#HE WAS CONSCRIPTED AND TAKEN FROM HIS FAMILY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!!!

[cliverosfieldslefttiddy]

Why are fandom people still getting tattoos of xyz character’s alphanumerical identifier tattoos

It’s— not a good look

[sayruq]

Surrounded by dozens of soldiers, tanks, armored cars, buzzing drones, and army dogs, Ahmad Safi found himself looking at a massive hole in the ground. “Of all the death scenarios I have imagined myself in since the beginning of the war, I never suspected I would see my own grave,” the 26-year-old Khan Younis resident told Mondoweiss. Ahmad and his male relatives had been detained by the Israeli army and forcibly conscripted to stand in front of a resistance military base as the Israeli soldiers took cover behind them. They were caught in the middle of an exchange of fire between the soldiers and the resistance. On the night of January 22, the Israeli army launched a sudden attack on western Khan Younis, where five shelters for displaced people were located. In the middle of the night, the Israeli troops advanced towards the Tiba buildings, where Ahmad and his family had taken refuge in the middle of the Israeli-designated “safe zone.” These buildings were surrounded by al-Aqsa University, the al-Khair Hospital, the Industrial College, the Palestinian Red Crescent Society Center, and the al-Mawasi coastal area, all housing tens of thousands of displaced Palestinians. Early that night, Ahmad realized that Israeli quadcopter drones had fully occupied the sky. He knew what this meant based on his accumulated experience of Israeli war tactics — the army preferred to launch major operations under cover of night. Ahmad heard nonstop gunfire in the distance that night, but it was relatively far away, so he kept watching an anime show to distract himself. Moments later, the sound of gunfire intensified and got closer, and suddenly he heard screams from the opposite room. His cousin had been hit by a bullet. As the gunfire started intensifying further, Ahmad threw himself under his bed when the rest of his family rushed to his room carrying his injured cousin. That was when the Israeli soldiers stormed their apartment, bursting into the room in a blaze of flashlights. “It was the first time I had seen an Israeli soldier in real life,” Ahmad told Mondoweiss. The army separated the women from the men and forced the women to flee south to Rafah. The men were kept zip-tied and would remain in the army’s custody. An Israeli commander ordered Ahmad and the men of his family to move downstairs in single file. He then ordered them to kneel against the southern wall inside their apartment, which faces a resistance military base. Ahmad’s body was shaking uncontrollably. His lips were trembling and his breathing was heavy. “I tried to pull myself together,” Ahmad recounted. “But when I heard my mother say goodbye to us as she was dragged outside by the Israeli soldiers, I couldn’t hold back my tears.” The next morning on January 23, the Israeli soldiers ordered Ahmad, his father, his brother, and the rest of his cousins to move outdoors and instructed them to move horizontally in front of the armored military cars. “As they ordered us to stop and stand still, I found myself again a few meters away from the resistance military base,” Ahmad said. “ That was the moment I realized that we were being used as human shields.”

[heavymetalseries]

A Verse of Vengeance | Chapter 1

1918, The Front, France

“So I says to him—”

“Brys, are you paying attention? I need your attention out there.”

“Of course I’m paying attention. You act like I haven’t been doing this the last two years. Am I paying attention… Fuck off, asshole.”

Brys’ eye hadn’t left the scope of his rifle the entire time he’d been talking. Even though he’d been lying on his stomach in the dirt for hours with only Gwilym spotting for company, his body hadn’t moved so much as an inch. He was too used to it for his muscles to fatigue the way they used to at the start of the war. 

Between the two of them, Gwilym was the better night spotter. He could make out figures in the dark that Brys couldn’t. Even when Brys couldn’t see through the lense of the rifle, Gwilym always made sure he made his mark. 

They were a good team. They’d bonded immediately over both being Welsh soldiers fighting for the British army. Gwilym had been in the service since long before the war broke out, and he’d taken Brys under his wing to replace his last partner. 

“Bullet between the eyes. So keep your head down,” Gwilym had said, drinking from his flask when Brys had asked.

It was advice Brys hadn’t forgotten so far. Every second he was out here, he was too aware of what could happen if he stayed upright too long. 

“Hold steady,” Gwilym said, shifting slightly as he looked through the periscope at the enemy line. 

Through the lense of the rifle, Brys could only just make out a shadow that was either a cloud, a head, or a dog. There were plenty of scavengers taking advantage of the corpses lining the battlefield. 

Brys hadn’t expected it all to be so bad. He’d heard the stories from soldiers returning from the front before he’d been drafted, but not even the most nauseatingly vivid descriptions could do it justice.

This wouldn’t have been the first time he’d seen bodies. He’d been there when Dad died, and he’d been there when Eirwen lost Ivor. At the time, he hadn’t thought anything in the world could be worse than holding his newborn nephew’s tiny, unmoving corpse as the doctors tried frantically to save his sister from bleeding to death.

While all of that had helped steel his stomach a little, nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it. The sighs were bad enough. He’d seen more organs that first week than his entire life. And the smells. Good God, the smells. Nothing could have prepared him for the smells.

“Hold steady,” Gwilym repeated.

Though Brys’ muscles relaxed as he slowed his breath, his position didn’t waver. His rifle didn’t slip as he focused on the shadow. Whatever it was, it wasn’t moving like an animal. He still couldn’t be sure if it was a person, but if Brys was sure, that was enough for him.

“Hold.”

If Gwilym was wrong and Brys fired, he would be giving away their position. Out in the middle of No-Man’s Land, with barely any cover, they were sitting ducks. A German sniper could take them out with one well-placed bullet each. 

I don’t want to die.

This wasn’t Brys’ fight. If Her Royal Holier-Than-Though wanted to get involved, that shouldn’t have been his problem. His brother-in-law, the predictable English bastard, had enlisted immediately and then gotten himself killed. He’d left Eirwen and her three living kids to fend for themselves. Her work as a seamstress didn’t even cover the rent, let alone food or anything else. Brys supplied the rest. The Front wasn’t the place for him. He had a family to support. 

And then the Empire decided Wales hadn’t bled enough for her. They didn’t care that he was the sole provider for a woman they’d widowed. He was over 18, healthy, not a widower himself, and not a minister when the conscription came. Shooting himself in the foot had crossed his mind, but he didn’t think it’d much help on the whole taking care of his family front. At least the bastards gave him a decent enough pay to keep a roof over their heads.

“Fire.”

The word seemed to bypass Brys’ brain. 

Don’t!

His body ignored his brain. 

It was a reflex now, for his trigger finger to twitch when Gwilym said it. There wasn’t time to hesitate. If he did, the target could move and he would give away their position with nothing to show for it. It wasn’t the only involutary reaction he had to Gwilym some days, but it was the one he hated the most. Watching the soldier’s head explode like a melon and the shadows of what was left of his body drop was almost enough to make Brys resent him. 

It wasn’t Gwilym’s fault, though. It wasn’t Gwilym’s fault the war had started or he’d been drafted. It wasn’t Gwilym’s fault Brys was the best marksman in training. Gwilym might have seen his potential and molded him into a sniper, but he wasn’t the one who’d decided he was just a number, good for nothing but killing.

He couldn’t resent Gwilym. Out here, Gwilym was all he had. If Brys started to resent him, he’d go mad.

The first time had been the worst. Brys had been spotting. Watching through the periscope, he’d seen every detail in vivid slow motion. Blood, bone, and brain matter spraying into the air. The brief spasm, then the stillness. It was like there had been a moment before the poor bastard’s body realized it was dead. And then the way it crumped to the dirt like a puppet who’s strings had been cut.

He’d realized in that moment that was exactly what they were. Puppets. Nothing more, nothing less. He’d known it the moment the draft had come in, of course, but it hadn’t truly sunk in until that moment just how disposable they all were.

“It gets easier,” Gwilym had promised as Brys puked his guts out onto the cold, blood-drenched ground.

It hadn’t gotten easier. Not right away. Somehow, the first time he’d actually done the shooting was even worse than that. It was everything that made him sick the first time with the added guilt of knowing he hadn’t just helped it happen, but he’d done it himself. He could have widowed a mother the way Eirwen had been widowed. All he could think of for days was that somewhere, a mother was getting a letter that he boy’s brains had been blown out by some Allied bastard.

Now, it just made him feel cold. Hollow. Like he wasn’t even human anymore. Humans cared when they killed somebody. Somewhere in the last two years, he’d lost that. He didn’t care anymore. They’d made him into this and he would never forgive him for it.

“We should move positions while it’s still dark out. I can keep spotting for a bit. You need some rest,” Gwilym said.

Brys didn’t move for a long few seconds. The space between his heartbeats was so long, he wasn’t sure it would start again.

What if Brys was already dead? What if that was why he couldn’t move? There were so many bodies. His very well could have been one of them, and he might not have even noticed until now. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be dead. But God, he didn’t want to be alive either, not in this place where everything tasted like blood and ash. What if that was his blood he was tasting, his own rotten entrails?

He couldn’t be dead. Not even Hell could possibly be as bad as this place.

A large, cold hand settled on the back of Brys’ neck. 

“Come back to me, love. Don’t start going to that dark place,” Gwilym murmured.

Brys’ shoulders twitched. It was enough to unfreeze the rest of his body. He jerked hard, gasping a little. He nearly dropped the rifle like it was made of snakes. It was probably enough motion to get the attention of anyone on the other side who might have been watching them. He held his breath, waiting for the bullet to shatter his skull into a hundred pieces. It never came, but his shoulders wouldn’t relax.

Gwilym brushed the back of his knucles over Brys’ cheekbone. His expression was unreadable in the dark.

“You’re all right,” he said softly.

To Brys’ ears, the tone sounded almost like pity. He pretended his hands didn’t shake as he disassembled the rifle. He pretended his stomach didn’t try to weigh him down so he couldn’t stand and be spotted by someone on the other side who’d only see him as a mark. 

If anybody did spot them, they didn’t have a clear enough line to shoot. The clouds moved overhead, blocking out what little light the moon gave. Gwilym found a new cover, and they repositioned themselves.

“I’ll take first watch. You get some sleep,” Gwilym said.

He touched Brys’ cheek in that soft way again. If it was anyone else, Brys would have jerked away.

If it were anyone else, Brys wouldn’t have pulled that trigger so many times.

Brys slept. At least, he thought he did. He couldn’t be sure. Sometimes, it was hard to tell the difference between the Hell he dreamt in and the one he lived in. 

Behind his eyelids, he was still holding the rifle. Gwilym was still spotting. Gwilym told him to fire, and he did.

He had to be dreaming, because he stood and crossed No-Man’s Land to check the body. He never did that when he was awake. It was a sure way to get sent home in as many pieces as they could collect, if anybody even bothered. Most people weren’t even worth the risk of collecting. 

Nobody shot at him. Nobody was in the trenches. 

He almost didn’t see the body. There wasn’t even a whole body left, only bits and pieces of Ivor splattered across the dirt.

He jerked awake, biting his knucles to keep from screaming and tasting his own blood. There was a split second where he swore he saw glowing eyes watching him in the darkness.

###

“You ever been in love?” Brys asked.

Gwilym looked away from the scope. His scarf was wrapped around his face. He burned like an agoraphobic Irishman in the sun. It was a wonder he’d been allowed to enlist, but Brys figured it didn’t count as a proper medical condition. As long as was fit enough to kill, they didn’t care. There were never enough bodies out here.

“What?”

“I said, you ever been in love?”

“Strange question, isn’t it?”

Brys shrugged his shoulder without looking away from the German line. It was a strange question. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked it, whether it was out of boredom or curiosity. They spent so much time out there, just the two of them, their conversations did sometimes get a little odd. It seemed in the past two years, they’d talked about everything but this.

“Not stranger than anything you’ve asked me,” Brys said. 

Gwilym hummed softly. From the corner of his eye, Brys watched him suck on the end of a cigarette and exhale through his nose before holding out to Brys. Still keeping his attention on the view through the scope, Brys held it between his lips. He spent longer than entirely necessary inhaling the nicotine into his lungs. It helped warm his skin and curb his appetite. 

“So is that a yes or no?” Brys asked, handing the cigarette back.

He savoured the way their fingers brushed together. God almighty, they spent way too long out here together. This was the only human contact he’d had in days, or maybe weeks. Time out here tended to blend together.

“I don’t know. Maybe once or twice. It’s been so long, I can’t remember.”

Brys snorted.

“You aren’t that much older than me. You’re, what, thirty? Thirty-something?”

“Something. When you get around my age, you stop counting.”

Brys’ snort turned to a laugh. He looked away from the scope only long enough to press his mouth to his arm so he could stiffle the sound. Even if he didn’t think it would carry to the German trenches, anything louder than a whisper was risky. There was no movement on the other side. It was getting late. It was more than likely there would be no more shots fired until morning.

“I still got a few years to go, then. Assuming I make it out of this war in one piece,” Brys said.

Gwilym’s fingers hovered over Brys’ hand a moment before he lowered it. Brys clenched his jaw to hide his disappointment.

“What about you? You ever been in love?”

Brys almost closed his eyes. There was some movement in the trenches, but it wasn’t enough to do anything about. There was no clear line of sight. Part of him was relieved. It meant he wouldn’t have to be complicit in any more deaths. Part of him felt worse. Every one of those soldiers was aiming at someone on his side. They wouldn’t care about taking him out. They’d made Eirwen and countless other women a widow. Why should he care about taking them out?

“There was one bloke. Sloan Lockwood. Handsomest man I ever seen.”

Second handsomest.

“Anything happen between you two?” Gwilym asked.

“We, ah… got caught skipping Sunday school together.”

His lip twitched at the memory. Sister Mary had gone so red, he thought her head was about to explode. It was nothing short of divine intervention she hadn’t told Dad. It would have broken his heart to see his boy going around with a Lockwood. He wouldn’t have cared that Brys was chasing other lads, but a Lockwood! 

He would have been right. 

Sloan Lockwood had been drafted too, but while Brys hadn’t had any excuse to get out of it, Sloan’s father had paid some doctor to forge documentation about some bullshit injury. Sloan had told Brys himself. He’d even seemed proud of himself for it, like he was so clever for finding a way to stay home. He’d gotten to take over his father’s law practice, while Brys had no choice but to die out here in the dirt a million miles from anybody who gave a shit about him.

Gwilym cut his laugh short. He jerked upright and swore loudly.

Brys stiffened, his body reacting before his brain had time to process what he was seeing. Shots fired overhead. Soldiers popped out of the ground one by one, firing and ducking down before he could shout directions to Gwilym.

“Take a breath and talk to me!” Gwilym shouted over the gunfire.

Brys did as he was told. He couldn’t think. If he wasted time thinking, they were dead. They were all dead. Every soldier on their side, on the other side. 

His lips didn’t feel like his own. The voice coming from his mouth, shouting instructions at Gwilym on where to aim, didn’t feel like his own.

The bodies dropping weren’t people. They couldn’t be people. They were… It didn’t matter what they were.

Canon fodder. They were canon fodder.

Bullets whistled past his ears, leaving them ringing. Shells exploded around him. Dirt sprayed over him, blinding him. 

“I can’t see anything!” he shouted. 

“Keep your head down!”

Bullet between the eyes.

Brys pressed his forehead to the dirt. His hands gripped at the periscope so hard, he thought his knucles were going to pop out. He couldn’t quite tell if he screamed or not. The ground shook beneath him like Hell itself was preparing to open up and swallow him whole. 

Gwilym grabbed his arm. His voice was too muffled for Brys to make out. His face was streaked with dirt, making the whites of his eyes stand out. His eyes were the palest blue Brys had ever seen.

He was shouting. Even if Brys couldn’t here the words, he could tell from the way his mouth moved. He tugged at Brys’ arm, pulling him up to his feet.

“We— go!”

What?

“— on!”

They were running. They were running. The ground was uneven beneath Brys’ feet. He stumbled more than once. If not for Gwilym’s hand pulling him, he would have fallen.

This is the wrong way.

Brys wasn’t sure how he could tell. Everything looked the bloody same. There was something, maybe a colour or the shape of the trenches, that spoke to a deeper instinct.

There was a gun aimed at them. The man’s leg was clearly shattered. A piece of bone stuck out from his uniform. It was a mystery how he was standing on it. Blood streaked his face. His rifle hung at an odd angle, suggesting his shoulder was broken. His shouts were incoherent sound. 

German, Brys’ mind supplied.

He’d picked up a few words and phrases, but not enough to understand what the soldier was saying. The gun aimed at his skull didn’t need any translation.

His hand went to the knife that was supposed to be at his hip, but his fingers only found air. His heart lurched into his throat. He’d heard that in the moment before death, people’s lives flashed before their eyes. Thankfully, Brys’ didn’t.

What flashed before his eyes was so much—

Well, he wouldn’t say worse. It was stranger. 

What in God’s name was he seeing?

One second, the soldier was aiming the gun at him and screaming. The next, he was gone.

Brys’s eyes darted left and right. He didn’t find the soldier until he looked down. 

Gwilym was on top of him. How had he moved so fast? He’d been behind Brys a moment ago, hadn’t he? He’d been behind Brys a moment ago, and now he was on top of the German soldier. His face was buried against the man’s nexk. His hands had torn the dirty uniform open, and his nails scraped bloody gashes into his skin. 

When he looked up, his face was covered in blood. A stream of it pumped from the soldier’s neck. His pale blue eyes glowed like a cat’s. The red ring around his irises had bleed into the whites. The thin veins around his eyes were black through his pale skin, and his teeth—

His eyeteeth were extended into sharp points. He bared them at Brys, snarling. 

“H-Holy mother of God.”

Brys didn’t consider himself to be a religious man. Mom was Jewish, but Dad had always insisted they be raised Catholic. The cross he wore around his neck was more a habit than anything, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to church, but in that moment, the only thing he could do was make the sign of the cross as he stumbled back.

He was seeing things. He’d hit his head, or he’d died, or— or—

Gwilym’s teeth retracted back to a normal size. He wiped his face on his sleeve, smearing blood over his skin. He reached out for Brys.

Brys jerked back. He couldn’t breathe. There was too much smoke and blood in the air. He stumbled over something, likely his own damned feet, and hit the ground. Flashes of white danced across his eyes.

Wake up, wake up, wake up.

He couldn’t wake up because he wasn’t asleep. This wasn’t a nightmare. It was a nightmare, but it was part of the same waking nightmare he’d been living in for the last two years. 

“Gwilym,” he gasped.

He wasn’t sure if he actually said it outloud or not. His lips were numb and all he could hear over the ringing in his ears was his own racing heart.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Please, we have to get out of here,” Gwilym shouted.

Gwilym didn’t wait for Brys to say anything. He hauled Brys up to his feet like he weighed nothing. It was only his grip bruising Brys’ bicep, half-pulling and half-dragging, that kept him moving. 

Brys swallowed down something sharp and acidic, nearly choking on it. Dust and dirt stung his eyes and throat and nostrils. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

They didn’t stop moving until they reached the Allied trench. Soliders moved around them, too busy dealing with the injured to pay them any attention.

“Are you hurt?”

Gwilym’s voice was still muffled.

Was he hurt? He couldn’t tell. Everything felt numb except the pressure of Gwilym’s hand.

The medical tent was full of wailing soldiers. The image of a bone sticking from what was left of a man’s leg burned itself into Brys’ mind. His screams mingled in with the rest of them. 

“Sit down. There you go. Look at me. Can you tell me your name?”

Large hands cupped his cheeks, angling his head so he was looking down at Gwilym. Even covered in blood and grime, he was beautiful. His full mouth was pulled down and his brows were drawn together in a concerned scowl.

Brys licked dirt from his lips and immediately regretted it. He grimaced and swallowed a few times. 

“Brys. Brys Tuck.”

“Good man. And do you know who I am?”

“Gwilym Darcy.”

His partner. The man he’d fallen in love with. And a monster.

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[tieflingkisser]

What it’s like to be used as a human shield by the Israeli army

Israeli soldiers rounded up Ahmad Safi and his male family members in Khan Younis and made them stand atop a sand dune for 12 hours as the soldiers took cover behind them during a firefight with Palestinian resistance fighters. This is their story.

Surrounded by dozens of soldiers, tanks, armored cars, buzzing drones, and army dogs, Ahmad Safi found himself looking at a massive hole in the ground. “Of all the death scenarios I have imagined myself in since the beginning of the war, I never suspected I would see my own grave,” the 26-year-old Khan Younis resident told Mondoweiss. Ahmad and his male relatives had been detained by the Israeli army and forcibly conscripted to stand in front of a resistance military base as the Israeli soldiers took cover behind them. They were caught in the middle of an exchange of fire between the soldiers and the resistance. On the night of January 22, the Israeli army launched a sudden attack on western Khan Younis, where five shelters for displaced people were located. In the middle of the night, the Israeli troops advanced towards the Tiba buildings, where Ahmad and his family had taken refuge in the middle of the Israeli-designated “safe zone.” These buildings were surrounded by al-Aqsa University, the al-Khair Hospital, the Industrial College, the Palestinian Red Crescent Society Center, and the al-Mawasi coastal area, all housing tens of thousands of displaced Palestinians.

[...]

“It was the first time I had seen an Israeli soldier in real life,” Ahmad told Mondoweiss. The army separated the women from the men and forced the women to flee south to Rafah. The men were kept zip-tied and would remain in the army’s custody. An Israeli commander ordered Ahmad and the men of his family to move downstairs in single file. He then ordered them to kneel against the southern wall inside their apartment, which faces a resistance military base. Ahmad’s body was shaking uncontrollably. His lips were trembling and his breathing was heavy. “I tried to pull myself together,” Ahmad recounted. “But when I heard my mother say goodbye to us as she was dragged outside by the Israeli soldiers, I couldn’t hold back my tears.” The next morning on January 23, the Israeli soldiers ordered Ahmad, his father, his brother, and the rest of his cousins to move outdoors and instructed them to move horizontally in front of the armored military cars. “As they ordered us to stop and stand still, I found myself again a few meters away from the resistance military base,” Ahmad said. “That was the moment I realized that we were being used as human shields.” Soldiers forced them to kneel in the middle of the street as they took cover behind Ahmad and his male relatives. They were forced to wear thin clothes in the winter cold, and their hands were zip-tied so tightly that they couldn’t feel their fingers. The soldiers at several points fired bullets next to their feet in an effort to terrorize them, perhaps to make them amenable to following orders. “Every time they shot at us, I instantly poked my back to check if I was still alive,” said Ahmad, recalling the soldiers’ giggles at how scared he and his family were. At other times, a tank would rapidly move towards them, then drift back, less than a meter away from them. Ahmad realized the soldiers were toying with them.   At one point, soldiers picked Ahmad’s brother, Saeed, and tortured him, breaking his jaw. They kicked him in his genitals like they were “hitting a football,” according to Saeed. They beat him so severely that he blacked out at one point. “They suspected him of being a resistance fighter because of how he looked. For Israeli soldiers, any man with a beard who has the mark of sujoud on his forehead is a Hamas member,” Ahmad explained (many devout Muslims who touch their foreheads to the ground when kneeling in prostration during prayer will develop marks on their foreheads from the repeated friction with the prayer rug). Moments later, an intensified exchange if gunfire broke out while Ahmad and his family were in between the Israeli soldiers and the resistance fighters, with no shelter. They stretched their bodies on the ground, in a helpless attempt to take cover. “We kept screaming in Arabic, ‘stop shooting,’ and a few moments later the shooting stopped,” Ammar, another one of Ahmad’s cousins, told Mondoweiss. They were forced to remain there for over 12 hours, conscripted by the Israeli soldiers as unwilling human shields. By the end of it, they were dehydrated and could barely stand on their feet.

[keep reading]

[hythlodaeus-mynewoldfriend]

A confession

Hi there! Thank you for asking. Sorry for the delay but the piece was a bit too long to format the way I like on mobile and keep my sanity. But have one of the bigger revelations in Sib's life. Also a bit of an unrefined piece. Endwalker spoilers though they're a bit vague, so just in case.

Siberite nods, following to the main meeting hall of the Baldesion Annex, her parents sitting around a small table pulled to the center of the room. Khutula locks the door as she meets her mother’s eyes hoping for some indication on what this whole thing was about, instead finding her looking just as clueless.

“Siberite,” her father greets, “good you’re here.” Lord Akagane’s right shoulder moves forward in a move that once would have his arm gesturing to the chair that sits empty on his right. He glances down at the missing limb with a frown, “Have a seat will you?”

She nods, back straight and hands folded in her lap, Khutula sitting next to her, Siberite and her mother sharing a curious look. “Please don’t take this the wrong way Khutula, but I thought you said this was a private family matter?”

Her father nods, sitting, “It is, but Khutula can help in filling in the details.”

“Details about what exactly, dear?”

The old auri sighs, looking down at the table, the lighting bringing out the grey hair that Siberite is sure has doubled since she’d last seen him. “I didn’t go to Doma for business, I went hoping to find Palladium.”

Siberite inhales sharply, having never heard her brother’s name pass her father’s lips since she was a young girl and ordered to not speak of him. She looks at Khutula sitting still, eyes cast down, her mother taking a deep breath, jaw tightening, “What do you mean, ‘find Palladium’?”

“I-. I lied to you initially about what happened with him,” her father shakes his head with a sigh, “I’m sorry.”

“Why,” Lady Akagane grinds out.

“Grief, anger, some combination of the two.”

“What happened to him,” she snaps, voice cracking, “What happened to my boy!”

Her father looks up at Khutula and then to Siberite, frown deepening seeing she has yet to change her position in any way. “Siberite you might remember this, but Khutula came back in the middle of the night bruised, bloodied, and with a broken bone or two.” She doesn’t and even if she did she wouldn’t want to, she considers it luck that the Echo hasn’t taken over. “He came begging for help, wanted me to get a few more capable fighters and go back to Doma as soon as possible.”

“The Garleans were establishing the power they came to hold, we got caught in the crossfire,” Khutula adds, “I started to fight out of self defense, Palladium worked on getting people to safety.” Lady Akagane’s eyes go wide, glazed over with tears, hands clasped to her chest, “He-. He should have stayed where he was, unlike you Sib he was fairly useless in a fight against military men.” The warrior doesn’t look up from her lap, Khutula exhaling slowly, “There was an auri family being separated, the man must have looked like he was good enough to serve in their army or do manual labor, the little girl with him clung to him so fiercely. I guess Palladium worried for the girl, because next thing I saw he was trying to fight with the soldiers.”

“They captured him after that,” her father interjects, “From what Khutula told me he tried to break in and get him back himself, only to be barred by gates that were impossible to get through after the beating he had already taken.”

“So….so he….he was alive,” her mother asks, knuckles growing white, “and you did nothing!”

“The Empire had him! They were making examples of some of their conscripts, even if he was one of the lucky ones he was as good as gone to us. No one ever came back from the Empire.”

“Until Lord Hein,” Siberite whispers, her father nodding.

“After seeing the woman you’ve become and knowing how much you looked up to him, I let myself hope that maybe he was stronger than I gave him credit for.”

“He was,” Khutula says, “He wasn’t the strongest, but he was smart and stubborn, the former saving him from the labor and military.”

“That’s right, my Palladium had just gotten his Archon tattoos,” her mother sniffs, “I had never been prouder of him.”

“From what I was able to find when looking for him, they brought him to the castle to assist in the young prince’s education.” He shakes his head, the ghost of a smile gracing his lips, “It was there his stubbornness….” Khutula glances Siberite’s way wanting to reach out and comfort her as he’d done time and again, “I heard tales you know, of how he still stood up for those he could, helped in messing with plans for a few weapons, even if it only delayed them a few days, and how he refused to teach a young Hein the propaganda the Empire wanted him to learn.”

“The conscript I talked to was in the same legion as him,” Lord Akagane continues, “Sent to the front lines after he got the wrong commander on a bad day. The more I heard about him the more I see how alike you two are….were. He hated fighting and would drop his weapon as soon as he could and help civilians.”

“And let me guess, he died doing just that,” Siberite’s mother stands quickly, eyes shut, “Don’t you dare try to tell me he died a hero when he shouldn’t have died at all,” she hisses, shooting her husband a glare. She clears her throat, smoothing out her dress, “Thank you for your input Khutula. Will you be joining me for breakfast tomorrow Siberite dear?” Siberite stays silent, her mother’s frown deepening, “See that she and Mister Waters join me tomorrow, Khutula.”

He nods, “Of course ma’am.” The woman leaves, turning on her heel and slamming the door shut making the men wince. 

Her father turns to face her completely, “Say something, Siberite. Please just talk to me.”

“And say what exactly? You were the one to dictate that Palladium was never to be spoken of, but now you choose to talk about him? After all this time?”

“Siberite, I-. I was upset, mourning, filled with grief and worry for you.”

“And I wasn’t! Dad I was just a child, a child that was told to forget he ever existed. How do you think I’m going to react?” 

“I don’t know, but it wasn’t this quiet, stoic, and emotionless daughter in front of me. You’ve always had something to say.”

“Even if I did, would it really matter to you? Or are you just trying to justify the way you handled your grief while living with the guilt that you could have done something and didn’t?” He looks at her with his mouth agape, “I don’t know what it was that you found in Doma that prompted you to tell the truth finally, but I wish you hadn’t.”

She stands, looking to follow her mother out with Khutula just behind her when her father slams his hand on the table. “I wasn’t the only one who lied to you, Siberite. I wasn’t the only one to fail him. So I shouldn’t be the only one treated like the bad guy.”

“If you really believe that mom and I are being unfair, then I suggest you take a look at your actions again.” She walks out the doors, Khutula following as she makes her way outside and towards the library. She can feel the chill on her cheeks when she finally stops at the gazebo with a heavy sigh, “You know it's both hard to believe and easy to see my brother using this same spot to study or discuss ideas with others. When you told me that one of his papers was still here in the library I stood here and tried to see if I could hear him like I did on the Steppe.”

“He gave a lesson here once, thought the student would enjoy and listen better while outdoors.” Her lips turn in a small smile, “It didn’t help. He would let me practice with weapons when outside  and the kid had more interest in those than aether sciences.” He looks down at her, “You can blame me if you’d like Siberite. I could have done more, could have easily done more.”

“What happened?”

“He begged me, ordered me to come back to you first.” Siberite shuts her eyes, jaw locking as the fuzzy images come that match Khutula’s story, “He grabbed my arm, looking more determined than I had ever seen him and told me to go home. ‘If they find out who I am they could go after my family. Deciding that they have the right information to try and come for Thavnair next, dragon allies be damned. I need you to make sure Sibby is going to be okay.’, he even made the argument that if I went back and got healed up we could get more people out and back to their families. I really didn’t want to leave him behind, but he kept insisting, telling me that he would be okay. I needed to take care of you.”

“You think he knew that he wasn’t going to make it?”He shrugs, shaking his head, “Maybe. I don’t know. I think he just believed that so long as you were safe then he would be and could make it back to you.” “If you’re safe then I’m safe”, The words she once said to her mother when the skies burned red over their home have her echo with the question on if he said them to her once before or if it was merely an inherited belief. “He truly wanted nothing more at that time than to be the best older brother he could be. Wanted better for you, to see you thrive. So much so that when you were about two he made me swear and promise that should something happen to him that I would watch over you until I felt like you could stand all on your own.”

[c-is-for-circinate]

The Mighty Nein have exactly three ways of dealing with enemies, and that is so fascinating to me.

Befriend.  Between Essek and Isharnai, this has been pretty front-and-center lately, but it’s not actually a recent development.  The M9 have been cozying up to potential threats and making nice as far back as Zadash, when they first discovered the Gentleman’s operations and then promptly decided to go to work for him.  It happens in Hupperdook, when they spend all day swearing bloody murder and hunting down the pickpockets who robbed them, and then promptly adopt four more children and nearly die getting their parents out of prison.  It happens in the Bright Queen’s throne room, when they walk into the innermost heart of the nation they’ve been told for fifty sessions is their enemy, and become heroes of the Dynasty.  There’s a tribe of giants who owe them their home and their gratitude and a band of no-longer-bandits who owe them their lives and their pants-wetting terror, because sometimes that is just how the M9 roll. There are so few people this party actually has a stake in killing.  Monsters, whatever, needs must, but like--who the hell are they to judge?  (The first monsters and enemies they ever made friends with, after all, were each other.)

All-out slaughter.  When the Nein do decide they really want to kill someone, they fucking go for the jugular.  True, murder is pretty standard in D&D, but the Nein often throw both caution and reason out the window when something hits their kill button.  This is almost everything about the pirate arc, starting that day in Nicodranas where they tried to talk threateningly to two guys and ended up committing domestic terrorism and then also murdering their way into ownership of a ship, ending that time they got kicked off Pirate Island in less than 24 hours because they decided to rend Avantika asunder the first instant they had the chance.  It’s their entire brief enmity with Lorenzo--they would not wait, they would not plan, they would not stop, and they would not under any circumstances, no matter what Matt wanted of planned, let him go. Hell, this is how ‘prank call Essek in the middle of a dinner party’ turned into ‘paralyze, kidnap, and interrogate’ in the first place.  This group does not do long games if they can possibly help it.

Absolute avoidance.  There are, sometimes, enemies the Nein dislike too much to befriend and aren’t strong enough to kill.  U’kotoa.  Trent Ikithon.  These opponents are relatively rare, because the Nein do absolutely everything player-ly possible to distance themselves from them at every opportunity.  Don’t want to unleash an immense immortal sea serpent?  Fuck just saying ‘no’, we’re headed to the opposite side of the continent from the ocean, and then we’re going to yeet that magic sword directly into a volcano for good measure.  You can’t threaten or blackmail me. This party is very, very good at avoidance on both a personal and collective level.  So much of the early game was built around getting the fuck away from the entire concept of war and law in general, once upon a time.  They have all of them stayed away from their own families, steering clear around Felderwin and Kamordah until they couldn’t any more, putting off visiting the Menagerie, sleeping on the boat instead of going back to Marion’s for one more night.  They run away from their own pasts and selves and inner demons.  They are not all entirely fond of mirrors.

The thing is, I’m always so fascinated by the moments when the party seems to surprise or vex Matt by derailing his plans, and while he’s generally so proud of them for it, what I’m thinking about tonight is his endless, futile attempts to give them a fucking nemesis already. I’m thinking about why it just keeps not working.  And I think it’s this!

This three-pronged approach to dealing with enemies, avoid-befriend-destroy, is basically a three-step guide to making sure you don’t have enemies any more.  In fact, I would say not-having-enemies-anymore is one of the highest priorities the M9 hold, and it has been, almost accidentally, since before the game even started.  The M9 have since the very beginning played what I can only describe as an extraordinarily defensive game.  They don’t go looking for trouble unless it’s specifically connected to some immediate threat to themselves or someone else.  The handful of mercenary contracts they’ve taken have almost universally been about, “hey, let’s do this thing for the Gentleman so he doesn’t decide to mistrust and kill us,” or, “let’s do this thing for the Gentleman so we can get the fuck out of town before they start conscripting to fight the Krynn Dynasty,” or, “hey, let’s do this thing for the Krynn Dynasty so they don’t decide to mistrust and kill us.”

And it’s not about trying to thwart Matt!  It’s about a party of characters who are all extremely defensive and avoidant in their own ways.  Some of it’s about the sheer trauma of everything to do with Molly, and some of it’s probably about the sheer trauma of everything to do with Vax and Raishan and Anna Ripley and every C1 mistake or villain that ever came back to haunt them, and some of it’s just baked into these new characters.  Everyone in this party is so fucking hurt and defensive before they even start.  The only thing that’s changed so far is the bit-by-bit careful broadening of their circle of ‘who to protect’ to include each other, and their friends, and maybe more or less half the world.

The one exception here is, of course, Obann, who has them on the ropes for almost 20 episodes--who they could not kill, and tried, and he had Yasha and they could not possibly join or befriend him, and he had Yasha and they could never forgive or ignore him, and he had Yasha and they could not kill him.  And the thing is, all I can remember right now is how painful so much of that arc was.  Everybody was so desperate.  Everybody was so miserable.  And still, and still, they could not think how to go around this problem any back way, could not recruit allies or head it off.  They could only just distract themselves with brief side quests in hopes that it might help them next time they hurled themselves head-first into trying all-out slaughter again, and again, and again.  It wasn’t like the Chroma Conclave.  They didn’t back out of the first desperate battle and decide to take the long way around on purpose, to measure and trick and evaluate and gather specific resources and plan.  They were so utterly lost.  They were so desperate.

I think that probably, Matt’s hope for Essek was indeed that he’d become the party’s long-term nemesis that Lorenzo and Avantika didn’t have the chance to be.  I think he was hoping the other night for Essek to get away and leave them all feeling suspicious and betrayed.  I think he was hoping a month or two ago that the M9 would head off away from the peace talks and never even find out about Essek until he tried to call in some of those favors for increasingly suspicious things or it all came back around to bite them in the ass.  I think he hoped for a very long time, maybe even a year ago when they met Essek in the first place, that this traitorous mole would become their Anna Ripley--the cold dark super-intelligent mirror to their own broken super-intelligent knifeblade of a friend, someone they could loathe and fear and despise and eventually, eventually destroy.

But the M9 don’t do nemeses if they have any way whatsoever to help it.  Good luck, Matt.  Pretty sure for this crew it is Trent Ikithon and U’kotoa and Tharizdun himself, and absolutely nobody else is big or bad enough for them to actually run up against for more than a single rematch, unless you get real fucking creative.

[hb-writes]

The Small Acts

1924

Clara rested her chin on her knees, arms wrapped tight around her legs as Polly finished weaving her damp hair into a braid. She had been tender with the brushing and the plaiting, something the woman often wasn't when dealing with Clara’s long tresses, but Polly knew it wasn't time for tough love or rough handling. Her niece needed to be coddled a bit. She needed to be a girl and not the nearly grown woman she imagined herself to be.

A few moments after she finished, Polly tapped a foot into Clara's side, prompting the girl up from the carpet when she seemed not to notice the ritual was through, her gaze lost in the fireplace while her mind, Polly assumed, was still a bit trapped in Warwickshire.

Clara reluctantly climbed onto the cushion beside her aunt, wrapping herself tightly in her borrowed robe as she drew her legs to her chest. Clara's stomach had been unsettled since she arrived, before that even, her nerves frayed by the time she arrived at the halfway point between Warwickshire and Sutton Coldfield, once the adrenaline borne of her row with Tommy finally subsided. It had all happened right around the same time that the rain started to come.

"He's gonna murder me," Clara said, the first decent string of words she had put together since coming out of the bath.

The bath had been at Polly's insistence, because Clara had been chilled to the bone when she showed up on Polly's doorstep in the middle of the night and because Polly needed a moment without Clara's presence to have a frank phone call with Tommy. And most of all, Polly hoped the bath would calm Clara's sputtering tears, same as it often had when she was a small child.

Polly could see now that the bath had helped Clara in a way, had at least dealt a bit with the cold bones. But while she was calmer, and very much quiet, Polly thought Clara seemed less soothed and more numb than anything else so Polly decided it would be time, then, that would ultimately make it better. She had been suspecting it for weeks, that her niece and nephew both needed a bit of time apart.

Tommy hadn't seemed particularly soothed by the call informing him his sister was safe at Polly's, his voice clipped and methodical as they sorted through the particulars. Sure, Polly had noted a certain measure of relief in her nephew at hearing she was present and accounted for, but the relief was quickly cast aside, and a certain gruffness returned to his tone. Polly couldn't help but think his tone wasn't just from the itch to shout at the girl for making the three-hour hike out to Polly's on her own in the middle of the night, though that certainly would have been enough to warrant it.

"Is he on his way?" Clara finally pulled her eyes from the fire and looked to her aunt.

"No." Polly moved the brush from the couch beside her to the end table, noticing the way Clara's shoulders had slumped a bit. "I told him to leave it for the night. It's already late. And an evening apart will do you some good."

Tommy would have been out to collect her directly after the phone call if Polly had allowed it. He intended for his sister to finish out the evening under his roof, in her own bed. He intended on seeing to it that his sister spent her evenings there for the foreseeable future, actually, but Polly put him off, delaying his collection until the following morning. She said it was on account of the storm and the hour, but it was also on account of the fact that Polly Gray didn't want to release her niece to her brother's care quite so soon, not with Clara in her current state and Tommy being as he was.

"But—"

"They'll be fine. Your brother is a grown man and Charles has his father and a whole staff to look after him."

An argument was already well-formed in Clara's head, even before Polly's interruption, because Clara and Tommy spent plenty of time apart these days, largely at her brother's behest. And after Polly's words, Clara couldn't quite dispel the swell of anxiety at the idea of her nephew being looked after by someone other than her. She knew on some level that Mary was entirely capable of caring for the boy, and under normal circumstances, her brother was quite capable too, but it had been Clara reading him bedtime stories and tucking him in every night since Grace's death, answering his late-night calls and soothing the bad dreams with her off-tune humming before the staff woke. And Clara hated herself a bit for not being there now.

"I know you worry after him, but it's not your job to mother."

Clara was sixteen, but Polly still saw a child when she looked at her. She saw one of the two babies she’d raised almost from birth, having done more nurturing of Clara and Finn than she’d done of her other niece and nephews, more rearing of the twins than she’d done even of her own two children. And though Clara and Polly rarely fought on subjects relating to the girl growing older as Clara and Tommy did, there were moments when it did make Polly a bit sentimental.

“And that can go for either one of them,” Polly added. “You’re a sister and an aunt, and there’s no expectation for you to be more than that.”

When Polly was sixteen, before that even, she had been helping her older brother’s wife to mother her niece and nephews, cleaning up after Arthur Sr.’s messes. By twenty-five, when her sister-in-law passed, Polly was tending to the responsibilities he left behind on Watery Lane, the business and the brood he had never helped with, the family he never deserved.

The relationship between Polly and her brother had been dissimilar in every way from that between Clara and Tommy, but Polly knew intimately the nature of the girl’s pain. She understood what tugged at Clara’s heart when she heard her brother wasn’t coming to bring her home. She knew how a bit of innocent worry could nag even when one’s heart was filled with rage or in Polly’s case, hate. Polly knew what it was feeling compelled to fill a void for motherless children and for a moment, the circular nature of life struck her. 

“Same as you, then?” Clara said, the notion striking her at the same moment. “A sister and aunt, mothering when it’s not her job.” 

Polly sighed. “That was different, love.”

Clara knew her aunt was at least partly right. It was different. Charles had a father and Tommy had resources. She could meet nothing more than the minimum requirements of sister and aunt and Tommy and Charles would certainly be fine. Clara wasn't sure the same could be said if Polly hadn't stepped in to raise them, especially during the war.

"I shouldn't have run."

"Probably not," Polly said. It had been a hot-headed response, not one of the well-thought-out reactions Polly was used to seeing from the girl, but she was grieving and rowing with her brother, and a bit of impulsivity could be expected under such circumstances. "But there's no use in troubling over that now."

Polly figured Tommy would give her plenty of time to trouble over the insensibility of her choices later. There was no need to discuss them with her now.

"I shouldn't have bothered you so late."

Polly waved her off. "It's okay, love. I couldn't sleep anyway." She pulled Clara closer. "Now, come here." Polly maneuvered the girl so Clara's head rested in her aunt's lap and settled a blanket over her. "You know it's never too late to bother your Aunt Polly." She cleared her throat, her tone a bit sharper. "Unless you're bringing me nonsense, in which case, you can take that right to one of your brothers or your sister and leave me out of it."

Clara nearly smiled, the both of them looking at the flames of the fireplace while Polly rubbed her hand up and down the girl's arm. Despite her aunt's pointed tone, Clara knew Polly would never turn her away. Not if it was midnight or if she brought the woman nothing but nonsense or got herself into some sort of real trouble or ran out on her brother in the middle of the night. In sixteen years of late-night intrusions, grand tantrums, difficult questions, and bits of heartbreaking melancholy, Polly had never turned Clara away without providing something, whether it be a bit of love or wisdom or strength.

They were the small acts of Polly's self-conscripted mothering that Clara had always taken for granted, but she recognized them for what they were now.

"You're a good mother."

It was the type of comment Polly would usually shrug off, announcing that she wasn't the kids' mother, claiming she was just an aunt doing her duty, stepping in when the kids had no one else, but she didn't fight Clara's mumbled declaration now. 

The comment actually left Polly unable to speak for a moment, so she squeezed her niece's arm instead, blinking away the wetness in her eyes, grateful Clara's head was still in her lap, her face turned to the fire while Polly regained her composure.

"Alright, love,” Polly said. “It's late. You get some rest now."

-----

Peaky Blinders (Little Lady Blinder) Masterlist

[hunnybadgerv]

July Writing Prompts: Day 4 - "Tonight, let's forget about the rest of the world."

Summary: The mix of alcohol and homicidal fantasies turn on Nathaniel in the middle of the night.

a/n: Written for July Writing Prompts: Day 4 - “Tonight, let’s forget about the rest of the world.” Please forgive my horrible attempt at poetry. It really is horrid, but it is responsible for the rest.

Forgetting

The warmth of the fire alighted over his skin as the heat of the whiskey swirled down his throat. The tavern hummed with conversation. The voice of a minstrel rose above it all with a song of seduction:

“By the light of the silvery moon,

Let us abandon the world

Let us join hand and heart

Hold tight to one another

As the world fades from view.

I desire only you.”

The fire Nathaniel’s eyes was sparked by something far darker than lust and more sinister than love.

Brave, he thought. The Warden-Commander sat with her back to him. Her red braid dangled over the back of her chair. The thin skin of her neck, pale and delicate, would yield to his blade easily. Nathaniel tightened his hold on his cup and brought it to his lips. The dark liquid stung his tongue, and flared his ire. She’d destroyed everything he knew, taken his family’s name and sullied it irrevocably. Twelve generations of fighting for and raising Ferelden up, and in the thrust of spoiled child’s blade the whole of the country now viewed him and everyone bearing the name Howe like traitors, curs, lower than any beast.

Before he could think further on the wrongs she did him, or the ways he could could repay her slights, she rose and faced him.

Her green eyes reminded him of Fergus—her brother and his childhood friend—when they narrowed on him and the dwarf sitting to his right.

“Do not marinate yourself this evening,” Yvaine said.

Nate raised his glass and polished off the liquor in his cup and tapped it on the table to get the barmaid’s attention. Her words might not have been directed at him, but he’d be damned if he even seemed to follow  even suggestions from her of the field. His glare bore into her and narrowed when she turned her eyes upon him.

Liquid splashed on his wrist as the maid refilled his glass. Yvaine Cousland flashed the warden a smirk.

“We have an early morning, and a lengthy march ahead of us,” she reminded both of them, though kept her attention focused on Howe.

It frustrated him, not being able to read her. She remained a closed book to him. He still didn’t know why she’d allowed him to live, let alone conscripted him. At first he thought it torture, or a ploy to keep her enemy close enough to keep tabs on. He watched her leave, and waited. Then he set his cup in front of Oghren. “Enjoy.”

The dwarf growled in appreciation as the archer wandered off in the direction of his own room.

Nathaniel barred the door behind him, and stripped away the armor of the Wardens. Prepared for bed, he caught the glint of the blade’s handle in the candlelight and pulled it out of its sheathe. It had been one of the pieces from the trophy room, one that had not been claimed by the Grey Wardens when they stole the Vigil from the Howes. He’d discovered it stuck in one of the wooden braces in the basement and taken it as his own with the plan to use it to repay the murder of his father.

He replaced the blade and blew out the candle before he stretched himself out on the bed. His mind played out potential scenarios, but also reminders of the work they had been doing in Amaranthine, for the people of the arling. He tried not to think too much on that, he preferred to nurse his ire, his hatred. Thus, redirecting his thoughts in the proper direction in order to lull himself to fitful sleep.

[astoldbygingersnaps]

#wip wednesday

popping in with a (very small) snippet of the final chapter of the atonement au, which will hopefully be posted this weekend. enjoy!

The truth is that, from the moment Shisui was taken from him, Itachi was consumed by the thought of getting Shisui back--more evidence of his spoiled nature, he supposes.

But despite his desperate desire, Itachi had no idea how to even accomplish such a monumental task--or, more importantly, if Shisui even wanted to be returned to Itachi’s side given all that had transpired between them. It was this indecision, along with a healthy dose of fear, that had stayed Itachi’s hand in the long years following the last night they spent together. However, in the face of his impending deployment such anxieties seemed inconsequential, and Itachi was sure that he could not go to his grave without possessing some sort of closure regarding his lost love. 

It had been more difficult than Itachi would have anticipated to learn the details of Shisui’s whereabouts considering the man had previously been condemned to spend his life in exactly one place. Though he had often wanted to write to Shisui, had longed to offer his apologies and express his undying affections, he had never been able to bring himself to put ink to paper once more. After all, he recalled bitterly, Shisui had never returned his correspondence even when he was in love with Itachi, meaning there was little to no chance he would react differently given all that lay between them. 

In the end, it had come to down to following the slimmest of breadcrumbs--along with admittedly more than a few bribes of his family money that Uchiha Fugaku could never learn of--for Itachi to discover that Shisui had the unusual fortune to find his sentence reduced on the condition of pledging his loyalties to Konoha’s vast military. Which meant, to Itachi’s horror, that he could have been absolutely anywhere in the world, and Itachi would be none the wiser for it. 

Unwilling to abandon his pursuit, Itachi continued to search for Shisui. Dipping further into his inheritance and outright risking his father’s fury, he managed to get his hands on a set of highly classified records outlining the position and location of every conscripted man in Konoha’s ranks--including Shisui. So, on a long winter’s night with his heart in his throat, Itachi finally reached out to the man who had not left his thoughts since the moment he was pulled from his arms. And, to Itachi’s complete surprise, for the very first time Shisui wrote back. 

Even with the letter in his hand--the parchment soft and smooth against his skin, the black ink of its content thick and curling--a part of Itachi still could not believe in its existence. After the letter’s arrival, Itachi spent an embarrassing amount of time reading and re-reading Shisui’s words, burning each vowel and consonant into his mind until he could repeat them in his dreams without hesitation. Each night, he would steal away from his cot, slipping away from the rows and rows of his sleeping fellow soldiers, and quietly wander out into the moonlight to compose a reply. Yet when the dawn came Itachi would shred his foolish and unworthy responses, vowing to try to capture his powerful yet conflicting emotions in the evening, and the cycle would repeat once more.

Eventually, a satisfactory reply managed to make its way from Itachi’s pen, and before he could question his choices Itachi offered a letter as a sacrifice to the merciless winds of fate. Taking the risks to end all risks, he requested a meeting, one last chance to right the wrongs of their former lives before Itachi lost himself completely in the tides of war. And somehow, though Itachi felt wholly unworthy of such grace, Shisui decided to grant him the mercy of himself. In an unremarkable cafe in the middle of a dull and gray morning, surrounded by a crowd of lost and lonely souls, Itachi opened a door made of dirty glass to find the man he loved waiting for him.

The vision of Shisui sitting at a small, wooden table while smoking a cigarette and idly flipping through the paper was so unremarkable that its mundanity was the only thing that convinced Itachi it was real. For a long moment he simply stood in the doorway, his heart in his throat and his lungs empty of air, as his sluggish mind struggled to process the sight. It was clear by the sharpness of his cheeks and the dark bruises beneath his eyes that the years of their separation had not been kind to Shisui. But despite his rough and ragged appearance, he was no less lovely to Itachi, who could not help but regard the soft bow of his lips and his long, dark lashes with anything other than complete affection. 

There was a part of Itachi that wanted to linger in that moment, to remain stuck in a mixture of feverish anticipation and deep-seeded dread, before all possibility was crushed by the inevitability of moving forward. Nevertheless, Itachi took the deepest of breaths and put one foot in front of the other, walking in a dazed fog until Shisui was suddenly in front of him, closer than Itachi would have thought that Shisui could ever be again. Sensing his presence even amongst the bustle and chaos of the soldiers and patrons all around them, Shisui lifted his head and levelled Itachi with an unreadable gaze. “Hello, Itachi,” he murmured, the greeting almost unspeakably gentle in its cadence, and for just a moment the weight of Itachi’s guilt and shame fell away completely. More than anything, the words made Itachi feel whole once more.

“Hello, Shisui.”

*

to be continued.

[legxllyblxndc]

charlotte || facts

name: charlotte alice gilmore

nicknames: lottie, lots

age: one hundred and three / looks twenty-three

from: salem heights

lives in: salem heights

sexuality: pansexual

species: vampire

occupation: dance student & bartender

relationship status: single

financial background: family are upper class. she was disowned and is now middle class

family: mother and father are deceased. one child, three grandchildren and numerous great grandchild 

mental health: n/a

build: slim (size 6)

body modifications: lobes pierced x1

intelligence: quite intelligent. Bs in most things, Cs in a couple.

drinking/smoking/drugs: socially/socially/occasionally 

bio:

charlotte alice gilmore was born into a well to do family. they were high up in londons society. everyone knew who the gilmores were and charlotte loved it. she loved being a part of high society. the dresses, the balls, the drama. it was everything she could have ever wanted for her life. and charlotte really thought that she had it made. she thought that she was going to be set for life. 

when charlotte was eighteen, however, she found herself caught up in a romance with an older man. she quickly became his mistress. he was wealthy and someone she had been sure that her parents would have approved off - had he not been married. she really believed that he was going to leave his wife to be with her but when she found out that she was pregnant - at nineteen years old - he dropped her. charlotte had to fend for herself then. her parents disowned her, due to her ‘disgracing’ their family name and charlotte was on her own. once the baby - a boy - was born, charlotte left him on the doorstep of the local orphanage. she couldn’t raise her child and she thought that the orphanage was the best place for him. 

charlotte just tried to keep herself going. she found herself in a bit of a difficult spot. she spent more time sleeping on the streets, than in an actual bed. until one day, she met albert browning and the two of them got talking. he sat with her and listened to her explain her story - all of it. when she was done, albie offered her a place for the night and she happily accepted. they struck up a friendship, a tight bond. it was a few months later when things became romantic. whenever the pair were walking the streets, they would get strange looks - sometimes even comments - but she didn’t care. she was so in love with albert and nothing else mattered. the darkest day of charlottes life was when albie got conscripted, when he was taken away from her. 

lottie lost everything when albert went to war and she ended up back on the streets, it was during this time that she met oscar blake. he told her that he could help her and she jumped at the chance. he offered her a bed and food and she knew that she couldn’t say no to that. she hadn’t realised that the person offering her help was a vampire. she had never believed in the supernatural, so she didn’t know how to take any of it as he revealed himself to her. he kept her to feed on, to have someone to do his bidding - always compelling her to forget and feeding her his blood to heal her, so he didn’t lose his food. it was during the blitz that charlotte ‘died’. oscar had compelled her to ignore the alarms, to stay in the house. he had told her that she would be okay, that she would be safe. and when the house collapsed around her, she couldn’t move. she ‘died’ in the rubble. oscar took her away from london, then. he took her to salem heights with him - the place that he truly called home. he thought that, that was the place where a new vampire would thrive. he taught her what to do, how to keep herself safe. he got her a daylight ring and had her drinking vervain from the very beginning. although charlotte had mixed feelings about oscar, - having remembered everything that he had done to her once she was turned - he did everything that he could to look after her. that was, until he left her. 

it was a couple of years after he changed her, when charlotte woke up to an empty house. oscars things were gone and all he had done was left a note. he had gotten bored, he decided that he needed to move on. and he didn’t want to take charlotte with him. she toyed with going after him. she wondered about what would happen if she chased him. but she decided that salem heights was the only place that she really wanted to be. she had a place there. although charlotte knew that she had to keep movie. she could settle there for a little while and then she would have to move on.

charlotte moved away from salem heights a couple years after oscar left her - in the 60s. she knew that she needed to get a little bit of space, so that she could come back sooner rather than later. she never settled anywhere for very long in the next fifty years. she would go from town to town, keeping herself mostly to herself. she didn’t want to get close to people. she lived life as a bit of a loner and she thought that, that was how it should be. what she had deserved. 

it was just over ten years ago, that charlotte decided to track down her son. she wanted to see what had happened to him and she ended up tracing him back to salem heights - everything went back to salem heights. when she was sure that her son and his knew about the supernatural, she introduced herself to them. she explained who she was and what had happened. it took them a little while to believe her but eventually - they did. and charlotte was welcomed into the family. to everyone else, she is the sister of nell. in actual fact, she is her great grandmother. 

a few months ago, charlotte, nell and one of their friends, finn, were in a car accident. they had been driving home from out of town when their friend suddenly lost control of the car. he crashed into a tree and with nell in the front, she took the brunt of it. charlotte was fine - mostly because of her vampire blood. when lottie reached her, she was alive but barely. the girl fed her, her blood, trying to save her, to heal her. but it didn’t work. nell died in her arms. charlotte rang an ambulance - for finn - and then took nell away with her. she didn’t want to let anyone know what had happened to her. she needed to get her great granddaughter away from there. charlotte has been doing her best to help nell deal with the change. she will do anything for the younger girl. 

although she never asked to become a vampire, charlotte would never change it now. she has been able to live every kind of life that she could ever have dreamed about. she wishes that she could settle but she knew that, that would never easy for her. she doesn’t want to give someone the chance to figure out what she is. 

[softschofield]

the convoy boys (before and) after the war, part two - malky ♡

part one (rossi and cooke): x

parry/malky: x

moodboard: x

malky is the one to struggle the most after the war, though none of his friends ever know until he off-handedly and sweetly mentions the full extent of his trauma and they’re all taken aback by the pure horror of it. 

he’d been one of the few to come from a happy home: his whole family living in two-up-two-down row houses on the same street in newcastle-upon-tyne, his parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins; a neighbourhood who knew and loved him, stores run by people who’d watched him grow up, a family that numbered half the city; christmases where the whole neighbourhood would bring their dining room tables out onto the street for one big party if the weather was fair, and where they’d cram into each other’s houses for singing and dancing and joyous, clumsy piano performances if the weather was snowy. 

those christmas gatherings were noisy, beautiful things; his parents would let him have a little glass of brandy, and it would fall to him to watch over the younger children and play with them, and often a cheer would go up somewhere near midnight and he’d be encouraged to plod out a few bad piano songs with his half-year training (that his parents had pooled their savings into) so everyone could sing along; and once it got late and the adults started to get drunk, malky would find a spare seat on the couch and watch the chaos with a shy, happy little smile and feel the warmth in his heart at the sight of all these people he loved and who loved him. 

his childhood was warm, and soft, and happy, and crowded. he was never lonely, but he was also never alone, and so he came to love and value quiet, peaceful moments by himself. he found a love for pressing flowers, one that came to mean calm and softness, and his bedroom was always filled with flowers, and he’d walk for hours along the river and through meadows and woods. when he was sixteen, he started working at a book binder’s for a half-deaf, grumpy old man, and that peace, that being able to just work at something in the quiet for hours at a time, became something he loved with all his heart. 

when the war came around, he was still living in his childhood bedroom with his parents. he’d never had any reason to want to move out; he was happy, and to all the neighbourhood he was still the baby of the family. he wanted to do his duty, in a vague, half-formed, guilty sort of war - he wanted to help his country, wanted to have an adventure, wanted to make new friends. but he never really expected to enlist, knew it would break his parents’ hearts. 

then conscription was introduced in 1916, and he had no choice. he was called up, assigned to the worcestershire regiment at random, given a few months of training that tore at the soft skin of his hands that were never made to fire a rifle, and shipped off to france as a replacement. 

almost immediately he and rossi formed a bond. malky had never had to go very far out of his way to make friends - in newcastle, you fell over them almost by accident wherever you went - and he was a little overwhelmed at the front. that first night, with shells rumbling in the distance and boys murmuring in the dark around him and little fires hidden under raincoats to avoid being seen by german planes, malky wandered between the little groups aimlessly. he’d catch the eye of someone, and smile hopefully and start to walk over to them, only to have them turn away and go back to talking to someone else. he’d hover over a group and try to think up something to say, and be snapped at. he wandered, helpless and dispirited and blushing, until a boy sitting by himself beside a little fire called him over in a gruff, quiet voice. there was nothing wrong with him, no reason he’d be by himself - he could have been the centre of a group if he’d wanted to be. but, evidently, he didn’t want that. 

and so, malky and rossi became the founding members of the convoy boys - because rossi, patron saint of waifs and strays, of the unwanted and the mocked and the outcasts, had called malky over. he’d mostly expected to be annoyed by the boy, to just keep him company for the evening until he got more settled in and could stand on his own two feet; and when malky first sat down beside him at the fire, where rossi was fiddling away at a part of a radio from headquarters, he’d hardly looked at him. but malky, gentle and unexpectedly witty in a delightfully deadpan way and northern to the core, had quickly established himself as an equal, and from then on it was malky and rossi. 

after that, they’d adopted others into their little group and taken them under their wing - cooke, too insecure and too desperate to prove himself to easily make friends; butler, too stand-offish and idealistic; jondalar, for obvious reasons. jondalar quickly became a leader of the group, and even he didn’t entirely realise that malky another of them - he was more than happy to settle into the background, to let others take centre stage, but he was no less one of the three leaders, one of the hearts of the group: he was the comforter, the one who gently soothed and patched up small wounds, the one who listened when someone had to break away from the group and stumble into the dark and weep about home and all the horror and trauma looming over them, the one who held them when they needed a soft, tender touch.

and then, after the war, he realised that while he’d been doing that for everyone else, no one had been doing it for him. he suffered afterwards in a similar way to kilgour - but while kilgour was aware of his own trauma, while he tried to hide it with cheerfulness and big smiles and the complete dismissal of his pain, malky was genuinely unaware that there was something wrong with him. he tried to go back to his old life, tried to slot right back into that world of noise and warmth and claustrophobic, stifling joy. his friends, his family, his cousins, his aunts, his neighbours - they were all over him, and for the first time in his life, he realised, with such a flash of horror that it made him sick, that he didn’t want to be touched. that he flinched at the sound of a train horn. that his heart was always thundering and frantic. that there were dark rings under his eyes. that the flowers on his walls made him feel hemmed in, and that he wanted to reorganise his bookshelf at 3am because he had to do something, anything, had to open a window, had to clean, had to repaint the dining room walls.

and it wasn’t that he felt he had to be someone for all the people who had known him - it’s that he honestly, genuinely, did not realise he was suffering from trauma. he thought that, now that the war was over, he could move on, and start a new chapter, and go back to smiling, to evening walks in summer, to giving piggy back rides to his young cousins. he thought he’d be alright. 

while he was in this confusing state of turmoil, this state of smiling happily through the day and not understanding the mess he became at night, he kept up his letters to his friends. sweetly. cheerfully. religiously. it’s a nice habit, he thought; i don’t understand it but i feel like i’m coming apart at the seams and this is the only thing holding me together, he meant. one by one they stopped writing him back, but that didn’t matter. he kept sending them.

he got his old job back at the book binder’s. didn’t last. he’d sit down at his desk and look at the clock and it was 10am, and then he’d just stare at nothing for a few minutes, losing himself in a soundless haze with his pulse in his ears, and he’d blink and it was 4pm. the old man fired him after a week and he stumbled out onto the street in a tearful daze. 

and that’s how his life went for months: happy, smiling, cheerful, and frantically tearing apart down the middle while all he could do was watch. blindly trying to stitch himself back up with soft coloured wool that just fell to bits at his touch, and stirring himself into a horrible frenzy of confusion and fear and sunshine.

then came the letter from cooke, telling him to come down to london. then came parry. then came healing. 

when he returned to newcastle, he was still broken - but he understood that that’s what it was, and his smile was a little more genuine for finally having a diagnosis, for knowing that life itself wasn’t fracturing, for knowing there could be an end to it, for knowing there’s hope. rossi was the only reason he was staying in newcastle, because it wasn’t terribly far from scotland and it made him feel close to him even when only silence greeted his letters. when rossi made the move to london, malky followed him. he smiled around at his childhood bedroom and breathed in the smell of it one last time before he closed the door, and he lugged his suitcase down the staircase and left it by the front door - and that evening, the whole street is alive with celebration. 

his parents cry, but they know that if it will make him happy, if it’s right, then he has to go - and all the neighbourhood will miss him, but they don’t lament it: they turn it into a celebration of a new chapter in his life. lanterns are hung throughout the street, and the tables are brought out, and people wheel their pianos out, and the warm evening air is alive with music and laughter, and everyone wants to dance with malky - most of all his kid cousins, which is an adorable sight - and he’s smiling and laughing just as much as he’s crying, and it’s happy. 

and as night falls, he hugs everyone he loves, and tells them he’ll visit and write every week and send photos, and his mother tells him she’s proud of him and hugs him the longest, and as he picks up his suitcase and walks to the train station, the whole street goes with him - skipping along at his side, and singing, and cheering, like a huge procession through the streets of newcastle. people come out of their homes and poke their heads out of windows to watch - and there’s malky, at the head of it all with his suitcase and a hundred people who love him all around him, and he’s laughing and sobbing at the same time, and it’s magical. it’s beautiful. it’s family. it’s home. 

they wave him off at the platform and laugh and cheer and blow kisses, with kids sitting on their parents’ shoulders and a little yapping dog perched on someone’s head, and then the train is pulling away, and he leans out the window to wave at them for as long as he can; and once he can’t see them anymore, he sits back in his seat and just cries - not only because he’s going to miss them, but because he’s so happy, he’s so overwhelmed, he’s so full of love. and when the crying stops, all that’s left is a dopey smile on his face and red, swollen eyes, and his chest full of warmth and light as air.

all his friends meet him at the station in london, and they’re just as much a home as the one he left. he gets a job as a baker and he loves it: his customers line up early every morning to get his pastries, and also to talk to the sweet, bashful baker with the shy, kind eyes and happy smile; in turn, he loves all his regulars and always comes out to the till to serve them and chat with them and wish them a good morning at work. he’s the highlight of their day and they his, and his friends just listen with befuddled, patient expressions where he gushes quietly about what his customers are up to - because malky is the one none of them tease. he’s too gentle for that. 

and he’s happy!!!! he does a lot of quiet healing (much of it at scho’s cottage in cookham when he mentions he’d love to see the countryside, and then it just becomes a tradition to go there once a month), and arranges flowers in his flat to clear his head, and takes up knitting as stress relief and knits blankets for all his friends, and he’s happy. and i love him. so much. 

[fistsoflightning]

29: how i met your (other) dad

prompt: paternal || masterpost || other fills || ao3 mirror

word count: 1423

This story, unfortunately, starts with an Ala Mhigan miqo’te of eight summers being conscripted and taken to Doma...

DON’T WORRY; IT’S NOT ANGST. Set sometime in the near future, with thanks to @to-the-voiceless for letting me create Family Storytime Shenanigans.

Once upon a time—

“Is that how we’re starting this, Ruki?” Papa huffs as he sits down with a steaming teapot and three wooden cups, no less smile-y than Dad even as he elbows him in the ribs. The plate of snacks in his other hand he pushes to Mune—oooh, melon pan. He looks up at Papa before picking it up, giggling quietly as he can at Papa’s silly wink. “Really now, once upon a time?”

Dad’s smile widens into a grin; the kind that he gets when he’s made a really, really bad joke. “Of course,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Can’t have storytime without a properly narrated story, right?”

Mune groans between crumbs as best he can without spraying them all over Papa’s new tunic as they both wait for Dad to continue.

As I was saying—once upon a time, in the not-so-distant lands of Yanxia, an Ala Mhigan conscript of thirteen summers snuck out of the fairly-new Castrum in the dead of night, a small bag of kobans clutched to his chest. Don’t worry; those are important for later. Also, don’t steal money that isn’t yours.

That night, he had a mission: to deliver the secret stash of kobans he found to the nice couple in the village nearby. He’d snuck out dozens of times before, with the weird size of the ventilation in his room, and tonight was no different as he crawled through to land outside. With the moon and stars hung high in the sky, he didn’t have to worry too badly about his poor vision in the dark until he passed into the Gensui Chain—

“That’s not that important,” Papa quips as he pours out a cup of tea for himself—it kinda smells like the flowers in their garden, now that Mune breathes it in. “Your hair was—”

“Shh! Let me get there.” Dad reaches out and steals Papa’s cup with a surprise kiss to Papa’s forehead, taking a sip before setting it by his foot.

The problem was, since he almost got caught the last time he snuck out, he would have to take a different path in case horrible Miss Prisca had told the night watch to keep an eye out for any escaped miqo’tes! So even though his usual path would take him to Namai in barely half a bell, he wound his way through the Fanged Crescent through another path he’d only traveled once.

“I dunno how you managed to dodge the main path, actually,” Dad admits as he takes another pause to drink. “The mountains everywhere make it pretty hard to get around unless you took a falcon.”

Papa shrugs. “Maybe being born and raised in the mountains of Gyr Abania gives me an advantage?”

Regardless of how difficult that would normally be for any kid of thirteen summers, he was a lot stronger and braver than most (“I—I wouldn’t say that…”) and eventually ended up… somewhere not quite along the path that he had intended. Just across the river was Namai, its aetheryte casting a blue glow across the plants that he had found himself surrounded with, but to get there he’d have to pass through the farmland he ended up in. Without moonlight to clear his path, he cautiously walked through and over plants, keeping an eye out for anyone who might still be working…

But, unfortunately, he managed to miss the quietly watching boy through the squelching sounds of his boots in the rice paddy—

“That’s not it,” Papa says decisively, tearing Mune’s attention away from Dad as he sets down his cup of matcha. Dad makes a funny almost-whine, but he turns to Papa too with a grin that might as well say go on, then. “Well, er, the rice paddy bit is true, but…”

Unfortunately, in his hurry to get away from the farm, he found that the boy with shockingly teal hair had seen him and was approaching. In his hurry to get past, he tried to run past the boy, but found that the other kid was much taller and bigger than distance made him appear, so when they were barely ilms away from each other the boy accidentally tripped the escaping kid! The kobans held tight in his arms scattered as he fell, golden coins lining the bottom of the rice paddy he was now soaked in.

“Hey, my hair wasn’t that bad when I started out, Dewah,” Dad says, and his voice has truly made its way into whining territory now. “Shockingly teal? No way.”

“Ruki, it was the middle of the night and I could see you. For being a miqo’te, my night vision is horrible,” Papa says with an apologetic smile, resting his hand atop Dad’s. “So either it used to be a lot better than I thought, or, uh, your hair really was. Not good. A-anyways, uhm…”

“Wait wait wait, let me tell this part.” Dad straightens up and rubs his hands together. Mune wouldn’t ever say either of his dads have ever looked like they were up to something, but Dad’s certainly giving it his best to look like he is.

After noticing just how tiny and alarmed the kid who tried to run by him looked, the Au’ra boy pulled the miqo’te boy up gently—

“I almost went flying when you pulled me up? I-is that gently?”

—pulled the miqo’te up energetically from his seat in the mud, and said… uh...

“...Dewah.” Dad turns to Papa, setting his hands on Papa’s shoulders with fake seriousness. “Do you remember what I said, because I sure don’t.”

“Y-you don’t?”

Dad tilts his head innocently. “Not really?”

“You asked if I,” Papa says, and Mune can’t tell if he’s about to cry or laugh, really; his face scrunches up in the same way for both. “If I was… was Tamamo Gozen! B-because—”

Papa breaks into a round of poorly muffled giggles, and Mune does too. Dad looks like he’s about to hurt himself, with how hard he’s thinking about what Papa said.

“Your fur and hair were white when we were thirteen!” Dad drops his fist into his palm like it was some kind of important revelation, only leaving Mune to laugh harder. “And with your giant ears and red eyes and the robe—”

“Hey, my ears were not and are not giant!”

“You looked exactly how all the stories described the shrine maiden!”

Papa stops giggling to look straight into Dad’s eyes, a smile still tugging at the corners of his eyes. “D-did you think I was a girl on top of all that?”

Dad’s silence tells both Papa and Mune all they need to know about that, sending all three of them into another round of laughter that makes his stomach hurt. Papa’s completely fallen over into his own lap, curled up in a ball while his tail lashes about behind him—it’s probably a good thing that Dad’s pulled away the teapot and the cups to his side before the two of them completely lost it.

A-anyways, after that mess of a conversation, the two boys exchanged names—Haruki Hagane and A’dewah Tia… and that’s how we first met; two fools confined by the reach of the Garlean Empire, taking what they can and making the best of it.

“Wait, I’m confused,” Mune cuts in, breathless, much to Papa’s dismay—aw, his ears pin down when he tilts his head.

“And I thought we were telling this story to our son, Munehise. Did he leave while we weren’t looking? Sneaking around looking for more snacks, maybe?” Dad pushes him his cup with a suspicious grin.

Dad’s just barely close enough for Mune to playfully slap his leg in retaliation.

“I know that Papa was a conscript back then, and that he’s from Ala Mhigo,” Mune says, tapping his forehead as he thinks. “And obviously you met as kids. But you said that he left when I was still a baby, before even Hana-oba left, so…”

“How did Dewah leave Yanxia?” Dad asks in his stead, and even if his dads are trying to hide it he can still see the way Papa’s hand curls tight in Dad’s hand. Mune nods. “Well, if he’s okay with telling it…”

Papa nods, clearing his throat and putting on his bravest storytelling face Mune’s seen yet.

This story happens nearly nine years after the two first meet in a rice paddy, summer fireflies surrounding them in the humid night, and much like a summer breeze does one A’dewah Tia make his adventurous escape...

[katlyn1948]

Firestorm: Part One

Firestorm

Katlyn1948

Summary:

London, World War II

Arya received her letter for evacuation while Gendry receives his to serve.

A confession leaves a lot of unanswered questions and one blissful night before one of the deadliest air strikes in history.

Notes:

For TO EVERYONE.

So...yeah.

I had to split this up into two parts.

The first is about family dynamics in the middle of a war while the next part will be about Arya and Gendry. I didn't get this up sooner because some issues have arisen, but writing is a good distraction. I hope to get the next part up on Wednesday or Thursday.

I just want to say thank you to everyone that follows me on Tumblr that have sent their love and support of what transpired this weekend. I truly appreciate all the kind words and spiritual hugs. I hope you enjoy reading the first part. It is funny and witty. It is a good part to read before the true emotions and action happen!

Chapter Management

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Chapter 1

: Part OneChapter Text

Firestorm

September 3rd, 1939

The soft buzz of static radiated throughout the room as the Stark family gathered around console radio. It was a large thing with a square body with a rounded top. Sir Eddard Stark had bought the monster just a few months prior in order to keep up with the wartime effort. His wife, Mrs. Catelyn Stark, thought it a waste of money, distracting the young children from their schoolwork. For the most part, she had been right.

Bran and Rickon would come bounding through the door, tossing their school satchels to side to catch their favorite afterschool program before their mother would return from whatever gossip circle she had attended. It was a welcome distraction to what was going on in the other parts of the world around them.

Sansa had not cared for the thing and Arya thought it interesting.

She had not seen an object so shiny and mystifying in her life. Often, she would sneak away from her mother’s teatime to listen to the radio shows that her younger brothers would commonly speak about. They were crude, rambunctious, and definitely not meant for a young woman’s ears, but Arya had been used to such humor. Her brother and cousin out aged her by five years and their conversations with other men their age would turn quite dirty on occasions.

Her mother would chastised her for frolicking with the older men, but she found it pleasing.

Robb and Jon had not minded their little sister tagging along; so long as she minded her business and didn’t insert herself in things, she did not know about. Theon, Robb’s longtime friend would often tease her for playing with the ‘big boys’ while Gendry, Jon’s best mate, would protect her from his snarky remarks.

She had much more in common with them then she did with the other girls her age and enjoyed their company, but when she began to develop hips and breasts, her mother was quick to put a stop to her outings.

Arya hated teatime and gossip. She was convinced it was a punishment strictly meant for her alone. Her sister reveled in her disposition, causing friction within their relationship and Arya would often tease Sansa about her lack of social interests aside from the boring conversations with other prima donnas.

That day was no different.

They were bickering, and had been the whole way home from school. Arya had tried to convince Sansa that there were more important things than what dress she would wear to the end of year gathering. Sansa of course called Arya a prude and stomped off ahead of her, leaving Arya to snicker with laughter behind her.

Now the laughter had ceased and there was only the radio with its disembodied voice announcing the one thing that sank the heart of millions across London.

“On this day, the 3rd of September, 1939, the United Kingdom has formally declared war against that of Germany. Parliament has enacted the National Service Act, conscripting all men between the ages of 18 to 41, with some exemptions…”

The sobs from her mother were piercing, while the fear across her sister’s face echoed that of hers.

Arya new what this news meant.

Father, Robb, Jon, Theon…and Gendry would have to fight in this bloody war.  

29th December 1940

The tiniest sliver of daylight had escaped the blackened curtains, shining through the small crack directly onto Arya’s face. The warm heat from the sun’s rays were welcoming and ushered in yet a new day in this war that had taken nearly everyone Arya held close to her heart.

She cracked open her eyes, squinting at the piercing light and quickly rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She pulled herself up and glanced over to the form of her sleeping sister. Since the war, their mother had insisted that they share a room, ensuring that the other was safe, but Arya believed it was to keep her from sneaking out after curfew.

Sansa was a notoriously light sleeper and even the tiniest creak of a floorboard would wake her.

Arya pushed her duvet from her body and slipped out of her bed, wincing at the sudden shock of the cold floor upon her feet. Heat was scarce these days, due to rationing, and the luxury of such amenities was something that her mother could hardly afford. They barley had enough to stay in the house, not to mention food for five people, so things like gas for heat, or even the automobile her father had bought months before the war were not important.

Their mother had to sell a few of their fancy things just to be able to make ends meet.

Luckily, the extra shifts at the factory her mother had been working at helped offset the costs.

It was strange seeing her mother work. For as long as Arya could remember, she always saw her mother tend to the house or host important guests from her father’s work, never once had she seen her mother lift a finger to willingly work with dirt and grim. But this was war time and the factories needed workers. The only ones left to do it were able-bodied women, no matter what class they belonged.

Arya sighed as she sat upon the edge of her bed. Sansa looked so serene sleeping under the layers of duvets. There were times were Arya would climb into her sister’s bed just to stay warm at night, cuddling against her back, basking in the warmth her body emitted.

She felt almost guilty for having to wake her from her peaceful slumber. Almost.

Grabbing her nearby pillow, Arya chucked it across their room, hitting Sansa square in the head.

“Wake up. Mother has already left, and we have to get the boys ready.” Arya groaned as she stood fully, stretching her aching muscles.

Sansa let out an audible yawn as she popped her head from under her duvets, “Do we have to? It’s our last day in London, can we just enjoy it?”

“You sound like me,” Arya smiled, “But, no, we cannot. We have to pack and Bran and Rickon cannot do it themselves.”

Sansa scoffed, “Bran is perfectly capable of packing is own trunk. He has a broken leg, not a broken back. And Rickon…well, he will need our help.”

Arya nodded, “Right and we have to pack our own things. I want to finish before noon.”

She dared a glance over to Sansa and saw the knowing look in her sister’s eyes, “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t leave without saying goodbye and the only time I’ll be able to see him is right when his shift ends at the coal factory.”

Sansa sighed, “Mother will not allow it. If she finds out—”

“She won’t find out...because you won’t tell her.” Arya shuffled her way to her sister’s bed, taking a seat on the edge. “Make up something...I’ve gone to the library or to the market place...something!”

“Arya, I cannot lie to mother, it’s near impossible. She knows when something is amiss and she’ll see right through me. Besides, all the libraries have burnt to the ground.”

“Not Cambridge.”

“In last week’s raids.”

“Harrington?”

“Two months ago.”

“Mmh...Citadel?”

“That...well I think that one is still standing.”

Arya smiled, “Perfect. After we pack and we get Bran and Rickon situated, I’ll take a trip to The Citadel.”

Sansa groaned, “You’ll be the death of me, Arya Stark.”

“No, this bloody war will be.” Arya gave a quick pat on Sansa’s leg and shuffled out of their bedroom.

The house creaked with chills as Arya made her way to the shared bathroom her and Sansa used. The boys were still tucked away in their bedroom, warm under their duvets. There were times when Arya wished that the outcome of certain circumstances where different. Since the war, hundreds of thousands of men, women and children have died, her brother and father included.

When the conscription occurred her father and brother, along with Jon, Theon and Gendry had make their way to the registrar’s office to sign up to fight for their country.

Months went by and neither of them had received the letter.

That is until the New Year rolled around.

Eddard Stark was the first to be dispatched to some part of Germany undisclosed to them. With a week, Robb and Jon had both received their assignments and Theon was not far behind. The only left was Gendry, a low class bastard boy with only two cents to his name. Arya was sure that his letter would follow shortly after Theon’s, but it never came. There was some sense of relief that at least he was safe, but the worry she had for her father and siblings was insurmountable.

It was like this cloud of darkness hovered over her and her remaining family, just waiting to unleash the deadliest of tempest upon them.

On the evening of the 19th of June came her worst nightmare.

A solider at the door holding, not one, but two letter of condolences from the Prime Minister himself. One was for her brother Robb, his plane crashing somewhere in the middle of the ocean, and one for her father, a bomb mangling him beyond recognition. The only identifiable item were his tags of service.

Her mother wailed for days, clutching at her heart, trying to find some way to live beyond that night. Sansa’s soft sobs were echoed throughout the house and her brothers grieved in their own ways.

Arya had shut down. She didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, she had nothing left within her.

Her daily life was that of routine.

She woke, helped Sansa prepare what breakfast they could find, assisted with her brothers and make her way to the market with whatever money her mother would leave behind. It was mundane and that of a girl who truly was no one.

It wasn’t until a simple trip to the market place began her process of healing.

She hadn’t seen Gendry in months, yet there he was unmistakable as ever. His hair was shaved down, no doubt for the military and his clothes were covered in soot. He’d been working at the coal factory making wages to live his life. Even when Arya had meet him when she was 10, he was working the factory. It was a miracle that Robb and Jon even became his friend, for he only had an education of that of a 7 year old. But he was humble and kind, and had gotten her brothers out of tough binds, bonding them for life.

He was haggling with a street merchant for a loaf of bread, but by the looks of it, the street merchant wasn’t breaking. She had a few coins left over from her haul and was more than happy to help with the situation. It helped ease the tension that was rising and Gendry was truly grateful for the help.

“Don’t worry about it.” She said to him.

“Let me help you.” He replied.

He had carried her bags all the way to her front door, setting them down gently on the front patio.

Since then, she had made it a point to meet him every day in the market right after his shift, whether it be him walking her to her door, or to talk their minds off about anything than the war around them; a welcome distraction allowed Arya to heal the wounds that the war had already caused.

Shaking her head of the memory, she splashed cold water of her face, fully waking her from the slumber of last night. Shuffling out of her robe and night shift, Arya tugged on her work dress, securing the waist with a thing belt. She pinned her unruly hair from her face and slipped on the brown leather loafers her mother had gotten her just before the new school year approached. Her stockings laid upon the sink side table and all Arya could do was grimace. She hated wearing the torture device and cursed the person who invented such atrocities.

They were uncomfortable and unnecessary and she never understood the purpose behind them.

Giving herself a once over in the mirror before her, she nodded in liking and exited the bathroom, letting an annoyed Sansa in.

“It’s about time. I’ve been waiting to take a piss.” She scowled.

Arya shrugged, “Oh come off it! Just get ready and help me with breakfast. I’ll get the boys up.”

Sansa stocked off into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Arya chuckled and cross the hallway to where her brothers were sleeping. Bran would be easy to wake, but Rickon proved difficult. Often times, Arya would have to dump ice-cold water of his head just to rile him up from slumber.

“What took you so long?” Bran scoffed as Arya pushed their bedroom door open.

“You know, I don’t have to help you. I could just let you fend for yourself.” She hummed.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Bran challenged.

Arya smirked, “Try me. You may be near a head taller than me, but I’m quicker and will knock your arse straight on the floor.”

“That’s not fair; I have a broken leg and a sprained foot.” He whined.

“Well whose fault was that? Mother told you plenty of times not the climb the banisters, yet you did, causing your misfortunes.”

Arya glided towards her brother’s bed and pulled the duvet from his body. The sudden chill of the air sent gooseflesh all along his exposed skin, causing him to shiver.

“My god, it’s cold!” He huffed as he outstretched his hands for Arya to grasp.

With a quick pull, Bran was upright and Arya was gathering his clothes for the day.

“Well when it’s near freezing outside and we have no heat, then yes, it will get quite cold. Now come one, I don’t have all day. I have to help you get dressed and packed and try to get Rickon up all before noon.” She chastised.

“I can get dressed myself, you know. I’m not a kid.” He said matter of fact.

He was right, Bran was just two years younger than Arya and was more than capable of dressing himself, but with a broken leg and bad foot, Arya was sure that he would topple over when he tried to shuffle his trousers over his cast.

“I know that, but if you fall then mother will blame me for not helping. So, please let’s hurry.” She gestured for him to stand and he managed the best as he could while Arya gathered his clothes. She tossed his shirt and sweater vest his way, allowing him to pull the garments over his head himself.

She walked over to him as he leaned on his bedpost, trying his best of shimmy out of his pajama bottoms. Arya chuckled at her brothers misadventures and strides to where he stood, helping him clothe.

Sansa joins the room as Arya his helping Bran into his trousers, quickly buckling them in place.

“Is he up?” Sansa asks as she points to the sleeping red head boy in the next bed over.

Arya scoffed, “What do you think?”

Sansa gave a curt nod, “Right, well I suppose there is only one way to do this.” She turns on her heel and exits the room as quickly as she entered, returning just a few short minutes later.

Arya is already trying to suppress a laugh while Bran looks on, shaking his head at his little brother.

In her had was a pot of cold water ready to pour on top of his head, “Rickon, I know you’re awake, so please save me the trouble of having to pour this on your bed. I’d rather not explain to mother why your mattress is drying on the front patio.”

Rickon shot straight up from his bed, rubbing his eyes in the process, “I’m up, I’m up.”

Sansa’s lips curved into a smug smile as she beamed with pride. There weren’t many times when she could out best their little brother, but whenever she did, Sansa would gloat the entire day if given the opportunity.

“Lovely.” Arya watched as Sansa turned in her direction. “There is a pot of potatoes boiling for breakfast and the toast is already set out.”

Arya nodded, “We will be down in a few. I have to help this one--,” she pointed towards Bran, “—down the stairs.”

Sansa gave a quick nod before turning on her heel and exiting the small bedroom. Rickon was in the corner, pulling his sweater over his head, messing his hair in the process. He hobbled on one foot while the other was sliding into the leg of the slacks Arya had laid out for him to wear the night prior.

“Be careful, we don’t need two of you with broken legs.” She chastised as he stumbled over his own feet.

“I’m always careful.” He smiled.

Arya chuckled as she passed the smiling boy, grasping onto Bran’s arm in order to stabilize him.

Their way down the stairs was sloppy, but effective. Arya had time to perfect their maneuvers, considering she had to do it every day for the last three months. He still had a couple of more week left in the cast, according to the doctor that came by every other week to see him, and Arya couldn’t wait to be free of the physical work. If she had a say in the matter, then Bran would have remained in his bed for the entirety of the day, with only a few bathroom breaks. Her mother nearly chocked when she mentioned such things.

Once Bran was placed firmly on the floor below, Arya left him to fetch his crutch so that she could be free to move about the house without having to worry about him.

He was a perceptive kid and could hobble from place to place when need be.

Arya shuffled quickly to the kitchen and began placing the plates upon the table. Sansa was preoccupied with the boiling potatoes and making sure, they were cooked to perfection before serving.

“Are those the last of the potatoes?” Arya asked as she finished placing the silverware.

Sansa nodded, “Yes, mother wanted them gone before we left. It’s be a waste of her if there were six potatoes left for just one person.”

Arya filled several glasses of water and placed them on the table, with Bran sipping his as soon as it hit the smooth wood. Rickon bounced down the stairs just as Sansa was depositing one potatoes on each of their plates.

“Potatoes again?” Rickon whined.

“Yes, again.” Sansa chimed. “They are good for you. Now eat up.”

Rickon grumbled as he stabbed is fork into the soft flesh of the vegetable. “Do we at least have salt this time?”

“Rickon when have we ever had salt? Since this war broke out, we are lucky if we get the damned potato itself!” Arya huffed in frustration. She would never admit it openly, but she was sick of eating potatoes. It was the only thing they had for breakfast in the last month and the same constant taste began to bore her palate. Of course, she was grateful that she had something to eat, for there were plenty of people who did not have so much as a crumb of bread.

Their lunch and dinners were quite modest as well.

Whenever her mother would leave the money for her to go the market, it was always the same items on the list. Cans of beans, stocks of celery, potatoes, and a pound of meat (if they had it). Their mother would come home and make the same soup, always preserving a little left over incase their rations dwindled.

It was difficult to adjust to such rations and often made Arya wonder what those who already had so little were doing just to make it through the day. She wondered about her friend, the butcher’s boy, who relied on outsourced goods to keep their business going or about the little girl, her sister used to watch when her mother would work double shifts at the factory. They barley had two pennies to rub together before the war started, and now she was sure they were dead.

But the worst of the what this war had to offer were the mandatory curfews and blackouts. Not a single light could be on after dark. Curtains were provided to block the ambient light, making the streets of London look desolate. Eating by candle light had provided issues and there was a time that Rickon nearly set the whole house on fire with his carelessness.

That’s why, when morning came, Arya would be the first up.

She wanted to bask in the sunlight and enjoy the hours of normalcy before having to cower in the shadows come night.

The market trips was only reprieve she had, so when her mother had abruptly stopped asking her to do this simple request, it nagged at her inner being. That was her time to spend outside with Gendry, her time to feel like a normal girl again.

“Are you packed?” She asked Rickon who had given her a scowl at her earlier outburst.

He nodded his head, not meeting her eyes.

“And what about Bran? Did you help him pack?”

Another nod.

“So you are all set to head to the train station come tomorrow morning?”

“Yes.” It was a quick response that left matters solidified.

The rest of the family remained quite as they munched at their bland potato.

Most mornings consisted of the same old routine and this one was much the same. They would eat, read, and play a few games. Then Arya would head to the market, while Sansa watched the younger siblings. Then when Arya returned home, usually with Gendry at her tails, their mother would be coming through the door just a few hours later. The only difference was that instead of heading to the market to meet with Gendry, Arya would sneak to the coal factory where he worked. She was sure her mother had eyes at the market, so if she risked meeting him there then her mother would know before she even got home.

“When do you plan on going to the library?” Sansa questioned with a raised eyebrow.

Arya cleared her throat, glancing between Bran and Rickon to see if they were aware of the sudden change in plans, “As soon as breakfast is cleaned up.”

“The library? Why would you go to the library?” Bran suddenly chirped.

Arya cursed under her breath and tried to think of a good excuse to sway her brother in another direction. She could be sure that Sansa would at least try to keep her secret, but Bran was a differently matter entirely. If he wanted to rat her out then he would, unless there was something in if for him.

“Does there have to be a reason to go to the library?” Arya countered.

Bran shrugged, “I suppose not…but aren’t most of the libraries burned to the ground from all the air raids?”

“Not all of them. The Citadel is still standing, last I heard. I want to be able to take a piece of London with me, that’s all.” She assured.

“And you plan on stealing a book from the library?”

“More like borrow…” She shrugged.

Bran nodded, and then his eyes went wide, “Wait! The Citadel is on the same side of town as the coal factory. You’re going to see Gendry.”

Arya groaned, “Name it, whatever it is, that will keep you quiet.”

“When we get to the host’s house. You do my chores for a month.” He smirked.

“Deal, no shake on it.” Arya outstretched her hand for him to grasp. Bran had a smug smile as he spit into the palm of his hand, clasping it tightly with hers.

“Deal.”

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: By Any Other Name

Hey @hello83433, thanks for this ask about my beardy husband Blackwall! The relevant chapter of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) has finally arisen! 

Posting for @dadrunkwriting​ Friday. It’s quite a long chapter; ~7000 words. Read on AO3 instead. 

***********************

The next morning, Fenris and Hawke had barely set foot in the Great Hall when a messenger ran up to them.

“Your Worship. Champion,” he panted. “Warden Blackwall is gone.” 

Fenris frowned. “What do you mean, he’s gone?”

“He has left the Inquisition,” the messenger said. 

“What?” Hawke blurted. “Bullshit. He wouldn’t just leave.”

The messenger held out a note. “This was found in the stables this morning. Sister Nightingale’s people are searching the stables for further information.”

 Fenris dumbly took the note, and he and Hawke read it together. 

Fenris, 

You’ve been a friend and an inspiration. You’ve given me the wisdom to know right from wrong, and more importantly, the courage to uphold the former. 

It has been my honour to serve you. Please tell Lady Hawke I am sorry about the shoes. Would that I had the time to pay her back. 

Fenris looked at her in bemusement. “What is this about shoes?”

She shook her head impatiently. “Just some dumb bet from last night,” she said. “I don’t understand the rest of this note, though. What is he talking about here, ‘the courage to uphold the former’?” She looked at Fenris, her brow creased with confusion. “Did he say anything about this to you?”

Fenris shook his head. “No, I…” He rubbed his mouth. “He was talking about a dog yesterday.”

“A dog?” Hawke demanded. 

“A memory from his childhood,” Fenris explained. “He spoke of how it is easier to turn your back and look away than to take action when you witness evil. It didn’t occur to me that he was speaking of something specific.” He looked at Hawke. “He didn’t seem off to you last night at the tavern?”

“I mean, he was a little more quiet than usual,” she said. “But he was drinking with me and Sera and laughing at our jokes and everything. I didn’t…” She trailed off and rubbed the note between her fingers. When she looked up at Fenris again, her face was twisted with distress. “I don’t like the sound of this note, Fenris. I’m getting a bad feeling about it.” 

“Let us go to the war room,” he suggested. “Perhaps Leliana’s people have found something.”

As predicted, Leliana’s scouts had turned up a clue in the stables: a page that Blackwall appeared to have taken from one of her reports. She handed Fenris the page. “It is about a man named Cyril Mornay,” she said. “He is to be executed in Val Royeaux within the week for his involvement in the Callier Massacre.”

“The Callier Massacre?” Hawke asked. She was rubbing nervously at her wedding band as she spoke. “What is that?” 

“It was quite the scandal in Orlais in 9:37,” Josephine said. “Lord Callier was a prominent supporter of Empress Celene. He and his entire family were murdered during a vacation. The man responsible was a Captain of the Orlesian Army named Thom Rainier.” She tapped her fingers delicately on the war table. “It is believed that Captain Rainier was bought off by supporters of Grand Duke Gaspard, though the Grand Duke’s involvement was never proven.”

“All right, fine, some Orlesian political scandal and so on,” Hawke interrupted impatiently. “What the fuck does this have to do with Blackwall?”

“We don’t know, Hawke,” Leliana said softly. “But it’s clear that he had some personal interest in the matter. I suspect he has gone to Val Royeaux.”

“Great,” she said. She looked at Fenris. “Then we’ll go to Val Royeaux to track him down. Right?”

“Why?” Fenris said. 

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean, ‘why’?”

Fenris shrugged. “His note made it clear that he is finished with the Inquisition. Perhaps he doesn’t wish to be tracked down.”

Hawke gaped at him for a moment. “You must be kidding,” she finally burst out. She picked up Blackwall’s note from the table and shook it. “This is a suicide note!” 

He raised his eyebrows. “What makes you think that?”

“It feels so final! Look at this.” She pointed at the note. “This honour bit, like he’s saying a big farewell. And what is this courageous act he has to do? That just smacks of some sort of sacrifice.” She laughed, but the sound was tight with strain. “These Grey Wardens and their fucking self-sacrifice, I swear. They’re such party poopers.” 

Fenris studied the note with a frown. Perhaps Hawke was right, especially given Blackwall’s unusual glumness yesterday.  

Cullen spoke up. “You may want to track him down on the grounds of desertion.”

Fenris looked up. “Blackwall wasn’t a conscript,” he said. “Nobody in the Inquisition is.” Fenris had been trying to stick to this principle since the Inquisition began. The idea of forcing anyone to fight against their will simply rubbed him the wrong way. 

“That is true,” Cullen said. “But that doesn’t mean he didn’t make a commitment to our cause. If you wish to make an official investigation into his departure on those grounds, we could provide you with the resources to find him more quickly.”

Fenris looked at Hawke. She was gazing at him pleadingly and rubbing nervously at her rings. 

“All right. We will go to Val Royeaux,” he said, and some of the tension instantly left Hawke’s shoulders. He looked up at the advisors. “Let Cassandra know; I would like her to come along. And Cole, I suppose,” he added. Cole was still under Fenris’s orders to remain at Cassandra’s side until Isabela found an amulet of the type that Solas had suggested. 

Hawke clapped her hands. “Lovely! An impromptu trip to Val Royeaux. Just what we needed.” She smiled at Josephine and Leliana. “Can I bring you ladies anything from the market?”

Josephine’s eyebrows rose. “Oh – no thank you, Lady Rynne, that’s quite all right.”

“You certain?” Hawke said. “I’m a great believer in making errands as efficient as possible. If we can stop a Grey Warden from offing himself while doing a little shoe-shopping at the same time, that’s my idea of time well spent.”

And the jokes begin, Fenris thought sadly. “Come on, Hawke,” he said. “Let’s pack for this journey.” He gently ushered her toward the door with a hand at the center of her back. 

“I mean, it could be worse, right?” she said. “He could have gotten all concerned about some random execution taking place in the Fallow Mire. Now that’s a place where it would be hard to double-up your errands.” She laughed. 

Fenris pushed open the door from Josephine’s office back into the Great Hall, and Hawke continued with the witty remarks as they made their way back to their bedroom. “Maybe the Inquisition just wasn’t enough excitement for him,” she said. “I mean, you’d think our offering of baddies was quite solid, what with the whole undead-darkspawn-magister thing. But maybe that was too boring.”

Fenris pushed open the door to their bedroom, and Hawke idly patted his bum as she slid past him. “Really though, what in the Void was he thinking? Haring off to Val Royeaux at a moment’s notice? I can tell you they probably won’t let him through the gates with that beard of his. He doesn’t look nearly well-groomed enough to fit in.” 

Fenris pulled their travel packs out of the armoire. “I hardly this was a random execution that caught his interest,” he said. 

Hawke sighed as she walked over to the dresser. “No, I know. You’re probably right. He must know this man who’s going to be killed — this Mornay person.” She started pulling clothes from the dresser and tossing them haphazardly on the bed. 

“I would go further still,” Fenris said. He sat on the edge of the bed and began refolding the clothes that she’d tossed on the bed. “I suspect Blackwall was involved in the crime.”

Hawke looked up at him in surprise, and he shrugged. “You suspected months ago that he had a secret,” he reminded her. “Perhaps this is it.”

Her eyes widened. “I did suspect that, didn’t I? I impress even myself sometimes.”

Fenris scoffed. Hawke smiled briefly before turning back to the dresser. A moment later, however, she turned back to Fenris with a frown. “But wait a minute. Josephine said the Callier massacre took place in 9:37. Blackwall was wandering around the Storm Coast recruiting new Wardens at the time. He couldn’t have been involved.” 

Fenris paused. “Ah. That is true.”

He and Hawke frowned at each other for a moment. Then she shrugged and began tossing clothes onto the bed once more. “Either way, he’s clearly decided to martyr himself for… whatever this is. And you know what, I’ve had enough of that shit.” She strode over to the bed and started shoving clothes into her travel pack. “Bloody Grey Wardens,” she said with a chuckle. “This whole, ‘I have a sad-sack secret plan that I can’t tell you, but I’m going to be sad about it anyway and then I’m going to either die or disappear afterwards’ thing? I’m getting rather sick of it, I have to admit.” 

Fenris looked up from his pack. Now he understood why she was so upset. 

“Hawke,” he said cautiously. “This is not a Chantry-explosion situation. Blackwall is not like Anders. Whatever his reason for–”

“I asked him,” she burst out. She wasn’t even making the pretense of being lighthearted now. “I fucking asked him what was wrong in the tavern last night because he was being so mopey. He told me he was fine, he… he made some joke to Sera, and then we had another round of drinks, and… why didn’t he just talk to me?” She reached her arm around her middle and scratched at her left-side ribs. 

Fenris instantly rose from the bed and took her hand to stop her from scratching. “How can you think you are at fault for this?” he demanded. 

“I should have known something was wrong,” she snapped. “No, I did know. I knew he was acting strange. It’s not like him to be that bloody morose. These fucking Grey Wardens!” she burst out. “I hate this stupid attitude of theirs.” She adopted a mocking voice. “‘The only way to know you’re doing the right thing is if you’re about to die.’ Never mind if you’re leaving anyone behind who might care about you. Such a fantastic healthy attitude, that.” 

Fenris stepped closer to her and tilted her chin up. “Nobody is about to die,” he said quietly. “Don’t assume. You don’t know what we’ll find in Val Royeaux.”

Hawke smiled. “Luckily for me, I’ve got a very active imagination,” she said. “It conjures all sorts of lovely gory scenarios for me just to keep me on my toes.”

Fenris gazed seriously into her eyes until her shit-eating grin melted away. “This is not your fault,” he told her quietly. “Just like Anders’s… actions were not your fault. You can’t be held responsible for everyone else’s decisions.”

“I know, I know,” she said wearily. “Everything isn’t about me, right?”

Fenris froze. Those were the scathing words Carver used to say to her. For some reason, having her repeat them in this context felt oddly ominous.

She winced apologetically and pressed herself against his chest. “Fenris, I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I don’t mean to be so dramatic. Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with Dorian.” She slid her arms around his waist in a loose embrace. “You’re right. There’s no reason to assume the worst. We’ll just go to Val Royeaux and see what’s going on, right?”

Fenris allowed himself to breathe. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps we can buy some macarons while we’re there.”

She grinned and hugged him more tightly. “Now that’s a good plan. That’s why you’re the Inquisitor.”

He smirked at her. “That is the decision I hope to be remembered for: making budget allowances for the spurious purchase of Orlesian confectionery.” 

Hawke laughed, a genuine warm laugh, and Fenris relaxed. He pinched her waist, making her squeak in amusement, then gently disentangled himself from her arms. “Now come on, Hawke. Unpack your bag.” 

She raised her eyebrows. “Unpack my–? Why?”

“Nothing is folded,” he said flatly. “You’re wasting space. You must conserve it.”

“For Orlesian confectionery?” she said slyly as she began pulling clothes out of her travel pack.

“Precisely,” he said. “And that sort of thinking is why you’re the right hand of the Inquisitor.” He continued packing his neatly-folded clothes into his bag.

She grinned at him, then hugged him from behind. “You’re my favourite,” she said softly. 

He started folding Hawke’s clothes. “I’m glad to hear it. I am fairly fond of you, as well.” 

She snorted in amusement, and Fenris smiled and began to pack her bag while she hugged him. For a quiet, pleasant moment, he pretended that he was packing for a leisurely weekend trip and not for the next problem on the Inquisition’s laundry list of never-ending crises. 

*********************

Five long days of travel later, Fenris stood near the guard’s desk in the Val Royeaux prison with Cole at his side. Hawke was still in the dungeon downstairs talking to Blackwall, and Cullen and Cassandra were outside speaking with one of Leliana’s scouts.

Fenris wearily leaned back against the stone wall and folded his arms. He couldn’t hear Hawke’s voice anymore, which meant she had finally finished shouting at Blackwall for leaving. 

Thom Rainier, that is, he thought. He glanced at Cole, who was gazing vaguely at the bars in the prison window. 

“You knew about this,” he said quietly. “That he was responsible for the Callier murders.”

“Yes,” Cole said. 

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “You expose everyone’s secrets. Nobody’s thoughts are safe from you. Why protect his?”

Cole blinked. “Everyone hides dead things. Everyone pretends. He wanted to fix it. He was a murderer, but he didn’t want to be. He made a new him.” He began to drift slowly around the room, his eyes roaming over the stone walls as though he was seeing something written there. “He is Blackwall. He killed Rainier. He would stand between Rainier and the carriage, but he can’t. It doesn’t work like that. So he carries the bodies to remember.” 

Fenris eyed the spirit-boy appraisingly. As per Solas’s words, Cole’s purpose was to help; to heal those who were hurting, and to stop the innocent from being harmed. And Cole was able to read everyone’s most private thoughts. If Cole was convinced that Blackwall – Thom Rainier — was truly a changed man… 

“You carry the bodies, too,” Cole said. 

Fenris frowned. “What?”

“Silent, stealthy, slipping through mist, fighting through the fog for freedom,” Cole said. “But you weren’t free. You were found. ‘Fenris,’ he said, and you were forced to listen.”

Seheron. Fenris swallowed hard. “I am aware of the parallels,” he said quietly.

Cole nodded. “That’s why you’re not angry.” 

Fenris huffed, then unfolded his arms. “I suppose I’m not, no.” 

Cole nodded again, and he continued to shuffle slowly around the room with his gaze fixed on the stone walls. 

Fenris watched him idly for a time. Then, moved by boredom, he finally decided to ask. “What are you doing?”

“Counting,” Cole said. 

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Counting what?” 

“All of it,” Cole said vaguely. “Three weeks and three days until my parole. Two years, seven months and six days until I go free. Five days until Marielle visits me. Six hours until I die.” He picked at one of the stones in the wall, then looked up at the equally grim stone ceiling. “They count what counts most.”

Fenris frowned. Then the door to the prison opened, and Cullen and Cassandra stepped inside.

Cassandra’s face looked like thunder. “Is Hawke quite finished?” she demanded. “I am ready to put this matter behind me, as I expect you are.”

Fenris shook his head. “Not yet. She’s still speaking with Black– with Rainier.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise and moved toward the dungeon stairs. “He is not deserving of such a lengthy farewell. I shall–”

“Cassandra,” Fenris interrupted. “Let them talk. Besides, this will not be a farewell.”

She looked at him sharply. “What? What do you mean?”

“Rainier didn’t really want to leave the Inquisition,” Fenris said. “His goal was to save Mornay’s life, not to abandon the Inquisition.”

Cassandra scowled. “Fortunately, that choice is not up to him,” she said. “It is up to you.”

“Yes, it is,” Fenris said. 

Cassandra’s face went slack with surprise. “You would take him back?”

Cullen sighed. “I thought you may want to pass judgment on him yourself,” he said to Fenris. “If that’s your wish, we must move quickly.”

“Good,” Fenris said. He studied Cullen’s furrowed brow. “You also believe he should accept the death sentence?”

Cullen curled his lip. “What he did to the men under his command was unacceptable. He betrayed their trust and betrayed ours. I despise him for it,” he spat. Then he sighed. “And yet... he fought as a Warden. Gave his blood for our cause. And the moment he shakes off his past, he turns around and owns up to it.” He rubbed his chin. “Saving Mornay the way he did took courage; I’ll give him that.”

Fenris nodded. He thought back to Blackwall’s story about the helpless little dog. “It would not have been easy,” he said.

“I do not believe this,” Cassandra burst out. “Fenris, I cannot believe you would simply accept this betrayal!” 

Fenris gave her a slightly chiding look. “Have you not been listening to Varric’s stories of our companions in Kirkwall?” he drawled. “This is far from the first time Hawke and I have been lied to by a friend. At least this time it didn’t result in a war with the qunari,” he said, thinking of Isabela and her damned Tome of Koslun. “Or a war against the Chantry, in Anders’ case.”

“And that justifies your forgiveness?” she snapped. “That you have been betrayed before? 

“No,” Fenris said patiently. “But his contrition does.”

“You are willing to let this lie simply because he is sorry?” Cassandra said in disbelief. 

Fenris studied her curiously. He hadn’t seen her this angry since the day they had first met. “He is more than sorry,” he said. “He has attempted to make up for the past.”

She shook her head in disgust, and Fenris frowned. “Cassandra, you don’t know what it is to kill innocents. To have that blood etched into your hands and lingering in your soul. The knowledge of your own actions… it is a stain that can never be undone. It is something you cannot forget, no matter how much you wish you could run from it.”

“He did run from it,” Cassandra retorted. “He ran and hid from his own crimes for years.”

“He attempted to start over and leave the ugliness of his past behind,” Fenris said. “It’s a wish I can understand.” He steadily held her gaze as he spoke. She knew the broad strokes of what had happened with the fog warriors in Seheron: how Fenris had betrayed and murdered the very people who had taken him in. 

She scowled. “It is not the same,” she snapped. “You did not have a choice in Seheron. Rainier did. He chose to attack that caravan! He chose to run and to leave his men to take the fall!”

For the first time since Cullen and Cassandra had entered the prison, Cole spoke up. “‘Mockingbird, mockingbird.’ Too many voices in the carriage. Maker, they're young,” he murmured. “If I tell my men to stop, they'll know it was all a lie. Cold, trapped, heart hammering like axes on a carriage door.”

Cassandra frowned at Cole. Fenris shrugged. “Perhaps he had less of a choice than you think,” he said. “Even those who live without chains are still bound: by fear, by tradition, by honour.” He glanced at the stars down to the dungeon. “Slaves dream of freedom, but I have found free men dream of it even more.” 

Cassandra stared at him, and Fenris watched as her scowl softened slightly. Finally she huffed and folded her arms. “You condone this, then. This lie, this… this identity theft. It truly does not bother you?”

“Of course I would have preferred if he’d told us before,” Fenris said. “But he has done no wrong since joining us. If he was the same man who murdered a family for coin, he could have turned on us and sold our plans and our movements to any number of people.” He shrugged and casually leaned back against the wall. “He is not that man anymore. People can change, sometimes.”

“Yes, they can,” Hawke suddenly said from the dungeon stairs. “Sometimes they just need someone to have a bit faith in them.” She was gazing at Fenris with a tiny smile.

Cassandra pursed her lips, then nodded stiffly to Fenris and Hawke. “I will wait outside until your business here is finished,” she said, and she turned on her heel and stalked out of the prison. 

Hawke whistled softly and stepped over to Fenris’s side. “Wow. Very wrathful and unforgiving, she is. It would be sexy if it wasn’t so terrifying.”

Fenris tenderly studied her face. She was smiling as always, but her eyes were reddened.

He surreptitiously squeezed her hand. “Are you all right?”

“I’m great,” she said cheerfully. “Thom might not be, though. I absolutely tore him a new one.” 

Cullen cleared his throat. “Yes. We, er, heard much of your diatribe.” He looked at Fenris expectantly. “We will arrange for Rainier’s transport back to Skyhold, then.”

“Yes,” Fenris said. “We should make our own arrangements, as well. Let’s not linger in this place longer than necessary.” 

Hawke snickered as she followed Fenris and Cullen to the door. “When you put it that way, you make Val Royeaux sound about as appealing as the Fallow Mire.”

“It is as appealing as the Fallow Mire,” Cullen groused. 

“I agree,” Fenris said. 

Hawke laughed and slung her arms around their necks. “Oh, the two of you. So grumpy about any place with even a touch of class.” She kissed Fenris on the cheek, then released them both and skipped toward the prison door. “I’m just going to run to the pâtisserie and fetch some macarons before we go.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “You were serious about that?”

She turned to look at him with wide eyes. “You weren’t?” She grinned at him, then winked and slipped out the door. 

Cullen shook his head in exasperation as he followed her out. Fenris nodded politely to the prison guard, but before he could step outside, Cole spoke again. “It’s not the betrayal that makes her angry. It is herself.” 

“I know that,” Fenris said quietly. He pushed open the prison door and gestured for Cole to pass. “I will remind Hawke that it’s not her responsibility–” 

“Not Hawke,” Cole said. “Cassandra.” He plucked idly at his sleeve as he floated past Fenris through the door. “First Varric, now Blackwall. What else have I failed to see?” 

Oh. Suddenly Fenris understood. He glanced at Cassandra, who was speaking to Cullen with her arms folded and a scowl on her face. Cullen nodded, then gestured for two Inquisition scouts to follow him as he strode toward the gaudy golden gates of Val Royeaux. 

Fenris and Cole approached Cassandra, and she nodded brusquely. “Cullen is making arrangements for our transport back across the Waking Sea. He would rather travel by horseback, of course, but–” 

Fenris cut her off. “You couldn’t have known that Blackwall wasn’t… Blackwall.”

She pressed her lips together and looked away, and Fenris waited silently. Finally she shook her head. “I should have known,” she said forcefully. “I am a Seeker of Truth, Fenris. It is my duty to know the truth. Have I allowed everyone to pull the wool over my eyes?” She blew out a gusty sigh. “I did not pay close enough attention. I should have known.”

“In that case, I expect you’ll shout at Leliana when we get back to Skyhold,” Fenris said.

Cassandra frowned. “Why would you say that?”

He shrugged. “She is the spymaster. She should have known.”

Cassandra’s frown deepened. “Rainier stole a page from her report. It was hardly her fault…” She trailed off as Fenris gave her a knowing look.

She knew what he was driving at; he could tell from her sour expression. He said it anyway. “You would forgive our spymaster for her lapse, but not yourself?”

Cassandra eyed him resentfully for a moment, then snorted and looked away. “You can be irritatingly logical sometimes, Inquisitor.”

Fenris nodded. “Thank you, Seeker. I shall accept that as praise.” 

She shot him a look that was somewhere between a smile and a scowl, and Fenris smirked. A few minutes later, Hawke hurried over with a pale pink box in her hands. 

“Macarons, anyone?” she said brightly. She opened the box with a flourish. “I bought a selection. A flavour for every palate, I hope.” 

Cassandra peered into the box. “Is that blueberry?” she asked. 

“I think so, yes,” Hawke said. “Do you fancy it? Go ahead, enjoy!” 

Cassandra frowned at the macarons for a moment longer, then straightened. “No, thank you. We should meet with Cullen.” She started walking away with Cole ambling obediently at her side, and Fenris and Hawke fell into step a few paces behind them.

“Light pastry with blueberries, sticky on your fingers,” Cole said dreamily. He blinked at Cassandra. “Small hands reaching as Anthony tears his in half. But when you got to the kitchen, they were all gone.”

To Fenris’s surprise, Cassandra chuckled. “Ah, yes. They are delicious, but do not last long.”

“I could get you one,” Cole suggested. “The cooks don't see me.”

Cassandra tutted, but her tone was gentle when she replied. “Just because they don't see you doesn't mean it isn't theft.”

Hawke leaned in close to Fenris. “Aw,” she crooned. “The Seeker and the spirit making friends. Next thing we know, the mages and Templars will be having slumber parties and braiding each other’s hair.”

Fenris eyed Cassandra and Cole. “She does appear more comfortable with him than before. A consequence of his subtle manipulations of her mind, no doubt.”

Hawke shot him a look of rebuke. “Come on, Fenris. I know you don’t really think he’s manipulating her. You’re getting more comfortable around him too.” She took a little bite of macaron, then continued talking while she chewed. “Besides, if Cole making people feel comfortable is manipulative, then anyone with any kind of charm is a master manipulator.” 

Fenris grunted. “I wouldn’t say that. You are not manipulative.” 

Hawke smiled slowly at him. “Is that your way of saying I’m charming? You smooth talker. Trying to butter me up for later, are you?” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. 

He smirked. “Shut up, Hawke.” He took the half-eaten macaron from her hand and popped it in his mouth. 

She chuckled and selected another macaron from the box, and they continued to share the fussy Orlesian treats as they followed in Cole and Cassandra’s wake. Fenris knew Hawke wasn’t truly feeling as bright and cheery as her behaviour would imply, but for once, he wasn’t worried. 

For once, this was a problem that Fenris could actually fix.

**********************

It took nearly a week to return to Skyhold from Val Royeaux, and almost another week before Thom Rainier was finally transported back to the castle. The waiting time was far from relaxing, however; a number of new issues and problems were brought to Fenris’s attention, the most unusual of them being an alliance offer from the qunari. 

When Bull told Fenris about the offer, Fenris couldn’t disguise his skepticism. “The qunari don’t believe in alliances,” he said flatly. “We are nothing more than uneducated bas to them. Why should I trust this offer?”

“It’s pretty simple, actually,” Bull said. “The qunari don’t like Corypheus or his Venatori. And they really don’t like red lyrium. ‘The enemy of my enemy’ and all that.” He casually shoved Krem back with his practice shield, then tutted at his second-in-command. “Again,” he growled.

Krem gave a determined nod and rushed Bull again, and Bull continued to speak to Fenris as he held Krem back. “Ordinarily, I’d say you’re right to be suspicious. But they’ve identified themselves. They’re not running a game on you.” He sent Krem sprawling with a sudden shove. 

Krem grunted as he hit the ground, but he rose to his feet without complaint. “They’ve found a massive red lyrium shipping operation out on the Storm Coast, and they want us to hit it together,” he told Fenris. “Talked about bringing in one of their dreadnoughts.” He grinned fiercely at Bull. “Always wanted to see one of those big warships in action.”

Bull chuckled indulgently. “Bloodthirsty Vint.” He waved for Krem to attack him again. 

Krem charged at Bull once more, and Fenris watched for a moment before speaking. “The problem is your left leg,” he said to Krem, who was gritting his teeth with effort. “If you–”

“Hey, don’t tell him,” Bull complained. “He’s got to learn on his own.” He lowered his massive shoulder toward his shield and shoved hard.

Krem stumbled back once more and rubbed the back of his head in frustration, and Bull tsked and pointed at the Herald’s Rest. “Go get some water,” he ordered.

Krem shot Fenris a rueful smile as he trudged away to the tavern. Bull folded his arms and shook his head at Krem’s departing back, but his lips were curved in a smirk. 

“He’ll figure it out,” he told Fenris confidentially. “The harder you push him, the harder he works.” 

Fenris nodded thoughtfully. Bull’s tone was matter-of-fact but his smile was undeniably proud, and as always when he spent time with Bull, Fenris was reminded of just how different he was from the other qunari Fenris had known. There was no mistaking the camaraderie Bull had with the Chargers, and there was no mistaking the fondness in Bull’s rugged face as he watched Krem walking away. Even the story of how Bull and Krem had met set Bull apart: he’d sacrificed his eye to save the life of a man he didn’t even know. Fenris had never known qunari to do such a thing for someone who didn’t belong to the Qun. Bull claimed that he’d been re-educated and that he stood with the Qun, but Fenris just didn’t see it. 

This wasn’t to say Fenris entirely trusted Bull. The mercenary captain was still a self-proclaimed spy, and as long as that remained true, his primary loyalty was to Par Vollen. 

“Joining forces with the qunari could inspire outrage from our other allies,” Fenris said. “I’m surprised Leliana approved of this.” He picked up the practice shield that Krem had set down, then turned to face Bull. 

Bull grinned and waved for Fenris to attack. Fenris paused, then rushed at him with the shield. 

Their shields slammed together with a force that reverberated into Fenris’ arms. Fenris pushed back, keeping his left foot turned just so and his left leg steady to withstand the assault.

Bull grunted in approval at Fenris’s technique. “Red didn’t necessarily approve. She just gave me the go-ahead to run it past you,” he said. 

Fenris clenched his teeth as he withstood the pressure from Bull’s shield. They both held for a long, tense moment – long enough for Fenris’s muscles to start burning – then, by unspoken agreement, they both relaxed at the same time.

Fenris stepped back and took a deep breath. “I can’t agree to a formal alliance with the qunari. Not after everything I saw in Kirkwall,” he said baldly. “But I can agree to eliminating this red lyrium operation with the qunari’s assistance.” He hunkered into a ready-stance once more. “Would this compromise suffice?”

Bull twisted his lips, then waved for Fenris to attack, and Fenris rushed him once more. Their shields met with a loud crack of wood on wood, and Fenris braced himself as Bull replied. “I’ll run it past them,” he grunted. “They probably won’t be happy, but they’d be even less happy if Corypheus and his Ventatori cronies ran rampant all over their territory.”

“Their territory meaning all of Thedas?” Fenris panted. Then he sent a small burst of energy from his lyrium marks through his shield. 

The pressure from Bull’s shield lessened very slightly, and Fenris shamelessly took advantage to shove harder into the mercenary captain.

Bull stepped back – a very small step, but it might as well have been a stumble. “Vashedan,” he cursed, and he lowered his shield with a chuckle. “You and your dirty tricks.”

Fenris lowered his shield. “Tevinter tricks. You know better than this.” He tilted his head. “You are disturbed by this offer of an alliance, aren’t you?”

Bull shrugged easily. “Nah, I’m good.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows, and Bull finally sighed and scratched his ear. “It’s, uh… I’m used to them being over there. It’s been a while.”

Fenris frowned. “Was it not your hope for the qunari to conquer Thedas?”

“I mean… yeah,” Bull said slowly. “Just didn’t think I’d see it.”

Fenris studied him quietly, and he shrugged. “Look, the Qun answers a lot of questions. It’s a good life for a lot of people. But it’s a big change, and a lot of folks here wouldn’t do so well under that kind of life.” He waved at Fenris. “You would have a hell of a time being re-educated, for instance. They’d have to go hard on you. And they’d probably try to strip that lyrium right out of your skin. I suspect you wouldn’t like that too much.”

Fenris lifted his chin and folded his arms, and Bull innocently lifted his hands. “I’m not saying they will. It’s not like we’re converting. We’re just… joining up to kill some filthy Vints.” He lowered his hands and tucked his thumbs into his belt. “On that front, I think we’re good.”

Fenris eyed him for a moment longer. He wondered whether Bull had even noticed his own phrasing when he’d said ‘it’s not like we’re converting’. 

Finally he unfolded his arms. “All right,” he said. “Let your people know we will work with them on this mission.” 

Given this new development, Fenris decided – with some disgruntlement – to head to the Storm Coast to meet the qunari instead of going to the Emerald Graves right away. By the time Cullen’s men were leading a chained and defeated-looking Thom Rainier up to the Inquisitor’s throne for judgment, Fenris was quite ready to tackle the next problem on the Inquisition’s list. 

He tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of his throne as Josephine read out the usual preamble. “For judgment this day, Inquisitor, I must present Captain Thom Rainier, formally known to us as Warden Blackwall. His crimes…” She darted a guarded look at Rainier before going on. “Well, you are aware of his crimes,” she said hurriedly. “It was no small expense to bring him here, but the decision of what to do with him is now yours.”

Fenris sat forward on the throne. “Is there anything you wish to say before I deliver my verdict?” he said brusquely to Rainier. 

Rainier shot him a quick and oddly resentful look. “Would it make any difference? I know you abused the Inquisition’s power to bring me here.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “We openly told the Empress that the Inquisition would prefer to judge their own,” he said. “It is hardly an abuse of power.” He leaned back in his chair, then shifted uncomfortably; he would never grow accustomed to being put on display on this awful throne. 

He scowled in annoyance, then gave Rainier a flat look. “Would you rather I have swapped you out for another man?” he said archly. “That was an option.” 

Rainier shot him a stricken look. “You must be kidding.” 

Fenris shook his head. “I’m not. But it was a choice I declined.” He sat forward in his chair again. “You’re a man with an ugly past. Innocent blood has painted your hands and shadowed your soul.” He tilted his head. “You are also a man who has tried to rectify it. Now you have a choice.”

Rainier narrowed his eyes, and Fenris went on. “You have your freedom. It is your choice to decide what to do with it.”

Just as Fenris expected, there was a scandalized gasp from the assembled members of the Inquisition who were watching the proceedings, followed by a susurrus of interested – and disgruntled – murmurs. 

Rainier was glaring at him now. “It cannot be as simple as that,” he snapped.

Fenris leaned his elbows on his knees. “It is not simple,” he said seriously. “You know that. You know the courage it will take and the pain you will suffer to face yourself. But it is up to you to decide how you will do it.” He waved at the Great Hall. “Remain with the Inquisition if you want. Or you can go to Weisshaupt and join the Wardens in full. But you will not die for this.” He shrugged. “There is a saying in Tevinter: na via lerno victoria. ‘Only the living know victory’. Perhaps if you remain with the Inquisition, that victory will also be yours.”

By the time Fenris had finished speaking, Rainier’s head was hanging low once more. Fenris sat back in his horrible oversized throne and waited. 

Finally Rainier lifted his face. “The man I am… I barely know him. But he…” He took a deep, bracing breath. “I have a lot to make up for. If my future is mine, then I pledge it to the Inquisition. My sword is yours.”

Fenris gave him a small smile. “Good. I consider this matter settled.” He hurriedly vacated his throne and walked over to Josephine to sign her paperwork, then made his way over to Rainier’s side. 

Cullen’s men had removed his chains, and Hawke was giving him an enthusiastic hug. He gave Fenris a feeble smile as he approached. “If I’d said anything less, would an arrow from the rookery snuff me like a candle?” he quipped.

Fenris smirked. “Fortunately for you, you will never know.” 

Rainier’s smile broadened. Then Hawke pulled away from Rainier and smacked his broad chest. “Don’t do this again, you big beardy brute,” she said, and she smacked his chest again. “Now that I know you’re not a Warden, no more stupid Warden death-wish bullshit, all right?”

Rainier winced as she smacked him again. “All right, all right,” he said hastily. “I apologize, my lady.”

She snorted with laughter. “Don’t call me ‘my lady’,” she said. “You owe me a copper.” Then she suddenly burst into tears. 

She ran away toward the door to the quarters she shared with Fenris, and Rainier’s face was practically dripping with guilt as he watched her disappear through the door. “Is she… Did I… Should I apologize again?” he asked Fenris anxiously. 

Fenris shook his head. Hawke might be crying, but it was the good kind of crying for once – the kind that would ultimately end in laughter and relief. “It’s all right,” he told Rainier. “She will be fine.” He folded his arms. “So. Thom Rainier. It must be odd to go by your true name after so many years.”

Rainier grimaced and scratched his beard. “It is. I can hardly respond to it without feeling like there are beetles creeping into my collar.” He sighed. “Rainier was a different man. A worse man. I… I’m afraid to be that man again, Fenris.” 

Fenris nodded. “I understand that. I can assure you that if you become that man, I will kill you myself.”

Rainier looked at him in surprise, then gave him a respectful half-bow. “I would appreciate that, in fact. Thank you.”

Fenris nodded and studied Rainier appraisingly. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he lowered his voice. “I have never told you this, but… Fenris is not my birth name.”

Rainier’s eyes widened. “It’s not?”

Fenris shook his head. “It was the name my master gave me in Tevinter. It wasn’t until years later that I… that I remembered my given name.” With a pang, he thought briefly of Varania; if not for their ill-fated meeting, he would never have remembered even that much.

“What is your given name?” Rainier asked curiously. 

Fenris took a deep breath. “It is Leto,” he said quietly. 

Rainier frowned slightly. “Why do you go by ‘Fenris’, then? Why not use your real name?”

Fenris shrugged philosophically. “By the time I recalled my birth name, I was no longer the same boy who wore that name. Leto was the name of my past. Fenris is the name I wear now.” He ran a thumb over the red scarf that was – and always would be – tied around his wrist. 

‘Fenris’ was once the hated name that Danarius had forced upon him, but in the years since Fenris had left Tevinter, the name had become his. ‘Fenris’ was his name, the name for which he was known by his friends and the name that Hawke whispered lovingly in his ear as they moved together in their bed. 

Leto was his name, once upon a time. But Fenris was a different man – a free man – and his once-hated name was a reflection of that. 

Rainier took a deep breath, then exhaled heavily. “I think I understand what you mean,” he said softly. “I’ll think on what you’ve said.”

Fenris nodded. “Good,” he said. “In the meantime, you should return to the stables. I’ve been told that Dennet has been complaining about the stableboys more than usual in your absence.”

Rainier smiled and gave Fenris a deep bow. “It’s my honour, Inquisitor,” he said, and he strode away toward the exit of the Great Hall. 

Fenris sighed in satisfaction, then made his way toward the door to his and Hawke’s quarters, intending to check on her. But as he glanced at the end of the Great Hall, he noticed Varric speaking to a dwarven woman. 

Fenris frowned. It didn’t particularly surprise him to see Varric speaking to a dwarven woman; Varric spoke to everyone, after all. What did surprise him was how uncharacteristically anxious Varric looked. 

He stepped away from the door to his and Hawke’s quarters and made his way toward Varric’s desk instead. As he drew closer, he caught the tail end of their conversation. 

“I appreciate the warning, but you shouldn’t have come yourself,” Varric said tensely. “What if the Guild found out? Or what’s-his-name?”

The dwarven woman chuckled. “Are you worrying for me, or for yourself?”

Varric shot her a flat look. “A little of column A, a little of column B. I am the expendable one, after all.” Then Varric flicked a glance in Fenris’s direction, and Fenris’s bemusement grew as the discomfort on Varric’s face deepened.

The dwarven woman, however, hadn’t noticed Fenris yet. “Aww, don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” she crooned playfully to Varric. “We’ll just have to–” She broke off suddenly and turned around, then smiled. 

“You must be Fenris,” she said warmly. “Varric has only good things to say about you.” She held out her hand. “Bianca Davri, at your service.”

Wait. Fenris looked askance at Varric. “Bianca?” he said blankly.

Varric sighed. “Well, shit,” he muttered.

[markoftheasphodel]

So, with it being the anniversary of the end of WWII in Europe, I have a Friendly Reminder!

The Third Reich abducted between 3 and 5.5 million people from Central and Eastern Europe to be used as slave labor during the war, many from Ukraine and Poland. They took girls as young as ten. They kidnapped my husband’s grandmother when she was out picking berries with her sister. They took her (future) best friend Asiya the month she was supposed to graduate from high school. These young people were shuttled through the Reich, starved, beaten, executed, and often raped. Ukrainian Grandma had jobs ranging from sweeping the streets to working in a munitions factory. Since she had a Russian last name (Reshatov) and spoke Russian better than Ukrainian, her fellow slaves from Ukraine and Belarus treated her like garbage. There was no solidarity among slaves. Meanwhile her friend Asiya was sent to western Austria near the Swiss border, where she could’ve walked right over but no one did because they would’ve been killed. The Swiss were not waiting to welcome escaped slaves. At her first “job” tending a farm, she rebelled against the abuse. Her fellow field worker sold her out because there was no solidarity among slaves, and she spent days in the town jail with no food.

Asiya didn’t care if she died because her brothers were in the Red Army, her parents were already dead thanks to Stalin’s genocidal famine, and her own uncle was a Ukrainian Nazi collaborator who’d let the Reich take his own niece. So she went to jail, was starved, got visited by a priest, and eventually got transferred to a different house to be a domestic servant to a family that wasn’t so terrible to her. She stood on their front porch and cheered on the American bombers as they flew by. She was about nineteen by then.

When the Allies declared victory, the ordeal wasn’t over for these workers. Grandma’s friend Asiya recalls the Ostarbeiter workers being rounded up, men separated from women, stripped of their money which was piled up in the train station, and put in boxcars to be sent back “home” to the USSR. Her cousin, also in that Austrian village, was sent back-- to a gulag, where she died of typhus. Asiya was lucky in that the big house she worked out of was taken by the local French commander and she got special treatment. She tried to save her cousin, throwing a jacket over the fence of the place the former slaves had been rounded up, but couldn’t-- even the French commander wouldn’t break his own curfew and the train filled with 'liberated’ slaves slipped away in the middle of the night. 

Grandma was luckier in that she was in the American sector, where General Eisenhower banned the use of force in “repatriating” the former slaves as early as October of ‘45. Workers in the French and British zones weren’t so lucky. She still spent more than a decade as a Displaced Person, living in barracks and camps, struggling to survive. She married a Circassian Muslim man from southern Russia who was facing a death sentence back home in the USSR because he’d helped young men from his village escape conscription into Stalin’s Red Army. They had a son in the camp. This little family finally managed to get accepted by the US as refugees thanks to the Tolstoy Foundation on the second-to-last boat of its kind. It was, I believe, 1956-- eleven years after the Allied Victory. Asiya managed to get to the US around the same time. They ultimately made it to Michigan, raised their families, became citizens.

They were the lucky few. The stories of the Ostarbeiter tragedies have not been told because most of their voices were silenced long ago. The remaining survivors, like Asiya, are in their late eighties or their nineties. In the vacuum left by these untold stories are lies-- lies from the right-wing about how the Reich wasn’t so bad, lies from the left-wing about how the USSR wasn’t so bad, romantic fantasies from the other Allies that don’t mention things like young people being stripped of their possessions, shoved in boxcars, and sent to prison camps. 

(And what, pray tell, does THAT sound like?)

In our house we praise General Eisenhower because he stopped the “repatriation” when no one else would and that’s the reason Grandma survived and my spouse, their father, their siblings, and now our two little nieces exist. 

They are the only surviving members of the Reshatov family. 

[angelofberlin2000]

Feb. 8, 2019                                   

The Beatific Imperfection of Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, 20 Years Later           By Angelica Jade Bastién

                                                       Throughout the 1990s Keanu Reeves created a form of action stardom that no other actor has quite achieved before or since — one predicated less on testing the limits of his body than on highlighting its beauty. And 1999’s The Matrix marked the entrancing culmination of all he had been experimenting with during that decade.

Twenty years and two sequels later, it is hard to imagine anyone else but Reeves as Neo, the counterculture hacker turned savior. But before he came onboard, directors Lana and Lilly Wachowski considered several others, including Tom Cruise, Nicolas Cage, and Will Smith (who reportedly turned down the role so he could do the widely derided Wild Wild West, one of the greatest mistakes of his career). These actors, at least at the time, hewed closer to a more traditional form of Hollywood machismo. But The Matrix is a film that operates on multiple levels: It’s a cyberthriller of unbridled intimacy, a scalpel-sharp action flick, a curious testament to optimism, and a still-worthwhile study of technology’s all-consuming power on our lives. It needs a lead who can operate on such levels as well.

As an action star, Reeves has repeatedly shown interest not just in the limits of the body and its raw strength, but also in its grace. He isn’t like Tom Cruise, who pushes his body to ever-increasing extremes — leaping out of planes or onto the side of buildings with carefully calibrated aplomb. Nor does he possess the jokey charisma of a Will Smith. When we look at the most towering examples of Hollywood action stars — from the jaunty elegance of Errol Flynn, to the muscle-bound machismo of Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger, all the way down the line to the less distinct, glossy statesmen of the ever-expanding Marvel Cinematic Universe — Keanu Reeves remains an outlier.

For The Matrix, the Wachowskis coaxed a genuinely transcendent performance from Reeves, while also successfully synthesizing a host of inspirations (from cyberpunk literature to anime classics to various strains of philosophy detailing our notions of consciousness). The results profoundly rewrote the expectations of what an action star could be. Neo’s mournful, curious gaze and joyful compulsion as he learns about the real world brought to the fore the idea that more soulful, willowy folks could carry a hidden lethality — a suggestion new to the American landscape, which often preferred its action stars’ powers conscripted to immensely muscled bodies, with true emotion either nowhere to be found or wrapped in slickly delivered sarcasm. Reeves suggested that an action star should feel, at full tilt.

In the wake of Neo’s slender poise, the notion of the “unlikely action star” became quite common. No longer did action films need to be anchored by chiseled, emotionally limited commandos like Stallone or martial arts experts with expressive charm like Wesley Snipes. An action star could be James McAvoy stumbling headlong into great power and various conspiracies in Wanted or pure maternal fury like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill I and II. The saviors of a film could be as different as Michael Cera’s lanky, perennially awkward protagonist in Scott Pilgrim Versus the World and Matt Damon’s peripatetic amnesiac in The Bourne Identity and its sequels. Think of Kate Beckinsale sauntering and slicing herself a bloody trail in gleaming latex in the Underworld franchise, or Reeves’s previous co-star Charlize Theron magnificently glaring her way through the wildly uneven Aeon Flux and the bombastic Atomic Blonde.

The melodramatic, FX-heavy superhero origin stories that proliferated throughout the 2000s also owe a huge debt to The Matrix. The film’s entrancing FX showed Hollywood that any actor could be credible as an action star even if they had to do the impossible — flying into the starry night sky, leaping over buildings with ease, or dispatching various foes at such high speeds that their movements blurred, with nary a hair out of place. You could even do it without the months of training Reeves and his co-stars put in to make their physical performances work all the more beautifully. Even those action flicks that operate as portraits of hangdog, middle-aged men with unique sets of violent skills — think Liam Neeson’s Taken and its various imitators — are indebted to how Reeves opened new veins of emotion in the genre. (Undoubtedly the most potent of this latter subgenre is Reeves’s own neon-soaked John Wick franchise.)

More striking though is how much The Matrix and its star influenced the internal lives of action leads going forward. The “get the girl and save the world” model will always exist, but in the 20 years since The Matrix, the inner dimensions of our heroes have expanded. Unlike other action stars, Reeves’s masculinity is fluid, mutable. He often suggests — with a smirk, or glare, or the careful precision of his balletic violence — that the emotional turmoil of his characters is more than just a plot point, but rather a physical reality interwoven into the performance. He’s one of the few male action stars who is also a gracious scene partner. It’s more than just kindness; there’s a sense that he’s completely sure and secure in his own masculinity. It’s why he was able to play characters as disparate as Ted Logan in Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey and Scott Favor in My Own Private Idaho. With Keanu, The Matrix takes on greater shades than merely being a propulsive, slickly engrossing blockbuster. The way he foregrounds Neo’s curiosity and loneliness adds an untold dimension to the film, about what it means to find not just your purpose but your family as well.

Watch as he modulates this curiosity: around Trinity (Carrie-Anne Moss), it is tinged with the nascent twinge of lust; when he’s in Morpheus’s orbit, it is colored with awe. The Matrix marries the actor’s interests, sensibilities, and background in ways that he would capitalize on in later work. Reeves has British, Chinese, and Native Hawaiian ancestry, and his love of Hong Kong action flicks echoes in later works, like his directorial debut The Man of Tai Chi and the John Wick franchise. With a star as vulnerable as Keanu, The Matrix avoids being a typical Chosen One narrative and instead becomes something more dynamic: a testament to our need for community.

As writer-directors, the Wachowskis carry a potent belief in humanity’s essential value. Whether through the sterile, machine-created world that we recognize as our own or the cataclysmic, gray future Neo finds himself navigating, they remind viewers that our bodies are things of beauty, to be molded, altered, and even transcended in order to reflect our inner desires and realities. Reeves doesn’t just reflect this, but complicates it as well.

Reeves has proven over the roughly 30 years of his acting career to be an essentially generous and curious performer with a near-beatific ability to be utterly present. This is often mistaken for a blank-slate quality. But he is far from blank. He has a roiling inner life, from the moment we meet him in The Matrix — surrounded by the detritus of his largely digital existence and with Massive Attack slinking from his headphones. As we watch him rebound from navigating a maze of cubicles with only the voice of a stranger as his guide to joyfully showcasing Yuen Woo-ping’s ecstatic fight choreography, we feel not only the wonder of this world the Wachowskis have created, but the joy of witnessing a star go supernova.