you said no presents?” He asked, lightly squeezing her to his side. “We both know what I said and what I meant are two different things.” She laughed, pulling herself away from him. She reached into her sweater pocket, handing him a small box that was delicately wrapped in red paper with green ribbon and a bow. Kai took it from her, opening it carefully. She watched him, almost impatiently. He could tell; the closer they got, the stronger their bond seemed to be. He opened the small decorative box to find a black velvet ring box. He smirked, cracking the box open. There was a silver ring with a hollowed line around the band. “Are you asking me to marry you?” He asked, making her laugh. “Oh god, Kai. It’s a present, not a marriage proposal. Besides that’s your job.” Y/n rolled her eyes, glaring at Kai in a playful way. He laughed and slipped it onto his middle finger before he reached into the pocket of his jeans. “I didn’t wrap it, but I did get you something.” He told her as he pulled a delicate necklace out of his pocket. He put the necklace on her without giving her a chance to look at it. He brushed her hair out from under the chain as she picked the pendant up off her chest, admiring it. There was a (f/c) gemstone in the middle surrounded by an elegant halo of diamonds. It was small, but beautifully full of detail. “Thank you.” Y/n whispered.

*2007*

“Malachai Parker! If you’re joking right now, I will kill you.” Y/n said, staring down at Kai who was down on one knee, holding a ring in his hand. “I’m not, y/n! God! Will you marry me or not?!” She could feel how nervous he was. His energy seemed to be pulsing through her, almost making her nervous. “Stop being so nervous. Of course I will.” She laughed as he jumped to his feet, planting his lips on hers, and kissing her hard. When they finally pulled away for air, Kai rested his forehead against hers before grabbing her hand. He slid the ring onto her ring finger before kissing her again.

[lesdemonium]

romtober day 31: love confession with an audience

Rating: T Ship: Geraskier Word Count: 2282 Summary: A tale of two hand-fasting ceremonies. One for Jaskier and Geralt, and one for everyone else.

AN: i just want to thank everyone who has read any of these fics! thank you for reading, thank you for your kudos, your comments, your reblogs, your everything. this was honestly exhausting and i don't think i'll ever do it again, but i don't think i've ever been so satisfied to finish a challenge before (maybe because i don't often finish challenges.... y'all are improving my work ethic by leaps and bounds let me TELL YOU).

this is technically a continuation of the bet but it also is easily a stand alone piece. reading the bet really just gives you maybe slightly more context for how dumb they are.

i'm gonna go take a quick nap before i start working on nano & gift exchange fics lmao.

read on ao3

Normally, Jaskier loved a party. He would take any excuse to dress up in all his finery, maybe play for his audience, and revel in the attention others bestowed upon him. And a party entirely about him? All the better. Jaskier was not ashamed to admit that he loved when others lavished attention on him, and he did not consider it a failing on his part. Who didn’t want to be noticed? Jaskier loved to be loved.

Geralt, however, did not. He was uncomfortable and prickly and often looked as if he wanted to be struck down by some force of nature right then and there. He could get by at a party if allowed to fade into the background and enjoy the food and wine, but being the center of attention was abhorrent to him. Jaskier didn’t blame him. So often, for Geralt, being the center of attention meant flattering idiot lords or treated as if he was an animal there for amusement. No, Geralt did not like parties.

A wedding for them, therefore, was not what either one of them particularly wanted. Geralt because he would be subject to scrutiny, and Jaskier because he wanted their wedding to be a happy memory for Geralt. Unfortunately, decorum demanded to be upheld.

 They were traveling. Jaskier wasn’t sure where they were, but it didn’t much matter. On the Path, forward seemed to be the only direction. They had just dispatched some monsters in some middle of nowhere town, and now they were about a two day’s ride from anywhere of note.

Jaskier could see the way Geralt’s shoulders relaxed. For a moment, Jaskier longed to touch him, then remembered with a start that he could, that he had permission now. He wrapped his arms under Geralt’s, pulling him into a hug, and pressed his face into Geralt’s shoulder blade. Geralt turned to press a kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head. They stood there for a moment in their embrace, before Geralt disentangled himself to instead clasp Jaskier’s hand.

They continued on, nothing but them and Roach and the road for miles. The weather was beautiful, sunny and warm, and they were surrounded by wildflowers.

It did not take long, upon returning to Lettenhove, for Jaskier’s family to turn horrible. At first, they were restrained, and bestowed compliments upon the couple. Jaskier could see the fire burning behind their eyes. Their son? Marrying a Witcher? It was unheard of, unspeakable, surely it could not be so! And yet, here they were, and Jaskier showed no signs of letting up on what they were certain was a sick joke.

Jaskier stayed on guard at their polite, if terse, comments and questions about their travels. He was powerless to stop it once they really started in, though. He had prepared Geralt for this, but it still hurt to watch.

“But surely you won’t continue on your travels now that you’re married!”

“What sort of life is that for a Viscount? Really, Julian, we must ask you to reconsider. Stay in Lettenhove! We have a nice little estate you could take over…”

“You’ve killed people, haven’t you? That’s how you got the title of Butcher.”

“Don’t you find the bard thing a tad… overplayed? Really, that’s all well and good for young men with no other prospects. Haven’t you outgrown all that yet?”

“I mean no offense, Geralt, you seem lovely. But Julian, really. There are plenty of fine lords and ladies who would line up to be your partner! And far more agreeable!”

Jaskier cut off what he could, all the while holding Geralt’s hand and giving him tight-lipped smiles of what he hoped were reassurances. By the end, he was exhausted, and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Geralt insisted he was fine. Jaskier spent the next morning recounting all the ways and reasons he loved Geralt, and loved their life together, anyway. Slowly, the tightness around Geralt’s eyes loosened.

They avoided Jaskier’s family as best they could.

 They stopped for lunch. Jaskier insisted they take their lunch to the wildflowers, and Geralt relented with an eyeroll and a fond smile. They ate in companionable silence as Jaskier leaned against Geralt. Overcome in the peacefulness of the moment, Geralt laid back in the flowers once he had finished eating. He dragged Jaskier down with him and Jaskier settled against his chest.

Geralt played with Jaskier’s hair and Jaskier fiddled aimlessly with Geralt’s shirt. They watched the clouds and Jaskier called out the shapes and figures he saw, while Geralt snorted unless he was particularly inspired to disagree with Jaskier.

“I love you,” Jaskier said, turning in Geralt’s arms to meet his eyes. He rested his forearms on Geralt’s chest, planted himself there, almost as if he expected Geralt to argue with him. It wasn’t the first time he had said the words aloud, but it felt different this time, somehow. “I love you more than I love being alive.”

Geralt snorted. “That’s not particularly romantic. I’ve already told you not to say you would die for me. This isn’t a far cry from that.”

Jaskier shook his head. He didn’t want a lecture about how reckless he was, not now (not ever, really). Instead, he wanted Geralt to see how serious he was. How mind-numbingly happy Geralt made him.

“I would live for you,” Jaskier said instead. “Sure, I would die for you, too. But I’d much rather live for you.”

Geralt was quiet for a long moment before he drew Jaskier in for a kiss. “Much better,” he said with a grin, and Jaskier laughed. “I would live for you, too.”

 Geralt looked out of place in his wedding attire. Jaskier thought he looked wonderful, covered in jewels and finery and bright blues. He did not, however, look much like he was comfortable. Geralt had little say in what he wore today, as Jaskier’s sisters had managed most of the preparations. They liked pretty, gaudy things, far more than even Jaskier did. As such, they had bedecked Geralt in an outfit that would have looked opulent on anyone else, but only looked suffocating on Geralt.

“I’d ask how eager you were to take that off, but as I’m sure your next step will be to burn your clothes rather than ravish me, I’d rather not know. Let me keep my narcissism,” Jaskier whispered to Geralt just before the ceremony.

For what it was worth, Geralt’s smile was genuine. The moment he turned to the hall they were about to have their handfasting ceremony in, however, his face grew tight. 

“I love you,” Jaskier reminded him, taking Geralt’s hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Curious. Jaskier had seen rings with the garment originally. Now not a single one graced the hand of his witcher.

“I love you,” Geralt repeated. 

He stroked his fingers along Jaskier’s cheekbone, stealing just another moment, before he offered his arm for Jaskier to take. It was time. There was plenty to be nervous about, but Jaskier wasn’t. This was simply a formality.

 “Marry me,” Jaskier said. He pressed a kiss to Geralt’s jaw to avoid his eye.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked, taking Jaskier’s chin in his fingers and pulling him back up. It figured he wouldn’t let Jaskier hide. It was rude, though.

“Marry me,” Jaskier repeated, this time more firmly, and without wavering in his attention at all. A breath flew audibly out of Geralt’s nose. “I want you for all of my days, Geralt of Rivia, and then some. Marry me. Marry me. Marry me.”

Geralt’s fingers carded through Jaskier’s hair. Once, twice, three times, before Geralt pulled him back in for another kiss. Jaskier’s heart pounded away in his chest, so loudly he knew Geralt could hear it, too. He smoothed his hand over Geralt’s chest, and imagined that he could feel Geralt’s heart. He imagined it was beating faster, too.

“Yes,” Geralt answered against Jaskier’s lips.

 The ceremony was long and arduous. Somehow, it felt more like a business transaction, rather than the joining of two hearts. Jaskier went through the motions distantly, and would have felt guilty over it, if he didn’t know Geralt was doing the same thing.

Jaskier found he did not miss this. He did not miss being home, no matter how grand the rooms were, or how for the first time in ages he woke up without aches in his back. The food was delicious and hot every time, and he didn’t have to sing for enough coin to pay for it. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier was comfortable. He was not, however, happy. The Path called to him just as loudly as it called to Geralt, and he found himself comparing the grand estate his parents owned to the decrepit Kaer Morhen. Jaskier knew which one he considered home now, no matter how cold it was at night.

If he had never left, would he have been happy here? Would he have found romance in the words the officiant said? Would he have some pretty lady’s hand in his own, her head full of the same silly things that had always been in Jaskier’s?

Jaskier glanced at Geralt, and found him peeking back. They shared a small, secret smile, and Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s hand. Geralt squeezed back. No, he thought, decidedly. I would have been complacent. I never would have known there was more out there. He never would have found love, as he had with Geralt.

 “Geralt,” Jaskier said, stopping dead in his tracks. “Geralt, where are we?”

Geralt turned and eyed Jaskier curiously. He shrugged his shoulders. “About a two days ride from Carrera,” he answered.

Jaskier stared at him, then from the field of wildflowers around them. It had been two years since he had asked Geralt to marry him. Almost exactly two years. And here, they were, in the very same field as that day. The wildflowers were just as bright, just as beautiful, stretching as far as the eye could see. It was cloudier, today, and therefore a little darker. But still beautiful. Still perfect.

“Geralt, marry me,” Jaskier said.

 Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Jaskier, I already agreed to--”

“No, no,” Jaskier interrupted, waving dismissively at him. “Marry me now, Geralt. Here. Right now.”

It was a suggestion borne out of desperation. Jaskier had to send word to his family that he and Geralt were intending to marry, and they had insisted Geralt and Jaskier come to Lettenhove for the handfasting ceremony. It was going to be beautiful, resplendent, even. His entire family would be there, even the other witchers were invited. Jaskier had already implored them not to. It wasn’t a royal wedding, not by any means, but it was a noble wedding. It was going to be terrible.

But this. Right here, right now. This could be for them.

“Isn’t that what we’re going to Lettenhove for?” Geralt asked, confused. He crossed his arms.

Jaskier nodded. “We’ll hate it. It will be everything my family wants. It will be loud and long and proper and official. It won’t be about us at all.” He gestured broadly at the field. “But this. This could be our real story. This could be our real memory, to help us… survive Lettenhove and the duty there.” He stepped up to Geralt and took Geralt’s face in hand. “I would have you here, Geralt. As you are. As mine.”

Geralt searched his eyes for a moment, then nodded.

 Their hands were bound together. They proclaimed their love in front of a large, almost entirely captive audience. When the ceremony was completed, they were presented to the world together, and their audience applauded.

For the rest of the night, they fielded questions, comments both supportive and snide. They were prevailed upon to make speeches and dance and thank people they had never met before. Geralt insisted over and over, to everyone, that he loved Jaskier, and each time he sounded as if he meant it, and Jaskier squeezed his hand. Jaskier insisted the same back, and went on one tirade so long that word passed not to question Jaskier on the matter again.

 They found a ribbon in Roach’s saddlebag. They didn’t quite remember the words, the vows that were supposed to be made over their hands, but they made up their own. Tying their own hands wasn’t easy, but they did it together.

No one saw their ceremony aside from Roach. They interrupted each other, over and over, to laugh and kiss and declare their love. They set up their camp right there, and made love under the stars in the flowers. Jaskier didn’t think he had ever been this happy. He had a feeling he would be this happy for the rest of his life.

“I love you forever,” Jaskier whispered into Geralt’s hair, as Geralt rested his head on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Forever,” Geralt echoed, and pressed a kiss just over Jaskier’s heart.

 The evening was finally, finally winding down. Jaskier’s hand found Geralt’s as the guests began to bid them goodnight and a happy future. Some of them even meant it. Some of them were drunk enough to have some sincerity. Most were never going to welcome them, and that was fine by Jaskier.

He turned to look at Geralt, only to find him already staring. Their smiles matched and they shifted closer. They had survived. This night would soon only be a night. It would never be their wedding night.

“I love you forever,” Geralt whispered, leaning forward to say it into Jaskier’s ear and brush a kiss along the shell.

“Forever,” Jaskier echoed.

[astra-and-atlas]

On Medusa: The Myth

Part IIa: Some of her myths

It’s been a while, but I finally have time to keep sharing my thoughts. This section of “on Medusa” will discuss the various interpretations of her myth, and the modern reception. I’ll be covering a few ancient versions of her myths and their most common interpretations.

This section includes a content warning for the themes discussed in Medusa’s myth, namely, her r*pe and m*rder.

Check part one of the series here, or visit here to see my other original posts on the Theoi. Let’s begin!

Her Story in Summary:

Sections in brackets are where accounts differ.

Medusa was a [monster or human], who, at one point in time, [laid with] the sea-god Poseidon. Here, accounts differ on [where, and why]. She was then [turned into, or banished] because of her monstrous appearance. Accounts differ again on [who, and why]. The various stories all say she was then living in a far off cave usually referred to as “the cave of the gorgones”, which was either [in Libya or the Island of Cisthene]. There, she terrified men and was accordingly a danger to many. She was beheaded by Perseus as part of his quest, and gave birth from her corpse Pegasos and Khyrsaor. What happened to her remains varies on the myth.

This is an long post- longer than I anticipated. Whoops. 

Hesoid

The first account to cover is Hesoid, who writes of her twice. The myth is not covered in great detail by him, but this is both from what I can find, and from the issue that most accounts of Medusa are from what we can piece together from Perseus’s myth. However, accounts of the Gorgones we can find elsewhere, which help characterize Medusa in later works.

Hesoid is the first author to fully develop the story of Medusa- Homer writes of Gorgon-heads and Perseus, but makes no connection between the two. The other two depictions are in art at the time, however it is unclear how the story formed in full.

Hesiod, Theogony 270 ff

“ Medousa, whose fate is a sad one, for she was mortal, but the other two immortal and ageless both alike. Poseidon, he of the dark hair, lay with one of these, in a soft meadow and among spring flowers. But when Perseus had cut off the head of Medousa there sprang from her blood great Khrysaor and the horse Pegasos, so named from the springs of Okeanos, where she was born."

Medusa is characterized by her mortality-- both in this account and in all other tales of her myth. It sets her apart from her siblings. She retains her monstrous form in this account, and is never referred to as beautiful or enviable in any way. She is a figure of pity-- doomed from the start.

In this quote it’s not directly specified which of the three sisters Poseidon sleeps with, however, as later Medusa gives birth to the two it is clear Hesoid was referring to Medusa when he says “one of these”.  What is also important to note is that Poseidon and Medusa’s relationship is gentle. Their union happens in a meadow, not a temple, and there is no implication of violence. There is no “transformation”, or wrath, in this myth beyond the mortal wrath of King Polydectes (who orders the beheading of Medusa, forcing the role upon young Perseus).  

Hesiod, Shield of Heracles 216 ff

The head of a dreadful monster, the Gorgo, covered the broad of his back, and a bag of silver--a marvel to see--contained it: and from the bag bright tassels of gold hung down.

Hesoid’s later descriptions of Medusa describe her when she is already dead, but we can see here she is a monster for her entire life. Not only does he list her mother as Keto (Keto being the mother to sea-monsters), but in this depiction she is a “dreadful monster”.

She is also referred to as “the Gorgo” most likely just as the singular of Gorgones because of her central role, but also similar to how Aix, the Elder Gorgo, is referred to during accounts of the Titan Wars. Their myth has similarities in their death, as they are both beheaded and turned into the aegis.

Hesiod, Shield of Heracles 216 ff

And after him rushed the Gorgones, unapproachable and unspeakable, longing to seize him : as they trod upon the pale adamant, the shield rang sharp and clear with a loud clanging. Two serpents hung down at their girdles with heads curved forward: their tongues were flickering, and their teeth gnashing with fury, and their eyes glaring fiercely. And upon the awful heads of the Gorgones great Phobos (Fear) was quaking."

This is further detail towards the appearance of the Gorgones. This scene describes the sisters of Medusa, Stheno and Euryale, chasing Perseus. Their descriptions match how gorgones are formed in grecian art at the time. As Homer and Hesoid are mentioned at the beginning of this post, so a piece of art should also be referenced, namely, the gorgenia, which had wide, grinning faces with snakes for hair, and often grotesque features. At the time when Medusa’s myth is first being formed, Gorgones are not beautiful like Medusa is sometimes called in later myth. True to their birth, they are monsters.

Ovid

I consider this to be the most well-known version of her myth, and the one most commonly used for retellings and poetic twists. Do I have statistics for this? No. Shh.

In this version of her story, Medusa was not yet a Gorgon before her tragedy, but presumably a fetching woman. She would be desirable to a god such as Poseidon, and to many others as well. The following quotes attest to her beauty.

Ovid, Heroides 19. 129 ff

“nor Medusa when her locks were not yet twined with snakes,”

Ovid, Metamorphoses 4. 770 ff

Her beauty was far-famed, the jealous hope of many a suitor, and of all her charms her hair was loveliest; so I was told by one who claimed to have seen her.

You may note it doesn’t specifically state she is not a Gorgon, and this is because technically she is- but not as we know them. I wrote above that she was “not yet a Gorgon” because it is easier to understand here when we look at the next few aspects of her myth: violence, wrath, and transformation. She is only truly referenced in these texts from a time after her transformation, and while I would not want to presume what Ovid intended for her to be, he does say that before Athena’s wrath, she had lovely tresses and they were turned to snakes afterwards. If we look at nearly all of the mosaics and pottery that represent the Gorgones, the most identifiable piece of their figure is their hair of snakes. Her lack of this here presents the idea that she is a woman, not a monster.

In the next part of her myth, she and Poseidon have sex in Athena’s temple. Whether this is consensual or not is unclear, as it depends on what translation you’ve used- here I’ve attached multiple translations so you can decide for yourself. Personally I believe it is most likely she was raped, given Poseidon’s characterization in his other myths and the violence that Ovid uses in his telling of her myth.  

From Ov. Met. 4.706

(translation: Golding)

Fame declares the Sovereign of the Sea attained her love in chaste Minerva's temple. While enraged she turned her head away and held her shield before her eyes. To punish that great crime Minerva changed the Gorgon's splendid hair to serpents horrible. And now to strike her foes with fear, she wears upon her breast those awful vipers—creatures of her rage.

(translation: More)

It is reported how she should abusde by Neptune bee In Pallas Church: from which fowle facte Joves daughter turnde hir eye, And with hir Target hid hir face from such a villanie. And lest it should unpunisht be, she turnde hir seemely heare To lothly Snakes: the which (the more to put hir foes in feare Before hir brest continually she in her shield doth beare.

(translation: Melville)

She, it's said, was violated in Minerva's [Athena's] shrine by the Lord of the Sea (Rector Pelagi) [Poseidon]. Jove's [Zeus'] daughter turned away and covered with her shield her virgin's eyes. And then for fitting punishment transformed the Gorgo's lovely hair to loathsome snakes. Minerva [Athena] still, to strike her foes with dread, upon her breastplate wears the snakes she made.’"

Already we can see how each translation uses words with specific connotations, which is quite compelling to study. Moving on from this, in these three translations I’ve also included the second piece of her myth, the wrath of Athena, where she transforms Medusa into the form we know (and love) so well: that of a monster.

Athena’s wrath is one of power, as she is commonly portrayed. The punishment here is removing Medusa’s beauty, her hair, for the desecration of her temple. Athena’s wrath is appropriate in the way it is shown later- Athena is often credited to helping Perseus slay the Gorgo and this thread of vengeance rationalizes why Athena might be favoured towards Perseus.

Ovid, Metamorphoses 5. 250 ff :

"Through all these mighty deeds Pallas, Minerva [Athena], had availed to guide her gold-begotten brother [Perseus]."

Medusa’s death is told by Perseus in the following manner:

Ovid, Metamorphoses 4. 769 ff :

Along the way, in fields and by the roads, I saw on all sides men and animals--like statues--turned to flinty stone at sight of dread Medusa's visage. Nevertheless reflected on the brazen shield, I bore upon my left, I saw her horrid face. When she was helpless in the power of sleep and even her serpent-hair was slumber-bound, I struck, and took her head sheer from the neck.--To winged Pegasus the blood gave birth, his brother [Chrysaor] also, twins of rapid wing.’

Medusa is a monster when Perseus kills her- no trace of the enviable maiden Ovid once hints at. She is sleeping when he slays her, and thus defenseless. It is largely unclear whether Medusa had the power to petrify before her transformation- it is a common power of Gorgones but a power such as this could also be reasonably granted by a goddess during Athena’s transformation and curse to Medusa.  This version is often used to make Perseus into a monster himself, or to make Athena a hero and to vilify the power of men in Greek mythology. This is all valid (although poor Perseus had no choice but to kill her? Don’t make this his fault, but I will discuss this and other modern interpretations later).

Other Versions

There are a thousand different versions I could choose to write about (well, not thousands), but namely Nonnus, Suidas, Pindar, and Pausinias. Because of attention span, time and length constraints (this post is already so long), I’ve chosen to write brief summaries with key quotes as to the various remaining versions.

Rationalizations: Suidas, Pausanias

In these accounts, Medusa is credited as being a Libyan queen who terrorized others until Perseus had killed her. It is a rationalization of the myth- Pausanias says he “omits the miraculous”. She is described as beautiful yet warlike, explaining perhaps why she is monstrous to some and enviable to others. It gives a reason why Athena may have been angry specifically towards her (she harmed those who were sacred to Athena).

Pausanias, Guide to Greece 2. 21. 5 - 6 :

“going out hunting and leading the Libyans to battle. On one such occasion, when she was encamped with an army over against the forces of Perseus, who was followed by picked troops from the Peloponnesos, she was assassinated by night. Perseus, admiring her beauty even in death, cut off her head and carried it to show the Greeks.”

“ Among the incredible monsters to be found in the Libyan desert are wild men and wild women. Prokles affirmed that he had seen a man from them who had been brought to Rome. So he guessed that a woman wandered from them, reached Lake Tritonis, and harried the neighbours until Perseus killed her; Athena was supposed to have helped him in this exploit, because the people who live around Lake Tritonis are sacred to her."

Diodorus Siculus, Library of History 3. 52. 4

Now there have been in Libya a number of races of women who were warlike and greatly admired for their manly vigour...[Perseus]  who accomplished the campaign against these women, and that this was his greatest Labour may be taken by any man as proof of both the pre-eminence and the power of the women we have mentioned.

Nonnus: Her death.

In Dionysiaca, Nonnus makes no mention of Medusa’s creation. We do not know if Poseidon forced himself on her or even if he is the father of Pegasos and Khyrsoar, although it is implied by the references to horses. However he does make the interesting claim that each of the Gorgons had one power: Stethno to turn others to stone, Euryale with her bellow, and Medusa with the hair of snakes. He also makes great reference to “harvest” when referring to her and the birth of her children, which is interesting to me, at least.

Nonnus, Dionysiaca 24. 270 ff

then shore off the snaky swathe of one Medousa (Medusa), while her womb was still burdened and swollen with young... and reaped the neck of the pregnant Gorgon, firstfruits of a horsebreeding neck? There was no battle when swiftshoe Perseus lifted the lifeless token of victory, the snaky sheaf of Gorgon hair, relics of the head dripping drops of blood, gently wheezing a half-heard hiss through the severed throats

listening for no trumpet but [the Gorgon] Euryale's bellowing--having despoiled a little Libyan hole!"

Nonnus, Dionysiaca 30. 264 ff

Have you set foot in Libya? Have you had the task of Perseus? Have you seen the eye of [the Gorgon] Sthenno which turns all to stone, or the bellowing invincible throat of [the Gorgon] Euryale herself? Have you seen the tresses of viperhair Medousa (Medusa), and have the open mouths of her tangled serpents run round you?

Pindar: The flute

Athena invented the flute to mimic the bellow of the gorgones when Medusa had been slain. He also says that Medusa is attractive in some way. In this version Athena is in support of Perseus as well.

Pindar, Pythian Ode 12. 8 ff

The art that long ago Pallas Athene invented [the flute], weaving in music's rich refrain the ghoulish dirge of the fierce-heareted Gorgones. From those dread maidens' lips was heard streaming, and from those writhing serpent heads untouchable

the head of the fair-cheeked Medousa

But when the goddess maid delivered from these labours the man she loved, then she contrived the manifold melodies of the flute, to make in music's notes an image of the shrill lamenting cries, strung from Euryale's ravening jaws. A goddess found, but finding, gave the strain to mortal men to hold, naming it the tune of many heads."

I’m really only adding in Pindar’s account here because the flute is an important piece of one of the next posts I have planned for Medusa and I figured it might be best to introduce the concept now.

If youŕe interested in further resources relating to Medusa, I recommend the book Perseus by Daniel Ogden, which provides an in-depth analysis of Medusa and the Gorgones as well as the myth of Perseus. (This was recommended to me by @adri-le-chat , and I recommend checking out their posts on Perseus as well).

You can also use Theoi. com to browse Perseus and Medusa’s pages, and the Perseus Tufts database to find some valuable translations.

If anyone would like to go back in time and recover the Aeschylus, Phorcides, um, please do, because the Phorcides was the second in a trilogy and was supposed to focus specifically on Perseus’s encounters with Medusa. An entire play? About Perseus and Medusa? Imagine the information we could’ve had, I’m so upset that it was lost. Just imagine! But all we have is one fragment and it’s really not all that helpful, so if anyone would like to visit that time period and miraculously defy the laws of time so I can read about Medusa...

Anyways this post is long enough! I hope you enjoyed it and keep an eye out for the next section which will focus on my analysis of the myths presented!

| Part One | Other Theoi Notes | Resources | 

[witchfall]

old souls

summary: When the act of want feels like a risk, what happens when you get everything you asked for?

A Crystal Exarch x Warrior of Light fic Word count: 6431 Rating: M (implied sexual content)

Also on AO3. Technically a sequel to ‘hard is the heart that feels no fear’, though it can be enjoyed standalone.

Thank you to @vaniccio for betaing!!!

Copious Shadowbringers: 5.3 Reflections in Crystal spoilers within. You have been warned!

—

—

–

-

For a blistering moment, Izzie sees meteors flicker in his crystal body.

He’s not there anymore. She knows that. She grips the crystalline vial of blood memories so hard she fears it will crack. The sadness Alisaie spoke of when she saw the star showers -- loss that leaves yawning gaps, writhing and vile -- creeps up her throat. She remembers when she had her first vision from Hydaelyn on that trip to Ul'dah long ago; she feels more grounded in it, now. The pain is lived in. Understood.

The rains have ceased, but you are not here to see it.

The Scions join her at the seat of sacrifice. They stare at her, alarmed, as she strides past and says nothing. She will risk nothing sullying her hope; she will hold it like candle flame, close to her chest, until she is certain it will not go out.

---

Y’shtola lifts a single, elegant brow. “You still have to take the Exarch to Nabaath Arang?” 

“Yes.” Izzie tries not to snap. Y’shtola, of all of them, is most likely to examine Izzie down to the quick and question what she finds there.

“Showing him the realm, are you?”

Izzie crosses her arms. Rain in the Greatwood has unsettled the ancient greenery. Her nose twitches at the heavy scent of damp moss. “What of it?” 

Something changes in the air, then. Y’shtola pauses, recalculating, and Izzie’s tail stands on end from the tension. “It simply has...been awhile, since you have taken a flight of fancy like this.”

Izzie digs her toe into the mud. She huffs. For a bard, she’s extraordinarily bad when it comes to talking about herself. “It’s nice. To pretend.”

You are death.

“Pretend?”

“That I’m just a traveler, anymore.” 

Y’shtola gives her a small smile, but there’s something deeper there that spooks Izzie, like she’s looking at something private. “Is that not among your brightest qualities? Your penchant for adventure, vast and mundane?” She places a gentle hand on Izzie’s shoulder. “You are not so unknown.”

Izzie says nothing, even as Y’shtola shakes her lightly.

“I am not one to make prognostications I don’t fully believe in. You know this. I do, in fact, think this has more than a passing chance of working.”

Izzie nods. She refuses to cry.

“You could do worse." Y'shtola brushes an invisible piece of dirt off Izzie’s tunic, as if oblivious to the effect she had on her younger counterpart. "Though...were the two of you anyone else, I would call you both unspeakably obsessed..." 

Izzie's breath stutters as Y’shtola’s cloudy eyes sharpen upon her. She lets up for nothing. But before Izzie can struggle to defend herself, the woman gives a dazzling smile. 

“Do keep heart. My life and happiness depends on this working, too, you know."

Izzie glances pointedly to Runar, who is speaking with a woman by one of the Slitherbough gardens, and Y’shtola, perhaps sensing her intent through the aether, finally graces Izzie with silence.

---

The Scions’ crystals shimmer and everything clicks into its right place; Izzie feels settled for a bare moment, as if she had stepped onto a ferry in just the nick of time. Her beloved family rises one by one, greeting the new day, groaning as they stretch out waxy muscles. But as they each turn to appraise her, Izzie fidgets and fidgets.

They each gaze upon her expectantly. We will leave the rest to you, Y’shtola says, smiling with rare maternal kindness. It sends cold water down Izzie’s back. Urianger’s softness has never been a mystery to her, even in his most shadowed; his words are complex but their meaning is simple. It will work, he reminds her. The doors will unseal because G’raha’s blood is in her satchel. 

(How many years has she dreamed of saving his blood under her fingernails, of forcing those golden doors open with a furious pouring of her own essence?)

The realization scares her: they all know what she wants. And not a single person in the room dissuades her.  

Her stomach roils. Her blood feels electric. The hope of fulfillment alone may devour her. She runs and does not look back, not even when Tataru shouts. Not even when she feels Alisaie look after her strangely, like a confirmation that something is changed forever.

---

The ground shakes as those massive doors, the Dossal Gates, open. The stale air tastes split by lightning. She had just been standing before these same gates a few moments ago, but the difference between the worlds hollows her out. Unlike in the First, where the doors herald the hope of a city, these doors are dusty and hidden. Sealed purposefully against the various evils of mankind.

She grips the crystal tighter; perhaps it is his present soul that makes her own memories feel suddenly, painfully vibrant. His broad shoulders square as he seeks to leave her behind forever -- but then he turns just slightly, as if considering looking back, and his mouth moves as the doors close, the words lost forever to the sound of doors roaring shut. 

I love you. That’s what he said. She knows that now. The crystal is warm under her fingers, confirming it. It gives her the will to keep walking, up vaunted staircases that once stunned her with their beauty. Now they are just another obstacle. She barely registers the imperial stature of the architecture or the distant, yawning sounds of monsters that could still be lurking in its eternal spire. She follows a well-tread path to the Umbilicus and she knows it is right; the crystal near thrums with an affectionate, overbearing knowing.

So like him.

And then, after she throws one last door open with a breathless, heavy creak, her journey ends. She takes in a sharp breath. Dust stings her nose.

There he is.

He sleeps upon little more than a tiny dais with some red blankets thrown over it for bare comfort. His head lays upon what must be an old shirt of his balled up to serve as a pillow; his hands rest, open palmed, upon his chest. This cannot be what he thought an Allagan princeling would look like. She nearly laughs, lightheaded. 

Still...

Despite everything, his face is the picture of a lazy Mor Dhona afternoon. Even under the cold blue-gold light, his handsomeness is gutting. 

He is exactly as preserved in her memory, save his hair spreading loose like red vines across his makeshift bed. His youth, unburdened by a century of waiting, springs tears into her eyes. How many years does she bear on her back, despite the star merely going round twice? Will she look too different in his younger eyes? (This body is still older than her, she notes. But barely anymore. What a strange pair they make.)

She feels stupid, standing there staring with the crystal in her hands. She wonders if perhaps she should have brought Krile along. But, in theory, this should work the same as with the Scions, so before she can overthink it she places the crystal carefully, lovingly, beneath his palms. She jolts when she touches his skin— cold as the air in the tower — and for a moment she actually fears waking him, like she doesn’t want to upset his sleep. Even though that is exactly what she is doing.

What the fuck even is her life, a tiny part of her whispers.

The seconds drag on. Her tail twitches behind her in restless energy. Should she practice a speech or something? Should she talk to him to encourage his soul to accept itself? What words would even suffice? She spent two years wondering after him, yet it all feels short compared to this moment.

“I’m here,” she announces quietly and her hand lingers on his for just a moment. When he doesn’t respond, she sinks to the floor beside him, her back against his strangely warm dais-bed, her head between her knees. Words are no good. Whatever she says could easily be for naught.

She sings instead.

It’s a silly song the dragons taught her that does not translate well, but she liked the challenge of it in her mouth. It was once a courtship song, she was told. The meaning behind the deeply intricate symbols had been lost to time and the traversal of new stars. Now they just liked the ditty.

Care to forget the deep warm wells of another life?

The slow love of water beneath the sand?

Stupid questions I can't answer.

She hears the crackling sparkle of aether and pointedly does not look. She digs her eyes into her knees, seized with fear, and keeps singing, even though it’s muffled by her legs. Her torso is bent just enough that her voice feels weak, but she doesn’t adjust.

She will need to give him space. He will need time to come to terms with this world. She will not press him. She will not.

you're bold and bright, the sun star's last breath.

me?

at least the dark magic is mine

and I will keep it to myself this time.

Her song smothers the groaning sounds of his waking. She doesn’t notice him take a few silent moments to watch her, all curled up and heartbreakingly girlish again in her waiting. Her feet tap the floor. Her hands grip her ankles. Her ears twitch, and then…

She sees feet hit the floor in the corner of her eye and…

She shoots up to standing so fast that her vision tunnels for a moment. She doesn’t breathe. She could pass out standing there. She might well have, watching him as he watches her, his mouth popped slightly open…those red eyes...

She stumbles back a tiny step at the weight of seeing him. His breath catches. 

“I remember,” he says. His throat works to swallow. Her eyes hone in on it. “I remember everything.”

"Oh.” Breathe. Her heart is in her mouth. “That’s…”

Well, not entirely good, is it? Don’t think about it.

She scans him as clinically as she can manage. The Allagan technology did well by him, at least. His skin is clear and pale. His tattoos stand out like void bites. His lithe frame had retained its old musculature, though she imagines it must be disorienting regardless. His aether situation -- she would leave the specifics to Krile -- must be very confusing.

But then his eyes fill with tears.

She panics, and against her earlier desire for restraint, she closes the distance between them in a step. Her hands fly to his face (no crystal coming to claim him, simply the edge of an archon's tattoo...). She cups his jaw, resting her thumbs on his cheeks. The tears she can't catch fall into the webbing of her fingers.

"It's okay," she says softly. She squashes her own tears down, down, down. His face still feels too cool beneath her hands and she thinks for a moment about what it would be like to wrap him up in a scarf and keep him like a trophy. "The worst is over now."

He leans his mouth into her palm. When he speaks, his lips brush her heart lines and she fears she may combust. "You're real, aren't you?" he croaks out. Voice unused for years. "You aren't some strange ghost created out of the hope of two souls?" 

Her throat tightens. She forgets how to speak like someone kind. “Of course I’m real, you idiot. Of course I'm--”

He seizes her, then, in a crushing embrace, his arms as strong as the day they said goodbye. They snake around her waist. She is crushed between her leather armor and his stupid ugly tunic and the haleness of his body, and all she wants is to wink out of time and live in this moment. Still, a part of her resists. He has much to remember. Hundreds of years to consider.

He whispers into her ear. “My star. Izzie. My love.” Naming her, as if to anchor her to him. He pulls back only so their foreheads meet. She struggles to focus on the radiance of his gaze. “Are you alright?”

“Am I--” She nearly growls at him in her flummoxed state. Tears slip down her cheeks, too, and it makes her angry and proud and happy and destroyed. “I should be asking you that!”

Perhaps he didn’t hear her; but then, it is more likely he did and saw through her. He tucks her head under his chin and rocks her back and forth. He holds her tightly until her shoulders finally lose their tension and she gives a keening sob against his chest. His breath catches again. And then they collapse to the gold filigree floor, grappling with the sudden collision -- and end -- of too many painful years apart.

---

She feels a bit like a child bringing home a stray, even though that doesn’t make sense. Her Scions know him and he’d lived in Mor Dhona for a not insignificant amount of time. But nothing explains the bizarre embarrassment and desolation she feels when they arrive at the Rising Stones and everyone stares for a second. Don’t look, she wants to scream. Everything is fine and normal and not at all a miracle that shouldn’t have happened.

But then Krile marches forward and points a terrifying finger at G’raha. “Raha. Just because this all worked out well does not mean you are forgiven for being an idealistic fool. To bed. Now.”

Izzie grins so brightly her eyes water as G’raha’s ears flatten against his head. Her mother would like Krile very much; the resemblance strikes her fiercely in that moment. 

“Don’t let him leave your sight, Izzie,” she grumbles as they enter Dawn’s Respite. G’raha leans into Izzie as she half carries him, and she wonders if he’s dramatizing a little to stay close to her and hide from Krile. “I can’t believe how angry I still am with you after all these years. You ridiculous fool. You’re lucky your decision quite literally prevented a calamity…”

G’raha, to his credit, bows to her scolding. “You’re right, of course.”

Krile harrumphs. But Izzie doesn’t miss the soft, sidelong glance she gives the younger scholar before she near pushes him to bed.

--- 

Izzie brings G’raha everything Krile says he needs and more. She fetches food and blankets and washcloths. She holds weird aether scanning tools at just right angles. She cleans medical tools and sweeps floors and folds sheets when Krile runs out of things for her to do. At one point, she notices G’raha keeps brushing his bangs out of his eyes. She silently marches up to his bedside, fishes out a few pins from her pocket, and waves them in front of his face.

He reaches forward to take them. "Thank you--"

"Let me do it," she whispers, and before he can protest, her fingers brush against his crown, pinning his soft hair out of his beautiful eyes. He takes the faintest breath before he wraps a hand around her wrist, gentle and pleading.

"You haven't sat down."

She feels like she has hornets under her skin. "Lots to do."

He quirks a smile. “No there isn’t.”

She glances to where his fingers grip her. She glances around the spotless Respite. Her ears flatten. “...well. There was.”

So she sits in the chair Krile pointedly left beside him and collapses her body forward until her forehead lays on the mattress. She is tired. Not for the first time, she wishes she wasn’t like this. Wishes she didn’t feel driven to do until she can’t think anymore.

But then G’raha gently rubs her head between her ears and she decides she can just opt out of thinking, if she wants. She allows herself the affection; from the way his hands don’t leave her, he seems desperate to give it. She snaps out her own hand, letting it wander the mattress and muss away the sheets until she finds his thigh and she feels better, touching him back. He softly hums some old tune and she relaxes there in relative quiet for who knows how long.

In her warm drifting, she eventually realizes she dreads nightfall. She should let him sleep the recuperative sleep of a mortal man. She should not hover or oppress him into what she wants. But just as before, as in the old days and the new, he speaks as if he can read her like a book.

"If it isn't any trouble, my dear one," he starts, "would you be willing to stay with me tonight?"

She nods at once, relieved, and settles harder into her chair. He smiles, lopsided.

"You can have a bed, if you'd like."

"I want to be closer," she admits, and already her face burns, even though she has not lifted her hand from his thigh for hours, maybe. "So here is fine, I've slept in a chair before, a lot actually--"

He reaches up and tugs on one of the frazzled locks of hair framing her face, just like Before. Her lip quivers. "You can have a bed," he says, cutely commandeering in a way he never let himself be as Exarch, and he pats his mattress.

She blinks at him. In the next moment, she is peeling off her boots, avoiding his resplendent gaze as she does so. She pulls back his covers and slips in beside him, her legs sliding against his warm, bare skin as he tucks her in against his chest. She entwines their limbs and throws an arm over his waist. She digs her nose into his chest, smelling his clean skin; even now his scent reminds her of their old campfires. He rubs small circles into the back of her neck with his thumb.

Why had she been so afraid to ask for this?

"Finally," he sighs into her hair. "My dark and dastardly plans may commence."

He brushes his fingers on her exposed waist. She squeaks at his touch -- he was tickling her, the fiend -- and whaps him with her palm. He laughs. She feels at home.

---

G'raha awakens first. He blinks heavily at the weight lying against him and looks down, and only then does he accept he is not dreaming. 

Izzie snores against him, her mouth open. Her chin shines with drool. Her hair is a tangle of red knots under her sweaty neck, but her face is so relaxed that he thinks to keep her there, forever. His reverie only ends because Krile enters -- and she stops suddenly, seeing the pair.

He can only describe her expression as wistful. But she schools her face into more familiar, sly watchfulness when she notices his gaze upon her.

"You would ensnare the Warrior of Light," Krile says, as if exhausted of him already.

"I assure you," he says, quiet as a whisper, "that it was entirely the other way around."

Krile smirks. She oozes sarcasm as she sweeps over to them, but when her gaze shifts to Izzie’s still miraculously sleeping form, he remembers how badly he missed Krile’s softness, too. 

“Oh, Raha.” She lays the back of her hand on Izzie’s forehead, testing for fever (it was apparently that unusual for her to sleep like this), but her twinkling eyes land on him. “You haven’t changed at all.”

---

And then the strangest thing of all happens: The Scions of the Seventh Dawn have nothing to do. Nothing so pressing the world won’t wait a few days for them to catch up to it.

G’raha learns the limits of his new old body. He falls asleep on their picnic blanket and during a card game and even, to Izzie's sickening panic, once on the edge of a balcony wall where he had perched with a book. He devours whole meals so quickly she watches him in careful awe. He weaves spells and gets tired enough to faint; she has so far been able to catch him before he hits the ground, but she ponders letting him do so, once, if it teaches him a lesson.

Izzie enjoys playing witness. It’s like watching her favorite dreams depicted on stage for her amusement.

"I like your hair like that," she says in passing one day. His hand flutters up to the pins he had kept and his ears flick -- more expressive than she had ever seen, even in the old days. He smiles brightly.

"I'm glad," he says. "I like it too."

Tataru gifts him new clothes, and that is when it truly feels like the beginning of an era. He steps out of a side room to model them for the Scion family, smiling sheepishly, and Izzie stares for a moment too long. She feels Feo Ul's hand in this. The Fae King reached through time and space to design this outfit specifically to slap her in the face. My dear sapling will have to thank me in person later! She can nearly hear the words -- and indeed, Izzie would.

The design is a perfect blend of old and new. His sharp red half-robe is ridiculously him, honoring the Exarch and young scholar both. The gold accents shimmer under the light. He is adorned with so many necklaces she is struck with the desire to bring him another, as if in tribute. 

She steps close and adjusts his black scarf, letting her fingers drift down to the tassles and linger on the sumptuous fabric just over his collarbones, before she realizes what she is doing. 

G'raha's grin is blinding in the corner of her eye. 

"It wasn't even," she grumbles at him.

"And the rest of it?"

"It's a good look," Thancred says. His tone indicates more than just the clothes. Alphinaud poorly stifles a giggle.

Izzie turns back to glare at them, but they are all looking at her, like she is the twist in the tale they've been waiting for. Urianger smiles gently. Y'shtola raises a brow. I knew it to be so. Even Alisaie looks strangely triumphant, like she'd won a bet.

She blushes furiously and lets it slide.

Despite this -- despite the offer for him to join the Scions and the work he does to re-seal the tower and the fact he is never far from arm's reach, much less out of sight -- she still feels out of sorts. And then one day, as they sit together in the Rising Stones cafe picking over finger sandwiches, her mouth does the thing where it asks a stupid question before she realizes it's happening. 

She stares at him as he places a fifth sandwich in his mouth and she asks: "Are we together?"

He glances to her, alarmed, but his tone remains steady and teasing. "Did you teleport somewhere on accident? You look corporeal enough."

"No. I mean. Are we...are…" Well, no, now it feels really stupid. She turns away. She stuffs a whole sandwich in her mouth in one go, and he waits patiently the whole time. She says, once she swallows the food down: "Is this happening? For real this time?"

She isn't sure what she means. Physically? A proposal of marriage? All of it makes her feel like she just stuck her head in an oven.

His brows turn downward. "Why wouldn't it be, my love?"

Yes, this is very stupid indeed. His love is near impossible to avoid. But since he received his own room at the Stones, they function otherwise like they intend to live completely separate lives. Like colleagues.

Which they are. Which is fine.

It’s not.

"Can we...go on a trip? An adventure maybe? Or something? Alone. Just us two. Without...any of the other Scions…?”

She bites her lip and lays her head on the table and covers her scalp with her hands. She wants to die for some reason. 

He laughs, warm and true, and he leans in until his forehead rests on her temple. She still hides in shame, even as he whispers just for her to hear. "How many times do I have to tell you you're my guiding star? Before you believe me?"

Her face is so flushed she feels sweat break on her brow. "Maybe another time would help," she mutters into the table.

He laughs again and gently kisses her on the corner of her mouth. "I will wait for you to come to me, alright?" When she looks at him with wide eyes, stricken by a terror she struggles to name, he smiles at her. Love freely given. "You could never disappoint me. As ever, I follow in your light."

---

She takes him up on it that night.

She was never confident in these affairs. Their first time in the tower on the First she was seized by reckless abandon. He was already seeing everything. Why hide? Their time, she sensed, had been limited once again. The tower loomed over everything. A judge in cold absentia.

Now, if she knocks on this door in the Rising Stones, she will be stepping into forever. Her body shakes. She feels 19 again, afraid of how powerfully certain she is -- afraid of the pain she may invite into her life, if she loses him. But this time, she has already lost him twice. No god, if they exist, would be cruel or stupid enough to make an enemy of her this time.

She knocks. He opens the door. He stares, bewildered. 

"Hi," she says flatly.

A blinding smile lights his face. She has to look away a moment. Her heart thuds so strongly she is certain he can hear it. He stands there, staring.

"Move, would you?" Her voice feels harsh and unsteady. "Before the gossipmongers see."

He steps back. She steps in. And then, in one fluid movement, he pulls her against him and pushes the door closed behind her. Suddenly her back is pressed against the harsh wood and she is kissing him, melting into his muscled chest and his moan of satisfaction as her tongue darts into his mouth. She isn't sure who moved first. It doesn't matter now. They're together, against the literal forces of time and space. 

She pulls back just enough that their lips are only a hair apart. Heat thrums between them.

"I hope you know," she breathes, "that this time I mean to keep you."

He grins. The boy she had dreamed of. "This time I intend to be kept."

She laughs before he quiets her with his mouth against hers. 

For all its drama, the reconnection is quiet. He carries her to the bed. They undress each other slowly, limbs entangled, smiling into each other's skin, until they lay together naked beneath the blankets. He won't stop kissing her, pressing his lips against old injuries, her ears, her collarbones, her stomach. 

“So much to catch up on,” he says. “And I will know all of it, again.”

She takes a deep breath and shreds her last bit of armor. Do what you like with me. Mark me. Make it real. 

He holds her fast when she says this. He trembles, looming over her, within her. She wants to be disappeared by his shadow. She wants to be consumed.

His mouth and tongue slide down her neck. "You are everything.” His teeth graze the top of her shoulder. “I will answer your every prayer.” His hand slides over the bony curve of her hip. “For what I want...is to see you beloved.”

---

And yet.

She wakes curled into his side, his arm circled around her shoulders. She moves until she can hear his heart, beating and alive. 

The shadow of night sparks cruel questions: Will he be kept? Will he be fighting fate's designs upon his life? Can she survive another loss? Can she afford to try? They circle in her head until she takes a sharp breath. She utters his true name. "Raha…"

Perhaps he had already been awake. Immediately, he circles his arms around her in a protective vice. “What’s wrong?”

Her voice catches in her throat and G’raha pulls her up. He sits against the headboard and cradles her against him, bringing the blankets up to keep her warm. “I don’t know,” she says. She smothers her ear against his chest. Lets the sound of his lifeblood calm her. “I don’t know what happens next.”

He strokes her back. Her fingertips slip against his chest as she balls her hands into fists. And then he sucks in a breath. She tilts her head up at him.

"...I just want you to know where I stand," he says, and she gets the feeling he has practiced this speech. "I...I had seen the reports of your death in the future that now will never be. I saw...memorials to you in every camp. Every small group carried something of you. A picture. A carving. A song they thought you wrote…"

He sighs. She hears a century of pain in it.

"Your death in the abstract was untenable. You were everywhere. And...I knew, I knew when I woke that I would be confronted with your death, even in an ideal world. But it was...I felt so immeasurably stupid. To think that I would be able to survive it. I could barely tolerate giving up adventuring with you, much less..."

She stops him with a finger to his lips. No need to relive these hurts for her sake. "What's the short version, Raha?"

The use of his true name sends another contented shudder through his lungs. He takes her raised hand and pulls until he can press his lips against the inside of her wrist.

"I had a century to come to terms with what I want. And now I have her, despite my every expectation.” His tail curls around her hip. "You haven't had that time. I didn't want to press it. But I also know...sometimes you experience more pain doing nothing out of fear of what the something will bring."

She hears the silent mercy he is granting her. It’s okay to want. It’s okay to struggle with it. 

“And,” he adds, “you lose a shocking amount of time, thinking not of the present.”

He presses a kiss to the pulsing vein in her wrist. She taps his chest with her thumb.

"What did the pictures even look like?"

His other hand slides lazily down her back. "Not even the slightest bit like you."

"Not even a little?"

"It was you if you were at least a fulm taller and had much meaner brows. Maybe."

"Hmm…"

He squeezes the base of her tail and she jumps. His chuckling breath tickles her ear. "I much prefer this version."

---

G’raha taps the charcoal against the blank drawing parchment as he watches Izzie experience the consequences of her actions. 

On the path into Rowena’s Splendors below, the Warrior of Light and Darkness hummed, fully distracted by the contents of her bag while she walked -- leaving her utterly unprepared for Thancred to hold out his arm and nearly clothesline her. She stumbles with incredible drama. Her arms flap. Her feet dance to keep her aloft, and just barely do they succeed.

“Hey!” she shouts.

“Your bag,” Thancred insists.

“You-”

“Your bag.”

Izzie growls in frustration before shoving it at him with a leathery thunk.

Thancred makes a show of rifling through it. Some knives wrapped in burlap. The remnants of a cheesecloth. A few glamour prisms. G’raha knows Thancred wouldn’t find anything in there. He knows, also, that Thancred wouldn’t even be down there if it wasn’t for him. He tipped the man off because he knew Izzie would find it funny.

He rather enjoys Izzie’s little cons -- when they aren’t directed at him. 

Thancred hands back the satchel. “If I find any more of that Mord grub in our coldbox, I will confine you to quarters, warrior of two worlds or no.” Despite his words, his tone is largely...endeared. Relieved, and not just because her bag was empty.

Izzie grins at him. “Gaia didn’t send any with me this time.”

Thancred ignores her. “And you!” he shouts up at G’raha. “Stop enabling her!”

G’raha raises his hands to proclaim innocence, laughing, and he wipes off the charcoal lingering on his fingers. He turns his eyes toward the door to the balcony upon which he sits. His heart floats, knowing it’ll be mere moments before Izzie will be ambushing him.

The scions -- his fellow scions -- hadn’t missed the changes within her. She smiles more. She even plays music in the tavern sometimes, which always brings a full house. I’ll deal with the frustrating practical jokes if it means she’s doing alright, Thancred admitted to him over beer not so long ago.

He hears her before he sees her, but only because he seeks out her quiet footfalls. She jumps from the threshold of the door and makes it half-way; she twirl-steps the last half to dramatically throw her arm over his shoulders. She lands hard enough to thump the air out of him. The whole of her leans playfully into his side, her chest nearly against his own. “Ready to see Ma?”

He grins before her happy radiance, never one to resist her call to adventure -- not even when he fears what it will bring. Meeting her adoptive mother, for instance. He settles his arm around her lower back. “As ready as one can be.”

---

The Thanalan heat stifles him. Dust seeps into his clothes and sand flies into his eyes no matter which way he turns when the winds blow across the desert. Izzie's ma, Sheshena Shena, takes one look at G’raha’s pale, wind-chapped skin and insists he take tea with her on the covered porch.

"Izzie can set up the carriage herself," she declares. Izzie glances to him and nods encouragement, but she acquiesces at once to her Ma's will. Lady Shena, G'raha thinks, has a power all of Garlemald wishes it could wield.

But he knows that this gesture is not solely for his benefit. She allows him a few moments of polite, worthless conversation over an aromatic chai before her glassy eyes pin him in place.

"Not too many moons ago," Sheshena says, "I was going to ask her to quit."

G'raha lets that register for a moment. "Her work with the Scions?"

Sheshena inclines her head. "She wouldn't have. She can no less quit being the warrior of light than I can quit being her mother. But I thought...perhaps it would help her notice just how bad the misery weighed on her shoulders."

She purses her lips and turns away, toward Izzie. She lingers there a moment. 

"She would have just been angry with me." Her gaze slides back to him. "But I have watched my daughter carefully, G'raha Tia. And much of this started not long after you disappeared from her life."

He understands now. She is warning him. She is telling him the stories that wouldn't be in any tomes.

"...it wasn't all your fault," she allows. "Her time in Ishgard would have crushed her were it not for dear Edmont." He forgets she is on first name terms with Izzie's Ishgardian family -- that she is part of it, too. "And then her father died."

G'raha closes his eyes, punched in the gut. 

Her voice hollows. "It never quite stopped after that."

He realizes this is not just a tribunal for his crimes against her daughter, but a confessional. An unmooring of pain, old and new. 

"She stopped allowing herself things. Her silly songs ended. Her visits slowed. I knew she needed the space. But she was drifting into the middle of a lake with no paddle. She was letting it happen." Her silver eyes sharpen into knives. "And I sought to blame someone. And I decided it was you. You, who had broken her heart first. You, who had left her behind. You were...it was easier."

She sets down her tea cup with a shaky clink and turns away from him.

"She told me what happened on this...other world. How she found you again."

He stares down into his half-sipped tea. His fingers slip upon the stone table. He would take this punishment. It was small, in the scheme of things, and necessary.

"She told me, had it not happened...had you made a different choice, that she would be dead."

So would the whole world, he thinks to say, but on this he and Sheshena agreed: without her, none of it matters, anyway.

"That you survived years and years to set things right and make sure she didn't die."

He nods, though his neck feels stiff.

"So I wanted to apologize. And thank you."

His heart stutters. He looks up at her in shock.

"Come off it," she says, sly and perhaps embarrassed. "Look at her. Look at her." Her lip trembles. "She's humming again."

They both look out to her, softly brushing her chocobo. The 'bo chirps conversationally at her. She laughs and coos at her stalwart friend. And there, in her laughter…

Where the desert sun left him weak and wan, she is painted in one thousand colors of light. Her sea green eyes shine. Her skin reddens like a canyon at noon. The sun adores her as its own, and perhaps she is. 

This is the crystal of Azem. I think that it was meant for me. Can you believe it? Emet-selch, making this for me, once upon a time...

The Sun. The Shepherd of the Stars. When he touched the crystal, he felt a strange sort of awe.

He tastes cloves and the fruit of oasis when he thinks about her aether whipping around him. He thinks of life where there should be misery -- of how desire can twist but also carefully caress.

"Ma! Where'd you put Bonbon's sun hat?"

Sheshena answers, her voice no longer weighed down, and he realizes again why Izzie was so afraid at first. He would learn the realness of her again. He would see her pain and be there at her Da’s grave with her. He would make it impossible for her to forget that she is loved. 

Sheshena turns back to him and the light in her eyes shifts. 

"So." Sheshena regards him regally. "You're Allagan royalty, are you?" She raises a single brow to his flummoxed expression and sighs as she lifts her tea cup to her lips. "I suppose she could do worse."

The sun scalds bright pictures behind his eyelids as he laughs.

[ofhelens]

HELEN WORTHINGTON: AUDITIONING FOR THE ROLE OF LADY MACBETH

oh boy. okay, so without rambling too much..........originally, i wasn’t going to have helen audition for anyone. why would she? with the possible exception of lady macduff, macbeth is full of characters who are totally unlike helen & anyone she’s played up-to-date. plus, the subject of the play is just a little too on the nose for her - and given her self denial at the moment, that isn’t a can of worms she’s looking to open. however, as i was writing this, it became clearer and clearer to me that helen playing lady macbeth would go really well alongside her general trajectory in the roleplay (downhill, like a damn roller coaster) and i could definitely see the “out damn spot” monologue playing well alongside some juicy orson reveal stuff :) also poetically...seeing “the ingenue” go from basically being the embodiment of an angel to playing one of shakespeare’s darkest heroines is...chefs kiss.

 it’s strange to say that my character surprised me...(because im writing them?!) but yeah...helen surprised me!! she’s absolutely terrified by the idea of playing someone who is a little darker, a little stranger - but that’s exactly why she should do it!! i also genuinely think it’ll help her grow as an actor, which is something i really want to see happen. helen is pretty mediocre - but she doesn’t have to be!!! the only way we can grow as individuals is by challenging ourselves - something i’m keen to see heidi make happen.

having said that, i am not ride-or-die for lady macbeth and do not expect her to be cast as her at all!! if orson was casting, helen would be lady macduff without a question (we stan a self aware queen!) - and now that she’s made that point explicit to heidi, i feel like the latter will be way more inclined to cast her as anyone-but-that. if not lady macbeth, i could definitely see her playing one of the witches. essentially, i just need helen to play someone with a little more meat, someone who is darker; meaning that as she tries to nail their characterisation, she’s forced to confront some ugly things about herself and almost deal with the darkness in a therapeutic way.

“Helen Worthington.” She had expected stepping out onto the stage to feel more poetic. There was supposed to be sorrow in finality, grief in endings. And this was it. This was the final time she would audition for a play as an Alderidge student - perhaps her final audition all together. Whilst her peers clamoured for the limelight, she would have been perfectly comfortable making this her swan song. A moment passed. “I’ll be auditioning with Cleopatra, Act 5, Scene 2.” She could still hear Zahra’s words of encouragement in the back of her mind, quelling any doubts.

A brief look of surprise crossed Heidi’s face, she glanced down at her paper, as if trying to match the person she saw before her with words on a page. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Alright...am I to assume you’ll be auditioning for Lady MacBeth then?”

It took a moment for Helen’s mind to make the connection. She shook her head firmly. “No - no...no. I could never play Lady MacBeth...she’s...” Too monstrous. Too big a part. Too much like everything I never want to be. Settling on diplomacy, Helen sighed. “I could never do her justice.” 

This seemed to interest Heidi. “Why not? Looking at your previous roles - “ She shuffled the papers in her hand “- you seem to have done a standout job with Celia. Lady MacBeth isn’t such a jump. Lines wise, at least.”

Helen shook her head, adamant that Heidi see what she did. “Playing Celia isn’t hard. She’s soft. Dreamy. And a character in a comedy.” 

Heidi frowned. “So it’s Shakespeare’s tragedies you’re opposed to? Or being challenged?”

She was so unlike Orson that Helen had to blink twice, just to be sure her senses weren’t tricking her. “No. I don’t like tragedies. Everyone dies. I love theatre because it’s an escape - because it’s a chance to live out someone else’s stories. But why would I want to live like...like Lady MacBeth? She’s a terrible person. She’s a monster. I’d hate to even feel an inch of who she is.” Because what if I’m good at it? What if it’s easy to become her? What does that say about me? About what I’ve done? 

“And being challenged?” A dog with a bone, Heidi continued to tug at the remaining loose thread. “Is it a fear of letting people down? Are you afraid that you’re not talented enough?”

Back against the wall, Helen was forced to confront some uncomfortable truths. The purest of which was this: she never had been challenged. Any malevolent thoughts were packed in dusty boxes at the back of her mind, never to be opened. She was practically adored by her peers. Orson had never dragged her out of her comfort zone. She had no idea what being challenged was like. All she knew was that she didn’t want it. “I don’t know.” She conceded, sighing. “I’ve only ever played Celias.”

“And you want things to stay that way?”

Helen closed her eyes. Her mind was awash with a thousand memories - hanging out with Chandler in between As You Like It auditions, kissing Jonah backstage, laughing with Harry, cooking with Julian...she didn’t want things to ever change. That was why she poisoned Orson, wasn’t it? So that they could stay in a glorious summer, where no one ever got hurt. “Yes. Why fix what isn’t broken?”

Heidi shot her a thoughtful glance and opened her mouth as if she was about to ask another question, before shutting it abruptly. “Alright Helen -” She said slowly, nodding. “The stage is yours.” 

Now nervous about her audition piece, about what it said about her and about whether she’d be able to deliver; Helen closed her eyes. She had never been to Egypt, never even left the country - but conjured the sensation of balmy evenings, a heart full of love and a crown weighing you down. “Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me - “ Perhaps she and Cleopatra weren’t so different. She understood what it was to long for immortality of another kind. You could have even said she was desire itself. It was those parts of Cleopatra Helen chose to emphasise. 

Pretending to shuffle on a robe, Helen stared out into the audience. Cleopatra saw a kingdom.

“now no more the juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip: Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear Antony call; I see him rouse himself to praise my noble act; I hear him mock the luck of Caesar, which the gods give men to excuse their after wrath: husband, I come: now to that name my courage prove my title!” The love between Antony and Cleopatra, Helen had decided, was ugly. It was brutal. It should not be celebrated. But she also thought she understood it - the sensation of being bound to someone, of loving them so intensely you would do unspeakable, regrettable, things in their name. If someone dared lay a finger on Antony, would Cleopatra burn them to the ground? Helen was sure she would. As she came to understand Shakespeare’s heroine, she began to lose herself in Cleopatra’s skin in a way she never had before.

Opposite her, but unseen by Helen, Heidi sat up a little straighter. 

“I am fire and air; my other elements I give to baser life. So; have you done? Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips. Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell.” Her kiss brings death. It was a terrifying kind of beautiful. Against her better judgement, Helen’s mind began to wonder...to remember. A wine glass. A toast. Poison. A deceitful smile concealing burning hatred. Who was she to judge Shakespeare’s characters...when she had wrought such destruction...

Lips trembling, Helen paused - momentarily unable to continue with her performance. See, this was why she hated Shakespeare’s dark and decrepit creatures. They drew something carnal out of her...they overwhelmed her, threatening to seize her voice and take it as their own. To be on stage was to be exposed...and this was one reflection she refused to peer into.

Why did Zahra encourage her to use this piece? Did she know something? Or did she just want to see her falter?

Ten seconds later, she regained her composure. Her break did not go unnoticed by Heidi.

Kneeling on the floor, Helen took Iras’ imaginary body into her arms, cradling him as he took his last breaths. Childish and impulsive she may be, but Cleopatra had heart. She wasn’t wholly wicked. Maybe in her performance, Helen could find her a kind of redemption; a thousand years too late.

“Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall? If thou and nature can so gently part, the stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still? If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world. It is not worth leave-taking.” Was Cleopatra brave to watch Iras take his last breaths? Was she a coward for letting Orson die alone? Panic’s familiar sensation threatened to take a hold of her. Breath quickening, her last sentence was slightly slurred as she raced towards the end, to the moment she could be done with Cleopatra, toss her aside and never wear her face again. 

Her story was not Cleopatra’s. She and Jonah were not Antony and Cleopatra. She was just a role. It was all make believe. 

“See -” Helen began, gentle, but sad. “There’s a reason I don’t get cast as the Lady MacBeth’s of the world.” 

Wearing an expression equal parts confusion and sympathy, Heidi returned her smile. “It’s not your fault you’ve never had an opportunity to dig deeper with your characters. Now that isn’t to say that his comedic characters don’t have depth - but it’s like the other side of a coin. If you want to excel as an actor, it’s important you learn how to play both kinds. Life can’t always be sunshine and rainbows.”

Why not? Knowing better than to vocalise her disagreement, Helen swallowed her words. Idealism never...carried well with people. They thought she was a child, head in the clouds, living in a world of fantasy. Had she been a crueller person, she would have asked them why they were so adamant to continue living in a world of grey. So instead, she nodded politely. “Thank you for letting me audition.”

"Thank you for coming in Helen. And props for choosing something we wouldn’t expect.” Glancing down at her sheet, she tapped her nails against the paper. “You still haven’t told me who you’re auditioning for.”

Her first instinct was to steadfastly refuse to audition for any of them - and let the chips fall where they may. Or even to ask to be moved down a year, to the third year’s comedy. “Orson would probably cast me as Lady MacDuff.” It was the only character she ever could have volunteered herself for. Domestic bliss, it was something she embodied easily.

“Well - “ Heidi said, inclining her head, “I’m not Orson.”

No, Helen thought, you’re not. May that be a blessing, and not my curse.

“Would you toss your hat into the ring for Lady MacBeth?”

No, Helen thought. Not a chance in hell. But then, betrayed by her mouth, she nodded. “I’d consider it.”

As she exited the stage, Helen couldn’t help but wonder what the hell she’d gotten herself into.

[batskulldrag]

Phoenix by Fallout Boy

Heads up, the beginning to this chapter in intense with angst. Trigger warning for abuse. 

After that it should be ok. and we finally get to see deceit. His human name is Ethan and he is their new lawyer. 

Chapter Seven: Hellfire from The Hunchback of Notre Dame soundtrack

               Virgil woke up in a sterile greenish blue room. There was a heart monitor beeping somewhere. It might have been his. He felt an IV in his arm, and a truck load of pain everywhere else. He tried to remember how he got here.

               Last thing I remember is…  His blood turned to ice water.

               The last thing he could recall was his father being furious. And hurting him, he had been thrashed within an inch of his life. He tried to look around, but he could only see out of one eye. The other one was swollen shut. He didn’t see his father though.

               Maybe he had finally gone too far, and CPS had stepped in. Maybe things were ok now. And he’d get sent somewhere else. And his dad would get sent to prison. Maybe it was over.

               A few doctors came and went, checking his vitals and stuff like that. None of them said anything about him of his dad. He had to know.

               “Why am I here?” He fought intense agony to speak.

               “Shh.” One of the nurses cooed. “Don’t try to talk, sweetie. You’ve had a nasty fall and you injured a few ribs. Just lie very still.”

               “Where’s my…” He felt like he had been stabbed with a hack saw. “My… Dad?”

               “He’s right outside. He’ll be in with you in a moment.”

               Whatever pain he was in was dwarfed by the crushing blow of disappointment. Nothing was ok. He felt tears falling across his face, seeping into open cuts and stinging like hell. Of course, they swallowed whatever excuse his father had fed them. And there was no way they’d ask for his side of what happened. No, he was just a prop. No one wanted to know how he said it happened.

               “It’s ok,” The nurse soothed. “You’re alright now. Everything’s going to be fine.”

               She didn’t know! Of course, she didn’t know! How could she even say that!? Didn’t she know that it wasn’t ok!?  

               It’s not ok! Help me!

               His dad walked into the room with a mask of concern that he wore amazingly. Nominate him for an Oscar, he deserves it. Even Virgil himself was tempted to think his father had an ounce of remorse.

               “How is he?” His dad asked in such a genuine tone, when did he find time to rehearse?

               “He’ll pull through.” The nurse assured him.

               “Oh, thank goodness.” He sighed. “I was so worried. He’s all I have after his mother left me. If something happened to him…” He trailed off. The fucker even shed a tear.

               “I understand.” Welp, he had her.

               “Is it alright if I stay with him now?”

               “Of course.” She said.

               NO TAKE IT BACK!! TAKE IT BACK!!!

               “In fact, he was just asking for you.”

               “Poor baby. He must be terrified.”  

               DON’T LAEVE HIM WITH ME!! PLEASE HELP ME!!!

               “I’ll leave you two alone.”

               NO! SAVE ME!! PLEASE HELP ME!!!

               She left. And more importantly she left him alone with his dad.

               “It hurts doesn’t it.” The mask came off. All that was left was the sadistic tone of his father. “I may have told them you were morphine intolerant.”

               “Why?” It came out as a whimper.

               “Well, I had to get my point across.”

               “Why?” He wheezed again.

               “Well.” His father started. “First off, I want you to know they’re not going to ask you if you can have morphine, they already believe me. And they won’t ask for a second opinion. And that goes for your little tumble down our stairs. You tripped and fell, and your frantic dad rushed you to the emergency room. And if you say otherwise, I think we know who they’ll side with.”

               “And even if they believe you.” He grinned; the monster might as well have had three rows of teeth. “They’re a bunch of doctors who didn’t repeat seventh grade. They’ll just say I went easy on you. You see the grown up isn’t just always telling the truth, but they’re also always right.”

               He pressed down on one of his ribs. Virgil yelped in pain.

               “So, don’t disappoint me again.” He hissed.

               Last thing Virgil remembers is everything going black.

                                                                               #             #             #

               “PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!!!!” Virgil cried. “PLEASE HELP ME!!”

               Patton and Logan both shot awake and bolted to Virgil’s room. They met Roman in the doorway; he had brought a weapon. They all ran in as Virgil continued to shriek.

               “SOMEBODY HELP ME!!!” He pleaded, thrashing around on the bed like he was being murdered.

               Roman burst in and Logan switched the lights on.

               “Get away from him!” Roman demanded of the empty room.

               Virgil screamed and fell of the bed. He then just laid on the floor whimpering and drenched with sweat.

               “My baby.” Patton yelped, rushing to his side. “Are you ok honey?”

               “…I-I-I’m fine.” He panted. “I just had a bad dream.”

               Roman hid his samurai sword behind his back.

               “It’s ok.” Patton cooed, pulling the younger man into his lap. “I’m here, Da- I’ve got you.”

               “Do you want to talk about it?” Logan knelt beside Patton.

               “No.” Virgil’s voice came out as a squeak.

               “Ok.” Patton gently rubbed his back. “You don’t have to. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

               With that said, Virgil started sobbing. Patton looked at Logan in horror and mouthed out ‘what did I do?’. Logan shook his head in mutual confusion.  Roman sat down on the floor with them and stretched his hand out to Virgil.

               “It’s ok.” He said softly, running his hand through the child’s hair. “You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to feel this. It’s ok.”

               Virgil continued crying as he buried his face in Patton’s shirt.

               “They-they’re gonna…” He gasped from Patton’s chest. “They’re not gonna believe me.”

               “Who?” Logan asked, with a pretty good idea he knew the answer.

               “The courts or the jury or whoever.” He panted. “They’re gonna take his side.”

               “No,” Patton soothed. “No, they won’t. it’s just his word against, like mountain of evidence.”

               “But he said I’m allergic to morphine and I’m not allergic to morphine,” He rambled in short, ragged breaths. “And they just went with it, and no one asked me if I fell down the stairs or not. Cause he already said I did. And…and…” He gasped hard.

               “Shh, shh.” Patton tutted. “It’s alright, no one’s gonna just blindly believe him ever again. He’s been branded as a liar. As he should be.”

               “Virgil.” Logan gently grabbed his shoulder. “No one is going to believe him over you. No one is going to believe him over evidence. This isn’t just he says you say.”

               Virgil mumbled something into Patton’s chest.

               “What?” Logan made a face like he had just been slapped.

               “I said.” Virgil sniveled. “What if they think he was going easy on me and I deserved it.”

               “Virgil.” Logan grabbed him by both shoulders and pulled his face up. “Look me in the eyes and listen to me. No one is going to say that. No one! You did not deserve any of what he did to you. Do you understand me!? You did not deserve that! And he did not go easy on you! He nearly killed you twice now! That does not quantify going easy on someone! No one is going to think that he was in the right, because he wasn’t! What he did was wrong! And nobody is going to think otherwise! Do you understand?!”

               Virgil nodded timidly.

               Logan sighed and pulled Virgil into a hug.

               “Ok.” He whispered. “I’m sorry for raising my voice to you. But you need to understand this. Your father…” He made a face at the title. “Payton was wrong to do this. And no one else is like that. This isn’t normal, and it isn’t right.”

               “I lied about what grade I’m in.” Virgil said. It was barely audible over his breathing. “I got held back. I’m starting eighth grade in the fall.”

               “I figured that out.” Logan sighed. “We got your school records last night.”

               “And you were asking all the questions about being held back earlier.” Patton added. “It was a really bad lie.”

               A long, tense silence filled the room.

               “We’re not going to do anything you expect us to do.” Roman broke the silence. “Please don’t lie to us again.”

               “Yeah, that about sums it up.” Patton wiped a tear off Virgil’s cheek. “We’d like you to trust us, and we wanna be able to trust you. Sound fair?”

               Virgil nodded.

               “Good.” Logan patted him on the head, it was unspeakably awkward. “Do you think you can fall asleep on your own, or would you like to take one of your pills?”

               “I’m fine.” Virgil sighed. “I don’t need to take anything.

               “Ok. But if you need your medicine come get one of us.” Patton fussed, pulling Virgil in and stroking his hair. “Do you want one of us to stay here until you fall asleep?”

               “No, I’m ok.” He paused and smiled coyly. “Trust me.”

               “We gotta get you some other bands to listen to.” Roman said unamused. “You can’t just keep quoting My Chemical Romance.”

               “My chemical Roman?” Patton quipped.

               “Patton,” Logan said calmly. “No.”

               “Absolutely not.” Roman agreed. “Never call me that again.”

               “I thought it was funny.” Virgil piped in, giving Patton a weak smile.

               “Well, at least one of us can appreciate humor.” Patton ruffled his hair. “You go ahead and get some sleep now. We’ll talk more in the morning if you feel like it.”

               “Ok.” Virgil yawned. “Thanks.”

               “It’s no trouble.”

               “I mean thanks, for.” He looked down and bit his lip. “Thanks for everything. All of you.”

               “That’s no trouble either.” Patton continued to pet him softly.

               “Don’t lie to me.”

               “Oooh, you’re feisty.” Patton teased. “Let’s get you into bed kiddo.”

               Patton helped him up and tucked him in, despite his protests the he was thirteen and didn’t need to be tucked in. Patton disregarded him without so much as going ‘uh-huh’ and pretending to listen.

               “Sometimes.” Patton kissed him on the forehead. “It’s nice to be tucked in.”

               As the three of them left the room Logan switched the light off and closed the door.

               “Poor little baby.” Patton whimpered as soon as the door closed. “How could anyone do something like that? He’s just a little kid.”

               “Some people are just rotten,” Roman patted him on the shoulder. “In a perfect world you’d be an only child. All we can do is be decent human beings to make up for the vile few who waste our air.”

               “I agree.” Logan nodded. “Just not as dramatically. Yes, there are bad people out there. And yes, all we can really do to counter them is act properly. There’s no point dwelling on what your brother did, all we can do now is work to help Virgil.”

               “I mean,” Roman gestured towards the door. “We already succeeded in not giving him night terrors. I’ll call that the minimum. So, we’re off to a great start.”

               “What the proverbial hell are you wearing?” Logan asked, only really looking at him for the first time.

               Roman looked down at himself. He was shirtless and clad only in red booty shorts that read ‘Royal’ across the butt.

               “It’s hot!” His face changed to match his shorts in hue. “it’s summer and we live in Florida!”

               “I think we all look silly.” Patton mumbled, tugging on the hem of his Pawton T-shirt.

               “I thought Virgil was being attacked by an intruder.” Roman argued. “I had time to either grab my robe or my sword!”

               “What were you gonna do, seduce the murderer?” Patton made a face.

               “Why are we having this discussion again?” Logan rubbed his temples.

               “Oh, we’re doing this?” Roman got defensive. “Because I happened to notice you were wearing seashell print underwear when you came to get me on Friday. And Patton had on dark blue boxers.”

               “So?” Logan challenged.

               “So, you don’t wear print underwear and Patton doesn’t own any without print.” Roman smirked sadistically. “I think you had on more than his shirt.”

               “Oh my God!!” Virgil screamed from the other room. “Get away from my door! I can hear you!!!”

               “I take back what I said about the nightmares.” Roman said flatly.

                                                               #             #             #

               The following evening was Patton and Logan’s turn to have to deal with the press. So, Roman was on babysitting duty. Given what would go down in infamy as ‘the booty short incident’ things were a bit awkward between the two. And now that Patton and Logan had left Roman was starting to feel a bit like the friend of a friend.

               “Do you think you’d like to be on the news once you’re feeling better?” Roman asked to ease the tension.

               “Sorry, what?” Virgil pulled out an earbud. He was curled up on the couch with his computer.

               “I was wondering if you wanted to be interviewed when you feel better.” Roman fought the cringe. “I’m sure they want to speak to you.”

               “I’m sure I’m not as beat up as they want me to be.” Virgil paused what he was watching. “Not too many bruises to exploit. Unless they want me to strip.”

               “That may not be so uncommon.” Roman said. “They asked me to strip last night.”

               “Really?” Virgil sat up and looked at him intensely.

               “Yes, I’m so gorgeous that everywhere I go people want me to take my clothes off.” Roman finished off the bit elegantly. “Mostly the ladies, but once the guys find out I’m on that side of the field… well. Let’s just say that they are not as weak as people think they are.”

               “I can’t believe I fell for that.” Virgil slumped back. “I’m an idiot.”

               “Well, maybe it’s just really believable.” Roman smirked. “I do have a god bod.”

               “You are like uber gay. Patton and Logan are married to each other and you’re still the gayest person in the house.”

               “How about you? Any crushes?” Roman turned the tables. “I bet everyone goes crazy over those eyes.”

               “Nah.” Virgil looked down and drug his hand across the rim of his laptop. “None yet.”

               “I guess that’s been pretty far from your mind.” Roman realized what he had done. “I’m sure you’ll be getting into it as you get older. Logan didn’t have his first until he was eighteen.”

               “Logan has…” He trailed off.

               “And you had other stuff to deal with.” Roman finished for him. “When you get your bearings, you’ll get your first crush, and if you never take an interest in romance, so be it. Different people need different things, and they need them at different times.”

               Virgil smiled softly at him, his lips only parting slightly to show a thin portion of his teeth.

               “And right now,” Roman stood up. “You need to watch Hunchback of Notre Dame with me.”

               “No way, I read that book, it’s horrible.” Virgil objected.

               “We’re watching the Disney version; it has a happy ending.” Roman explained. “Also, there’s a book?”

               “Yeah, it’s long.”

               “You’re in middle school, what are you doing reading stuff like that?”

               “I was in some kind of advanced reading class over the past couple of summers. You know, anything to eat up whatever free time I can get.”

               “So, you’re reading on like a high school level.” Roman pointed at him.

               “So, what, reading’s not hard. Like, everyone can read.”

               “Not on a high school level they can’t.”

               “Anyone who passed high school can.” Virgil countered, throwing his hands up.

               “Do you remember our different people chat from a moment ago?”

               “Just put in the movie.” He paused. “Wait, what time is your interview showing?”

               “Last night.” Roman shrugged. “It was pretty boring. And I decided that I hate it when the press tries to be clever.”

               “Go on.”

               “Actor Roman Lupine, known locally for his role as Mufasa in the community theater portrayal of The Lion King has found himself in a different kind of cast following the events of Friday night.” He recited.

               “That’s not even funny.”

               “I’m just thankful no one brought up my infiltration of the press.”

               “You’re the dude who pretended to be a reporter to troll my dad?”

               “I had to make sure they asked the right questions.” He defended. “And they didn’t. So, it’s a good thing I was there.”  

               “Yeah,” Virgil looked down. “Honestly, before you guys showed up the press thought the sun shined out of my dad’s butt.”

               Roman couldn’t help but laugh at that image.

               “Wow,” Roman coughed between laughs. “You are a word smith.”  

               “This movie another musical?” Virgil asked, stretching himself out.

               “All the best ones are.” Roman declared.

               Roman out the movie in and flopped himself down on the couch next to Virgil. The little one scooched away from him and curled up into a ball.

               “You don’t have to be afraid of me.” Roman smiled at him. “I may be gay, but I’m only attracted to people old enough to consent.”

               “Weirdly enough, I wasn’t worried about that.” Virgil said giving him a confused look. “I just haven’t bathed in a while, and I’m starting to smell.”

               “That’s you? I just thought my deodorant gave out.”

               “No, it’s me. I smell like death barfed up a bunch of old Band-Aids.”

               “Remind me why we haven’t bathed you yet.”

               “I can’t use my hands.” Virgil held up his gauzy paws. “Or get them wet or get my cast wet.”

               “Let me think for a minute.” Roman put his hand to his chin. “I’m great at creative solutions.”

               “Whatever you say, dude.”

                                                                               #             #             #

               Roman did come up with a solution. So, the two of them were now standing in Patton and Logan’s bathroom as that one had a walk-in shower with a grip bar installed inside. Roman unrolled a generous amount of plastic wrap.

               “So, we can wrap up your cast and hands really good with this stuff.” Roman smiled. “And then I can duct tape a back scrubber to one of your hands. That way you can clean yourself.”

               “I’m doing this more for entertainment than out of thinking this will work.” Virgil scoffed.

               “My kind are never recognized for their genius.” He feigned hurt and placed a hand on his heart.

               “Fine let’s do this.” Virgil sighed and held out his hands. “The smell is unbearable.”

               “Now, I’ll help you get your shirt off.” Roman said as he bound Virgil’s hands. “But your pants are your responsibility. I’m not getting my name put on any lists.”

               “You’re a saint.” Virgil said flatly.

               “Thanks for noticing.” Roman stood up. “Now, I find duct tape.”

               “Can’t you just put socks or something over my hands? It’d be easier.”

               “Now I go to get a pair of socks!” Roman rephrased. “Stay right here.”

               “Where would I go?”

               Roman returned with the socks, applied them and left Virgil one of his robes. With that done he left the bathroom. No way was he getting his name put on any lists. He sat on Patton and Logan’s bed, tracing the blanket pattern with his finger. It was creepily quiet.

               “Virgil,” Roman called. “Are you ok in there?”

               “Yeah, I’m fine.” He yelled back.

               “Ok. I’m right here if you need me?”

               “What the hell could I possibly need you for in here?”

               “I meant in case you fall. Weirdo.”

               “You’re weird.”

               Roman laughed to himself. This kid was terrible at name calling, at least in the moment. Roman softly sang to himself to break the silence. He looked around the love bird’s nest, they sure did like blue. He didn’t normally go into their bedroom if he could avoid it. Not that the room had anything wrong with it, it was the standard room with more plushies than would be expected scattered around. There was one desk, Logan’s, and it was home to many piles of books. As would be expected.

               “Sup?” Roman nodded at the large stuffed dog laying on the foot of the bed.

               “Roman?” A timid voice asked.

               “You can talk?” Roman grabbed the plushie. “Wait, I’m an idiot. What is it Virgil?”

               “Can you come in here?” Virgil sounded strained.

               “Did you fall? I’ll be right in.”

               Roman darted in and saw Virgil bunched up in one corner of the shower, covering himself with a towel. Thank god.

               “What’s wrong?” Roman asked, stepping closer.

               “There’s a bunch of weird spots on my skin.”

               Roman looked down at his chest and saw that it was peppered tiny irritations that were rough to the touch.

               “Ok.” Roman forced himself calm. “You come on out of there and put this on.” Roman held up the robe and looked away. “It’s probably just a reaction to the soap, or to not being able to shower for a while. You know, that kind of rash.”

               “Ok.” He squeaked. “I know it wasn’t here yesterday, so you’re probably right.”

               “Right. So, we’re just going to wash your clothes and see what happens.”

               Roman sent Virgil to his room and immediately called Logan. Logan answered surprisingly fast, he must have really not wanted to be interviewed.

               “Roman, is something wrong?” Logan answered, confused.

               “Virgil has this weird bunch of spots on his body, I don’t think it’s chicken pox, but it looks like scarlet fever.”

               “It probably is.” Logan said calmly. “That or he’s having a reaction to his antibiotics.”

               “WHAT!!?” Roman screamed into the receiver. “He’s going to die?”

               “Roman, scarlet fever is also known as strep throat rash.” Logan explained. “Both are caused by the same bacteria. I suspect he contracted it because his father didn’t take him to the doctor. Symptoms are the same as strep throat, and the first degree burns he suffered in the fire must have covered the rash.”

               “What do I do? Do I have to burn things? Is he going to live?”

               “He’ll be fine, just put some baby powder on the rash; we’ll take him to the doctor tomorrow to see if he needs his antibiotic dose increased or decreased based on what the rash is. Don’t burn anything, this isn’t the nineteenth century.”

               “Should I tell him?”

               “No, you’ll just freak him out.”

               “All this time scarlet fever has just been strep throat?” Roman mumbled, floored by the revelation.

               “Just wait until we tell you about what happened to measles.” Logan said blankly before hanging up.

                                                                               #             #             #

               “Just have a seat on the table and the doctor will be right with you.” The nurse said, holding the door for them.

               Virgil lurked in quietly with Patton and Roman both in tow. He stopped to look at them both and saw that Logan had also gone ahead and come in. Somehow, he had amassed and entourage.

               “I… Uh. Don’t think we all need to be here.” Virgil said, tugging on his sleeves.

               “We need to know what you have.” Roman defended.

               Virgil pulled himself onto the table and silently prayed that the doctor wouldn’t ask him to take his pants off. He was generally opposed to striping, but he was more against it now that he knew his audience wasn’t going anywhere.

               “It’s ok.” Patton rubbed his shoulder.

               “I’m not afraid.”

               “Oh.” Patton said surprised, not taking his hand away. “That’s ok too. You shouldn’t be afraid. It’s going to be alright.”

               “I regret telling them about strep throat rash.” Logan said to him. “I’m very sorry. I should have expected this kind of reaction.”

               “What other reaction is supposed to come with the news that he has a potentially fatal illness?” Roman protested. “Joy? We aren’t Barbra.”

               “The severity is dramatically decreased because of modern antibiotics.” Logan sighed. “Virgil’s not going to die from this. And it may not be strep throat rash, it could very well be a reaction to our detergent or his medicine.”

               “If he’s allergic to antibiotics that’s still a problem.” Patton objected.

               “How do you keep forgetting everything you learned in nursing school?” Logan sighed.

               Virgil chewed on his bandages, longing for the day when he could get at his nails again. Roman had kept his mouth shut about the idea of scarlet fever pretty well, but when Patton got wind of it, he freaked out. First kid and all that. Logan had been good about using the modern name, but of course Patton googled it and found out what it was. Virgil hadn’t had a moment’s peace since.

               Mercifully the doctor entered the room. Virgil knew this one, Dr. Talyn because they had been dealing him while he was still checked in. Nice to see a familiar face.

               “Hi Virgil.” Talyn said, clearly happy to see him. “How have you been?”

               “Recovering.” Virgil sighed. “How long do I need to have my hands wrapped again?”

               “I’ll look at the burns while I’m here, but I guarantee you that you still need to have them wrapped for at least another week.”

               “I know you.” Roman interrupted happily. “You’re the doctor who stood up to Payton that night.”

               “And you’re crazy twin guy.” Talyn nodded. “I’m a friend of Joan’s.”

               “You have one insane twin brother and that’s all anyone ever remembers about you.” Roman protested.

               “So, Virgil has a rash that you two are worried about?” Talyn turned to Patton and Logan.

               “I think it may be strep throat rash,” Logan explained calmly. “I just need to know what it is and if we need to adjust his antibiotics.”

               “Scarlet fever can make people go deaf.” Patton interrupted. “Is that gonna happen?”

               “No.” Talyn looked amused at Patton’s panic. “And it’s probably not strep rash, it seems weird that it would show up after we started treating the strep throat.” They turned on Virgil. “Can you pull your shirt up baby?”

               Thinking he had a bright future as a stripper, Virgil pulled his shirt off. Life was hell. Talyn looked at the rash for a minute and went about the other standard doctor examinations.

               “It’s not scarlet fever or a reaction to his meds.” They said finally. “It’s just a little stress rash.”

               “Oh, poor baby.” Patton fussed, grabbing Virgil and hugging him.

               The demonic voice in Virgil’s head screamed so loud that it blurred his vision.

                                                                               #             #             #

               “Oh, poor baby.” Patton pulled his nephew into his arms.

               “Oh, thank goodness.” Roman sighed. “I thought he was done for.”

               “For the last time, he wasn’t going to die.” Logan added tiredly.

               “If you want, I can prescribe a topical cream for the hives,” Talyn continued. “But aside from that I can’t really do much. They’re just gonna have to go away on their own.”

               Patton brushed Virgil’s hair out of his face and paused. Virgil was being oddly still. He loosened his grip and Virgil fell limp onto him.

               “Guys! I think he fainted!” Patton yelled in abstract terror.

               Dr. Talyn took over and shooed him away. They laid Virgil down on the table, took his pulse and checked his pupils. After that they put a cold cloth on his head.

               “Doctor,” Patton asked softly. “Did we do something wrong? His anxiety is getting really bad around us. Did we do the wrong thing?”

               “No, I don’t think this is anyone’s fault.” Talyn checked Virgil’s pules again. “I think he’s just having a harder time adjusting then we thought he would. All we can really do is give it time.”

               “We already made him a follow up appointment with Dr. Picani.” Logan added guiltily. “I didn’t think we were causing him that much stress.”

               “You don’t need to be in a stressful environment to have anxiety.” Talyn explained. “And he may have PTSD after everything his dad did to him. And he’s only like five days into this transition. That’s not even enough time to get used to a school week.”

               “It’s not right.” Patton brushed his hand through Virgil’s hair. “He’s just a little kid.”

               Virgil murmured a bit the bolted upright.

               “No! Get away from me! Don’t touch me!” He yelped. He stopped and looked around then sighed. “Sorry Uncle Patton, I-I thought you were someone else.”

               Who? I wonder. The words burned themselves into Patton’s brain.

               “It’s ok sweetie.” Patton hugged him. “It’s ok.”

               “What happened?” Virgil pulled himself away.

               “You passed out a minute ago.” Logan explained. “Are you alright?”

               “I’m fine.” He crossed his arms and looked at the floor.

               Talyn cleared their throat.

               “Do you three mind if I talk to Virgil alone?” They asked.

               “No.” Patton sighed. “Go ahead.”

                                                                               #             #             #

               Virgil watched the other three leave and whished that he was going with them. Dr. Talyn closed the door behind them and the room suddenly seemed oppressively tiny.

               “I have to ask.” Talyn sighed. “Are they treating you ok?”

               “Yes.” He looked down from the ceiling that he swore he could reach up and touch. “And not just the bare minimum of not beating me into a coma. They’re all being really nice.”

               “Have they done anything that wasn’t physical? Any insults? Anything like that?”

               “No. None of that stuff. It’s like some kind of alternate reality.”

               “Are you happy there?”

               “Yes. I wanna stay…” He dropped the sentence and stared at the floor.

               You can’t though, it’s not gonna happen. You can’t stay. He’s not going to let you. He’s going to ruin this for you if you don’t ruin it first.

               “Ok then.” Talyn finished. “You understand why I had to ask you that right?”

               “Honestly, I have been asked that more in the past couple of days than I have in my entire life.” He sighed. “Yeah, I understand why you asked. I don’t understand why no one else ever did.”

               “Neither do I.” That wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “I’ll check out your hands, then you can go.”

               Talyn checked his hands over and rebandaged them so that they looked like mittens. They padded the thumbs loosely so he could use them and kept the rest of his hands covered. He looked down at his appendages and saw that three of his fingernails had come off. He gagged and looked away.

               “I know,” Talyn soothed. “It’s creepy.”

               They finished with him and sent him on his way. He lurked out into the other room and joined the others. Patton immediately hugged him. He sighed and slumped into the hug.

               I don’t want to go. I want to stay with you.

               “It’s ok sweetie.” Patton pacified.

               “It’s just going to take some time.” Logan rubbed his back.

#             #             #

               “Ok, we’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Patton said chipperly on his way out the door. “Are you two gonna be okay?”

               “I already watched him last night.” Roman sighed. “I can do it again.”

               “I don’t even really need a babysitter.” Virgil added. “Dad used to leave me on my own all the time.”

               Don’t blow up, it’s ok. We’re literally on our way to see the lawyer. Patton bit his lip.

               “Well, you’re still sick.” Patton smiled. “So, you ought to have a grown up to look after you.”

               “And you’re in an unfamiliar environment.” Logan added.

               “I’m not a cat.”

               “We’ll be fine.” Roman shooed them. “Don’t be late to your meeting. We still have as entire anthology to watch.”

               “Ok, but nothing that can, you know…” Patton mimed pulling a trigger on a gun.

               “I won’t.” Roman rolled his eyes. “I’m not stupid.”

               “It’s going to be alright Patton.” Logan squeezed his shoulder. “You don’t have to worry.”

               “Ok.” Patton grabbed Logan’s hand. “We’ll be back in a few hours, or less depending on what happens.”

               “Take all the time you need.” Roman was almost pushing them.

               Patton looked over and saw Virgil staring at him curiously from the couch. He knew something was going on, kids can always tell. Patton guiltily avoided his gaze, there was no need to bring him into this and stress him out even more.

               And I definitely don’t want to get his hopes up and disappoint him. A thought preyed on him.

               No, that’s going to happen. This is gonna work out. We’re gonna be ok.

               You couldn’t save him before, what makes now different?

               You shut up!

               You can’t save him. You already let him endure this for thirteen years.

               Stop it!

               Payton isn’t just going to roll over! You can’t just smile and hope your problems go away!

               “Ok,” Patton forced a smile and took another step out the door. “I love you. We’ll be back in a bit.”

               Patton and Logan walked to the car in silence. Patton stared out his window and caught a glimpse of Virgil looking out one of the front windows at them, trying not to be seen himself. Poor little anxious baby. Patton looked at his feet. He wanted nothing more than to hold Virgil and tell him everything was going to be ok, and just keep holding him until they were.

               “Logan,” Patton sighed as they drove into the street. “Do we have a chance?”

               “A chance of what?” Logan glanced at him.

               “Winning custody.”

               “We do, in fact I’m optimistic in spite of myself.”

               “Are you sure, Payton’s gonna fight us on this.”

               “Payton has been digging his metaphorical grave for years, and it is now too deep for him to get out. The evidence is in our favor.”

               “Are you sure?” Patton rubbed his arms, feeling a sudden cold engulf him.

               “Yes, and if you’re worried that he’s going to lie his way out of this… well I don’t think his silver tongue is going to help him here.”

               “I feel kind of like I’m kicking him while he’s down.”

               “This isn’t about Payton’s feelings. Provided that he can feel. This is about what’s best for Virgil.”

               “Payton’s not gonna like this.”

               “I don’t care.”

               “Maybe he’s gonna say we shouldn’t be parents because we’re a same sex couple.” Patton said worriedly.

               “He was running for mayor as a gay man who had suffered abuse for it.” Logan said blankly. “No one is going to want to hear that.”

               “What if he says we beat Virgil up to make false evidence?”

               “We can disprove that.”

               “I read that judges don’t like to break up families, like take kids away from their parents.”

               “With the exception of that parent being a violent sociopath, who may have tried to murder them.” Logan added, grabbing Patton’s hand. “Sound like anyone we know?”

               “I’m just worried.”

               “I know, I’m worried too.” Logan held his hand tighter. “But I’m not going to let it consume me or make me lose sight of reality.”

               “I love you.” Patton said quietly.

               “I love you too.” Logan smiled. “After all, I am having your baby.”

               “When can we start introducing him as our son?” Patton perked up a little.

               “As soon as custody is granted. And remember not to overwhelm him.”

                                                                               #             #             #

               “Ok,” Their new lawyer said after they finished their story. “It definitely sounds like you have a case.”

               Their lawyer was remarkable short and built entirely of muscle. Outside of that he was scary. Completely pale with light blond hair that he covered up with a black derby hat. He looked like he had albinism along with a massive scar that covered the left side of his face, leaving him a dead eye and a slightly dented lower jaw. The scar pattern looked like a waffle iron. Patton pondered how the poor man got it.

               The lawyer had a name plate that read “E. S. Pent”. No first name.

               “So, what we need to do.” E. S. said. “Is organize what we have now, police reports, medical records and testimonies. You said Virgil is going to be seeing a psychiatrist?”

               “Yes,” Logan answered. “Dr. Emile Picani.”

               “Ok, we should be able to get him as a witness. He’s done all this before.” E.S. sighed. His job probably sucked.

               “Is Virgil gonna have to testify?” Patton bit his lip. “I don’t wanna expose him to all this.”  

               “If he wants to, more power to him. But if not I’m pretty sure people will understand.”

               “Is there anything we need to be prepared for if he tries to counter us?” Logan asked.

               “Well, Patton already passed his background check.” E. S. looked through the papers. “I recommend you and your friend, Roman, both get one as well.”

               Logan looked around tensely and Patton instinctively grabbed his hand.

               “I, I have Asperger’s.” Logan sighed. “Is that going to cause any problems?”

               “No, I don’t think so.” E. S. smiled reassuringly. “Provided that it doesn’t make you violent or suicidal.”

               “No, all it really does is make me weird.”

               Patton mouthed out the words ‘I will fight you’ at Logan. Nobody talks about his husband that way.

               “Is it a problem that we’re gay?” Patton tilted his head.

               “It shouldn’t be.”

               “So, this is it?” Patton squeezed Logan’s hand.

               “Well you need to serve Payton papers, and set a court date. I’ll help you with the papers. And if you don’t want to face him, you can have a police officer, or a lawyer serve the papers for you. And I knew Payton in law school, he’s a prick. So, if you’d like, I would love to serve him the papers.”

               “I’ll give them to him myself.” Patton looked at the table. “I want to talk to him.”

               “Are you sure?”

               “He’s my brother, I can’t just turn my back on him. And if I’m going to do this, I’m not going to do it from behind someone.”

               “Alright.”

                                                                               #             #             #

               It was past nine when they got home. Roman was on the couch contentedly watching the credits of Aristocats while Virgil dozed on his shoulder.

               “Oh, thank goodness you’re home.” Roman teased in an air of mock desperation. “It was so troublesome to look after a sick teenager. We had to watch movies and then he fell asleep. The horror.”

               “Very funny.” Logan whispered, feeling Virgil’s forehead. “Last night you called me in a panic thinking he had scarlet fever.”

               “Which you confirmed.” Roman whisper yelled.

               “No, no. get away.” Virgil mumbled in his sleep.

               “Shh,” Roman purred. “it’s ok. It’s ok. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

               Patton leaned in and pet Virgil’s hair. Poor little anxious baby!

               “Has he been talking in his sleep a lot?” He whispered.

               “On and off.” Roman looked down at him. “Mostly saying the same things. ‘get away’ ‘stop’ and ‘I wanna stay here’.”

               “You can stay with us baby.” Patton continued stroking his head. “We’re not gonna send you away.”

               “No,” Logan smiled. “You’re here for good.”

               Roman covered the sleeping boy’s ears.

               “How did it go with the lawyer?” He asked.

               “I’m serving Payton the papers on Friday.” Patton looked down.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author’s note, Deceit’s color was similar to the albino Burmese python, so I made his human alternate an albino. Also a went with a scar instead of scales. Ethan will talk about being trans in a later chapter.

[scarletgardensrpg]

LIVING ♦ FORTY-THREE ♦ HOUSE OF EDEN

AGOSTINA BARBERINI is the interim Prime Minister of the Netherlands and Chairwoman to the House of Eden, two seats of power that elevate her to the rank of the most powerful woman in Amsterdam, and perhaps even beyond. Machiavellian and refined, Agostina is a formidable politician, an intelligent leader, and—unbeknown to the public—a founding member of the infamous Red Room, where the fatal PM-GRNT 197 drug was first conceived.

BIOGRAPHY

tw: implied animal cruelty

The great flaw of Italy, time and time again, has been her lust for perfect, unattainable beauty. This is what her nonno had said, a pair of large brown hands folded around her own in the Vatican City. Above them loomed the cavernous ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, where the hands of God and Adam stretched out to one another, condemned to never meet—an unbreachable eternity that divided Heaven from Earth. Cruel, cruel Michelangelo. Her grandfather was once a powerful man; but in old age, he did not appear so to Agostina. Instead, with his head tipped up to observe the painting, he seemed meek and weary, frailer than a newborn babe. Gently, he had squeezed her fingertips once, twice, a third time. And you are an Italian, piccola, if I have ever seen one.

- ❀ -

Life, as Agostina knew it, had always been a game of skins: who's might she wear today? Perhaps she would be Signore Barberini's silent pride and joy, his angel-faced daughter dressed in white at the charity galas, voice crushed like sour wine between a pair of painted lips. The little doll. Or perhaps she would be his greatest sorrow, the child he gained in the same moment a beloved wife was lost to him forever, she a mother for only minutes before passing—so that he would leave her daughter in the company of pitying nurses for weeks on end, deny her of everything but a 20,000 euro check each month in the mail, refuse forevermore to look her in the eyes. They are the Signora’s, a maid once said coldly, as if Agostina had stolen them for herself. Even in childhood, she understood: it was sin enough to live, much less be. So: she cast her lashes down and made herself small. She padded wordlessly through empty dark halls to the tempo of an apology. I’m, sorry. I’m, sorry. What little feeling she possessed—that hard knot at the pit of her stomach, that well of heat behind her eyelids when she tried to sleep—she bolted down hard, willing it to die a pneumonic death. Death, because it was not a life; those solitary summers in Palestrina, those bitter winters in Rome… No, not even close.

When nonno died on the eve of her twenty-second birthday, the last and only ribbon which tied her to Italy undid itself, and Agostina crossed the Atlantic. Harvard Law? Her father had not looked happy about it, but he had looked. For once, he had looked at her and seen something that surprised him. Bene, stai lontano dai guai. America, with its obscene, endless stretch of money green land, its cities full of skyscrapers that jut from the mouth of metropolises in perfect ninety degree angles: it was in this strange, cavalier country that she shook off the shadow of her past at last, every corner of her life thus far uprooted and slated clean, replaced instead with a penthouse in West Roxbury, a wardrobe full of Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses, a family name that was just a name, printed on an office roster. In the end, Law interested her, but the man from the Chemical Biology department, with his cruel mouth and his three-piece suit, interested her far more. Have we met before? His hand, strong and smooth, outstretched before her like God. In Amsterdam, perhaps? His dark, warm eyes, urging her to come closer. They shook, two foreigners in a garden of unsown dreams. I’ve never been to Amsterdam, she said. He had smiled at this, soft and dangerous. Then I must introduce you to one another someday.

It was the beginning of the end. Had they known what their friendship would cost—the blood it demanded, the hell it unleashed—would they have chosen to walk away from one another? Would she have, upon recognizing the glint in Nikolaas’ eyes for the madness it was, denied that her own gaze refracted the very same colors? The answer was: no. She knew it in Palestrina the summer after graduation, when the animals whimpered in their cages, when iteration after iteration yielded failure. She knew it standing over her father’s grave with a fistful of dirt and nothing in her heart, surrounded by family who knew not a thing of who Barberini’s daughter had become—of who she had always been, deep down underneath, where nobody had bothered to look: A woman who coveted more. A silent, hungry woman. A pursuant of immortal perfection. She knew it when Thalia had laughed in delight and when Kazimir wept for love. She knew it still when Nikolaas left, years and years after all that had happened between them, around them, because of them. As if he believed she would truly go anywhere he did, too. As if she could love a man that much more than an empire. The answer was: no, no, no.

CONNECTIONS

NIKOLAAS – EXTENSION OF SELF. Is there such a thing, she wonders, as a soulmate? Could her’s be anyone else but him? Grand, awful Doctor van Houten: he had stalked into the jungle of her life like a jaguar, teeth bared and eyes dark as moons. He was, to some, a certified madman, wholly fixated on attaining something impossible, something religion long decreed man could never touch—and yet, either Agostina herself was mad, too, or she saw him for exactly who he truly was: a genius, a maker of empire, a friend. Her only friend. Twenty years of history span between them like an uncrossable bridge. They had been young, once: twin flames with cash to burn and time to kill, walking the same cobblestone roads at Harvard and hungry for the same unspeakable things. Life after life. Deathless death. Nikolaas, draped like a painting on her balcony in Palestrina, had once asked for her ring size. Tell me, tesoro, where did we lose one another? Can I find you again? Their irreconcilable differences continue to be a source of anguish for Agostina. She would have liked, more than anything, to rule their New World together.  

THALIA – HAND OF GOD. It had been lithe, dangerous Thalia who approached her that final summer: quicker than a fox, cherry mouth twisted into something Agostina could not have quite called a smile. Ben je verdwaald? Before anyone else had seen what gifts Agostina could offer to the world, the young heiress to the Dutch underworld did. For that, Thalia has earned a lofty place among the gardens of Agostina's good graces. Agostina has always been lenient with her, and when Kazimir's counsel feels insufficient, she is quick to turn next to Thalia. In some ways, she reminds Agostina of Nikolaas: the same penchant for clever mirth, the same wayward arrogance, and a shared adoration for the strange and forbidden. Of course, this means she is not blind to Thalia's appetite for power as well, something else she has in common with their ex-ally. So far, Director Yamaguchi has been content to play cops and robbers with her Yellow Jackets; but should she begin to feel entitled to more as Nikolaas did, Agostina will be quick to remind her who is truly in power.  

LUANA & MAURICE – GOLDEN CHILDREN. Orphaned, uprooted from their home, and left carelessly in the company of monsters to be raised, Agostina sees no true threat to the House's political security with the reemergence of this pair of naive children. She only wishes Gabriël had cleaned up after his mess better—of all the violences committed against the Oranje-Nassau family, leaving the twins alive seems the cruelest. Agostina does not derive any pleasure from bloodsport, as the likes of Thalia or Oksana seem to—but she believes regardless in the necessity of bloodshed for the sake of a greater good. As such, she feels little remorse for her involvement in the massacre; only a detached sense of pity for the twins who have returned to a country that no longer needs them. Luana and Maurice currently reside in the Royal Palace, heavily guarded at all times. The Princess is clever and good-hearted; the Prince is beautiful and perceptive. Agostina has no plans to rid of them yet—their connection to the Ascendancy intrigues her, and she believes coaxing them into entering a formal alliance with the House will be conducive to legitimating her authority.  

OPEN ♦ FC: THANDIE NEWTON

[ironworksg]

There's a monster aboard(Humans are Space orks)

Tav'urn had been at his job for well over 50 years after the universe at large, had met humanity. With humans came a sudden insource of issues for the republic especially due to the complex nature of humans. Before hand the largest issues that his district had to deal with was the overflowing reports of pirates boarding vessels and often leaving nothing behind. When humanity had joined alongside the other races as crew these attacks now often had survivors which before was a rarity at best. After all this was said and done he had never seen a case quite like this. The ship in question the "Tyurn" had returned looking somewhat beaten but still functional had docked and been sentenced to repair work, while it's crew had been taken for questioning on the space pirates that had invaded as per standard procedure.

The issue was the state that the crew was in, now normally the crew of an attacked vessel would be on edge due to the notorious legacy of the space pirates for leaving none alive. But the crew where in fact all alive. But, they looked like victims of an unspeakable atrocity.Tav'urn had seen the same look only on torture victims from a war long passed as they were liberated, having at him with hollow eyes. Each of the crew merely looked at their hands or similarly functioning appendage clenching and unclenching them repeatedly paying him no mind as his questions fell on their deaf ears. Tav'urn simply wrote down as the last one to question walked in sat down and finnally met his gaze. The captain of the vessel in question was far more composed somewhat.

"In better shape than the rest of the crew I see," Tav'urn remarked.

"Don't make light of them if I hadn't had better training I would be no better," the captain snapped.

"ok, ok let's calm down, now"Tav'urn breathed, " can you tell me exactly what happened on your ship and why your crew is in various stages of catalepsy?" The captains gaze grew cloudy and dark as he closed his eyes shuddering slightly.

"We where attacked as you can see by the damages. They used the boarding pods to hit our side and boarded us within seconds. Within minutes they had rounded all of us up into the bridge." His eyes opened but looked through Tav'urn as he spoke, peering past I'm into the past as he retold the story.

"At least all but our single human on board by the name of John, who in the chaos had managed to escape capture. Now a few things you should know John is... Our Chief of Security. He monitors things to make sure nothing harmful to us such as space pirates would make it very far."

" I take it he didn't do his job very well," Tav'urn spoke at the muted captain. The captain froze for a second before a low rumbling built up in his throat soon he was laughing harder than any human Tav'urn had ever seen any human laugh. But there was something wrong there as the laugher wasn't happening it had no feeling of joy or warmth rather than that the caption clutched at his head like he was in pain. The madening laughter scared Tav'urn, he could not help but shrink slightly in fear as the voice grew rugged and more demented until it was little more than a hoarse wheeze puntuated with a violent coughing fit.

"No you fool it's precisely because, he did his job that my crew look like souless husks of their former selves!" Fear entered his eyes as he spoke his hoarse voice making him sound all the more scared and afraid.

"John has been in some wars that had been occurring between himans. I-i knew that he told me but... Nothing could have prepared me. He kept some old full body armer and ballistic weapons in his cabin, "just in case he told us" you see John is a bit special. Towards the beginning of when we first began to make contact humanity had dabbled in genetic modifications. And they used them most often on soldiers of a special category of their ranks." The captain wispered to nothing in particular as Tav'urn listened.

"What I didn't know was how he fought or his war record."

"I know now, and I wish I didn't. He donned his old armor that he had left so long ago and a helmet that hid his face from us.... Probably for the better because he wasn't human when it was on and I fear the THING that hid under that armor. It was less than human without a shred of remorse or mercy that we knew humans where capable of."

"IT woke up, long dormant and thirsty for it's next victim as it rose once more. Those in the bridge myself included HEARD it come before we saw it. The panicked screams of the pirates cut short with a deafening boom," the captain grew fervent as he spoke rocking slightly in his chair like a madman. Tav'urn couldn't help but lean back away fearfully himself fearing for what would come next, regardless if he was prepared.

"We saw a space pirates easily twice the height of a human being thrown into the wall denting it and as it tried to get up and run we finally saw it. The demon whose sounds we had been hearing for the past half our each explosion cutting off the screams for help as it made its way slower to us." The captain was nearly foaming at the mouth madness in his eyes clutching at the edges of the table as if fearing something would pull him away.

"I-it didn't look at us n-not yet it's gaze followed the pirate as it pitifully tried crawling away. It stepped on its back the sound of bones crunching reaching all in the bridge leaving most without their meals in their stomach. It aimed the old ballistic scattergun at the shaking head of the space pirate, as it screamed for help that would never come."

"And it pulled the trigger." The captain grew still as his iris' vibrated transfixed at a point on the sealing his grip falling slack and arms hanging down at his sides before he covered his face with them and his unblinking fearful eye peered through his fingers at Tav'urn.

"It's target dead it lowered the gun before turning to face us. Fear it a reaction all races have... It's natural that in the face of danger fear tells us to run but... Fear told none of us to run."

"It told us to wait for we couldn't run from this."

" Years passed as the unmoving visor stared down our direction. I could not tell wether it was going to kill us or the pirates... And I suppose neither could they. I felt cold, so cold... Colder than I've ever been and now ? Now I know why."

"Because death came that day, and decided it was not yet my time."

[newwavestarchild]

So I’d like to preface this by saying that I haven’t read The Royal Romance book 3 yet so like while I’m aware other things must be going on during the time that this is set I don’t actually know what specifically.

To say Liam was surprised by the sudden invitation to Valtoria he had received that morning would be an understatement. After turning down his proposal at the Statue of Liberty Ariella had been rather distant. Part of the strain on their relationship was his fault as well, and not just because of his duties as king. Being around Ariella was unspeakably hard, and Liam was sure that Ariella was aware of that fact and was keeping her distance in an attempt to let him mend his broken heart in peace. He had to believe that. The only other reason he could come up with was that he had well and truly ruined things by proposing and he didn’t think he could handle his life without Ariella in it at all. So he waited, tried to move on and heal, and now, finally, Ariella had reached out. From the moment Bastien had brought him the envelope Liam had been overwhelmed by the anxiety of what this could mean. Ariella wanted to see him as soon as possible. He couldn’t let this opportunity go to waste, it might be his last chance ever to see her on good terms. So he cleared his schedule as best he could and sent out a response saying he would arrive in the early evening.

When he finally arrived at Valtoria and was led to Ariella he was surprised to find that she was the only other person in the room since Lady Hana had moved in not long ago. Ariella smiled weakly at him as he entered. He wasn’t sure if the smile was because a part of her was genuinely happy to see him or if it was just out of pity. As though Ariella could read his mind she told him that she thought it’d be best if they were to have this conversation alone. That way hopefully it wouldn’t get derailed. Liam felt as though an angry swarm of bees had taken up residence in his stomach as he took his seat across from Ariella in what appeared to have been converted into a sitting room.

“These chairs are lovely. Did you pick them out?” Liam asked, trying desperately to force the awkwardness of the situation away with small talk.

“Hana did actually. It took us quite a while to find any that we found suitable. She insisted we find some that were both stylish and comfortable, that way when Drake visits he won’t be able to complain about them.” Ariella said, a fond smile appearing on her face at the mention of Lady Hana.

“I’m certain he’ll enjoy these quite well. Drake has always been a fan of chairs you seem to sink into.” Liam replied.

“So I’ve noticed. He almost got you a recliner as a gift when you were engaged to Madeleine.” Ariella said with a chuckle.

“That does sound like something he would do.” Liam replies with a chuckle of his own.

It was nice talking to Ariella like that. He’d almost forgotten how at ease he felt around her, how normal. Unfortunately it seemed as though his luck had run out as Ariella cleared her throat before speaking the words he’d been dreading all day, “So, about why I invited you here-“

 Normally Liam wouldn’t interrupt, he knew it was terribly rude, but his nerves got the better of him and so he blurted out, “La - Duchess Ariella, I am terribly sorry for any discomfort my actions have caused you. Had I known that you were in love with Lady Hana I assure you I never would have proposed. I would never want to stand in the way of your happiness like that. The two of you are among my closest friends and I treasure you both dearly, but if you would prefer to keep our interactions to a minimum from now on I understand. I only hope that someday we can attempt to rebuild our friendship.”

 “Liam what are you talking about?” Ariella asked, her brows scrunched together in a way that Liam couldn’t help but find adorable.

 “Haven’t you invited me here to ask me to keep my distance? I know you haven’t exactly been keen to see me lately so I just thought...” Liam replied, looking down to where he was twiddling his thumbs in his lap.

 “Oh Liam, no. I haven’t called you here to end our friendship, and I sincerely apologize if my keeping my distance these past few weeks has made you think that’s something I wanted. The truth is I’ve been...well I’ve been trying to think of how to go about this whole conversation. I thought I finally had it, but now that you’re actually here in front of me I don’t think I did, or that I ever will.” Ariella replied looking up to the ceiling and taking a deep breath.

 “If not to break off our friendship then why did you invite me here?” Liam asked.

 “I called you here to thank you.” Ariella replied.

 “Thank me?” Liam asked.

 “Yes. I realized after the events of homecoming that I never really did get a chance to thank you properly.” Ariella said.

 “Ariella, you don’t have to thank me for making you a duchess. My doing so was what was best for Cordonia. You belong here Ariella, you make everyone around you better. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Court as lively as it’s been since your arrival.” Liam said.

 “I wasn’t talking about making me a duchess, though I am of course grateful for that too. I just meant... Liam do you even realize how much you’ve changed my life? Before we met I spent most of my time in this quiet sort of awareness that there was something else I could be doing, something else I should be doing. Then you showed up and gave me this glimpse of wholeness that I’ve only ever experienced a few times before. Usually in flashes when visiting my friends back home. I won’t lie and say I knew right away that this was what I wanted to do with my life the moment we met, but when Maxwell found me the next day I knew whatever change was about to come would be for the better and I was right. Liam if you hadn’t looked twice at me that night none of this would ever have happened. I would never have seen Cordonia, I never would’ve met Hana, I certainly would never have become a duchess. Liam you’ve done so much for me and I wish so much that I could give you back even half as much. You deserve all of the love that the world has to give Liam, and believe me when I say I wish I could be the one to give it to you.” Ariella said, tears brimming in her eyes by the end.

 “Oh Ariella, I never meant for you to think I did those things for you because I wanted something in return. Did I want you to love me back? Of course, but I could never hold it against you that you don’t.” Liam said, walking over to kneel before Ariella and taking her hands in his own.

 “Logically I know that, but god Liam I felt like a monster turning you down. The sweetest man I’ve ever met proposed to me and I said no. I almost didn’t, you know. I looked at you and thought to myself how could I hurt you like this? But then I realized saying yes would’ve hurt you more. You would always be able to tell that something was off, that my eyes wouldn’t reflect the same look of love back to you. And on top of that saying yes to you would’ve destroyed Hana too. I couldn’t do that to either of you. It’s funny in a way. Loving you took time, but knowing that I had to break your heart hardly took any at all.” Ariella said, tears now falling freely.

 “What do you mean loving me took time?” Liam asked.

 “I mean I don’t think love at first sight is really a thing. I knew I was drawn to you from the night we met, but I didn’t really love you until I got to know you better throughout the social season. Love is something that takes time, you have to know someone before you can know how to love them.” Ariella replied.

 “I suppose that’s fair. I do hope I didn’t take too long to love. I know we didn’t get to see each other very often due to my responsibilities.” Liam said.

 “Not at all. You might not have been the fastest, but it was certainly easy once we were finally able to find moments to speak.” Ariella said with a grin.

 “Oh? Then who was the fastest? If you don’t mind my asking.” Liam questioned with a grin of his own.

 “That would be none other than Maxwell Beaumont himself. It didn’t take me long at all to realize that he was the sort of man I would jump off a cliff with. Honestly I’m sort of convinced he’s my soulmate, platonically of course. I don’t think I’ve ever had as much in common with anyone as I do with him. After Maxwell came Hana. The moment we met it was like lightning struck me and the need to make her happy and keep her safe was seared into my very being. It wouldn’t develop into love right away, but god Liam, if Maxwell is my platonic soulmate than Hana is my romantic one no question. It’s funny too because it’s nothing like I thought it’d be. I thought someday I’d meet this person who would love me and understand me completely without having to try, and while I know Hana loves me I also know there is a lot about me that she doesn’t understand. That’s one of the things that makes her so wonderful to me though, nobody else I have met in my life has ever wanted to know everything about me as much as she does. She sees all these things in me that she doesn’t understand and instead of loving me in spite of them she pursues them relentlessly and it’s so nice. It’s so good to feel that wanted; to know that someone who already knows so much and is so wonderful looks at me and considers me worth learning about. After Hana came you. Every time we spoke you continued to be the same kind, sweet, and caring man you seemed to be when we met. How could I not love someone who would treat me as their equal when by all means they had no reason to? You amazed me at every turn and I will be eternally grateful for the fact I have been fortunate enough to get to know you. Last of all came Drake. Really it wasn’t until the night with Tariq that I began to see Drake as he really was. When he came in and he stopped Tariq I realized two things: one Drake really did care about me and two Drake was a genuinely good man. There are plenty of men out there who would’ve realized what was going on and done nothing, but Drake stepped up and did whatever he had to to keep me safe. A point he further emphasized at homecoming when he took that bullet for me. At first I thought Drake was an asshole, and I still do, but now I know there’s more to him than that. As jaded as he is about the world Drake still opens himself up to it, in his own way. He loves fiercely and when he’s not busy moping he’s actually quite fun to be around. Drake Walker is a good man, and I love him with all of my heart for how good of a friend he has been to me even if I did antagonize him as much as he did me in the beginning.”  Ariella replied, a wistful smile on her face.

 “That’s beautiful Ariella, and since I didn’t say it before you’re welcome for all of the changes I’ve inadvertently brought into your life. However, if we’re thanking each other for good changes then I believe I owe you a few thank yous of my own.” Liam said.

 “You’re welcome too. Looks like we’re stuck with each other since we keep making each other’s lives better.” Ariella said with a laugh.

 “I suppose you’re right.” Liam said with a laugh of his own.

[stevenuniversallyreviews]

Episode 92: Monster Reunion

“I have to try.”

The tragedy of Nephrite is Steven Universe’s longest side story, beginning with the very first episode and concluding five years later in the final episode of the show’s original run. How we feel about Nephrite at any given time indicates how we’re made to feel about Corrupted Gems as a whole at that point in the show. After Gem Glow, they’re monsters of the week. After Monster Buddies, they’re innocent but violent victims of...something. And after Monster Reunion, we know what that something is.

Ninety-two episodes in, we know of Yellow and Blue Diamond. We know they’re part of a a group called Great Diamond Authority, acting as Gem Matriarchs. We’ve seen an artistic representation of a third Diamond on the Moon Base. We’ve seen a four-part symbol with a white, yellow, blue, and pink diamond united as one. We got a hint of their musical cue as the Gems abandoned Earth in a flashback. And because the Diamonds are in charge, we also know that they’re responsible for some terrible things, from the forced fusion of Gem Shards to seeking of destruction of planets not only for reproduction, but revenge. The information is dripping in, and these Gems are shaping up to be the villains of the series, and thanks to that knowledge, all it takes is one sketch to emphasize their most heinous crime.

This is the episode where the horror of corruption sinks in, in the same way Keeping It Together reveals the horror of Cluster Gems. The Mother Centipeetle was a monster, and Centi was a pet, but this version trying desperately to communicate before she loses her sanity again is a person. She has memories spanning millennia but was trapped by her mind and her body by her own leaders. After a string of Beach City episodes with purely personal stakes, Monster Reunion’s depiction of a personal struggle representing an atrocity affecting a planet’s worth of Gems hits like a freight train. This isn’t just something the Diamonds did to their enemies: Nephrite, alongside countless other Corrupted Gems caught in the crossfire, was loyal to Homeworld, but that meant nothing.

Between the Cluster Gems and the Corrupted Gems, the Diamonds prove that they’re not content with just destroying the bodies of their opponents, but the souls of anyone that inconveniences them. We’ll learn a bit more about it in Nephrite’s fourth episode, Legs from Here to Homeworld, where it seems this corruption was unintentional (or at least unknown by Blue and Yellow Diamond), but Monster Reunion galvanized me against the Diamonds in a way no other episode has, and it does this by giving us a single, concrete character to sympathize with.

This is the second time this season Raven Molisee and Paul Villeco have given Steven an extensive conversation with an entity incapable of full communication, but unlike Gem Drill, Nephrite allows these artists to fully utilize their gift for character animation to tell their story. Molisee’n’Villeco episodes are distinguished by more exaggerated expressions than usual (see: the first act of Coach Steven, the climax of Rose’s Scabbard, Amethyst throughout Reformed, Steven-as-Lars in The New Lars), and that makes all the difference in enhancing our ability to relate with a growling alien cyclops bug. We don’t need words to tell us when Nephrite is scared, happy, curious, angry, or sad (we don’t even need tears to tell us that last one, but oof are they effective), and we’re able to empathize with her on a primal level thanks to her vivid expressions.

The other half of the Nephrite formula is master vocalist Dee Bradley Baker, who’s already performed as every Corrupted Gem in the series, as well as Lion. Baker’s prolific ability to give life to non-human characters make him virtually impossible to overrate, and he uses that gift to convey comprehensible communication from Nephrite with nothing but chirps and squawks. This is so much more effective than the cacophony of voices from the Cluster, allowing for an actual conversation of sorts between Steven and Nephrite. 

This would be a very different episode if Nephrite was still just Centi from Monster Buddies, and we have Molisee, Villeco, and Baker to thank. It’s not enough to feel bad for an animal in pain again: we need to see, for lack of a better term, the human suffering of it all. And I feel so bad for this woman who doesn’t even get to have a real name for another sixty-one episodes.

The conversation itself centers around a terrific use of flashback. As Steven reminds Nephrite (and the audience, because it’s been a while since Monster Buddies) of their history, we get depictions of the past that fully resemble Steven’s experiences. But Nephrite can’t talk, so we don’t even get the simplified silhouettes that accompanied stories from Garnet in The Answer or Lapis in Same Old World. We get crayons and stick figures, the most childish means of communicating, that slowly gain animation as the story picks up. 

Steven’s narration is a constant reminder that Nephrite doesn’t have a voice of her own, and that we’re getting bits and pieces of what actually happened. She can still sing along with him in her own way, and performs a flawless diamond salute, but can’t tell Steven the name of her commander, or how she felt about her crew, or any actual tales of the war. Honestly the most telling image is Nephrite’s very first picture, revealing that she sees herself as herself despite having never met Steven in that body. This is a sentient person, and we’re made to understand that before she reverts to a monster.

Allowing her to reunite with her crew is a brilliant move, because the show needs her to lose, but it would be unspeakably cruel to not give her anything in the process. We don’t get a happy ending, but we don’t wallow in bleakness either, and that’s a hard needle to thread when the subject matter is this horrendous. There are certainly real-world analogues to Nephrite’s plight, namely dementia and PTSD, but Monster Reunion benefits from being ultra-specific to the show’s lore instead of focusing on the same sort of allegory they did in Kiki’s Pizza Delivery Service and will do in Alone at Sea. When the lead character can’t talk and we’re dealing with this much character and plot work, going for a lesson beyond the general value of mercy would’ve probably made the episode collapse.

This is a fascinating episode in regards to Steven’s maturity, because beyond the use of crayons, he goes hard on the cute angle to manipulate the Crystal Gems in a way that seems to undermine his growing maturity; for reference, we’re an episode away from a story about the aftermath of abusive relationships. This childishness is especially interesting when you consider this is where he gets his healing powers back, a sign of his growing power. We see him casually float up to grab Nephrite’s bubble, and he’s an old pro at warping without assistance. All signs point to this being a more developed Steven than his puppy-dog eyes might indicate, and that might be the point.

I don’t want to speak to the writers’ intent given how far away Pool Hopping is, but Garnet’s inability to properly predict the future here is caused by the same problem she has in that episode: she’s seeing the likely outcomes of a Steven who’s still a child. True, there’s also the matter of all three of his guardians reverting to a lighter version of their stubbornness from Monster Buddies given their bias against Corrupted Gems, but I can’t help but think that Garnet would’ve been cool with the outcome we get had she seen it coming. It’s understandable that she might not have been able to predict Steven’s capacity to help, and that the only outcome of freeing Nephrite was mutual suffering.

We’re past the halfway point in Season 3, and are thus nearing the conclusion of the show’s second fifty-odd episode chunk. Major plot elements are winding down in anticipation of the life-altering story that Rose Quartz shattered Pink Diamond, and one of them is the idea of Steven acting like a little kid. This is the last time we’re going to see him act this way at length, even as a ploy, because even though he’s still a kid in Season 4 and beyond, he’s a young teenager who actually feels like a teenager somewhat consistently.

We also get a subtle premonition of Amethyst’s imminent focus, as she’s twice admonished by Pearl for making fun of Nephrite even though she’s not making fun of Nephrite either time. The feuding days of Amethyst and Pearl are long over, but there’s still a power dynamic between them that Monster Reunion quietly reignites. And Garnet is still in charge, ordering Amethyst to poof Nephrite in a way that’s frankly a bit uncharacteristic. Maybe it’s because we haven’t seen an actual fight with the three Gems working as an unfused team since Catch and Release (heck, we haven’t seen a fight against a Corrupted Gem since the Slinker in Reformed, unless you count the big crab in Rising Tides, Crashing Skies), but it sounds strange for Garnet to give a direct attack command. Amethyst is shown here to be the lowest-ranking Crystal Gem, not counting Steven, and this means everything to the season’s final arc.

There are certain things I would’ve loved to see as a fan thirsty for information, namely an actual translation of Nephrite’s writings. But it’s not as if we don’t get the picture(s) from her "conversation” with Steven, and eleven minutes isn’t enough time to tell this story and inject worldbuilding through text. It’s frustrating to not have all the answers, and a common complaint of Steven as a character is his lack of follow-up questions, but in this case he clearly knows the gist, and there’s no reason to think he couldn’t have gotten Pearl to translate offscreen if he was still interested.

So I’m glad we instead got a searing character-centric story that hurts enough that I almost never watch this episode. It takes a while, and it nearly costs Steven everything, but thank goodness we finally get justice for Nephrite.

Future Vision!

Our next chapter in Nephrite’s story is Legs from Here to Homeworld, where we finally learn that she’s a nephrite, that her commander was a hessonite, and that Blue and Yellow Diamond might not have been as intentionally malicious as we thought despite the abominable consequences. It’s crazy how important Nephrite ends up being, essentially paving the way for the Diamonds to begin reforming through Steven wanting to cure her and other Corrupted Gems.

Steven’s desire to write “I’m sorry” in Gem Scribble as he looks at the image of three diamonds, with hindsight, seems to indicate some subconscious knowledge of his indirect culpability in Nephrite’s corruption. Or he doesn’t at all and it’s just a coincidence.

Nephrite uses a white crayon to depict the Corruption Song, indicating White Diamond’s greater responsibility, and ultimately White Diamond’s key role in healing the damage.

We’re the one, we’re the ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

Monster Reunion isn’t an episode I love to watch, because I don’t love to watch depictions of unbearable anguish, but it’s still an episode I love. Like Cry For Help, its sheer quality makes up for my infrequent rewatching.

Top Fifteen

Steven and the Stevens

Hit the Diamond

Mirror Gem

Lion 3: Straight to Video

Alone Together

The Return

Jailbreak

The Answer

Sworn to the Sword

Rose’s Scabbard

Mr. Greg

Coach Steven

Giant Woman

Beach City Drift

Winter Forecast

Love ‘em

Laser Light Cannon

Bubble Buddies

Tiger Millionaire

Lion 2: The Movie

Rose’s Room

An Indirect Kiss

Ocean Gem

Space Race

Garnet’s Universe

Warp Tour

The Test

Future Vision

On the Run

Maximum Capacity

Marble Madness

Political Power

Full Disclosure

Joy Ride

Keeping It Together

We Need to Talk

Chille Tid

Cry for Help

Keystone Motel

Catch and Release

When It Rains

Back to the Barn

Steven’s Birthday

It Could’ve Been Great

Message Received

Log Date 7 15 2

Same Old World

The New Lars

Monster Reunion

Like ‘em

Gem Glow

Frybo

Arcade Mania

So Many Birthdays

Lars and the Cool Kids

Onion Trade

Steven the Sword Fighter

Beach Party

Monster Buddies

Keep Beach City Weird

Watermelon Steven

The Message

Open Book

Story for Steven

Shirt Club

Love Letters

Reformed

Rising Tides, Crashing Tides

Onion Friend

Historical Friction

Friend Ship

Nightmare Hospital

Too Far

Barn Mates

Steven Floats

Drop Beat Dad

Too Short to Ride

Restaurant Wars

Kiki’s Pizza Delivery Service

Enh

Cheeseburger Backpack

Together Breakfast

Cat Fingers

Serious Steven

Steven’s Lion

Joking Victim

Secret Team

Say Uncle

Super Watermelon Island

Gem Drill

No Thanks!

     5. Horror Club      4. Fusion Cuisine      3. House Guest      2. Sadie’s Song      1. Island Adventure

(No official promo art, but artist Jonathan Traynor's haunting sketch does just fine.) 

[kuroandtheguys]

The mad scientist

The city altea, floating in the cosmos was once great, now it laid in ruins. There were rumors of someone living in it still. But that was only rumors. Rumors from the mouths of those who suffer from what had come to be known as Quintessence madness. The location of the city had been lost after so long, but a ship had stumbled upon it. They decided to explore and what they found could be considered a scientific breakthrough or a nightmare. They found holograms of the altean scientist Kuro who had been captured by the galra. When he had returned he wasnt the same.  He’d developed an obsession with quintessence.

The first hologram started with him in his lab. “September 13, 11:56 pm.” he stepped into the frame “I have started this alone and i must finish it alone. There is no longer a choice, i know that i know that i must use myself as the subject of the experiment…..no there is no choice” he sighed. “I must put aside the fears I feel inside….There's no place to hide...So it comes to this. One last final chance for me to take. Now everything I've fought for is at stake. Like a warning light, glimmering in red Like crimson bloodshed, shimmering in red...Beautiful and strange, see the colors change before my eyes See how they dance and they sparkle like diamonds at night Leading out of the darkness and into the light”

“11:58 PM. I have consumed 10 centiliters of formula HJ7. Salty, bitter taste. Stings the tongue. Warm in the gullet. Heat spreading strongly through my veins. A slight feeling of euphoria. Lightheadedness. No noticeable behavioral differences….i must be wise i must try to analyze each change in me…..” suddenly the hologram cut out

The next hologram turned on “...there we are, cant have you shutting off this time…..My God! What's this?Something is happening I can't explain….Something inside me A breathtaking pain

Devours and consumes me And drives me insane!....Suddenly…..Uncontrolled…..Something is Taking hold! Suddenly Agony! Filling me! Killing me?...Suddenly Out of breath! What is this? Is this death?! Suddenly Look at me! Can it be?” his appearance had changed. His hair had turned black and his eyes yellow, his markings were gone. “

“September 14th. 5:00 am. This is a strange, new, sweet sensation. I am younger. lighter, happier in body and soul - twice as alive and tenfold more wicked - which intoxicates and delights me like wine - adding fearful new hardships to my desperate battle for success.” he said happily before turning the hologram off

“September 20th. 10:50 am. The experiments are now in their second week. The transformations are beyond imagining. Unspeakable nightmares besiege my senses. The most racking pains, and a horror of the spirit that exceeds all dreams of death.”

“September 25th. 8:00 pm. I have radically altered the balance of the formula, to contain and overcome the powerful and darker forces at work inside me. I am aware of my peril, and the need to control it’s evil influence, which disappears within me like a stain of breath upon a mirror. it has found the perfect hiding place…” he paused to think “What streak of madness lies inside of me? What is the truth my fears conceal? What evil force makes it of me? What darker side of me does this reveal? Am I the man that I appear to be?

Or am I someone I don't know? Is there some monster drawing near to me? Becoming clear to see? Will what I fear to be be so? What is this strange obsession That's tearing me apart? Some strange deranged expression Of what's in my heart? This is a deadly game I have to win! This is a fight I dare not lose! I have an adversary steeped in sin. Who wages war within In ways I can't begin to use…” he turned the hologram off

There was nothing on record for months after that. The hologram started with kuro having a converstaion with someone, they looked like coran. “This is not the man i knew, there's something deeply troubling you! How long do you plan to hide away here? This increasing isolation only adds to your frustraion!” Kuro responded, turning his back “Coran i dont need you to turn on me as well….more than ever now i need a freind. Cant you see? And dont yuou know? Ive been through hell, dont condem what you dont comprehend.” Coran replied to him “kuro im not questioning your motives here! But, is what you are seeking worth the price? You’ve turned your back on everything you once held dear, your choosing to ignore your freinds advice.” coran reached out for him “you have your work and nothing more, you are possessed, what is your demon? Youve never been this way before, you lost the fire you built your dream on!” coran set his hand on kuro’s shoulder “theres something strange, theres something wrong. i see a change it’s like when love dies. I who have known you for so long, i see the pain in your eyes. There was a time, you lived your life as very few did. You had a plan, you saw your life as very few did. You had it all, the over all. You seemed to know what to live for, now it seems you dont at all…..you have your work nothing more.” Kuro stood silent for a moment “have i become my work and nothing more?i know thats not what im living for….” the hologram ended.

The last hologram listed started. The room was a disaster and kuro was on the floor. He looked tired. “The world has gone insane And parasites are eating at my brain And nothing is the way it was before A pack of wolves is howling at my door I'm living in a non-stop nightmare Deadmen's dreams filled with screaming pain Hurling me to mad extremes In a world that's gone insane The world has lost its head And every evil hour is filled with dread I'm floating on a lake, but upside-down And when I try to breathe I start to drown I cannot speak as nameless ghosts and faceless ghouls Bid me join the dead! No one tells these gruesome fools That the world has lost its head! Fiendish creatures leave their graves to taunt me! Old friends risen from the dead to haunt me! Godforsaken images that daunt me Drowning in an endless flood of blood! The world has lost its mind! And everywhere I turn I fear I'll find Some nightmare even worse than those I see Satanic demons closing in on me How can it be that even though they see my fright Everyone is blind! Night is day And day is night In a world that's lost its mind! The world has gone berserk! And hiding in the murk, new monsters lurk! I see a sea of snakes upon the floor! I see the reaper grinning at my door! I scream in silence! Bad is good and good is bad! Sacred if profane! And it's wiser to be mad...In a world that's gone insane!” His eyes were completely yellow now and the hologram shut off

[signetofworlds]

The Rolling Tide (Yog-Sothoth)

(art by Satibalzane)

I was mesmerized by the rolling tide

I lay on that shore and gazed into the skies Like a shooting star, my dream was gone I made up my mind I don't want to wake up

-Markus Toivonen, “Celestial Bond”

On all worlds I have visited, the name of Yog-Sothoth is known within the hearts of the populace. Although few could utter it, every intelligent being implicitly understands the concept of a cosmic order, a binding force behind conceivable reality that sits so far beyond their science and rationale as to be incomprehensible but that remains undeniable in its omnipresence. This wholeness is the true name of my inscrutable master, with Yog-Sothoth being nothing more than a simple shorthand utilized by those possessing humanoid tongues and a (mostly) linear understanding of spacetime.

When choosing a religion (if they are even afforded the freedom to do so), most potential disciples will stress the idea of a personal relationship with their deity. They cling to the idea that Osiris or Asmodeus or whatever other strange and mighty being they throw their prayers at cares about their dedication, or at the very least appreciates their contribution. The Outer Gods do not operate in this way, do not trifle with the answering of prayers and observation of rites. Many a poor soul has deluded themself into thinking that their bloody sacrifices somehow matter to Cthulhu or Shub-Niggurath, and never once do I suspect that their beloved masters ever noticed.

One cannot help but ask, then, why we disciples of the Elder Mythos wield powers which can rival or even surpass the delivered-with-a-smile spells of more palatable divinities. As one who has tapped into Yog-Sothoth’s incredible abilities with relative frequency over the last few eons, the best answer I can provide is that beings of the Elder Mythos are powerful enough to exude tremendous divine magic without their noticing. Raw magical energies of obscene magnitude flow from the wake of an Outer God’s path, which is why so many who are exposed to these mind-boggling forces wind up with their minds very thoroughly boggled. When I call upon the complex and incredibly powerful esoterica that enables many of my miracles, I am little more than an ant carrying off crumbs which fall from a great multiversal picnic basket.

The divine magic of a being such as Yog-Sothoth is only powered by belief insofar as one’s personal discipline shapes these energies into a comprehensible form. Whereas most divine spellcasters see their devotion as a source of strength, to us it is a crucial limiter without which our minds would completely break. The immense strength of will one finds in disciples of the Outer Gods is what anchors us to earth, for without such filters of mental stamina we would all be reduced to hysteric babbling (a fate I have seen forced upon too many and that I would wish on nobody). The sagacity of most disciples ties them to immortal, but it keeps us disciples of the cosmos anchored to the mortal.

The question then arises as to why I, a reasonably sane individual by most accounts, would constantly risk losing myself when there are so many more benign gods out there willing to hand over power. The simple answer is that I’m too skeptical to pledge myself to a finite entity, a being that was born from something and will one day pass into nothingness. Even as a child, I could never muster a prayer to any god which the priests explained as having a plan for me, because that meant forcing my view of the universe to revolve around a being which was either finite or petty enough to be miffed if I didn’t do what its priests told me to. Harnessing of the Gate and Key’s power garners not the entity’s attention nor its respect, just as the forces of gravity and magnetism care nothing about how you use them. I approach divine magic much in the same manner that I approach arcane magic, utilizing understanding garnered through study in order to expand my perspective and capabilities within the universe, caring not for concepts such as good or bad but rather craving an empirical appraisal of what lies before me. This of course begs the question of why I would utilize divine magic at all, and my answer is that I am not one to waste perfectly functional reality-warping powers. Ever since my studies of the Dark Tapestry first produced a Sanctuary Spell, I’ve found great use in tapping these energies which even the most knowledgeable arcanists fail to manifest. 

The biggest draw for the worship of Yog-Sothoth is none of these, however. What swells the entity’s congregation is the simple fact that once you learn of The Gate and Key’s existence, there is simply nowhere else you can sensibly turn. All other faiths are ruined for you, ruined by the fact that whatever god is slapping you on the back can’t hold a candle to the reality-defining force that is Yog-Sothoth. Disciples are drawn to power, even if that power can’t be bothered to acknowledge the planet you just sacrificed to get its attention.

Besides, taking an hour every morning to siphon a smidgen of eldritch might from an infinitely intelligent, infinitely powerful, infinitely-nonchalant-about-your-existence entity gives one some distinct perspective on your place in the universe.

Yog-Sothoth, The Gate and Key

Alignment

CE

Pantheon

Outer Gods

Areas of Concern

Gates, Space, Time

Domains Darkness, Chaos, Evil, Knowledge, Travel, Void Subdomains Dark Tapestry, Exploration, Memory, Night, Portal, Stars, Thought Favored Weapon Dagger (which is to say that he doesn’t have one. Daggers are just convenient for sacrifices) Symbol Black spiral Sacred Animal(s) None Sacred Color(s) None Obedience Draw out a series of arcane symbols in ink, chalk, or blood while meditating upon the finite nature of your own existence (honestly, if you’ve gotten this far, it shouldn’t be too hard). Gain a +2 insight bonus on all knowledge checks.

Divine Gift The recipient learns of the perfect path to success in regards to one specific goal or task, gaining a +4 insight bonus on all d20 rolls made as part of trying to complete that goal for 1 day. (Note: This “Gift” is not usually the result of Yog-Sothoth taking a liking to you. Every time I or someone else has obtained this gift, it is a consequence of unleashing some particularly powerful and out-there form of magic tied to Spacetime. This is, also how the Signet of Worlds was created).

Boons - Deific Obedience

Evangelist

1: Temporal Initiate: Burst of Insight 3/day, Ally Across Time 2/day, Haste 1/day

2: Magical Insights (Su): The character learns a new spell of every level they are capable of casting, adding them to their spells known or to their source of prepared spells (such as a spellbook or familiar). These spells must be those on the character’s spell list.

3: Facet of the Eternal (Su): You gain a single feat as a bonus feat. You must meet the prerequisites for this feat, but may exchange it for another feat that you also meet the prerequisites for whenever you perform your obedience.

Exalted 1: Spacetime Insight: Hermean Potential 3/day, Twisted Space 2/day, Blink 1/day

2: Probability Mastery (Su): Whenever you roll % dice to determine the effects of a spell or class ability on yourself, you may roll twice and take whichever result you choose. 3: Traveler of the Gates (Su): As a move action, you may teleport up to your movement speed, or four times your movement speed as a full-round action. In addition, you may increase or decrease the size of any portals you create (such as those created through a Gate spell) by 50%. Sentinel 1: Mastery of Possibilities: True Strike 3/day, Mirror Image 2/day, Borrow Fortune 1/day

2: Forewarned is Forearmed (Su): You gain the uncanny dodge and improved uncanny dodge class features as a monk of your character level. In addition, you can always act in the surprise round even if you fail to make a Perception roll to notice a foe, but you are still considered flat-footed until you take an action. 3: Path to Victory (Su): You have learned to witness many possibilities at once, picking and choosing the ones which you feel will lead to your greatest success in combat. Once per round, you may reroll a single attack roll or damage roll and take the higher of the two results.

For Followers of Yog-Sothoth

Archetypes

Chronomancer (Wizard. It’s just good sense really)

Elder Mythos Cultists (Cleric, because some fools just can’t handle their unbelievable power)

Portal Seeker (Investigator) Secret Broker (Occultist)

Stargazer (Oracle) Feats

Dimensional Agility Dreamed Secrets

Eldritch Eye

Practiced Ritualist

Magic Items

Ring Gates Monsters Ancient Ones

Hounds of Tindalos

Khaei

Spawn of Yog-Sothoth

Tawil At-Umr Spells Akashic Form

Borrow Fortune

Borrowed Time

Burst of Insight

Gate

Haste

Slow

Time Stop

Time Stutter

Traits Arcane Researcher

Horrifying Mind

Lucid Dreamer

Two-World Magic

Unspeakable Bond

Unique Spell Rules

Clerics, Oracles, and Warpriests who have Yog-Sothoth as their patron add Burst of Insight to their spell list as a 1st-level spell, Haste and Slow as 3rd-level spells, and Akashic Form and Time Stop as 9th-level spells.

Inquisitors who have Yog-Sothoth as their patron (don’t ask how they enforce doctrine for a god apathetic to mortal worship) add Burst of Insight to their spell list as a 1st-level spell, and Haste and Slow as 3rd-level spells

Sorcerers and Wizards who worship Yog-Sothoth add Burst of Insight to their spell list as a 1st-level spell, Borrow Fortune as a 3rd-level spell, and Akashic Form and Major Mind Swap as 9th-level spells

Unique Summon Rules

Summon Monster IV: Khaei

Summon Monster VI: Hound of Tindalos

Summon Monster VII: Spawn of Yog-Sothoth

Ancient One CR 22/MR 2

Invincible Hundun XP 614,400 CE Large aberration (chaotic, extraplanar, mythic) Init +10; Senses blindsense 300 ft., detect law; Perception +36 DEFENSE AC 41, touch 23, flat-footed 35 (+8 deflection, +6 Dex, +18 natural, -1 size) hp 380 (27d8+259) Fort +18, Ref +23, Will +21, Second Save

Defensive Abilities block attacks, entropic mind, evasion, negative energy affinity, spacetime shifting; DR 15/epic, lawful and piercing; Immune aging effects, cold, disease, mind-affecting effects, petrification, poison; Resist acid 15, cold 15, electricity 15, fire 30, sonic 15; SR 34 OFFENSE Speed 60 ft.; air walk Melee unarmed strike +32/+32/+27/+27/+22/+22/+17 (4d8+12/19–20 plus 1d6 negative energy) Space 10 ft.; Reach 10 ft. Special Attacks befuddling strike (6/day, DC 29), punishing kick (6/day, DC 29), strange attractor Spell-Like Abilities (CL 21st; concentration +29) Constant—air walk, detect law At will—chaos hammer (DC 22), dimension door, enervation, greater dispel magic, mass inflict moderate wounds (DC 24), plane shift (DC 23) 3/day—quickened dimension door, disintegrate (DC 24), quickened mass inflict moderate wounds (DC 24), word of chaos (DC 25) 1/day—orb of the void (DC 26) STATISTICS Str 34, Dex 22, Con 29, Int 18, Wis 23, Cha 27 Base Atk +20; CMB +33; CMD 57 Feats Befuddling Strike, Blind-Fight, Combat Reflexes, Dimensional Agility, Dimensional Assault, Dimensional Dervish, Greater Blind-Fight, Improved Blind-Fight, Improved Critical (unarmed strike), Improved Initiative, Improved Unarmed Strike, Punishing Kick, Quicken Spell-Like Ability (dimension door), Quicken Spell-Like Ability (mass inflict moderate wounds), Weapon Focus (unarmed strike) Skills Acrobatics +36, Climb +30, Escape Artist +36, Intimidate +38, Knowledge (planes) +22, Perception +36, Sense Motive +27, Spellcraft +22, Stealth +32, Swim +30 Languages Abyssal, Aklo, Protean (can’t speak any languages); telepathy 300 ft. SQ faceless, no breath SPECIAL ABILITIES Entropic Mind (Ex) An ancient one’s mind is a maelstrom of utter chaos. An ancient one is immune to mind-affecting effects, and any creature that attempts to affect an ancient one with a mind-affecting effect gains 1d4 temporary negative levels (Will DC 31 negates) from entropic feedback. These negative levels disappear automatically after 8 hours. The save DC is Charisma-based. Faceless (Ex) An ancient one has no eyes, but detects infinitesimal gravitic distortions through its skin, gaining blindsense 300 feet. An ancient one is blind and deaf, and is immune to effects that depend on sight or hearing. It subsists on negative energy and doesn’t breathe, eat, or drink. Spacetime Shifting (Ex) Reality constantly reconfigures in the vicinity of an ancient one , correcting the paradoxes the creature’s existence in space and time generates. This causes all attacks against the ancient one to suffer a 20% miss chance, and grants the ancient one a deflection bonus to AC and a racial bonus on Reflex saves equal to its Charisma modifier. Strange Attractor (Sp) An ancient one can activate or deactivate the stafflike strange attractor it carries as a free action. While active, a strange attractor hovers in place, and the ancient one can mentally move it up to 60 feet through space as a move action, to a maximum range of 300 feet. If it enters a space with a creature, it stops moving for the round and that creature must attempt a DC 31 Will saving throw. The creature falls unconscious for 1 round if it fails this save, or is nauseated for 1 round if it succeeds. The space around an active strange attractor twists and warps, trapping creatures within its gravity well. This functions like repulsion but in reverse: creatures within 60 feet attempting to move away from it are prevented from doing so, wasting their move actions (Reflex DC 31 negates). Lawful creatures beginning their turn within 60 feet of an active strange attractor are nauseated for 1 round (Will DC 31 negates). Nausea caused by a strange attractor is a mind-affecting effect. Creatures with the chaotic subtype are immune to all effects of the strange attractor. The save DCs are Charisma-based. A strange attractor can’t be attacked or harmed by physical attacks, but disintegrate, mage’s disjunction, a sphere of annihilation, or a rod of cancellation affect it. A strange attractor’s touch AC is 18 (+8 deflection), and attacks against it suffer a 20% miss chance. If an ancient one’s strange attractor is destroyed, the ancient one can create a new one after 1d8 hours of uninterrupted meditation. If an ancient one is slain, its strange attractor disappears. Unarmed Strikes (Ex) An ancient one’s unarmed strikes deal 4d8 points of damage, and function as chaotic, magic, and adamantine weapons for the purpose of overcoming damage reduction. An ancient one can make a flurry of blows attack with its unarmed strikes as a 20th-level monk, without increasing its base attack bonus or taking the –2 penalty on attack rolls. This ability also grants the ancient one the befuddling strike rogue talent and the punishing kick hungry ghost monk class feature.

Mythic Feats

Dreamed Secrets (Mythic)

Profound and powerful magics invade your mind

Prerequisites: Dreamed Secrets

Benefits: Increase the number of spells learned from Dreamed Secrets by your tier. In addition, you automatically know the mythic version of any spells you learn with Dreamed Secrets, but casting these spells as mythic spells causes you to take 1d4 points of wisdom damage with no saving throw.

Eldritch Eye (Mythic)

You are attuned to strange energies that move all around you.

Prerequisites: Eldritch Eye

Benefits: Your Eldritch Eye lasts for as long as you desire rather than just one minute. In addition, you can spend a point of mythic power to gain the benefits of True Seeing for one round.

Practiced Ritualist (Mythic)

You handle forces far beyond your ken with aplomb

Prerequisite: Practiced Ritualist

Benefit: You gain a bonus equal to your mythic tier on skill checks to perform occult rituals, and on Intelligence checks to learn the method of casting an occult ritual. In addition, while performing an occult ritual, you may spend a point of mythic power to gain a +10 bonus on a single skill check made as part of the ritual.

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[jakey-beefed-it]

i have seen some takes in the past couple days with regard to people who criticize The Last Jedi that are... well, maybe they’re not bad, maybe they do apply to some of the most toxic parts of the Star Wars fandom. But they wildly miss why I found it somewhat jarring. I’m gonna do this as calmly and reasonably and diplomatically as I know how, because I know tempers are high on this one.

A short summary of my problems with TLJ:

1.) Not enough Finn. I can be charitable and not speculate as to why they sidelined him, but as a critical part of the first movie in the trilogy, his role felt greatly reduced in this movie and I feel like it hurt the film overall and was disappointing to everyone who, like me, have a lot invested in Finn and his story. Biggest issue: when will Finn’s agency return from war.

2.) Character regression for Luke. The man who threw away his lightsaber rather than continue to fight his father, rather than give in to the (righteous!) anger within and ‘strike [the Empreor] down’. We can argue all day about whether the extremely pacifistic morality implied there is what the Light Side should be, but it’s certainly what Luke decided was the correct moral path. At the beginning of RotJ, Luke’s force-choking gammoreans and dressing like his dad, okay, sure. But by the end? He’s come around entirely.

While people in real life regularly take two steps forward and one step back in their moral development (and that’s if they’re trying to be better), these films are not real life. They’re mythology; practically allegory. To have Luke regress so far to even consider striking down an unarmed student while he’s asleep is huge whiplash for me. Ostensibly somebody could make a big long series set in Luke’s Jedi school and that might somewhat rehabilitate my opinion if it showed Luke struggling to find his way- in much the way that the Clone Wars show gave me lots of Feels(TM) about the prequels that I hadn’t previously had -but for now, there’s just this huge gulf between point A- Luke would rather die than kill his father, or even strike down the biggest cackling madman in the entire fuckening galaxy -and Point B -Luke strongly considering killing his own nephew in his sleep. Whiplash.

3.) Poe’s arc felt like it was written for a different character. Is there a need to show the typical hotshot macho braggart character taken down a peg in sci-fi stories? You bet. Is Poe any of those things besides hotshot? He really isn’t. You could show him becoming a better leader without resorting to having his effectively mother figure literally slap him. If nothing else, guys, I know that humans in a galaxy far far away are ostensibly not racist, but your audience has to deal with the cultural baggage from our society. Watching him get slapped felt like a punch right in my half-Mexican guts, and I love the hell out of Leia and Carrie Fisher. 

4.) Laura Dern’s character had no reason to keep her big secret. A fucking handwave would’ve satisfied me- a line like ‘I was concerned we were being monitored and so actually saying the plan out loud would’ve been disastrous; sorry Captain Dameron.” As-is, the story makes it seem like she kept her plan to herself out of... whimsy? Because she felt like Poe needed a lesson in trusting officers he’s not worked with closely? You’re a resistance leader, not a five-star admiral in the Republic navy- you can’t just expect the ‘ragtag band of rebels’ to follow you because of military hierarchy. People need reasons to trust, dammit.

5.) The ‘btw the real villain of the series is arms dealers’ side-plot was, imo, misplaced in a major film. These films are, as I said above, mythology. Could a Star Wars series tackle the issues of war profiteering? Absolutely. It could be great! I’d watch it. Should a tentpole Star Wars movie dip into that stuff when there’s Epic Tales of Good versus Evil Both in the Galaxy and in Ourselves to be told? Not in my opinion. Whatever your opinion about the entire arc on Canto Bight, (I’m not a big fan, but you might be) and how it was handled, I feel like it shouldn’t have been in the movie at all. Any major Star Wars movie.

6.) Misuse of the Tico sisters. Either let us have a little longer to get attached to Paige so that her heroic sacrifice carries more punch, or at least let Rose focus on her emotional trauma a bit more. I’d have been a lot happier with the romance subplot if it had made more sense for Rose, but she went from ‘oh god my sister is dead’ to ‘ooh wow a hero’ to ‘oh no; never meet your heroes’ to ‘i like this boy and want to kiss him’ in entirely too short a time. Have the film start off after a time skip; Finn has been working with the mechanics a bit since he’s a highly-trained soldier who knows all the technical details of First Order stuff, he and Rose are friends and Rose maybe has a crush to begin with, then Paige dies and that becomes her emotional arc for the movie- dealing with that loss. By the time she has the wherewithal to realize she loves him, he can either return her feelings or not depending on where they want to go in Episode IX. 

7.) Given that their relationship (platonic or romantic as you interpret it) was the entire heart of TFA, having Finn and Rey separated for the entire movie was just hard to deal with, and not in a good way. More in the ‘where’s the heart of this movie?’ sort of way. Still trying to answer that question.

Also, you will pry Force-Sensitive Finn from my cold dead hands and as a result I would have done unspeakable things to see him get trained alongside Rey. But that’s less a legit beef with the movie and more something I fervently would like to have seen. 

I have other personal taste complaints as well (why the boob-monster? why so much focus on Kylo only to double down on what an irredeemable jerk he is at the end? why completely abandon all the interesting plot threads from TFA? I liked those plot threads! I had fun speculating! why make them all irrelevant? sheesh!) but they’re pretty clearly matters of personal taste and so I will refrain from going on and on about them.

Anyhow yeah; I even enjoyed the film and have seen it twice now, but my initial misgivings have only grown. Especially the Luke business By no means am I of the opinion that it’s the worst character assassination in Star Wars canon (*cough* Padme *cough*) but I still find it really jarring. 

Blargh. No doubt I’ll get people jumping into my inbox to tell me that I’m dead wrong in that I dare not entirely love it because it’s the Best Thing, or that I’m entirely too easy on it because it’s the Worst Thing. So I’m gonna take a shower and then head out to the Warhammer store rather than sit around reading messages all day. 

[lordrethandus]

Mourn Not the Penitent Pt 3

Out of everyone in the Oathguard, Eristel had the best arrangement in the entire operation.

As Quartermaster, it was his sole duty to ensure the Oathguard was properly equipped and prepared for their time on Argus. Every two weeks he would have to count every crate of supplies they had to make a comprehensive list of what they needed to last them another fortnight. He then would establish a secure connection between Felfathom Keep and the Amber Glade to deliver the goods; during that six hours of transitioning he was free to visit his family, watch Jaeras’ progress with her pyromancy, and most importantly, spend some quality time with Tyrasam.

Until the next fateful encounter, Eristel decided to keep himself occupied the best way he knew how. Channeling spellflame was now as easy as breathing, and he worked to improve his pyromancy at any given time; his last encounter and his second true battle against the Burning Legion proved he was still too overzealous with his incantations. Despite engulfing any demons he came across with molten vengeance so hot it would make Ragnaros blush, no pyromancer worth their weight should ever exhaust themselves of mana minutes into a battle. He needed to pace himself and exercise restraint if he wanted to be of any use to anyone.

“Quartermaster!” One of the few remaining soldiers left to defend Felfathom Keep called, interrupting his training. “There’s a demonic gateway in the storage room!”

“What…!” Eristel hissed under his breath; his first thought were of wyrmtongues sneaking into Felfathom Keep to steal as much as they could get their grubby little hands on. “Stay here. I’ll handle the thieving little bastards.”

Fear of a Burning Legion ambush happening right under their noses hastened his steps. If Felfathom Keep was destroyed while the Oathguard was away, it would be a crushing blow that could threaten their presence out here; even worse, they could lure in the returning forces and lead them to slaughter. Eristel wasn't about to let that happen. Not on his watch.

The gateway was just as sinister as he imagined. Two long curved prongs of twisted metal and rock stained purple with foul magic, emanating a swirling vortex of sickly green energy. None of the crates around the room were disturbed, but that didn’t matter to Eristel; any trace of the Burning Legion must be dealt with extreme force. Fire sprouted from the palms of his hands, and vengeance burned in his flaring green eyes. The Pyromancer took one quick breath before dashing forward, ready to stumble upon any atrocious horrors the demons had in store for him.

What he found was something… else. All he saw was a single altar sitting on a flat empty landscape when he stepped through the other side of the gateway. The earth beneath his feet - if you could even call it that - was soft and sticky, clinging to the soles of his boots not quite unlike mud or gore. When the Pyromancer looked up, all he saw was the vast empty of the Great Dark Beyond, but devoid of any stars, planets, or nebulae. Only a tangled mess of asteroids spinning around what had to be the remains of a planet caught his eye, until he turned around to look over the gateway; a colossal aberration of flesh and tendrils the size of a planet filled Eristel with dread. It was the unmistakable visage of an Old God, easily the largest one he would ever see. It’s very presence was overwhelming, so much so that he didn’t even notice someone walking up from behind.

“Enjoying the view, Quartermaster?” Istrys called out from a healthy distance away from the Pyromancer. He whipped around to see her fiendish smirk, with Zolaar standing hunched over beside her; it looked like he could no longer stand up straight, and his hands were covered in felblood. “I’m surprised you got here so quickly. Perhaps you have the awareness needed to properly defend yourself against the Legion’s dirty tricks.”

“What is this place…? Why are you two here…?” Eristel couldn’t sound any more confused and bewildered if he tried. “And what the fel is that?!”

“This place is was once a world called Vivi… Vivith… viv- something retarded. Zolaar is convinced a powerful and advanced race once ruled supreme from here long before the Titans created Azeroth. Then that thing in the sky came, and destroyed everything.” Istrys was vague with her answer as expected; she never seemed the type to be interested in long forgotten history, unless she could benefit from it.

“That being floating high above is called A’zthoth.” The Harvester continued, but he kept his head low and his mask facing the ground. “It is one of the first Old Gods coughed forth from the Void, or so its whispers claim. I would avoid casting magic here… if A’zthoth awakens from its slumber… it will be very unfortunate for us.”

Eristel wasn't about to plague his sleep with nightmares imagining what unspeakable evil would befall him should the Old God awaken. “And the altar…?”

Zolaar turned to gesture toward the black spiraling metal spikes that seemed to stretch out toward the dark abyssal sky before pointing back down to the altar. “This is where I betrayed my master… and where I was justly rewarded for my defiance…” The Harvester and sounded like he was in an incredible amount of pain; judging by how warped his spine looked through his filthy robes, how he was even able to stand at all was a mystery.

Eristel didn’t know what to say. He was mentally prepared to face a swarm of demons when he ran headfirst into the gate, hoping he would be able to disable it from the inside to thwart their vile plans, but this was something else entirely. The world - what was left of it - was so foreign, from the muck beneath his boots to the hideous Old God sound asleep overhead; a part of him was still in disbelief any of this was real. “I…” he managed to squeeze out, blinking at Istrys and Zolaar during his meager attempts to make sense of all this.

“Come, Zolie. We don’t want people getting the wrong ideas about us.” Istrys commanded, startling the Harvester. Within seconds she was beside Eristel, firmly grabbing him by the wrist and shoulder to escort him back to Argus. “The longer you think about this place, the less sense it will make. Let’s get you back to Felfathom Keep, hmm? Would you like that Mr. Lord?”

“I’m not a child…” Eristel scowled, yanking his hand away from the Necromancer; he gave Az’thoth one last look while he sharply inhaled. “But yes… I would like to leave.”

He had no idea he could miss the scorched air of Argus. Going through the demonic gateway twice within minutes was putting a major strain on his body, leaving him physically exhausted traveling light years in just under a second each time. He missed the taste of Tyrasam’s wine-stained lips now more than ever. The others stationed in Felfathom Keep were surrounding the gateway with weapons drawn; had they not hesitated to kill whomever stepped through, they would have impaled Eristel dead-center.

“Who told you to leave your posts?!” Istrys shouted, glaring wildly at them. “What did everyone need to investigate the gate?! While you gawk at us, Felfathom Keep is undefended!”

“W-we didn’t know if Eristel would return…” One of them lowered his weapons and muttered in a low tone.

“Is it a Legion trap?” Another asked, with fear lighting up in her eyes. “Did you manage to stop them?”

“There’s no trap! Zolaar created this gate so he could interrogate Ijiro’s felguard captives without risking the keep!” The Necromancer waved her hand dismissively. “It’s like Andy left me the dumbest fools to defend Felfathom on purpose! Stop asking questions and get back to your stations, before I raise a few more corpses to do your patrols for you!”

Like roaches they scattered out of the storage room, as expected. Eristel continued to take his time absorbing everything he recently learned, fearing his nights would be plagued with what that monster could do to everything he cared for. Perhaps Gonthar was right… Zolaar was dangerous. “Az’thoth…” He started, turning to the Harvester. “How did you even find something that powerful?”

“I didn’t.” He answered plainly. “The Cult of Forgotten Shadows did. A sect was drawn to Az’thoth’s power, and they almost awakened him when they tried to siphon a portion of his power. It… didn’t end well for them. For any of them.” Zolaar paused to rub at his shoulder; it looked dislocated, but he didn’t seem to want any help with it. “The Black Harvest investigated and followed their trail all the way out there. I decided to use it as my sanctuary to get away from all of this… life.”

Istrys didn’t seem too enthusiastic listening to his dreary sob story about the most powerful Old God any mortal may ever witness. “Also… I’d keep it hush-hush about that creature around the others. Let the officers know when they come back, but, these common footsoldiers are cut from a different cloth. You know how they get when someone mentions the infamous OGs.”

Eristel leaned against a crate before asking, “What about you? Aren’t you at least a little uncomfortable with that… thing floating over your head when you’re out there?”

“Just a little.” She shrugged with mild interest. “I’ve got nothing to worry about while it’s still asleep. Us undead are incredibly resistant to all forms of shadow magic, including Old God hysteria. If it wakes up then, well… heheheh… that’s going to be a problem.” The Pyromancer swallowed hard, suddenly looking nauseous. Before he had a chance to speak again, one of the guards came rushing back into the storage room.

“Mistress! Ijiro’s team has returned!”

“Blegh!” Istrys’ groan was almost as exaggerated as it was obnoxiously loud. “A whole day of peace and quiet… now that chuckling cyclops is back. Fantastic.”

Audrey was already dragging Kaarst into the infirmary by the time Eristel and Istrys walked outside to greet them; the Necromancer was about to ask how he nearly got his arm torn apart before the hulking corpse Ijiro and his team were surrounding shattered her concentration. Seeing the twisted Draenei grins permanently stained on the multiple heads was just horrific enough to push Eristel over the tipping point, and not a moment later he was expelling his last meal onto the ground at his feet.

“Nice.” Ijiro chuckled, causing Istrys to roll her eyes out of habit. “Hell of a welcoming party, yeah? Are you feeling alright Eristel?”

“He's had a rough day without his b- hey!” Istrys was halfway through her snide remark before spotting the survivors of the slave pits huddling in the corner. “What’s with the kids?”

The Hunter glanced over his shoulder at them with a weary eye. “They’re the only ones we managed to save in the pits. The Burning Legion was using slave labor to mine this stuff,” He raised his hand to reveal a small crystal veiled in a dull purple hue. “Don’t know what it is or what it’s for, but if demons want it, can’t be good, yeah?”

“Certainly can’t.” Istrys turned to speak with Zolaar, but he was no longer at her side; when she looked around for the twisted warlock she didn’t have to look far. The Harvester was hunched over the strange demon with his hand pressed against its wretched flesh. “And what is that supposed to be?”

“One of the rescued kids called it an Ur’zul, but I have no idea what that means. None of the folks we rescued want anything to do with it, and judging by the many faces, I can see why.” Ijiro grimaced while he gazed down at the demon. “Took a lot of firepower to take it down too… truly the stuff of nightmares.”

“I’ll need to dissect this demon immediately.” Zolaar looked over his crooked shoulders to see all three elves staring blankly at him. “T-to learn more about it, of course…”

Ijiro, fearing Eristel was going to vomit again, began rubbing his back to help him regain his composure; he definitely remembered telling Eristel how traumatizing war can be. “Right… cut it open and learn what you can. If these demons are rolling off the assembly line, we’ll need to learn and exploit any weaknesses, yeah? Else this war just got a whole lot worse.” Eristel wiped his chin with his sleeve while he slowly rose back to his full height.

“You have no idea how worse this war could become.”