#Apparently under threat from desperate people in boats

[pointless-letters]

“That might be all very well for Janet, but I find that being racist definitely helps.” said Terry Arsehole, ham-necked and raisin-eyed spokestwat for the Silent Majority, as he daubed words onto his 47th placard about how helping some desperate people in boats would lead to the destruction of British society forever.

[double--blind]

(SPOILERS) Andrew and plausible deniability, OR: mfer doesn't wanna be held accountable for his actions

This has been churning in my head for a while (I am mentally ill 🥴), but a large part of the driving force behind Andy and his actions is his aversion to blame. He sorta shares this w/Ashley (she's got quite a few rants abt how things aren't her fault), but I believe Andrew takes it just a step further.

I've seen many say this before, but from the start of the game, you'll notice that even beyond normal moral quandaries, Andrew's first objection to any horrific action Ashley proposes is usually a variance of "what if we get caught?". He objects not bc her ideas are ethically repugnant, but bc they could be found out as having done them, and he knows rationally that others know they're bad. This goes as far back as childhood with the Nina incident. He fears punishment and the threat of prison more than he apparently worries about what his crimes might mean for him as a person or what they might mean for the people that might be affected by them (save him and Ashley). This doesn't mean he doesn't feel guilt or have nightmares abt them, but they're not his first priority. Trouble's a pain to deal with, and the dude's low-energy.

In fact, most of his guilt seems largely self-centered. Like, no exaggeration: if it isn't about either him or Ashley (which is, in a way, lowkey also about him), then he couldn't really care less. Do you recall him ever expressing worry or remorse on Nina's behalf? Mourning her? We think Ashley's the one w/empathy issues, but Andrew's in the same boat imo. Self-preservation and self-interest is all that's keeping him seemingly amiable enough for polite society, bc for the most part, he really couldn't be bothered.

In his dreams, the victims of their murders are just bodies: interchangeable, holding no more meaning beyond the fact that they're dead. Any corpse's limb will do to replace the one Ashley cooked—never mind that they may be from different people—bc they're all the same to him. Even Julia, sitting in her dorm room surrounded by evidence of Ashley's harassment, gets no sympathy from Andrew. For the most part, he elects to ignore it all, and regards Julia herself with a detached sorta nostalgia tinged in no small part with apathy.

img txt: You'll never see her again. And the fact that it doesn't really bother you, bothers you.

(The only things of notable worth from her were the colored pencils on her desk, which he promptly takes from her to give to Leyley instead, and isn't that just some crazy symbolism right there?)

His fear of punishment goes hand-in-hand with his desperate pursuit of plausible deniability. Everything he does, he does under certain self-imposed conditions. If it's Ashley's idea and he argues back, it doesn't matter in the end if he goes along with it, bc it was Ashley's idea in the first place. He's just there to make sure she doesn't get them in trouble, bc she needs him, bc he's gotta take care of her. Even if it's not her idea at all (e.g., killing the closet warden, killing the lady in room 302), it's still her fault, bc he did it for her, bc everything he does, he does for her.

Ashley's a manipulative, evil lil possessive gremlin w/a soul as black as tar, and Andy's a doormat, but don't think for a second that part of him doesn't use that dynamic a little to keep from reflecting on what he is. He suffocates under it, but he also relies on it. If there's any sort of plausible deniability available, he'll take it and run with it.

The truth of the matter is that they're both deeply toxic, warped individuals. The difference is that Ashley's owned up to it and quite frankly doesn't care. Andrew hasn't. He's the "normal" one.

Now, for the funky incest part (what we're all here for babyyyyy)—

We've all seen the flavor text abt the bed-sharing by now, right?

img txt: Oh yeah, you tooootally have nightmares as often as you claim.

We know for a fact that aside from some light teasing, maybe, Ashley would have no problem whatsoever with sharing a bed w/Andrew. Heck, she'll coax him into bed (demo) or climb onto the couch with him (ep 2) w/o any prompting from him whatsoever, just bc she feels like it. Andrew, apparently, can't do the same. He doesn't allow himself this intimacy of his own choosing, so he has to lie and pretend to get it if he wants it. He's greedy for her, too, but he can't let himself show it.

If something is sufficiently too intimate in his eyes, beyond anything he can excuse away for some reason or another, then he'll stop himself from doing it. Just like how he wouldn't let himself succumb to the urge of pulling Ashley into his arms to make her smile, but is willing to give her a hug when she asks for it in front of their parents.

He insists on the extra expense of two beds, and then cites his nightmares and panic attacks as the driving force behind crawling into bed w/her, bc then it isn't really his fault now, is it? He tried to stay away, after all. He did! He just didn't have a choice!

Lol

Andrew can't admit to wanting this—buries those feelings and thoughts as deep as he can so they fester and bleed, the repressed idiot—so he gives Ashley all the power to decide how close they get. It's in Ashley's hands. He's free of that hassle.

Which is why the post-sex vision, and Ashley's reaction to it, is so dangerous. @csg-iii made a good point about it in my last post:

img txt: I think the biggest point about "11" is that Andrew asks/begs Ashley for reassurance that it will never happen ("never say never"). It's a subtle admission that if she really wants it to happen, he knows he won't be able to resist his own urges. His only ""hope"" of avoiding going there is if Ashley doesn't want it.

Andrew, in absolving himself of this choice and putting it in Ashley's hands, shoots himself in the foot, bc what if Ashley goes the whole mile? Then the only real thing keeping his desires unrealized was the fact that they had never been voiced as an option before.

He doesn't want to think of himself as someone who'd bone his own sister. Forget being a cannibal, demon summoner, or a murderer; those titles were foisted upon him. This is too close to something real that he carries inside him; this isn't anything Ashley's buried in him, but rather something of his own invention. Something he'll definitely have to take responsibility for.

[write-ur-wrongs]

Of Monsters and Men (pt. 1)

Summary: Geralt and Jaskier travel to a small seaside village after being hired to take care of a monster that has been terrorizing the villagers for months. However when they arrive, Geralt finds that the monster in question isn’t so easy to kill. 

A/N: This was getting to be quite lengthy, so I decided to split it into parts. This is the story I wanted to write when I first started watching the Witcher on Netflix and I am nervous and excited to finally be sharing it here!! Like with all my fics, I try to keep my Y/N has physically non-descript as possible, she/her and vibe are the only descriptors. I’ve also not proof-read but will edit errors as I see them post post lol. I hope y’all enjoy this!! Your feedback is always welcome :’)

this is approx. 2200 words and is largely setting the scene. I expect this to story to be told in no more than 3 parts. 

                              _________________________

When Geralt and Jaskier rode up to the quiet coastal village, they were struck by how calm and peaceful it was. The sound of waves lapping against the rocky shoreline, the rhythmic bumping of boats against the docks, and the soft clatter of driftwood windchimes melted together to create an atmosphere that soothed Jaskier to his core. He found himself gaping at the sights that surrounded him in wonder; truly taken by the way setting sun cast a golden glow on everything and painted the cloud-laced sky in rich hues of pink and orange.

“This place…” he sighed theatrically, waving his arms around, “is wonderful! Geralt are you not moved by the sight of it all? Does your soul not sing out! Oh, Geralt! Wow!”  

The witcher only rolled his eyes at his friend’s dramatics. Jaskier was always so blown away by the simplest things and it both amused and annoyed Geralt. Yes, the sky and the sea were beautiful sights, but more importantly, they were merciless vehicles of danger, death, and destruction; and Geralt knew better than to romanticize things that were, at their core, dangerous.

Sensing the bard’s eyes on him, Geralt gave him a hum of acknowledgement hoping it would be enough to satisfy Jaskier’s need for collective appreciation. It was, as he dreaded, insufficient.

“Come now, Geralt!” he enthused, “take that stick out your arse for a moment and appreciate the sights and sounds of this charming inlet! Listen to the sea! The chimes, Geralt! Listen to how the wind tickles the –”

“For fucks sake, Jaskier! It’s a fucking port city just like any other. This place is one bad storm away from being wiped out by that scenic sea of yours!”

“Yeesh,” Jaskier said letting out a low whistle. “Was it the stick in the arse bit? Too far?”

“Jask-”

“- because look, you are very stoic but – and I mean this as a compliment Geralt, so don’t get your leather in a –”

“Jaskier!” Geralt interrupted gruffly as he dismounted Roach with a huff. “Will you please shut up! Let’s just find the stables and the inn and get this over with.” Without waiting for Jaskier to catch up to him, he led his mare deeper into town.

Jaskier, refusing to let Geralt’s gruff exterior get him down, dismounted gracefully and lightly jogged to meet up with him, his lute clacking loudly against his back as he ran.

“Remind me again what dreadful little creature brings us out to this enchanting harbor?” he asked, still jogging a little to keep up with the witcher’s long strides.

“Don’t know yet.”

“Oh, ho-ho! A mystery? Always makes for a good song. What do we know so far?”

Geralt stopped and turned slightly towards the bard before speaking.

“Apparently a creature has been killing and dismembering men in town. They are being killed at all hours, bodies found in town, at sea, or out in the surrounding forests. Seems nowhere is safe.” Geralt let his cat-like eyes linger on the bard’s horrified expression for a moment before turning back and keeping on the path into town, shaking his head at Jaskier’s queasiness.

“Yeesh – Geralt! You’re not serious! Why would you bring me with you!?” Jaskier picked up the pace, suddenly wanting to be closer to his friend.

“You invited yourself,” Geralt said, trying to contain his smile, “as always.”

“Of course, I invited myself! You’re far to proud to admit you’d miss me.” Jaskier retorted. “Let’s get these horses to the stables, get rooms, and find food so that you can sort this out as quickly as inhumanly possible,” he said, speaking quickly and with a light waver, trying to pretend the quaint seaside village around him didn’t now leave him chilled to the bone.

“Hmm,” Geralt chuckled, happy to have managed to scare the bard into silence, at least for the time being.

The local pub was busier than Jaskier had expected when they rode into town. Seems the reason the village was so peaceful upon arrival was because everyone had already made their way to the bar. Fortunately, he’d managed to nab them a table by the stone fireplace; after a day of riding alongside the sea, Jaskier was desperate for a cold ale and a warm fire.

“Alrighty then, Geralt,” Jaskier said, holding his hands up to the hearth, “what have we got so far?”

“Not much,” he replied, tearing apart the loaf of bread a barmaid had brought over moments prior, “a couple people stopped me at the inn to ask me if I was here to kill the beast, but they didn’t have any information to offer besides the fact that it was a constant threat.”

“Well, maybe you’ll have more luck here – I mean look around, you’d think the whole town’s come to drink!”

“Port cities, Jask,” Geralt said, letting his gaze scan the room slowly, “the people here either spend their days at the mercy of the sea or waiting for their loved ones to come home. You drink for sorrow and for hope of a bright tomorrow.”

“That was poetic as fuck, Geralt! My influence?” he teased, shooting the witcher a cheeky grin, who merely grunted distractedly in reply.

Now ignoring his still-talking friend, Geralt’s eyes had landed on the two women working behind the bar. One was talking excitedly and kept casting quick glances toward the bard, blushing brightly when she caught his eye, while the other was watching Geralt with inquisitive eyes.

“… I tell you Geralt the more you allow yourself to – oh! Speaking of which, here come a few now!” Jaskier flourished, winking enthusiastically at the blushing barmaid who was making her way towards them sheepishly.

Geralt sat back in his chair and rolled his eyes, already tired of the flirting he was about to witness. To his surprise and great pleasure, Jaskier got up and met her halfway, leaving him in peace with his thoughts.

Having brought his attention back down to the bread before him, Geralt didn’t notice that he had company until she was right in front of him. Sensing her presence, he shot his gaze up quickly, and found her staring at his wolf medallion with a quirked brow.

“Forgive me,” she started, her deep, velvet-like voice washing over Geralt like morning sun after a cold night, “but you’re… a witcher?”

“I am,” he replied, giving her a crooked smile, his own voice, low and gravely and smooth, not going unnoticed by the woman before him. “Geralt, of Rivia.”

“Oh fuck,” she said, with a breathy sort of laugh, “so you’re not a witcher, you’re the Witcher then, aren’t you?”

Geralt let out a low and modest grunt, shaking his head at the comment. He thought himself immune to the scrutiny and awe that came with being the White Wolf, having carried the title for so long, but there was something about the way she was looking at him that left him shy.

“I’m,” he faltered needing to stop to clear his throat, having made the mistake to look her in the eyes, “just a witcher. Really.”

“Well, they don’t send you out for just anything, do they? For you to be out here in our little hamlet…” she squinted at him with a small tilt of her head, “we must be under some kind of threat. Should I be worried?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me, –” he stopped, waiting for her to introduce herself.

“Y/N,” she replied quickly, offering Geralt a warm smile despite the fact that she’d just crossed her arms, “and I mean we do get the odd ruffian coming through town. They always make a mess of things, don’t they? Beyond that, well, I suppose alcohol does breed violence in some,” she gave a light, one shouldered shrug, “but that’s not the kind of crime that would reach your ears.”

Geralt hummed thoughtfully, taking his time to consider Y/N’s words. She seemed almost too friendly, and there was something about her that both drew him in and had him putting up his guard.

“A monster has been picking the men of the village off one by one.” Leaning back into his chair to put some distance between them. “I’m surprised you wouldn’t be aware, considering,” he nodded towards the bar, “your job here.”

“Meaning what?” she retorted, wearing a playful smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Only that you must hear a lot,” he gestured vaguely to the crowd surrounding them, “and see a lot, doing what you do. I would have expected that the disappearance and dismemberment of men in town would be something of note.”

“Well,” Y’N tsked, “I’m sorry to say that you’ve been brought out here on something of a fool’s errand. There’s no monster here; the tale of disappearing men has been told here for months. It started with a woman, too embarrassed to admit that the man who impregnated her left her overnight, telling everyone that a creature from the forest killed him. From there the story grew wilder with every retelling.”

“Hm,” Geralt hummed, watching Y/N carefully with narrow eyes, “I was told dismembered body parts were turning up, consistently, after each disappearance, and that they were being identified as belonging to the latest victim. Besides, I was hired to come here. Why would someone pay me coin to rid a town of ghost?”

“People struck by tragedy will claim to see many things, Sir Geralt,” she replied softly, “not all of them will be true. A dead fish floating at sea, a creature mauled by wolves by the roads, rotten meats abandoned by vendors…” she shrugged, “the mind will twist the truth in order to bring comfort. Who hired you?” 

She added that last question quickly, and Geralt could tell it was calculated. Sensing this, he only replied with a quirked brow and a tilt of his head. 

Y/N betrayed no sense of frustration when she realized the Witcher wasn’t going to elaborate. Instead, her eyes softened, and she smiled at Geralt with what he perceived as pity. 

“Look, the truth is that there is no monster here. Isn’t that right Thalia?”

“Sorry, what?” Thalia, who had just walked back over the Geralt’s table with a tray of ales in her hands, was breathlessly giggling at something Jaskier had whispered in her ear. As she and Jaskier placed four ales on the table, Y/N took a seat across from the Witcher and quickly explained got the two up to speed.

“Oh goodness, that! I can not believe our town’s little lore made it to your ears, Sir Geralt!” She said with wide eyes as she snuggled up next to Jaskier, clinking her tankard with his before taking a generous sip.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jaskier coughed on his ale, “you’re telling me there’s no monster here? That we might actually be able to enjoy a little rest and relaxation here without any horrible monster-killing business? Geralt this is good news!” he exclaimed, smacking his free hand on the table for emphasis.

Geralt only growled out a hum in response, never taking his eyes off Y/N.

“I’ll admit,” Thalia continued, seemingly unaware of the tension between the Witcher and her friend, “it’s scary to think about – you know, murder – but when you actually think about who disappears, it’s not difficult to see the truth.”

At this, Geralt turned his fierce gaze away from Y/N. “What do you mean, ‘who disappears’?”

“O-only that the men who leave aren’t really the type that anyone would miss.” She replied, stuttering a little against her best efforts to not recoil at Geralt’s inhuman eye-contact. “They were mean, violent types. The kind of man that would get crueler the more he drank. Just, awful, evil men, right Y/N?”

Y/N nodded quickly in agreement, taking a slow sip of her ale. “Good riddance.”

“Exactly!” Thalia agreed, clinking her glass to Y/N’s.

“Hell, I’ll drink to that,” Jaskier laughed, before picking his lute up off the floor. “What do you say ladies, a song?”

Thalia cheered loudly and encouraged the rest of the patrons to listen to the bard, letting them all know that he was in fact, the one who traveled with the great White Wolf. Jaskier was positively floating from the adoration as he danced around the pub, pulling cheers and applause after every song.

All the while, Geralt never took his eyes off of Y/N, who had retreated back to the bar after finishing her drink.

Geralt wasn’t sure what to believe. He had a strange feeling about this place from the moment he and the bard arrived, and it frustrated him to no end that even after hours in town, he was no closer to understanding the source of his discomfort. One thing was for certain, something about the story he heard here tonight did not add up, and he definitely didn’t trust its source.

Y/N was standing behind the bar washing glasses, but she wasn’t focused on the task at hand. Instead, her eyes were trained on the crowd before her. Geralt watched her as she scanned the pub with calm, slow-moving eyes that jumped from patron to patron.

The witcher was distracted for a moment when Jaskier sauntered into his sightline, singing a loud chorus of Toss a Coin to Your Witcher. Despite himself, Geralt couldn’t help but smile at the bard, whose face was flushed from the ales and the exertion.

However, as Geralt watched Jaskier twirl across the crowded pub, something in his peripheral vision made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Y/N had turned he head and was staring right at him with a pair of pitch-black eyes.  

Like a shot, Geralt turned his gaze to the woman behind the bar – his heart beating loudly in his ears – only to find her smiling warmly at him, her eyes their normal shade.

Instinctively, Geralt brought his hand up to his wolf-head medallion, hoping it would signal the presence of some supernatural evil. But he felt nothing.

He didn’t know what she was, but she was not human.

[scotianostra]

On March 5th 1790, Flora MacDonald, the Jacobite heroine, died.

44 years after her famous act of kindness aided Bonnie Prince Charlie escape capture, Flora MacDonald passed away on the Isle of Skye. 

Living as a 24-year old on Benbecula in the Outer Hebrides, Flora encountered the desperate prince on the run from authorities following his defeat at the Battle of Culloden. 

At first Flora was hesitant to assist, but eventually took pity on the prince and promised to help him escape, setting in motion a chain of events which would see her become a famous name in Scottish history. Disguising the prince as her servant, Betty Burke, she commissioned a boat to take them to Skye where Flora was able to secure passage for the prince which eventually led to his successful arrival back in France.

Two weeks after escorting Charlie “over the see to Skye” Flora was arrested. One of the boatmen, apparently under the threat of torture, cracked and gave up names and a description of Charles dressed as Betty Burke. Flora was taken prisoner though by all accounts was treated very well, she as taken south to Edinburgh onto a ship with other Jacobite prisoners, who were treated a lot worse than our heroine many meeting there end or being transported as indentured slaves.

Flora was locked up in the Tower of London. She later reasoned that her act hadn’t been about taking sides during the rebellion, but rather she wished only to help a man in need. Word of her heroism spread and sympathy for her incarceration didn’t go unnoticed in the English capital.  She received gifts and was allowed visitors, finally she was released under the general indemnity in July 1747.

Three years later Flora married Allan MacDonald and but quiet life thereafter did not await after she travelled to America endured her husband being taken prisoner during the American revolution. The pair spent two years apart before being reunited. 

They travelled back to Scotland but the merchant ship she was sailing on was attacked by privateers and she was injured in the attack after refusing to hide in safety below decks.Once more she survived and lived until the age of 68.

 Legend says she asked to be buried in the same bed sheets the prince slept in during the escape, though some believe this to be nothing more than a myth

Three thousand people attended her funeral where it is said three hundred gallons of whisky was consumed. 

Flora of course was immortalised in the Skye Boat Song.....

Though the waves leap, 

soft shall ye sleep 

Ocean’s a royal bed

Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep

Watch by your weary head.

Flora MacDonald is buried in the Kilmuir Cemetery on Skye.

The link below takes you to the wedding contract of Flora and her husband.

http://lib1.advocates.org.uk/flora/run.html

The second link offers  “The Truth about Flora MacDonald” The book includes  some great lines including the from when she arrived at the port of Lieth, Edinburgh.

In Leith she was visited by many people of all classes. One Edinburgh lady said to her: “O Miss, what a happy creature are you who had that dear Prince to lull you asleep, and to take such care of you with his hands spread about your head, when you was sleeping! You are surely the happiest woman in the world!”12 Another of her visitors said to her: “I could wipe your shoes with pleasure, and think it my honour so to do, when I reflect that you had the honour to have the Prince for your handmaid. We all envy you greatly.”13 A third visitor, who had to stay on board because the roughness of the sea prevented her from going ashore, asked if she might be allowed to sleep with Flora MacDonald so that she might have it to say that she had the honour of lying in the same bed with that person who had been so happy as to be guardian to her Prince.”

https://www.yourphotocard.com/Ascanius/documents/The%20Truth%20About%20Flora%20MacDonald.pdf

[inked-out-trees]

is the writing asks game still a thing? 19 / 20 please! (going to be diving into Bean's Beans this weekend, I'm very excited)

The writing asks game can always be a thing! Even if there's no games you can ask questions at your leisure! <3

19. Is there anything you always find yourself repeating in your writing? (favourite verb, something you describe 'too often', trope you can't get enough of?)

I have noticed while writing ex-home syndrome that Chris says a lot of things drily (which is apparently spelled dryly, but that's a hill I'm dying on for absolutely no reason). I absolutely adore writing things to do with feeling, which often physicalize somewhere in the chest (ribs, stomach, ribs again), and also I seem to be captaining a little boat of making a lot of emotions happen under a seemingly innocuous conversation. No I will not stop doing that. It's currently my favourite trope to write.

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

I wish I knew what to put for more of these! The solution here is to stop putting fun facts into my end notes...

This is not at all a fresh new fact to anybody but I do desperately enjoy slipping hidden references into my works. homeward has a series of MMNI references as well as a few podcast refs, Bean's Beans has two (or three?) more MMNI refs and a Channel 33 drop (listen to channel 33 I beg you) as well as a fun little author cameo (and author's friends cameo)! And that will probably be a theme as time goes on.

The hardest part of Bean's Beans, ironically, was figuring out the enticing incident. It went from flash flood to snowstorm to tornado (to an extended google search of the type of extreme weather in england) to something violent is happening outside to nuclear threat maybe??? to "weird air quality thing". I actually had several songs for the inspiration playlist before I had anything to do with the plot.

Also when I was convinced I would write themes for every character (did not happen) I had like. vibes for each of them. these are their vibes: chris - waltz vibes. flat key (d flat) (the only song that made it in) dennis - simple but not sparse, easy key (c/g/f major) vanessa - classical in some respects, sharp key (e/g major) max - "fun music. no i will not elaborate" sandra - vaguely dramatic. sharp key annie - "if i'm projecting really hard then jazz. otherwise sad. a or e flat" trevor - "kinda funky dissonant. fun to play, not to eat." lots of black keys, so a theme that would be desperately difficult jonathan - "what if I just straight up minor keyed him" robert - also dramatic, major-minor modulations

Anyway, thank you for the ask! I hope you enjoy the Beans :)

[buckybabybaby]

Not So Bad

A/n: this is my one shot for @firefly-in-darkness's summer challenge. It's a couple of days late, I'm so sorry!! I wrote most of this in one go on Friday, which is the most I've written in months, so hopefully I can keep that up.

Proof read by way of a text-speech device.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/reader (gender neutral)

Word count: 1998

Warnings: none :)

Plot: stuck on a beach awaiting pick-up after a mission, you and Bucky have an interesting conversation. (Enemies to friends (to implied maybe lovers later))

Masterlist

*****

The steady lapping of the waves washing up onto the sand below is the only sound breaking the silence between you and Bucky. Seated at opposite ends of the last bench on the promenade, you are seriously considering typing up your notice the minute you get back home and walking away from The Avengers if this is the way you're going to be treated. Not only have you had to spend the last two weeks acting all lovey-dovey with Bucky for the sake of a mission, but now it's over you're stuck on a beach with him as you wait for a pick up. Because, apparently, a domestic flight back home would be too risky.

A light flickering in the distance catches your attention, and you raise your head to watch as the illuminations strung along the closest pier are extinguished one by one, until only the hazard warning at the very end remains lit, plunging the beach further into darkness.

“That'll be midnight then.”

It shouldn't, but Bucky's voice coming from beside you for the first time in hours makes you jump. Sitting up straighter, you attempt to hide your shock as you ask, “What will be?”

“The lights. The pier closes at midnight. I guess it's just you and me now.”

Looking away, you roll your eyes; this mission hasn't been easy for you, and you've had to hold yourself back from repeating that action many times during the last fortnight. Normally working with world-saving heroes is the dream job, but normally you're not sent out undercover with the formal Winter Soldier, forced to act like a honeymooning couple to infiltrate a people smuggling ring operating out of an exclusive Floridian beach resort. Though it wasn't hard to get people to talk and the mission was a success, you feel little joy in the outcome.

The reason is currently huffing next to you.

“Stop that!”

Bucky looks across at you, raising his eyebrows at your outburst. “Stop what?”

“Breathing so heavily!”

“Oh, you want me to stop breathing?”

“I wouldn't complain.”

“That'll be a first.”

Refusing to rise to the bait, you turn back to staring out to sea. How you survived pretending to be married to this man for fourteen long days, you may never know. Maybe you were an actor in another life, because every time you're alone with him it usually leads to petty squabbling, but you somehow managed to fool multiple people into believing that he was your 'amazing husband' who you were madly in love with.

To be fair to Bucky, he was very good at pretending too. The little glances and touches that made it convincing, the way he memorised your back story perfectly and never slipped up when questioned, how he succeeded to completely hide his disdain for you the whole time, it was all truly impressive. Even in private he didn't drop the act, on the slim chance of being caught out, leaving you flustered and confused.

Hence why you're sitting as far away as possible on this weather beaten bench.

As soon as the all clear had been given that you could go home, you couldn't get out of there fast enough, desperate to sleep in your own bed alone and not share one with the furnace in human form that is Bucky. Apart from the comment about the pier, he's been completely silent as you waited for the rescue boat to arrive, a jarring contrast to earlier in the day as you checked out of the hotel.

You don't like the way you miss his gentle hold and soft words. A fortnight living together has warped your emotions beyond recognition, and the return to normal life is most welcome.

From somewhere deep in the pile of luggage on the beach your phone buzzes twice, and you jump up to grab it, groaning in frustration at the message it contains.

Bucky senses the cause. “Delayed?”

“Hmm.”

“Cool.”

He says it so casually and it's like you snap. It's been ages since the two of you have been alone without the threat of eavesdroppers, all that pent up tension exploding in a mini rant.

“Well it might be cool for you, but excuse me for being annoyed. Not everyone wants to be stuck on a beach in the middle of the night.”

He shrugs, unaffected. “You kept saying you wanted to go to the beach.”

“Yeah, but not at midnight! And certainly not with you!”

“Wow, ouch.”

The genuine hurt on his face surprises you. He has always given as good as he gets, never seeming fazed by the verbal abuse you throw his way. “What, Bucky? Don't act like we get along. You hate me!”

If anything, the look of hurt deepens at your words. “Hate? I don't hate you.” He rises to stand with you on the sand. “Y/N? Is that what you think?”

You can't keep eye contact. “Why would I think anything else? We can't spend ten minutes together without arguing.”

“It's just friendly bickering.”

“Friendly?” Scoffing loudly, you walk back up to the bench, flopping down in a slouched position and resigning yourself to the wait. “If that's your idea of friendly I worry about your actual friends.”

Bucky's stood frozen where you left him but you pay him no mind. As the clouds clear above and the stars become visible, the temperature starts to drop. Shivering, you curl into a ball on the seat, too lazy to search through your suitcase for warmer clothes.

“Here.”

Blinking, you're met with Bucky's outstretched hand and the offering of his coat.

“What.” You say flatly.

“So you don't freeze,” He explains, shaking the jacket a little in your face.

You snort at his act of chivalry. “Oh, please. It's okay, the shows over. You don't need to pretend any more, we haven't got an audience here.”

He visibly holds his tongue. “Will you just take it? Stop being so stubborn.”

“Well, what about you? Don't you need it?”

“Super soldier, doll. We tend to run hotter.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” You mutter under your breath, not quietly enough.

“Oh, you did? Must have kept you nice and warm huh?”

The smirk you know so well is back and you fight your smile at the familiar tone in his voice.

“More like sleeping with a damn heater. You're lucky I didn't kick you out every night.”

“As if you could.”

“You know I could.”

He nods in agreement, remembering all the times you've beaten him in combat training. “Suppose you could've. But you didn't. That's something.”

Placing the jacket over your shoulder when you sit up, Bucky pulls it round to the front to fasten the top button, allowing you to do the rest yourself as he takes his place back on the bench. You are much closer now as you chose to sit in the middle of the seat, but you stay put as it feels rude to move away when he's been so nice.

The air is once again full of only the sounds of nature. It was true you had wanted to visit the beach during this mission, the long stretches of white sand calling your name from the hotels bedroom window, but you hadn't got the chance as the suspects you were tailing stayed around the bar and pool. As you breathe in the salty air, you decide the pain of the last fortnight was worth it for this moment, even in the middle of the night and without the longed for ice cream.

Glancing over to Bucky's relaxed form, you study his profile. Whilst you've seen it a lot recently, it still shocks you how defined his face is and the way his hair always seems to fall perfectly, no matter the time of day or weather. Even his early morning bed-hair could be classed as a tousled style others would take hours to achieve, and you can't believe you've never noticed how attractive he is. And it's not just his looks, if the way he acted his role is anything to go by. This mission has taught you one thing; who ever Bucky does end up marrying will be the luckiest person in the world.

You think of your previous conversation, still lost. Since your first meeting it's been the same, sharp tongues flinging insults at each other whenever you meet, and the others in the tower have learnt to avoid the two of you when you get going. Does Bucky really think that that's all been in jest?

Eventually, the curiosity gets the better of you. “Do you really not hate me?”

He takes a few seconds to reply, not looking at you as he says quietly, “No, of course not.”

“Okay.” You don't bring up your regular fights as evidence to the contrary, instead asking, “And you actually enjoy my company?”

“Why do you think I volunteered for this?”

“Volun-what?” That really wasn't what you expected when you started on these questions. You stare at him wide-eyed with disbelief, sure you've misunderstood. “I thought we were assigned? I definitely didn't choose to be here.”

“You were assigned. They thought you'd blend in well with the crowds here, they just needed someone to be your husband and... Here we are.”

“Huh.” You blow out a breath, overwhelmed.

“I thought it would be a way to spend time together without the usual spats.”

“That's an extreme way to spend time with someone.”

He sighs. “I know.”

“But why? With me?”

“'Cause you're fun to be with?”

“Are you telling me or asking?”

“Telling. I want to be better, nicer to you, but any time we're together, you get all defensive, and I can't help returning the sentiment.”

“So, it's my fault?”

“That's not-” He cuts himself off, stopping the argument before it can begin. “I'm sorry.”

“No, I'm sorry.” You smile at him for the first time. “You're going to have to give me a while to get used to this. I'm finding it kinda hard to believe you don't actually hate my guts.”

His own smile drops. “I'm so sorry.” Dragging a hand through his hair, he gazes at you intensely. “This is... I honestly had no idea you thought our arguments were serious. I thought-” He swallows, a self conscious grin tugging at his mouth. “Is it awful that I thought we were flirting?”

Your cheeks heat up, but you shake your head to reassure him. Thinking back, you can see why he believed that. There is a fine line between hate and love, and it makes sense now why you sought him out so often, why you gravitated to him even when it would be so easy to avoid contact, and why, if you're being honest with yourself, you didn't despise the last two weeks at all.

“So, where do we go from here?”

“First, we go home.” He gestures to the vessel you hadn't noticed bobbing in the surf, waving at the captain as the speed boat is launched to retrieve you and your belongings. “And then? Whatever you want.”

“Can we start just being proper friends?”

He reaches for your hand to help you up. “I'd like that.”

Stretching, you follow him across the beach in the gloom. Picking up your holdall and rucksack on the way, you dump them into the bottom of the boat and climb in, sitting close together on the narrow bench. The crew shout at each other over the engines roar once you're both safely on the yacht, but you tune them out, choosing to stay on deck and admire the lights along the coast. Bucky joins you after you tire of his hesitation and tug him down into the seat to you. 

As the boat starts the journey back north he glances at you through the spray of salt water, the small smile you share feels so much bigger, and your letter of resignation couldn't be further from your mind.

[magnolia-penn]

Future Vision Chapter 2

DIO? God?

Oop- sorry this took so long. It took me forever to write and I had no motivation to type it all from my notebook.

Also, brownie points to whoever finds the Avatar: The Last Airbender reference.

Warnings: Swearing (so much swearing), Spoilers (sorta), mention of death (no one important) lemme know if I missed anything

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"31 years!" Polnareff shouted in disbelief.

"Apparently." You shrugged, already over it.

The men were flabbergasted about your current predicament. Stands were a fairly new concept and to think that there was a Stand strong enough to pull you from the future, breaking all sorts of time and space laws? You'd have to be crazy!

Yet… There you were, completely adapted to the strange situation. You were thrown almost double the amount of years you existed and all it took was a quick scream session behind a sand dune for you to calm down? 

"You seem so startled. Stands have crazy abilities. My friend, Magnolia, works alongside a mafia boss with the ability to create infinite life and make it so you can never truly reach death!" You pumped your fist in the air in excitement. "Time travel doesn't seem that far out. My Stand isn't too terribly special, especially compared to some of the other Stands I've seen, but it's pretty cool."

The group's confusion settled deeper as you went on a tangent about future Stands that your friend has described from her time working at the Speedwagon Foundation. You used words that didn't make sense, phrases they didn't understand, but your growing excitement caused them to nod along with you.

"OH! And Stands can be upgraded! Although we do-" You cut yourself off suddenly, eyes zoned out.

You didn't say anything, just stared into the endless expanse of sand and heat. It was Kakyoin who spoke up first.

"Y/n? Are you alright?"

You snapped out of your trance with a start. "I FORGOT TO FEED MY FISH SHIT SEND ME BACK!"

Your sudden outburst sent Polnareff jumping back into Mr. Joestar, your attention dragged to him as his face dropped from confusion to somber defeat.

You picked up on the nervous weight shifts and glances away. You tried to look back at the man who brought you here, only for Mr. Joestar to clear his throat, bringing the attention back to him. He fumbled with his words a bit, trying to justify the shift in attention, but he ultimately failed.

"Oh ho no, I see what's going on," You said after Mr. Joestar gave up on trying to explain. "This fuck-" a pointed finger towards the corpse behind you, "was my only ticket back to the future?"

"Well no. Technic-" You cut the older man off.

"'Uh well no'," you mocked. "Lemme guess, he would've been the easiest way?"

"Now, Miss Y/n, there is no need to be so aggressive. I'm sure we can figure everything out. Our enemy, DIO, has a lackey-" 

You cut Avdol off as well.

"DIO? God? In Italian? What kind of narcissist names their kid 'God' in Italian?"

You gave a snort before falling into a fit of mocking laughter. Your humor was short lived, though, as Jotaro finally spoke up. Or shouted I guess.

"Can you shut up? Good grief, all you do is yap! God, all you women are the same."

You stopped your laughter to stare at the teen clad in black, sizing him up. It was a tense couple of minutes, an unstoppable force and an unmovable object locked in a stubborn standoff.

After a bit, you let out a chuckle and let your head fall back to face the sky.  You watched the clouds for a second before sighing.

"You know, Joots," You catch him visibly tense from the nickname. "I see why you become a marine biologist in the future. The ocean is powerful and terrifying. It's been like that from the beginning. My friend often describes me like the ocean, although, unlike the tides, who have decided to kill you millions of years ago," You bring your hand up near your face before clenching it into a fist, shimmering from the effects of your Stand. "I still haven't made up my mind."

Jotaro's face turns sour in fear for a split second before returning to the default steely glare. You watched in amusement as his Stand began to manifest, but the hesitation you saw in the purple being's eyes told you all you needed to know.

Jotaro was, at the very least, cautious of you.

But also curious.

You managed to make full contact with Hierophant Green, something no one can do unless a Stand is initiating the contact. Kakyoin also couldn't see you, so how could it've climbed up you? Stand don't act on their own violations.

You also mentioned the future Jotaro. He becomes a marine biologist? And one famous enough to be known by teenagers? Jotaro can't even name a famous marine biologist.

He figured killing you know would be disastrous, there was still much to learn from you. Maybe you held knowledge that once came with hindsight.

"Nice to see we're in agreement." Jotaro gruffed out, allowing Star Platinum to fully dissipate.

A small smile graced your features as you extended the same hand you threatened him with.

"Well then, a truce. Until we decide to kill each other." 

Jotaro nodded and took your hand, allowing a handshake to secure your mortalities.

For now.

"MON DIEU! I THOUGHT SHE WAS DEAD!" Polnareff wailed suddenly, startling the group.

Tension rolled off all of you as Avdol let out a sigh of relief. "I am quite surprised you are alive as well. Not many people can insult Jotaro and walk away intact, Y/n."

You chuckled and waved off the man's concern. "I may only have six brain cells, but I'm not stupid. He wouldn't do shit. Not without knowing what I can do."

"Is that so?" Jotaro let a small smirk slip out. It's hard not to grin when you were acting stupid.

You nodded and hummed in agreement. "I like to think I'm good at reading people."

Jotaro only scoffed and rolled his eyes, although there was an inset glimmer of amusement deep with those cerulean orbs.

"So what exactly does your Stand do?" Mr. Joestar asked the elephant in the room.

"Hmm? Oh, my Stand. Okay, so, here's the thing. My Stand is actually really weak." You confessed.

"My Stand, Chemical Romance, is only really good for getting info from people. I'm often called in to the Speedwagon Foundation to help with interrogations. My Stand allows me to talk to and understand other Stands. All those unintelligible noises your Stand makes are actually your soul trying to communicate, and Chem translates them for me. Even silent Stands or Stands with no humanoid form." You glanced at Mr. Joestar. "I can also touch and interact with them, like I did for Hierophant Green. Also, and we think this might just be a radius effect, but Stands become more sentient around me. They think for themselves."

And….. just like that you lost them. It's hard to understand  such complex Stands when all they know is Many Punch, Tasteful Nudes, French Sword, Fire Bird, and Shiny Rock.

"So… You can't actually follow through with your previous threats?" Kakyoin asked cautiously.

"Excuse you! Just who in the hell do you think you are? I am a whole ass person shaped can of whoop ass and no weak ass Stand or Death Parade wannabe looking ass is going to beat me!" You pumped your fist in the air again.

"Whew- That's the sort of can-do attitude our team needs." Mr. Joestar chuckled. "Wait, that wouldn't be a bad idea!"

"Oh ho? Does the great Joseph Joestar have an idea? Careful, Old Man, thinking can hurt ya." You joked.

"No no no no no hear me out. You need to get back to the future, we need to stop DIO from murdering everybody and taking over the world." Mr. Joestar explained. "We both have to get to Cairo for DIO! Join us! You and your Stand are really useful!"

Surprise crossed your face before slipping back to its usual cool façade.

"Nah, I was kind of digging the idea of shriveling up dead in the desert. Although~" you drawled. "I guess, if you're so desperate for my help. It would be immoral for me not to help you, you're so old, even thinking about fighting DIO is going to trigger a heart attack."

You snorted out a laugh and Mr. Joestar did chuckle a bit before you realized something.

"Sooo. Who exactly DIO? Other than some bitch who wants to take over the world." 

As quickly as a light flicking out of existence, the once humorous and airy atmosphere of the group became tense and tragic. The utter rage, disgust, and hatred for this mysterious man was palpable. Even the fun and boisterous Jean-Pierre Polnareff extruded murderous intent.

"DIO is a very bad man." Avdol broke the silence, but found himself unable to say more.

"Thanks for the life lesson, Dad," you spit sarcastically. "No. Who is he and what might he have done to sound so familiar."

"DIO is a monster that was created by greed and a lust for power. He is a vampire who ruthlessly slaughtered those who took him in when he was orphaned at the age of twelve." Mr. Joestar explained grimly. "He rejected his humanity to become something monstrous and immortal, but even now, that wasn't enough for him."

"He's notorious throughout the Speedwagon Foundation, whose founder fought him a hundred years ago. I wouldn't doubt it if his story still circulated in your years, Y/n." Avdol completed.

"All of us are here now because of DIO. Polnareff and I were under his control because of a flesh bud, Advol was almost conned into the same situation, and Jotaro's mother, Joseph's daughter, is under attack by her own Stand because it was forcibly awoken by him." Kakyoin said, then shot you a soft smile. "And I guess you as well."

"Oh yeah! Eli did mention they were looking for a girl who could strengthen DIO's Stand, so I guess he is why you're here!" Polnareff's smile returned to his face at the prospect of making a new friend who was in the same boat as them.

"Y'know, think back on it, I do vaguely remember my friend mentioning your mom, Joots." That damned nickname again. "Stand Sickness is what we call it now. That might be where I know DIO from." You shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. "Anywho, now that that's settled, can we get out of the desert? I'm roasting to death."

"Oh! Of course! We have to get to the next town before nightfall anyways. To the car!" Mr. Joestar cheered.

You all piled into the three rowed vehicle. Jotaro and Polnareff sat in the way back, you and Kakyoin sat in the middle, with Mr. Joestar and Avdol occupying the front.

The road to the next town was filled with fill ins. They explained how they came together and how they defeated their foes that found them at every turn. You spoke of how the world has changed and advanced. You showed them your music and all the apps on your phone. You found that you were still connected to your home wifi at full strength, but you couldn't comment or post anything. All true contact to those in the future was cut off, but you could still consume media.

As the dust and corpse was left behind, you could feel the newly forged bonds between you and the men around you strengthen and grow, becoming more entangled and intertwined. And you felt happy about it.

[rashamonarchive1]

sigma genshin impact verse;

sigma is born in a waste of ice and snow. a place he’d come to know as the cold and distant snezhnaya in the world of teyvat. he’s quickly herded into custody by a fatui outpost, the news of his existence rises through the ranks as steady and as certainly as steam on dragonspine. sigma is trafficked for a time, his apparently unique “vision” attracts danger, all those who wish to use it. sigma is easily no one and nothing at all, he obeys every command. with no idea where he came from, one question takes precedent above all else; a boat ticket in his pocket, to a place that has yet to exist to anyone but him, seemingly nowhere. alas, when he asks his question of the snezhnayan’s, the polearm blade against his jugular silences him. 

he learns from there by listening, by touching. consuming every memory around him as if they would fill his empty stomach, desperately, as a starving man. his experience is hardly his own, the world is cold and grim and the little warmth it had was anywhere but here. the knowledge of his existence has him recaptured from his dingy cells and long chain bound walks from camp to camp. the fatui harbingers know full well of the successful experiment brought about by curious underlings. written into the page of a book, belonging to one dendro archon. mystically repossessed, or perhaps placed into the hands of mischievous fatui. like this, sigma had been written into existence. his use is knowledge, through touch he can exchange information through memories. one of his for one of theirs. the network of fatui find his ability irreplaceable. with a gun to his head and no where to go, sigma has no reason not to obey. that is until a brief moment presents itself. a window opens and something unknown spawns inside him, he leaps out of it with reckless abandon and finds himself fleeing for his life. somehow he manages to escape, only to find himself lost again. a man without purpose, with absolutely nowhere to call home.

he finds himself drawn to the warmth of liyue, directed to the harbor when the answers to his question send him there. the large boats at sea, none of them had dispensed such a ticket as the one sigma had been hoping to match. in liyue harbor is where sigma is repossessed by the qixing authorities. a stony woman seems to understand who he is without ever having met him before, she offers him an ultimatum. a place managing day to day administration on the acclaimed jade chamber. sigma is enthralled by the offer, someplace so beautiful to work with a purpose. he dedicates himself obsessively to his work while dissociating through interruptions when he is instructed to extract information at the qixing behest. 

other than the looming threat of harm, the liyue people are kind, and the atmosphere is warm. sigma would do anything for his masters even if they wouldn’t do the same for him. this is until the jade chamber comes under attack, sigma comes face to face with a fatui agent. in the same breath, he’s swiftly struck in the chest with a polearm and sent over the edge of the chamber. he falls for so long he’s sure he’s going to die. yet somehow he doesn’t meet the ground with a violent crash but a wind carries him like a feather until he’s tumbling through rough grass. he watches from the ground as his home is sacrificed by ningguang. once again, sigma is lost, unsure of why he survived, why he’s even alive in the first place.

it’s not long before he meets another traveler, one with far more direction, who saves him from a boisterous gang of hilichurls. the traveler and paimon greet him kindly while they walk together to the next town which happens to be both their destination. sigma confides about some of his past, how he recognizes them from the chamber, how he’s looking for new work and a place to call home. the traveler and paimon eagerly offer solutions to his problem, suggesting to bring him to a certain winery they happened to know of. sigma, with no plan stretching further than the small village, accepts their generous offer and follows them to the dawn winery where he’s introduced to the master of the establishment, diluc ragnvindr ( @dawnwine ). the traveler and paimon somehow convince the master to offer sigma a job. without knowing of his past or his ability, sigma accepts the new position thinking perhaps the secret can be his to keep alone.

[alexsmitposts]

“Warrior” Steve Bannon Arrested as Trump’s America is Crumbling It often happens this way: extreme right-wingers, or call them ‘ultra-conservatives,’ either in the United States or Europe, suddenly fall from grace, after committing the most heinous crimes. Sometimes it is child abuse or sexual harassment, but most of the time, it is a corruption of tremendous proportions. In theory, in their own theory, it is not supposed to be this way. Listen to the conservatives, and they will tell you that they are there in order to uphold law and order, as well as the traditional culture of their countries. But the reality is often very far from the theory. Steve Bannon has fallen. He has fallen hard, flat on his face. But definitely not as hard, as others would fall, would they commit crimes of similar magnitude. Steve Bannon was actually not caught and charged with trying to ignite the WWIII or conspiring to overthrow the left-wing governments all over the world. He was not charged with an attempt to destroy China. He was arrested ‘only’ on charges of ‘defrauding investors,’ together with his cohort Brian Kolfage. On 28 August, CNN reported: “Kolfage was arrested last week, along with Bannon and two others, and charged by the US Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York with defrauding investors out of hundreds of thousands of dollars a project pledging to construct a wall along the southern US border. He is due to be arraigned on the charges on Monday in a video court appearance.” In February 2020, I wrote for NEO: “Steve Bannon, a former White House strategist and Breitbart editor, was finally kicked out of an Italian monastery, which even Newsweek wittily described as a “far-right boot camp.” Or, as even some of the Western mainstream media outlets defined it – a modern ‘gladiator’s school.’ The monastery was supposed to offer “classes,” which Bannon described as “the kind of underpinnings of the Judeo-Christian West.” That, for already quite some time, means ‘insulting and antagonizing China,’ as well as several other nations which the Western extremist and often openly racist ideologues have been depicting as hostile to the US and European hegemonic interests. Some of those who oppose Bannon’s radical political stands are now bringing vast charges against him, but legal and moral, and such charges are ranging from pushing the United States towards the war with the People’s Republic of China to interfering with internal affairs of other countries, including those in Europe. There are other, unsavory accusations against the former White House strategist and a close ally of President Donald Trump: child abuse and enormous corruption. The question is: how could the individual against whom so many accusative fingers are pointed at, survive at the top of the establishment for so many years, in so many different roles and positions? Yes, he gets kicked out from places: first from the White House, then from the “gladiator booth camp,” and finally from the luxury yacht belonging to an anti-Beijing apostate. But somehow, he always manages to bounce back. Until now. Hopefully, for not much longer. *** Alarms should have been ringing for so many years. But were they? If yes, no one has been paying much attention. As early as in 2016, even an extreme right-wing FOX News picked up Associated Press report which was accusing Bannon of anti-Semitism: “In a sworn court declaration following their divorce, Piccard said her ex-husband had objected to sending their twin daughters to an elite Los Angeles academy because he “didn’t want the girls going to school with Jews.” “He said he doesn’t like Jews…” In August 2019, Mail Online raised an alarming issue, connecting Mr. Bannon with an accused child sex trafficker George Nader: “A convicted pedophile visited Donald Trump’s White House on at least 13 different occasions in 2017 to meet with then-chief strategist Steve Bannon, according to leaked visitor logs. George Nader, who has been convicted of sexually abusing young boys and is now in federal prison awaiting trial on child sex trafficking charges, first visited Bannon in the White House in February 2017, the month after Trump’s inauguration, the Washington Examiner reported. After that, he kept visiting Bannon, who had a West Wing office yards from the Oval Office, the leaked visitor logs revealed, but it isn’t clear if he entertained Nader in his office or somewhere else in the White House. The revelation raises serious questions about how a convicted pedophile could be allowed entry repeatedly to the White House. The Secret Service is responsible for carrying out background checks of all visitors.”   The “revelation” also raises questions about whether there have been two tiers of justice: one for the common US citizens, and another one for those who are levitating in the highest spheres of, mainly right-wing, power. Steve Bannon was also apparently giving false testimonies under oath, related to the Wikileaks and Julian Assange. And if one would think that Steve Bannon is ‘only’ anti-Semitic, then what about his deep allergy towards the Muslims; and the support for the Trump’s so-called “Muslim ban” and keeping out from the United States all those “bad people” (meaning non-whites and non-Christians)? His obsession with the wall between the US and Mexico is, of course, related to the “topic.” *** But who would be Steve Bannon without China? He is hatred impersonated against China. As for his fellow right-wing crusaders, like Peter Navarro, Marco Rubio, and Mike Pompeo, China is always ‘there,’ in the middle of vile speeches, dragged through the dirt, belittled. Steeper and faster is a decline of the American Eagle, more confident is an ascend of the Chinese Dragon, louder, more desperate, and bizarre is the anti-Chinese rhetoric of the pro-Western warriors, led by Steve Bannon and his mates. On 08 June 2020, AntiWar.com described something that would be unimaginable just several years ago, but what is turning into a norm, under the present White House administration: “New Yorkers looked to the sky in puzzlement the night of 03 June as a fleet of airplanes circled New York Harbor with banners that read “Congratulations New Federal State of China.” Behind the bizarre stunt was exiled Chinese billionaire Guo Wengui and former White House Chief Strategist Steve Bannon. The duo deemed the Chinese Communist Party illegitimate and declared a new state of China from a boat floating in front of the Statue of Liberty. In a live stream, Guo and Bannon read the Chinese and English versions of “A Declaration of the New Federal State of China,” a document that lays out their fantastical plan to take out the CCP and form a Western-style democracy in China. The live stream aired in China on 04 June, which marked the 31st anniversary of the Tiananmen Square protests and crackdown in Beijing. “The Chinese Communist Party is a terrorist organization funded by the Communist International which has subverted the legitimate Chinese government in the past,” the document declares.” Would this be done the other way around, like if the People’s Republic of China declared the United States of America a terrorist genocidal and illegitimate state, because it exterminated most of its native population, forced slaves from Africa onto its territory, and then massacred tens of millions of people on all continents of the world, that would be surely considered a declaration of war. But obviously, the US and its leadership are truly ‘spoiled’; they are used to getting away, literally, with a murder. Or with a war. Steve Bannon has been twisting the narrative on basically everything that is related to China, from Xinjiang to the South China Sea, an extremist religious cult such as Falun Gong, recent historical events, Chinese Revolution, and the leadership of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). He and his cohorts are fanatically anti-Communist, as they are outrageously racist. The danger of Bannon lies in the fact that he is an integral part of the extreme right-wing network, which is now spreading from Europe to India, from North and South America to Asia. He is its product, as well as its maker. Whoever is confronting China is his ally: from India’s Modi to Donald Trump. Or all those West-backed rioters and the anti-Beijing individuals like Elmer Yuen Gong Yi. In fact, the Hong Kong riots are direct results of the activities of Steve Bannon and his mates. If they are not stopped, there really may be a war. But that does not frighten Steve Bannon. He has nothing against a war. He desired a war. He is igniting it. Like the crusaders of the middle ages, he thrives on expansions and the conflicts. Forbes reported, somehow sarcastically, on 20 August 2020: “The yacht former white house senior advisor Steve Bannon was arrested on recently is the 152-foot-long Feadship Lady May that’s reportedly owned by Guo Wengui, an exiled Chinese billionaire who has business ties with Bannon. And it’s for sale.” It is all very symbolic. It is shocking. But at least the man who did so much harm to the world, and who has been pushing his country towards direct confrontation with the most populous nation on earth, is under arrest, although presently released on $5 million bail. Associated Press reported on 24 August 2020: “US District Judge Analisa Torres said President Donald Trump’s former chief strategist can appear in her court along with three co-defendants on a video screen because of the health threat posed by the coronavirus.” A lenient treatment. But logical; shockingly, Mr. Bannon is not seen as a delinquent by the US establishment. To many, he is just a pro-Western, pro-Christian, pro-right-wing warrior. As he himself so proudly declares he is.

[sweetteaanddragons]

So I should be writing time travel AUs right now, but I wasn’t in the mood today. Let’s look at a travel AU of another sort:

The sea is vast, and Earendil’s boat is small upon it. Elwing flies on and on and never sees him. The Silmaril gives her strength to fly on until she collapses, alone, on the beaches of Aman.

Ulmo returns her to her human state. The moment he does, Elwing breaks with sobs for all the lost: her children, her husband, and her brothers, so long ago. So many people have vanished, never to return.

Then she picks herself up and marches toward what she hopes is civilization.

Earendil sails desperately. He knows what fate eventually awaits his family if he fails.

But he cannot sail forever. The warning in his heart and the state of their supplies agree; they must return.

Before they even reach the shore, it is apparent that they have come too late.

The city is burned. Dead. From the looks of things, it has been for months now.

They all search for their families, but the search is in vain. Even the dead have been cleared away.

Only one group of elves remains that would do that, so, with heavy hearts, they return to the boat and head for the Isle of Balar.

Earendil listens to Gil-Galad’s account of what befell the Havens. “And my wife?” he asks, his hands holding with a white knuckle grip to the back of the chair he refused to sit down in. “My sons?”

“Survivors report seeing a woman with a blazing gem fall from your tower,” Gil-Galad says quietly.

She could not have been pushed; the sons of Feanor would have claimed the gem first if that had been the case. Earendil chooses to believe she fell. If she jumped . . . 

His wife is more Elf than Man. It is likely she will fall under the fate of the Elves, and it is said Mandos will not release those slain by their own hand. He has to believe she fell. It so easily could have happened. If the Feanorians had approached her with drawn swords, she would have retreated, and it would have been easy to forget her surroundings and retreat too far.

Yes. That must be what had happened.

“My sons?” he croaks.

“They were not among the fallen, and we looked long. We believe they are still alive,” Gil-Galad assures him.

“But you do not have them.”

Gil-Galad hesitates. “No.”

Then the sons of Feanor hold them. 

They must. They must still hold them. They cannot have taken them only to abandon them in the woods like his wife’s brothers. They cannot have grown weary of fearful, crying children and abandoned them. They cannot have decided there was not enough food to go around in the cold winter months.

Please, he begs the Valar, please, whatever pity remains in their hearts, let it have been enough for this. Let it hold just a little longer.

“Where were the Feanorians last seen?” he asks.

“You cannot mean to go after them,” Gil-Galad says. “Well do I understand the urge, but you have responsibilities here.”

“You do not understand,” Earendil says flatly. “They are not your sons. You are handling the people well enough. I have no confidence that the sons of Feanor are showing the same concern for my sons. Where are they?”

Gil-Galad has little more than rumor. Earendil nods his head and goes to prepare to depart.

His companions each have at least one member of their family that yet lives, so Earendil insists that they remain behind. He goes alone.

The search is long and hard. He has only rumor to follow, and little enough of that. The search drags on four years before he at last catches the trail.

He has no men with him to attack the camp, even if he dared with his sons still inside it. Instead, he continues to trail after them, trusting the forest to hide him.

Fortune favors him. He has been following for only a few days when an opportunity comes.

He has stopped beside a pool that has not yet fallen to Morgoth’s foul poison when the laughter of children suddenly rings through the woods.

Earendil’s head whips toward the sound.

A moment later, two young boys burst from the trees. The pool must have been their goal, but they freeze when they see him.

“Elrond,” he says hoarsely. “Elros.”

It has been so long since he has seen them that he is ashamed to admit to himself that he doesn’t know which is which.

The boys back away from him, fear evident in their eyes.

“It’s alright,” he says, rising slowly. “It’s alright, you’re safe now.” He steps forward.

That’s when an elf in Feanorian red bursts from the trees. Earendil draws his sword without another thought. “Behind me!” he shouts, but the boys don’t listen.

There is a stranger with the twins, and he has drawn a sword. That’s really all Maglor needs to know to draw his own. “Back to the camp, now!” he shouts. This section of woods is safe enough, and far better for them to run through it alone towards safety than to linger here in whatever strange trap the Enemy has left.

The twins vanish, and he feels a moment of relief. At ten, they are starting to insist that they are old enough not just to be trained but to participate in fights, and Maglor has no intention of allowing it.

That’s all he has time to think before the stranger is upon him.

The stranger is an elf, he realizes quickly as they duel, and he does not bear the marks of thralldom on him. 

Not, of course, that an elf would have to be a thrall to hate a son of Feanor.

Still, Maglor tries to reason with him when the battle leaves him enough breath. “Peace! Why should we do the Enemy’s work for him?”

“You stole my sons,” the elf growls, and -

Oh.

Maglor stumbles at this unexpected piece of information, and Earendil takes full advantage of the opportunity to knock him to the ground and swing his sword down towards Maglor’s throat.

“No!” twin voices cry, and Maglor watches in horror as the twins, having lingered after all, launch themselves out of the trees with their daggers in hand.

Earendil flinches, sword automatically moving away from Maglor towards the noise, but he is not half-prepared for this as Maglor is. He will not react in time.

If Maglor lets those blows land, it will be the worst thing he has ever done.

He launches himself between them, and the twins cannot halt themselves in time. One blade lodges in his upper arm. The other grazes his side. They at least managed to turn their blades away.

He ignores the pain. “Peace,” he tells them. “Peace. You have no enemies here.”

“He was about to kill you,” Elros argues, glaring warily at Earendil, blade still in his hand. “Elrond?”

Elrond is already at work, examining the wounds with horrified eyes, putting pressure on the graze and having enough sense not to yet remove the blade in his shoulder. “He’ll be alright,” he says firmly, and considering his own glare at Earendil, that’s as much a threat as it is a promise.

Maglor twists around as best he can. Earendil is staring at them all like he doesn’t understand what just happened, as well he might. Maglor is still reeling from the sudden turn himself.

But it is definitely Earendil. Maglor recognizes a bit of Idril in his face, and he has a strong resemblance to his sons. Even aside from this, he has the distinctive look of a Peredhel.

This is good, Maglor tells himself firmly, and tries to ignore the sudden urge to weep.

He turns his back to Earendil in the hopes that the other man won’t stab him in the back while the children look on and tries to smile for the twins. They should be happy, and he will not ruin this for them. “I told you your father would come for you,” he says, striving for lightness. 

Both of the twins’ eyes go wide.

Elros recovers first. “Yes, and then Maedhros told you that we were too old for comforting lies. He was right. What’s really going on?”

From the corner of his eye, Maglor can see Earendil flinch.

Fortunately, Elrond seems to believe him. “You visited once when we were very small,” he says tentatively. “You brought something.”

“Little toy boats,” Earendil whispers. “I carved them myself.”

Elros’s mouth drops open before he closes it with a snap. His eyes are too bright. “Why did you attack us then?” he demands.

Maglor intercedes quickly. “I am certain his quarrel was with me, not with you.” He pushes himself to his feet, wincing at the pain. Earendil’s eyes flicker between him and the children, plainly unable to look away from either the threat or his family.

“Did mother come too?” Elrond asks in a small voice.

Earendil’s breath catches, and the grief in his eyes turns to fire as he glares at Maglor. “You didn’t tell them?” he demands.

“He didn’t have to tell us,” Elros says. “We were there.” His accusatory voice leaves a clear implication about others who were not. “We saw her turn into a bird - “

“What?” Earendil looks incredulously from his sons to Maglor like he’s expecting some hint that this is a lie Maglor has cooked up to placate them, but Elrond is nodding along.

“A white one,” he adds helpfully. “We thought she would fly back through the window for us, but she flew out to sea instead.” He frowns. “We thought she was going to find you. Is that not what happened?”

“No,” Earendil manages, clearly still not sure what to believe.

Maglor doesn’t blame him.

“So mother’s not coming back,” Elros says. He tries to sound uncaring, but his voice catches. “Are you staying this time?”

“Yes,” Earendil says. “I swear to you - “

“No oaths!” the twins shout in the unison of long practice. 

To his credit, Earendil barely pauses. “I give you my word, I will not leave you willingly again.”

The twins look at each other. After a moment of private communication, they nod.

Maglor tries to tell himself his heart is not sinking. This is for the best. This was always the plan, to give up the children should it ever be safe to do so. That they are almost the sole light left in his life does not matter. That he loves them as if they were his own does not matter. They are not his.

“Everything else can wait until we’re back at camp then,” Elrond decides. 

Earendil looks relieved. Maglor quietly starts to back away.

“We should hurry so that you can get your shoulder looked at,” Elrond adds, looking guiltily at Maglor.

Earendil and Maglor both freeze.

“He’s coming with us?” Earendil asks warily.

“Of course he is,” Elros says in some confusion. “It’s his camp too, and there’s no sense in the four of us heading there separately.”

Maglor and Earendil look at each other. The moment hangs somewhat awkwardly.

“I believe your father meant to take you back to his camp,” Maglor finally manages to say.

Elrond frowns at his father. “I know you may have things to gather, but surely it can wait until Maglor is tended to?”

And with yet another sinking feeling, Maglor surveys the confusion present on both of their faces and realizes that the twins truly do not understand.

It’s Earendil’s job to explain, he decides, swaying a little. Rations have been short, and his have been shorter as he has given up as much as he dares to make sure the twins will have enough, and the blood loss has destroyed this delicate balance.

Elrond notices and is at his side in an instant. 

“It’s this way,” Elros tells his father before darting ahead to lead the way into the trees.

As he passes, Maglor catches a familiar glint in Elros’s eyes, and with sudden suspicion he looks down into Elrond’s too innocent face.

He is beginning to suspect the twins understand after all, but at the moment, neither he nor Earendil is in much position to argue their far more reasonable points.

[mllemaenad]

'Imagine your children growing up in such a world. If a mage asked it of you, you would have to give him your daughter, not knowing what his plans for her might be. You could not resist him, and neither could she.' - Sorry, this line particularly came to my attention because take away magic and this? Is exactly what happens in the Tabris origin. And to that one Orlesian merchant in Denerim in DA:O. And probably to any number of peasant/elven girls at the hands of nobles every day across Thedas.

No need to be sorry. :)

You’re right. Absolutely.

The thing is – take this in context. This is an answer written by a grand cleric to a nobleman who seems (we don’t have his side of the conversation, obviously, so we can only infer from the substance of the reply) to have been challenging the Chantry’s treatment of mages. If you look at it like that, then what the grand cleric is describing is what happens to almost every mage child in southern Thedas.

Armed men come to your door and take your child away. You have no right to say no. And you have no idea what they’re going to do with them. They may take your child to a Circle across the sea. They may murder them. They may make them Tranquil. They may rape them, beat them, torture them. Maybe you’ll be lucky: maybe your kid is Vivienne or one of the Warden mages. Maybe they’ll do okay.

But you don’t know. And you can’t tell the Templars to go away; that they can’t have your child. They live in a world where this happens to parents every day.

It’s almost too much to imagine. The Circle, the Templars, they’ve shaped my life. I was no more than twelve when they came for me. My mother wept when they fixed the chains to my wrists, but my father was glad to see me gone. He had been afraid, ever since the fire in the barn. Not just afraid of what I could do, but afraid of me, afraid my magic was punishment for whatever petty sins he imagined the Maker sat in judgement upon.

– Anders (short story)

Anders’s mum couldn’t say no. Maybe she wanted to. At bare minimum, it sounds as though she didn’t want to lose her son forever. But that’s what happened. Little Ella is desperate to get back to her parents, because the Templars didn’t even tell them where they were taking her – and when we encounter her, a Templar is threatening her with Tranquillity and strongly implied sexual assault.

Wynne gave birth to a healthy baby boy, whom she was allowed one day with before he was taken into Chantry custody. The child, who was names Rhys, was taken to Lydes and from there transferred to the White Spire in Orlais when it was discovered that he, too, was a mage.

– World of Thedas I

They kidnapped a newborn baby and took him to a different damn country. It took decades, and fighting an archdemon, for Wynne to even get the chance to find him again.

Dulci de Launcet was lucky: she’s a noble, so she at least had letters and some general idea of where her kid was, but she hadn’t laid eyes on her son since he was six.

Yeah. Good fucking job, Chantry. You really solved the problem of powerful people coming to your door to abduct your children.

But while, yes, given the context of the letter I think the irony is best understood in relation to mages, I definitely think it can be expanded upon:

The demon had impersonated the human man who had bought her from the slavers that took her in after her father died. She’d had no idea back then who those kind men really were, only that they offered her food and a warm bed to sleep in. Then an even kinder man came to take her from them, and she found herself in his luxurious home and thought herself the luckiest girl in the entire alienage.

How very naive she had been. Count Dorian, as she learned her new master’s name to be, had been in search of an elven whore he could keep as a pet, something he could put in a pretty dress and bring with him on one of his many trips to the capital, like baggage.

– Dragon Age: The Calling

Ah, look. The exact scenario Grand Cleric Francesca was fear-mongering about. A little girl abducted, enslaved and sold to a nobleman who abused and tortured her. Yes, a mage-child as it happens, but that wasn’t apparent at the time. Fiona was vulnerable because she was an elf – an orphaned elf considered expendable by society.

“What they wish is irrelevant.” Celene turned and stalked away from the window. “I am already fighting a war on two fronts. I cannot be seen to fight a war on three.”

“Then don’t.” Briala rose, putting herself in Celene’s path. “Give them justice.”

“A lord for the death of an elf? I … damn this thing.”

With a quick jerk, Celene tore her mask from her face. Her face was flushed beneath, her eyes red from another night of little sleep. “Shall I declare the elves equal citizens before the Maker and the throne as well, while I’m at it?”

“Why not?” Briala took her own mask off, stealing a quick moment to steady herself. “Unless you don’t believe that, and I’m just a jumped-up kitchen slut you haven’t tired of yet.

– Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

Or here: a revolt that ends in genocide, and that begins because it is unthinkable that they arrest a nobleman for murdering an elf. The victim’s name was Lemet. He was killed shielding an eight-year-old boy who threw a rock at a carriage. And the boy said he did it because his mother had been murdered by Orlesian nobility:

“They killed my mother,” the boy said, pulling against Lemet’s grip.

“Be quiet.” Lemet looked back at the coach and heard its joints creak as the guards jumped down to the street. The driver would want to have that oiled, some part of Lemet’s mind noted.

“They can’t come down this street after what they did to her,” the boy insisted. “They can’t!”

– Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

Or this, where soldiers rob, rape and murder their own citizens in the midst of a civil war:

“Two days ago, Lady Seryl’s men rode in and cur down every man and woman working the fields. Killed our guards, killed everyone in the village square. When they finished killing the other soldiers, they fired arrows out onto the water, killed most of our boys in the boats. They took all the food they could find. They spent the night.” A collective flinch splashed across the crowd. “Said we had been assisting enemies of the throne, that this was a lesson to anyone who’d help Gaspard’s men.” At the last, his voice broke. “My lord, I don’t even know who Gaspard is.”

– Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

Or the serial killer who is repeatedly allowed to walk free because he’s a magistrate’s son, and he targets elven children. Or the elven boys who fled to the Qun because a guard raped their sister – no one would arrest him, so they took matters into their own hands.

And yes, of course, you see the exact same thing in Ferelden in the alienage.

I’m sure everyone feels so much safer now they’ve locked up all the mages.

Orlais’s crimes don’t excuse Tevinter’s. That’s where they went wrong with Dorian’s … painful dialogue on slavery. You can’t point to the horrors of Orlesian society and therefore suggest that the Tevinter slave trade is not that awful. It doesn’t work like that. What you can do, though, is say that Tevinter’s crimes don’t excuse Orlais’s – particularly when they tend to do exactly the same shit:

Slavery still thrives in Thedas, even if the trade has been outlawed. Who hasn’t heard the tales of poverty-stricken elves lured into ships by the prospect of well-paying jobs in Antiva, only to find themselves clapped in leg-irons once at sea? And humans fall prey to this, too.

If they’re lucky, they end up in Orlais, which has only “servants.” Most nobles treat them decently because they are afraid of admitting the truth. Orlesians go to great lengths to maintain the fiction that slavery is illegal.

Of course, the greatest consumer of slave labor is the Tevinter Imperium, which would surely crumble if not for the endless supply of slaves from all over the continent. There, they are meat, chattel. They are beaten, used as fodder in the endless war against the Qunari, and even serve as components in dark magic rituals.

—From Black City, Black Divine: A Study of the Tevinter Imperium, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

– Slavery in the Tevinter Imperium

Fiona is not an anomaly: Orlais kidnaps and sells people into slavery, too.

And this makes sense. Fantasy always draws on the real world, even if they mix and match the cultures and historical periods a bit. So, just like in the real world, you generally have to take anything the wealthy and powerful say with a grain of salt.

The Chantry has a very specific, empire building, agenda. It makes much of problems that aren’t really problems (demons and abominations are not widespread threats, and both are poorly understood); it pins the blame for actual crises on oppressed groups (the Blight is in no way the fault of this random peasant mage from Antiva); it uses racism and religious intolerance to create in- and out-groups (elves [and dwarves, but we haven’t conquered them yet] are degenerate heathens who are preventing the Maker from returning).

As much as I love Dragon Age, what Bioware does sometimes that is … uncomfortable … to use a mild word, is that it lets the powerful rule the narrative. Inquisition is worst at this, because it presents strong voices for people like Cassandra and Cullen, who stick fairly close to the party line. And then it takes characters like Varric and Sera, and distances them from their own cultures … which is fine for individuals but awkward when we’re not letting Briala or Fiona say much either – and where the fuck is Sigrun? No one’s spoken for Orzammar’s casteless since Awakening. But it’s there, to some extent, in all the games.

So the point, always, is that mages and Circles are misdirection. Mages are scapegoats in the Chantry faith who are held responsible for all the bad things, and represent a pretend evil nobility that the Orlesian Chantry is keeping under control.

But the actual problems of this fantasy world are more or less the same as the problems of the real world: powerful nations dominate the continent and force others to bow to their whims and adopt their culture, because empires are just shit; the rich and powerful hoard all the rights to themselves, and can do damn near anything to the poor – particularly where the poor are part of a marginalised group.

What Orlais doesn’t want people to realise is that they are Tevinter. It was never the mages that were the problem, it was the absolute power the Tevinter magisters held over their slaves – a power now held mostly by the Orlesian nobility, who use it in pretty much the same way. Not exclusively, no: of course the nobility of other nations can be, and bloody are, evil fucks. But even there, the Chantry view helps to obscure the truth: you should be scared of empires and those who rule them. Much more scared than you are of a possessed mage.

[doorsclosingslowly]

Your death is a number but I cannot count that high (5/?)

In which conclusions are drawn. Some of them are even accurate.

Zombie Savage AU | 2.1k | canon divergent after Son of Dathomir | also on AO3

This Darth Maul is a far cry from the angry stalking beast of Raydonia. He’s quiet, for starters. He’s lost his shadow. He looks much older, too; the man standing before her in the busy landing bay of the massive Mandalorian cruiser has aged far beyond the mere months it’s been since they last saw each other, when Asajj saved Obi-Wan Kenobi from two raving monsters.

He’s not gaunt, but close. Ribs peek out shamelessly from his open tunic. Like all nightbrothers that Asajj has ever seen apart from fucking Savage Opress after his faulty upgrade, Maul’s never been much more than lean muscle, though she always attributed that to his exile, and for the others, to the scarce harsh landscape of Dathomir. To the tributes they paid to her clan, instead of eating. Perhaps the males were just bred for thinness, though.

After all, Maul apparently now commands Mandalore, or the terrorist army occupying it, depending on who’s asked. By all rights, he should have put on weight instead of losing what little he had. He owns luxuries, now.

He should look better.

That he doesn’t fills Asajj with quiet satisfaction. It strengthens her hopes: she did not want to come, but apparently, she was right.

A wreck. That’s what he is now. A sickly green tinge to his red face, and he’s barely more than spat-out garbage, even though Sidious apparently still couldn’t kill him. He’s slouched and finely trembling and stubbornly upright, a purple-armored Mando close by his side, arms ready to catch him should he fall. Not a warlord, but a has-been tolerated for his former glories—if there were any—and Asajj tucks the fault line close. It may prove useful. He must be weak indeed to tolerate this display.

If it wasn’t for his black markings, there would be deep sleepless bruises visible under his eyes, because surely, his recent nights have been just as restless as Asajj’s. He’s probably got the pounding headache, too. The alien revulsions. The hallucinations. The second-hand death wish.

Savage Opress is Maul’s apprentice, like he is Asajj’s mate.

They’re in the same boat now.

No, not boat. They’re tied to the same karking boulder. The same force bond, driving them both slowly insane. If anyone else has been subjected to the strange, constant psychic assault of nonexistent things wriggling under her skin that she finally managed to trace to that as yet unbroken mental connection, it’s Maul.

Despite all this, he is also saner, more controlled, than she has ever seen him. Open hatred in his eyes and a hand tapping nervously against the hilt of the lightsaber dangling from his belt, but apart from that, he is still. Silent. Waiting. Empty. Glowing—

Green.

The longing hits Asajj so strongly it almost bowls her over. Green, and she recognizes it now: faint green traces on Maul, like her Sisters’ magicks. Light, slowly leaking out.

He looks utterly miserable.

Asajj doesn’t pity him. Wouldn’t even be tempted. Maul brought this pain down on himself, and on all their heads. He let Savage loose. He… Asajj bares her teeth, and the pathetic handcuffs fall. She reins herself in. He is bathed in their magicks now, but he killed them. Maul brought Sidious to Dathomir. Every day still, unforgotten—unforgettable screams ring through Asajj’s mind, the last desperate pleas of the Nightsister witches before their annihilation, of Asajj’s family, and that’s not even the worst problem. It’s not what brings her here. She could have coped, if it was just death-screams. Asajj mourns her people. That makes sense. The other thoughts, though…

(There would be no sleep tonight, Asajj decided when the last Sister’s cry had hushed. She knew how it went. She had been abandoned by Hal’Sted—and good fucking riddance—by Master Narec, by Dooku, and now her clan was gone too. It would be unwise to sleep. Instead, she threw knives at the wall and collected them and threw them again in moving meditation, until all was still inside and action automatic. She sank into the force.

Then, after uncounted hours, faces came to her. Not her family’s. Instead, patterned horned faces she did not care about. Maul, laughing and whispering instructions and begging her desperately to stay alive; other nightbrothers; and over and over, a small orange-skinned maleling that was vaguely familiar. They were faces she didn’t care for, or ones she hated—this was all Maul’s fault, something awake and outside knew—but she mourned them. Each face was the loss of an entire life, a world that could have been. She cried. I am alone now, she thought. All of my brothers are dead.

Let me die, Mother.

When Asajj realized her mind had been hijacked and fought her way back to the surface, she had already cut through her vambrace and deep into her arm.)

The other thoughts are foreign thoughts. They’re not her, for all they take control as soon as her attention lapses. They’re intrusions. Hallucinations. Concerns she’s never had, or not for a very long time. Asajj has been alone, abandoned, for most her life. She’s dealt with the pain. She’s beaten it long ago. She has emerged, powerful and vicious and the master of her own destiny.

Still, the other thoughts are impossible to get rid of, relentless despite and because of their absurdity—She remade me and I cannot die—and they had mystified Asajj, terrified her, until she’d finally remembered after the first sleepless week: the living force is a web connecting all beings, and there are still two reinforced bonds tethering her to the living. Two chains to drag her down.

One, to her former Master, the man who betrayed her and who she failed to kill. This one’s dormant, for everyone’s convenience.

The other: to her slave.

Apparently, Savage Opress is trying to murder her again.

(Their connection had originally been mostly a formality. This is what happens when you win a maleling, her Sisters had explained. He belongs to you now. His thoughts belong to you. Asajj had cared much more about results than about the arcane theories of her people then, for all the plan turned out a failure. She’d been naïve. She hadn’t asked whether it could be used against her. She hadn’t asked whether it could be broken. The connection had been nothing but a minor nuisance her Sisters should have warned her of, though of course, none of the others ever had to suffer. Nightbrothers die long before their leaky thoughts get too repetitive. Slowly, she had grown used to it, and then Savage had tried to kill her and met Maul and finally learned how to shield his mind.

And that would be the end of the whole affair, Asajj had hoped.

Fat chance.)

Dathomir burned, and less than a day after, the force bond flared back to life. Something happened to make Savage Opress stop caring about the boundaries of his mind, and now, Asajj is being boiled alive slowly. A pounding headache of despair day-in, day-out. Drowning in a sea of love and mourning for Maul—for a man who she can’t even imagine anyone genuinely liking, and who, besides, is clearly unfortunately still alive—and suffering endless secondhand tortures. Needles, maggots, cables, forever writhing.

Asajj wants her own skin back. She wants to sleep again.

She wants Savage Opress to shut up.

She’ll do whatever it takes.

She just needs to find him first, and that’s why she’s here. He vanished without a trace, one-and-a-half months ago, a short while before Dathomir’s end. Asajj had loosely been following the trail of the monster she’d lost control of and unleashed, paying contacts for tales of Maul and his massive, quiet, ever-present shadow meandering around the galaxy and slaughtering pirates and mafia and peaceful Mandos alike. Then, suddenly: nothing. Not for any price. Maul left Mandalore, alone, and dis- and reappeared. No sign of Opress. A falling-out? A fight?

Whatever it was, Savage can’t be dead, or he wouldn’t be bothering Asajj. Whatever it is, none of the information brokers Asajj has ever heard of know anything at all.

There’s nowhere to go but the one source left, now. The fellow drowner. She’ll just have to hold back the hatred for the man who got her people killed.

“Hello, Maul,” Asajj greets, with supreme dignity.

Then, she waits. There’s no acknowledgement.

“I did not come here to fight.”

Maul stares.

“I have come to exchange information.”

Nothing.

The bustling all around them continues. Mandos waving around the blasters they drew when Asajj unlocked her cuffs. Mandos dragging their slave cargo out of the ship’s hold, whispering quietly. More Mandos, pouring into the landing bay. More threat displays, but Maul himself doesn’t even blink.

Finally, the purple-armored soldier at Maul’s side steps forward and says, “You did not ‘come here’ at all. You were brought.”

There’s nothing to be gained from underestimation, right now, and so Asajj raises her uncuffed hands and explains, “Do you really think you could have made me do anything I didn’t want to? It would’ve been easy to find you. I’m a bounty hunter. But why bother when there was a Mandalorian taxi ready to take me straight where I wanted to go? I did not come here to fight, Maul. I came to talk. I have a proposal for you.”

“No,” Maul says. Well. It’s better than mulish, stubborn silence, at least. Barely.

“It’s mutually beneficial, I assure you.”

“No.”

“It’s about something you lost.”

“No.”

Asajj is tired. She has a headache. She doesn’t particularly want to be here in the first place, and there are phantom worms multiplying and digging through her ribcage—Maul’s hand twitches towards his chest, another piece of evidence—and she has no patience for whatever game Maul thinks he’s playing. She hisses, “Where is your brother, Maul?”

He stills again. So does the whole bay, this time, except for the purple Mando who lightly touches Maul’s shoulder. Then, blasters cock.

“I’m asking about Savage Opress, in case that wasn’t clear.”

“Dead,” Maul says flatly.

“Don’t insult me. You know I’m not that stupid.”

No air, suddenly. Fingers pressing into her throat. Dirty, scraping nails. Asajj curses herself for her mistake, for the split-second in which she failed to defend herself. Maul was just meters away, and she forgot. She’s been lulled in by his wretched demeanor, by his petulant silence, by his pretense at calm, and she’s forgotten: beneath it all lurks a beast, ready to lunge.

Maul’s eyes are close-by now as he tries to wring her neck, too close and far too wide, and there’s no intelligence left in them. Nothing but pain.

Still—she couldn’t have skewered him on her sabers, anyway, no matter how desperately she wants to. She came here to talk. He’s the only person left who knows anything. Even though, apparently, if he’s not lying—he’s too ignorant to even realize there’s anything to know.

“I wouldn’t do—do that, if I were you,” Asajj rasps out.

More pressure.

“Don’t. You’ll regret… I know. He’s not dead.”

Maul’s voice isn’t particularly pleasant, howled straight into her ear. “I watched him die,” he shrieks, loud and hoarse and spittle-flecked. “I held him. He fought—I tried to—I let go. I let him die. My Master killed him. He killed my brother. He took everything. Savage is dead.”

Still: his hands ease off slightly. He wants to believe her.

Asajj gulps in air.

“He’s not,” she says, once she’s recovered. “And you know it. You should, anyway. Stop me if any of this sounds familiar. Nightmares about him, over and over. Every night. The kind of things he’d be thinking. You, mostly. Other dead nightbrothers. Not much variety in his mind. It feels like it’s you, thinking it. It feels like it’s real, but then you realize…”

Maul nods. A jerky, unselfconscious movement.

“Weird tortures. Like something’s inside you, trying to get out.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a rogue force bond.”

He looks stunned. Desperate. Eager.

“It’s stronger than it used to be, than it should be, but yes, that’s what it is,” Asajj explains, as if to a stupid child. “I won him, a long time ago, and Mother Talzin’s ritual... We’re connected. He’s your Sith apprentice, and you—he’s awful at shielding. That’s what he’s feeling, right now. Those fucking worms. The torture. That’s him. He’s inflicting his misery on us. He wouldn’t be feeling anything, if he was dead. In conclusion: he’s alive, and we need to find him.”

We need to put him out of his misery is something she’ll hold back for now. She has no desire to get attacked again.

Maul isn’t listening anymore, anyway. His eyes are saucer-wide, stuffed to the brim with epiphany and bottomless horror. He lets go of Asajj’s neck, finally, and staggers backwards. He stumbles. He falls. He doesn’t get up.

“Master,” he whispers. “My brother—Lord Sidious took him as well.”

[theory-lord]

Technological Disparity

I was thinking about that random, inexplicable Steam-Ship in Deltora Quest: The Maze of the Beast, and I realized something.

It’s not actually all that inexplicable.

By looking at the world of deltora as a whole (as opposed to the continent of deltora), it has suddenly become apparent to me that it’s not the steam boat that is out of place, but rather the technological deficiency of the entire continent of Deltora.

In every book Emily Rodda writes for this particular world, the main characters always start out in a socially or in some cases physically secluded area. Lief was in the city of Del, who lost contact with the outside world for approximately 50 years, maybe more, and only became more secluded during the period of time during which the Shadow Lord executed direct control. Rye of Weld lived in the walled nation-state of Weld, which had absolutely no contact with the outside world for about one or two thousand years, and further had a shockingly low metal content. Rin is a tiny village whose very existence is probably some kind of Maris national secret. All of these places, by their very nature, would have a lower technological level than the outside world, simply due to lower degrees of interaction.

Lets look at the notably more advanced technologies we have seen in the series. I will leave out the Shadow Lord’s technomagical machinations, as the comparison is hardly fair in that case.

There is, of course, the steamboat. It’s presence in the river isn’t all that strange, even considering the later use of the Star of Deltora in the series of the same name (a ship which appears to follow a late Renaissance design) as steam ships are only really effective in rivers, and would be unfeasible in the open water, at least not until modern-era ships start developing. Even so, it is canonically established that the Star of Deltora is around 40 years old by the time the series of the same name starts, and around 20 during the events of the original series. At least. This means, even if steamboats were feasible in the open water, they would still be in production, and likely not have fully phased out the wind-powered ships.

Further, we see evidence of massive technological advancement on the island of dorne, at least outside of Weld. The Fitzfee clan was shown to have developed a number of complex technological marvels, from intricate clockwork music boxes to actual flamethrowers. Many of the item’s in Tom’s shop can reasonably be assumed to have had their origin in Dorne, as Dorne is the only island known to have possessed both a large supply of working sorcerers (creators of miscellaneous magics such as the Sky Sphere) and techsmiths (clearly the Fitzfees). Thus, we can infer that perhaps some of the seemingly magical items in tom’s shop, such as the water eaters, may have actually been technological or alchemical in origin, raising the bar for the world’s average technological level even higher.

The island of the Zebak was certainly the home of an advanced, dare I say almost MODERN society, in stark contrast to the medieval-ish inhabitants of Maris. I mean, they literally live in a city made of solid sheets of metal, and have internal plumbing, as well as complex breeding techniques. Depending on how you look at it, they may even have developed hypnotism techniques. This makes sense, given that it seems to be the nature of the Maris to avoid contact with those outside their island, be suspicious of virtually everyone, and constantly wallow in tradition which was originally designed to keep them from killing each-other but has slowly been corrupted by their suspicious nature to stagnate their society. The Rin and the Travelers can hardly be at fault here, as they have neither the population nor the resources to develop technology to any reasonably extent (though the travelers evidently developed personalized gliders which work with their magical wind control, which is pretty impressive under the circumstances). In contrast, the Zebak have a large population, a strong desire to expand, and a desperation for more food resources, which is probably what fueled their rapid increase in technological development, despite the fact that I doubt anyone would ever willingly trade with them.

Even the people of Weld who I mentioned earlier are not without some impressive developments. Because their magical talents are masked by the rigid structure of their society and of their communities themselves, they have turned to other means for healing, developing a medical system which closely mirrors western medicine.

In other words, it’s not a matter of the steam-boat being to advanced for the world of deltora, but rather a matter of the continent of deltora being conspicuously underdeveloped technologically. And I think we all know the reason why that is the case. I’ll say it anyway, though: the Shadow Lord.

It would be in the Shadow Lord’s best interests to limit the level of technology his subjects had access to. After all, he can easily track powerful magic, but technological threats have a way of perpetuating themselves in a knowledgeable populace. Ultimately, he sees the nation of Deltora as a mining operation, from which he would gain food, weapons, and magical soldiers for use against the other islands. Thus his plans would not benefit from his slaves gaining high level technology. Further, his efforts to eliminate literacy in Deltora as a form of magical defense against the Belt and Adin’s heirs would have a secondary effect of limiting the spread of technology significantly. The only two places in the original series where we actually see advanced tech are in places which the Shadow Lord has limited control at best: Amethyst territory and Tom’s shop.

So that is why there is a random steam-boat in the river broad.

What do you think? @dragoninmypocket @rithmeres @deltoraquest-blog @jemthebookworm

[bgn846]

Satum Novum Chapter 6: To Catch A Fly FFXV Gladnis

<Previous Chapter 5

"Gladio's been gone for a while do you think something happened?" Noct questioned from a cushioned seat on the bridge.  

"Maybe they kissed." Prompto hoped as he stared out the window.

"Wait what?! Why do you think they kissed? What did I miss?"

"Ohh emm gee they've been dancing around each other for two days, and it’s been driving me nuts."

"Ignis doesn't do that sort of thing.  I need to know everything!" Noct exclaimed seriously.

"It started from the moment Gladdy spotted him floating in the water.  I've never rescued anyone before, it was really weird." Prompto added with a frown.

"They told me he fell overboard and was lost at sea."

Prompto could tell Noct was bothered by that thought.  It was clear they were really close. "Yeah well eagle eye Gladio spotted him and we changed course to pick him up.  Ignis was shivering and looked super tired, but we got him dried off and in bed right away."

"How was he when he woke up?"  Noct asked.

"Worried, he told Gladio what happened after he realized who he was.  He was still insistent that he needed to get to shore to try and figure out how to rescue you.  Your friend was a man possessed." Prompto enthused with wide eyes.  

"That sounds like Iggy, he won't quit if he's on a mission.  I was so scared he was really gone.  I almost thought I was seeing things when you all found me and Ignis was there."

"Yeah you seemed really upset, I mean that was super freaky getting strung up like that and left alone.  I'm happy we got to you in time; I know Ignis was really concerned.  He tried to go to some safe house in Altissia but a dirty soldier almost killed him in the street!"

"Who? Do you know the guy’s name? We need to tell Cor." Noct breathed out in a rush.

"Um -- the guy isn't a threat anymore he got squished by a ladder."  Prompto replied with a shudder.

“What exactly do you mean squished?”

“It’s kinda graphic, are you sure you want to hear about it?”

“Maybe not now.” Noct admitted. “Are you sure he won’t talk when he wakes up?”  

“I’m positive; the guy won’t say a thing Noct.  He’s dead.” Prompto watched Noct open his mouth to reply and then he paused.  He finally seemed to find his words after a minute or two.

“Which one of you did the deed?”

Now it was Prompto’s turn to stall.  “Uh—well none of us actually. The guy attacked Ignis first, and he couldn’t defend himself because your magic was sealed.”

“What!?  NO!” Noct exclaimed.  He was very distraught by this information.  “That’s not fair!  That asshole would’ve known Iggy couldn’t fight back.  They are a bunch of fucking jerks.  Sorry – what happened next?”

“Well Gladio and I were trailing Ignis because he said he couldn’t involve us so --.”

“You offered to help and he turned you down?” Noct asked perplexed.

“Sorta – he really was focused on finding you and felt better about going alone.  It’s okay though we didn’t believe him and followed him.” Prompto declared proudly.  “I mean technically Gladio followed him first, and then I tried to follow Gladio and yeah – um.” He trailed off not wanting to mention his shitty skills at chasing people.

“So did you see that stupid glaive attacking Iggy?”

“We found them when the fight had already started.  Gladio had me chuck an empty beer bottle at the dude to distract him, and then Gladio tackled him!  It was awesome, the soldier kept using magic to move around but Gladio never let go.  Gladio had him in a choke hold and he passed out finally.”

“But that means he’s still alive!” Noct whined.

“Oh shit, no sorry, that’s when the escape ladder he was passed out under broke and fell on his head.  It was gross.  Trust me he’s not going to say anything ever again.”

“So how did Iggy lose blood?  Gladio kept mentioning blood loss.”

“The soldier got him with a dagger in his side.” Prompto demonstrated on his own ribs.  “Gladio surprised the guy after that and helped Ignis back to the boat once the fight was over.  He had some potions around and used them on Ignis, and then we listened to the radio for a few hours.”

“Ignis is alright though, right? I mean his wound got healed and he’s not hiding anything?” The prince pushed to make sure.

“Ignis is good, I saw Gladio heal the wound and clean it afterwards.”

Noct looked relieved and took a deep breath.  “What did you say about the radio?”

“We figured out the people who kidnapped you might be using the radio for communication.  They sent a coded message after they left you on the island.  Ignis cracked the code and we went to rescue you.”

“I don’t ever want to go through that again, that was scary.” Noct admitted with wide blue eyes.

“Hey don’t you need some more sleep?  I know Ignis has been pushing his limits, so I can only imagine how you feel.”

“I’m alright, but what else happened that makes you think they might kiss?” Noct asked again.

“So far Gladio has saved Ignis’ life twice, and that shit’s like straight out of a romance novel.  Plus the big guy carries him around.”

“No! Ignis wouldn’t let anyone help him like that. ” Scoffed Noct.

“That’s what you think.  Gladio carried him downstairs when we first found him, and then again when he passed out a second time.”

Noct’s eyes widened.  “A second time!”

“Yeah he wouldn’t stop until he found you.”

“So the kissing theory?” Noct tried with a desperate look.

“Right, so before we got to the island, Ignis was resting on the bridge with us on that bench seat.” Prompto indicated with a tilt of his head.   “Gladio was there too, reading a book, and cradling your advisors head in his lap.”

“Nah! Shut up he wouldn’t have gone for that.”

“You also missed it when Ignis called out for him after we’d found you.”

“I was awake for that!  He was about to pass out for a third fucking time apparently!” Noct shouted.

“No it happened again.” Prompto announced triumphantly, like he was winning an argument with a toddler.  “When your friends, Nyx and Cor arrived, the angry looking one checked Ignis’ pulse, and that’s when he called out for Gladio.”

“He probably just trusts Gladio is all, that’s still no reason for them to kiss!”

“I bet you money they are down there cuddling or something.”

“Well if you’re so sure, why don’t you go check?”

“I can’t, I’m navigating, but you can.” Prompto urged.

“I’ll take a picture if I find anything incriminating.” Noct agreed with a wicked smile.  “Ahh shit, I just remembered my phone is dead.”

“Oh! Take mine.”

“The door has a lock right?” Noct asked.  “I mean if something um more intense is happening they would have locked the door right?”

“Gladio’s not like that, don’t worry.”

“Hmm kay, wish me luck.” Noct announced as he slipped off the chair slowly and took Prompto’s phone.

Prompto was excited for the covert mission Noct was on and couldn’t wait to get a report back on what he’d found.  It only took about five minutes and the prince came back with a stunned look on his face.  He didn’t say anything but handed the phone over to Prompto.

Turning it on he saw his friend and Ignis passed out and hugging each other in a bunk.   They looked relaxed and comfy. “Told ya.”

“I still can’t believe it; Ignis doesn’t let anyone in like that.  He must really like him.”  

“They look happy.” Prompto smiled.

“I didn’t get to see any of it happen!  What the hell!” Noct yelled, though he still looked happy for his friend.

“We can pick on them when they wake up later.  There will be plenty of time.” Prompto mused with a toothy grin.

--

Slowly waking up brought with it memories, ones of Ignis being clingy and desperate.  Astrals what had he done?  Things only went from bad to worse when he fully open his eyes, and realized why his pillow was so warm.  He was draped across Gladio’s chest like a ragdoll.   Ignis could feel his face getting flush; he had to figure out how to get up without waking Gladio.

Lifting his head and attempting to move highlighted another problem.  Gladio had not one, but both of his tattooed arms around Ignis’ body, pinning him in place.   His right arm was around Ignis’ shoulders and his left was resting on his waist.

Damn.

Still he kept trying to wiggle away, as if it would do any good.  Anytime Ignis moved Gladio would tighten his grip.   At one point the thought had come to him, to shove Gladio off the bunk and pretend he fell.   Aside from it being a bad idea and terribly rude, Ignis didn’t think he had enough strength anyway.    This was so embarrassing; he never needed help from anyone.

Furrowing his brow he all but collapsed back on Gladio’s chest a second time.  He was doomed to suffer through this episode.  Suddenly the arm around his shoulders moved slightly and started slowly rubbing his back.  His mind was at war with itself.   Gladio’s hand felt divine, but he was still worried what the man would think of him when he fully woke up.

A small whimpering noise left his mouth as Ignis buried his face in Gladio’s shoulder.  He was trapped and couldn’t escape the judgment that was sure to come.

“Mmm hey how’r feeling?” Gladio groggily asked a moment later.

Ignis couldn’t answer he was so overwhelmed.  Gladio was somehow able to sneak past Ignis’ defenses and it was impossible to think straight.  The feeling of a soft kiss to his crown made Ignis almost cry.  This man apparently hadn’t noticed his breakdown yet.  It was only a matter of time before Gladio ministrations would cease, and his attention would drift elsewhere.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Gladio tried again as he rolled slightly to get a better view of Ignis.

Strong but gentle hands were tilting his head up so they could see each other.  Now he had no choice but to come clean. “I’m sorry I’ve been acting so needy, I’m sure that isn’t what you signed up for when you kissed me last night.” Ignis admitted sadly. “This isn’t how I act normally.”

“Uh – Ignis within a thirty six hour period you’ve nearly died twice, your best friend was kidnapped, and you’re battling exhaustion.   I honestly wouldn’t describe your behavior as out of the ordinary.”

This caused Ignis to pause, Gladio was correct he’d had a rough few days.  Willing his body to relax he took a deep breath to try and calm down.  Gladio continued rubbing his back and peppering Ignis’ forehead with feather light kisses.

“How are you able to make me feel better with one bloody sentence?” Ignis whined.

“Dunno, but you gotta relax otherwise you’ll make yourself sick.  We’ve still have to catch the bad guys.”

“How right you are.” Ignis said softly.  However, instead of being self-conscious by his clingy behavior he was now embarrassed by his desire to run away earlier.  Would his overwrought brain ever let him rest?

“Quit thinking too hard over there handsome.” Gladio cut in a moment later. “I can tell you’re struggling.”

“Sorry, I feel slightly foolish for being so emotional.  I’d actually debated about shoving you out of the bunk so I could run away.”  Ignis admitted sheepishly.

Gladio laughed softly.  “Did you consider that I might have grabbed you as I fell?  You would have gone down with me.”

Ignis groaned.  “No, I didn’t think that far ahead during my mini panic attack.”

“Relax, your behavior doesn’t bother me Ignis.  Honestly I like being able to help, it makes me feel useful.” He finished with a smile.

“You don’t think any less of me for begging you to stay earlier?” Ignis double checked.

“Ignis, I didn’t want to leave you alone either, remember?  I had kissed you senseless and was trying not to smother you with more kisses.”

Closing his eyes Ignis smiled at the memory.  “I’ve never been kissed like that before.” He admitted.

“Well I’m happy to do it again.”  

“I figured you would be.”

Gladio laughed.  “Do you feel well enough to get up and eat something?”

“I think I could manage.  Could I possibly squeeze in a shower beforehand?”

“You bet, use the one in my cabin, it’s bigger and the water gets nice and hot.” Gladio offered as he continued to rub Ignis’ back.

“If you keep doing that I’ll turn to mush.”

“Good.”

Ignis pushed himself up to stare at Gladio.  “You are enjoying this far too much.”

The man in question blushed and smiled shyly.  “Is it that obvious?”

Nodding Ignis smiled. “You must release me from the confines of this bunk so I can freshen up.  Now that you’ve mentioned food I can feel my stomach grumbling already.”

“Fair enough.”

Ignis watched as Gladio careful stood and stretched, cracking an appalling amount of bones in the process.  Carefully following suit Ignis was happy to discover his dizziness had gone, and he felt alert enough to walk around unaided.

Gladio escorted him down the hall to his cabin and showed him the bathroom.   He was instructed to follow his nose once he was done.  Ignis was looking forward to getting a nice hot shower and some good food.

In an odd display of affection Noct tackled him in a bear hug when he eventually wandered onto the bridge an hour later.

“Thank you.” He mumbled from where his head was buried in Ignis’ chest.  “I don’t want you to get hurt again because of me.”

“It’s my duty to look out for you Noct, I will always be there for you.” Ignis answered as he squeezed back.

“Just be careful, I can’t lose you.”  Noct whispered.  “I mean that, I was kinda wrecked when I thought you were dead.”

Smiling Ignis took a calming breath. “I will try my best highness.”   The pressure to find Noct had been lifted and Ignis felt confident they would catch Drautos.

--

“Where the hell is Tredd?” Drautos yelled.  “I told him to meet us here and he’s late as usual.”

“His bag is here so he’s around somewhere.” Lazarus offered as he paced the safe house.

“This is the last thing I need.” The captain grumbled.

“I thought everything was going well, you said they took the ransom request without any issues.”

Drautos scowled. “I think things might be going too well, Clarus didn’t question much.  They will be here soon and I need to get things ready.”

“Clarus and the king are coming here?” Lazarus asked surprised.

“Of course not, they sent their lackeys, the marshal and Ulric.”

“Do they have the money?  None of this will work if they don’t give us the money.”

Drautos didn’t even grace the man with an answer.  He merely raised an eyebrow and glared at him.  Lazarus didn’t even pick up on the look.  He was too busy wandering around the safe house rummaging through drawers and closets.

“How long do you want to wait for Tredd?”

“I don’t care about him right now.” Drautos sneered.   He was still worried about his plan, as their window of opportunity was dwindling.  He’d fabricated a fake ransom request and sent it off hours ago, after they’d docked in Altissia.  The prince wouldn’t have much time left before he would pass out from exhaustion or dehydration.

So far Lazarus, the glaive piloting the boat, and himself were the only ones that knew his location.  He planned to keep it that way until the money was safely in his possession.   Then once the location had been sent after everyone thought the money had been dropped off, Drautos would make his escape.

Cor and Ulric needed to hurry up, he was losing patience. The sooner he left the better.

--

“Do you think they are all alright on the other boat?” Nyx asked while he watched Cor navigate.

“Probably safer than with us at the moment.” Cor offered.

“True, I’m glad they’re okay.”

Sighing with a smile Cor nodded in agreement.  “I couldn’t accept the news about Ignis, it didn’t seem right.  The astrals were looking out for him, and it appeared they have a soft spot for Noctis as well.”

“So what’s the plan regarding Drautos?  We can’t exactly tell Clarus and the King that we found Noct, it would blow our cover.”  Nyx lamented.

“I’ve been thinking about that.  Sending coded messages works up to a point and then it gets risky.  I don’t want Drautos to figure out we rescued Noct and skip town.”

“So we still have to play along.  What do you think would happen if we refused to hand over the money to him?”

“He’d most likely try and pull rank, with you at least.  If we push too hard he’ll only fight.”

Nyx furrowed his brow. “So where is the money exactly?” He asked.

“The bank, I’m not stupid enough to travel with that amount. It should be ready for pickup when we arrive unless we tell them otherwise.”

“Any chance we can mark the money so it’s traceable?  We might be able to substitute some of the larger bills for smaller ones and maybe Drautos wouldn’t notice.”

Cor smiled at Nyx.  “Now you’re thinking the right way.”

“You already arranged that didn’t you?”

“Clarus and I suspected foul play when Drautos first made contact, and he fed us that shitty story about pirates.   The man is a great warrior and knows how to move soldiers around to win a battle, but he sucks mightily at using his imagination.”

“He’s gotta be suspicious though, we are going along to easily.”

“Maybe, but we won’t know for sure until we meet with him in a few hours.”

--

The level of Noct’s voice was rattling the dishes in the sink.  He was livid and for entirely the wrong reason.  Cor was stone faced through-out the shouting match, but it was clear he was losing patience.

“Highness, I understand you wish to see justice done, but I cannot allow you to endanger yourself further by going with us.” Cor announced gruffly.

“You didn’t see what he did to me!” Noct yelled.

“I saw where you were imprisoned highness and I can assure you it made my blood boil.’

“I’m going!”

“NO! No you are not!” Cor shouted as he raised his voice for the first time.   I will leave Nyx behind if necessary to ensure you don’t go anywhere.”

“Don’t do that!” The prince wailed. “You’ll need all the help you can get!  Drautos has this fancy armor that is really powerful.”

“Noctis, I don’t have much time and you are not making my job easy right now.  I must go meet with Drautos.  Will you please stay on this boat?”

Noct sighed heavily and ran his fingers through his dark hair.  “What if I stay a certain distance away to be safe.”

“Absolutely not.”  Cor hissed. “I can’t believe you are making me do this highness.  I’ll go get Nyx.”

“Don’t do that!” Noct screamed.  “Fine, I’ll stay, but call us immediately if you need backup.  My magic is good and Ignis and I know how to fight.”

“I can help too.” Gladio chimed in.

Cor grumbled something and took a deep breath.  “If I see you at all this evening highness I will call this whole meeting off, is that understood?”

“Yes marshal.” Noct huffed.

Ignis could only watch as Cor turned to leave and Noct stomped over to sit down.   “Highness this is for your own safety. You do realize that, correct?”

“Of course I know that Ignis!  It doesn’t change the fact that I want to get Drautos back for what he did to me.”

Choosing not to reply Ignis stood quietly and hoped nothing truly terrible would happen when Cor and Nyx went to meet with Drautos.  The silence was deafening at a certain point and Ignis could feel the signs of a headache forming.   Prompto had left the room as soon as the shouting started and hadn’t returned.  Gladio had his arms folded across his chest and seemed lost in thought.   The only one of them still seething was Noct, his prince was staring into the floor with a horrible scowl.

Footsteps pounding down the corridor a moment later shattered the mood. “Somebody’s out there spying on us!” Prompto frantically whispered.

“What?!” Gladio asked as he stood up alert.  “Show me!”

They all piled out of the break room and towards the outside door.  Gladio pulled Prompto back and crouched down to take a look.  The boat railing blocked his view somewhat but he continued to edge forward to see.

Ignis couldn’t see anything yet but he was ready to call on his daggers if need be.  A muttered curse from Gladio confirmed there was a problem.

“I see the guy, but it’s too dark to see his face.  What’s the plan?” He asked.

“We gotta catch him.” Noct breathed out in a rush.  “What if he’s with Drautos and goes to warn him.”

“Is there another way to get onto the dock without him seeing us?” Ignis asked.

“This is so stupid I can warp out there and catch him in a flash.  I’m going.” Noct announced.

The prince for once moved to fast for Ignis to grab him.  Then in a flash of blue light he was gone and over the railing to the dock below.   Cursing his charge’s impetuous nature, Ignis could tell that this was going to end badly.

Gladio had charged out the door and down the walkway to try and help.  Ignis followed with Prompto, but the man had seen Noct coming and was running away.  Now they were all running through the alleyways of Altissa chasing after the crown prince of Lucis and a traitor.  How had things turned so drastically?

--

Drautos stared at his phone with worry.  Did he dare believe what his boat captain had just told him?  The prince was alive and well.   This confirmed his gut feeling that things were not in his favor.  “Lazarus!” He shouted.  “They know!  We have to get things set up for plan B.”

>Next Chapter 7

[steveclinekh]

He Starved, Suffered and Nearly Died, but Never Lost Hope Genocide survivor went on to be a Cambodian minister, and seeks now to inspire the young The Straits Times 22 Mar 2020 Wong Kim Hoh Senior Writer kimhoh@sph.com.sg PHOTOS: KELLY HUI, VENG SEREYVUTH Veng Sereyvuth has a passionate belief.

“You are born with the power to dream, to make choices, to craft your destiny. No one except you can steal that from you,” he says.

Before you dismiss that as a platitude, consider who he is and what he has gone through.

The 61-year-old survived the Cambodian genocide during which more than two million people died under the Khmer Rouge, which was in power between 1975 and 1979, led by Marxist leader Pol Pot.

His life has been both a melodrama and a potboiler: a village boy who became a cyclo driver, a smuggler, a prisoner, a refugee, a political science graduate and, eventually, a politician who served as Cambodia’s minister for tourism and minister for culture.

Along the way, he starved, suffered and stared death in the face on several occasions. But through it all, he never gave up hope.

Today, he is a businessman and educationist; he has built hotels and other properties and is chairman of the board of trustees at the Pannasastra University of Cambodia, a private university in Phnom Penh which provides an English-based education.

Mr Veng does not have the statesman-like gravitas one expects of someone who has spent more than two decades as a senior minister.

Dressed in jeans and a white shirt with a cotton krama (a traditional Cambodian scarf) around his neck, he radiates approachability and joviality.

He was in Singapore recently to put the finishing touches to No One Born Poor: Prisoner, Politician, Pioneer, a book about his life published by Write Editions and available at major bookstores in June.

Calling the book a tribute to the country he loves, he hopes that his story of “challenging life, confronting the unknown and embracing its ups and downs” will give hope to many people, especially the young.

He was born the second of six children in the remote village of Prey Deoum Thieng in the Cambodian province of Prey Veng.

His father was a teacher and his mother ran a provision shop. The couple later separated, and Mr Veng and his siblings were raised by his mother, whom he describes as a “commander-in-chief” and the strongest person he knows.

Life in the village was idyllic. He loved going to school, spurred on by his mother who fervently believes that education is not just the ticket to a better life, but also makes one a better person.

But civil strife soon rocked the country when a military coup overthrew head of state Prince Norodom Sihanouk in 1970.

The Khmer Rouge started becoming more powerful; they were communist revolutionaries who saw religion, education and freedom as dangerous.

Realising that life in their village was getting untenable, Mr Veng’s mother decided to uproot her brood to Phnom Penh in 1972.

She decided to do it first with Mr Veng, who was then just 12, before coming back for her other children.

Because the Khmer Rouge killed villagers who tried to flee for the city, mother and son escaped through rice fields in the dark of the night before taking a boat across the Mekong to get to Phnom Penh.

“It was a real ordeal, a life-anddeath situation. I saw dead bodies, and heads on bamboo poles,” recalls the amiable man whose other siblings arrived in the city several weeks later.

With no income from a provision shop to feed her brood, his mother started selling noodles.

Mr Veng continued his education at a French Catholic school, but sold bread to office workers before classes began and became a cyclo – a three-wheeled taxi – driver after school ended.

Life was tough but as he writes in his book: “I didn’t see myself as a cyclo driver, as it was not my final mission in life. It could not be. It must not be. The cyclo was a tool to meet two needs: to fill my stomach and pay for my education. Nothing more, nothing less.”

In 1975, the Khmer Rouge won the civil war and captured Phnom Penh. They emptied the cities, forcing millions of Cambodians, including Mr Veng’s family, back to the countryside.

Not long after they began their trek to a village in Prey Veng, Mr Veng’s mother told him to go back to their Phnom Penh home to get a 20kg pot of preserved fish because it would provide sustenance for their month-long journey.

But the then 15-year-old was stopped by soldiers who ordered him to turn back. When he moved forward, a soldier pointed a gun at him. Mr Veng begged for permission to get his pot of fish. To his surprise, the soldier let him through.

The episode taught him one thing: You need courage and conviction for everything you do in life.

“For me, it means protecting the preserved fish, at all costs, for my family.”

The Khmer Rouge were brutal in their quest to set up an agrarian utopia, torturing and killing intellectuals and anyone else they considered a threat to communism.

Mr Veng and his brothers escaped death, but, like millions of their countrymen, were sent to slave at labour camps.

The Khmer Rouge lost their grip on power in 1979 when Vietnamese forces took control of Phnom Penh.

It was not just another chapter in the country’s history but also in his life. To help his family survive, he became a smuggler, sneaking to the Thai border to buy cartons of cigarettes – apparently more valuable than money then – which he would trade or sell.

It nearly cost him his life on several occasions. Once, he was denied entry at a checkpoint by soldiers who wanted his cigarettes.

To get across, he made eye contact with people on the other side of the metal barrier and told them in a low voice to leave a gap for him to pass through when the barrier was lifted.

He made a dash for it on his bicycle, pedalling furiously as the sound of bullets reverberated behind him. By the time he stopped, his feet were bloody from the desperate pedalling.

Asked if he has ever thought about death, he says with a laugh: “When you live in a structured and orderly society, you think about things like that. But when you live in hell...”

He continues: “I had no choice. I just did what I needed to do to feed the family. You get out of a situation first and get scared later. You deal with death only when it comes.”

His family cried each time he went away because they were worried he might not come home.

“Every trip was three weeks or a month long. Things could happen: sometimes you could not get the goods, sometimes there were shootings, sometimes you just could not get back i nto Cambodia. I had stayed in forests where I just ate what I had and what I could find.”

Hunger was a constant companion. “You can check with your doctor friends but when you’re really hungry, your stomach feels like it’s being cut into pieces with a knife,” says Mr Veng, who was once so weak from hunger he had to be propped into a sitting position at mealtimes with a rope tied to the ceiling.

The year 1979 also marked one of the lowest periods in his life.

Soldiers stopped him on his bicycle while he was riding home to Prey Veng with a sack of 200 bicycle spokes he hoped to sell. They accused him of sending the spokes to the Khmer Rouge and threw him into a dark prison for a month.

Then, one day, he was taken blindfolded to the Mekong. He felt a gun muzzle on his left cheek, and heard the weapon being cocked as he was asked if he was part of the Khmer Rouge.

He just blurted: “I’m a student.” That split second of telling the truth, he says, spared him from getting his head blown off.

The era of the Khmer Rouge might have been over but fear and uncertainty still blanketed the country.

Overwhelmed by the hopelessness, he and his family decided to “turn this game of life around” and take the big risk of escaping to the Khao-I-Dang refugee camp – set up in late 1979 and run by the Thai Interior Ministry and the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees – across the Thai border.

They split into two groups. He and two of his sisters set out first. The plan was to reunite with his mother and other siblings at the refugee camp.

Thousands had died undertaking the weeks-long journey which was fraught with many dangers, from landmines to trigger-happy soldiers. Mr Veng and his two sisters moved mostly at night to avoid getting caught.

They made it, and so did the rest of the family.

“It was a miracle. The border stretched for hundreds of kilometres but we managed to find one another,” he says.

They stayed in the camp for one year.

“It was a completely different life. There were no guns and no fear. You mingled with other people and walked about freely in the camp. You could sleep and wake up, a free man.”

Nearly a year later, the family were told that they would be going to New Zealand.

“It was surreal, we were speechless,” recalls Mr Veng, who landed in Auckland with his family in September 1980.

There, he worked at several places including a printing firm and an ice-cream shop while attending English, maths, economics and accounting classes at a polytechnic.

In 1984, he got accepted into the University of Victoria on a special admissions scheme. It was hard because he had not mastered the English language, but his will bulldozed through the obstacles, and he graduated with a degree in political science in 1987.

He never forgot Cambodia though. For a year, he was haunted by nightmares of what he had lived through. To exorcise his demons, he shared his story openly with his lecturers and classmates.

He also joined the secretariat of the Khmer Association in New Zealand to help new refugees adapt to life in the country. The association also built the first Cambodian pagoda in the country.

The urge to return to help rebuild his homeland was “instinctive”.

“It’s my country. It’s where I came from and I wanted to give back. Gratitude is my attitude,” says Mr Veng, who spent more than a year working as a taxi driver – “you can make a lot of money” – before heading for Bangkok in 1989.

He could not enter Cambodia because the country was still in political turmoil. In Bangkok, he volunteered with The National United Front for an Independent Neutral and Cooperative Cambodia and worked with refugees along the Thai border.

In 1993, he took part in Cambodia’s general election and became a member of Parliament as well as minister for tourism, a post he held until 2004.

“It was one of my top achievements,” says Mr Veng, who was also minister to the council of ministers and minister for culture.

Among other things, he chaired an initiative to step up the flow of tourist dollars in the region, resulting in the signing of the Asean Tourism Agreement in Cambodia in 2002.

Except for two of his sisters, Mr Veng’s mother and other siblings have also returned to live in Cambodia. He has a son, 22, who is studying public policy at the University of Victoria; his former wife died in an accident several years ago.

The congenial man, who holds both Cambodian and New Zealand citizenships, went into business after leaving politics in 2013 but focuses a lot of his attention on education for young Cambodians.

Mr Veng, who often gives talks to inspire others, says his philosophy in life is simple.

“I believe that on the canvas of humanity, we are to paint goodness: the able extending goodness to those without hope, the distressed and the needy.”

Chairman of the Board: H.E. Veng Sereyvuth held various ministerial positions in the Royal Government of Cambodia since 1993, including co-minister of Council of Ministers, Senior Minister of Tourism, and Senior Minister of Art and Culture. H.E. Veng Sereyvuth received a Business Administration's degree from Victoria University Wellington, New Zealand;

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

The Sand In Your Shoe (pt. 20 - Final)

Thank you to everyone who has read this fic and stayed with it since the beginning. This is the final chapter and I would really love to hear your thoughts so please do stop by and say hi. It’s been such a great journey to take with you all xxxx

Mickey is rocking up onto the balls of his feet, trying to peer over the crowd.

“Can you see them yet?”

“No, but they’ll be here.”

“Where the fuck are they?”

“Relax.”

Ian squeezes his fingers, their wedding bands clinking together. Mickey is anxiously worrying at the corner of his mouth with his incisors and Ian ducks down to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth. Mickey jerks his head irritably but stops fidgeting, a little more at ease.

“There! I see them!”

Ian waves and grins as Mickey freezes to the spot.

“Mick, they’re by the Starbucks, just over …”

“Yeah. I see. Do I look OK?”

Mickey is tugging at his collar and looking very much like he is about to be sick. Ian rests his hands lightly on Mickey’s upper arms, smoothing the fabric of his shirt and giving him an earnest smile that calms Mickey’s nerves instantly.

“You look great and this is going to be fine. If he didn’t want to meet you, he wouldn’t be here.”

“What the fuck am I gonna say, man?”

“Start off with ‘Hello’ and take it from there.”

Ian grins, giving Mickey’s arms and encouraging squeeze before letting go and stepping back out of the way. Mickey’s breath catches and stammers out of him as his eyes light on the young man walking towards them, Svetlana at his side. He is taller than Mickey, and a slimmer build.

*More like Ian.*

Mickey thinks automatically before berating himself for being stupid. He has his teeth set firmly in his lower lip and his bright blue eyes are looking Mickey up and down with obvious eager curiosity. There is a slight swagger in his step but it is tempered by the way he hovers at Svetlana’s elbow, not quite bold enough to break away and walk alone.

“He looks just like you, Mick.”

Ian murmurs behind him and Mickey nods, not quite trusting his voice. He realises he is scowling a bit and thumbs his upper lip, making a conscious effort to neutralise his expression.

Ian waits for Mickey to say something, to call out a greeting or wave. When it doesn’t happen he nudges him pointedly and Mickey clears his throat as if waking from a trance.

“Hello!”

The word sounds weird and kind of final and Mickey winces slightly

“Fuck.”

Yevgeny grins, his mother has told him that his father swears almost compulsively and it is nice to have a fact confirmed.

“Hey. So which of you is my dad?”

Mickey looks momentarily at a loss and then Svetlana slaps her son’s shoulder and rolls her eyes

“Ignore him, he is as stupid as his father.”

“Hey!”

Father and son glare at her as one, twin sets of blue eyes narrowing and then widening when they notice the similarity and hastily looking away. Svetlana gives Ian a small knowing smile and they share a look of mutual understanding. Apparently, Yevgeny has inherited his father’s love of new social situations.

Ian decides a small rescue is needed and steps forward, embracing Svetlana and then holding out his hand to Yevgeny.

“It is so good to see you both! Welcome to Mexico!”

“Thanks, it’s Ian, right?”

Yevgeny shakes his hand firmly and Ian gets a tiny thrill of pride

*Mickey made this kid. This sharp, beautiful boy. He’s Mickeys!*

“Yeah, can I take your bag? We parked right out front.”

Ian takes the rucksack from Yev’s hands and the kid immediately stuffs them into his pockets and switches his gaze back to Mickey, although both are doing their best not to appear too interested.

“Shall we go?”

Svetlana hoists her own bag onto her shoulder impatiently.

“I need a cigarette and fresh air.”

“Yeah let’s fuckin’ go.”

Mickey nods and turns on his heel, grabbing Yev’s backpack from Ian and holding it protectively as he leads the way.

“I must sit in the front, my travel sickness is very bad.”

Svetlana announces as they are loading the bags into the trunk of Ian’s old Ford. Yev shrugs and gets into the back of the car, closing the door behind him.

“I’ll drive.”

“What? No! Talk to your kid!”

“I can’t talk to him for that long! Jesus! I can’t even talk to you for that long!”

Mickey whispers furiously, looking up at Ian with wild, pleading eyes and Ian sighs in exasperation but quietly hands the car keys over.

*

Ian chats away happily as they make their way home. He fills Yevgeny and Svetlana in on local sites and local facts and makes Mickey stop to show them an old fountain outside a church that was apparently blessed by a saint.

Mickey leans against the car door and lights up a cigarette as Ian drags Svetlana closer to look at the inscription but Yev manages to dodge around a pale palm tree and loop back to the car before Ian can snag him.

“Can I bum a cigarette?”

He asks Mickey, looking up from under lowered brows, his voice unnaturally deep as he tries to be what he thinks his father will want a son to be.

“You smoke?”

“Psshh. Yeah! All the time. I fuckin’ love it.”

Yev licks his lip and stands up a little straighter. Mickey smirks slightly and nods to Svetlana

“Your Mom gonna tear me a new one if she sees you doin’ it?”

“Nah, man. She just has to deal.”

Yev puffs his chest out and mirrors Mickey’s posture, holding out his hand for the packet. Mickey snorts and hands it over, watching as Yev fumbles the lighter but finally manages to get it lit and inhales enthusiastically before doubling over coughing. Mickey grins to himself and claps a hand on Yevgeny’s shoulder, as the boy looks up utterly humiliated. Mickey hasn’t forgotten how fragile the ego is at sixteen, nor has he forgotten just how desperate he was to please Terry at every turn.

“Don’t worry about it, Mexican cigarettes are stronger. I should’ve warned you.”

“Oh. Yeah. No it’s cool. Thanks.”

Yev is blushing furiously and Mickey tries to think of a point of reference that they might share. He nods his head toward Ian and Svetlana

“You into history at all? Ian likes it.”

“Nah. What are you into?”

Mickey thinks for a moment. He can’t really say cigarettes, guns, pot, beer and sex. Well … maybe he could but he doesn’t want to. He tries to think of something Yev might approve of.

“I got a canoe a couple years ago, I like to take that out on the ocean.”

“Cool!”

Yev nods enthusiastically and Mickey grins, then clicks his head left and right, noticing with a faint touch of pride that Yev does the same. He begins to wonder if having a kid is really just like having a big puppy that follows you around adoringly and occasionally shits on the rug.

“I went on a boat once, it wasn’t a canoe but it was cool.”

“Cooler than a fuckin’ fountain?”

Mickey arches his eyebrows and nods toward Ian who is in full flow and Svetlana who looks bored to tears. Yev grins shyly and shrugs, scratching the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, like, no offence to your husband though.”

“Ah, none taken, man. He’s not normally this much of a dork, just really excited to see you I think.”

“Yeah?”

Yev looks suddenly hopeful and Mickey isn’t sure why so he hedges his bets and changes the subject

“Doin’ good in school?”

“I guess. Mom writes you though, right? Tells you about school and stuff? She said she did that…”

“Oh yeah, I mean she does, I was just … I dunno. Just askin’ I guess.”

Mickey draws deeply on his cigarette and looks away and Yev mistakes his discomfort for annoyance

“You can ask! I mean, you paid for, like, more than half of it right? Mom says you always send money…”

Put like that Mickey realises just how flimsy his involvement has been and clears his throat self-consciously.

“Yeah.”

“Thank you by the way. You didn’t have to.”

Mickey has no idea what to do with being thanked for that and awkwardly pats Yevgeny’s shoulder, giving him a small smile.

“You’re welcome.”

The two stand in silence then until Ian finally releases Svetlana and they all resume their journey.

*

Evidently Yevgeny is feeling a little emboldened by having his first proper (sort of) conversation with his father because he is more chatty on the second leg of the journey. Ian can’t get enough of hearing the kid talk. He sounds just like Mickey! They both grew up in South Side so the inflections are the same but it’s more than that. Listening to Yev speak is like hearing Mickey as a teenager but with less threats and swearing. If Mickey had been into football and playing piano (fucking piano! Ian squeals internally) he would have sounded just like this.

“I prefer to compose my own stuff now, ya know? I mean, playing other people’s stuff is great but it is awesome to hear something you’ve imagined coming to life. Do you guys play any instruments?”

Mickey peers at Yev in the mirror and shakes his head

“A little guitar maybe but I suck. Never had the patience to learn.”

“None at all.”

Ian smiles guiltily at Yev, who shrugs and smiles.

“Mom wasn’t sure who I got my music talent from.”

“Not true, all your fine qualities come from me.”

Svetlana laughs, nudging Mickey with her elbow. Mickey tongues his lip and grins at her

“Hey, I changed a few diapers, that probably had positive impact, right?”

“Me too actually!”

Ian pipes up.

“So everyone in this car has seen my ass?”

“Pretty much. Yeah.”

Ian nods cheerfully and Yev sighs, a very familiar long-suffering sigh, blue eyes rolling wearily.

“Great.”

*

Yevgeny nods off about thirty minutes away from Galagers. Mickey checks in the mirror a couple of times, checking the gentle rise and fall of his sons chest.

“Anything I should keep my mouth shut about?”

He asks, looking pointedly at Svetlana. She shrugs and shakes her head

“He knows all there is to know.”

“Could you be a bit more fuckin’ specific?”

Mickey snaps irritably and Svetlana blinks languidly at him.

“He knows he is the product of unwanted sex between his homosexual father and hooker mother, forced by his paternal grandfather who has spent most of his life in prison. He knows his father is a fugitive who married the man who kidnapped him as a baby and lives in Mexico. He knows to keep his mouth shut about these things as well.”

Svetlana ducks her head, lighting a cigarette and then narrows her eyes at the dawning look of incredulous horror Mickey is giving her

“What?”

“ ‘What’? Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Those are fuckin horrible things for the kid to know!”

Mickey turns to look at Ian for reassurance and Ian nods grimly

“Yeah, that’s pretty fucked up, Svet.”

“What part of it is untrue?”

She snaps back at both men and Mickey frowns, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.

“None of it but, you know, I don’t want him thinkin’ he’s a rape baby. That’s a heavy thing for a kid his age to find out.”

“He has known since he was eight.”

“EIGHT?”

Mickey and Ian cry in unison and Svetlana shrugs a little defensively

“He asked why his father never calls or visits. What would you have rather I told him?”

“That I’m a fuckin’ asshole not worth his time! Jesus, Svetlana. Hey, did you let him believe in Santa or did you just slice that one right off the bat too?”

Mickey shakes his head angrily and Svetlana sighs heavily.

“Of course we had Santa, Idiot! But truth is important for children. Yevgeny is a sensitive boy, it is important for him to understand his existence.”

“It’s fucked up, that’s what it is.”

Mickey huffs and turns his attention completely to the road. Ian takes in the tense set of his husband’s shoulders and clears his throat tentatively.

“Perhaps it is good that he knows the truth. Means he gets it, Mick.”

Mickey grunts in response and the three of them lapse into silence.

“I’m sorry if it makes you angry. I thought it for the best.”

Svetlana ventures finally and Mickey flicks his eyes towards her, scanning for sarcasm and finding none.

“It’s fine. It sucks but yeah … it is the truth and … he seems happy enough.”

It is a question but he won’t allow himself to phrase it like one, just in case the answer is not what he desperately hopes to hear.

“He has always been a very happy boy. He wanted for nothing and grew up loved.”

Mickey rolls his shoulders and then sighs

“Well then… thank you, I guess.”

“Life is funny, yes?”

“Yeah. Fuckin’ hilarious.”

Mickey says dryly and Ian smiles slightly as Svetlana gives Mickey’s arm a very light squeeze.

*

For the first week, Yevgeny follows Mickey around constantly. He helps stock the bar, he goes to the store, he is into everything Mickey does and in turn Mickey swallows his natural inclination toward running errands in solitude and does his best to embrace Yev’s interest.

He takes Yev out in the canoe and after basically wrestling the kid into a life preserver, allows him to take it out by himself a few times, though he paces the shore anxiously each time until Yev is safely back.

Yev shadows him so faithfully that Mickey get’s kind of used to it so when Yev doesn’t appear one morning to drive into town, Mickey is a little disappointed. Not surprised, because getting booze and groceries with your dad can only be interesting for so long, right? But still, he has come to value the quiet thirty minute round trip and the easy flow of conversation.

He figures Yev must have gone down to the beach early because he isn’t on the sofa bed and Mickey runs the errand on his own. When he gets back, Svet has gone shopping in town and Ian is in the kitchen making coffee.

“You seen Yev?”

“No, we thought he was with you?”

“Nah. He never showed up.”

Mickey frowns and drums his fingers against his leg, instantly worried. Ian shrugs and smiles, handing Mickey a steaming mug.

“Probably just gone for a wander.”

“Yeah. Hey, the canoe ain’t on the porch, did you store it?”

“No. But that probably answers where Yev is.”

Ian’s cheery lack of concern grates on Mickey’s nerves and he scowls at his husband.

“Well he ain’t supposed to go out without telling me. What if a fuckin’ freak wave catches him?”

“Oh, you mean like all those ‘freak waves’ that we get warned about around here? Relax. He’s fine.”

Ian smirks and Mickey shoots him a withering look

“A freak wave would be a fuckin’ random occurrence, smart ass.”

“Maybe Yev put it away for you? Have you checked the lock-up?”

Mickey admits he hasn’t and Ian ruffles his hair affectionately, ignoring the impatient flapping as Mickey shoos him away

“I like seeing you in protective dad mode, it’s kinda hot.”

“I’m not in … shut the fuck up!”

Mickey allows a small grin to curl the corner of his mouth and takes his coffee and dignity outside, Ian trailing in his wake as he strides around the back of Galagers.

“So if the canoe is in there, are we going to calm down or shall we call the coast guard?”

Ian teases and Mickey is about to retort but a sound catches his attention and he holds up a stilling hand, setting his coffee cup on the ground. There is a muffled thumping coming from the lock-up and what sounds like crying.

Ian clearly hears it to because his eyes narrow and he grabs a plank of drift wood at his feet, nodding to Mickey. Mickey nods back and makes a ‘wait here’ gesture as he takes a firm grip on the door. One … two … three …

Mickey wrenches the door open ready to start swinging fists at the same moment as Ian lunges forward, plank of wood held high. There is a flash of dark skinned calve wrapped around a pale ass and then two high, guilty gasps of shock as the couple roll apart and hastily adjust their dishevelled clothing, scrabbling to their feet as the adults stare at them in horrified amusement.

“Hey Dad! Uh...”

Yevgeny gives his father a wonky smile as colour floods his face and he glances sideways at Christina, who is grimacing back at him.

Mickey glances down between the young couple and his eyebrows, which had shot up to his hairline, lower as he throws out his hands in a ‘what the fuck’ gesture

“Oh come on, man! On my fuckin’ canoe?”

“Sorry.”

Yev hunches his shoulders defensively. For a moment there is silence and then a strangled snort to Mickey’s right cuts through the air. Ian’s whole body is vibrating with suppressed laughter, his chin quivering helplessly.

“Really? You can’t hold your shit together for two fuckin’ minutes and be a grown up?”

Mickey looks up at him, shaking his head in exasperation but his own lip is trembling precariously. Christina grabs Yev’s hand and tugs him forward

“We’ll go ...”

“Oh really, Tina? You don’t wanna finish?”

Mickey quips but there is no heat to his words at all and he is rapidly losing the battle against his laughter.

“Um… No. It’s okay. We can go somewhere else.”

Yev mumbles and as Christina slaps her boyfriends arm, Ian loses his shit completely, doubling over and clutching his middle as he laughs.

“Oh Yev! Oh my God! No paternity test is ever going to be needed, kid. Oh my God!”

Mickey rolls his eyes at his husband before pointing a finger at his son

“I want it spotless in here, and learn to lock the fuckin’ door.”

He catches Ian by the collar and tugs him out

“Hey! Be safe! Condoms are in the bathr...”

“Not now!”

Mickey snaps at his husband, kicking the door shut behind them. Yev and Christina grin guiltily at each other and then have to smother laughs of their own as Ian happily asks when could possibly be a better time.

*

Mickey is scrolling through his phone on the porch a little while later and he glances up at the sound of footsteps.

“Hey.”

Yev approaches Mickey sheepishly, not sure whether he is actually in trouble or not.

“Hey. You walk Tina home?”

“Yeah. I mean, like, it’s the middle of the day but yeah, I did.”

“Good. She’s a nice girl. You treat her right, you hear me?”

Mickey fixes Yev with a stern blue eyed stare but his expression clears as soon as the boy nods.

“Alright.”

Yev scratches the back of his neck awkwardly and takes a deep breath

“You can yell if you want? I fucked up.”

“Nah, you’re fine. My dad caught me fuckin’ someone once, it happens.”

Mickey shrugs and Yev grins at him

“Yeah look how that ended up.”

He gestures at himself and Mickey snorts, amused. It’s a lame joke and kind of distasteful but that’s Mickey’s sense of humour too so how can he blame Yevgeny for having it?

“True.”

They are quiet for a minute and then Mickey coughs and ducks his head, looking up at his son from beneath gently swept brows. He has been thinking about when he would say something since Svetlana told him about Yevgeny’s knowledge of his conception and now seems as good a time as any.

“Hey listen, I … ah … I know you know how all that shit when down, how me and your Mom … anywya you know your Mom loves you?”

Yevgeny nods, his eyes huge and round, waiting for his father to continue.

“Well I want you to know that I love you too. If things had been different, I would have stuck around, Yevgeny. I would have been there. I never held any of that shit against you. You’re the one good thing to come out of it and I’m really glad you’re here. Me and Ian both are. I shouldn’t have left it so long.”

Mickey finishes and straightens to his full height waiting patiently for whatever Yevgeny might want to get off his chest. He owes him that much.

“Thank you but it’s fine. I’m here now and you and Ian are both being really cool to me. And I am sorry I had sex on the canoe.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Mickey laughs as both of them grin, the tension draining from the atmosphere to be replaced with an easy companionship that is more than Mickey had ever dared hope for.

*

Yevgeny visits most school breaks and after high school he arrives in a battered old pick up to collect Christina for a tour of the USA, with a ring in his top pocket and a smile that melts Ian’s heart. He is young, beautiful and full of determined courage. Mickey hugs his son tightly and then steps back to let Ian in.

“I’m doing it, guys! I’m gonna ask her.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah Dad. I’m gonna wait until we get to New York and then I’m doing it.”

“Alright.”

Mickey nods and nudges Ian who slips Yev an envelope. Yev frowns and peers inside

“Guys, this is too much!”

“It’s a border crossing tradition in this family. When you start a new life, you get a wad of cash.”

Mickey grins and Ian shakes his head with a long suffering sigh, though a small smile is tugging at the corner of his own mouth.

*

Time winds onwards and soon Svetlana is stood in a beautiful Mexican church, cradling baby Miguel in her arms, utterly besotted with her first grandson.

“Ah! We have another set of those blue eyes in the world.”

She coos happily, glancing at her own blue eyed boy who is deep conversation with his aunt and uncle who have come to the church for the celebration.

“Yeah, he’s beautiful isn’t he?”

Ian smiles indulgently down at his grandson and carefully traces one chubby pink cheek with his finger. Yev makes his way over to them, looking at his watch.

“Do you think we should start? The priest is getting antsy”

“No, we must wait for your father.”

“Or what? It didn’t happen?”

Yev quips irritably, oblivious to the startle his words give his mother. Svetlana smothers her smile in the sweet smelling lace of Miguel’s gown.

The church doors open and all present turn to watch Mickey dash up the flagstones, waving his apologies

“Sorry! I had to pick something up.”

He takes the steps up to the font two at a time and produces a sleek box from his pants pocket, handing it to Yevgeny with another grimaced apology and then taking his place beside Ian and Svetlana who jabs him and whispers.

“Do you enjoy being late to christenings or is it just habit?”

“You always ask the weirdest fuckin’ questions.”

Mickey frowns as she happily passes his name sake into his arms. Mickey jiggles his grandson, looking down at him with a mixture of awe and pride.

“He’s perfect, isn’t he? I mean, I know I’m supposed to think that, but look at him!”

Ian kisses the greying hair at Mickey’s temple and nods

“He is. Milkovich’s make very pretty babies.”

Mickey smirks and hands Miguel over to Christina.

“Thanks Dad, and thank you both for the gift.”

She kisses his cheek gratefully and Mickey nods, blushing a little.

“You’re welcome.”

The ceremony is held in the same church as Mandy and Juan married in all those years before and Mickey and Ian take the same seats, their hands linked just as tightly.

The future which has always stretched so far before them zooms into focus and then expands beyond them, the legacy of their love carried on the lips and in the memories of their family.

They walk home from the ceremony, pausing to kick off their shoes when they reach the beach and strolling across the warm sand barefoot, hand in hand. They have walked home this way for nearly twenty years and despite being careful, there is still sand in their shoes at the end of every trip. Neither of them mind and neither could be happier.