#And there will be a husk of Sol that remains

[bonefall]

can fallenleaf die? if yes, does her spirit become the new god of autumn?

I'm honestly not sure yet, both because I like to keep my magical systems vague until I need them due to the "nature" of needing to fit canon's events, and also because Fallenleaf is doing something never seen before!

Right now though, I think it's working in the sense that the two of them are slowly merging. Come back in a few hundred years, and Fallenleaf and Sol are going to be essentially the same person, one personality just more dominant than the other. But it's also important to note that people change. Even gods.

Not only are they going to merge, but they're also going to grow into someone new. It'll call itself Fallenleaf, or perhaps have new titles, but it's not just going to just be one of its components. Kinda like Steven Universe, y'know? Only a lot slower, less "equal," and irreversible. Garnet isn't just Ruby + Sapphire. She is a person in and of herself.

If it's interrupted though, I think it would depend on where in that "process" it's halted. Likeeee... if you took the bone out of a stew before its marrow fully dissolved. You can't remove the broth that remains. Sol would be altered in some way, and so would Fallenleaf.

But eventually, if Fallenleaf's mortal vessel falters in several hundred years and she dies, there won't really be a Sol Soul to "trap" anymore. It's going to be part of her.

[hurricanek8art]

I had to start trying to explain to my mom (strictly a movie/tv fan) why the Jedi are like this at this point in time, and it finally clicked in my head. The perfect way to explain how they're so rigid and strict and have such huge sticks up their butts at this point in time.

The Jedi of this generation are the result of generational trauma.

(Spoilers for episodes 1 and 2 of The Acolyte, Phase One of the High Republic books, and some barebones setting spoilers of Phase Three under the cut. Also a big wall of text because I never know when to shut up 🙃)

So I'm behind on Phase III of the High Republic books (got a few chapters into The Eye of Darkness when it came out, brain farted out on me on reading ability, haven't gotten back to it yet 🙃😖) but I know enough to know that things are really going bad. The Nihil are rampaging, the Nameless are turning people to stone, the Stormwall has cut off like a third of the galaxy from the rest of it. It's a lot! It's really bad! And we see how it's affecting our heroes. Avar and Elzar are reeling without Stellan. Vern's questioning about how the Jedi are responding to this threat throughout Phase I has led her to become a Wayseeker. Padawans like Bell, Burry and Reath have been elevated to Knighthood a lot sooner than any of them expected to be. All of them are incredibly traumatized.

But that's just the Jedi we've seen. The heroes, the big names. Imagine being a nobody at this time. An extra. A child.

Imagine being a youngling in this era. There are literal nightmares hunting you. People are dying right and left, they're being husked and turned to stone or just plain shot/stabbed/whatever. The outposts are being closed down and everyone's being recalled to Coruscant, and that's the ones who've survived so far. They knocked the Starlight Beacon out of the sky, something that was supposed to be impossible. And less than five years ago, this was a golden age of peace, of light and life and great works that were bringing the galaxy together, a united front. That's horrible, that is terrifying.

We as the readers know it's going to work out, because it has to, because this is a prequel. They don't know that. They're just kids, and the world has suddenly turned upside-down, and the galaxy is big and scary and dark.

So everything works out, the day is saved. But these kids, they have to live with this trauma for the rest of their lives.

And when they grow up, and they train Padawans, those Padawans are going to carry the lessons they learned onwards. There is no lesson a Master can teach in this era that isn't going to carry the grief of the Nihil or the Nameless. There is no lesson any Master will ever teach again, from the moment Loden Greatstorm was captured by Marchion Ro all the way to Luke's temple burning to the ground, that won't somehow, in some way, be touched by this. It haunts everyone, everything. Those lessons are passed on, and on, and on.

Yord Fandar is intense about protocal and following the rules and making sure he's the perfect Jedi, because a hundred years ago maverick Elzar Mann played fast and loose with the rules while he was stationed on Valo, and then the Nihil turned the Republic Fair into a bloodbath. Sol is worried about Osha's (so far) inability to put her grief to the side and remain objective in chasing Mae because Imri Cantaros lost control and nearly murdered the Nihil who caused the death of his master during the Great Disaster. Vernestra Rwoh is refusing to charge into this without talking it over with the Council because she remembers what happened when she kept information from them a hundred years ago.

These aren't isolated incidents because they happened to the heroes, every Jedi of that era has some story like this, where the lines blurred in the fog of war and they made or nearly made horrible mistakes out of fear. And now, every Jedi is going to want to rise above that. To not make those mistakes, because that past is past. It's peaceful again. They're better now. But that trauma's lurking under the surface, just like the Sith. The Nihil won't win, but the Order isn't going to, either. Because what the Nihil did changed them, permanently.

The plot of the High Republic books is supposedly unrelated to the show, because it's a hundred years later. But the plot of the High Republic books explains everything about the Jedi in this era of the galaxy. They're carrying the trauma and grief of an entire generation that was brutalized unlike anything the Order had ever seen before.

And the Sith have watched, and waited, as that trauma has become so internalized, so central to what the Jedi are. The Jedi might not even realize that's what's happened to them. But the Sith see it.

And now it's finally time to begin the grand plan.

[unhinged-summer-fun]

common grounds (oshamir) - chapter 18

Pairing: Osha Aniseya x Qimir "The Stranger"

Warnings: hey did u know this slow burn has some smut in it ;)

A/N: dividers by me, many many thanks to @desertbcrnnobody for the beta assist and PetrichorBather for help on the line about shipwrecks <3 y'all r priceless and ily. also, HAPPY 100K BROKEN ON COMMON GROUNDS I DIDN'T THINK WE'D GET THIS FAR

series masterlist

chapter 18: yet hanging in the stars

Qimir drove them east out of the city. Osha never needed to leave the city limits, what with the infrastructure supporting millions of lives that never needed to leave. In fact, Osha never left the city except for the tournaments—she had not attended the funerals following their orphaning, and Mae had stayed with her instead of attending herself.

They didn’t talk about it. At least, Osha didn’t talk about it. She didn’t talk about the frigid, impersonal visits to the frigid, impersonal graveyard where their mothers and two dozen other women were buried alongside them. She didn’t talk about how there was a strange disconnect between her mind knowing they were dead, and not knowing they were laid to rest. Anybody could be lying in a grave if there’s no proof of it.

Mae didn’t talk about the screaming nightmares she suffered for years. Sol certainly didn’t talk about it with them.

In that apartment, silence always spoke louder than anyone who dared break it.

They passed the graveyard as they headed east, and Osha said nothing.

They passed the exit that once stood for almost home, the one that led to a dirt road that would take them to the charred, decrepit husk of what was once a flourishing, colorful homestead.

She still said nothing.

Yet—

The scent-memory of smoke and gasoline lingered.

If her mood was markedly subdued for that stretch of highway, Qimir didn’t comment on it. He didn’t ask her how dinner with Sol and Mae went, but she told him it went fine anyway. Osha didn’t ask him how the drive back from Khofar went, but he told her it went fine as well. According to him, she knew him better than anybody else knew him, but in the moments of silence like this where they were both lost in thought, she could still call him a stranger.

I’m an open book. For you.

It made her questions all the more frustrating. There was some kind of block in her head, some barrier preventing her from just asking about all the confusing things that had been kicking around in her head since—well, since meeting him. Why were you even renting a place out in the middle of nowhere? The fuck is up with Idise? What are you lying to me about? What aren’t you telling me?

Weakly, she supposed whatever answers those questions would yield could only spell disaster for the uneasy relief between them. Why are you complaining? He’s back, isn’t he? Why risk running him off again with the reminders of whatever pushed him away in the first place? 

More and more questions, less and less answers.

…spoke a lot of words; I don’t know if I spoke the truth—got so much to lose, got so much to prove�� God, don’t let me lose my mind…

“It’s not far,” he said, breaking the quietude that settled like snow even on the soft music from his iPod. “Have you never been out here?”

A loaded question. Osha clicked on the metaphorical safety for her answer. “Not this far, no.”

“The competitions were always more up north, huh?” he said, drifting back to shared (if uncomfortable) territory—the competition circuit.

“Yeah. The comp team is caravaning to Theed tomorrow, so I’ll have four whole days to myself. Kana offered me so many shifts,” she chuckled.

“Four whole days, huh?” he said, eyes flicking briefly to her though his focus remained on the road. “And what are you going to do with all that time to yourself, birthday girl?”

“I was hoping to make it your problem.”

A slow smile crept up his lips as he smirked out through the windscreen. “That so?”

“Is so.” Maybe four whole days will get me to just fucking ask one single question—

“Maybe we should have a sleepover one of those days. While the cats are away, so to speak.”

Her heart leapt in her throat. “A sleepover?”

Instead of clarifying, laughing it off, or any number of deflections, he took her hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles. “A sleepover.”

Infuriating man.

She turned the tables on him, bringing his hand to her lips so she could press a kiss to his knuckles. Against the smooth skin there, she murmured, “I can think of a lot of things to do at a sleepover, stranger.”

His eyes burned as they caught her gaze now, and slowly, almost daring—he brought his hand down to rest on Osha’s thigh. It was warm, and huge, and she knew the strength of it from many hours spent in the gym together. He brought her hydroplaning mind back to earth as he squeezed her leg once.

“So can I.”

It felt like all the air in the car had been sucked out with those three little words. She was vaguely aware of her gaping expression, the speechless stupor he’d sent her into with nothing but his hand.

“Is this alright?” he asked, thumb twitching against the outer seam of her jeans.

She nodded dumbly.

“Use your words, Osha,” he teased, voice dropping to depths only known to shipwrecks. He knew what he was doing to her, and she loved it—as much as it flustered her.

She cleared her throat. “It’s alright.”

For the rest of the drive, Osha was aware of little else but his hand—the minute fidgeting, his thumbnail scraping idly over every thick stitch through denim, the gentle flex and tap of his fingers moving in time with whatever song was playing. What little conversation they’d been having had ground to a full fucking stop, now that his hand seemed intent on melting her every thought from the inside out.

If he hadn’t needed to take his hand off of her to do so, she wouldn’t have caught the fact he was exiting off the highway. They went back and forth down a winding, tree-lined road that he drove with the utter confidence of a man who knew where the fuck he was going, despite not using a map or GPS or anything. It made the random-ass stop on a deserted road confusing, however.

“Where are—whoa!” she exclaimed, bracing herself with the handle as he took a right—

Straight into a field.

Qimir only laughed, driving further and further into the field. “Almost the-ere,” he said, sing-song.

“This is absolutely ‘taking the victim to a secondary location’ behavior!” she protested, but laughter bubbled up at just how silly it felt to dip and bump up and down in his little shitbox car. She would never have been able to drive as confidently as he did—not to mention, her cute little two-door sedan would never have made it past the shoulder.

Qimir stopped just as abruptly as he’d plunged them off the road. He hummed, pleased with himself. “We’re here.”

“Where the hell is here?”

He didn’t answer, killing the engine and getting out to get something from the trunk. Osha attempted to put herself to rights, using the mirror on his visor to check her makeup. She regretted the lengths to which she attempted her makeup: if they were going to be in the dark, he couldn’t appreciate it.

You can dress up for yourself, you know.

Medora’s words brought a smile to her face, and she snapped the visor closed before she could convince herself back into regret. 

Her door opened. “C’mon,” Qimir said. The light from the car’s interior only shone onto the lower part of his face, leaving his eyes in shadow. He had a few blankets in his arms and a little box she couldn’t readily recognize. Qimir and his weird little machines. She joined him in the cold and dark, offering her hand to share some of the burden. Qimir instead shifted all of his load to one arm and took her hand.

Well then.

They didn’t walk too far from the car. The field he’d driven them into was full of dead grass, rocks, and loose dirt, which made her wonder—“Are there snakes out here?” Osha was suddenly paranoid about the possibility and strained to listen for rattles or hissing. She focused on her footwork, not wanting to lose her new, precious ankle strength to a stray snakehole.

“It’s past deadwinter, but not so far past that the snakes want to hang out.”

“Deadwinter?”

“Have you never heard someone call it that?”

“I’ve heard the dead of winter, but never deadwinter.”

“They mean the same thing: high summer, the height of summer, the middle of summer, midsummer. There are many names to describe the same thing. Haven’t you read any Shakespeare?”

“Only when forced, and like almost ten years ago.”

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose / by any other name would still smell as sweet.”

“You’re reading me poetry on my birthday?” Osha said, a little flustered by the subtle flex.

Qimir turned to her with a smile she could barely make out. She could only really see the glint of his teeth. “Yes, I am. Poetry from a tragedy, but poetry nonetheless. And in quite the romantic setting, if I say so myself.”

“A frozen field of dead grass and sleeping snakes is romantic to you?”

He chuckled and leaned in to kiss her, his lips finding hers like iron found a lodestone. Osha briefly forgot about the cold and the snakes and the field. When he’d kissed his fill of her, he tilted her head back with a finger beneath her chin.

The stars stared back at her, beckoning with twinkling lights—so far away, yet within the reach of her gaze. Osha’s jaw dropped open at their brilliance. No wonder he drove them out so far; he wanted to escape the light pollution.

Where would you go?

If I left the city?

Hm.

I don’t know. Somewhere I could see the stars, maybe?

Even the moon was brighter than she’d seen in ages. In the city, she could occasionally see the moon through the smoggy sky—and when she was lucky, she saw a few bright stars. It wasn’t worth looking up when the skies were so disappointing—compared to her childhood memories, at least.

Her mother had taught her the names of the constellations: Orion, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, Cygnus, Taurus, Gemini—that was the one she pointed out first to Qimir. She couldn’t remember many others (and perhaps it wasn’t the right time of year for that anyway) but she would always remember the lesson where she was shown Gemini. One pale, slender hand, pointing into the cosmos, and a lilting, accented voice, saying—

The Twins, like you. The Hunter, Orion, stands guard while they sleep, or perhaps he is following them. What do you think, my love?

“There’s Gemini,” she said, breaking the silence at long last. “Castor and Pollux. The Twins.”

“Which is which?” Qimir asked softly.

“I thought you could tell twins apart,” she smirked, shaking off some of her bewildered awe to tease him.

Qimir pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Only some,” he murmured. “Happy birthday, Osha.”

He’d given her the stars.

Her heart did flips in her chest the entire time they set up, their progress interrupted by the ensorcelling awe of looking up every few seconds—as if she had to constantly remind herself the stars hadn’t moved. The small device he brought with them revealed itself to be a portable space heater, which he set on the tarp and not among the dry, dead grass.

They rolled down onto the pallet together and Osha squeaked when he pulled her whole body against his, deftly maneuvering her how he wished. The ease with which he moved her made her go a little lightheaded with want. Fuck, he can manhandle me anytime he wants. She rested her head against his chest, and he squeezed his hand against her ribs. “One more thing.” He tugged a blanket over them, enclosing them in a cozy, dark warmth that fought against the chill of the elements around them.

“There. Comfy?” he checked.

“Very,” she said, melting into his side. She could hear the steady beat of his heart, and she worried it would carry her to sleep if she wasn’t paying attention.

Nobody had done such a thing for her before. Her birthdays in childhood were full of warmth, bonfires and sweets. But those were celebrations of more than just herself, or even her and her sister. This was a gift solely for her to enjoy, all because he thought she would like it. She didn’t know how much she would like such a gift until she found herself rambling about the stars above, memories of those lessons with her moth unraveling like thread around a spool. What’s more, Qimir listened to her. She was slightly amazed that she remembered as much as she did. But she quietly named individual stars, planets, and constellations until her voice tired out.

“Is your heater gas-powered?” she asked, sniffing a little. “It smells like gasoline.”

He sighed, and it sounded more like he was disappointed—in himself. “No, it’s the blankets. My gas tank has issues, and I kept the blankets in the trunk a little too long; I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said sweetly, trying her best to ignore the scent on the blankets while she continued to speak. “The moon looks so beautiful, doesn’t it?” she asked.

She didn’t know why his heart started racing, but she could practically feel it tapping her cheek. She shifted and turned her head to look down at him.

He looked a bit dumbstruck, though he was just staring up at the stars. He turned his head to look at her, mouth somewhat agape. A shaky breath sawed out of him, nearly a wheezed laugh of disbelief. How strange.

“What?” she laughed.

“I… yes. The moon does look beautiful,” he agreed.

He wasn’t even looking at the moon.

Qimir and his… well. His whole deal.

She told him about her childhood. Her mama taught her to read, write, and do math, but her mother taught her to read things unseen by the eyes: stars, cards, palms, and the like.

Osha told her of the nights they would sit on the roof, naming constellations until the sun chased them all to bed. Osha remembered the way her mother used to look at the stars. It was the same way she looked at her and Mae when she thought they couldn’t see: glowing amber eyes full of all the love and joy she did not often show to them.

“…The compound always had someone casting a spell, performing a ritual, or crafting charms. Unplan kind of reminds me of that time. I haven’t followed the moon phases in almost 20 years, but I love getting to do it again. It was such a beautiful place to grow up. Women weaving at looms, countless voices harmonizing in songs, laughing with one another. I didn’t know any of that was weird or other back then. I didn’t know it was strange until Sol—” A sudden wave of sadness crashed over her, and the happy memory she’d been holding onto began to slip from her grasp. “I just thought—yeah, this is normal. Home was always more like… a coven, than a—”

Well. The newspapers had called it a cult.

All at once, the atmosphere changed. She could feel the cold again, and the sticky-uncomfortable sweat that had crept beneath her socks and her arms. The invading silence threatened to stretch on forever, but—

“They were your family,” Qimir said, offering an escape from her sudden despair.

But Osha couldn’t grasp that lifeline again. She tried to hide the single tear that slipped from her eye, but Qimir was too close not to catch it. “Are you alright?” he murmured.

She nodded, sniffling a little. “I think Mae had a point, seeing their graves earlier this week.” She swallowed down the growing thickness in her throat. “We lost them when we were 10. The summer after we turned 20, I think I could feel that I’d lived more of my life without them than with them. But we didn’t… we don’t talk about them. That’s why it was so shocking to me that she went at all. It’s just not something we do—we’ve never talked about what happened, not really.”

He hummed softly, a noise of understanding. “You can talk to me anytime you want, you know,” he said.

She snuggled in closer. “I know,” she said.

More silence passed, and the pressure in Osha’s heart built and built. The stars now looked a little dimmer overhead. If she let herself think how she used to, she could imagine they were giving them privacy.

The stars look back upon you as well, her mother had told her. The lucky stars only shine on the ones who see their light. These are the eyes of the ones we grieve. When I die, I shall be among them, looking down and watching over you and your sister. So look up, Osha. Look up.

Her heart ached with the effort of holding back her pain. A part of her still felt ashamed to grieve her mothers, to miss them at all. She’d gained a father from the deaths of her mothers, and Sol tried his best to fill in the gaps in her jagged, broken heart. Mae always seemed fine, connecting to Sol much easier than she had. It felt like, for that week she was in the hospital, Mae had completely rebounded from the life they lost—and from all the lives lost.

Sol had never adequately filled the hole in her heart where her mothers had been ripped away. She no longer had that warmth and togetherness she remembered from her birthdays in the beautiful, resplendent Before. All she’d been offered after was cold money and colder crystal—just the memory of what used to be.

Qimir held her while she cried into his shoulder, arms coming up to hide her from the universe where nobody could see her, not even the stars—hidden from her mothers, eternally waiting for her to look up. She sobbed against him, setting free out a flood of long-imprisoned emotions until her voice sounded as raw as she felt.

He did not shy away from her feelings. He did not flinch from her tears as Vernestra had. He did not run from her grief as Sol did. He did not find her emotions daunting or intimidating, as Mae did. But their fear did not mean she needed to change for their comfort. Osha felt her emotions so deeply. They were like a trench dug in her heart, their depths so dark and overwhelming that she’d only ever felt loneliness at the bottom of it all.

I promised myself I would never love someone who wasn’t willing to go as deep as I can.

A peek at Qimir showed a sight she never thought she’d see: tears on his face, illuminated by starlight above. His face was pained, but not from anything physical—it wasn’t the mask she remembered from training. This was an emotional pain, one she remembered from that first day in his apartment when he told her about his childhood. She remembered seeing him like this when dancing, asking him a question to which she knew the answer in her heart. His physical agony protected the broken heart it stemmed from, because this was a pain he couldn’t massage or numb away.

Because she knew that pain, she pressed their faces together, not in a kiss but in comfort, giving and taking. Their faces were wet and cold despite the warmth of the space between them. He brought his other arm up to wrap around her, crushing their bodies together as they quietly wept. Even as she wondered what he cried for, she felt a lot less lonely at the bottom of that trench in her heart.

A realization came like a bolt from the blue, a secret whispered from her heart to her ear. 

You love him. 

It was at once the heaviest and lightest secret she ever held, for it squirmed and thrashed from her heart in a desperate bid to be shared with him. Her mind caught it behind the bars of not the right time and it’s too soon to say it. Whatever delicate balance that kept them together, she didn’t think it could weather her whispering those three words right now.

I love you was a struck match. Attraction, glances, touches, kisses—those things were sparks, either catching heartstrings on fire or failing in a cough of smoke. Some hearts were made of kindling, ready for the match and burning bright and fast; other hearts were made of stubborn, damp timber. But hearts and hearths alike needed tending, feeding to burn through the darkest, coldest nights.

Osha knew the only warmth those words would bring now would be something akin to heartburn.

When they pulled back, eyes still glittering with unshed tears and unspoken things, she quietly thumbed away the tears on his face. He did the same for her, reverence in his starlit gaze as he fulfilled his duty. When he finished, he leaned down to kiss her lips, a soft thing that tasted of salt and starlight. The wave of grief had passed, and the storm was kept at bay another night.

For the first time, she didn’t feel the overwhelming need to apologize for crying.

She kissed him again, deeper. Their passion and heat charged in like a cavalry, decimating the lingering despair—at least while they touched. Osha wasn’t foolish enough to think her stranger’s affection would fully heal those broken pieces; especially if her own family hadn’t done so. But perhaps, with him, she could let him shore up the sides of her strength while she healed those sharp points herself. 

His hands were warm against her face, and she brought her own hands down to push under his t-shirt. She was going to kiss him again when her hands touched the smooth skin of his abdomen, but he jolted suddenly, making a noise of surprise. She didn’t draw back, peering closer at his suddenly very-neutral expression. “Are you… ticklish, stranger?” 

He scowled—no, that was another pout. “No, your hands are just blocks of ice,” he protested.

“No, they’re not.” She put her hands back on the trim, muscled sides of his torso and he squirmed back—“Look at you slithering! There are snakes out here! Ticklish snakes!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking ab-out—!”

She pounced. It was much the same position as he’d gotten her in, nights and nights ago, up in his dressing room. Her hands pinned his shoulders to the blanket, and her hips drove between his thighs to keep him where she wanted him. Qimir’s eyes widened, the struggle draining from him for several long, stunned seconds.

She’d taken him off guard. He looked just as surprised as she was.

Then, his jaw set and his hands came up to knock at hers.

The brief scramble for purchase was riddled with laughter and light, the stars’ brightness returning to the sky as they grappled on the blanket. He eventually got the upper hand—because she let him.

Osha landed against the blanket with an oof—it wasn’t as soft a landing as the wrestling mats at Unknown Planet. He had her pinned with one hand splayed wide against her chest, the other hand locked around her hip to keep her in place. Looming over her, he kept her locked in a hold she probably couldn’t have broken even if she wanted to. He breathed a little hard, but the feral smile on his face spoke wonders about all those naughty things he wanted to do with her.

Hello, Smiley.

Osha grinned sharply back at him, drawing her free leg up, up, up against his. She didn’t have the angle, strength, or want to flip the script on him, but she could distract him. She could shift the tides from here. Leveraging the only emotion that consistently overtook him in the ring, she ground her hips up against him. That emotion?

Pure, unfiltered desire.

He shuddered at the move, eyes closing as he gave into the feeling for a few indulgent seconds. He was hard; she could feel the burning heat of him against her inner thigh. When she sought to take more ground, he reinforced his pin on her. His eyes blazed hot as he glared down at her. “You know, Unplan doesn’t like this kind of fighting. Kind of obscene, don’t you think?”

“I thought you wanted to fight however you wanted.” She rolled her hips again. “Maybe I do, too.” She was openly tempting fate—and him. 

She wondered which was more powerful.

He smirked. She could practically hear him speaking directly into her mind—you’re playing with fire, Osha. She returned his gaze with a relaxed come-hither look.

To her disappointment, he released her, letting the air surge in between their heated bodies in a shock of cold.

“What?” she whined, pouting. She couldn’t free her hands to paw at him to get him to return, but she struggled against him.

“I’m not fucking you for the first time in a freezing cold field.”

Despite the furious heat that ignited in her face at the idea, she begrudgingly understood. “But we’re under the stars,” she protested anyway. And we don’t have to go all the way…

“Let’s raincheck the under-the-stars sex for spring; how’s that sound.” He sat back on his knees and helped her to sit up. Qimir rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed and calming his breathing—and perhaps, his dick. When she finally did the same, he said, “We’ve been out here for a few hours, and it’s only going to get colder. Let’s head back.”

Mae had texted her while they’d been stargazing.

M: Sol passed out on our couch before I left lol

M: I’m stayin somewhere else tonight

O: Yikes

Hm. A sleepover sounded more and more appealing right about now.

O: I might do the same

Mae returned Osha’s message instantly, which made her cringe. She’d probably been waiting for a reply since she sent it two hours ago.

M: Probably a good idea, even if you ARE getting out of hungover Sol duty

M: He said some weird shit before he passed out but it just sounded like he wanted to talk to us

O: Sol wtf??

O: Did u find out why?

M: No, but I can try to ask when we’re in Theed

M: Are you still with you know who?

O: Tell me who ur staying the night with and I’ll tell u

Mae’s little ‘Typing…’ bubble appeared, then disappeared. Osha could imagine her pouting.

M: Jecki

O: I KNEW IT OMGGGG

M: SHHHHH

M: It’s only practical I mean we’re driving to Theed together tomorrow adfjksjdhfsd

O: Suuuuuuuuure Mae suuuuuure

A few seconds passed without messages, and Osha knew she had to fulfill her end of the deal. But tonight had been so magical, she couldn’t bring herself to hide it from her sister.

O: I may be staying the night with him

O: I need to ask tho

She added one more thing, feeling oddly vulnerable while she did.

O: He took me stargazing

M: NO FUCKING WAY

Mae immediately tried to unsend her message, but Osha had already taken a hundred screenshots, cackling like the witches she was raised by. Osha teased her about breaking her three-year streak of not swearing, talking about framing that screenshot. They conversed mainly in emoji after that, teasing one another how they used to.

Osha knew things weren’t square between them. Mae was still extremely wary of Qimir even though she seemed… open to Osha seeing him. Qimir felt similarly about Mae, but based on his reactions to Osha’s reservations about granting forgiveness, he must have felt guilty about playing a part in the tension between the sisters. This birthday armistice had been nice, but Osha knew it would most likely end by morning.

She sighed and set down her phone after wishing Mae a good night. Her soul felt contented for the first time in a very long time.

“Everything alright?” Qimir asked, settling his hand back on her thigh now that they were back on the highway—heading west, outrunning the sunrise.

“Yeah, I just don’t wanna deal with my hungover dad when I get back.”

“What?” he said, concerned.

“Yeah, Mae said he celebrated our birthday too hard and passed out on our couch. But Mae left to hang out with her girlfriend so I’m stuck on drunk dad duty. And I totally knew Jecki was her girlfriend even though she didn’t say anything. I feel so vindicated.”

Her attempts at brushing past the uncomfortable parts of her story were met with tense silence, and her heart dropped. Qimir flexed his fingers over the steering wheel. “Does he do that a lot?” he asked softly.

The serious concern in his tone made her cringe. She made herself laugh, pushing levity into the air. “No, it’s not like—well, it’s not super often. We just—we always joke that for as much as Sol’s a welterweight, he’s outclassed against Mae’s mulled wine.”

No, they didn’t. Why would someone joke about that?

Qimir nodded tightly, and she felt her face go a little hot, blood going acidic with shame. The familiar words needed to defend Sol rose in her mouth like bile, but she didn’t spit them out like she’d done a hundred times before. It was probably good that she did—until Osha knew where Sol fit into everything, she didn’t want to praise him around Qimir. He was reacting a little strongly to her news, very tense and still and quiet about it. For all she knew, Sol was the one who—

No, don’t even imagine that, Osha.

Qimir was saying something.

“What?”

“I said, if that’s the case, you can stay the night at my place.”

I’m not fucking you for the first time in a freezing cold field, he’d said. And his apartment was certainly not freezing cold…

Her lips curled into a very self-satisfied grin. “Like a sleepover?”

“To sleep,” Qimir chuckled, knowing just where her mind had gone.

“But it’s my birthday,” she pouted, knowing she was being childish.

“You’re right, it is,” he said flatly. “For the next… fourteen minutes.”

The horny part of her brain that she’d recently allowed out on parole started rioting in the streets of her mind. NO!!!! He wants to sleep with you but in the WRONG WAY!!

A quick check-in with her body told her she was growing pretty tired—and he drove all the way here from Khofar earlier today, she reminded herself. 

“Do you want me to stay the night?” she asked.

The hand on her thigh flexed a little, as if he was keeping his hand from grabbing her impulsively. “I do,” he said, voice gone a little low—louder than he’d been speaking before.

“Then I would love to stay over. Thank you for offering.”

His hand grabbed hers to kiss her knuckles briefly before returning to its post on her thigh. She relaxed, and smiled for the rest of the drive back.

She took a step toward the trunk after they parked. “I can carry the blankets up,” she offered.

He waved her off, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it. They can survive another night in the trunk.”

The walk to his apartment felt too similar to the last time she’d been there—three days ago, pacing the hall and wondering where he’d gone. Osha swallowed down the memory as he let them in.

The soft lamplight held a similar cozy glow as the stars, though not as cold and distant. This was a comfort she could touch, a relief within reach. She sat on his couch beside him as they took off their shoes, and he put them by the door along with their coats. Her heart did flips as she wondered repeatedly—is this where he drops the act? Is this where he comes out behind the door and grabs me in a passionate fervor and tosses me on the bed and tears my clothes off like a fierce conqueror indulging in the spoils of—

He returned bearing a few things—a shirt, a pair of basketball shorts, and a sheepish expression. “I’m a bit short on actual pajamas, but I hope these will do.”

No spoils of war this time, huh.

She zipped into the bathroom to change, schooling her wanton imagination at least for now. Like they did at Unplan, she kept the door cracked so they could talk if they wanted. But the energy here was much more charged than it was in Unplan, and it kept her from actually speaking as she disrobed.

What would happen if I just walked out there in nothing but my underwear? a reckless part of her posited.

Surely, nothing good. But perhaps… something great.

The demons were winning this war against her self-control, but in the end, she did not do any of those depraved things she’d been thinking about. I deserve a medal. 

He was in a deep spine stretch that even Osha probably couldn’t reach, despite her lifelong devotion to flexibility. Oh yeah. Nighttime stretches. There will be no warrior-maiden roleplay this evening. Bummer.

She had the perfect vantage point of him as he looked up and went preternaturally still. He didn’t even seem to breathe as his eyes raked across her body, taking in every inch of her as she moved closer. She settled before him and folded herself into a similar pose, holding eye contact as she wordlessly fell into her usual nighttime stretching routine.

He broke her gaze, and Osha caught the sliver of his smile a moment before he hid it in his stretch.

It felt unspeakably intimate, like sharing a sacred ritual only ever performed in private. The only noises were their breathing, the soft shift of fabric, and the brief slide of skin against skin. At some point, their breathing synced up, inhales matching exhales. Their internal clocks lined up such that they switched sides simultaneously without even speaking.

His routine was slightly longer than her own, but not overly so. Since he’d gotten a head start on her, they finished around the same time, two bodies laying beside one another in corpse pose. What a false term for such a serene position—especially when Osha had never felt so alive.

His hand brushed hers, probably a signal to sit up, but she laced her fingers with his instead. He didn’t miss a beat, squeezing her hand once and rolling to a seated position. She followed suit, though she liked the view of him slightly above her. 

Her suppositions from before had been correct. He looked tired, the hours of the day weighing on his face.

“Sleepy?” she asked.

He nodded. Osha brought his hand to her lap to lightly trace it with her fingertips. She marveled at how his bones turned smooth skin into bodily geography—knuckles making mountains and valleys, tendons in the back of his drawing lines like tilled earth all the way to his wrist, where soft blue veins carved rivers of blood in toward his heart and back again. A whole world upon his hand, and only she could see it, touch it.

He probably knew the anatomical names for every part of him she touched. He’d been trained to see the hand for its anatomy, for its limits and its functions. Osha had spent her childhood reading hands like divinity had whispered secrets into every dip, valley, ridge, and whorl.

I wonder if I still got it, she thought. How much her palmistry knowledge had been lost to fire and tragedy?

His palm told the story of a man riddled by betrayal and loneliness, his strength forged not in fire but by storms weathered. His soul was well-rooted, grounded in reality, not ambition, so spake his hand. What goals he had would be achieved, come hell or high water. She’d done this before, once—speaking with him in his office. Mount of Venus, heart line, fate line, life line. His heart started jagged but faint, and strengthened by degrees across his palm. His fate split in two early on, but skipped back to the same line after some time—and again, and again, and again. And his—

“What does my hand say?”

His voice broke the quiet like a spoon on burnt sugar. His fatigued smile still showed interest in her.

She’d read him the stars earlier, and she would have gladly read him his palm and his fortune, but perhaps first… a bit of mischief.

Osha bit back her grin and bent over his hand, rubbing her thumbs across the ridges and callouses. He held still, obedient despite her giving no orders. She hummed like she was deeply considering the quandary before her. She looked up, serious as the grave, and said, “It says you masturbate with this hand.”

His jaw went slack and a blush bloomed high in his cheeks before he laughed, probably too loud for this time of night. He sucked a breath in to possibly speak, but no words came out—only more peals of laughter. He didn’t move his hand from her hold, not even as he tossed his head back to laugh some more. Osha joined him, giggling over the joke.

In middle school, it had gotten out that she and Mae were raised by a cult of witches in the boonies. Mae had denounced it quite publicly, saying she didn’t believe in all that. 

(Osha knew better. Osha remembered how her sister earnestly bowed her head at the spells, moved with intention through forms, and assisted in moon rituals and holidays on the Wheel. Osha remembered when they were almost worshiped by the other women. Osha remembered that Mae liked it. Mae just liked being liked, and people liked you better when you weren’t weird. Osha never learned that lesson.)

But Osha had responded to the bullying in a different way. She could never block out the scorn or the teasing jokes, and she allowed it to incense her to the point where she could deftly shift the embarrassment back on her antagonizers. Osha had a million comebacks for every person who sought to ridicule the faith practices they were raised on: The cards told me your parents don’t love you. All the stars and planets have aligned to whisper a truth: you fucking suck. You masturbate with this hand. It earned her a reputation as someone not to be messed with, and she wore it proudly, even though it isolated her further from her peers.

But Qimir wasn’t a bully wheedling for her to read her fortune just to laugh at her. Qimir was playful, Qimir was fun. Qimir liked her jokes and made her feel like she could be herself again. He even made her feel a sliver of that worship that once made her uncomfortable—but not now.

“Your face—!” she laughed, nearly tipping to the side while Qimir gathered himself again.

“And you accuse me of playing with my food,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “You loved that.”

Shameless, she smiled. “Yes, I did.”

They soon lay on opposite sides of his bed. To sleep, he’d said. Insisted, really. The earlier laughter made it easier to stay on target, but when they were settled in, and the lights went out, all that potential for nighttime activities returned with hurricane force, battering against a crumbling sea wall of self-control. Osha swallowed, staring up at the darkness and chewing on her lip.

“For the record, your hand said you’d live a very long, healthy life,” she said, nerves coloring her voice. She couldn’t bring herself to say much else, let alone the things she’d actually read and felt. “I’m a bit rusty, though. You could die tomorrow, and it’s your hand’s fault.”

That selfsame hand came to wrap around one of hers, prying her fingers open from the claw they’d made around the comforter. Osha forced herself to relax, focusing on her breathing and her heart rate. He didn’t remark on her hasty words, and was quiet for so long she thought he’d fallen asleep. Just as she was about to doze off, he spoke.

“For the record, your original reading was accurate anyway.”

The noise Osha made wasn’t remotely human.

“Good night, Osha.”

Her senses awoke one by one—first, the smell of breakfast and coffee. Second, the sound of someone cooking said breakfast. Third—

God damn it, Qimir is not allowed to be that sexy first thing when I wake up.

She snuggled in closer to the pillow beneath her head to watch him work in comfort, hiding half her face beneath the covers. He’d opened the curtains over some of his windows for once, letting in the pale winter sunlight. It made him look like a carved marble statue come to life, leeched of his actual skin color but resplendent and perfect nonetheless.

His scar didn’t snag her gaze the way it had the first couple of times she’d seen him shirtless. It was part of him, a part of him that wouldn’t go away—the same as her scars. And she loved it just the same.

God, so I really do love him, don’t I? she thought to herself.

As if sensing her thoughts about him, he turned to look back over his shoulder. He had no shirt on, but… he’d put on his glasses? What the fuck, nerdy fantasies. There was a soft clatter as he set the pans to the side. Then, he set his sights on a new focus: her, awake. He was by her side in three long strides, and parked his ass right next to her on the bed.

Up close, his handsomeness was lethal. His hair fell loose around his face, still mussed on one side. Bedhead. “Good morning,” he said, resting one hand on her hip. He gently tugged the covers off her face when she didn’t readily respond.

She was still in that warm, hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, gaping at his (quite honestly) illegal I-woke-up-like-this hotness. He tilted his head to the side, inky black hair brushing over his stupid, broad shoulders.

“Are you alright?” he asked, eyes drifting off her face and down her body like he could X-ray image her through the covers.

“I’m okay!” she said, squeaking and moving to sit up too fast. She smacked her head against the wood headboard—“Fuuuuck!”

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, helping her ease away from the headboard and guiding her to a seated position. His eyes had taken on a more serious glint.

Hello, Coach Lo will see you now.

Even his voice had dropped to that authoritative pitch. “That sounded like it h—”

“You’re too hot to be doing this right now,” she complained, interrupting him. “See? I have a concussion now.”

“H-how does that correlate?” he asked, voice gone a little high.

“Because you’re too goddamn pretty it breaks my brain,” she said flatly.

That same precious pink blush from the night before flared across his cheekbones. Osha reveled in how deeply she could fluster him. She was used to rattling his composure, just a shake of the bars on his self-made cage here and there. This wasn’t really rattling—this was something else, something that touched a little deeper than he thought someone could reach.

“I don’t—you. You’re beautiful,” he stammered.

His bashfulness was adorable. It was a marvel that he could ever step into the ring against another fighter, if he was so affected by something so terrifying as flattery.

“Yeah, well, who’s concussed?” she finally said, breath leaving her in a nervous tremble.

“You’re not concussed,” he laughed.

“You don’t know that,” she pouted.

He raised one eyebrow. “I’ve got a doctorate that says otherwise.”

“Do your athletes ever call you Doctor Loharne?” she said, holding onto the subject shift with both hands.

“Well, I’m a DPT, only MDs really get called Doctor.”

Pouting, she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Semantics.”

He grasped her chin lightly between his fingertips, turning her face back to him in an aching, heart-stopping, knee-weakening gesture that stole her breath. “Follow my finger with your eyes,” he said, mock-serious. She was helpless but to follow his orders, playing along. “Hmm, pupils responding normally, if a bit dilated,” he smirked. “Do you know where you are?”

“Your apartment,” she scoffed, fighting back her smile.

“Where’d we go last night?”

“A random field off of ’77.”

“What’s your name?”

“Osha Aniseya.”

“And who am I?”

“You’re mine.”

His jaw dropped, allowing a startled breath to trip out of his lungs. His eyes went wide, but his blinks looked like he was forcing himself to do so. He looked seconds from pinching himself.

“Was that not the answer you were expecting?” she teased.

He fell toward her, leaning in to kiss her like a prince waking a princess—

Okay, warrior-maiden roleplay is back.

He moved his legs up to straddle over top of her, pinning her mostly beneath the covers as he kissed her. Still just in sweats, her hands yearned to touch him, greedy in a way she wasn’t used to. His lips moved smoothly over hers, but the sheer excitement and eagerness in his kisses belied his more affected nature.

He’d been feeling more around her—not only feeling, but showing her those feelings, too. His want, his desire, his affection. They were all there, but it was only recently that he made a choice to let her in on the secret. And knowing all this, she shared her secrets back. Osha moaned into his mouth, wrenching her hands free from their bedding prison so she could grab at him how she wanted.

It made his arms fucking buckle, the first time she dragged her nails over his shoulders. He pressed almost his full weight against her, his body rolling it into a smooth press against her. They were nearly flush, hip-to-hip and mouth-to-mouth at the bare minimum. And he was hungry. His lips found her mouth, her jaw, and her neck to nibble and bite and suck on. Osha gasped up at the ceiling, sensation sparking down her spine as heat pooled between her legs so quickly she would have swooned if she was standing.

He wasn’t disaffected by the closeness, either. As before, last night beneath the stars, he was hard against her, but instead of drawing back, he rolled his hips foward, joining her. He felt nearly searching, tentative as he felt out her comfort level with his.

That level was fucking high.

“Get off the sheets,” she mumbled, practically kicking them down and off of her. His dark chuckle, low and husky, accompanied her victory. Qimir kissed her again, settling between her thighs with an indulgent groan.

“Fuck, you already feel so good,” he sighed, breathing the words against her neck. He withdrew only a few inches, enough to see her eyes. His hands went to her hips, gripping them before hauling her halfway into his lap.

Osha’s mind shorted out as his erection pressed right against her clit—just a few swishy layers of fabric between them. But he didn’t move, waiting for her response. She considered their bodies, biting her lip and delighting in the swollen, tingling feeling he’d left her with. Whatever conscious consideration went into the glint of determination in her eyes, she hoped it was enough for him to continue.

Apparently it was as he continued to rock his hips forward. The entire searing length of him dragged over the second-best place it could, all told. She feared she’d burn beneath his touch if there were any fewer clothes between them. He pressed his face into her neck, mouthing and kissing over the spots that made her moan, and biting at the places that had her hips kicking up against his in helpless pleasure.

Time felt sticky, unimportant between them. They were racing for an end she couldn’t see but could feel fast approaching. Qimir’s bulk blocked out the majority of her vision when he rose onto his elbows above her. He didn’t speak, only looking down at her. His teeth glinted white behind the dark red flush in his parted lips. The expectation in her mind curled into confusion the longer he moved without speaking—and then her insides did a flip when she realized:

He wants to watch me come.

It felt like the breath was punched out of her, her body almost jolting at the next roll of his hips against her. How did he know? How did he know she could come just like this, with him pressed against her? Perhaps it was just how worked up he’d gotten her, perhaps it was the stars aligning for that perfect, perfect friction—whatever it was, he was confident about how this was going to go.

Her nails dug into his upper biceps, and her body went limp and pliant for him. Do as you will, the move said. I’m yours. At that thought, she whispered, “You’re mine.”

Qimir’s groan sounded almost painful, and she felt his cock twitch against her through his shorts. His movements hastened, and what control she had over her sanity was quickly jettisoned off the face of the earth. A soft whine escaped her mouth, and she strained not to writhe and ruin the perfect thing he was giving her. A garbled whimper of his name had him sinking to press his forehead against hers, eyes still boring holes into her soul.

Just like that, she was there. Her legs couldn’t snap closed against the onslaught of white-hot pleasure, wrapped around his hips as they were. She fought to keep her eyes open for him, but they kept fluttering closed until a new wave of pleasure crashed over her. She felt fucking possessed, haunted by need and feeling and more—

And he was talking, she realized.

“—that’s it, just take it, come for me, Osha. C’mon, baby,” he groaned softly, practically whispering as to not speak over the desperate noises he was pulling from her. “So beautiful like this, go ahead, ride it out, use me just like that—”

Another whine of his name had him snapping back to attention and out of the pleasured haze he’d been drifting in. “Want you to—” she could only get a few words out before he kissed her, hard.

“You want me to come for you like this?” he breathed, practically speaking into her mouth.

She nodded, their teeth clacking together a little as she struggled to kiss him back. “Can you?” she asked.

His breath hitched and he closed his eyes, drawing a deep inhale through his nose. He gave a quick, jerky nod before checking on her again, that is this what you want am I what you want vulnerability shining through.

She brought a hand to the back of his head, twining her fingers into his hair and keeping him here with her, in the moment. “Let me see you,” she whispered, weakly rolling her hips up against him. The overstimulation was fast approaching, sparks blowing closer to dry grass.

His face flushed red as he gave a shaky little thrust against her, nerves driving him until desire took the reins once again. And then he was there, that leashed, monstrous want he kept behind his ribs.

Hello, there, her smirk said to it.

When he realized she wasn’t going to flinch or shy away from him, he pressed harder against her, a firm and claiming weight that had her almost concerned she’d come again, just watching him chase his orgasm. Soft, needy whines escaped on the tail of his every harsh exhale, primal and thrilling and everything she ever wanted.

You love him, she was unhelpfully reminded.

She drove the soul-deep feelings away, focusing on him. Osha tugged at the root of his hair, where it wouldn’t hurt but it’d burn. The noise he made was unforgettable, echoing sharply in the cavernous apartment. It heralded his peak, and he gave two, three sharp thrusts before he gritted his teeth and rode out his orgasm. He looked nearly in pain as he came, the muscles in his neck and shoulders straining beneath her touch. It grew hotter, wetter between them, the warmth seeping into not just their clothes but every fucking inch of her.

He was shaking, frozen still as he tried to put the pieces of his mind back together. She gently rolled him off her, just to the side but still touching. He ducked his face into her shoulder, hardly possessing the capacity to kiss her—so instead, he just pressed his face there.

Their breaths evened out, neither forcing calm between them as they came down from the madness. When he lifted his head from her shoulder, his eyes still looked hazy, but the sated, happy smile on his lips made her heart soar.

“Hello,” she said softly, pushing back the hair that had fallen in his eyes.

“‘Lo,” he slurred. God, she felt like she was glowing.

“Hi,” she laughed.

His eyes filled with that I’m gonna kiss you now look. “Hi,” he mumbled, leaning in—

The smoke detector objected. He froze, just a half-inch from her lips.

“God fucking damn it—” he growled, eyes sliding to the side like he could glare the shrill beeping away. Stubbornly, he finished what he was going to do and kissed her anyway, deep and filthy and hot. Despite the passion, it made her laugh in delight the moment he ripped himself away from her.

She had to keep herself from depravedly watching his lower half as he snapped the range dials off and searched for a tea towel. The smoke detector sang the song of its people, and Osha could only continue laughing at the circus unfolding before her. 

Qimir leveled a baleful (but playful) glare in her direction as he waved a towel around, but when the apartment went blissfully quiet, he dropped the scowl in favor of a smile.

“Excellent work, Coach Lo,” she said, her voice only a little shaky from the draining adrenaline of their previous activities. She’d intended the remark to tease, but it had a much different effect on him than she planned for.

Even from the bed, she could see his eyes darken again, how they’d done when she pulled on his hair. Qimir rolled his shoulders back and breathed out—very slowly. At the very end of his exhale, he tilted his head, considering her with amusement and no small amount of caution. His fingers tapped, fidgeting, against the counter where he’d pressed his hands flat atop them.

“What?” she asked, less nervous than delighted.

“I just didn’t know how much I’d like hearing you call me that.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Yeah. Oh.”

Shit. That was out loud.

“Um. Do you need help with breakfast?” she asked, getting to her feet finally. She was surprised she could even goddamn walk, as relatively tame as they’d been. Her legs still felt like jelly.

He looked over his shoulder at the pan. “It can be salvaged, but…” his gaze looked down at something hiding behind the counter. Osha’s face flushed.

“You clean up, I’ll plate,” she said, approaching him with that same amusement-caution cocktail he was sipping at.

He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before brushing by her to do just that.

He was right; breakfast was salvageable, and she joined him after her turn in his bathroom. The atmosphere was relaxed and perfect, the afterglow of shared pleasure and tangled sheets still radiant in their skin.

Breakfast conversation followed that same kind of feeling, mild and a little sleepy in places as they woke up for real this time. It was incredible, how an orgasm could push away the mountain of questions that threatened to crush any contentment they felt.

As if knowing she wasn’t thinking about it, all those unspoken, unasked things slammed back into her. This time, he caught her sudden pensiveness.

“What is it?” he asked, the hint of nervousness in his voice drawing her back in. Did I do something wrong? Do you regret me? Do you not want me? All those questions lingered in his eyes.

She took his hand. “You’re fine,” she assured him, kissing his knuckles.

“Something’s the matter, though. That’s your something’s the matter face.”

She sighed. Maybe it was naive of her to think she could stave off the questions and uncomfortable topics forever, even if this moment was perfect. With enough time, those topics would make it so there was never a perfect moment again. The last week itself was enough to have her buckle under the stress—from Indara’s conversation in the storage closet he used to live in, to the questions she had about the fight two months back, to Qimir’s disappearance.

Not to mention Idise.

She didn’t want me to find and follow him.

She had a lot to say, a lot to ask, and she had to start somewhere.

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “So Idise was at the Temple.”

CHAPTER 19

A bit of post-script:

The song referenced is Trouble by Cage the Elephant

Romeo & Juliet by William Shakespeare is referenced twice which is really an exercise in restraint for me as the first draft had FIVE (5) references: the title, yet hanging in the stars, is at 1.4.105; and the what's in a name soliloquy is at 2.2.46-47

also formatting the texts for tumblr is equal parts so much fun and such a hassle i hope someone out there enjoys them

[mr-clow]

Overture: The rise of an imperatrix. Part 1:

The sol system was pure chaos. Humans did whatever they could to defend themselves on their own system, at the same time they tried to form search and rescue groups for all the escape pods that were floating around all the system. Searching something inside an entire system was taxing, but doing so while avoiding the attack of several navies that were attacking combined, that was soul consuming.

Marco – Hey! Steve! I have another signal near us!

Steve – What are you waiting then, let’s go get them.

Marco – But… If it is a trap?

Kale – They are too busy for that, the captain told us to save anyone floating around here, and that is what we are going to do. Marco, turn on the thrusters, the silent search finished. We grab them and run away.

The ship jumped to life and after a few seconds the pod was in front of the bridge. This small merchant ship was doing what it could to help the surprise attack that was launched 9 days ago and only could float mindlessly until it grabs a pod and then fly away. It didn’t have any weapons of sorts, and its cargo bay barely could fit a pod.

Marco – Hey, it can’t be, this is a trap. Wasn’t the Amanitore station completely decimated?

Steve – Maybe someone got away, even i they were the first ones to be attacked.

Kale – Marco, stabilize the ship, we don’t have time. I’ll grab it as it is. Prepare to jump.

As Kale carefully used the attraction system to load the pod through the upper port of the cargo hold, Marco started the jump engine. They would return to earth orbit at a speed faster than light to avoid anyone that had read the energy signature. As soon as they heard the cargo bay close, with a soundless flash the space itself consumed the ship, leaving nothing behind.

A ship appeared out of nothing, and the signal lights let them know that dock N°3 was free. While Marco moved through the uncountable ships coming and going, trying to rescue people and bit and ends of recent battles bounced off the hull, Steve and Kale rushed to the cargo bay. They opened the hatch with their hearths in their throat, 9 days was too much time for a pod to provide oxygen, and they didn’t know what was waiting inside. After the door came down, they wished they had found two bodies instead of only one and the husk of a woman.

I was floating in space, silently, holding the body of my eight-year daughter for nine days. I wailed, and cried. I insulted the powers that be and every being I could think of until no more sorrow was left. Then, the guilt came, I regretted taking that post, marrying my now deceased husband, leaving my suspicions of the Gubni aside, I even regretted having my little girl as she was the reason it hurt so much. And then, when I could not regret any more, when all my life seemed a mistake, anger came and consumed me.

Those nine days felt like an eternity, where my sanity and consciousness slid away from myself. I forgot my previous life, goals and self, decided that my own goal was going to hunt those bastards until the limits of space itself if it was necessary and renamed myself as Boudica, an ancient queen from my country that took revenge against an empire. I drew the plan in my head, how I was going to make every of those damned plants and any other species that had a part on it suffer. While I was consumed by my thoughts, still holding the rotting remains of what used to be my daughter, the door of the pod opened. Two men were watching me without reacting as I stood up, place the carcass of what was my daughter on the hands of one of them.

Boudica – I am General Jeanette Iceni, but you will address me as Boudica. I commend you to dispose of this body, as it was one of the many mistakes those animals did. Now, I need a shower and food first. Guide me.

While Kale took the body and promptly turn away to puke for the odour and impression, Steve only could move his hand as I followed through the small corridor.

Boudica – Tell me your name and our location.

Steve – The man back there is Kale, and I’m Steve. We’re on the moon, everything is chaotic. Did you really were in Amanitore station?

Boudica – A lot of things that were there are not more, as my life. I thank you for guiding me to a shower, I’ll look for the mess hall after I’m clean. I require clothes, these are soiled, can you provide them and leave them here?

Steve – Ehhh yes ma... Sorry, Boudica.

After I washed, changed and ate, Steve guided me without pronouncing a word to the moon base officials that were doing their best to guide the sea of people moving around the station. As I went near them, I took my badge and credentials that were on the uniform I discarded after showering, and they automatically salute me.

Boudica – I’m General Jeanette Iceni, I was on the Amanitore station. I require you to guide me to the nearest press office.

Official 1 – Madam, I’m obliged to take you to the command centre right away.

Official 2 – Madam, you’ll have time to do your endeavours, but we cannot comply.

Boudica – Excuse me, I might not have spoken clearly after floating nine days in space holding the body of my own daughter. I didn’t ask you where I should be. So, right now you’ll guide me to a press office, or I’ll charge both of you of insubordination and carry the sentence where you stand. As I see it, the only thing you’re allowed to do before start guiding me is checking my credentials with your scanner.

Both officers looked at the gun, holster in my hip but now with a hand on top, and then shared a look. One of them lifted the scanner, and before he pointed, I moved it in front of the camera, and it beeped with two long tones that not only proved my credential was valid but that I was part of the upper commands. They swallowed and one of them bowed slightly.

Officer 1 – Follow me, please.

Boudica – Don’t walk, run. I don’t have any time, and you already made me lose valuable seconds.

In the few minutes I ran behind a really scared officer, I wondered if I always had this capacity of intimidation and command inside me, or if it was something that came with the appearance I had taken. After taking the shower I looked in the mirror, the person I saw, it wasn’t me. A pale, lifeless skin, sunken eyes and cheeks and my eyes, the bright inside my eyes burned with hatred and madness. That look I only saw it in inmates walking the death row, and now on the same eyes that were wondering if I should have pointed the gun to the officers from the beginning…

Officer 1 – Here General Iceni.

As he opened the door, several voices came from the inside. Several complaining while others still immersed in the previous discussions. I walked in and looked at them in the eye until all the voices died out.

Boudica – I’m General Jeanette Iceni, I was on the Amanitore station. I need access to a live stream as soon as possible. Vital information needs to be shared in case we are attacked.

Carlos - Emmm, excuse me, did you say you were General Iceni from Amanitore?

Boudica – Do I need to repeat myself?

Carlos – Welcome aboard general, my name is Carlos Rodriguez, and I’ll be glad to prepare for a live broadcast. Please take a seat, and I’ll let you know when everything is ready.

I didn't like the smirk, tone, or attitude of Carlos, but as soon as I took a seat he started giving orders to every one. To check my identity, my position, to clear up the channels and call back the journalist that was presenting from the docks as changing to the earth view while they prepared a stand for two and tested the microphones. His way of giving orders was awful, but not a single step was done out of the books. I enjoyed the moment, savouring what was going to go live in a few minutes.

[harmonie-writes]

Endless Sol Teaser

Poly dragon!Ateez x fem! reader

Warnings: typical things that happen in raids (burning, potential death/depictions of death, abductions, forced enslavement), language, violence, blood.

AN: italics are telepathic bonds, thoughts

If you enjoy my work, please consider reblogging as tumblr is based on reblogs and not likes. (The likes are appreciated, though).

Word count: ~1.5k

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»»————-　➴　————-««

There's a place called Eris, where magic runs deep in the lands. A place where creatures of high nobility live, like elves and humans, even warlocks and faeries. Up in the mountain and deep in the caves, some dwarves dwell, that mine and smelt gold. There are even monstrous species, such as dragons and behemoths. Yet some species are slowly going extinct, like the phoenix.

Eris is a world of myth and magic, it was also once a place of peace and prosperity. Unfortunately, the plague of greed waged war for the land, and some species sought out those who could be bent to their will for their gain.

»»————-　➴　————-««

The human king, King Ainar, of Deimos, sought a cure for his ailing wife. His court physicians couldn't figure out what was wrong. No treatment seemed to work. Every remedy they tried failed. So, he sought out warlocks, witches, and the fae folk. The results were the same. No potion, tonic, or balm seemed to ease the illness that befell the Queen of Deimos. Over a year, many had failed to cure the queen, and she remained husk-like in her bed.

And then, there was one last chance the King had, a rumor at most, but it was a small grain of hope for him. There is an island called Thelea, home to the phoenix, which is a land made purely of volcanic rock and ash, except when spring arrives then there is life on the island.

King Ainar took the only lead he had and readied a fleet to storm Thelea. But why search for the phoenix? There was a myth that the bird of flames could cure or heal any ailment with a single drop of their golden blood.

»»————-　➴　————-««

Rowboats scratched against the gravel of the shore of Thelea in the dark of night. The knights that King Ainar had sent out have finally reached the land of fire, and secured as many of the phoenixes as they could.

The sound of iron boots and chain mail could be heard as the knights began the raid.

Homes were set aflame and the air turned rancid with smoke, all in attempts to flush out some of the phoenixes from their homes and out into the open. It wasn't long before startled screams and shouts filled the air, and the sound of iron nets being cast as they clinked against each other.

»»————-　➴　————-««

Small soot-stained hands clawed at the floorboard under them trying desperately to escape the support beam that fell from the rafters of her family home. Every gasp and cough that left her as she struggled left her lungs burnings. Her eyes stung from the smoke and she could only see orange and yellow flames behind her bleary eyes.

It was only a matter of time now. She knew these were probably her final moments. She could hear her parents' screams get farther and farther away.

Feeling the last of the strength leave her body, she feels heat ignite from inside her chest. It's instantaneous, the rapidly growing fire consumes the small feathered girl and leaves a pile of ash in its wake.

»»————-　➴　————-««

A small thunder of dragons flies overhead, getting ready to head back to their home in the Mountains of Altair when they notice the smoking ruins of Thelea.

"Look over there," a silver female wyvern pointed out, craning her neck in the direction of the smoke plumes.

The large black dragon at the head of the group angled his wings to land in the ruins of Thelea, the rest of the group following his lead in the descent.

The black dragon touches down first closely followed by the silver female. It's not too long after that four small hatchlings stumble upon their landings.

Among the hatchlings, there is a crimson scaled dragon, it's dark scales shimmering brightly like the lava pools in Thelea. A dragon with scales as black as the night sky and eyes that compare to the emeralds that the dwarves of Erbor mine. The third hatchling to touch down is a dragon with gold scales like the large wheat fields that cover most of Diemos. The last one to land is the youngest, a snow white wyvern, who stumbles the most out of the hatchlings since he only has two legs.

The unmistakable sounds of bones compacting and joints popping reach the ears of the thunder, and before them stands a motherly woman with silvery hair in a long braid, and a plain pleated dress.

"Amia, what are you doing?" The black dragon's voice vertebrates inside her head. It's almost loud enough that it feels like his words are bouncing off her skull.

"Looking for survivors. This isn't natural," she insists and begins to make her way to the center of town.

More popping can be heard and a mop of straw colored hair is bounding after the woman.

"Yunho!" The dragon calls, but gets ignored by the hatchling and soon the other three are following his lead.

Shaking his head the elder follows suit, quick to hurry after his wife and the four hatchlings who were supposed to be doing flight training.

Amia picks up the dress of skirt as she picks her way through the deserted town. Distress evident on her face as she walks up to one of the charred remains of a home and spots a small doll laying in a puddle, covered in soot.

The male, known as Izar, walks up to his wife, eyes scanning everything. Hoping for a sign of life, or something that'll explain what happened.

"It doesn't look like any of them are here," Izar states, placing what he hopes is a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder.

The four hatchlings have wandered over to the other side of the town square. A weird tug pulling at each of them in the direction of a house with a collapsed roof.

Seonghwa nudges Hongjoong's ribs and they share a look with each other before slowly stepping into the threshold of the house. Calculating eyes searching, but they aren't quite sure what they're looking for.

Yeosang stands on his tippy toes to look over Hongjoong’s shoulder and points at a pile of ash on the floor.

"What's that?" He asks, carefully stepping out from behind his elder.

He receives a shrug and the four of them begin to make their way to the center of the room and together the four lift the center beam.

Yunho bends down, about to touch the pile when they all hear their names being called by Izar and Amia.

"Time to go," Seonghwa mumbles, picking his way back to what would be the front door.

As the four of them begin to turn away from the strange pile of ash, they feel heat warm their backs. The heat isn't harsh, but it's warm and inviting and it makes them freeze in their place and turn around. Stunned they watch as the ashes reignite before their eyes, and in the orange glow of the fire a shape starts to take place before the fire dies out. Eyes wide and mouths agape they stare as a small bird with burgundy and gold feathers with brilliant blue eyes.

"Guys," Hongjoong looks at the other hatchlings.

Swallowing thickly, Seonghwa carefully picks up the phoenix and cradles it between his palms.

"So, what now?" He asks, turning around.

"I guess, we bring it to Amia," Hongjoong answers, leading the way back to the center of town.

The four boys hurry to find their caretakers and call out to them.

It doesn't take long for them to notice the new phoenix in Seonghwa's hands, and Amia is hurrying over to see the young one.

"Oh, Mother," Amia whispers, her hand covering her mouth.

Izar takes another look around the place before letting out a heavy sigh, "I guess we will take this one home with us. Seonghwa, will you be alright holding onto them while we fly home?"

Seonghwa nods his head, his arms holding the bird a little bit more firmly without crushing it.

"Well then," Izar announces right before shifting, "Let's head home."

Five dragons take off from Thelea heading West towards the Mountains of Altair, and perched on the back of the Izar, is Seonghwa holding the small bird made of sol.

»»————-　➴　————-««

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[klunsgod]

Haya the Hedgehog

back in August 2022, i made some dinky designs; Sonic Badniks in the style of Mario enemies. after a while in September, i then got to drawing Sonic, and then the rest occurred.

because further posts will show these designs, i'm somewhat forced to introduce it as a separate post for easier linking for context.

before that, however, i was doodling this Mario-centric Mario/Sonic crossover idea that would act as this introduction to Sonic’s world and his characters to Mario players. basically, some alternate Sonic Forces where Eggman not only captured Sonic, but his friends too, leaving nobody else to come save the world.

so Mario would arrive in this rainbow ring and explore the world to save everyone. big hogablah

because of that, i was thinking how Mario would arrive there, if this version of Sonic's world is part of Mario's universe, if it follows the same lore rules... same... design rules... and that's how i got this child to take care of.

so now we have the Haya Dimension; a dimension in Mario’s universe (think like how Super Paper Mario handled it) where it also has to play along with the rules of Mario. therefore, i put myself within these four rules:

Follow the basic plot beats, not the nitty gritty. The corporate suits above only care about the former, after all.

Change whatever worldbuilding to fit in-line with Mario’s.

Sonic’s name is Haya.

Lower some stakes so as not to cause Mario to travel there and get involved. (Sonic 06 was on my mind when i wrote this)

the Haya Dimension has to be completely outside of Mario’s point of view. nobody there must know the mystery about this dimension. nobody!! not even… Birdo

Differences

yea of course this has to happen. okay uhh i’ll be aping off of my DeviantArt post noting down some differences. note that some of these aren't entirely Mario-related lol

During the Classic Era, Eggman hired a bunch of organic creatures; the badniks are living creatures. Higher-ranking in the Eggman Empire being robots.

Starting in Dreamcast Era, all of Eggman's troops were replaced by robots. This explains E-123 Omega remaining a robot; a modified Topman Tribe husk

Ending in Meta Era (Colors onward), Eggman's troops are both a mix between organic and robotic troops. High-ranking remain robots.

There's no Classic/Modern distinction. Haya Generations looks really different.

There's no physical "future period" in Mario, so Silver is left as a present-day future teller, always relying on the Stars telling him the future.

That there's no "future period" to travel to requires Haya 06 to be rewritten entirely.

The Sol Dimension is a Special World equivalent of Haya's Dimension. Onyx Island comes from the Sol Dimension. Eggman Nega is our Bowser (blue) equivalent.

Cream and Vanilla likely lived on the Moon before becoming homeless after the events of Adventure 2. After that, they moved to Earth.

Sage is designed as a fairy

Honey is a Drag Queen.

Kitsunami's water pack is designed after inter-dimensionally observing E. Gadd's F.L.U.D.D. tech.

Eggman's Goal Plate is a Flag Plate. Spin it all the way down as fast as you can for bonus points.

The magical gems have eyes and special hairstyles. I'm waiting till Sonic Superstars showcases each Emerald's special power before assigning a symbolic hairstyle to them.

it's basically become my personal playground to test my might, my designs, and my writing.

i understand i've yet to fully understand these characters, but i've also done my best to try and write bios for the characters present.

Haya was originally designed as if he were a Mario enemy. he serves as the groundwork design for everyone else. as a Mario enemy, i specifically brought attention to his shoes being a colorful red-yellow.

Eggman went through a ton of designs. they all failed. there's no way to change him. he's already great. his only difference has him with a round nose instead of a triangular one.

his tails were designed after propellers, yet still mutated to still make his bully backstory make sense. the stripes on his tails are designed after propeller wings.

and that's all i wanna share right now. as Reupload Gonanza continues, more and more of these designs will start appearing, each with a slight justification from me behind each designs. be sure to check out the "#Haya Dimension" tag under the post.

[here4thefanart]

Having not touched the Star Wars franchise in years, I decided to give The Acolyte a try, after seeing many on Twitter hyping it up. Specifically the Sith character. Which was honestly the only reason I gave this show a chance (hot villainous characters? You have my attention...) Spoiler warning if you care.

-Rant incoming-

My God. This show suffers heavily from a Tell, Don't Show, level of writing. It is rare if a piece of dialogue is genuinely a character reaction, instead of a character TELLING US what they think or why X is Y. Some of the most egregious dialogue moments that come to mind are: our bad guy telling us that "I'm what you Jedi call, a Sith 😏." Cool. I, as someone who knows the franchise, understands this is supposed to be a cool moment. Except it makes no sense for someone who hasn't watched Star Wars, and makes no sense for the character to even be telling the other characters that. Let alone the fact that it provides NO motivation to the character. You're a bad guy/Sith because you have killed people, why?? Why are you doing this? Oh you're telling me it's because the Jedi won't let you embrace the darkness? Okay...(Feel like I've heard this narrative a thousand times at this point) but WHY. The way I got baited hard for him only to be in a handful of scenes.

Then we have the laughable dialogue of Master Sol saying with conviction he believes Mae to be dead, "no one could survive that fall." Only to change his mind two scenes later after having one conversation where Osha says she believes Mae is alive, "I believe you, Osha." Likeee???

I also found it funny how on two separate occasions, a character would tell Osha how dangerous her job as a Meknek is. Yet the only time we see her doing her job, the dangerous situation she faces is having to extinguish a fire.

Character motivation is also absent in this show. I genuinely could not tell you a single motive, outside of the surface level, stop bad guys from doing bad guy things, that our characters are trying to achieve.

Kid Osha tells us she wants to be a Jedi but we then are told that she left the Jedi Order, because????

Master Sol says he has a responsibility to bring Mae in. But the context is so confusing because we see him barely interacting with Mae, and she was presumed dead since childhood. The writers could have gone down the route of him feeling guilty for the Jedi splitting up Mae and Osha, or there being a twist with the Jedi the night the coven was wiped out. ( Side note, you want me to believe that Mae wiped out a whole coven of force users, including her mother's, with only us being shown her blocking the force during ONE training scene. Anyway.) Nah, we only get him having this weird complex with Osha and Mae.

Mae's character suffers the most from this. Her motivation switches three different times throughout the show. Leaving us at the end to only speculate what she desires.

This show could have genuinely been good, if it didn't have some of the shallowest writing. We have characters that could be interesting, but instead we get spoonfed information while the characters remain a one dimension husk.

Disney has Star Wars chained in a never ending cycle of bloated content, who's only being held together with its gimmicky toy selling characters and a fanbase too loyal for their own good.

-Rant over-

[blazregaliadream]

Undead Lyn AU + FEH Unit Concept

Sometime after leaving Caelin to the care of Marques Hector, Lady Lyndis would venture to find her friend that she had found on the wayside once upon a time. She would travel across Elibe, but no matter where she looked, her friend was nowhere in sight and no one seemed to know what became of them. Regardless, Lyn continued her search, leaving behind Elibe and would search across several worlds. At an unknown point, death would claim her after succumbing to the fatal wounds she sustained from an ambush. But she wouldn't rest. No matter what, she wanted to see her friend again, no... She had to see them again... The Sacaen's mutilated and defiled corpse stirred, materializing ghostly limbs where her arms had originally been cut off, a new blade materializes to the opposite side of the Mani Katti and Sol Katti she's kept on her for so long, and so, her journey resumed once more. But eventually, she would forget why she strayed so far from her homeland, her world, and would be reduced to a phantom husk, haunting areas that reminded her of the plains, killing anyone unfortunate enough to run into her. People would call her “The Wind Scarred Wraith”, wielding a blade that harvested the souls of all she slayed, and though her eyes remained shut, some could feel a faint sense of sadness from her, as if she's still desperately trying to remember what she had forgotten, what was missing from her now hollow "afterlife"... ============================================================ Lyn Wind Scarred Wraith A Sacaen noblewoman that wandered the Outrealms searching for her long lost friend. She never gave up in her search, but eventually she forgot why she was wandering in the first place. Appears in Fire Emblem: Awakening. Sword - Infantry Weapon - Reaping Katti [Mt. 16, Rng 1] Accelerates Special Cooldown (-1). If unit's HP ≥ 25%, grants +7 Atk/Spd during combat and also, when unit deals damage to foe during combat, restores 7 HP to unit. Special - Harvesting Winds [Cooldown 3] Boosts damage by 30% of unit's Spd and heals by 40% damage dealt. Passives A - Distant Solo A/S B - Persistent Hunter Inflicts Spd/Def-4 on foe during combat. If a skill compares unit's Spd to a foe's or ally's Spd, treats unit's Spd as if granted +7. If unit's Spd > foe's Spd, reduces damage from attacks during combat and from area-of-effect Specials by percentage = difference between stats x 5 (max 50%). Neutralizes effects that prevent unit's follow-ups and guarantees foe's follow-ups. C - Fatal Blow After combat, inflicts【Deep Wounds】and deals 7 damage to foe and foes within 2 spaces of target after combat. ============================================================= This was an old concept I shared with friends a year or so back that I came back to revitalize. Amusingly even with the state of FEH’s meta, I’m still holdin’ myself back when it comes to how much shit I put in my unit concepts lol The AU itself was made from a dream I had where I was in some unknown world, didn’t seem to be Elibe, and out in the fields was Lyn who would start chasin’ after me anytime I got near her, but would never pursue beyond the plains and forest area. Like FFXV’s Gilgamesh, she was missin’ both arms, but was able to materialize ghostly ones to handle her weapons. I distinctly recalled that her eyes were actually missin’ but the eyelids were shut too, and she never seemed to utter a single word. It was pretty unnervin’ to say the least tho, I dunno what happened for her to wound up in that state, but I couldn’t help but feel as sad as I was scared... Anyway, that’s all, I hope you enjoyed this. I had wrote up dialogue for her, but maybe she’s better off silent to add to the fear factor... Also, she would count as both a FE7 and FE13 unit since she also wears her Swordmaster outfit from her DLC Einherjar self in Awakening!

[polux-aka-hyakunana]

Laziness

Sometimes all that she needs is a moment of silence, of pure laziness, distant from everything that surrounds her frenetic routine. Most of times, she finds shelter in the ice desert Europan camp, some fewer times, it’s the vast void of space as her ship floats in orbit…

…and some even fewer times, it’s her home, in the Last City.

The Solstice Festival would soon come, giving common people and Guardians a reason to celebrate and have hope for better days — even if they seem darker than usual since the Traveler’s parting —, and the preparations for it roll in the city. The chirp and flaps from birds crossing the sky could be heard if they flew close from her apartment, and once in a while she could hear the voices from her neighbors.

Lying down on her bed, staring at the white ceiling and listening to the City’s life from the window. These have been her past few days since the last threat against Sol was pushed away and fragile peace returned. The weight of her own body feels strange without her armor, and her joints creaked with any movement, and whatever remaining of attention that she has in that state is listening the sounds from the window.

There, she finds peace, even if for just a fleeting moment.

Because when she lets her mind wander, she’s brought back to action, disturbed by memories and disfigured sensations imprinted in her system.

The blood of enemies in her hands, of allies, and her own gushing out from her limbs. Violent crashes against her body, the living sensation of skin and bones being torn apart, the image of maimed bodies regardless of which side they were from, the deafening song chanted by shooting rifles and machine guns, the fitting heaviness of the Lament in her hands, the slithering worms in her husk feeding from her brain, the sight of a black tower, the judgement of countless empty eyes watching, the lack of purpose— A sharp breathing.

And she’s back to her bed, to the eerie peace her life was never made for.

And she realizes that maybe — and just maybe — she’s just tired.

[catcas22]

You know what would have made sense though? Godwyn.

Skip the consort plot, skip the retconning on Mohg, Malenia, and Radahn. Mohg kidnapped Miquella because his pre-existent issues reacted catastrophically with Miquella's passive charm effect. The Battle of Aeonia was Malenia's attempt to set the stars in motion and allow Miquella to lay Godwyn to rest.

And all the while Miquella is retreating further and further into whatever limbo the Land of Shadow has been banished to. Following his failure at Castle Sol he cocooned himself in an attempt to shed his childish form and become a fully realized Empyrean who could solve the riddle of his beloved brother Godwyn's false death. But while Malenia is away in Caelid, Mohg kidnaps him.

To some degree, he becomes aware of what Mohg is doing to his body while he walks the dream world, and he knows that returning to his physical form now would not be safe. So he retreats deeper into the dream, trying to dissociate from what is being done to his body, until at last he feels a familiar presence -- another son of Marika.

It must be Godwyn. That must be why his body lived on -- his soul must be trapped here in this same shadow realm. And so Miquella pushes on and on, leaving behind any part of himself that doubts, wielding his power over the hearts of men as he never would have dared before, determined to push on towards that familiar presence that is so cruelly, tantalizingly close.

And after he has retraced his mother's path of carnage back to the site of the original sin, he finds not Godwyn but Messmer. Perhaps Messmer had even reached out to him in the dream world, sensing the little brother he never met in distress and attempting to act as the protector and comforter he had always hoped to be to his mother. He tells Miquella that Godwyn was never here, and Miquella cannot accept it.

He has left behind everything that made him himself. His physical body is a rotting husk discarded in Mohgwyn Palace, too long bereft of its soul. He felt Malenia unleash the Rot all those years ago, and yet he pushed on rather than return. Surely once he saved Godwyn, once the world made sense again, then he could return and fix everything. How long has it been since he was cut from the Haligtree? What would even be left of it now?

What remains to him aside from the dream, the beautiful lie destined never to become true?

Miquella shuts his heart to the truth and breaks Messmer's mind, fully immersing them both in the lie that he is Godwyn returned to life. Miquella joyously announces the dawn of the Age of Abundance, but that new age has withered before maturity like Miquella himself, the nascent butterfly forever trapped in the moment before metamorphosis. By the time the Tarnished reaches Messmer's keep, all that remains is to shatter the facade and lay both brothers to rest.

I hate how the dlc turns the Battle of Aeonia into a farce.

It wasn't two noble warriors, each admirable in their own right, brought to blows by irreconcilable visions for the future.

It wasn't a brother and sister pitted against each other in a brutal war for succession in which their only choices were victory or death.

It wasn't a tragic misunderstanding, Malenia desperately seeking to rescue her kidnapped brother and Radahn defending his home.

The explanation that we all thought was reductive, caricaturish, borderline insulting to the characters, ended up being confirmed canon. Radahn was a Gaston-esque moron determined to test himself against the Undefeated Swordswoman, consequences be damned, and Malenia was a coldblooded attack dog willing to nuke an entire continent to ensure victory.

I hate it so, so much.

[sadcatjae]

The Perfect Tyrant - Part 3 - Cut

Previous parts can be found in the Masterlist

.

Cw: disfiguration, disassociation, blood, violence, imprisonment, noncon touching.

.

Kharis bolts upright with a shuddering gasp. His own visage burns like a ghostly image in his mind as the last of his nightmare sluices away. He’s shaking (can’t stop) and his cheeks are damp with sweat (or is that tears?). There’s an audible whistle in his lungs as he tries to catch his breath, but there’s the dim relief that the worst of the tightness has passed.

“Bad dream?” A wry voice rumbles to his left. Eiran sits beside his bed in a wooden chair, casually whittling a piece of wood with a small knife.

Kharis recalls that Eiran comes from a family of artisan carpenters. When he was young, he’d be quietly jealous of the beautifully crafted things that Eiran would often gift his brother.

But he was used to Sargon getting things that he didn’t. Sargon was the Crown Prince, after all.

The tyrant draws a trembling hand across his forehead, feeling it damp. “Why…why am I here?”

Eiran rocks in his chair, his feet resting on the edge of the bed as he swings off the forelegs then back down again. It’s an irritating habit. “These are your quarters, no? Then it would make sense for us to bring you here.”

“But…” Kharis intakes sharply. He brings his hand to his chest. Clutches at his robes. “You stormed the palace.”

“That we did.” The big man huffs a laugh. A wood shaving goes flying. “It’s just as I remember it. Although, the throne room is a tad ostentatious, don’t you think?”

The tyrant snaps a wide-eyed glare at the rebel. “Where are my servants? My people? What have you done to them?”

“”Don’t pretend to care now,” Eiran drawls, raising a brow at the agitated royal. “But fear not - we will treat your servants with thrice the compassion you ever did.”

“Theodyn?”

“Huh? Oh, that ancient eunuch of yours?”

“If you have touched a single hair on his head–!”

“He’s pottering around somewhere, I’m sure.”

“Locke!”

“June.” Eiran’s chair drops down with a dull thud. His cold glare sends a shiver down Kharis’ spine. Those eyes speak of death. It’s like looking into endless voids that rips the very air from his lungs.

Kharis swallows and raises his chin, an arrogant tilt, a long ingrained habit of the royal.

“You must understand your situation here.” Schiick. The blade flashes in the firelight. The wood shaving flies onto the bed. “You are no longer the Emperor of Eshara. This palace is no longer yours. And the Empire will soon be within our grasp.”

“Who…” Kharis feels numb. He’s detached from his body, like another has taken control of it. “Who sits on my throne?”

Schiick. “The true heir to the throne.”

Kharis narrows his eyes in confusion. “That is I.”

“That is Sol, your eldest brother.”

“Sol?” Kharis brings a hand to his head, feeling it spin. He lets out a derisive laugh, though it comes weak, shaky. “Sol is but a servant.”

Schiick. “He bears the royal name.”

“My father adopted him out of an old fool’s sentiment,” Kharis snaps, shooting a glare at the rebel. “He is not of our blood, thus heir to nothing.”

“Blood is not everything, June. Sol is the eldest son of the Empire, which means he is the rightful heir to the throne.”

Kharis flinches at the name. June. How long has it been since he’s been called anything but his title?

A title that has been wrenched from him. Like how you wrenched it from Sargon? a quiet voice reminds him.

Schiiick.

“June is my mother’s name,” Kharis seethes, white knuckling the sheets. “You will address me as Your Majesty–”

“At most, it will be Your Highness, but considering what a depraved individual you are, I think June is the best we can do.” Eiran chuckles and tucks away his wooden piece. The knife, however, remains in his hand. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stares intently at the royal.

Kharis elongates his spine and stares back, unflinching. Even as the blade taps his cheek.

“You are a prisoner, June,” Eiran husks, a faint smirk tugging at the side of his lips. Arctic blues glitter, like shattered ice afloat at sea. “You have no rights. No freedom. You are at the mercy of our will. I have extended you the courtesy of avoiding the dungeons, only because Sargon loved you. But that is as far as my generousity extends.”

Kharis huffs through his nose, angling his head away from the blade. “You are foolish if you think that the palace is all you need to take the Empire. Your only claim to legitimacy is a servant who is of peasant blood. Think the people would bend the knee to their own kind? You are mad.” He spits the last, a razor sharp smile stretching across his pallid face. “The Empire is mine. She will always be mine. You may as well kill me, for you will never have her for as long as I breathe.”

Eiran’s gaze grows hooded, shadowed. Repulsion ripples across his mien. “I hate that you share his face,” he says, flatly. He tightens his grip on the knife. “I hate that you turn his face into something ugly. Something I can hardly bear to look at.”

Kharis laughs, the sound bordering hysterical. “This face is the only worthy gift Sargon has given me, if it torments you so!”

Eiran freezes. He stares at the hysterical tyrant for an aeon, not moving a single muscle. His expression blank. Thoughts unfathomable. And then, in a sudden blur of motion, he slashes the blade across Kharis’ face–

And the tyrant jerks back with a scream, a searing pain laid waste to his flesh. “AHH–!!!!” He scrabbles and clutches at his face, crying raggedly, blood splattering the sheets red.

“Much better,” Eiran sighs, smiling in satisfaction. He snatches the wounded man by his jaw and jerks his head back. “Move your hands.”

“No…no…don’t touch me–!” Kharis digs his fingers into his skull, convinced that his flesh would fall apart if ever let go. The stench of blood is suffocating. The white hot pain arcing across his mien is unbearable.

A large, impatient hand grabs his wrists in a merciless bind and rips his hands away. Blood trickles anew, dripping steadily from his jaw. His right eye stings red. The left stings with tears.

All he can make out of his captor are those arctic eyes. Those loathsome, hateful arctic eyes.

“I have taken Sargon’s name, his throne, his Empire, away from you. And now I have taken his face.” Eiran’s grip turns crushing around his wrists. Bones crunch, eliciting a strangled cry. He grins, dark features twisted in sick delight. “You know as well as I that you are nothing without him. You have filled in the borders of yourself with his image, his presence. And this is all that’s left. A thing that appears like a man and nothing more.”

Kharis closes his eyes, trying to control the frenzied hammering of his heart. He can’t stop shaking. His throat aches, like there’s molten lava welling from his chest. I must not cry. I must not waver. Not in front of him. Not in front of those eyes. But no matter how desperately he tries to maintain his composure, tears break and spill down his ruined cheeks, mingling with his blood.

The rebel barks a laugh at the pathetic sight of the proud tyrant crying like a babe. He gives Kharis a violent shove, and he goes crashing into the gilded headboard.

“There are guards posted outside your door at all times. Countless more patrolling the grounds outside. They are the men and women whose homes you have destroyed. Their families ripped apart and murdered by your hand. They will not hesitate to kill you if you should attempt to leave. Hell, they may kill you anyway to sate their thirst.” Eiran chuckles and starts for the door. He pauses, glances back at the fallen tyrant. “Enjoy your rest, June. I can assure you that there will be very little of it from hereon.”

The door opens and shuts. A heavy silence falls.

A loud sob bursts from Kharis and he curls up on the bed, pressing his palms against his ruined face. The pain doesn’t bother him anymore. There is far greater agony that he must endure. One that threatens to unravel him, one despairing thought at a time.

This is all that’s left. A thing that appears like a man and nothing more.

.

Part 4

Masterlist

.

[cyborgnachte]

Society in Sundered Space

January 1st 30xx, 87 years after Phage Occupation War. 62 years after Operation Asimov.

The Sol Consortium’s solar system-spanning society has finally started to thrive in the post-war boom economy. Infrastructure has nearly finished its rapid rebuild thanks to the leaps in energy, construction, and travel technology brought on by the war. Colonies find supply chains returning after years or even decades of struggling self-survival. Humanity is recovering—flourishing, but in the haste to recover corners have been cut and morals have been set aside. Humanity owes its survival to the Big Four, but in that desperation to persevere has humanity sacrificed to much too the machine of capitalism?

Corporations prop up the post-war government, filling its positions with executives and CEOs. Mega-Conglomerates run the media and fund the military. Humanity survives because capitalism needs a consumer base.

The Heart Worlds.

Earth and her brother Mars are called the Heart Worlds of the Consortium. Life on these worlds is cutting edge and comfortable. The first places in Sol to recover in the post war era, they’ve flourished from resources poured in from the outer system. With only 30% of humanity on Mars and 20% percent on Earth, these two worlds have become almost paradise like.

Wartime mass exodus combined with post-war immigration restrictions has left Earth as a wealthy corporate protectorate reserved almost exclusively for the upper middle class or higher. Much of the planet has crumbled back into the wilderness with only pockets of cutting edge cities dotting key locations, rebuilt in the aftermath of the war.

Mars expands daily, its people and governing council of construction corporations characterized by their love of industry and growth. The planet is nearly 40% terraformed and there is an ongoing citizenry program open to any aspiring frontiersmen or women.

The Reclaimed Worlds

Venus, Saturn, Neptune and Uranus are considered reclaimed worlds in Sol. In the pre-war era the Sol Federation was said to extend even past Pluto, but during the Phage Invasion large chunks of human knowledge about the true edges of humanity have been lost. The Consortium is still rediscovering lost or dead colonies and outposts near the dangerous Kuiper Belt Perimeter.

Much of the populations of these Reclaimed worlds exist on moon colonies or asteroid outposts. Life in these places has been extremely rugged and even deadly for the last century. Many have only recently reestablished regular and trusted supply chains or contact with the heart worlds. Many empty husks, struck down by the Phage Invasion itself or the slow starvation of destroyed shipping and supply lines around Sol during the war.

If a Reclaimed World community isn’t an established military base outpost but instead perhaps a left over supply chain stop, they are often harsh and a touch lawless. The only Astral Section enforcement being drones or the rare patrolling Dispatcher and Enforcer pair there to mediate disputes or enforce rules.

The LaGrange Colonies

The first hope for humanity turned last bastion of survival. The LaGrange colonies make up 40% of humanity in the Sol Consortium. Each LaGrange point hosts a large cluster of space colonies within equilibrium with Earth’s Orbit. Humanities oldest forays into space, these colonies range from ancient derelict Bernal Spheres so over built and under maintained that only the poorest of worker or richest of criminal remains on them, to beautiful post-war era Standford Torus rings full of lush vegetation and bread belt like farming.

Corporate Manufactories

Born during the war-effort and preserved through the necessity of post-war survival, Corporate Manufactories are massive ‘Company Towns’ created at various resource rich locations within the Sol Consortium. These manufactories exist entirely as closed societies where you are an employee to the corporation first and a human only as an after thought. All manpower rigidly regulated and controlled, often stripped of names or personal identity beyond job and skills.

These company assets are fed, clothed, and lodged and allowed to exist in a world where they need not think, act, or worry for themselves, so long as they continue to preform as expected at the tasks assigned. Corporate manufactories are responsible for almost all refineries, smelteries, gas giant farming, and large outfit ore mining. Manufactories are a respected, well regulated, and seen as a backbone to the survival of the Sol Consortium as far as Government interest is concerned.

Public opinion ranges from jealousy to pity and everything between for the ‘company assets’ that work inside these manufactories.

[svyatoiy-arch]

✺    MISC ACTIONS MEME.      ⊱       @dinopunching​

⭐️    carol stargazes with alina.

❝   when i was younger,   i used to feel so tiny,   so insignificant,   gazing up at the sky like this.   ❞      a grain of sand on ravka’s largest beach,   a single snowflake settling on the icy ground of fjerda’s plateaus,   a blip on the shu horizon   ─   now she is older and wiser   &   compared to the  sol koroleva  of ages past  the stars are small,   puppets of her will alone.     at her life’s dawn centuries ago an invisible cord of communion had bound them together,   unbreakable   &   unbendable.

if this bond between girl and the celestial ever were to snap,     alina was of the belief it would shatter her from within   &   leave her  a withering husk  of a creature.     but the bond remained strong,   the distance between her feet planted firmly on the ground   &   the stars far above rendered inconsequential   ─   no matter the separation she felt their light buzzing beneath her skin,   waiting to heed  her  call.     alina pressed her hands against the grass   &   pushed herself into a sitting position,   looking down at carol as the light from the starry night above reflected the curiosity in her gaze.      ❝   do they make you feel small?   the stars,   the galaxy,   the celestial?   ❞      an unspoken inquiry lingered on her tongue, parts of it woven into what she’d said just before:      are you like me?

[chabby4memes]

I feel like the theme of Hope and Despair should remain as an Undertone for the story

But my Idea?

Hatred and Integrity

Parasitism and Freedom

Ignorance and Unawareness

Manipulation and Passion

All of which comes comes from the Faux mastermind, who in herself, Is Manipulating this Killing beyond the control of the True Mastermind, Twisting this cruel thesis of a Broken-down Husk of a girl into her cruel fantasies- making the lives lost into a Hate filled Orchestra of betrayal, deceit, spite and Cruelty.

All things the Mastermind though this girl could do.

The miscalculation that led to the end of Danganronpa, at it's 53rd season, the Inclusion of the Ultimate Evil, a demon that was far beyond all true expectations. She charmed the Ultimates into her claws.

The End of Danganronpa however, was only the beginning of Shattered Hearts... the Start of These senseless killings mandated not by a game, but by secrecy and lies.

How could this pre-pubescent girl be the end of all this despair, and create such senseless murder.

How could she have done this?

Despair's rejection, Hope's Rejection- while a good thing for Saihara to end the Neo-World Program Killing Game- Nothing could prepare them for the current state of the Acedemy for Gifted Juveniles... The Demon of Deaths Start, The Demons of their pasts and the Demon that Stands before them, Dowsed in Sin.

This Time, Hope and Despair will have to destroy Hatred, but peace won't last, just like the Killing Games, one ends, and the Cycle continues.

Meet K1-B0 or Kiibo, he's cool he's a robot.

Now meet Maki, the Hidden Assassin

And finally Sol, the Demon in Black.

Who will emerge victorious in this game of risk? Who Will win?

This is Danganronpa; S-H v3.

This is Shattered Hearts.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk.

Like if you read this far, I'm really grateful.

You deserve a pat on the back you bean.

Have a good night.

This was just me getting out of hand.

For you who I told the entirety of chapter one to chapter four- do not speak it. I will smite you.

[anthem-anatheme]

I feel like spitting out some of my Uldren thoughts today so here we go this might get long.

To start off I've been thinking about just the buildup of things wrong with him when Forsaken is going on. The first time I watched the D1 cinematics with him and read his lore book I started to realize how absolutely uncharacteristic he was throughout Forsaken. It's like all of his personality was stripped away and he was left with just dedication to his sister. So how'd that come about?

Well the reasoning we're given by folks in game throughout the story (mainly Petra) is that he went mad after Mara's supposed death at the battle of Saturn. Now while that's certainly the catalyst to his descent it didn't start there. It actually began in the Black Garden. When we met Uldren in D1 and even before that he was actually very sick. It didn't affect him on a very perceptible level for the most part (I have a headcannon abt that but just sticking to facts for now) but he did have a memetic illness called Brain Stain he contracted from getting too close to the Gardens black Heart.

We don't know too much about Brain Stain other than it being a Darkness construct intended to protect the Garden. Entities that enter the Garden and contract it become obsessed with the place, usually remaining there forever to protect it. (This is what created the offshoot of Sol Divisive Vex too) Uldren managed to escape the Garden partially probably due to Jolyon Tills urging, but also on a technicality. He believed he could get Mara to come back with him, and that they could better protect the Garden from the outside which let him leave to follow that.

On his return he is extremely obsessive about the Garden, forgoing contact with most people he cares about to do more research and plot and plan Garden things. He very much does not want to let Guardians into the Garden in D1, not only because he dislikes them but also to protect it from the havok the Guardians are sure to wreck inside. The only reason he cooperates at all is his dedication to Mara is stronger than that to the Garden (it was cemented over thousands of years after all.)

The death of the heart seems to finally break his obsession with the Garden, though there isn't much time between that and the battle at Saturn.

The main reason I think his obsession with the Garden broke with the death of the Heart is that he keeps trying to return home and make contact with Mara while stranded on Mars. The first time he crashes quite close to Meridian Bay and the gate to the Garden he used to enter. In the wake of the loss of his sister if the Brain Stain were in full effect still there's no reason why he wouldn't just March back to the Gate and go live there for the rest of his days. Instead the Stain shifts to a new fixation: Mara.

Uldren was always loyal and dedicated to his sister but his entire personality/motives were hardly centered around her before this. The twins would butt heads on a number of topics, and Uldren had his Crows and other things to oversee.

Essentially the thing that ends up making him vulnerable to Rivens manipulations is a resurgence of a pre-existing illness that had mostly gone dormant but was never actually cured. Under the despair of his sisters potential death, stress of having to survive on Mars, and proximity to the Garden probably not helping, he gets very sick very fast. His eyes start bothering him way before there's even a start of whispers from Riven.

Getting picked up by the Kings didn't help in the slightest and threw him into an even more vulnerable state due to the torture he underwent to make him cooperate with the Kell of Kings plans. This is the point where Riven makes her move. He's not only sick but his willingness to say no has been purposefully eroded, he's pretty husk-like at this point just clinging to the hope that Mara still might be out there. Which Riven happily exploits.

Uldren is a remarkably complex villain and I love the detail and thoroughness Bungie put into writing him.

[thewhumperinwhite]

Café: Clinic 2

This isn’t very long, but it does exist, and the way things are currently going that is a Big Win for ya boy.

Previous:  Teaser 1 / Teaser 2 / Hospital/Squad Car / No More Squad Car / Empty Bar / Used Car Lot 1 / Used Car Lot 2 / Gas Station / Roadside 1 / Roadside 2 / Forest / Treetops / Cottage (1) / Cottage (2) / Interlude: Police Station / Cottage (3) / Cottage/Car Ride / Clinic

TW for: medical whump, brief unintentional misgendering, referenced minor character death, referenced death of a child.

@whumpitywhumpwhump also please message me if you want to be on the taglist for this story

By the time they’ve stumbled their way up onto the doctor’s table, Pax is aware of the all-body muscle tension that happens when you’re forcing yourself to remain upright longer than your body thinks you should, but Pax has never cared what their body thinks before and they’re not going to start now.

The old growly-voiced doctor doesn’t react to whatever he sees when he unwraps the bandages from Pax’s arm except a slight deepening of the crease between his wild and bushy eyebrows. Pax would give a lot to take a tweezer to those things right now; they’re awful and also it would be a phenomenal distraction from how badly pear-shaped this whole adventure is going on every level from physical to emotional.

Sol is in the waiting room (if that’s what they’re calling the kitschily-furnished den at the front of this “clinic”) with the muttering husk of Kent Graves, which Pax is kind of grateful for at the moment; but The Girl Who Shot Them is in here with Pax and Doctor Eyebrows, watching and chewing her already-hideously-peeling lower lip and hugging her elbows like it’s freezing in here. Which it is, for the record, but Pax is pretty sure that’s just blood loss on their end.

“Wanna tell me what happened?” Doctor Eyebrows says gruffly while he wets a swab with disinfectant and Pax prepares themself for the burn. “Your arm looks like raw hamburger. This ain’t a surgery, for fuck’s sake.”

“You can ask your friend here about that,” Pax says sweetly, and Shotgun Sammy or whoever bites her lip harder and looks at the floor.

Doctor Eyebrows looks at her over his shoulder, and then turns back to Pax’s arm, shaking his head. “She’s her father’s daughter,” he mutters darkly. “This’ll hurt.”

He presses the cold burning cotton swab against the deep graze on Pax’s shoulder. For the record Pax is fairly sure it looks worse than it is, but the freezing burn of the alcohol does rocket up and down their arm with the worst spike of pain since the initial shot, and they squeeze one eye shut and bite the inside of their cheek hard.

“I bandaged it, too,” Shotgun Sam says, though it’s unclear who she’s defending herself against exactly. Pax laughs, one harsh caw that takes a little effort but does make her flush deeply and look away, which makes them feel a bit better already.

“Sure,” they say easily, grinning at her with all their teeth. “Everybody knows you can’t get mad at someone for shooting you if they cover it up afterward. Hear that, Doc? You—” They break off with a hiss when the doctor stops patting and starts actually swabbing. “Christ, you wanna jam that in there a little harder, Eyebrows? I think there might still be some muscle underneath for you to scrape out.”

The doc doesn’t stop, but he does raise one of the titular caterpillars and his mustache twitches a little. “Might as well call me Russ, Mister; I figure once a man puts a gun in your face you might as well be on first name terms, huh?”

“Hey, I haven’t touched the thing,” Pax points out, gesturing vaguely at Sam to indicate the concept of the shotgun. “Call me ‘mister’ again and I’ll think about it, though, Russ.”

The Doctor’s eyes move to Pax’s face for just a second, and Pax gets ready, but he just shrugs, not pausing in the process of rubbing rough fabric against Pax’s fucking bones or whatever. “Fair enough,” he says, and gets to business with the bandages. “Well, you want the good news, or the bad news?”

Pax narrows their eyes at him. “Bad news first is objectively the right answer.”

“If you say so. Bad news is, the best I can do for this is wrap it, and if you use that arm in the next week, it’s gonna tear you right back open again.”

Pax stares at him. This is. About what they were expecting, obviously. But it is very bad news. “What’s the good news?”

The doctor spreads his hands. “The good news is you get to keep the arm. Probably. Can you move it?”

Pax tries; it hurts like fire and they taste blood in their mouth from instinctively chomping down on their cheek to keep from yelling. They nod curtly. 

“Good. Put your hand on your head and keep it there till I get back. Make sure it’s done bleeding. If those bandages aren’t any redder by the time I’m back you can get the hell out of my clinic.” The doc turns to look at Shotgun Sam. “Come get me if—” 

The doctor pauses, and turns to his eyebrows questioningly at Pax, who takes a second to understand, has to shake their head to clear it before they can talk. “They,” they supply, putting their hand on their head and closing their eyes.

“—if they fall over.”

“Okay,” Sam says quietly, and Pax listens to the doctor’s boots stomp around them and out the door; they breathe in through their nose and out through their mouth and keep their hand on their head, resisting the urge to clench it into a fist, which will definitely hurt worse.

There’s a moment when the only sound is the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, but of course it can’t last.

“Sorry,” Shotgun Sam says in a small voice. When Pax doesn’t answer she adds, “For shooting you,” like they might be confused about what she’s apologizing for.

Pax sighs and cracks their good eye open. She’s looking back at them, which they will actually give her credit for. She’s not fidgeting and looking away. She looks like she’s ready to accept consequences, not that Pax is really in a position to be enforcing any.

Pax holds her gaze for a second. Then they sigh and shrug their undamaged shoulder. “It was an understandable impulse,” they allow. “I’d probably have done the same thing, but I’m a lousy shot. No depth perception.”

Sam breathes in shakily, and Pax can feel the immediate change in the air between them and knows immediately what they’re both thinking. Pax lets her bring it up. There isn’t a lot else they can give her.

“You killed Leah,” Sam says finally, and Pax returns the favor and holds her gaze. They nod once. She’s perched awkwardly on one of the antiseptic-smelling counters, a casual position out of step with the tension in her shoulders and jaw and small clenched fists. “How?”

There’s no good answer, but if Pax knows anything it’s that there’s no rhyme or reason to what you want to know and what you don’t when it comes to grief. Their answer is short and flat and true. “Took her head off. Used a sword. I’m trained; it was as quick as I could make it.”

Her hands are shaking now, and then her lower lip is too. She doesn’t break eye contact with Pax when she starts to cry, and Pax doesn’t either. There’s nothing they can give her, but they don’t look away.