#But instead responded a second time with hatred and rage and grief | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ithehellisbucky · 4 years ago

Text

Fake Smile

Carol Danvers x Reader

Request: for @marvels-writings

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Hatred, grief, suicide, etc

Author's Note: This is for @marvelxreaderfanfictionfest's contest last year, it's already on ao3 here. They have a great contest opening on may tenth for the mcu ladies, so go check that out! There isn't enough wlw fanfiction in this fandom (or really any).

You could swear her skin was glowing. Or at the very least reflecting the colors around her. Soft golden light shone around onto her face from the cracked window next to her chair, and she basked in the light as if she had just won every award the world had to offer. She didn't have the right to be this fucking pretty.

Her golden hair floated around her head, almost literally, forming a halo that made her look even more like an angel. Her skin was only several shades lighter, and her cheeks scrunched up in a way when she laughed that you could only describe as euphoric. Her piercing blue eyes only complimented her features, and your eyes were instantly drawn to her impossible beautiful cheekbones.

If only the woman below that was as beautiful as the face it belonged to.

Carol was the enemy. Not literally, of course. But she was the enemy. Utterly unsympathetic when you had told her about the death of your best friend in the dusting, you had grown to despise her within mere minutes of a word coming out of her mouth.

She laughed like she didn't notice you glaring. And when she finally locked eyes with you, her lips formed a smirk and kept on giggling.

In the brief days that she had returned to earth, she made it her mission to do everything for the sole purpose of lighting rage inside your chest. No one had the right to make you feel this way, least of all her.

She had returned to earth to "check-in." In the past 3 years since the snap, the world had taken a turn for the worst. Not only was every other person gone, but the death toll was slowly rising. Crime rates were increasing, and the suicide toll was only getting higher.

Every single damn day of your life you had dedicated yourself to helping the people on earth, and the only thing she had on her mind was the big picture. Trying to bring people back that couldn't be brought back. Bullshit.

All you were trying to do was make sure that the people who had left stayed alive.

"Ava? Would you like a scone." She said it in a normal voice, but you could feel the passion behind the words.

"No thank you. I'm careful about what I let others feed me. Because I'm careful. Unlike some other people I know." You say in the most passive and sickly sweet voice you could muster.

"I'm very cautious about keeping myself, and others, safe. I'm just nice enough to do it politely." She responded in the same voice as before.

"Carol, Ava. Do I need to remind you that this is a professional meeting, where we are to talk about important topics only." Nat said in a stone-cold tone. Natasha was never the most playful person, to begin with, but in the past 3 years, things had taken a turn for the worse.

When someone is already flying by the seat of their pants and is about as stable as a bull in a china shop, you tend not to provoke them. And by provoke, I mean of course murdering half of humanity.

"I was being professionally, just Carol here was-"

Natasha sharply cuts you off. " Ava. "

"Fine." You say, internally rolling your eyes.

Carol looks you dead in the eyes and gives you a smirk. Damn this woman.

You had been through hell. You had talking people of bridges, you had stood up for abuse victims in court, you had watched the people you had loved die. You were a stone-cold bitch. But with Carol, you might as well be a 2-year-old with a pair of scissors and a disturbing lack of adult supervision.

Once the meeting was over, you sparked a conversation with Natasha. "Hey Nat, do you wanna get some lunch?"

She looked at you, and then down at her phone, and then at you again. "Um, I can't. Not today." She looks behind her shoulder, and a sinister smirk creeps onto her features. "But I'm sure Carol would love to go out with you."

"Natasha, no. I said no."

Her menacing grin only intensifies. "Oh come on Ava, you could cut the sexual tension between the two of you with a knife."

"It's not sexual tension. It's just tension. Because we hate each other."

"Mm, I don't think so." She turns over her shoulder and calls to the blonde. "Carol, could you come here for a sec?"

Carol's head perks up, and she walks towards Nat, a scowl forming on her face when she sees that you're next to her. "What is it?"

"Do you want to go to lunch. Will Ava and I?" She questions politely.

"That sounds great, but doesn't Ava have to do that... Thing?"

You turn on your sickly sweet smile for what seems like the ten-thousandth time. "No, I canceled it. Just. To. Have. Lunch. With. You."

Natasha is almost guffawing at this interaction between the two of you. "Alright then, lunch it is!" She starts walking right without any hesitation, and both you and Carol have to run to catch up to her.

"I saw this cute little Italian place. Do you want to go-"

"Chili's." Natasha stops her pace and looks back at you.

"What. It's an incredible experience that I'm sure we'll all enjoy."

It's now Natasha's turn to wear the fake smile. "Great."

You reach Natasha's car, and she quickly whips out her car keys.

"Oh, we're riding together?" Carol exclaims with disgust.

"Yeah, saves energy," Natasha exclaims as she checks her phone.

"I call shotgun!" You counter, trying to do anything to get away from Carol.

"No shotgun. I think it would be nice for the two of you to bond. I wish it was in a bedroom, but a car will do." Natasha says, still looking down at her phone.

"What was that?" You asked, hoping that you didn't hear what you thought you heard.

"No shotgun, window's broken." She replies, opening the door.

You and Carol squeeze into the back seat. It wasn't a tight fit, by any means; but anywhere that isn't 50 feet apart from her is hell on earth. How was she so fucking pretty.

Every time your skin brushed together you shot up as if you had just touched a shock wire. The glares passed between the two of you could freeze even the darkest parts of hell.

As you were getting out of the car, you slammed the door in Carol's face. She opening it, and it was obvious she was pissed.

"Oh come on, you're a fucking superhero, if you're afraid of a car door then you're in the wrong line of work."

She doesn't respond to you and instead flashes you one of her infamous fake smiles.

The Chili's is cozy, with only 15 or so booths, less than 5 of them preoccupied. The hostess kindly led you to a booth, in the corner of the room. You slide into the booth first, and your shoulder pushed against the plastic wallpaper when you moved into your seat.

Carol takes her position in the seat in front of you. Natasha doesn't sit down.

She makes deadly eye contact with you as she pulls her phone out from inside her pocket. "Oh look, I just got a text message." She exclaims, not breaking eye contact.

Natasha quickly flashes you the screen of her phone, showing that in fact, she had not gotten a message. "I have to go. Emergency."

"Are you sure." You say, yet again feigning a smile.

"I'm positive, there's an emergency at work."

Carol attempts to get up and join Natasha before Nat gives Carol a disapproving glance.

"There's always going to be an emergency, but there isn't always going to be lunch." You say, cocking your head and putting on a smirk.

"No," Natasha says. And smiles at the two of you. "Have fun."

You flip her the bird, and without even turning around she returns the favor.

"This is going to be fine." You say.

"Yep," Carol responds, popping the p.

The two of you study the menu for a couple more minutes.

You begin to notice that whenever you adjust yourself Carol does the same, and you do as well, subconsciously.

The waitress walks up to you and politely introduces herself. She asked you what you wanted and, without skipping a beat, you ordered yourself the best thing on the menu, and Carol the worst. She looked as if she was going to protest, but at that point, the waitress had walked away. And all you did was sit there and smirk.

The tension in the room was not sexual. The hatred you felt in your heart for her and the simultaneous need to kiss her and have her kiss you back was not sexual, in any way shape or form.

"So." You promptly exclaimed, in the most positive voice that you could muster.

"Yes," Carol responded, deadlocking her eyes onto yours.

The longer you stared into her eyes the more love you felt. You lost yourself in the depths of her eyes as if you were Alice just entering wonderland. The smile lines surrounding her lips were faded and it seemed as if she hadn't cracked a grin in decades. Her fair hair fell into her eyes, and she quickly brushed it out of the way with one unmanicured finger.

"Why the fuck are we doing this?" She asks, avoiding your gaze.

"What do you mean?" You counter, plastering on another one of your on-brand fake smiles.

"Forcing ourselves to sit in this hell-ish place just for the courtesy of Natasha."

You tilt your head slightly and regain eye contact, "oh, so you want to leave?" You politely ask, knowing all to well the stir that you would get from Nat if you left now.

"No, of course not." She said, rolling her eyes. "But, why would she ever think that I would ever want to be around you for longer than the 5 seconds that are already peeling off my eyes."

"It's nice to see how kind you are to the people around you." You respond, attempting to be as harmful as she was even though you were internally hurt.

"But now that you mention it, I'm realizing how shitty it is that I have to engage in conversation with someone as horrible as you." You winced, and you were positive that she didn't notice either, because she was doing the same.

"What are your powers then, fixing computers?" She mocked you with a smile "oh, the world is ending. Look, someone to get rid of a faulty line on my phone."

"Oh yeah, I forgot that you were a dinosaur. I'm sorry, we don't use phones bolted to the wall in national security." You exclaimed. You wouldn't usually be so harsh, but her words were causing you to lash out.

"At least I can hold up in a fistfight." She said, putting on another mask of a hollow smile.

"I can hold up in a fistfight just fine, but can you hold up with a speakerphone button on an iPhone?" Ah yes, another hollow shot at her prehistoric days.

"You know, for someone how talks all this talk, I'm shocked that you can't actually do anything. Oh wait, I'm not. Sorry, Princess, you're all bark and no bite."

"Excuse me, I forget I was talking to someone who flies around in a space-suit and mohawk." Yet again another fake smile.

The two of you continued to bicker for another few minutes until the waitress comes over with your food.

"I can't believe that you would do such an ignorant f-"

"Hi, I have your food." A woman with a positive attitude and a braid crown places your meals in front of you.

You quickly stopped your argument and the both of you put on yet another fake smile to make it seem like you weren't two seconds away from causing an avengers level threat.

"Thank you so much."

"Really, we really appreciate it."

The second the woman walked away you were back at each other's throats.

But, somehow, Carol was still gorgeous all the while she was yelling at you and eating a shrimp on top of a salad drenched in vinegar.

"Seriously, you're so incompetent." You quickly burst out when she notices you staring.

"Maybe you wouldn't worry so much about me if you were actually doing your job." She responds, rolling her eyes.

"I am sweetie; I'm just good enough at it to be able to pay attention to your uselessness."

"You're too kind." She exclaims as she reaches for a napkin that you quickly pull away from her.

"What I find especially depressing about you is that you will never grow. You're the same person. You're stuck in a box. You will never be better than what you are now. And what you are is shitty." She looks up at you, " Princess ."

You pull back from your meal in shock. You couldn't believe that she had said something like that to you. It pointed out everything you had ever worried about yourself.

"I can't believe you. Why are you so relentlessly horrible to me? What have I done to you? I get when you take cheap shots. I take cheap shots all the time. I don't hate you. Why do you hate me?! I don't hate you! I love you!"

Carol freezes up. Everyone in Chili's looks at you. You were screaming. And you had just told Carol you loved her. You told her you loved her. You loved her.

"What?" She says in a meek voice.

"I'm so sorry Carol, I was just-" She kisses you.

Carol kisses you.

Carol puts her lips on yours and kisses you.

And you kiss you back.

She's leaning over the table and knocked both your plates off the table and knocked you drinks over. You feel the liquid on your knees as you climb onto the table and place yourself on top of it. You kiss and you kiss until the rest of the world is null and void.

You only pull away for air, and when you're doing so Carol whispers a careful "I'm sorry."

You keep on kissing and kissing.

"I love you, I love you, I'm sorry, I love you." Muttered between you.

You finally pull away and stare into each other's eyes for a minute, basking in the beauty of her blue orbs.

"I feel god in this Chili's tonight." You breathlessly exclaim.

She laughs a beautiful, glorious laugh, and then leans in to kiss you again.

~Requests are open~

New fics out most Saturdays (check on Masterlist or bio in case the day changes) 💜💜💜💜

~Taglists are open~

Permanent Tags: @natasha-danvers

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callboxkat · 4 years ago

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Those Long, Lonely Nights (part 3/6)

Author’s note: This is a retelling of the story These Deep Dark Woods, but from Roman’s perspective. I recommend reading that story first, but this can also stand alone.

Summary: Roman, a knight, insists on accompanying his best friend Logan, a potion maker, when he decides to head into the notoriously dangerous woods bordering their home to find some rare herbs and minerals for his apothecary. They find much more than they bargained for when they encounter Remus, a bloodthirsty giant. Logince. Angst with a happy ending.

Fic Warnings: food mention, blood, injuries, death mention, killing mention, gun mention, mild body horror (it’s Remus), disturbing imagery (it’s Remus), character death, temporary/believed character death, kidnapping, guilt, attempted self sacrifice, talk of giants, vampires and other monsters. Very unsympathetic villain Remus.

Word Count: 2141

Part 1 : Part 4

Writing Masterpost!

...

Logan wasn’t moving.

He wasn’t moving.

Roman stood there, his jaw slack with shock, his ears buzzing, feeling like the ground had just dropped out from underneath him and he had gone into free fall.

The giant released Logan’s arm, instead letting his body hand loosely from only a few fingers.

He looked at him for a moment, shrugged, and dropped him. He fell like a stone and did not move again.

“Well, that’s a shame,” he commented, like he’d just broken a cheap toy that he didn’t much care about.

Then, he spun around, and before Roman could recover enough to remember that he was still in danger, the giant had grabbed him up in tight fists. He ripped the sword from Roman’s grip—stronger even than the magic meant to prevent exactly that—and tossed it casually over his shoulder. The weapon disappeared into the dark.

Pulled from his shock, Roman roared in anger and grief, pounding on the giant’s hands and arms with his fists. He kicked out, colliding with the giant’s jaw but not causing much damage.

In response, the giant squeezed him, crushing the breath from his lungs. Roman gasped as he heard something crack.

“Hmm, we can still have some fun together,” the monster said, grinning crooked, stained teeth. His lower canines were almost like tusks. The tip of one of them was broken off. Somehow it only made him look more disturbing.

The grip on him released slightly. Roman gasped and continued to desperately struggle, yelling and screaming and hitting out at the giant. The giant simply looked amused, until Roman bit down on his hand, drawing blood. It tasted like acid.

The giant flinched and his grip tightened again, leaving Roman choking and gasping for air once more.

“Now, that might be a little too feisty,” he heard, the giant sounding annoyed for the first time. The monster transferred Roman to only one hand, lifted up the now free one, and flicked Roman in the head.

Crack.

Roman’s head jerked to the side as his vision doubled, and he felt his body go limp. The giant’s iron grip relented. Nausea rolled in his stomach as he felt the giant move him around, poking and prodding.

“Oh, goody, you’re not dead,” he heard, as if from another room. “Can’t have both of you dying before the fun part!��

The world spun as the giant casually manhandled him. There was a tearing sound; and then the giant was tying something tightly around him, like a spider trussing up its prey, before roughly stuffing the knight into a dark, enclosed space made of coarsely woven fabric—what he would later realize was the giant’s bag. It had a putrid smell, like the giant himself, like it was very well used and hadn’t been cleaned in years.

Something else was bundled in a few seconds later, and upon recognizing the iron tang of blood and the smell of herbs in the air, Roman was hit by the realization that it was Logan’s body now crumpled against him.

Roman attempted to move sluggish limbs to his best friend, desperately hoping against hope to rouse him, but he was tied too tightly to move.

“Lo…gan,” he slurred.

Logan, of course, showed no reaction. He was crumpled awkwardly, his head pressed into Roman’s side, heavy and unmoving. Roman was almost glad that it was too dark for him to see anything. He… did not want to see. He didn’t want to know.

It was beginning to sink in that Logan might really be gone. That he might really be dead.

Roman would never speak to him again. He would never get to tell him how he felt.

His favorite person in the world was just… gone.

Roman was trapped in the bag of a giant, with his best friend’s dead body practically lying on top of him, about to be carried off to be tortured and killed himself.

The giant began to move then, and it took everything Roman had not to pass out or throw up as he was jostled about, Logan’s horribly limp body still lying against him. The time in that bag felt like it lasted forever. Being bounced around carelessly, too restrained to do anything about the situation, feeling his shirt slowly grow damp where Logan’s head was pressed into his side, surrounded by the rotten smell of the giant. Able to hear his captor whistling out-of-tune to himself the whole time, cheery as could be. Even as he began to recover from the blow to his head, it only seemed worse, because he could truly appreciate how much he was suffering.

Finally, they came to a stop. Logan’s body was pulled out first. Roman closed his eyes as he heard it clatter to the ground.

The hand came for him next, and Roman was tugged roughly from the bag. The giant set him down only a little more carefully than he had Logan. It seemed they were in a cave, naturally formed, although with a few clear alterations. The ceiling soared dozens of feet high—plenty tall for the giant—beyond where Roman could see. It was dark, lit only by a pair of poorly made torches bolted to the wall closest to the entrance.

Roman should probably have been afraid. He just kept thinking, This wasn’t supposed to happen.

The giant grinned at him, then roughly tore off the knight’s leather boots. It might have hurt, if he hadn’t felt so numb, since the giant didn’t bother to unlace them first. The giant popped one in his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully, frowned, then spat it back out into his hand. He dropped the boots onto the cave floor.

Humming to himself, the giant stepped back, and left the cave. With him gone, Roman could just barely see where Logan lay, on what had been the giant’s other side, the vague shape of his body illuminated by the torchlight. He looked away. Logan wouldn’t have wanted to be remembered like that. Not that Roman would be remembering him for long.

The giant returned some time later, still humming, carrying a load firewood in his arms. Some of the logs looked like entire saplings that had been yanked from the earth. The wood was dumped in a pile before the giant, and then he got to work setting it ablaze. Since many of the trees were freshly pulled from the ground, still with the remains of green leaves on their branches, it took him a while to get it to light; but soon enough, a fire was roaring, illuminating the enormous cave.

Roman should have been struggling, looking around, trying to find a means of escape… but he just felt hollow.

The giant didn’t seem content to let Roman wallow in silent misery. “This would be so much more fun with two of you,” he mused in that annoying, nasal voice as he poked at the fire with a branch, “but oh well! Oopsie! Sometimes I don’t know my own strength, you know?” He turned to Roman and shrugged, a grin on his face that showed he really did not care one bit about what he had done.

Roman didn’t respond, just listening almost with disinterest as the giant went on to cackle and talk about all the ways he was going to torture his “new toy”—Roman, of course.

He went on with that for a while, coming up with more and more ghastly ideas, before eventually sighing, “Ah, but it’d be so much more fun with two of you.” Roman finally glanced up from the patch of dusty, stained floor he’d been staring at. “But it’s okay. It’s fine. I bet his bones will make great toothpicks. Sticks just don’t last nearly as long.”

Anger boiled in Roman’s gut.

“Ooh, or maybe I can put him in a jar. Like a pickled specimen! Scientists do that kind of thing, right? I can be a scientist! A mad scientist!”

The giant paused, turning to grin manically at Roman, who just stared at him with a look of disgust.

“You know, I don’t get company that often,” the giant continued, his shoulders suddenly slumping as he pouted. “Nobody stays very long.”

Because you murdered them all, too?

The sad look faded, and the giant perked up again, grinning. “I’m Remus, by the way!” he announced, putting a filthy hand to his chest. Roman’s gaze went to the bone-studded bracelet around his wrist. It still had Logan’s blood on it.

For some reason, the sight filled Roman with a new energy. Rage boiled up within him, filling every vein, every muscle. He truly struggled against his bindings for the first time. “I don’t care about your name,” he said, hatred and grief turning the words into a snarl. He raised his voice, uncaring of the consequences. “You are nothing but a villain—a foul, malodorous, evil villain who serves no purpose to society except providing something to vanquish!”

Remus, though, didn’t seem bothered—if anything, he looked amused. “Aw, don’t be like that,” he said, removing his hand from his chest and using it to swat dismissively at the air. “Who cares about society? Isn’t it much more fun to just do what you want? Whatever you want?”

“Those of us who aren’t monsters don’t find killing fun,” Roman spat.

Remus laughed. “Maybe you just haven’t tried it. There’s all sorts of fun ways to do a little killing.”

Roman told the giant exactly what he thought he should do with himself. Remus, still looking amused, opened his mouth to respond, when…

Plop!

Remus tilted his head, turning to look. Something small, about the size of a baseball, had fallen into the fire. The giant leaned forward to grab a stick, and he poked curiously at whatever it was.

“Maybe the ceiling’s coming down!” he said cheerfully. “We’ll be crushed like bugs!”

“Greeaaat,” Roman drawled. Just what he needed. At least he wouldn’t be made into tooth picks if he was crushed by a cave in.

The fire exploded.

There was a bang, incredibly loud, and a flash of light. Sparks and charred wood flew in all directions, the flames soaring towards the ceiling with a roar of triumph. Remus shrieked and stumbled back from the inferno, stumbling over the filthy rags he sat on. Heat washed over Roman, who could only close his eyes against the sting, but who was thankfully far enough not to get burned.

The heat faded slightly; and he opened his eyes, squinting against the clouds of acrid smoke filling the air.

What the hell was that?

Remus was patting down his clothes, trying to smother the flames that had spread onto him, yelling obscenities all the while. A patch of his hair was on fire. Roman’s ears were ringing.

Then the smoke shifted, and Roman saw an angel.

Silhouetted against the glow of the fire, a dark shape was sprinting for Roman. The movements were incredibly uncoordinated, seemingly about to fall at any second. But it was a very, very familiar shape that dashed towards him. An impossible shape.

Logan.

He dropped down to his knees in front of Roman, panting. Real. Breathing. Alive. His face was swollen and half coated in drying blood, his pupils were two different sizes, and he was streaked with dirt and ash.

He was the most beautiful thing Roman had ever seen. And he was alive.

Roman couldn’t believe it. He could have sobbed. He could have screamed.

As Logan began tugging at the ropes, glancing once over his shoulder in Remus’s direction, Roman found his voice.

“I thought you were dead!” he cried, hardly able to hear himself over the ringing in his ears, the roar of the flames, and the giant’s continued shouts as he tried to keep the fire from spreading.

Logan pulled out his dagger, the blade glinting in the firelight—of course he still had his dagger, the brilliant man—and slashed the ropes holding Roman still. His hands seemed very unsteady, but he made quick work of it, and even managed not to cut Roman. They both rushed to tug away the bindings, and Roman and Logan stumbled to their feet, helping each other up. Logan kept the dagger out—probably a good idea. Roman considered taking it, since he was in better shape, but Logan’s knuckles were white on the handle. He wasn’t going to drop it.

Roman glanced quickly around to find the entrance of the cave, grabbed Logan’s arm, and they ran. Sharp stones and bits of wood cut into Roman’s bare feet as they went, but he couldn’t have cared less. Even as a newfound terror coursed through him, replacing the numbness like ink filling water, Roman felt so light.

Logan was alive.

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kagebros · 4 years ago

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For Better For Worse

Summary: Wing survives. Drift dies.When Wing died, Drift changed for the better. But what if it were the other way around?When Drift dies. Wing changes for the worse. Warnings: Major Character Death, Suicidal Ideation Word Count: 1448

But where there is death. There will always be death. - Men in Black 3

Deep down, in the dark recesses of Wing’s mind, he knew Drift wasn’t ready. A shadow of a doubt that lingered in the background until it was brought to fruition right in front of his optics. But still he fought with such a ferocity, such intensity.

The smell and the energy of battle charged him up as he swept through the enemy, having little trouble as he slashed down the slavers who threatened his city. He hears a thud beside him as Braid comes into view.

“You,” he coaxes. And the two fight viciously, Wing feeling like he’s finally met his match. One false move, one false misstep and it’s all over. Wing knew that for himself. He continues to fight, trading blows until that fateful misstep happens and he’s down on the ground at the mercy of Braid.

Then within a matter of seconds, Wing’s pushed out of Braid’s reach and he’s stunned until the dust clears. And he sees him. Drift, who so valiantly rushed in and pushed Wing out of the way just in time only for the spear to be stabbed right through his chassis. The entire time, Drift’s optics are on Wing. Despite everything he’s looking right at him, those bright blue optics on him before flickering as if his spark was failing. He gives Wing a weak smile. At that moment, Drift collapses onto the ground, motionless.

“NO!” Wing yells out. He gets back up immediately, the feeling of rage entering his EM field for the first time in decades and he loses control. His greatsword is already out, crackling with a ferocity that intimidates Braid. And within a matter of movements that Braid doesn’t even manage to foresee, he’s cut in half, the spear he used to kill Drift shattering. Wing doesn’t stop at that though. He stabs the greatsword right through Braid’s chest just like he did Drift and twists. He sheathes his sword shortly after, exhaustion threatening to overtake him. Wing gives out a final plea to Dai Atlas as he kneels on the ground. “Dai Atlas, if not for him, do it for me.” There’s rumbling. And soon the city that was hidden underground rises, the gates opening as Dai Atlas leads a charge that sweeps through the rest of the combatants and the battle is over just in a flash. All that remains is Lockdown. Wing, despite having used so much already, stands up and looks sternly towards him, his greatsword unsheathed once again.

There’s an aura around Wing that reeks of death and utter hatred as he stares down Lockdown and the greatsword crackles to life once again as he steps forwards is if to tell him “Fuck around and find out.” Lockdown backs away and retreats. Wing’s greatsword powers down and he sheathes it once again, approaching Drift’s lifeless frame.

Only a couple people are surrounding Drift’s frame, Axe and Redline specifically. After all Wing knew that the rest of the Circle of Light avoided him. He was a Decepticon. There’s a slight simmering rage within him as he knows that if it were him in Drift’s place, he’d be surrounded. The sound of heavy pedesteps comes from behind.

“This could have been prevented,” Dai Atlas says as if to comfort Wing. He places a servos on Wing’s shoulder and he immediately brushes it off, putting some space in between them.

“If only you had listened to him! You HAD the opportunity to make sure this wouldn’t happen but because of your cowardice, he’s gone,” Wing yells. “All he wanted to do was help. He sacrificed himself to save me.” Dai Atlas doesn’t respond. His mouth is only drawn in a tight line as Wing glares at him. Wing stays with Drift’s body for hours, the battlefield eventually devoid of any living thing. It’s only when Redline comes out and places a servos on his shoulder in comfort does he coax Wing back inside the city.

“We’ll do a ceremony for him,” Redline assures, trying to comfort Wing.

“Don’t bother,” Wing replies. “No one’s going to show up anyway,” he says, optics dim as he looks out in front of him, dissociating much more than he’s ever felt. He goes back to his apartment feeling hollow. It feels so much colder and empty than before. He sits down at the edge of his berth and spends the next few hours sobbing his spark out. His grief and anger is washed over with the one revelation: “I never told him I loved him.”

He wishes it was him. He wishes he died instead.

Wing tries to go back to his normal life. But after every attempt, it’s in vain. The mediation he participates in makes him more restless than ever, the sparring sessions with Redline fail to fill the hole in his spark and don’t feel like the same it used to be. Eventually he stops participating in any Circle of Light activity. He barely refuels, he barely goes out anymore. For the first time in his life, the city looks dull and lifeless. And he begins to feel trapped just how Drift felt when he first spent his time in New Crystal City. The greatsword in his room now lays against a wall and Wing refuses to look at it. It only serves as a reminder of his failure, of how that one mistake led to Drift’s death. His sacrifice. At this point all Wing does is sleep. He dreams of him. Desperately reaching for some semblance of Drift’s presence. After a week of relentless nightmares, Wing finally snaps out of it.

And he leaves.

He commandeers a ship with supplies, reluctantly taking his greatsword with him to serve as a reminder of the burden he carried and leaves New Crystal City for good. He leaves without a word. There’s no words to say goodbye to a family that ultimately failed him. The only thing he leaves is a note to Axe and Redline. “Don’t look for me.”

Wing first spends his time freeing the slaves and returns all of them to their homes just as promised when he first met Drift. He joins the Autobots, knowing that’s what Drift would have done and he fights for them but he’s unhappy. He doesn’t find any joy in what he does, he just knows he’s doing the right thing. Solitude becomes second nature to him. Ever since what happened his sense of community was shattered and he became known as the lone swordsman among the Autobot ranks. He rarely interacts with the others and eventually becomes an enigma that the rest of the Autobots grew to respect. They just figure he has very little to say. A mech named Hot Rod for some reason took to Wing though. Out of everyone he seemed to interact with Wing the most. He didn’t exactly understand why. But some parts of Hot Rod reminded him of Drift, so Wing didn’t exactly mind.

“Wow, I didn’t know you smiled,” teases Hot Rod at one point.

But Wing was lonely, terribly lonely. As much as solitude was second nature to him, he hated every single nanoklik of it. There was a moment when Optimus Prime had brought in a map inscribed the Matrix of Leadership. Immediately Wing recognised it to be Cyberutopia. It was only Rodimus at the time who had listened to his stories. Yet the way Wing told stories of the Knights of Cybertron, the truthfulness of said stories, but his voice was sombre and reluctant. He reveals that he used to be part of the Circle of Light and shortly after refuses to speak more on the matter unless it was for information. Every story that Rodimus asked for was quickly shut down by Wing simply falling quiet and shaking his head. It was still too painful.

The war was over. And he was left with that hollow feeling again. Cybertron was being rebuilt and the least Wing could do was help in rebuilding it. It’s almost immediate that he strips himself of the Autobot insignia and goes back to being seen as neutral. He’s not an Autobot at spark. He never was.

Rodimus contacts him fairly early on in the rebuilding. Telling him that he’s managed to get a ship called the Lost Light and is planning an expedition, a quest for the Knights of Cybertron.

“Come on, you’ll be my third in command,” Rodimus says. “It wouldn’t be right if you weren’t there for this quest, Wing. You gave me that inspiration after all.”

Wing accepts.

And eventually he tells both Ratchet and Rodimus about Drift.

#wrift #wing #drift #maccadam #transformers #kagebros.writing

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mayhembunnywrites · 3 years ago

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Chapter 4: Unpleasant Truths

It was with shock and growing hope that Su-Ryeon was forced to head back to Hera Palace, the knowledge that her husband would eventually look for her hanging over her head like the most ominous shadow.

“Min Seol-Ah, Anna Lee…” she whispers to herself on the way back, daring to hope that Seol-Ah would be available to speak with in the near future. She had spoken with her own daughter in passing, never realizing who she truly was...

She did not know, then, that the opportunity would never arrive.

The beautiful gown that Su-Ryeon had picked out would do nicely, she decided. It was a costume that she would wear like armor, beautiful and ethereal. She could only hope it was enough to distract her husband.

Stepping into the familiar elevator that would take her to the venue for the party, Su-Ryeon prepares herself for a moment, the quiet a welcome friend in place of the recent chaos. The fireworks distract her, beautiful in their many colors and taking her breath away as she watches them for a second until--

She watches in horror as the form of a girl is flung from a balcony, a scream involuntarily wrenching itself from Su-Ryeon’s throat before she realizes that she knows that face, would know it in her dreams and only then, because her daughter, Min Seol-Ah, was the one flung from that balcony.

The image of her daughter covered in blood, stretching out a hand to Su-Ryeon, would stick with her for the rest of her life. It would haunt her nightmares and appear behind her eyelids -- and the image of her daughter amidst broken glass and in the arms of Hera herself, the both of them covered in blood.

The shock overwhelms Su-Ryeon as she watches her daughter fall, and her breathing grows faster as she scratches frantically at the glass and then the door, trying her best to save her daughter despite hope.

It is with that hope that she collapses, the stress from all of what had happened over the past week catching up to her and causing her to faint.

-----

Su-Ryeon wakes up to a woman standing over her, the familiar face of the caretaker Dan-Tae had hired, not comforting in the least. The sensation of an IV drip wasn’t necessarily unfamiliar to Su-Ryeon, but it was unusual to wake up attached to one. It is then that she remembers what had happened--

The sight of her daughter -- Min Seol-Ah -- falling to her death, the girl obviously flung from the balcony. The memory nearly brings her to tears, but she represses them in favor of her concern.

‘You never know,’ she thinks desperately, ‘she could, after all, survive that fall...right?’ Su-Ryeon rushes past the woman, ignoring her obviously false pretenses and heading straight to the elevator after ripping out the line of the IV.

She knows that something has happened only after stepping out of the elevator and looking up at the glass ceiling to see if it was still there -- and it was obviously missing. It was the only thing she really noticed, and the party was obviously still in full swing for the Hera Palace residents.

The ‘concern’ shown for Su-Ryeon was obviously fake to her, the reassurances from her husband and him urging her to go back to bed. The love that was shown from him before no longer seems pure in intention, but more pure manipulation.

Soon enough, Su-Ryeon watches and applauds as her husband takes his place as the MC of the event, only...The statue she had seen earlier which was covered in blood was now spotless.

‘I’m certain she fell onto the fountain,’ Su-Ryeon thinks to herself contemplatively. Had it been a nightmare, she wondered? A terrible vision after her fainting? ‘Was it a dream,’ she asks herself.

Conversation seems to flow around Su-Ryeon, she notices absently as people toast to Hera and her husband interacts with various politicians. Her eyes wander around the room as if searching for some sign, any sign, of her daughter.

It is only then that she looks at her husband, pushing down the ever-growing ball of hatred she feels towards him, and notices the blood on his shirt. She does not dare comment, for Su-Ryeon is not a stupid woman by any means and she does not want to risk her life or the lives of her children over a simple comment.

She smiles politely, even as she recognizes the congressman from the photos with Seol-Ah. She mentally notes down his name for later as the man compliments her beauty, and she quickly is dismissed after that in favor of the congressman speaking with Dan-Tae.

She looks around the room carefully, as to not draw attention to herself, and it is then that she notices even more blood on the Hera Palace members. Blood on Yoon-Chul’s knuckle, behind Gyu-Jin’s ear. Su-Ryeon snaps out of her observations when the congressman points out a shoe that is ever familiar to Shim Su-Ryeon -- the shoe of her daughter, Min Seol-Ah.

“I think our kids were playing around,” says Dan-Tae to the congressman, laughing it off without hesitation.

‘I didn’t see it wrong,’ she thinks with horror, ‘I’m certain it was Seol-Ah.’ It is only when the Hera Club members start placing blame on the children -- her twins -- that she snaps out of it to approach the group of curious teens who all seem to have varied expressions, from politely confused smiles to carefully controlled masks of neutrality.

Su-Ryeon takes a breath before smiling brightly at the group of teens, her eyes resting on Seok-Kyung and Seok-Hoon for a moment as she checks them over, only relaxing completely once she confirms that they’re alright.

Seok-Hoon approaches his mother first, Seok-Kyung following behind him as they approach her. She takes them in, just for a moment, and opens her mouth to speak and ask them if they wanted to go home yet, but ---

“There was a fire in Bosuk Village?” the abrasive voice of the congressman says, catching Su-Ryeon’s attention with its volume. “Well, an orphan lived there alone, what can I do? Am I a firefighter or what?”

Su-Ryeon quickly grasps her children by the arms and leads them to the elevator with a smile and a nod to the crowd watching, ignoring all of them as she tries to stop the tears from falling. She stops in front of the elevator and looks Seok-Hoon in the eyes, the image of her nearly-grown son bringing her more comfort than ever imaginable.

“You and your sister should head to bed, Seok-Hoon,” Su-Ryeon says, a smile that would fool neither twin making its way onto her face, “I’ll be joining you soon enough, so just rest tonight, alright?” She waits and watches as her children quickly agree, the twins clearly realizing that something was wrong.

It is only then that Su-Ryeon leaves the lobby, ignoring the eyes that follow her out of the door and into the car. She drives to Bosuk Village with a heavy heart, already knowing what awaits her despite not having arrived.

The crowd surrounding the apartment complex easily gives way to the clearly distressed woman in the formal gown and coat, and although they give her strange looks, she ignores them in favor of approaching the cautionary tape that the police had placed.

Su-Ryeon only notices the body bag when she actually arrives at the front of the crowd, and it is to her heart-wrenching sadness that she notices her daughter, the daughter who had been practically under her the entire time, being zipped into a body bag.

‘Seol-Ah died?’ she thinks to herself, nearly unbelieving despite the now definite proof of Seol-Ah’s death. She is quickly taken out of her stupor by the detectives discussing the will they had found on the rooftop, the claims that her daughter had committed suicide only proven wrong to her with her knowledge of the situation.

She stands as her daughter’s body is taken away, and she watches it happen without chasing the ambulance. Rage mixes with overwhelming grief as she stands, and she stays standing until she is alone in front of the apartment. She leaves after everyone else has, even the police, and she climbs into her car and drives home, leaving broken pieces of her heart and soul behind her as she goes.

-----

The last time she sees her daughter is at her autopsy, the one she had bribed the medical examiner to perform on her behalf. ‘She is beautiful, even in death,’ Su-Ryeon thinks as a tear falls and she places her hand into Seol-Ah’s hand.

She listens attentively as the medical examiner speaks about the cause of death, “The cause of death is damage to her brain and cervical spine due to the fall,” the man says softly, as if concerned for the crying woman in front of him.

Su-Ryeon tries to hold back the tears for the sake of the medical examiner, the poor man obviously just wanting to get this over with and to get back to dealing with the dead instead of the living.

“There’s something unusual, though. I found this inside her body.” He holds out a plastic bag containing a USB stick, and confusion lights upon Su-Ryeon’s face.

“What is this?” she asks, taking the bag with caution as if it was a precious treasure unlike any other.

The man only pauses a moment before answering her question, “I think she swallowed it before she died.”

Su-Ryeon thanks the man politely, bowing to him despite her tears as he leaves the room. She waits to see the door close before turning to the cold, dead body of Seol-Ah and letting tears fall freely, putting the plastic bag in her pocket before taking Seol-Ah’s hand back into hers.

“Seol-Ah, I’m so sorry,” she whispers, “for coming too late and not recognizing you. I’m so sorry for leaving you all alone. Everything is my fault, I was too foolish,” Su-Ryeon continues, stroking her daughter’s hair with caution. “Seol-Ah, who did this to you?” she asks helplessly, “I’ll find out who did this to you and tear that person into tiny pieces,” she says before breaking completely, falling to her knees next to the person who she wished, desperately, could respond.

The room remains quiet.

-----

Returning home to find her husband drinking alone wasn’t all that unusual to Su-Ryeon, but to find him drinking with Cheon Seo-Jin in front of the glass windows that overlook the city was shocking.

‘Really, Dan-Tae?’ Su-Ryeon thinks to herself even as tears fill her eyes, knowing that she had ignored the signs of his affair desperately, and now she was confronted with the truth of the matter.

Her husband was clearly interested in Seo-Jin, a married woman. It was a fact that she wishes she could ignore as she watches the pair kiss passionately before they move to the couch, the pair laying down and completely oblivious to her presence. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before turning around, clenching the handles of her purse in her fists as she leaves the apartment with as little sound as possible.

Hot tears run down her cheeks as she gets into the main elevator of Hera Palace, alone for a rare moment.

Shim Su-Ryeon leaves unnoticed and no one chases after her.

‘At least for today,’ she thinks once she is in her car, tears running down her cheeks and stinging her eyes, ‘I can be alone for once.’

The silence that surrounds her hurts almost as much as the grief itself.

#the penthouse #the penthouse: war in life #fix it fics

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zecretsanta · 5 years ago

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[Bonus!] Fic: life preserver

To: @therealhousewivesofhyrule

From: @kiichu

Surprise! A bonus fic from your prompt: Santa falling for Clover during the Nonary Game. It’s not quite a happy fic, but I hope it at least gave you some idea of a bittersweet outcome. ;) Happy Holidays, once again! <3

—

Ao3 Link

Aoi knows from the moment he’s sentenced to Door [4] that he is, in some capacity, going to die.

Oh, there’s still a chance he’ll walk out of the game alive, of course - provided Snake goes batshit in the incinerator and takes Ace down with him - but Akane still dies. And if Akane dies, Aoi might as well be dead, too.

So when Junpei asserts himself and chooses Door [5], Aoi feels a pang in his stomach. There’s not much he can do, though, apart from give a scoff or glare that lines up with his ‘punk’ persona.

Junpei is so goddamn insistent on going through that door, and for what? Is the guy that interested in seeing a dead body or something? If that’s the case, he should just look into Akane’s many envisioned outcomes; would he still be curious to see the dead corpses of everyone in the room sprawled out in a lifeless heap, including Junpei himself?

Somehow, Aoi doubts it. Knowing the truth about them, about Akane and Zero and the whole Nonary Game, will only destroy Junpei’s future - if he even has one in this timeline. Then again, Junpei’s trauma is Akane’s survival, so Aoi can’t give too much of a shit about it.

As Junpei makes his decision, Akane protests immediately, wanting to go with him. Aoi has to admit, she plays up the theatrics quite well; in another life, his sister might have been a movie star or something. She plays her role as ‘childhood friend returned/girl-next-door who still holds romantic feelings for the protagonist’ quite well… though Aoi isn’t sure how much of that role is fabricated for her.

Anyway, Akane tries her best to subtly discourage him, but Junpei still insists. Aoi huffs, crossing his arms, and forces himself to go along with it. There’s nothing he can do, and has to accept that this simply isn’t the future he and Akane are chasing.

But this time, things feel a little different, and Aoi finds himself drawn to details he hasn’t been advised about before. Akane hasn’t mentioned anything like this, so he is almost positive he doesn’t do this in other outcomes.

This time, he notes Clover’s reaction to being separated from Snake, sees the sheer pain and panic settle into her green gaze, and it actually physically affects him. His heart pounds a little faster, palms get a little clammier, eyes a little wider; for some reason, he’s eerily aware of her distress, and it bothers him.

And he actually thinks, consciously, I understand what it’s like to worry about a sibling - I wish she didn’t look like that.

For someone whose only concern was his sister up until this very point in time, the reality strikes Aoi to his very core; the mere thought that someone else could potentially be more than a disposable pawn in Akane’s plans was startling.

But Clover’s arm goes to wrap around Snake’s, begging him not to leave her alone in this scary situation, and Aoi’s chest twinges.

—

“Snake’s pretty smart,” he admits to Clover once they’re past Door [4] and he’s searching idly through a puzzle he helped design. “You’ll see him again, no worries.”

Clover sits quietly on the bed in the room, taking a breather; her hands ball into tiny fists in her lap, her shoulders shaking as she tries to collect herself. He watches her teeth sink into her bottom lip to try to force her emotions back. No doubt she’s reliving her past experiences with games like this, her mind racing with potential perpetrators as she tries desperately to determine who would want to kidnap her and her brother again.

Aoi almost takes a second to sit with her, to once more remind her that Snake will definitely be fine (he can’t tell her, but fuck, he dragged Hongou to Hell in one outcome!), but reminds himself Akane needs to be his top priority. He has to stay diligent, no matter how much his heart may soften at the sight of Clover’s held-back tears, or the way he wants to say something to stop her from trembling so badly.

He considers, just briefly, giving her the bookmark and seeing if that would change the outcome - but Akane was very strict on when he had to give it to Junpei, and which paths would bring that opportunity.

Clover’s sniffling breaks his thoughts for the moment. “Shut up, you don’t even know him,” she snaps, shooting him a glare. “But… you’re right, he’ll keep it together. I trust him.”

Giving a lopsided smirk, Aoi nods. “Dude seems like a badass - I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.” That’s an understatement, trust me.

“You’re not wrong,” Clover replies, surrendering a hint of a smile. Her gaze flickers down to her hands for a moment before looking back up at Aoi. “I’ll do whatever I can to protect him, as well.”

Believe me, I know that, too. Aoi already knows all-too-well what happens when Clover has to avenge her brother. He can’t say so, however, and just responds with a snarky, “I’ll bet.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s a sibling thing. You know what I mean?”

He can read in between the lines here, can see she’s gently prodding him for personal information. Or maybe he’s being paranoid and she genuinely wants to know more about him - but he can’t take that chance. There’s too much at stake.

“Nope. Only child,” he replies, his voice clipped.

“Oh.” Her face falls slightly; she draws her legs close to her chest and settles her head on her knees, looking almost disappointed. “Then I guess, in a weird way, you’re sorta lucky then.”

Aoi barks out bitter laughter at that. If only she knew - if only she understood how unlucky he really is, how much shit he’s had to go through just to secure the only other person he has in his life. If only he could tell Clover, could let her bear the weight of his hatred and his sins and his grief –

He stops laughing, and leaves the room without gracing her with a response.

—

It’s unfortunate, Aoi laments as he slings Snake’s unconscious body over his shoulder, that Akane saw it this way. He doesn’t understand why he’s suddenly so considerate of Clover’s feelings in all this, but it really puts a fucking damper on the whole thing. He has to constantly remind himself that this is all for Akane, that Akane is the most important person in his life, and that thinking about anyone else may as well be betrayal.

Akane’s his little sister, it’s his job to protect her. He can’t afford to…

Quickly, Aoi banishes the thought and finishes the switch-off with Snake and Nijisaki. It’s strange, but looking at the unconscious man slated to die leaves him no remorse.

“Your boss’ll be the one killin’ you, dude. Sorry,” Aoi mutters to him, knowing he won’t get a response. It’s true, though - if Hongou didn’t get any stupid ideas like pushing people through doorways with active bombs in their stomachs, then Akane would have never had to add this part to the plan. If the asshole had just confessed from the beginning, no one would’ve had to die.

But it’s too late now. Aoi doesn’t feel regret, but at the same time, he feels no pleasure at this, either - he’s just numb to it all. Nijisaki will die, though, so that Snake doesn’t have to.

(And that’s better for Clover.)

—

After Snake’s disappearance, Clover’s quiet suffering grinds into Aoi’s heart even further, like the tip of a boot digging into the ground. His breath catches in his throat and for a moment, he can only focus on the tears glistening behind her eyes, and how she seems to refuse to let them fall.

He only half-listens to Ace’s insistence at ‘sacrificing himself’ - Akane’s told him about it a million times, and it’s honestly so bad, Aoi can practically taste the bullshit in his mouth. Nothing about the man looks or sounds trustworthy, but Aoi can at least recognize his own bias. There’s probably nothing suspicious about him to, say, Junpei - but most of the players should know better.

‘Should’ being the key word, but…

Aoi glances at Clover for a moment, then back to Ace and his theatrics. There’s several timelines where the old bastard kills her, isn’t there? Briefly, he lets his mind wander into the possibility of preventing it…

If he can’t save Akane this timeline, or even himself - can he save Clover?

But why would he even bother? What makes her so special in this timeline? Is there something specific that happens here, in this particular path, that sets her apart from the others? Does he get a better look at her tears, her worries, her grief, and that makes him want to protect her?

Should he protect her, even if there’s no change of fate for anyone else?

“Clover, uh,” he murmurs, approaching her quietly. She sits in a manner similar to how she had in Door [4] - all silent, hands in her lap, gaze looking dead and unfocused. In some timelines, this anxiety churns into a murderous rage - but hopefully, that won’t end up happening here. “How’re you holdin’ up?”

She glares at him, snapping her head in his direction and hissing, “How do you think?!”

Aoi knows it’s fear driving her actions and words - he’s so familiar with this brand of worry and pain that he immediately feels sickly comforted by its nostalgia. He stiffens, unsure how to respond (because he sure as fuck knows he wouldn’t want to be messed with in this situation).

So instead of saying anything, he just gives her a nod and leaves her alone, turning back to the others just in time to see Ace dramatically fall to the floor in his drug-induced act.

—

Much later on, Junpei chooses Door [2] with Seven and Lotus, and Aoi becomes aware of what fate he’ll have. Granted, his choices from the beginning were fucked, so he should’ve expected this, but the tingling of the knife in his back already begins to spread across his shoulder blades.

(And of course, Ace is none the wiser - probably cooking up his stupid scheme on the spot.)

The plan is for ‘Santa’ and ‘June’ to go with Ace through Door [1], much to their secret dismay. Clover will wait for everyone to come back around to the main area after their respective puzzles. And it sucks, but no one but Ace will survive this part of the game - at least, that’s what’s supposed to happen.

Akane had gone over what she’d called ‘main’ timelines she’d seen - probably the ones she knew had the most chances of happening. This part’s recurring, according to her: Ace grabs Aoi when his back is turned, ruthlessly stabs him, then grabs Clover. Then Akane runs, Ace corners and kills her in another room, and the asshole returns to the staircase with Aoi and Clover’s bodies and plays dead. It’s disgusting, it’s deceiving, it’s evil - but Aoi doesn’t think he can fight it.

There’s no happy ending this time.

“This way,” Ace directs kindly, as if he’s not about to slaughter them all. Akane exchanges a brief glance with Aoi and gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. It’s going to happen just as she foresaw, then.

Well, Aoi isn’t going to make it easy for him.

“Comin’ grandpa, sheesh. Who put you in charge?” he scoffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Tryin’ to sacrifice yourself earlier gets some brownie points, but it still doesn’t make you our leader or anythin’.”

Ace’s eyes narrow, and Aoi can tell he wants to break character so very badly. Go on, dickhead, Aoi thinks, Show your true colors.

“I think it was very brave, albeit a bit reckless,” Akane chimes in, breaking the tension in the air a little. “I’m glad you’re alright, though, Ace. Don’t you agree, Clover?” She turns her head to the quiet girl.

Clover doesn’t respond, and continues to tremble as they grow closer to the staircase that will be their grave. Aoi reminds himself that she still doesn’t know whether Snake is alive or dead - and she’ll die never knowing. It feels like a pinch in his heart, a dull jabbing every time he looks and notes how sad she is.

And it’s his fault she’s this way.

He wishes he could come clean right here, warn her about Ace’s attack, but finds himself bound by the promise he made Akane. He’d sworn never to break character and tell the truth until the very end - and only on the ‘right’ path. But this sucks, it sucks so much that he can’t do anything to save her, or Akane and himself for that matter, that it physically pains him.

“Santa.” Clover’s whisper breaks him of any thoughts.

He shifts his gaze to her as they walk, silently prompting her to continue - and she does.

“I’m scared for my brother. I want to see him again.” The agony in her voice is so raw, it tears him up that she won’t get her wish. “I know you said you were an only child, but… I feel like you understand, somehow. Or that you care. So… I just wanted to say thank you.” Through her pained expression, she curls her lips into a shaky smile, meeting his eyes.

And goddammit, something once more stabs into Aoi’s heart - figuratively, for now.

“No biggie,” he replies, probably a bit softer than appropriate for his role. Oh well - they’re both about to die, what the fuck does it matter?

The two of them start to speed up a little, creating a pretty convenient setup: Akane and Ace walk behind, Aoi and Clover ahead; besides being able to privately talk with Clover, Aoi has a step ahead of his sister and her would-be murderer. He has to glance back to see what the old man is doing, but also recognizes nothing will probably happen until they reach the staircase.

He also trusts his sister with everything he has - including his life - and if there’s nothing else true about Akane, it’s that she’s strong enough to take care of herself.

So Aoi takes the opportunity to enjoy this last walk with Clover, his eyes settling on her pretty face. A touch of heat hits his cheeks and he reminds himself of the kind of character he’s playing - it won’t be very tough or punk if he starts blushing, will it?

But his main focus is to keep the girl calm, so he continues their talk quietly. “If it means anything, I was serious about what I said before,” he says. “Snake seems tough enough. He won’t die that easily.”

He doesn’t miss the way Clover flinches at the word ‘die’ - and it definitely feels like a punch in the gut to him - but she does find the courage to nod and stammer out, “Y-you’re right. H-he’s fine, I’m sure of it.”

“There you go.” Aoi gives a smirk and dares to nudge her shoulder. “Now stop worrying ‘bout it. As soon as we’re out of this next door, we’ll all regroup to look for him again.”

Clover gives him a playful shove back. “Okay, sounds good. You promise?”

Before he realizes it, Aoi gets too caught up in his role, in keeping the pink-haired girl calm and positive - enough so that he completely forgets their fate. He opens his mouth to actually promise Clover they’ll all look for Snake - but something stops the words from leaving.

They’ve reached the staircase - Aoi didn’t even realize he’d taken the first step already with Clover. Behind them, Ace and Akane have come to a halt, and the room settles into deathly still silence.

Aoi bites his lip and, understanding what’s about to happen, lets his instincts kick in.

Whatever the Aois of other timelines do, he dares to follow his own heart in this very moment. Whatever role he plays elsewhere, steps he isn’t taking, outcome he’s creating – none of that fucking matters right now.

He looks to the girl beside him - as well as the one behind him - and realizes he doesn’t want anyone to die here.

“June, RUN!” He yells, turning around just in time to see Ace bring out the knife. Aoi’s leg kicks back into the old man’s shin as hard as he can, almost losing his balance on the staircase in the process.

A lot of things happen at the same time: Clover cries out in surprise, Ace yelps (yelps!) in pain, the knife clatters to the floor, and Akane bolts back the way they came. Aoi has to fight the urge to run after her, remembering that this isn’t the right timeline - that Akane will die regardless, and she knows that. He can’t pretend to understand his sister at this very moment, but he hopes she isn’t too upset at him for trying to fight fate itself, hopes she understands why he’s so compelled to do this.

It isn’t fair for them to cause Clover so much pain, is it?

Ace staggers back, trying to regain his own balance, and Aoi wastes no time: he clutches Clover’s hand and attempts to run the only way they can: up the staircase. The girl has some crazy stupid heels on, so she almost trips a few times. But together, they manage to get a few rows up ahead of Ace.

“Santa – Santa, what are you doing!?” Clover shrieks, glancing back and trying to process what’s happening.

There’s no time to explain, and it isn’t like he can explain everything, anyway - so Aoi opts to just shout, “He’s gonna kill us unless we fucking run!”

“K-Kill!?” Clover exclaims, once again looking back. “Crap! He’s coming!”

Aoi glances over his shoulder, seeing the murderous glint in Hongou’s eyes. Damn it, that kick only seemed to piss him off further - is he going to stab them twice as hard now? In trying to prevent the bad outcome, did Aoi actually make it worse?

It wouldn’t be the first time something like that’s happened, at least.

“Come on, you old fucker,” Aoi goads, trying to calm his racing heart. There’s not much at stake for himself here, but…

But he’s decided: he wants to save Clover, this time.

“I’m a bit surprised you predicted my move, Santa,” Ace rumbles, his voice as dangerous as ever. “It’s a pity you won’t be lasting for much longer.”

Yeah? We’ll see about that. Aoi keeps running up the stairs with Clover at his side, practically dragging her. Both of them are panting heavily, clearly not used to this much adrenaline use at once, but Ace takes his time walking up behind them.

It’s as though he isn’t even worried about catching up to them - shit, he’s waiting for their energy to be spent, isn’t he? Like a wolf hunting rabbits, he’s waiting for them to be cornered or stop from exhaustion, and then he’ll strike.

Fuck, why did Aoi think this was possible?

It feels like there’s a million stairs as they travel upwards, panting and gasping for air once they finally reach the top - and a familiar dark laugh echoes very close behind.

“Stupid children. There’s nowhere you can possibly run that I won’t be able to find you.” His low growl is intimidating, sends Aoi’s mind momentarily back in time - back to that same voice giving instructions over a loudspeaker in a deathtrap. Back to this same psychopath taunting a child behind the glass door of an incinerator, to the feeling of helplessness as Aoi gathers up his little sister’s ashes.

Without thinking too much about it, Aoi grabs Clover’s shoulders and shuffles her ahead of him. “You have to go,” he murmurs quickly to her, “he’s lying - there’s a way out, and you’ll find it.”

The girl stumbles forward, turning around to protest, but her face goes pale before she can. A large shadow looms over Aoi, and it becomes very clear that it’s all over for him. Hongou must’ve gained some speed at the last moment, or was just very calculated with his movements, for he’s suddenly deathly close before Aoi can even think of a proper reaction.

A large hand knots around Aoi’s scarf, yanking him backwards. As he’s spun around, the sharp end of a knife meets his abdomen, sliding in smoothly. Pain erupts in his stomach, his limbs trembling and twitching uncontrollably – but Aoi dares to meet his attacker’s eyes. Hongou’s brown pupils are thinned in his crazed state, his lips stretched open to a wide smile with bared teeth. A dark chuckle rumbles in his throat as he twists the blade, and Aoi’s world briefly explodes into white.

Aoi tries to speak, but liquid fills his mouth and he’s choking, suddenly all he can think is that he needs air but there’s no air, there’s only his own blood. Then, the very next moment, it spews out through his mouth down his chin, onto Hongou’s coat (good), and unfortunately onto those awesome shoes Aoi does genuinely love.

He looks for Clover, hopes she managed to scramble up the rest of the stairs and is running for her life - but she stands nearby in shock, a hand outstretched in his direction. Why doesn’t she understand - he’s as good as dead anyway (and has been since Door [5]), but she still has a chance.

So why isn’t she taking it?!

“Gg… g—o,” he gurgles, trying to get the sounds past the bubbling copper taste in his throat. “Snn- sn-… ake…. off..offin.”

Please, Clover. Please understand what I’m fucking saying! He begs her mentally, his eyes growing dull as his vision starts to fade at the edges. But he does catch her lips mouthing the word ‘coffin?’ and he gives a trembling nod in affirmation.

Yes! Find the coffin. Snake’s in there. Please - find him, and survive.

The next moment, he hears the clicking of her heels as she runs away, her quiet cries fading off into the distance. He gives a brief smile, pleased that he was able to give her an ounce of hope in this nightmare he helped set up.

Aoi can’t have his sibling after all this is over, but at least Clover can.

But a cold realization hits Aoi once the knife’s finally wrenched out of him: She’ll know. Red soaks through the white of his shirt, pooling freely onto the floor below him; the pain is unbearable, unspeakable, unstoppable - but he can’t help but focus on that one blinding thought echoing through his mind.

Clover will know the truth when she gets to the coffin.

Once she reaches that coffin and finds her brother alive, she’ll connect the dots. She’ll realize that Aoi knew where Snake was because he was the one who put him there. It’ll all come so clearly to her, and Aoi can only hope that his gesture of letting her know holds some amount of an apology, somewhere.

He isn’t sure if he’s truly sorry for doing what Akane said had to happen, but he is sorry for getting people like Clover wrapped up in all of it.

All sounds drown out and the world grows darker and darker, his limbs feeling heavy and numb. Before he can register what’s happening, his knees have hit the ground, and his torso soon after. Staring at Ace’s boots, Aoi gathers up the last of his strength to spit forward a wad of blood, smirking in triumph as he hits his mark.

Hongou hisses something angrily, but Aoi can’t even be bothered to process the words in his brain. It isn’t worth it - whatever this monster has to say to him, it can wait until they’re both in Hell.

As one of his last breaths leave him, Aoi at least has the clarity to wish Clover’s far enough away now, that she’s going to be safe and make it out okay.

It’s stupid to think, but maybe this timeline, this path, this outcome… maybe he actually managed to do something right. He’ll never know for certain, but perhaps he was finally able to keep a pair of siblings together?

And although it’s one of the four things he hates more than anything in this world, he finds himself attached to that hope for Clover’s safety - like he’s actually aboard a sinking ship, and someone’s finally tossed him a life preserver. Sure, the preserver’s crumbling and slippery - maybe it’s been used too many times, or taken advantage of by others - but he holds on with all he has, and will continue to desperately cling to it, even as he drowns.

#zero escape #9 hours 9 persons 9 doors #clover/santa #zecret santa 2019 #submission

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flying-elliska · 6 years ago

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The transformation of Lucas Lallemant pt 1 : Hell Week.

Skam OG S3 can be more or less divided in three acts, and this is even more obvious in Skam France, which has a more...dramatic style of storytelling, let’s say. Act I : Lucas meets Eliott, struggles with his internalized homophobia, develops feelings, ends with Eliott’s apparent betrayal. Act II : Lucas is isolated, struggles, finally comes out to his friends and to the world, Eliott and Lucas reunite. Act III is what’s yet to come, the revelation of Eliott’s MI, possibly elements related to Lucas’ parents and religion, and the resolution.

I want to take a look at Act II as a unit and the essential character developpment that takes place within it, starting from the disastrous party scene at the end of Vendredi 19h21 and ending with the paint scene in Vendredi 18h34, because this is really where we can see Lucas’s arc pivot, as he is left alone to confront himself, and the nuance with which it was done is incredible in terms of storytelling.

Fair warning, it’s going to be a long one.

Vendredi 19h21 : Fête de trop

It has been pointed out by many that, whereas Isak and Martino punched into bushes and garbage cans during this scene, Lucas hurts himself until his knuckles are bloody. He’s angry at the world for sure, getting in a fight with his friends, but it’s ultimately himself he blames - for having feelings, for caring, for thinking he had a chance with Eliott, for being attracted to a boy, for wanting a family that supports him, for wanting to be loved. Chloe possibly outing him by yelling Lucas is gay in a crowd, Arthur joking about his family, Eliott kissing a girl - it brings all his worst pains and fears to a head, and things he’s been repressing for the longest time just boil over, in the shape of rage and inarticulate despair. He punches his hand into the wall because he cannot speak, cannot think, cannot do anything else. It’s violence and self-harm as a symptom of powerlessness. The look on his face at the end I read as him being totally overwhelmed.

In the background the song talks about partying to pretend to be alright - but emptiness and chaos catch on eventually. It’s ironic in a sense because the singer is talking about glitter and kissing boys in public, things Lucas very much shies away from, but in the end the result is the same, loneliness and alienation. The association of the two brings up very old themes in queer culture, specifically things gay men have had to deal with - feeling adrift, disconnected from family and people and feelings, internalized hatred, self-harm, feeling like you have nowhere to go, putting on a happy face even when you’re spiralling out, partying as a substitute for connection, and what happens when the facade breaks. At the same time, the drop after excess can have a revelatory effect.

Even if it’s painful, this scene is necessary and kickstarts the part of his journey where he is facing his fears on his own. The hurt is a recognition of what is happening to him and how important it is.

Lundi 08h52 : Scared but doing it anyway

That's the definition of courage. With his bandaged hand and the slow opening, as he puts his hoodie up, he looks like a boxer stepping into the ring. Lighting is at its most overcast, blue-tinted, dark and depressing. This clip is heartbreaking, bringing Lucas's worst fears to the light. Being mocked and ostracized, turned into a vulgar joke, having been played for a fool.

Fear number one. He sees his friends laughing at him. Lucas is a character with huge abandonment issues, understandably. As his familial situation went sideways and his sense of self was put in turmoil, he’s relied on the normalcy of his friendgroup to keep him afloat, going to great lengths to preserve their view of him - even declaring love to a girl he feels nothing for. Them laughing would feel like the ground disappearing under his feet.

Fear number two. We can see Alex mimicking a blowjob. Through his rant to Mika about dick shaped confetti or his reaction to “Krindr” dick picks, we can see that he seems to be uneasy when it comes to the overly sexual way the gay community is often presented. And homophobic jokes and behavior tends to be overly sexual too, reducing gayness to a series of sexual acts presented as disgusting, instead of the whole love, identity and culture aspects (not that there is anything wrong with gay sexuality in itself, but when it’s reduced to only that, it would be understandable he has issues with it, especially for a teenager who’s just discovering things, belying the cliché that all men are naturally horndogs.) He's afraid of his intimate feelings and process of discovery becoming a vulgar joke, that’s very understandable.

Fear number three. Eliott looking at him smugly. Basically confirming that he’s a player, that this very special connection they had, something that allowed Lucas to open up and be vulnerable and artistic and bold, and muse about alternate universes and play the piano and feel comfortable enough to be happy kissing another boy - was a lie. Eliott doesn’t care and now he’s able to be on the side of the bullies because to him - like the cliché “bisexuality” Lucas had in mind talking to the girls - his attraction to boys is just a fun side piece, he can just go back to his girlfriend afterwards, whereas Lucas can’t. He’s “stuck being gay” and he’s failed at maintaing a straight façade.

To close it off, there’s Chloé, fulfilling the narrative purpose of a ticking clock and a reminder of Lucas’ failure at straightness and imminent outing. This of course, is not really happening, but this paranoia is very typical of being a closeted queer person, of constantly having to wonder who is going to love you anyway and who is going to reject you because even when your people are mostly liberal and tolerant, there is no way to really know because of how deep homophobia is rooted in our society (see my meta about French humor). It really is Schodinger’s unconditional love.

And then there’s Daphné. This is the first of several ‘tonal breaks’ in this arc, in which the angst is cut with moments of levity, randomness and wacky jokes that seem a little out of place but do serve a purpose narratively and in terms of themes. In this one, she goes out of her way to praise Lucas’ masculinity. It wouldn’t surprise me she already heard rumors, going from the alarmed look on her face, and wants to reassure Lucas he is still a man in her eyes. Daphné is an interesting character to do this. Because she has little brain to mouth filter, she tends to say stupid things and offend people, but at the same time, she can break through people’s walls and isolation - the foyer, meant to bring different people together, is a symbol of this. She’s a key representative of Skam’s central theme of people being flawed, able to learn, and of -trying and reaching out, even with mixed results, being a super important thing. Therefore, it’s interesting she’s the first to reach Lucas in this difficult phase, and this will happen again later. At the same time her words about defenseless women needing a strong man is a reminder of the overwhelming clichés about gender roles that make Lucas’ life so difficult.

Lundi 14h03 : Ennemies and Allies

Chloe's threat of outing Lucas whenever she wants gives the whole episode a feeling of urgency. She is extremely hurt and he can’t catch her, either physically or symbolically. She’s a loose cannon, and her holding Lucas’ outing hostage as revenge feels very violent. It's not clear that anybody knows yet, but she could take Lucas's choice from him any time now. His harsh and terrified words (”I’m not a f*g”) illustrate the level of denial he is trying to stay in as it’s slipping away from him, the powerlessness he feels. The scene taking place in PE class with people throwing balls at one person standing in a goal reinforces the overal symbolism of being put on the spot.

On the opposite side, Yann's reminder of support sets up what happens later. He wants to be there for Lucas, but he’s also been hurt by his silence. He doesn’t want the squad to be Lucas’ punching ball if he can’t verbalize.

Mardi 13h08 : Miscommunication.

Eliott is trying to make a joke about the time they met and he couldn’t chose what to get from the vending machine ; Lucas interprets it as him saying he wants both Lucas and his gf, and he responds harshly. Lucas is pretty much standing up for himself here, as painful as it is. He signals to Eliott he's not game to just forgive and forget, to do as if what happens didn't matter. Him alluding to a choice that Eliott needs to make - there's still a sliver of hope there though, as agonizing as it seems.

Lucas not finding a place to sit and leaving the canteen represents his worst fears about coming out - being left alone. It’s a classic high school story trope, not knowing at which table to sit, eg. not fitting in anywhere, so he chooses not to feed himself. (Again, hurting himself).

Mercredi 13h37 : Sorting through your old shit

This moment of levity after the heavy angst serves as a reminder that life, whether you are ready for it or not, goes on. It’s also the second time that the show subverts horror tropes - first in the first kiss scene for romantic purposes, here for comedic purposes with the creepy dolls everywhere and the guy with an axe. The theme is that things that look scary at first often aren’t, and can even bring unexpected gifts. The overall scene doesn’t have much impact on the plot, but it can symbolize several things - the need to do away with the messy things of the past (like all the shit in the shop and internalized homophobia), giving things that are still useful a new place where they can be better appreciated (the couch is a metaphor for Lucas being gay lmao), the difficulty of dealing with grief and your baggage alone and the need for outside help (like the shopkeeper who can’t get rid of his brother’s things), the importance of playfulness and unexpected gifts (table football).

The girls opening up about their dating woes puts Lucas’ struggles in the larger context of teenage boys being trash, normalizing what he goes through. On the other hand, again, Daphne’s comments and Imane’s joke show that the girl squad have their own problems with gender clichés. Manon denouncing them marks her as a safe place for Lucas, as well as her going through the deeper kind of turmoil of love troubles.

Lundi 01h48 : In the abyss

The scene is dark and drenched in blue light, giving it an oceanic, almost submarine vibe. This is Skam taking full advantage of its real time format, showing the story at a time where viewers are very likely to be in the same state of exhaustion and half-consciousness as the characters.

Even though he doesn't show it much, Lucas is a deeply caring character. He's just been extremely burned out, possibly by his family situation, and what happened with Eliott. And yet, it's still there. We can see it here in how he comforts Manon, trying to be stoic, but it's getting to him in the end. Compassion is often much easier to extend to others than to yourself. He might punish himself for feeling too much, but he would never do that to Manon.

This scene is, to me, the most pivotal moment of the season yet along with the piano scene : they're moments where we see Lucas's soul come to the surface. And as vulnerability is key to the plot, those moments of openness really move things along. The piano scene was Lucas letting out his more passionate, artistic, sensitive side ; this moment is more raw and ugly, about what lies beneath the anger, the despair of caring too much. And yet there is beauty and relief in owning it. In this particular context the shell of anger Lucas protects himself with is meaningless - it’s just the utter loneliness of the night and two people who are broken and lost. Manon is also from a broken home of sorts, she’s also been given a lot of reasons to give up on love. The fact that they’re able to share this intimacy of letting themselves feel like that, at a moment where words are beyond them, is however a sign that they’re not giving up. They’re feeling the feelings, as painful as it is, and they have a witness. It’s beautiful.

Vendredi 09h14 : Exhaustion

Lucas's body is basically close to giving up on him. He can front all he wants, but he's still only human. So he goes to see the school nurse for insomnia. He thinks maybe if he can solve the physical problem, maybe get pills, he can go back to being tough and pretending nothing is wrong. The nurse’s answer - not exposing himself to any screens or blue light before sleeping - is laughably unadapted to his problems, which in turn makes the idea that Lucas can solve his problems this way ridiculous as well.

The nurse is a mess - is she cheating on her actual husband there ? Why is she talking about her (murder)fantasies to a student ? Teacher’s back acne ? She illustrates that adults still have problems (again, normalizing what Lucas goes through) and that life in general is messy and you need people on your side who can be there even though you are going through ugly, difficult things. Lucas cannot talk to her, they’re not on the same wavelength at all, but there’s still someone he can talk to. The medecine is not pills, it’s human support and trust.

Vendredi 17h05 : Trust issues

This clip is very painful to watch.

First Eliott’s drawing. At this point in the story it feels like a cruel joke. This guy played him, and now he’s talking about destiny ? Lucas really bought into the whole Polaris thing, we could see he was starving for a real connection, and maybe he thinks Eliott is using that against him, tugging on the heartstrings like a true artsy fuckboi. At the same time, the loneliness that emanates from the drawing is heartbreaking for us, who know what’s up with Eliott.

Lucas decides to go talk to Yann. That’s his destiny. I thought he was going to walk up to Eliott for a moment, the filming is deliberately ambiguous, but no. In a way, he’s choosing himself, deciding to bring stability to his life by opening up to the guy who’s been his main support system for years : Yann. And he lays it all on the table - his problems with his family, his insomnia, the mess with Chloe, the difficulty talking, having a crush of sorts for Yann, falling in love with Eliott. He’s so brave. He banks on his ability to trust Yann, he wants to believe he’ll be there for him. He’s finally coming out to someone on his own terms, with clear words.

It doesn’t work. Now, I never believed Yann was homophobic - his face only shuts down when Lucas starts talking about all the people who already know. But after Lucas’ slow, painful journey towards opening up, it feels like a bucket of ice water in the face. However, it is thematically appropriate.

This story arc tries to balance two concepts very delicately : on one side, as a teenager it’s important to realize that you’re not as alone as you think, not alone struggling. On the other hand, both internalized homophobia and French culture’s latent homophobia (that makes people do shitty things even though they’re not homophobic at heart, without realizing it) make this process of teenage alienation vs self discovery and acceptance, a thousand times more painful than it needs to be. Ending the episode on this note signifies that the struggle is real, that however brave you might be, sometimes the world is going to try and slap you down anyway. Thankfully, the story doesn’t end there, but for Lucas, this is the bottom of the pit. As his instagram post says ‘god needs your lifeboat as an ashtray’. Sometimes your best efforts mean nothing. This seems like a very pessimistic and cruel conclusion but I believe it’s an important beat in the story, recognizing that sometimes things go wrong through no fault of your own. It’s the system that is to blame, that has not given the tools to Yann to react properly and for the both of them to communicate better and for Lucas to accept who he is and not hurt people around him in order to hide. They’ve gone the road of validation over comfort and I think it’s a very interesting choice. (Even though I can also understand people who needed a more positive message and were hurt by this). But like a lot of queer people, I’ve had my share of half-botched coming outs and it’s important to show how you come back from that.

...

So in a nutshell : this week, we bear witness to the slow death of Lucas’ tough, uncaring, player straight guy facade. His feelings have reached a boiling point, and he can’t ignore them any longer, it’s taking a toll on his body and isolating him from his friends. The moments of levity serve to dedramatize and normalize what Lucas goes through, encouraging him to reach out, while at the same time, the show takes his pain and fear seriously, by showing the minute toll it takes on his health and the less than ideal reaction of the people around him. However, through it all, he finds the courage to keep facing his feelings and opening up. He is staring his worst fears in the face - abandonment, ostracization, having his feelings used against him - and he still manages to choose trust. Eliott might have been a catalyst, but in the end he chooses to do what’s right for himself. He talks, even though it’s almost a moment of symbolic death, but the transformation can take root from there. Honesty is grueling sometimes, but it’s still necessary. It’s better than letting the lie ruin your health and your relationship, better than hurting yourself in an attempt to push down the truth, better than violent powerlessness or night time devastation. Lucas is so good at wearing a mask, but how he reacts in this crisis is revelatory of his own deepest need for change and love.

In short, I love this character with the intensity of a thousand suns and even though it's super painful I love that we got to go on this journey with him.

Thank you for reading this monster of a post, and see you next time for pt 2 : Acceptance !

#skam france #skam meta #skamfr meta #lucas lallemant #elu #lucas x eliott #my meta #analysis

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brightestwitch333 · 7 years ago

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you are a black

he heard it all the time, it was drilled into his head since birth, along with the rest of his parent’s venom. it meant so many things, it was used as a reminder, a threat, a guideline. they used it to justify and condemn, to build and to break. they fed him poison and it expected him to gargle it back up on demand. but he could not and would not. those simple four words defined, trapped, hurt, imprisoned, and finally broke sirius orion black. because in the end of it all they were true - he was a black.

you are a black his parents preached to him for as long as he could remember. they told him it meant that he was more important, better, above everyone else. he was worthy. blacks are superior to lesser beings.

you are a black his mother scolded, when he was four and tried to befriend a muggle he met on the street. blacks do not associate with such filth.

you are a black the old family house elf responded simply when sirius asked why he was so eager to serve him, why the house elf was forced to clean up sirius’ messes, it just didn’t seem fair. blacks deserve the very best from inferiors.

you are a black his father growled at him, when he was ten, after he’d expressed his doubts about slytherin. blacks are always sorted into slytherin.

you are a black his cousin bellatrix taunted him after his sorting. she knew exactly what that meant for him and she relished in his fearful anticipation. he’d simply glared daggers at her, unwilling to concede. blacks accept the consequences of their actions

you are a black his mother roared, her howler shaking the great hall in its unchecked fury, her rage apparent for all to hear. sirius, his face a white mask, refused to let his terror show. blacks do not diverge from where they belong, especially not black heirs, and they certainly do not get sorted into gryffindor.

you are a black? his new friend, james, questioned confusedly. his parents had warned him about that family but sirius didn’t fit their descriptions. blacks were not so good and kind

you are a black his brother reminded him quietly and fearfully, worried their parents would overhear, after sirius had suggested that, perhaps, some of their parents’ beliefs were wrong. blacks don’t question the set order of things.

you are a black his mother reprimanded him with a slap to the face after he’d misbehaved at an important dinner party. blacks do not conduct themselves inappropriately in public

you are a black his father told him sternly, his fingers digging into sirius’ shoulders and elbow in his throat, seemingly unconcerned by the shop keeper’s flabbergasted and horrified face. blacks don’t make mistakes, even ones as simple as forgetting their booklist at home.

you are a black his mother corrected him maliciously when he called himself a gryffindor. blood triumphs house. it was his birthright not his choices that defined him. blacks know where their loyalties lie

you are a black his mother shrieked in anger, her voice magnified tenfold by the howler, heard all throughout the great hall, intending to humiliate him as he did her. blacks do not risk shaming their noble name by engaging in petty misdemeanors and nonsense such as pranks and mischief

you are a black his father insisted softly, when sirius talked back. his low, calm voice a hundred times more terrifying than any wrathful scream could be, and his controlled anger indicative of the chaos and pain that was to come. blacks raise their children to handle pain.

you are a black his mother snarled at him as he lay on the floor cradling his broken arm and still shaking from the crucius curse she’d inflicted moments before. blacks think before they speak.

you are a black his mother threatened him as he stood at the fireplace, wand in hand and blood streaking his face. unsure of whether he should stay or go. he opted to stay for the moment, for his brother. that was a mistake. blacks do not doubt themselves.

you are a black his brother recited back dutifully, spewing the lessons of their parents to sirius with perfect obedience after sirius had remarked that blood status didn’t much matter, only the briefest flicker of fear in regulus’ eyes betrayed his doubts about his words. blacks always say what they are supposed to, regardless of what is true

you are a black his mother warned softly, curses ready upon her lips, hexes heavy on her tongue. she was watching for any misstep or mistake. no error was too small to avoid punishment. blacks always receive what they deserve.

you are a black his mother hissed to him in french after he ran away the first time, so the potters couldn’t understand. veiling her hints and threats across the language barrier, reminding him that he could not escape his heritage, forcing him to return. blacks must always return to their roots.

you are a black his father disciplined him in the middle of diagon alley, punching him to the ground quick and hard, after sirius corrected him for calling lily evans, his fellow gryffindor and classmate, a foul name. nobody batted an eye. blacks do what they want.

you are a black his brother whispered to him wide-eyed and warningly, pulling him aside in the corridor before class. silently begging him not to do something he’d regret lest they both pay the price. but sirius had no intention of hiding his love for his best friend, for a half blood, for a boy. blacks fight for what they want.

you are a black! his mother screeched at him angrily, during a heated argument, brandishing her wand like a sword and firing furious hexes at him like she was sole prosecutor of justice. blacks do not argue with authority. blacks do not hesitate to seek justice

you are a black! he choked out in response to his father’s promptings, struggling against the arm crushing his windpipe, desperately trying to breathe. his father had told him to recite the lesson he’d been given since birth and he just needed to breathe. blacks always give the expected answer.

you are a black! his parents repeated again and again as they struck him, each blow hard and precise, each curse decisive and powerful. blood, bruises and broken bones were his payment for loving an unworthy boy, for loving remus. blacks should never lower themselves to such standards.

you are a black his mother spat at him one last time, her gaze hard and unforgiving as she glared down at her former son. she knew that no matter how undeserving he was, no matter what anyone else said or did, he would never truly shed that title, not really. but she would impress upon him what it actually meant to be a black, one last time. crucius. blacks like to accentuate their point.

you are a black his father rumbled into his ear as sirius laid on the ground, panting and groaning, unable to conceal his pain any longer. but not for long. & with that he carved blood traitor into sirius’ arm, his new label. blacks must prune their family tree, weeding out the weak and unworthy.

you are a black his brother pleaded, when sirius cornered him in the hallway after spotting the mark on his arm. you understand why I had to. you left. sirius wordlessly let him go, guilt and regret burning through him. blacks do what needs to be done.

you are a black the second-year girl trembled fearfully, terror on her face when he stopped her in the hallway to ask if she knew the date. the blanant suspicion in her eyes felt like a slap in the face, two years after he’d been disowned the title still followed him. he wanted to correct her, to prove to her that he wasn’t like them but instead he walked away without even asking. blacks are always respected and feared.

you are a black his brother insisted on the train home, after sirius’ last year at hogwarts. they both knew that once they reached the platform their paths would diverge and they might never see each other again. they might’ve disowned you but I didn’t. you’re still my brother. sirius ached for those words to be true, but that was the last time he and regulus ever spoke. blacks can’t always keep their promises.

you are a black mad eye stated definitively, disgust and hate evident in his tone, as if that statement alone was enough for him to know him. he eyed him distrustfully, perhaps searching for some sign of evil in his youthful haughty face. he didn’t want him to join and it was easy to see why. blacks know only darkness, they are not to be trusted

you are a black! his boyfriend shouted, the implication clear in his tone. he was upset and angry that sirius would dare accuse him of being the spy after everything they’d been through together, and sirius couldn’t quite believe that he had either. but remus’ statement hurt sirius like nothing else, although he clearly didn’t mean it. anyone that knew sirius knew how deeply he despised the dark side. blacks are many things but disloyal is not one of them.

you are a black peter whispered, after sirius confronted him on the street, shaking and sobbing, white with horror and needing to understand. laughing madly with hysteria, and insensible with grief. nobody will believe you over me. he was right. blacks do not have a good reputation

you are a black the judge explained, hatred burning in his eyes, as sirius was carted off to azkaban, sentenced to life imprisonment and pyschological torture without a trial, and that simple statement was enough to justify it all. no other explanation needed. the black reputation preceded all else. blacks are known for their affiliation with the dark arts and they deserve what they get

nobody bothered to set the record straight, nobody tried to investigate further. they didn’t need to. nobody thought about how sirius was disowned by his family for his passionate hatred and opposition to the dark arts. nobody considered the fact that sirius was the very last person anyone would expect of going to the dark side. nobody remembered his vement opposition to all it stood for, his history of standing up for what he believed in. they didn’t take into account everything he had suffered fighting against the very thing he was jailed for. how he announced his opposition every chance he got. how he stood against his own family from the age of eleven and made no secret of his views. how he joined an organization straight out of school that was dedicated to destroying the dark lord. no one thought about how james potter was sirius’ best friend and brother. how they were inseparable, and how sirius would fight to his dying breath to protect that man. nobody looked into how things weren’t adding up, how something was off. they just let it happen, no one cared. well almost no one.

& sirus, the only one that knew the truth, the only one who was absolutely sure of his own innocence, didn’t even try to defend himself. he wasn’t given a chance to a trial, a chance to let the truth come out. & even if he was given a chance to defend himself, he wouldn’t, because in his mind this atrocitious miscarriage of justice was well deserved. in his mind he deserved this punishment, he deserved to suffer, to live in pain, to wallow in misery. in his mind this was justice, for this was the only type of justice he’d ever known. his whole life he had been been punished and battered for every mistake and this was the biggest mistake he’d ever made. although it wasn’t his fault, although there was nothing he could’ve done, he blamed himself. & so he punished himself because he thought he deserved it. he didn’t say a word to defend himself and so nobody else did either.

you are a black. you cannot escape the truth. his parents used to tell him that when he defied them, to remind him that he would always be one of them. & in the end it was true, he was a black and that made society turn against him. blacks know of nothing but darkness. they don’t deserve trials or fairness. they have no right to judgement. they get what they deserve, sirius was no exception to that.

you are a black. & he was, sirius was a black. try as he might, he never quite managed to shake that title, he carried it to his dying breath. he died a black, accused of and imprisoned for a crime he did not commit. not until after his death was his name cleared. all he wanted in his life was to prove himself different than his family, to prove he wasn’t one of them. but in the end he was. he may have been better, more honorable, more moral, more good. but his name imprisoned and trapped him, in more ways than one. & he was a black.

#sirius black #the black family #harry potter #marauders era #the marauders #sad

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yomo715 · 8 years ago

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BOTW ONE SHOT New Memory: Broken Hero

SOOOOOOO I WROTE A THING.

IT’S ANGSTY AS HECK BECAUSE OUR POOR BLUE BEAN NEEDS A BREAK.

I really hope you guys like it! I had a lot of fun writing this, and I have other ideas so if people like it I’ll make it a mini series. Enjoy!

******WARNING SPOILERS******

It was a grim sight to behold.

Link sat atop the mound of a small hill south of the central plains. His weary eyes gazed upon what he could see of the decimated castle. The awesome structure, once a beacon of hope, peace, and prosperity, now lay in ruin, engulfed by the swirling blackness of unholy hatred. Blazing fires scourged what was left of Castletown as corrupted guardians carved paths of destruction.

He could still smell the smoke and ash of the burning buildings. Feel the smothering heat of the flames leaping at them from every angle. Hear the cries of countless innocents, unable to escape the wrath of the horrible phantom.

The king. The divine beasts. The champions. The calamity had claimed all to its rage, destroying everything in a matter of hours.

Battered but alive, he and the princess managed to escape the massacre unharmed.

Physically, anyway.

He broke his gaze from the castle for a moment to survey her status. Zelda sprawled on her side underneath a small outcropping of rock hidden from the rain, where she took some much needed rest. It seemed she finally fell asleep, as her once ragged and anxious breaths had evened into calmer, shallow ones.

Link’s normally guarded expression relaxed for just a moment, the slight hints of relief seeping through as he watched her. Something else, too. Sadness? Sympathy?

The princess had lost all resolve as they fled the battlefield. Unable to bear the weight of her grief any longer, Zelda collapsed into a pool of tears. She could do nothing more than cry. A hopeless, painful, agonizing cry that shook Link to his very core. Other than holding her in a tight embrace, something that seemed to keep her very frame from falling to pieces, there was nothing at all he could do to console her. There were no words to speak that would offer any sort of comfort.

On some level, he could understand her pain. It was an immense weight, so heavy that the world seemed to cave in on his shoulders. Perhaps, he thought, that embrace held both of them together in that moment.

Unfortunately that moment didn’t last long enough for them to process their grief. The skittering, mechanical noises of a guardian stirred the surrounding flora, and all too quickly they were pulled back to their horrible reality. The collapsed princess, still reeling in her emotions, had no strength left to support herself. Or she refused to. Maybe she believed this was their fate all along.

That was not, however, something Link was willing to accept. He didn’t allow Zelda the luxury of time to decide for herself, instead opting to carry her in his arms. It was, albeit, a rather unorthodox method, but it proved extremely effective in evading the merciless guardian.

Even after they fled the forest, he continued to carry her for quite some time. Minutes passed like hours. Hours felt like days. Link found himself lost among the fields in the midst of the rainstorm. His body burned like fire and every muscle ached, but he refused to stop until they found shelter.

Thankfully, he came upon a small outcrop of rock atop this hill. The sight of the castle peaks, dreadful as they were, allowed Link to regain his bearings. Only then did he finally feel the slightest semblance of safety.

Despite all the turmoil and suffering the two had endured over the course of the night, Link thought it best if they at least attempted to sleep. They were both pushed to the brink of collapsing, made most apparent by Zelda’s disposition. She did exactly as she was told. Only a shell of her former self, she behaved in a mechanical manner likened to the precise robotic motions of a guardian. Simple nods were all she would give in the form of communication, complying without hesitation as he suggested she lie down under the safety of the outcropping.

It was only when Link turned away to keep watch that he heard a few sniffling noises. He was tempted to look back at her, but ultimately decided to allow her privacy.

The icy sting of the cold rain pelted his body like pin pricks of needles. They bothered him for a while, but before long they faded into nothing but a cold numbness. It was befitting of his own feelings. Maybe it was the ache of his body or the fatigue of his mind, but the dreadful weight he felt earlier had subsided. It felt like nothing at all now.

He turned back to the castle. A few of the fires had disappeared. Snuffed out by the rain, he figured. A new orange glow came to his attention. It was northeast of the castle, and he couldn’t make out the area in question from his current position, but he realized it must have been the fortress in Akkala. The guardians had turned their attack elsewhere of the castle, spreading darkness to new terrains.

There were people there, fighting for their lives. People he knew: knights, friends, acquaintances. But their battle was futile. They hadn’t the first clue on how to defeat the machines. It wouldn’t be long until the fortress fell. Until all of Hyrule would be under siege.

Link thought he should feel something. An emotion should stir. Anger. Despair. Guilt. Anything.

But he felt nothing at all.

He turned again, this time to look over himself. His champion’s tunic was sullied and torn, covered in mud and splotches of crimson from occasional scrapes and gashes here and there. His hands, slightly torn up as well, showed the slightest tremor. Was it from Fear? Sorrow? Or perhaps they were simply shaking from the cold. Link couldn’t tell.

He drew the Blade of Evil’s bane from its sheath, laying the weapon on the grass in front of him. There was always something magical about the Master Sword. Of course, not just in the fact that it was a magical tool, but on the mental pedestal that Link’s mind usually conjured it.

A sword to slay evil. All evil. To bring light back to the world. Supposedly it was to shine with light in the face of evil.

Why, then, did it now appear so dull?

As though responding in reflex, his back straightened. He felt so much lighter without the blade on his back.

Link gazed upon the sword, his eyes glazed over in exhaustion. They were transfixed upon the blade, yet his mind was completely blank. Somehow he felt even more numb than before. Sounds fell away. His vision faded. After a while, he could only feel the constant drumming of his heart, his senses failing to recognize anything else.

“You can talk to me, you know,” a voice from a memory echoed in the walls of his mind.

And then, with absolutely no warning, everything burst at once. Like a pot boiling over, or a fire setting ablaze, he flared to life with a monstrous roar. Emotion manifested itself in the form of a childish tantrum, filled with screams until his voice grew hoarse.

There were many things he did in that moment. Some of which included pounding his fists on the grass, and standing and kicking the trunk of a tree. He was wild like an untamed beast, his eyes feral and mad with rage. Uncontrollable. Unconsolable.

Overwhelmed by his own anguish.

When Link finally regained some control of himself, he was panting heavily. His head leaned against a nearby tree trunk as he clung to it for support. Fury ebbed away, revealing a throbbing pain from fresh bruises. They left him unsteady, a visible tremor running from the bottom of his feet up to his quaking arms. His vision was bleary. He didn’t know if it was from tears, but he didn’t care. Granting the tree one final fistful of anger, he thanked it by whispering a curse before slumping over.

All energy spent, Link was forced to his knees. That heavy weight from before had returned, but now felt like it began to crush him.

Eventually Link realized a pair of gentle hands were grasping his shoulders.

“Link!” Zelda cried out, kneeling to his level. She gave him a little shake in an attempt to rouse him from his stupor.

Link’s reaction was extreme. He abruptly turned, flinching away at her sudden appearance. A strange sound escaped him—something between a choke and a gasp—as he scrambled to move far away.

“What’s the matter?” Zelda asked, her voice trembling. “What happened?”

He refused to look at the princess, but he could hear her crawl towards him by the slapping sounds her hands and dress made against the wet, soggy earth. All he could do was shake his head. His chest tightened as the crushing weight became even heavier. Appearing uncharacteristically childlike, he curled himself into a tight ball, shielding his shameful appearance from the world.

Another gentle touch graced his arm, and again he flinched away. He shook his head for the second time, physically unable to face her. Link’s voice faltered, not sounding convincing in the slightest. “I’m fine, your highness,” he was finally able to croak. “I apologize for waking you.”

“But—” she began.

“Just go back to sleep,” Link protested.

A long silence lingered between the two. Link dared not move, waiting for the princess to return to her resting place so he could relax. However, he never heard her move away. The only sound between them was the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the ground.

“I will do no such thing,” Zelda spoke first. Link heard her begin to move, his body tightening more as she neared. Her voice lacked the usual confidence she always seemed to sport, understandably so in their current situation. “I believe I said once before that you can…you can confide in me. So,” a pause. “Now is that time.”

Link froze as he felt her hand upon his back, becoming still as stone. Even his breathing had stopped, all motions ceasing for a moment as Zelda slowly curled her arms around his shoulders. He knew the gesture was meant to be a sign of reassurance, but it brought him no comfort.

“Tell me what is on your mind,” Link heard her whisper. Her voice was close, closer than it had ever been before.

And yet, it felt so very far away.

“No,” Link raised his arms, uncurling himself from her grasp and moving away a third time. This time, though, he forced himself to look at her in an attempt to regain some of the former courage he seemed to have lost.

The princess was still sitting nearby, one arm stretched out reflexively in response to his rejection. It faltered, returning to her side as she watched him. Their eyes only met for a few seconds, but in that short silence they communed. Words weren’t needed for their raw, unrefined emotions.

Both of them conveyed a few of the same expressions. Their eyes were tired, a heaviness dulling their shine a slight amount as they were weighted with a specific kind of sadness.

Zelda brimmed with another emotion. Concern traced from her wrinkled brow to her pursed lips, breaking through the hollow emptiness of melancholy.

Link’s dulled eyes reacted to this emotion. He couldn’t help himself. It only took one look at her for the pained expression of pure grief to grace his face, one a child would show their mother just before they burst into tears. He grasped his arms tightly at that unwanted reaction, pressing his face into his knees as he returned to safety.

“I can’t,” Link continued after a long while.

He heard her advance once more, the gestures ever so quiet but enough for him to tense again. “You can,” she tried to reassure. “Whatever is ailing you, please allow me to—”

“I can’t!” His fierce shout hushed Zelda’s voice mid sentence. Link threw his arms to the ground in a fit of frustration. His fists pounded against the wet earth, splashing mud on both himself and the princess.

She recoiled, watching as he returned his shaking hands to his head. “Why?” He heard her whisper, her voice as turmoiled as his own.

He shook his head at first, his jumbled thoughts unable to form proper words. After a few moments he answered. His voice was barely audible. “I can’t say it. If I say it, I don't—” he gripped his shoulders tighter. “I don’t think I’ll have the strength to fight anymore.”

As the deafening silence between them grew, so did the intensity of the rain. Light droplets swelled into a downpour. The pitter-patter from before transformed into thunderous applause, drowning them in its rhythm. Link lifted his head, looking back at the blazing orange fires of the fortress. They had dimmed, ever so slightly, perhaps because of the rain.

How could he even begin to explain himself? There weren’t words to describe the staggering sense of loss he felt. Their world had crumbled in a single night. The castle and the town had burned to ash, and there was absolutely nothing he could have done to prevent it. He tried. By the goddesses, he fought with all his strength. But the battle was brief. The fabled hero, the one who wielded the sword—people looked to him with such hope, but he couldn’t smite a single beast or protect a single person. All he had trained for, thwarted by the strength of the calamity in one fell swoop.

And the screams of terror, the cries of fear and despair. Everything had become so overwhelming.

“How much longer,” he heard himself whisper, “until we lose everything?”

Zelda, of course, couldn’t answer.

His eyes flickered to her, watching her retreat as she sat back on her heels. She appeared to mimic him, assuming the same insecure pose he was in. The princess’s eyes fell to her knees, and she stared at a splotch of mud staining her pure white gown.

The two remained in that state for a quite a time, neither moving nor speaking. A moment of reflection, Link figured. His mind had fallen quiet again, probably utilizing the numb feeling as a coping mechanism to combat the stress he was currently facing.

This contemplation, depressing for him, caused him to stare at a particularly uninteresting blade of grass. However, he noticed the small changes in Zelda’s demeanor. After hearing a small grumble come from her lips, she stood. It was an unexpected, abrupt movement that somehow managed to startle the normally unflinching warrior.

Zelda spoke, and she did so with a frustrated huff. “I, for one, am finished mulling around being useless.” The quivering, angry tones uttering from her stupefied Link. He was completely unprepared for this kind of conduct. “We will have time to properly mourn later, but for now we had best make for Kakariko. With haste,” she declared.

The princess neared once again. This time, blunt and brazen, she shoved her hand into his range of vision. Link blinked at it at first, dumbfounded. If the circumstances were different, he could have been amused by the scene as Zelda began to wag her hand back and forth with increasing impatience.

It was an offering. One to help him to his feet and restore vigor in his soul, and it was exactly what he needed. His own hands were still shaking, but he too decided enough was enough.

This was not the time to fall into despair. If anything, this should have been the time when resolve was at its strongest. They had lost this battle, yes, but there was still a war to be fought. Many had died, many more will die, but even so he would not stop. He would not stop until every demon was vanquished, until all evil was scrubbed clean off the face of the earth. He would only find true peace when he turned the darkness into light.

Was that not what it meant for him when he pulled the sword?

Link uncurled, using his left hand to accept her offering and his right to grasp his blade. He too stood to his feet, and in an instant the world looked just a bit brighter.

“Kakariko?” He decided to ask first, facing her fully.

“Yes.” She nodded. “I’m quite positive most of the Sheikah have recouped there, and we must arm ourselves with knowledge on how to fight the Guardians,” Zelda explained as she started to climb atop the outcropping. Link reached out to hold her hand in support, as her sandals provided little grip from the slippery wet rocks. “I’m sure we’ve moved southeast,” she muttered as she gave her best attempt at directions. “Curse this dress. If not for it I’d still have the Sheikah slate,” she complained.

“Sorry.” Link gave her an apologetic look. “I just started running.”

Zelda returned his expression with a frown of her own, knowing full well the circumstances of their dire expedition. She then pointed in a specific direction, and his eyes followed. “I believe this is the right way. It’s difficult to tell in the rain, but I think I can make out the crests of the Twin Peaks over there.”

The next event happened in a few seconds or less, though to Link time slowed to a crawl. Thank Hylia he glanced back at Zelda, for if not he would have failed to spot the bright red target flickering on her back.

There was no time to yell or shout out. Without thinking he snapped his arm back, yanking the princess from the pedestal to escape the bright blue ray that was sure to follow. The automated beast, sharp as ever, tracked the princess’s trail. As a result, the target just grazed Link’s right side.

The blue beam started to form now. The guardian had enough distance between them to mask its mechanical hum in the rain, but it was just too close for him to properly react.

Link knew he wouldn’t be able to dodge.

His body continued to move of its own accord. Zelda was still falling, though her foot had touched the ground. She was going to land right beside him, and at this rate, also become a victim to the beam. This would not do. Before her weight could sink into the earth, he turned his arm to shove her shoulders in the other direction. She pivoted involuntarily, falling back rather than towards him.

The beam and Link were separated by a few feet. Link took the remaining millisecond of time to glance at the princess he had sworn to protect. If this was his final act, then so be it, but he would never let harm befall her. His hand, still grabbing her wrist, loosened. He watched as she slipped from his grip and fell away, where she would be safe, if only for a few seconds. Zelda’s mouth had begun to form a grimace-a sudden cry of fear, he predicted.

Then he was met with a blinding flash, an explosion engulfing his vision entirely.

_______________________________________________________________________

Link couldn’t restrain himself from yelling out. The pure shock of pain stole whatever breath he had away, and he fell to his knees. His hands clutched his side, still feeling the white hot burns sear his chest and back.

The memory of this place was cruel. Others had returned with grace or subtlety, but this one left him white as a sheet, covered in sweat and shaking like a leaf.

The pain was horrible, like nothing else he had felt before. A thousand needles pierced his side at once, or perhaps it was more like being submerged in scalding water. His eyes watered. Even the memory of Zelda’s awakening, of his own death, was incomparable to this agony.

Link gasped again, the images still replaying in his mind. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. The taste of blood overpowered his mouth, feeling it well and spill as he recalled choking and gagging.

Then, a tug on his arm. Zelda had pulled him to safety as another beam fired in the spot he had just been. Adrenaline took over, and they ran. As far as possible, until he could run no longer.

Link forced himself to breathe evenly. It took every ounce of willpower he had to pull himself from this horrendous nightmare. The physical pain eventually ebbed, but the dull ache of melancholy would not. It was a stubborn pain that grew with every reclamation, one that left him feeling hollow and sad. This one in particular gave him more grief than the others.

Link closed his eyes, breathing a weak sigh as the princess, who was gathering a bushel of apples from a nearby tree, kneeled beside him. “Are you alright?” Zelda asked. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

“I just remembered something,” he answered, avoiding her gaze.

“Just now?” Her eyes seemed to light up at first, but she then masked her curiosity with a frown. “What was it? If you don’t mind me inquiring, of course,” Zelda added the second phrase with caution.

Link showed her a tiny smile but failed to hide the hint of sadness in his eyes. He gestured to the hill ahead of them, the very hill where his memory happened one hundred years ago.

Zelda, too, fell silent.

“It was my fault,” Link listened to the birds flutter about the greenery. Zelda opened her mouth to protest, but he quelled her by shaking his head. “I think I was broken,” he thought aloud, his voice quiet as his eyes drifted back to the hill. “I felt like such a failure for not being able to do anything. I’d never been so…” he frowned. “So helpless.”

Zelda frowned herself. “The attack was devastating,” was the first, simplest explanation she gave. “None of us knew just how terrible the calamity was, and that is why we lost.” The princess folded her hands neatly in her lap, her posture equivalent to a sigh as an air of loneliness encompassed her.

Link frowned at this. It was more a gesture of sympathy, but a simple yet hopeless wish formed. “I just—” he shook his head. “Nevermind.” He stood, patting the dirt off his clothes.

Zelda’s inquisitive nature broke through the veil of sorrow. “What?” was all she asked.

Link sighed, but entertained her. “It was just a tiny second,” he looked away. “One moment where I doubted myself.” Link walked toward the hill, unsheathing the master sword. It gleamed brightly in the sun, giving an otherworldly glow. “If I hadn’t, I would’ve stopped that guardian, and I wouldn’t have kept you waiting so long.” Link lowered the sword, his gaze following it to the ground.

Zelda was silent for just a few beats, but answered, “perhaps so.” Link’s eyes flickered back to her, surprised to find the princess staring back at him with just the slightest hint of a pout playing on her lips. “But you must also remember that we are, first and foremost, human.” His eyes widened as she stood by his side on the hill.

“You were not the only one to lose your way that night,” Zelda continued in a hushed voice. She looked to the outcropping, and he could see from her eyes that her mind swam in her own century-old memories. “We are not perfect beings, and we all have our doubts and fears. I would much rather falter once than struggle for an eternity until I have become like an automaton.” She walked forward, holding herself in all her grace and dignity. Just as ethereal as Link’s sword, though it was now sheathed. “And do not forget that we cannot change the past. We are all—”

The princess’s speech was cut short by a little chortle. Her head snapped back to Link, eyes large as his chuckles only grew. “What?” Zelda couldn’t help but ask, frowning.

Link forced himself quiet, but the grin refused to flatten. “You sound like an old wise woman.” He laughed again.

At once, the radiance of her grace disappeared. Zelda flashed him a mean look. “I am trying to give advice,” she crossed her arms. “Besides, I am technically one hundred and seventeen years old!”

“I know, sorry, sorry,” Link raised his hands in defense, but his smile softened as he watched her. “I get what you mean, though.”

“Really,” Zelda shook her head, her own smile forming. “You’ve grown too bold.”

Link laughed again. “‘Too bold’? No,” he joked. “‘Too bold’ would be telling you about the armoranth leaf that’s been stuck in your teeth all morning.” His laughs turned to bellows at the look of raw horror that overcame Zelda. “Kidding, just kidding!” The warrior flinched as the princess smacked his arm, and she too began to laugh.

The light-hearted turn of the conversation, despite being highly inappropriate, was just the change the hero needed. Link flopped to the ground and closed his eyes, at once elated and exhausted. The sun was bright and warm, the sky blue as the sea and the sparrows sung as loudly as ever. He couldn’t have hoped for better weather. The turmoil of the memory began to subside. It was, in fact, just a memory after all.

The princess took a seat beside Link. “You’ve changed,” Zelda’s voice was hushed, yet it sounded like a smile.

“Have I?” Link breathed out in a hum. He seemed disinterested, but he was genuinely curious. There had been glimpses into the past, yet his memories were almost exclusively of the princess. Not that he was complaining about that, but he was still searching for his own missing life.

He surely had a mother, a home, and friends. What were his hobbies? Where did he grow up? He didn’t even know his true age, he realized. Probably over seventeen, considering he had traversed the Lanayru Mountains with Zelda. Or maybe he had been given the king’s blessing since he was Zelda’s appointed knight?

“For the better, truthfully,” Zelda’s voice cut into Link’s thoughts. He blinked, turning his head a little to give her his full attention. “You used to be so quiet. And,” she turned to him with a bold expression, “serious.” He smiled in response. “When we first met, I admit I was rather intimidated. Wherever I went you would follow, as a chick would a mother hen,” Zelda chuckled at her next thought. “Though I believe you were more the mother hen than I. So very protective.”

“Well it is my duty to protect you,” Link interjected with the manner of a pouting child. He sat upright, wanting to hear more of her story.

“Yes, of course, but it was different,” Zelda laughed once. “You would not speak a word unless you were spoken to. You were proper and poised as a knight should be, however there was never a laugh or even a smile save for a select few moments from what I can recall.” Her gaze softened as she reminisced. “You told me why, eventually. How you felt compelled to become the hero you were claimed to be, and that pressure stole your words and emotions.”

“Sounds kind of depressing.” Link frowned.

“As I said, you have changed.” Zelda looked to him with a small smile. “Perhaps the loss of your memories was a blessing in disguise.”

“What?” Link scoffed. “You can’t mean that.”

“I can,” Zelda countered just as quickly. “You had forgotten the person you once were, and because of that, you could become the person you were truly meant to be.”

Link fell quiet. He could feel that truth welling inside him from his most recent memory. That tantrum, childish as it had been, was the explosive result of the accumulation of stresses and frustrations he had stored inside himself for far too long. “You’re right.” He agreed. “I hated who I was.”

“I know you did.” The princess’s smile turned doleful.

The two were greeted with a gentle breeze, adding a measure of comfort to the silence between them. It was a kind of tranquility, almost. Link pulled in a deep breath and smelled the fresh spring air that passed them by.

“I still kind of feel like a newborn,” he said without thinking.

Zelda was taken aback by the innocent statement, a wide smile spreading across her lips as she chuckled. “How do you mean?” She asked between laughs.

“When I first woke up, I didn’t know anything,” Link explained as he stared at the outcropping. “Well, I mean I knew what the sky and trees were of course, but everything else was so foreign and new. I thought it was really exciting.” He looked to her with a smile and stood. “It’s been awhile since I woke up, and I know a lot of the world now, but I’m still excited to find out more.” He ran to the hill without warning, unafraid of his old memories as he leaped to the top of the boulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so…free.” Link’s grin widened, and he looked to the wide open sky. He blinked, a thought coming to his mind as he glanced at the princess. “Don’t you feel like that too?”

Zelda had stood, a faint but warm smile brightening her face. “Yes,” she answered as she neared him.

Link’s smile grew. He outstretched his hand, offering her the same support had offered him all those years ago. She didn’t hesitate, firmly grasping his hand as he pulled her to the top.

“We’re both free now,” Link whispered, his mind adrift in the sky and clouds above them.

The outcropping didn’t provide much of a view. It barely capped the trees of the forest surrounding the hill. Link had scaled the highest Hyrulean mountains during his adventures, and watched the sun rise from tens of thousands of feet above the sea.

But at this very moment in time, he was truly on top of the world.

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clark3wayne · 8 years ago

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This would have been my perfect scenario for Black Siren’s appearance on Arrow:

Dinah is impressed by how quickly Oliver reacts. He grabs his bow and aims it at her, a mask of cold fury on his face. “Who the fuck are you?” “My name is Laurel....” “Don’t say her name.”

Dinah doesn’t lose her cool. She raises her hands in what she hopes to be a calming gesture before explaining her situation. The scenario is simple: Laurel Lance woke up a few days ago with no memories of who she was and was greeted by a mysterious woman. That woman told her who she was and only gave her a location before disappearing.

Almost instantly, Dinah can see the doubts forming in Oliver’s mind. Who was the mysterious woman? It had to be Nyssa Al Ghul. Did she find another pit? Did she bring Laurel back to life? But why would she have left her alone? Probably because the remaining members of the league are still after her and it wasn’t safe for Laurel to stay with her.

The story is plausible and it could be true. It could be true.

He slowly lowers his weapon and Dinah knows that she’s won. Because this Oliver Queen wants to believe her so badly that he’s ready to go against his very own instincts. Just like Prometheus said.

Their standstill is interrupted by someone’s arrival. Thea Queen, Dinah recognizes. The girl ignores Oliver’s warnings and freezes when she sees Dinah.

Dinah turns her back on Oliver to greet the newcomer and barely has time to say anything before Thea jumps into her arms with a broken cry. The force of her hug nearly sends them both on the floor and Oliver quickly catches Dinah’s shoulders to steady her, saving her from falling. Dinah is dumbfounded and has no idea what to do with this strange girl who's currently shaking and crying in her arms, holding her so tightly that she's nearly suffocating her. "I don't care how. I don't. You're here. You came back."

Dinah doesn't know how to react. She hesitantly wraps her arms around the girl's back and returns the embrace. Oliver's hands are still on her shoulders and she expects him to let go. Only he doesn't. He tightens his grip on her instead and and she's surprised when she feels him press his forehead against the back of her head.

Later, after Oliver reunites the whole team to celebrate her return, Dinah fakes her smiles as she looks at all the happy faces surrounding her. Some she doesn't reconize, others painfully familiar. The theories about her miraculous survival fly all around the group, some of them so ridiculous that she wants to roll her eyes, and she has to remind herself to keep playing the part of the poor amnesic woman. "I don't..." she sputters "I don't remember..." " It's okay" Thea instantly reassures her. "It'll come back to you." The girl hasn’t let go of her hand once since leaving the bunker.

To be honest, Dinah never expected this farce to last in the long term and she’s pretty sure that wasn’t Prometheus’ goal either. At some point, someone had to realize that she wasn’t who she pretended to be. She’s kind of disappointed in this Oliver, her Ollie wouldn’t have been fooled so easily.

She never expected Thea Queen to be the one to put a stop to this sickening charade.

She definitly didn’t expect the girl to give her a speech about love and family in an obvious and truly pathetic attempt to bring her back to the “light” side. It makes Dinah laugh bitterly when that speech turns into a eulogy of her counterpart.

Laurel Lance was weak. And if she was stupid enough to get herself killed then Dinah is happy that they’re nothing alike.

That seems to have been the wrong thing to say because Little Queen just snaps.

Their fight is brutal. Thea is consumed by a grief and hatred and puts all her rage into her fists. Dinah is impressed by the girl's spirit but she never once loses the control of the fight.

Thea is all fury and passion. Dinah is speed and deadly precision. There hasn't been a moment since that fateful day in Central City when she didn’t have to fight. She learned because she had to, because her survival was at stake. She had no teammates, no friends, no family to help her. She only had herself. So she became the best. That's why Zoom chose her. That's why she's still alive today.

She doesn't hesitate when Thea lets her guard down for a second and strikes. She opens her mouth, ready to let her cry out when she hears Oliver yell her name. He's begging her to let his sister go, to just listen to him. He talks about what they used to represent to her counterpart. Tells her that this woman he erected a monument for loved Thea as much as she loved her own sister. He tells her that Laurel Lance would have rather died than hurt Thea Queen.

Dinah should use her cry. She should. But she can't help but remember the way this girl ran into her arms back in the bunker. The way she held on to her and and buried her face in her neck and refused to let go. She thinks of the pictures on the wall in her counterpart’s apartment, one of them showing her smiling, full of life and joy, holding her two equally happy sisters in her arms. She thinks of that beautiful little girl who used to follow her big brother and his friends around.

That innocent little girl Ollie loved so much turned into a drug addict and died of an overdose before she reached her seventeenth birthday.

Dinah lets go and steps back. Oliver sighs in relief. Thea slowly gets up, obviously stunned, and the three of them ironically end up in the same position they had when she first reappeared in their lives. Standing uselessly as they look at each other, unable to move or even say anything.

Later, after Dinah gives up all the information she knows about Prometheus, she asks Oliver to let her go. He accepts, knows he probably wouldn't be able to keep her caged for long anyway. But he does want to know where she is going. She responds that she doesn't know. But she'll be fine. She always is.

She's about to leave the bunker when she stops and turns back to look at Thea. The girl is watching her silently, arms crossed against her chest. She looks so small, so vulnerable, and for the first time in a long time, Black Siren feels something other than anger. "I am sorry you lost her. "

Dinah stays long enough to see Thea nod at her and as she leaves, she fails to notice the small smile appearing on the young woman's face. Maybe there's still some humanity left in her after all.

#no idea where this came from #speedy canary #laurel lance #thea lance #yet another wasted opportunity

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chameleonspell · 8 years ago

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188: despair

She screwed up her face, when he tied back the door-flaps, but didn't protest the sudden onslaught of sunlight and fresh air. Not that Iriel would have listened. The atmosphere inside the yurt was unbearable, reeking of decaying herbs, unwashed linen and a sour, acidic undertone that permeated everything. Once he'd laid her flat, Mashti had soon writhed and croaked back into consciousness. Now she was hunched at one end of her sleeping mat, watching him from inside a threadbare cocoon of blanket. At first, her eyes had been those of a cornered animal, but now they held only weary resignation. Every so often, they flickered to the wooden cup he'd set before her. "It's just tea," he informed her, from a stool against the opposite wall. "You saw me pour it from your own kettle, over your own fire. Now, let's try this again. Where is Julan?"

"I don't know." There was no defiance in it, no anything. But he detected a lack of finality, in her last syllable, and let the silence spool out between them. "He came here." No colour in her voice whatsoever. "I told him everything. He allowed me no choice in the matter." Her gaze regained a sliver of its previous steel. "You know, too, I suppose." "About his father?" Iriel nodded. "I'm not..." He paused, massaging his eye sockets. "I'm not even angry any more. I just want to know why. Why you were so set on pushing him off this cliff of lies." A flash of petulance: "Where else was I to push him, then?" He couldn't dignify that with a response, beyond a choked noise and an incredulous stare. She stared back, unrepentant. "We were outcast," she stated blandly. "His father would not, or could not, acknowledge him. How else to give him a thing to value in himself? Please, if you are so wise, then tell me what I could have done instead." "You could have--" Disgusted by his inability to complete the sentence, Ire lapsed into grimacing silence. Mashti observed his struggles dispassionately for a while, then her gaze drifted, anchorless. "I birthed him in grey rain with mudcrabs for midwives," she said, in a voice like dust. "A barely grown thing, knowing nothing and frightened out of my wits. He cried, and I looked at him, and I knew I had nothing to give him. I was an empty shell, who could not even die, because he chained me to the rock of this world. I hated and loved him both." She compressed her flaking lips, shifting them against each other. Hair plastered her cheeks in damp, stringy webs. "It was... a game, at first. A way to tell a child why he had no father, why he would always be different, always alone. A way to not blacken his heart with my hatred and suffering, a thing to feed him on, that was not despair." Her eyes settled on the cup before her. A hand emerged from the cocoon to trace the rim with a twig-thin finger. "In truth, I did not expect that it would last so long. I believed that in time, his father would... surely..." She shrugged, and her blanket slipped, though she seemed not to notice. "When it became clear that would not happen... I came to think... why not him? He was strong, he was brave. I had learned from Nibani Maesa what prophecies were for. That they were to make heroes, not find them. I still believe he could have done it, had he only had more faith. I tried to keep him from doubt, from distraction, bad influence." Her brow furrowed. "I did not do enough." Iriel jerked forwards. "You did too much! You gave him a lifetime of second-guessing himself, of doubting his perceptions of what was true! Your lies and manipulation left him unable to trust himself about anything!" He expected defensive fury, but received only a long look, filled with an increasing amount of misery. Finally, a slow nod. "I know that I have been a bad mother to him." Don't say that like it's an answer, a furious voice spat, in his head. If you knew, it makes it worse, not better. Ire chewed his lip. That may be true, he told Shani, but sometimes that kind of knowing is no help at all. "The second worst I've ever met," he told her, almost gently. "I get the impression he spent more time parenting you, than you ever did him." Another nod. "I could not do everything I should have done. I hoped... the prophecies would be enough, when I could not be." "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. He needed such simple things from you, but you had to complicate everything." Ire sighed. "It's so dreadful that I understand completely. Thank fuck the Aurbis never engineered the joke of me being a parent. I might even have pushed you and my ma into third place." He leaned his forehead into his hands, elbows on knees. "At least you realise it, which is more than some will ever do." She picked up the cup and wrapped both hands around its steaming warmth. "Far too late. I have lost him now, lost him forever." "Quite possibly. But that's up to him, not you. Where did he go, Mashti? He must have said something." "He... he was so quiet, when he came here. He never even raised his voice. He looked so much like his father. And like his father, he will never come back to me." "But where did he go?" She looked up wildly. "He asked me why I killed him! He put a sword to my throat, and asked me why I murdered Han-Sashael!" Her claw-like nails dug into the cup. "What did you say?" "How could I respond to such a question? All those years raising him, reduced to this! He says I gave him nothing! Nothing but lies! And now he no longer believes anything I tell him! Every dark rumour is true now, even this! This is what he thinks of me!" Air rasped horribly in her throat, her face choked with anguish. She took a mouthful of tea, coughed, then took another. "Listen," Iriel hissed "I don't even care if you killed him. Honestly, his pa sounds like a complete shitheel. All I care about is--" "I danced for him." Her eyes were wide and terribly bright, her breathing quieter now, but fast and shallow. "When he came with his men, to make trade agreements with my father. All the girls, we performed a sacred dance, before the evening meal. We only called it sacred to justify its place in clan-memory, but it was sensual and beautiful, and what could be more sacred than that? My mother disapproved of it. She was not Velothi, but a high-born Housewoman, taken hostage in a raid on travellers. A Redoran, always prattling of my 'honour'. I thought her a fool." She was sweating again, and as the blanket fell from her bony, rag-wrapped shoulders, the strange, astringent smell grew stronger, filling the air. "He came to my yurt that very night. I was afraid at first, but I did not wish to offend this great khan, my father's guest. He was charming, handsome. I liked him far better than the man they had chosen for me. When he lay naked in my bed, and I told him I was daughter to the ashkhan, a shadow passed across his face. Then he smiled, and said that it could not be helped. That I had stolen his heart at first sight. That he would make me his bride, so long as we left now, in secret. Corners take me, but I believed him. I was so very young." A sigh, a shake of the head so brief it looked more like a nervous twitch. "By the time we arrived in the Grazelands, I was deeply in love, and stunned by the beauty of my new home. I was happy, too happy. I soon learned the truth: my beloved was already married. He wept, and begged my forgiveness. My beauty had bewitched him, he had lost his wits, his wife did not understand him, he would make things right. Of course, he could not. But I loved him - and in any case, I could not return home. So I accepted everything he said." She bowed her head over the cup, rolling it between her hands. "He told the tribe that I had come to train as a wise woman. His wife was suspicious, but she had no proof. We met in secret... and then, in time, his wife had proof enough. He never said one word in my defence, when she wove her lies, to cast me out. Not one word." She took another long swig from her tea. "Now Julan believes her, too. Even dead as she is, she has stolen my son from me." "Who has?" Her chin shot up. "Ahmabi! His wife, who hated me, whose jealous rage made him drive me out of the camp! Who spent her life weaving rumours about me, until they all believed it, when she told them I killed him!" "It wasn't only her rumours, though, was it? Rakeem saw you follow them into the cave." "Yes." She shrank into herself again, head dropping. "I had been watching. Such an obvious trap, I scarcely believed even Sashael could be so foolish. I knew the horrors that lurked in that cave, creeping along the underground paths from Red Mountain, bringing the blight into our lands." "You claim you were trying to warn him?" "I was too late. I only added a corpse to the count - the boy outside the cave. He would not let me come near him, and, in his blind fear of the mabrigash, forced me to defend myself. Inside... Sashael's men were all dead, and he... he had forged deeper, lost in a haze of slaughter, unaware he was the last one standing. I ran and ran through caves full of dead things, men and Daedra, but it was a tangle of darkness. I heard him, dying, but I could not reach him. Could not even find his body." "If not you, then who? Was it even a trap, or merely an accident?" "I do not know. What does it matter, now? He is gone, and Ahmabi is gone too, died of grief, they say. Perhaps, rather, she died of guilt at what she did to me, though I doubt it. And I cannot think she killed him, either, for she never would have given him up willingly, and why would she need to? She had already won." "Then--" She hunched in a ring of fallen blanket, a thin grey figure in a thin grey shift. "Believe me, or do not believe me, I no longer care. It is the truth - I am sick of secrets. I have lost the last thing it is possible for me to lose. I have lost my son." "But where? You must know where he might have gone." "It matters little where he went. He will never forgive me." "So what?" Ire couldn't keep the sharpness from his voice, this time. "Don't push that onto him. Why are you still making him do all the work? Never mind whether he forgives you, how can you help him now?" "What I can do? He is so angry with me." "Good! He's spent his life full of anger, with nowhere to put it. Let him direct it somewhere it belongs." "I cannot bear it." "Guarshit! You asked what you could do, and there it is. You can bear it. You can allow his feelings to be more important than yours, for once, you can let him be angry with you. That's something you can do for him." "He will hate me forever." "Perhaps. If that's what he needs to do, you have no right to complain. Or perhaps, if you're sincere about making things right, if you give him space, and demand nothing of him, there may come a time when you can build a new relationship, as adults." A brief convulsion shook her, and she dropped the remains of her tea, spilling it. "He... he said I had denied him the chance to know his father! That I should have told him the truth, while Sashael still lived!" She was almost laughing, panting for breath between sentences, her teeth bared and stained with green. "Denied you, I said! What have I denied you? Only the chance to be rejected and reviled, as I have been! If you would tell me of my sins, then tell of his as well. He denied you, not I. He refused you as his son, I only spared you the pain of knowing it!" She gasped, swayed, and fell sideways onto her bedroll. Exhausted by her theatrics, Iriel made one last attempt, moving to kneel at her side. "Mashti, please. If you won't help him, at least let me try. Where did he go?" Only her eyes moved, swivelling towards him. "He said... that he was going to find his father." "What?" Ire sprang to his feet, holding down the knot of panic rising through his chest. "What the fuck did he mean by that?!" "It doesn't matter." she husked. "There is nothing left in this blighted place for any of us." "Don't give me that! Of course it matters! Mashti!!" Her eyes were closed, and she didn't respond. Iriel covered his face with his hands and screamed into them. Then he slumped back onto his stool. After a moment, he retrieved Mashti's empty cup from the floor, and refilled it with bittergreen tea from the pot over the fire. Her eyes snapped open at the sound of the liquid. "You should not drink that," she said, as he raised the cup to his lips. "Why not?" "Because it's poisoned," she replied, as casually if she were warning him it might have gone cold. "Fuck!!!" Iriel emptied another basket of desiccated herbs onto the floor. "One of these must be roobrush, everyone has roobrush!" He picked up a scrap of plant matter and held it to the light. "Mashti? Wake the fuck up and tell me where the roobrush is. Or whatever else you have to cure poison. Mashti!!" "Sanit," she slurred from her bed. "What?" "Sanit. The cave where his father died." She coughed, weakly. "Half a day south of here, in the red foothills. That's where you'll find him." "Thank you," said Iriel, grimly overturning a barrel, " for giving me that information exactly when I can no longer use it." "Why? Leave me be. Go and find him, if he will be found." "And let you summon a final curse upon him, the guilt of having killed you?" Iriel snatched up a sprig of roobrush, and began stripping the leaves into a bowl. "I think not." He picked up the pestle, wrinkled his nose at the stains on it, and put it down again. He began crushing the roobrush with a knife-handle instead. "No," he said after a while, "that's not fair. I know you didn't mean it as a curse, I... I'm sorry. I'm just... I need to go and find him, but... I know what he'd want me to do, so... I have to trust him a little longer." He shot her a look. "We both do. It's not too late for you to salvage something from this." "How can you possibly know that?" "Because he isn't like you. Whatever else you failed at, you achieved that much. Now tell me exactly what you poisoned this tea with, how much you drank, and when." He scanned the yurt again. "And whether you have any fucking scathecraw." "Not scathecraw," came a sharp voice from the doorway. "Mixed with roobrush, that could weaken her further. We need alitsbane lichen, or better, scrib jelly." The tall Urshilaku woman strode into the yurt, pushing her ash-scarf back from her white hair. Behind her, Ire heard a riding-guar whinny. "Talammu," he faltered. "You came." "Of course I came. I began preparing to travel the moment you told me where she was. But enough talk, the poison cure comes first." "I... yes. Not scathecraw... of course. I'll... go and... find..." "I'll see to it," she said. "She is my daughter, my responsibility. You need to go and fetch my grandson. If she really named him Julan, I think it's high time I met him." next: 189: dead previous: 187: mother beginning: 1: numb

#howtodisappearcompletely #tw: suicide mention #tw: depression

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ramblesandmumblesofanerd · 8 years ago

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Weekly Reviews: Samurai Jack Season 5 Episode 5

Previously on Samurai Jack…

The Samurai has survived his battle against the Daughters of Aku, but one member still lives. Ashi, a devoted assassin, continues to fight against the samurai both physically and verbally in spite of her being outmatched. Even when she and the Samurai are devoured by a gigantic beast, she believes that Aku’s order shall destroy the Samurai and restore peace to the great land of the Shapeshifting Shogun. While trying to escape the beast, Jack tries to reveal the truth to the assassin while also trying to keep her alive. Eventually, the two warriors do escape, and Ashi is reminded of a time in her childhood when beauty was dismissed.

“XCVI” starts at the surprisingly empty domain of Aku, where three human armies converge on the familiar, spiked spire where Aku himself dwells. One army in particular is clad in a familiar, red plaid pattern, and is led by an old man confined to a wheelchair. Long time fans of the original series will remember this man as The Scotsman, the oldest and longest of Jack’s friends in the future, now old and grey and but still full of fire. His army consists of his entire lineage of children, all of whom are women who are not afraid to show some skin in combat, in spite of their father’s insistence on putting on proper armor. Regardless of their attire, the armies commence their attack on Aku, who still suffers from his depression over the Samurai’s persistent existence. He sees the attack as on opportunity to hopefully cheer himself up, and immediately begins his counterattack, making quick work of most of the humans. The Scotsman realizes this was a bad idea, telling his daughters to immediately fall back while he distracts Aku, who notices their retreat. The Scotsman confronts Aku, belittling him for hiding in his tower while Jack continues to inspire more and more people with each passing day. Aku responds by aptly disintegrating the man with minimal effort, leaving nothing but dust and his now broken enchanted claymore sword. Aku smiles for a moment, but then remembers the hollowness in his non existent soul.

“Why did he have to bring up the Samurai?” he moans before returning to his throne.

The Scotsman’s daughters gather around his ashes, swearing vengeance for what Aku has done, only to be greeted by the spirit of their dead father. It seems his sword has the ability to keep his spirit on the mortal plane, which is just what he needs at the moment. He tells his daughters to regroup, gather more warriors, and most importantly, find Jack.

Speaking of the Samurai, we cut back to the island of ladybugs, where the two warriors are recuperating from the events of the previous episode. Ashi, now doubting everything that she was taught, has a vision of her mother berating and belittling her once more. Ashi is barely phased, however, as she now wants to know the truth about Aku’s order. As night gives way to morning, Jack finds a way off the island in the form of what appears to be a sea dragon. The creature gives Jack and Ashi across the sea to the mainlands, where Jack, surprisingly, bids Ashi farewell and walks off into the distance.

As Jack rests in the beach after another day of travel, he once more experiences the fiery hallucinations of his guilt. The fire starts to yell at him as faces from his past start to emerge from the embers. Unlike before, though, the vision doesn't last long. Jack's thoughts are interrupted by the appearance if Ashi, who has come to learn the truth from her former target. Jack initially refuses to tell her, saying that her lind is far too clouded by Aku’s hatred, but the assassin’s protests (which oddly parallels the Scotsman’s) cause Jack to change his mind. He tells her to wait until morning, only to be met with more impatient growls. As the two wait for sunrise, Ashi stares at the clear night sky. She asks Jack if Aku was the one who created the stars. Jack is appalled by the notion and tells her a tale his mother once told him long ago about two siblings named Sun and Moon riding their mighty Phoenix and shooting the darkness away with their magical bows and arrows. Ashi can’t help but smile as she visualizes the tale in her mind.

The next day, Jack takes Ashi through a field of desolation. There is nothing but ash and decay as far as the eye can see, save for one vibrantly colorful tree. Jack tells Ashi that instead of Aku being the one who brought this lone tree into existence, he was the one who destroyed all the other trees which once stood here. This field is a testament to Aku’s power and hatred over beauty. The second truth comes from the familiar landscape of a city ruled by Aku’s law. A ship lands at a port where Ashi and Jack watch in silence. The pilot is a criminal looking for refuge from his home planet. He is promptly given a home in a part of the world Aku has oddly left untouched, as every man, woman and child seem quite happy. The criminal gives a wide, toothy grin as he sees his new home, but this is not a warm, hospitable smile...this is a smile of malice and pure evil. This is Jack’s second lesson: the innocent are always targets in this world.

As Jack continues to show Ashi more of Aku’s world, she eventually concedes as they gaze upon a recently devastated village still lined with the corpses of it’s people. Ashi asks what can be done about Aku to which Jack responds that there is nothing that can be done. He has fought for so long that his hope is completely gone. A noise from the rubble attracts the two warriors, as they soon discover that one of the villagers still lives. He marvels at the Samurai’s return and tells them that the children of the village have been taken away to a nearby factory.

Jack and Ashi infiltrate the factory, hoping to find the children, unaware that they are being watched. In a nearby control room, a robotic foe opens a door close to the warriors, revealing the children. Ashi then hears a high pitched whine in the air as the children suddenly change from silent and stoic to vicious and primal. Jack and Ashi run as they formulate a plan to save these children, with the latter realizing the sound may control the children. Jack tells her to destroy the source as he leads the mind controlled army of children away.

Ashi tracks the sound to the control room, but is caught by an assortment of mechanical vices controlled by the sadistic guard who has observed her and Jack since they entered. He tortures her with electricity, calling her a Samurai Sympathizer, and regaling her with tales of how simple controlling the children was. Ashi’s rage builds to the point where she finally frees herself from her prison and finally gives the guard his comeuppance, as she throws him into a wall and causes his unstable armor to explode.

Meanwhile, Jack has been trying to defend himself from the children he wishes to save. The mind control has turned them into animals, making them pursue and attack Jack relentlessly, almost overwhelming him at one point. But then, suddenly, the children cry out in pain as electric sparks fly through the air. It appears the guard’s death is affecting the children, making them fall to the ground one by one. Jack cries out in anguish, believing the shock has killed the children. As he is consumed by grief, guilt and fear, a familiar green aura fills the scene. Outside, a familiar figure waits for Jack and finally speaks to him.

“IT IS TIME.”

Jack offers no resistance, walking alongside the Green Warrior into the fog.

Moments later, Ashi comes looking for the Samurai only to find the children. Like Jack, she is horrified by the sight, only to be thoroughly surprised soon after. The children start to wake up one by one, alive and well in spite of their trauma. Ashi calls out to the Samurai to show him what has happened, but he is nowhere to be found. Samurai Jack is gone once again.

As we finally reach the midpoint of the season, we're given a few things that fans have been dying for in this episode. Firstly, we see Ashi finally accepting the truth of the world she lives in. Ashi now knows the terror and destruction that Aku has wrought upon the world, and she wants to fight him. This can only be the beginning of a wonderful story I hope to see to the end. Next, we’re finally given a taste of what the Green Warrior truly is. He may not be the specter of death that I once thought, but perhaps he is more of an icon of Jack’s grief which may lead him to his death. Only time will tell what the true intentions of the warrior are. Throw in a long awaited appearance from a classic character, and you get yet another fantastic episode that left me wanting more. But, once again, we will have to wait until next week for the story to continue.

In the meantime, never stop rambling, TM Youtube version now available https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXnsRX-jzwo

#samurai jack #samurai jack season 5 #review

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fallen-gravity · 8 years ago

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Who You Are

It’s pretty rare that I find a piece of literature that just kinda stabs me in the heart. Even rarer one that wounds me every single time I read it in a new and different way.

You wrote one when you wrote the Who You Are remake five days ago. The second time I read it I knew I had to write something for it, because it was so beautiful and touching. So I went and I wrote something for it.

It of course nosedived straight into the angst category, but here it is: an unholy amalgamation of The Lion King and How to Train Your Dragon 2. Nevertheless, I wrote it because your piece just floored me. Thank you for writing it. :)

I hope you enjoy!

Maui lands on the beach, strides heavy, and Moana drops her coconuts all over the ground. She breaks into an overjoyed sprint along the shore. It’s been a couple of weeks since she’s seen Maui last and that is, honestly, far too long. “Maui!”

“Heya, girlie,” Maui says, and his head is cocked at an unusual angle, his steps toward her stiff. Moana would have expected him to smile because he’s back on Motunui, but not this curving grin that pulls up too sharply at the edges.

She stops mid-run. “Maui?”

He, on the other hand, does not stop advancing. He’s looking at her with something like hatred in his eyes and Moana can’t wrap her head around it. Against his own hand he taps his hook, over and over again, and Moana has seen him do that before, in Lalotai, before launching himself into battle.

“Maui, are - are you okay?” she asks, and pretends her voice doesn’t crack on the words.

For the briefest, shortest of moments, something flickers in his gaze, dropping the grin from his face. Then it flicks back on and there is cruelty in his eyes once more. “I’m doing just great, girlie. Better than great.”

Moana stumbles further backward, because this is not right. This is not her Maui. Maui’s knuckles are white around the handle of his hook and he’s holding it like a lifeline, like it’s the last thing stopping him from falling apart.

Someone calls her name from behind her, her father. “Moana?”

“No!” she yells, despite the fear bubbling in her stomach. Then, to him, “No, something’s wrong.” She swallows, trying to hide the trembling in her voice. Still she inches backward, hand half-raised in front of her chest. “Let me help, Maui. What’s going on?”

“What, me? I’ve never been better, girlie. Just gotta get rid of you.”

“Maui, this isn’t funny.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you’re only mortal,” he grins even further, “it’ll be nice and quick.”

“Only mortal?” Moana’s voice pitches, breaks, and she trips over her own feet still backpedaling. “What do you mean?”

“You know, death, the unknown, the void. I’ve heard it’s great this time of year,” he says, and swings his hook in an arc high above his head, then catches the pointed end in his other palm.

“Stop this, Maui.”

“Nah. If I do, he’s gonna take this from me,” Maui replies, twitching the hook teasingly in front of her with the pointed end curved toward her throat, “and not give it back. Can’t have that, now can we.”

“Moana, come back!” her father yells, feet pounding audibly along the shore now and he’s inching closer and Maui’s gaze flickers toward him for the briefest of seconds.

“Stay back, Dad!” she yells, before pleading “Tell me what’s wrong, Maui. I can help.”

“Yes,” he agrees, genuinely laughing, “you can. By dying.”

Before those words really register, Maui leaps into the air, high above her head, and careens downward. Moana stays frozen to one spot, less from fear and more from the murderous hatred raging in her best friend’s eyes, watching with horror in her throat as he plummets hook-first toward her aimed to smite her, his entire hook crackling with sickly green magic -

Something warm and strong shoves her out of the way.

Moana hits the ground with a yelp, shoulder skidding along the sand. It burns along her throat, sending her coughing and retching against the shore. When she can breathe again, she looks up to find her father motionless on the ground.

“Dad?” she asks, pushing herself onto her elbows.

Strewn along the shore, Tui does not move.

“Dad?” she shouts, desperately, half-running half-stumbling toward him. There’s this sick green aura twisting around his body, fading, draining the life from him.

She runs a desperate hand along his face, his shoulders, and already the outside air leaches his warmth. His heart does not beat and he does not breathe.

Moana turns toward Maui with hatred. “What did you do?” she shouts, furious tears dripping down her face. She stands, plants herself firmly between Maui and her father, hands clenched into fists at her side.

But Maui does not respond. Instead he stands there, expression flickering in a constellation of emotions, like he can’t decide which one to feel and Moana does not care.

“You killed him,” she accuses, grief lending fury to her voice, and for the smallest of seconds his expression breaks before it closes off again, like the smoothing of the sand beneath the waves and that is strange but right now Moana does not care.

“Huh. Guess I did,” he shrugs, hefts his hook easily. He flips it a couple times, like he’s telling a story and this is nothing more than a reenactment, then a tale to help the children sleep, and levels it at her again. “Too bad he’s gone, though, because this time I won’t miss.”

“Try it,” she grits, raising her fists in front of her face. Something small and wet drips onto her knee and she scrubs at her face angrily.

For a long moment, Maui stares at her in something like shock. Then he shrugs, chuckles to himself, and switches his hook in his hands. “Okay.”

She and Maui have sparred before, oar-on-hook. Maui launches himself toward her and she is momentarily gratified, viciously pleased, at his surprise when she leaps agilely out of the way. Along the sand she rolls, then she leaps back upward and sprints along the shore toward where her canoe waits, away from her father. She can’t beat him with her bare hands but she can take him on with her oar and she will burn the heart out of the wood when this fight is over.

Wait.

That thought stops her like a physical thing, the clouds of grief parting for a moment. What is she thinking? Something is wrong, she cannot burn. She has to help.

It isn’t Maui, she realizes, in a flash of clarity so sudden that it takes her off-guard. His hook, his green hook crackling with darkness, he has not let it go since he dropped onto Motunui’s shores. It is corrupted, and it is corrupting him.

This is not her Maui.

But she has delayed too long and it is by a hair’s length that she dodges his hook, sways to the side to watch him skid to a stop in front of her.

Her best friend is trying to kill her, but it is not really him. Her Maui is still in there. She knows this, because Maui would not leave her again.

So instead of fighting, instead of turning her back and fleeing and hating, Moana calms herself, stills her still-trembling shoulders. For a brief moment she sees the face of Te Fiti, but this does not define you, and from it she draws strength. She is Moana of Motunui and she restores life, and she will drive the poison out of Maui to return her Maui to her.

“Maui, listen to me,” she says with a firm voice. “Your hook does not define you. You know this,” she breathes, and his hateful expression falters, curls in on itself to ash, and Moana steps forward. Steps toward him, feet gentle against the beach.

“You know who you are.”

#THIS IS THE MOST ILLEGAL THING I'VE EVER READ IN MY ENTIRE LIFE #YOU NEED TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW #OH MY GOD #HOW DARE YOU TAKE MY CONCEPT AND MAKE IT 2X DARKER #HOW DARE YOU #I DON'T DESERVE THIS #MOANA #submission

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lafemmerovge-blog · 8 years ago

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ALEXANDRA VALSPAR + BACKGROUND HISTORY !! —– part 3 / ??

Tears streamed down the immortal’s face, stinging the dirt streaked flesh of her cheeks as she held onto the dark haired Roman in her arms for dear life. They were both fallen to the earth before the Great Alder Tree, a mess of limbs that had forgotten how to move. The grit of the soil mixed with her burnt wounds from where they’d shackled her with iron. Her lips, dried and cracked after her captivity, repeatedly kissed the top of his head as whispered apologies went unheard by the crazed creature her Samael had become. Not that it mattered; words weren’t enough to apologize for what she had done to him. She had been so naïve – such an insipid fool – and now they were both paying the price.

“This is the only way it could have ended, Alexandra.” A honeyed voice washed against her tired mind, draining what remained of her reserve and blinding her with rage. A set of knuckles brushed along her temple, soothing away the hair that had matted there. “Look at what your selfishness has wrought.”

Bloodshot eyes narrowed as the blonde lifted her head to glare at her mother, every ounce of anger and hatred burning in her irises. This was the woman that had given birth to her; the one that was supposed to love her unconditionally. Instead, Mortencia had taken everything from her and, fool that she was, Alexandra had let her.

All she had ever wanted was to be loved.

“What will become of him?” The fae asked with what remained of her voice, a shaking hand caressing the dark hair beneath her fingertips. He wasn’t dead, but she all but felt that might have been a greater blessing. His flesh was taut over his bones and, like some emaciated creature, his every feature was sunken and hollow. It was her grip on him that kept him from trembling and howling as he had been before.

“He will continue his descent into madness,” her mother responded with a disinterested wave of her hand. “Humans are beautiful for a time, but it is only skin deep and even that withers. Your soldier – your Samael has had our fruit and our wine, he has danced in our circle and now we have cast him out. The depravity of the body is nothing compared to the depravity within, child. Never again will he be able to eat mortal food; never again will he know joy. You have done more to make this man suffer than I ever could. Your love is indeed a potent weapon, Alexandra.”

“You did this!” She argued, her shoulders shaking from the force of her assertion and rattling the creature in her arms. “I would never! I didn’t – I couldn’t do this to him.”

“Do not blame me for your mistakes, child. I have no vendetta against this man.” Mortencia sneered at the creature in something very akin to disgust. “In fact, as far as I am concerned, his only fault was in loving you.” She lowered herself to the ground, crouching just this once to whisper in her daughter’s ear. “Without you, he would still be happy and whole. Who is the true evil Alexandra, the monster or the one who creates it?”

The tears flowed freely as sob after sob wracked the girl’s broken frame. She shut her eyes tightly, rocking back and forth as she willed the entire horrid nightmare to end.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered the hoarse and cracked words into Samael’s hair as his hands began to claw fervently at her sides. Perhaps her pain riled him or he’d managed to catch a second breath of wretched life. She cradled him to her chest, attempting to soothe him even as her world crumbled around her. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I only ever wanted –“

“What?” her mother interjected with a snort of derision. “You wanted to be loved, is that it? Oh child, don’t be ridiculous! Who in their right mind could ever love a pathetic little thing like you?”

“He did,” she argued feebly.

“Yes, and look where that got him.” Mortencia stood up then, rising back to her full and towering height as she regarded her daughter. “Fortunately for you I am of a generous nature.”

“You’ll save him?”

“I have a present for you,” she sidestepped before beckoning one of the guardsmen to her side, “a late birthday present, if you will. With this gift you may keep his soul from further torment.”

Alexandra sniffed, blinking her swollen eyes as she attempted to focus on the glistening black box thrust before her face. Perhaps wrongly, a flutter of hope coiled within the pit of her stomach as the gift was offered to her. Slowly, almost tentatively, she removed one of her hands from Samael’s quaking form to open the lid. Lying there on a bed of velvet was the ugliest weapon she’d had the misfortune of laying eyes upon; a twisted dagger as dark as a starless night.

“What am I to do with this?” She was loathe to even touch it, but her fingers wrapped around the hilt all the same. It was deceptively light in her hand.

“What does one usually do with daggers, child?”

“I don’t understand, how is that supposed to help –“ Realization crashed upon her in brutal waves, a sharp cry escaping her parched lips as she glared at her mother in disbelief. How could she ask her to do such a thing?

“Stop being selfish, Alexandra.” The Queen of the Unseelie shook her head in exasperation. “You have but two options. You may keep your Samael as he is and allow him to fall further into his madness until he is a creature beyond recognition or name or you may thrust that dagger into his heart and keep his soul exactly as you know it and end this torment. There is no other choice.”

She could not look at her mother, instead her gaze trailed between the dagger and the poor unfortunate soul in her arms. Alexandra would not be happy with either choice, but if she could bring peace to the man she had ruined – if she could save him, then it seemed only right to sacrifice her happiness in favor of his soul.

Alexandra had always been the one destined to become a monster.

Her body shifted, moving so that she was on her knees as she raised Samael’s chin towards her face. It hurt to see his once lively blue eyes overtaken by a lifeless and sunken black and her hand trembled as she caressed his cheek.

“I love you,” she whispered the words between her tears as she rested her forehead against his. “It will never be enough to say that I’m sorry for all the wrong that my affection has caused or the great injustice I have done you. You were everything and I greedily robbed you of the vitality that I admired so much within you. If I had known – If I had just thought – I would have – I never –“ Her words were broken by a miserable sob that threatened to rob her of the sparse bit of air remaining in her lungs. Everything hurt too much, the unbearable weight of the world building on her small shoulders.

“Alexandra…” The name was croaked from too thin lips and she all but wished she had just imagined it. The agony was written plainly in his gaunt face.

“Shh, I’m here,” she soothed – moving her hand to cradle the back of his neck as she tightened her grip on the dagger in the other. “It’ll all be over soon, my love. I’m sorry – I’m so sorry, Samael.”

“End his torment,” the cruel voice of her mother echoed behind her. “Thrust the dagger and keep his soul from the same fate as his body. It is the only way.”

“Alexandra…”

“Shh, don’t speak.” Her lips brushed against his, bitter and salted from her tears. The fae brought her hand holding the dagger closer to his chest, poised and waiting. “You’ll be safe soon, I promise; safe from the pain…and from me.”

Alexandra crushed her lips against his, drowning out her own cries with the fervor of her embrace as she thrust the glinting metal into the cavern of his chest. She held him closely to her, cradling him in those last moments as his life’s blood seeped into her clothing and covered her flesh. She was stained by the warm crimson and the vague notion that she’d never bathe it away flittered through her fractured mind. She would carry the stain with her always.

“I love you,” she whispered again against his pale dead lips. “I love you. I love you.” The mantra became hysterical as she pulled the dagger from his chest, throwing it to the ground before holding onto him with both of her arms as the tears drowned her. While she prayed for death to take her as well, to rip her from this terrible reality, she all but missed her mother’s words.

“Leave her there, if her grief doesn’t kill her --- perhaps the iron will.”

If only the girl had been so lucky.

#long post for ts #avbgh #ʜᴄ ◆ ❝ ᵇᵘᶤˡᵗ ᵘᵖᵒᶰ ᵗʰᵉ ʷʳᵉᶜᵏᵃᵍᵉ ᵒᶠ ᵐʸˢᵉˡᶠ ❞ ┊◆ GENERAL TAG #ʜᴄ ◆ ❝ ᵈᵃʳᵏ ᶤᶰ ᵐʸ ᶤᵐᵃᵍᶤᶰᵃᵗᶤᵒᶰ ❞ ┊◆ BG HISTORY #sʜɪᴘs ◆ ❝ ᵖᵉʳᶠᵉᶜᵗ ᶜᵒᵘˡᵈᶰ'ᵗ ᵏᵉᵉᵖ ᵗʰᶤˢ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᵃˡᶤᵛᵉ ❞ ┊◆ ALLMAEL #ᴍɪɴᴇ ◆┊◆ GRAPHICS #ɪᴄ ◆ ❝ ˢᵒᶠᵗᶰᵉˢˢ ᵈᶤᵈ ᶰᵒᵗ ˢᵉʳᵛᵉ ᵐᵉ ❞ ┊◆ DRABBLE #( i'm not crying or anything )

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unrequitedmime · 6 years ago

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The Princess of the Mercan Mountains already walks like a Queen. She enters the sitting room like a sweeping storm of clicking heels and raised chins and a thousand layers of red silk. She does not glance at even one of us as she takes her seat on a chaise lounge, her young guard silently positioning himself behind her. Her hair falls down her back like shimmering oil, dead straight strands the colour of black ink. It does well to make her skin glow, and her dark eyes pierce. I cannot decide if she is more striking or intimidating. She is beautiful. I will say that much. Father looks her up and down, something close to appreciation shining in his blue eyes. I fight the urge to elbow him in the face or be sick. Before I can do either, Asher clears his throat. A subtle sound, but loud enough to drag Father's attention away from the young woman poised so elegantly. When Father catches the disapproving look in my brother's striking green eyes, his face flushes red and he glances down to his shining boots. Asher and I share a glance over our Father's head; one of shared hatred for the man that created us. Silence settles again, as it does every time we wait for the next guest. I fight the urge to fidget. I am not in the mood to hear Sara's scolding after this meeting. She stands at my back, stoic and silent as a death angel. I don't dare glance back at my General. She will scold me for that, too. Instead I study the occupants of the grand room we sit in. Leaning casually on the wall opposite me are the Addington brothers. I marvel at their differences and similarities. They look as if a mad scientist has mixed and matched different features to three versions of the same person. The eldest brother, Luca, is a storm all on his own. Of dangerous nights and quiet brooding and ripples of caution that seem to poke beneath his skin. His short cropped hair, like his brothers, is black. Yet his hair is so short shaven that it appears a dark brown. His dark brown eyes, the colour of mud, jump from person to person in the room, likely weighing strengths and weaknesses. The second eldest, the middle brother, is not another page in the family book but seems to be in another book completely. His black hair is curly and messy, as if he tugs at it when he concentrates. His eyes are a striking dark blue, unlike his older brother's. This young man, Renzo, does not have the same harsh expression as Luca. Instead, his face is softer, more beautiful, gentle. He has the face of a dreamer, a scholar, someone that belongs to words on pages and flowers in stories. He is the charmer. Rumour has it that he is the favoured son; the one paraded in the Addington parties and socialite events to show off the beauty of his family's fortune. My eyes fall upon the youngest brother next, and despite myself, my heart softens. Luca is easily 20 years old, Renzo perhaps only a year younger, but the youngest brother, Finnan, cannot be older than thirteen. His hair is softer, less unruly curls and more soft waves that flop in front of his face. His skin is pale unlike his brothers', and his eyes are the same dark shades as Luca's. I wonder why they felt the need to bring a mere child on this trip. Finnan looks to be falling asleep on his feet. I glance back at Luca, and I find his piercing gaze already locked onto mine. Where Renzo seems to be gentle laughter and clinking wine glasses, Luca is the sharpness of a jagged blade and the growls of a trained winter wolf. I wink. And then the doors open again, and I glance up at the newcomer. Rather, newcomers. Tia and her Aunty have arrived. --------------------------------------------------------- I have heard the stories of Queen Tia. A spoilt young woman, her beauty shining like the ocean and her slyness as soft as the gentle rock of water. The stories say she killed her parents for the throne she stepped up to a few months ago. Her younger sister, Adain, does not join them today. They say the youngest daughter of the late Tidal King and Queen has left to the Coastlands in her grief, to study the powers of Elementals. I do not believe that. I have met Adain, once, a few years ago. Despite her young age at the time, she was kind and intelligent. Quick witted and morally righted. I remember having the fleeting thought that she would be better suited to the throne. I know I was not the only person with those whispered words dancing in my mind. I do not believe that Adain chose to leave her childhood home to study in the harsh Coastlands. I believe she was exiled. Tia would drown me if she knew I was even thinking that. I watch the woman settle herself down on a chair in front of the Addington brothers for a few moments longer before looking away, down to my ink stained hands. Mother almost killed me this morning when she saw the pink etched deep into my skin. Flowerberry Pink. It will take weeks for this to wash out. She loves my art, my painting, my studio. But she knows that a Lord does not win arguments with splashes of messy colour on his hands. I say I can win them despite that. It takes only a few more moments for the doors to open again. I almost breathe a sigh of relief when I catch sight of the people in the doorway. The Royal family has arrived. Finally, the festivities can begin. ------------------------------------------------ Ora smiles at me as I step into my room. She steps back from my bed and stretches her hands out towards it in a brilliant 'Ta-Da' gesture. I glance down at the clothes laid down in my bed, and I confuse myself in the pieces of blue and gold fabric. I clear my throat and try my best to sound enchanted. "Ora," I nod, "This looks great." I almost wince at my tone. Ora drops her hands and huffs a sigh, shaking her head at me. I have never been one to understand Royal fashion. It seems even in my own Engagement weeks, I have no eye for royalty. Ora almost dances her way into my bathroom, and I hear the clinking of vials as she leaves me alone to dress. A few minutes later, she floats back into the room and settles me down at my table. I read here most days, but she has set up a strange assortment of glittering cases this evening. I almost blanch away from her hand when I realise it is makeup. "No thank you," I croak, voice tight. She only narrows her doe eyes at me, pale skin pinching in frustration and exasperation. Just from the frown in her eyebrows I know what she does not have the words to say. Not her orders. My mother's. "Surely only a little bit, then?" I ask, not liking the crack in my voice. She almost giggles. She would, if she could. Sometimes I still wonder what her voice would sound like if she could speak to me. I wonder what my name would sound like on her tongue; if the syllables of my name would sound as soft and sweet as I imagine. I cannot help but feel the familiar burn of hatred in my gut. Hatred for my mother, for the rules, for what they did to Ora before I could stop it. Ora recognises the look in my eyes and taps my forehead insistently until I blink myself out of the rage. In her soft brown eyes is both her sorrow for the past and her love for me. Ora may be my maid by title, but she has never been anything less than an older sister. She does not like when I waste my time grieving the sound of her voice. It is gone. There is no point wasting thoughts on things that cannot come back. As she applies the makeup, I fight the urge to hum to myself. An old habit that I cannot seem to shake from my childhood. Mother likes to try her best to slap the tunes from me. Future King's do not hum. Especially King's of Lorath. The most powerful nation cannot survive if it is led by a heart that softens for music, Mother says. Lorath has only lasted this long because it's leaders have been fearless. Ruthless. I gulp. I do not know if I have it in me to be ruthless. ------------------------------------------------------------- Loretta's instructions were clear enough. Do not move, do not speak, do not react. I am a statue, she said. Nothing but a symbol of power for the Royal family to use. A symbol of protection. I know this, I have had it drilled it into me for weeks. I will be stared at, and I will be sneered at, and I will be treated like an object. I am a weapon. I repeat the words in my head to keep from throwing myself off the Royal podium and running away from everything I have learnt. The ballroom is filling with people so quickly I cannot keep track. Before me is a sea of glittering jewels and flowing gowns and beautiful women and powerful people. And yet the Prince's throne remains empty. The Queen glances back at me; a barely susceptible move of her shin towards her left shoulder. I catch it, though, and I step forward to her with sweating palms. Despite these weeks of training on the palace grounds, the thought of the Queen looking at me for too long makes me so terrified I could throw up. I live every single day walking the edge of a knife, wondering if I will wake up in the morning with her dagger at my throat. I kneel by her side. "Yes, my Queen?" Despite my nerves eating away at my insides, my voice does not shake. "Where is Alexander?" Her voice is sharp and regal. Her voice is almost as beautiful as she is. Before I can respond, the ballroom doors sweep open one more time, and there he is. The Queen catches sight of him the same time I do, her golden eyes narrowing at her only son as he strides through the crowd. Prince Alexander is not like most Princes. Instead of marching his way to his powerful throne beside his powerful mother, he takes his time swimming through the sea of people. He stops a few times to kiss hands, squeeze shoulders, and smile his Alexander smile at the younger Royals that have travelled long ways to see him. He will be a great King. I step back into my place as he finally mounts the steps up to the velvet dais. He catches sight of me, golden eyes dancing down my dress and back up to my face. While the Queen's golden depths shimmer with the threat of her ferocity, the Prince's shining gaze is nothing but spirited. 'Nice dress,' He mouths to me with a grin. I look away, refusing to take part in his kindness, but my lips twitch despite themselves. I have ignored Alexander's attempts at friendship for weeks now, no matter how often he has tried to make me laugh. I don't like to think that he is finally getting through to me. I go back to studying the crowd, the guards, the servers slipping between elite bodies like ghosts. My eyes catch on a head of unruly black curls, almost glistening under the light of the chandeliers. The man, facing almost completely away from me, turns his head to the side to smile at his companion. My breath, for some strange reason, is suddenly knocked from my chest. He excuses himself and spins in his spot, turning to the front of the ballroom to approach someone new. I study his youthful face as he walks, eyes trailing over the high cheekbones and the light pink lips and the strikingly blue eyes. He is tall and slim; the body of a lean scholar. Renzo Addington. Loretta made me memorise every member of the Queen's Circle; a collection of closely trusted Royals and Lords. The most elite in the world. Renzo Addington is one of three sons, all belonging to Lord and Lady Addington. The Addington's are the most elite family in Lorath without Royal blood. They hold power over almost half the towns and villages of Lorath, and own dozens of estates all over the nation. They reside in a grand manor half a day from the Royal Palace; Countryside Castle, they call it. Their family gains their enormous fortune from the farms of gold they have harvest. The Addington's are responsible for almost all of Lorath's wealth. They specialise in currency. Renzo Addington is only 19 years old, as I am, yet he shines with maturity. His smile is ancient, knowledgeable, secret. The way he moves is regal, as smooth as flowing water. He is the second eldest, yet it is known that he is the face of the Addington's. He is the charm and the wit. He lives and loves for the people. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. "Where have you been?" The Queen's voice slices through my thoughts as she scolds her son, "You have made a fool out of me and yourself." Prince Alexander kisses his mother's hand delicately, and she lets him. He takes his own seat beside her. I stand between the thrones, in the shadows behind. "I spilt water on myself, and it took Ora an extra five minutes to fix the makeup you insisted I wear." The Queen watches her son with a soft expression, in case there are eyes watching, but the words that are spat from her smiling lips are deadly, "Royal's must not have one flaw in their appearance. Flaws in appearance leave room to suggest flaws in character, Alexander." "I did not need makeup, Mother." They spit each other's names like poison. "You have ugly bags under your eyes. King's do not look tired." I glance away. It is true that dark circles have bloomed to life beneath his eyes over the past few weeks. He does not sleep much; I have learnt that much from the nights of guarding him. I am not permitted to sleep until Alexander does, and because Alexander is plagued by insomnia most nights, I am sure I have bags under my eyes, too. Loretta covered them with makeup. The Queen clicks her tongue at her son once and suddenly stands with a smile. In moments, the room falls silent. --------------------------------------------------- It seems to me that the Queen of Lorath does not age. I remember visiting her as a young girl; when my parent's would deem it appropriate to take me on their trips to the Lorath Palace. The last time I saw this woman in the flesh was eight years ago. If I were not too tired to focus clearly, I would say that she appears younger now. Her chestnut hair falls down her back in brilliantly orchestrated waves, her cheekbones high, her smile beautiful, and her golden eyes sharp and shining. Her dress, a beautiful gown of golden gems, reflects upon so many surfaces that there seems to be a halo of light surrounding her. I have no doubt the gold on her dress is real. "Welcome," Her voice does not strain as she calls out to the hundreds of people in her ballroom, "To the Royal Palace of Lorath. It is a privilege to host such wonderful guests tonight, and my son, Prince Alexander, is honoured to have so many elite's attend the festivities and formalities of his Engagement Weeks." I glance at the Prince. He smiles into the crowd, a face of sunlight and glimmering kindness. He seems to have an energy about him that his mother lacks. It takes me a moment to realise what he embodies. Genuinity. He calls out, voice smooth but full of emotion, "It is an honour to have so many people travel far and wide to witness my trial and engagement to an Heir. I hope to spend time with each and every one of my guests over the upcoming weeks, to truly show my gratitude." I don't miss the way the Queen glances down at him at these words. That is not part of her plan. "Before we begin the festivities of the night, I have a few announcements to make," Queen Seraphine smiles out at the crowd, face gentle, "First I must acknowledge the presence and attendance of special guests that have travelled to my Kingdom for my son." Must acknowledge. My Kingdom. Words placed as carefully as daggers to throats. A reminder that despite our Royal blood or title, she has the power in these lands. "First I would like to acknowledge the Addington brothers, visiting as representatives for their parents." She spots them in the crowd the same time I do; the three brothers standing side by side in union and strength. "Lord Lucas, Lord Renzo, and Lord Finnan." Only Renzo and Finnan smile up at her. Luca bows his head slightly. I almost smile at the small act of resistance. "Next I would like to thank Queen Tia of the Tidelands for gracing us with her presence," Tia curtsies gracefully in her light blue dress of silk. It glimmers as she moves- like rolling water over her limbs. "I am honoured to welcome back Lord Ronan to my palace, my son's oldest friend," She smiles softly at a tall young man with reddish-brown hair and a light spray of freckles over his pale face. He grins back at at her, placing a hand over his heart. There is pink ink all over his thin fingers. Alexander grins at Lord Ronan, too, his face shining with love. Lord Ronan is Prince Alexander's best friend. "May we have a moment to thank my nephew and niece for attending tonight for the first time in eight years. My late sister's beautiful twins, Asher and Grace, as well as their father, Ronan Herald." I follow her gaze to the family of three. Asher, tall and broad, smiles kindly up at his Auntie, as does their ruggedly handsome father. Grace does not curtsy, as she is expected to. She simply stares, her brilliantly green eyes shining against her olive gown. "Lord Sebastian Rosales visits us tonight, in place of his late mother, Ruth Rosales," I do not see the man she talks about, but I have heard of Sebastian Rosales. Young and intelligent, with a brilliant mind for battle. "And finally, may we welcome Princess Valeria, who has travelled from the Mercan Mountains to see us." It is my turn to curtsy. I do not. I only bow my head at the Queen. She is Queen of Lorath, but Lorath is not my nation. I owe her nothing. ---------------------------------------------------- I watch Princess Valeria incline her head to the Queen, barely glancing down before meeting the woman's golden gaze again. I look up to the dais to find the Queen's face regal and frozen in a smile, but in her eyes I see the rage. I cannot fight my grin, and I tap my fingers against my thigh to hold back the laughter bubbling in my chest. I have known the Queen all my life, and I have never liked the woman. She is cruel, and she is stern, and she is hungry for power. Everything to her is a chess game. But I guess that is what the Royal Court is for everyone. Valeria, for some strange reason, meets my gaze from across the ballroom. She wears the same dress as earlier; an expanding gown of what seems to be a thousand layers of bursting ruby red. Her tan skin glows in the light, her lips full, her lashes long. Her gaze is as dark and serious as her chocolate eyes. I wonder how someone who lives in the brittle Winters of the Mercan Mountains can shine with such a natural bronze tan. She looks away. A pair of hands catch at my fingers, and I flinch as a girl materialises from the crowd. She doesn't look at me as she wrenches my hand up to her face. I open my mouth to swear, to pull away, and then she looks at me. My mouth dries up, and I freeze. Those... those are some mighty nice eyes. "You tap your fingers a lot. Did you know that, Lord Ronan?" She purrs, a slight lilt to her words as she studies my fingers with that big green gaze. It takes me a few moments to remember how to speak, how to form coherent thoughts about something that isn't her beauty. "I was a brilliant musician in another life," Despite my hammering blood, my voice comes out light and lively, "I'm sure of it." It takes her a few moments for her to meet my gaze again. And when she does, I realise who she is. Grace Herald-Gueneeve. The Queen's niece. Alex's cousin. I have met her once, when we were mere children. I have not seen her since, no matter how many times I have stayed at the palace. I'm sure she hasn't been here since she was nine, since her mother decided to move to the countryside rather than reside in the heart of the nation beside her own sister. I had no idea she'd grow up to be so stunning. "A nervous habit is not a good look for a powerful Lord," She almost whispers her words, somehow encasing us in a cocoon of just me and those wonderful eyes of hers. "Neither is ink stained fingers." I glance down to where her skin touches mine, her delicate fingers holding my pink ones. "Not only am I a wonderful musician, Your Highness, but I am a wonderful artist. The best, actually." Something like amusement shines in her green gaze, and I feel my heart startle. Laugh, I silently beg her, I want to know if the sound of it is as beautiful as you are. But alas, the Queen's voice echoes across the ballroom yet again, and the distant Princess glances up at her auntie on the dais. I almost curse before looking up myself. "Finally, I would like to share some grand news. Prince Alexander has grown into a strong and intelligent man of honour." Alex doesn't blush at his mother's words. He'd have to believe them first. "He has decided to follow in his father's pursuit." Something in the Queen's face shutters at the mention of the late King, perhaps grief, perhaps something else, "He has taken a Divine." A few gasps are heard around the ballroom. Some of simple shock, some amazement, and some disgust. Grace's grip on my fingers tighten, her face hard as she stares at her auntie and cousin. Alexander warned me of this. Warned me of his mother's enforcement of the cruel family tradition. She forced Alexander to keep a Divine; an oracle woman of power and magical abilities. They have been used as Royal guardians for centuries, but the tradition has waned down over the past few decades in all Kingdoms but Lorath. The practise of keeping one is seen as inhumane, an unnecessary slavery. The Queen never saw it as such. She sees it as a show of her power, of her families invulnerability. The Royal family of Lorath is not only strong, but invincible. A young woman suddenly seems to unfold herself from the shadows, stepping forward between the two thrones until she is by the Queen's side. Alexander rises beside the stranger too, shoulder to shoulder. At Alexander's subtle touch the woman, almost cowering, seems to remember her place and stand tall. Her dress is made of silk so black that it snatches light from the air and wraps it up into its smooth fabric. The material is not skin tight, but it clings to her curves and emphasises the lean shape of her body. The neck of the gown dips so low that her torso can be seen between her breasts; a triangle of delicate skin. Her hair is a nice light brown, and it dances across her shoulders and down her back like an oozing snake. She looks to be about my age, 20, perhaps a year or two younger. There is a fire in her light blue gaze; a challenge in her icy eyes. Despite her position in the palace, a slave, at first glance she seems bolder than most people I have come across. I like her immediately. She raises her chin as the Queen introduces her, "The Prince's Divine." That is it. No name, no story. She is only the Divine. Only an object. A weapon. The ballroom bursts into applause.

unrequited

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