#He just needs someone there to smooth everything over until the Day of Unity

[unfried-mouth-wheat]

What if Cain is the one who betrays Belos and Hunter remains loyal?

Belos would have never accounted for this. But he's quick, and can twist near any situation to his benefit. Deprive Cain of his means to control his curse then lock him up. Bring Hunter to the cell, show him what happens when you give into wild magic. See how your brother cries, Hunter? See how his own body has turned against him? His curse is eating him from the inside out. This, this is what wild magic does. You're all I have left, Hunter. My only family. Help me. Stay with me, and help me find a cure for your brother.

Let me save him.

[doorsclosingslowly]

Someone, Broom in Hand

Kaz died before he turned sixteen. That’s the story. When he reappears, it’s at the side of the Dark General, wearing the thin fluttering robes of the Sun Summoner. Jesper travels to the Little Palace to punch his fucking teeth out.

Kaz[/&]Jesper | 7.5k | content note: nonlinear narrative, past and offscreen abuse

The purple kefta is too big for Kaz. Jesper doesn’t want to think about why he dumped his coat over Kaz’ head, except that Kaz looks weird and cold in his ugly fancy yellow paper taffeta shirt, his one layer that he’s wearing apart from the underpants that leave his knees bare.

That he looks uncomfortable at all should be nothing but a trick of the violent light: there are two separate lit fireplaces in the bedroom, so awkwardly placed that they were probably retrofitted by a Fabrikator. It might have been David, though then Jesper would surely have heard a treatise on the stones used to erect the Little Palace, or Gaz, or Lizaveta or any of the other Materialki Jesper’s been bunking with but—but anyway, if Kaz felt like wearing more, he could order an attendant to fetch another shirt or two. Unless there’s nothing he owns that isn’t thin and revealing and fucking yellow. Unless he’s not allowed… Unless he can’t even dress himself anymore without a gaggle of attendants. Man moves up in the world and forgets everything he knew: tale as old as time.

“Just like you forgot us,” Jesper mutters, less viciously than he should.

The Kaz-doll makes no comment. No protest. No further manipulation of Jesper’s old affections. No snide mockery for Jesper passing his kefta on to the man that less than an hour ago, he tried to kill.

He just pulls the coat on. With his odd bare fingers—no claws after all, just thin and human—he closes button after button, including the top four that Jesper’s never once used, struggling to pull the material over the bone-tines sticking out of his chest. (And who back home would believe that Dirtyhands has ordinary fingers and a totally fucked up chest?) It would be easier to leave it open, but Kaz, even now he’s a sunny lapdog, doesn’t do easy. When he drops his arms, the too-long sleeves fall down over his hands, and with his thumbs he traps the fabric there. Sad little improvised half-gloves, more than Jesper’s seen him wear in the month since he let himself get conscripted into the Little Palace. He looks back at Jesper.

There’s no Thank you—Kaz Brekker never knew that word, and it seems in the two years they had him, whatever else they forced on him the Ravkans failed to teach him any more manners—but there is something new in his glare. It’s not just the purple washing the colour off his smooth—his way too smooth face. No. It’s something old: defiant, and angry, and scheming, just barely breaking through the placid paint and the rust beneath it.

Bit by bit, as he buttons up Jesper’s kefta Kaz simultaneously pulls on the moth-bitten coat of Dirtyhands he’s kept way back in the wardrobe of his brain, the ruthless killer, Bastard of the Barrel, Dregs lieutenant and future gang boss unless he gets murdered first. And it didn’t stick the first time. Pulls it over whoever it is that he was before. Over the doll beside Kirigan.

Over that person in the corner, that cornered boy, brittle and alone and stripped of armour and weapon and self, and Jesper wants to kill every single fucker in the Little Palace.

“Back home, you had a plan for everything,” he says instead. “I’m not assuming it’s a B or even a Z or a Q squared, but I know you. I know you’ve considered it. What do we do now your beloved long-lost friend’s shown up to help you steal the Sun Summoner?”

☼

Yesterday, Kerch accepted the terms of the Ravkan crown. Ex-crown. Dark fucking empire. Whatever. Test all children and send the Grisha to the Little Palace, conscript some people into the First Army—though what they still need an army for when they have the Fold is anyone’s guess—send food, booze, and, worst of all to the fastidious greedy Kerch, pay tribute without receiving anything at all in return. It was in the mouth of every paperboy on the streets, every mercher, every gang boss. By Ghezen how could we just surrender? they moaned, and Do you want to end like West Ravka? and Didn’t you see him? Kirigan’s going to crown himself king of everything. He’s unstoppable. And that boy next to him, the Sun—

Honestly? Jesper doesn’t give a fuck anymore. He’s paying fifty kruge just to sit on Inej’s bed for an hour and braid her hair. Ketterdam can burn to the sopping wet ground for all he cares. The world can rot. Like the Dregs did. Like everything Jesper cared for.

Inej, though, watched it.

“I had to see,” she’s whispering into Jesper’s ear, barely moving her miserable red-painted lips even though his hair should block out most lines of sight already. Inej’s smart, though, and desperate: if Jesper keeps returning to the Menagerie as nothing but a smitten small-time gangster with an incredibly vanilla hair fetish, he won’t catch attention. Tante Heleen will have fewer reasons to raise Inej’s rates. Jesper can barely pay for a visit a month as it is, and even those he allows himself mostly because he’s given up the hope of ever paying off her indenture unless he wins big.

“I snuck out yesterday. I had to see. Heleen got a new girl from Ravka six months ago, and she believes, too. Had a cheap pamphlet with her, last thing she had, of the new Saint. The illustrations… they looked just like Kaz.”

“Fu—” Inej elbows him. Jesper presses his lips into the braid over her ear. “Forget about Kaz Brekker. You’re the only one who matters now. He died, and you ended up here.”

She’s trapped in the Menagerie now because Kaz disappeared into the harbour like so many orphans before him; because he didn’t tell Jesper jack shit about Inej’s situation that might have helped him keep her safe in the Dregs; because he allowed senile Haskell who knows the names of all his five hundred thousand miniature boats and literally nothing else to stay in charge of the Dregs instead of killing him as soon as possible, which allowed Haskell to let the payments for Inej’s indenture lapse, which meant three months after Kaz just disappeared from his life Jesper got back to the Slat to find that Inej, too, had gone without a trace, and it was only luck and a pervert old Dreg that Jesper soon afterwards ‘accidentally’ shoved off a roof talking about the girls at the Menagerie that meant he found her again. Found her, only to realize he can’t help her at all.

Inej pulls Jesper’s ear back to her mouth. “I saw him, Jesper. I saw Kaz. Kaz is alive. He was there. I saw him.”

“You what?!” A sharp elbow darting out of her red sad nightgown that would have slipped right in-between his ribs if it was one of the knives she still mourns, and he’s not even given anything away. Heleen’s a hell bitch, but what use would she get out of random surprise?

“I saw Kaz. He’s the Sun Summoner. I was far away but—it was Kaz, standing next to General Kirigan, holding his hand, when the Merchant’s Council signed the terms of surrender. It was Kaz. I’m certain. Sankt Kaz.”

“I—” Jesper burrows his face into Inej’s hair. “You didn’t happen to have a knife on you, did you? A really tiny one she couldn’t confiscate. A super lethal one. Might never get as good a chance again.”

“Jes—”

“Fuck him sideways with a rusty shovel. That traitor. Did you forget how you ended up here? He left us. Saw a bigger pile of cash and skedaddled, I bet. He always wanted to be king. Guess becoming the Darkling’s queen was the next-best option.”

Inej doesn’t even defend Kaz. Jesper pulls away from her so he can look at her face. She always looks sad these days, unless she has specific painful orders to perk up, but it’s deeper now. She’s not doing the gesture, not holding her hand against her chest. Faith, now, is just one more thing Kaz Brekker took from her. Jesper can’t blame her, even though he never believed. Not even when Ravka’s new ‘Sun Summoner’ started gaining them the whole continent. Power’s power, though, no matter whether the stories around it are true. If Kaz truly is the Sun Summoner, then it’s not just Kaz Brekker who sent her back to the Menagerie—but one of her Saints. Fucking asshole.

He buries Inej in his arms. It’s all he can do now, to hold her until this month’s hour is up, because it’s not like he can just murder the Ravkans special weapon in retribution, can he? Can…

“This changes nothing,” he whispers. “The only priority is still paying off your indenture. Kaz quit the Dregs. He left us, and that means he’s nothing now. Less than nothing. I have a good feeling about the Makker’s Wheel at the Emerald Palace this weekend. Lots of pigeons there for the ‘Fete of Unity with Mother Ravka’ or whatever, and the minder thinks I’m hot. It’s risky, of course, but if I do this right—”

☼

Jesper’s just about to crawl right back out from under the bed—weapons raised, since hell knows what Kaz was planning back there, and fuck Jesper for apparently still harbouring enough trust in the guy to follow his lead two years after he deserted—but then, a series of clicks and rumbles heralds the opening of the door. Footsteps, and it slides shut again.

Shit, that was close.

And Kaz wasn’t bluffing, after all. Well, well… it certainly means something that Kaz, beloved Saint and Sun Summoner and ally to the Darkling, just told his attempted murderer slash old friend and-or stooge to hide. Kaz never did anything without a motive, be it profit or power or vengeance, and even this degraded, polished version surely isn’t so far gone as to engage in ideas as base as altruism. Ergo, Kaz will want to use Jesper for—something, though what is there he wants when he’s basically a prince of—but he isn’t, is he? He’s in a cell. A cell Jesper can unlock.

Three pairs of footsteps move around the room. One of them might be Kaz, but without his limp, it’s hard to recognize him. None of them says a word, which… it probably means this is a routine visit. Whatever’s going on, they all know their role.

Two pairs stop moving, while the third one—circles around them, it sounds like, and then someone else stumbles a little and catches themselves. Jesper hopes they’ll hurry up. He’s in mortal danger, technically—Kaz can still choose to reveal the intruder inside the Sun Summoner’s private room and-orprison, but, prison. Jesper’s far more useful alive, and so, hiding under the bed is fucking boring.

There’s not even anything interesting in-between the slat frame and the mattress. It’s the only place where you could hide anything—that Jesper can think of, at least, but there’s just nothing there at all, and Kaz used to be a real magpie. It’s a gaping void, just like everything else in this room. Like everything else in this palace, a chasm painted over with gilt and power. Unless—something’s stuck to the underside of a cross brace. Jesper slides a fingernail under the edge, and it comes loose easily enough. Not exactly a cache worthy of Dirtyhands, and anyway, it’s just a… a mangled piece of paper. A paper that looks like it’s been chewed on and spat out—and an entire corner actually torn off, or bitten, maybe—and whatever used to be printed onto it mostly rubbed off except for a couple of letters here and there, RAV. Curved lines and tiny hats. What would Kaz need to hide in his room? Apart from weapons he doesn’t have. Other people’s jewellery, dito. The only thing that Jesper knows about him now is that he’s trying to open the door. Trying to leave. It’s probably a map, then.

Which means an escape is planned, and Jesper’s just providing the desperately sought means. Good. That means he should have even more leverage here.

Somebody stumbles again, this time taking two steps to catch themselves. Almost as if they’ve jerked away.

“You’re falling behind,” slimes the smooth, rich voice of the Darkling. “On second thought, our people would miss you at the celebration. I’ll inform the staff that you wish to dance, all night long.”

☼

“You’re hanging around here because you heard that General Kirigan and the Sun Summoner are due back this hour, aren’t you?” The woman in a tidemaker’s kefta that just sidled up to Jesper speaks unaccented, high class central Ravkan. Even if her dark skin is an indication of Zemeni heritage, she came to the Little Palace long before the Darkling’s recent territorial acquisitions. She’s no ally, just like the rest of the crowd that surrounds them: an old-school Grisha, veteran Second Army, not someone whose loyalties may yet be pliable. Not someone like Jesper, whose skin started crawling the moment he showed his skills to a Ravkan occupation officer so he could sneak into the Little Palace. She’s friendly, though, and looks at Jesper’s face with clear appreciation. “You must be new. Hi. I’m Nadia.”

“Jesper,” he says, throwing a flirtatious grin like a blanket over his nerves and anger. It’s almost fun, playing the suave infiltrator assassin Grisha. Except Inej’s still in the Menagerie. And Kaz is still a piece of shit. “Yeah, I just got here! They didn’t test for Grisha ability in Novyi Zem when I was little, so I barely knew who I was… but once I heard about the Darkling, about this place, I crossed the True Sea as soon as I could!”

“That must have been so hard. So lonely. This place is…” She grimaces. “This place was our sanctuary. You’re lucky you’re Materialnik.”

“Why?” It’s the first time since his arrival that anyone’s had even a neutral opinion of Durasts, let alone good, and granted, it’s not like he cares that much about the ability his Ma died from, and he’s only talked to a dozen people since arriving yesterday, but…

“Listen, I know you want to see the Sun Summoner, and don’t tell anyone I said this but…” Nadia pulls Jesper a few paces away from the crowd on the training grounds, into a corner formed by two enormous bales of hay. Well-chosen: he can barely see the crowd that just surrounded them peek out behind the yellow stalks. “You’re sweet—”

“Listen, you’re gorgeous, but we just met—although, on second—”

“No!” She laughs, but it’s bitter. “You’re cute, but no. It’s my duty, to her, to protect you. The new ones. You’re Materialnik, so you’re not combat, so you’re not going to actually meet the Sun Summoner. Ever, if you’re lucky.”

“He’s that bad?” Kaz was always a dick, if Jesper’s honest—it was part of his charm—he was just a charming magnetic one, and back with the Dregs Jesper hated his ruthlessness just as much as he admired it. He was worst to his fellow Dregs and his enemies, though: he could charm a mark when needed. So it’s a tad unexpected that Kaz earned himself the hatred of a Grisha indoctrinated from childhood to see him as her Saint and saviour. Apparently, he’s just that talented. That obnoxious.

Well, Jesper’s not complaining. That makes his plan much easier.

“He killed my best friend,” Nadia whispers urgently. “The last time I saw her they were taking a walk, and then I found her, blisters and burns all over her body. Who else? There’s a reason he’s not allowed to have weapons. I heard the Darkling doesn’t let him go anywhere alone, or he would murder us all. He killed Baghra too, I’m sure—she was our teacher, but she disappeared two years ago. Just stay away from him, alright? He looks harmless, but he’s a rabid dog. Oh. There he comes.”

Jesper barely manages to whisper, “Thank you,” before she pulls away from him and returns to her previous place. Back to the crowd of Etherealki and Corporalki on the training field, but she finds her place in the last row, standing—hiding—behind two men much taller than her.

Jesper follows into the crowd. No need to alert Kaz that the past is hot on his heels, and then—

Well. There he is.

There someoneis, anyway.

If Jesper trusted Inej just a hair’s breadth less, he’d have cursed her and sneaked back out of the Little Palace the second he sees the person holding General Kirigan’s hand. Sure, the Sun Summoner is male, with dark brown hair and dark eyes and pale skin, and just a little bit taller than Kaz was at fifteen, but that’s where the similarities end. Dirtyhands had his impeccable mercher’s suits in a grim mockery of Ketterdam’s upper class, and gloves to feed the rumours, and a cane to walk and kill. His hair managed to be at once floppy and severe; just like his gaunt face, in the right light, made him look utterly captivating and not just like an annoyed scheming rat. He looked exactly like the Bastard of the Barrel should. Not pleasant or easy, but the person Jesper once would have followed into any lion’s den.

This—this Sun Summoner, on Kirigan’s arm, is beautiful. Healthful. Pristine.

Barely even a fucking person.

It’s the face, mostly.

You could never tell what Kaz was thinking, just looking at him, because he was, after all, thinking in layers upon layers of incomprehensible schemes at all times of the day and then went to bed and dreamt about ploys and deceptions. Jesper could barely follow him the three times total he deigned to explain part of his plans. But you could always tell that Kaz was thinking. Planning, scheming, plotting his greedy bloody vicious way out of and into every possible house on every possible street.

The Sun Summoner looks empty. He’s staring straight ahead, but he’s not even doing thatwith any kind of purpose. He’s like a pet on the Darkling’s arm. He looks more airheaded than all blackout drunk heirs and heiresses in Ketterdam combined.

It’s incredibly eerie, because now he’s searching for it Jesper can sort of read Kaz Brekker back into the Sun Summoner’s face. This face is much smoother, without the marks of past firepox, plumped and rosy-tinted, but that might partially just be a testament to the quality of Ravkan cooks—or, how skint the Dregs always were. He has a normal haircut. It probably suits him better, unless your standard for beauty is Dirtyhands, and unfortunately Jesper—anyway. The Sun Summoner doesn’t have a cane, either, and he doesn’t need one, apparently, because he isn’t limping. Ravkan royal healthcare, but honestly, Kaz could have pressed a Grisha healer into service back in Ketterdam only he always insisted—well, whatever. Fuck his words of wisdom. Fuck him. Fuck Kaz. Jesper shouldn’t even be remembering that snake.

Kaz Brekker betrayed Inej, left her to rot in the Menagerie, so whatever role he’s playing right now in whatever scheme this is—because it has to be a scheme that put Kaz into the yellow robe he’s in right now, so thin it’s translucent, and sleeveless too in the Ravkan winter. The Dregs tattoo on his arm is gone. Two Inferni are flanking him and the Darkling, their hands perpetually on fire just so Kaz can parade about in a robe no Menagerie slave would go outside in, but still, it’s Kaz. It’s definitely Kaz Brekker. Jesper can see it now.

Fuck him. He traded the Dregs for this. He abandoned them to Haskell’s mismanagement and let Inej go back to the Menagerie. He betrayed them all.

(Of course, Jesper abandoned Inej now too, and without a word, but—after that last catastrophic loss in the Emerald Palace, there’s a zero percent chance the Dime Lions wouldn’t have strung him up by his own entrails—or sold him into indenture, trying to make back at least a fraction of the fifty thousand kruge he owes—so really, he had no choice. It’s the next best thing, right? If he can’t help her anymore, at least he can kill the bastard that started all their troubles.)

Kaz just walks off, hand in the Darkling’s grasp, towards the Little Palace. Carelessly following the other man’s lead.

The old Kaz would have noticed Jesper.

☼

Footsteps and then, a series of clicks and pieces of wood and metal rubbing stones. The door. Kaz’s legs, taking steps backwards to the bed in a perfect, healthy gait. The rich soft creaking of the bed as he sinks down again, and in front of Jesper—the same two muscular, pale, bare, identical hairy calves. Like the legs of a statue, or one of those de Kappels he used to like, except the right leg is trembling finely. Barely noticeable if it wasn’t right in front of Jesper’s face. Those Ravkans maybe aren’t so crafty after all.

Then: nothing.

After what feels like an hour in which Jesper doesn’t dare move, even though the Darkling must have left already, a hand drops off the edge off the mattress. Middle and index finger erect, then crooking twice in quick succession. It takes a moment to connect. Jesper hasn’t seen those signals in such a—move, path clear. Yes. That’s what it was.

Jesper wriggles out from under the bed, annoyingly free of dust. Pristine. Empty, just like everything else.

“Didn’t think the Sun Summoner needed to use our secret code, boss,” he drawls up at Kaz from the floor. Kaz, with his barren black eyes and his new porcelain doll face, picking at the wide open collar of his yellow shirt.

“Never drop a tool you can still use,” Kaz says. A beat. “Didn’t think I was your boss anymore.”

“You aren’t.” Jesper turns his head away, looking at the spotless floor and the intricately painted walls from his low vantage point. Exquisite, imposing, empty: a Saint’s cage, as beautiful and terrible as Inej’s room in the Menagerie. The bare wall hiding the inaccessible door. “That guy really fucking hates you.”

Kaz doesn’t reply. Jesper turns his head back to watch him again, even though that won’t give him anything more: Kaz used to be willfully inscrutable even back in the Barrel, but after whatever Grisha surgery they did to him, there are only traces left of the real person trapped inside him. Dollface, Jesper thinks again. Who’d have expected they’d turn fucking Dirtyhands into a dollface?

It’s Kaz who turns away, fingers clawed into his neckline. His voice is rough, even if it’s a shadow of the damaged rasp that used to be him. “I thought about it sometimes, back then. The first time.”

Every fibre of Jesper’s being wants to interrupt with, What are you talking about? I don’t speak cryptic anymore. I’m out of practice. He should get off the floor, raise his guns, resume—but whatever it is, whether it’s some stupid new Grisha power, whether it’s zowa, or his memory of Kaz is just coming back, he doesn’t—

“It was like this. I was on my bed already, usually, when it grew hard—and I thought you would be up for not being on the bed, and there wasn’t much else in my room. I imagined watching you. I didn’t touch it. That was better.”

Uh. What.

“He probably knows I threw up after we—I tried to hide it. I thought I could manipulate him into seeing me as his partner, I thought I’d healed, that I’d practiced enough—but he just saw that I was still weak. He saw he could control me. But if he didn’t do it again because I threw up, I’m—”

He was right. Jesper would have stayed on the cold hard floor back then for him. Even now, Jesper would crawl around like a worm jerking off for the fucking asshole he got himself trapped in the Little Palace to murder, if that meant Kaz never had to—

Kaz pulls the neckline of his flimsy thin single ugly yellow shirt closed. The shirt that doesn’t protect him. The shirt he didn’t choose.

☼

Jesper’s imagined the Sun Summoner’s quarters, of course. Most of the Grisha in the Little Palace are wretched gossips—or Jesper’s been charming as many people into spilling as many secrets as possible to him so he can plan his attack, same difference—and anyway, he needs a backdrop for his imagined kill shots. It’s Kaz Brekker, after all. Dirtyhands. The ex-Bastard. You’d want to rehearse that death. Think of some witty one-liners.

Nadia said it was gorgeous inside, like a dollhouse. Lizaveta, who Jesper’s been told to shadow so he can learn how to become a proper Durast, insisted it’s totally empty. Grzegorz said there were live kittens inside, so the Sun Summoner could sate his lust for innocent blood, Sayyna thought there was a giant swimming pool, and a lovely naïve boy from the edge of the permafrost up at the former border insisted it was just like the quarters of all other Grisha, except with a little more privacy. Since they’re all siblings fighting for a world that will be kind to Grisha.

Jesper, privately, imagined a few stolen paintings and a mishmash of furniture. Because he’s an idiot.

This is just like—

If it is the Sun Summoner’s bedroom at all. It should be. Jesper did his homework: he followed the Darkling and his Sun Summoner creature that wears the skin used to house Kaz, and a variety of Materialniks, to the end of this specific corridor, five times in total. Watched the Materialniks unlock a hidden mechanism, and then the two most powerful men in Ravka—in all charted countries, ruling everything this side of the True Sea but pockets of Shu Han and even that’s a matter of time—they walked inside, hand in hand. The Darkling always left, after a while, alone, and so it only made sense to assume that the hidden room that Jesper just snuck up to and unlocked is, in fact, the Sun Summoner’s room. Kaz’ room. It’s the best time for breaking into it, too. There’s going to be a party in two days, so hopefully everyone’s too busy, and even if the Sun Summoner’s out doing preparations then Jesper can just hide in here and kill him in an ambush. That’s probably easier, actually.

First, though, he locks and hides the door again, because… yeah, he went to Ravka expecting to get caught. At some point. This is a suicide mission for revenge, after all—suicide is in in the title. But it’s no fun if he gets caught before the gory glorious revenge part. Before Kaz admits he was a piece of shit. Both guns cocked and ready, he turns around, and actually inspects the room he broke into.

No. Nothing changes, even when he blinks and blinks again. That wasn’t a faulty first impression.

The room still looks like a fucking prison cell.

A fancy, clean cell, but a cell nonetheless. It’s empty except for the bed, and Jesper owes Lizaveta more money than he has on him (though to be fair, technically, Jesper’s fifty thousand kruge in debt anyway, so does it really make a difference at all if he’s a few Ravkan coins more in the red), and even the windows—Jesper’s had enough training now that he can look at the windows and see the subtly reinforcing mesh inside the glass. No curtains. No curtain rods. Nothing—there’s a subtle mesh inside the bedclothes too and the frame of the bed looks far too sturdy to be torn apart by anyone who isn’t a skilled Materialnik. There are meshes in front of the fireplaces.

Nothing in here that can be used as a weapon.

Not against others, and not against oneself.

No escape.

There’s nothing in this stark white massive room but a person, acting like he never did before and still looking more like himself than when he was walking through the training grounds. It’s probably the distance from other people. He’s got his back to Jesper and he’s in the furthest corner from the door, which should be a tactical misstep because he can’t escape from there but really—it’s as good as any other location, in this room. There’s nothing of use to anyone left, not even to someone as shrewd as Dirtyhands used to be before he lobotomized himself into the Sun Summoner. Or before he was—

Kaz pushes himself up from his kneeling position using the walls he faces. He mutters, “I beg your forgiveness for keeping you waiting, Aleks.” His voice sounds odd.

“Are you crying?”

“Jesper?!”

Kaz turns so quickly he has to brace himself against the wall again lest he fall over. His translucent shirt ripples. His dark eyes in his weird new too-handsome face trace over Jesper, again and again. If they were fingers, Jesper would feel like he’s being caressed. No, that’s the wrong thought. A thought from a book he won’t admit he’s read. Jesper’s got his guns out. He came here for a reason. A bloody, glorious reason.

“Inej wouldn’t want me to do this, but she’s locked up in the fucking Menagerie,” he announces, just to see whether Kaz can feel even a shred of guilt. “Just so you could be a Ravkan prince in ugly yellow lingerie.”

“Just follow my—”

No, then. Or maybe it’s just the new face Jesper can’t read. Not that it matters. “Shut up. Do you remember what you told me when I joined the Dregs? About what you’d do to traitors? Well, I have added a couple of my own ideas.”

“Shut up, Jesper. You can monologue when we’re done, but—”

Jesper aims right between his weird, smooth pebble eyes. “When you left us, you knew it would all go to shit. Inej’s in the Menagerie, and there’s no way to get her out again. Haskell let the Dregs collapse after you disappeared. No Dregs, no kru—”

Kaz flinches. “Quick. Get under the bed. Now.”

Whether it’s surprise, a sex instinct, or—far worse—a lingering sense of loyalty, Jesper obeys instantly.

☼

“We’re lost,” Jesper moans. They’ve been surrounded by trees for four days. He’s not even sure they’re trudging vaguely southwards anymore. Everything looks the same. What wouldn’t Jesper give to be back in Ketterdam already, with its lovely street names and pedestrians and garish landmarks (and gangsters about to string him up), or at least somewhere in Novyi Zem where he sort of understands the landscape. Or what’s left of Shu Han, so Kaz can unclench.

“We’re not lost,” Kaz rasps. “Keep going.”

“How do you—the map.” The half-chewed-up map hidden under Kaz’ bed, the map he snuck into his coat—Jesper’s kefta, whatever—even though he probably already knows it by heart.

“Yes. The map.”

“Why the fuck are you telling me to choose where we’re going if you’re memorized the map?!” What an asshole. Jesper just clean forgot what a piece of shit Kaz is. He forgot it so utterly he’s helping him break out of Ravka, without even extracting anything in return. He’s a fucking idiot. “Is it so you can blame me when we get caught?”

Kaz, the dick, rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t I rather not get caught at all? Think, Jesper—what’s the one advantage you have over me?”

“I’m prettier,” Jesper shoots back. “My winning personality. I have a better tolerance for hard liquor. Fashion sense. I’m funny. No, wait—I’m a much more generous lover.”

“He doesn’t know you,” Kaz hisses, making the pronoun sound even more slimy than the guy it’s referring to, which is honestly quite a feat. “Do you think this is my first attempt? He’ll send people to every single route out of his core territory that poses any advantages. He has enough soldiers for that. What he doesn’t have, though, is enough soldiers to watch every route your bird-brain might pick at random.”

And then, he stalks ahead viciously. No. Limps ahead.

It’s been growing much more pronounced over the days. At first, even without a cane he walked just like any person with two healthy legs, and that’s what Jesper expected. The Ravkans healed their Saint’s leg, didn’t they? That’s what they would do. Only Kaz can think around enough corners to make his bad leg into an advantage. But with every passing day, Kaz’ gait has grown closer to what Jesper remembers from back before the world went to shit. Kaz was touchy about accommodations back then, though, or people being nice in general, so Jesper hasn’t even brought up improvising a new cane. All he’s dared to do is slowing down his own steps to what he remembers would have matched Kaz, back then.

And insisting on taking breaks. Like he does now.

“It’s almost night, you refuse to make light despite being made of sunshine, and I’m hungry,” he complains.

“I’d assume that Ketterdam has made you soft,” Kaz rasps, “o cherished crown jewel of crime and commerce, and what’s the difference.” He limps back to the fallen tree that Jesper has chosen as their camp site, though, so he must be a just few steps short of utter collapse.

Jesper unwraps the two woollen blankets he’s been carrying on his shoulders. They didn’t get a chance to steal much, mostly because Kaz was a prick about it and didn’t even let Jesper go back to his room: apparently there was time for Kaz to fold up a paper bag into a facsimile of an envelope and write an address in Djerholm onto it and have Jesper talk a stable-hand into riding out to deliver it, right now, but no time to search anywhere else for supplies. They took just whatever they found in the stables, which amounted to extra coats, some boots, the blankets, and horse feed. And gloves. Kaz declared it was time to run as soon as he’d found gloves.

Balefully, Jesper chews on his oats. Even wrapped in his blanket, the night is cold, and Kaz—who’s still wearing nothing but underpants besides the robe/gloves/Jesper’s kefta/stolen coat combo and ill-fitting boots without socks—is shivering violently.

“We should steal you some real clothes from the next house we see,” Jesper mutters. “And some decent food.”

“We’re not stealing anything until we’re in Shu.”

They’ve had this argument before. Jesper shouldn’t be as thrilled about that as he is. There’s no way to resolve it, until they find the border—or until Kaz keels over from hypothermia, because then even his rational fear of detection won’t keep Jesper from finding some trousers. For the time being, though—

“I’m going to sit closer and steal your body heat. In exchange, you can wrap my blanket around your legs.”

Kaz glares. He can do it masterfully again: just like the limp snuck back as soon as he left the Little Palace, his face over the days grew thin and pockmarked. Vicious. Jesper’s commited it to memory, in case Oily, Tall and Dark steals it again.

“If you freeze to death tonight, this was all for nothing. I could be sleeping in a palace right now. Well, a dingy side house, with the other Materialniks, but joke’s on them. This whole escape would have been much more complicated if I’d been a Squaller. Or a Sun Summoner, who refuses to even use his power to warm us up.”

“Leave it.” Kaz runs a finger roughly over where his collarbone should be, and he shudders. The temperature, or something worse, some new pain he’s not revealing—but carefully, he leans his blanketed side against Jesper, and allows Jesper to throw his own blanket over him, too.

“I’ll make you a new cane tomorrow. With a head, too, if we can scavenge enough metal from the buttons. Not a crow. You haven’t earned that until we free Inej, but maybe… a worm.”

“That’s just a stick,” Kaz mutters. “Go to sleep.”

Easy for him to say: Kaz is taking the first watch, and so he’s not balancing on a fallen log in the cold without a blanket, trying to fall asleep sitting up while leaning against Kaz’ shoulder with as little contact surface as physically possible. After some hours or minutes, though, Jesper’s suffering is too much for even Kaz to handle. Who knew there was a limit! Who knew Kaz had heard of mercy! Maybe he just doesn’t like Jesper wriggling next to him. He fists a lock of Jesper’s curls and pulls his head down into his lap.

“I didn’t help you because I want to fuck you, just so you’re aware,” Jesper jokes, because this is actually—it’s actually almost comfortable curling up on the fallen tree with his head on the blanket on Kaz’ thighs, even though there’s the remnants of a branch digging into his hip and they’re on the run from all Grisha in the world and also the new, expanded Ravka that covers nearly every country on this continent and Inej’s still imprisoned and if they actually manage to get back to Ketterdam, Jesper’s going to be in so much shit. And still, it’s… “I mourned you, you know, when Haskell told me you’d died. I wasn’t just angry because the Dregs were a shambles without you.”

Kaz is quiet. Jesper sort of wishes he’d touch his hair again, or his shoulder—and he never seemed to have any trouble touching the Darkling, so what, is Jesper not good enough—but he also looked like a void back there, like in order to endure it maybe he had to smother—

“That’s not why I mentioned that fantasy back there,” says Kaz, lyingly. Sure. He just happened to invoke Jesper’s obvious past crush for no reason whatsoever. The awfully convenient infatuation Jesper didn’t have sense nor skill to hide back then. Kaz is exactly the kind of person who’d exploit someone’s first love. The person who’s realize, long before Jesper did, that maybe, he’s not actually completely over—but maybe that wasn’t the important bit then. It went on. And that story about the Darkling—

“You thought I’d help you out of pity?” Jesper would have done, if he hadn’t been so angry—if he hadn’t been already so freaked out by the placid expression, the clothes that looked expressly designed to torture the Kaz he knew, the cell… It wasn’t pity. What is it you feel when a person you knew—maybe not his secrets or his past or his thoughts or what trouble he just dragged you into because he’s a secretive dick, but still, you knew him, it was burned into your heart, his movements and the codes he taught you and just when a heist was about to trigger one of his fears he’d never mentioned and you needed to get him out now… What do you feel, when that person comes back from the dead, and comes back wrong. Like a stag with too many tongues inside its mouths and its hands locked behind its throat. Except the other way round, because Kaz Brekker was terrifying, and what he was made into or what pretended to be was only scary because it wasn’t. Anyway. Kaz is a manipulative commandeering asshole again, so it doesn’t matter. “You despise pity.”

“It’s a tool, just like everything else. One he couldn’t take. And pride just gave me—pity got me out of the Little Palace, didn’t it?”

“Something did.” Jesper tips his non-existent hat, and Kaz slaps the top of his head to make him stop wriggling. He keeps the hand there this time, knotted tight in Jesper’s hair. It stings, but it’s also… Jesper closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep before inevitably, it’ll leave.

“Pride. It was my fault.” Kaz’ voice almost sounds the way it did back home. Harsh, vicious—and damaged. Human. “I thought I could bear it. He was—the Sun Summoner could have no weaknesses, he said, nothing for our enemies to use, and I allowed myself to think… ‘our’ enemies. I practiced. It was easier, after a while, to bear touch. I thought—it seemed like the best option, to stand at his side, and to make him see me as his partner I should… I was tired of being a prisoner. I thought I could use him.”

That’s bad enough, but… “But you’re limping again,” Jesper hisses. “If he’s forming you like a clay doll to make you his perfect Sun Summoner, he should have started with healing you.”

“They did, when I first came to the Palace. I didn’t want—but I learned to accept it. After my first escape, he broke it again, personally. Had it tailored over, afterwards, every few days. Incentive for cooperation.”

There’s nothing Jesper can do to fix this stagnant, lifeless voice. He could hug Inej, at least, but this—

“It’s what I would have done, too. He was just better than me, and he didn’t need another one, so he had to change me.”

“By dressing you up and making you look like a doll. If you tell me it was a sex thing, at least I could—no, still couldn’t relate. His taste’s shit. That beauty was pretty ugly,” Jesper mutters into Kaz’ thighs.

Kaz pulls at his hair again—probably a rebuke, but the sting travels down Jesper’s spine to—well, it’s time to change the subject rather quickly. What’s there to… oh yeah, his head’s on a blanket. That’ll do. “I just had a great idea,” he says, and—yeah, his voice is still completely normal and steady. A little loud, maybe. Kaz hasn’t moved his hand away, though, so it can’t be too obvious.

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Fuck off, my bright idea of breaking into the centre of Grishadom to kill you in a murder-suicide attack because what else was I going to do, let the Dime Lions grind me between millstones to press out the fifty thousand kruge I may perhaps still owe them—”

“You what?!”

Jesper powers on, because that’s really a conversation best left for when he’s not lying in a forest with his head in Kaz’ lap and trying to forget, desperately, the way it felt when Kaz pulled his hair. The way it feels when he does it again. “I’m just saying, it saved you. You’re welcome. So anyway. We only have one pair of trousers. I was going to suggest we alternate wearing mine, but we both know I wouldn’t get them back.”

“Your so-called idea is… interesting,” Kaz mutters, voice almost pulled asunder trying for both disturbed and mocking. “But I’m far more interested to hear about the fact you skipped out of Ketterdam without paying your debts. A crime punishable by death in every gang. Every gang in Ketterdam, the city where you want us to go.”

And yeah, that’s occurred to Jesper, but… “That’s a problem for later. You’ll think of something, boss, if we make it that far. You always have a plan. For now… I wouldn’t—well, I would carry you if your legs freeze off, but it wouldn’t be fun for either of us, so… You sewed yourself up constantly back home, and I’d wager sewing is just like swimming. Once you know, you can never forget.”

“Skills are useless if you lack every materia—Jes—”

“Yeah, I definitely can turn a button into a needle now. We just need to tear the second blanket into some vaguely trouser-shaped pieces, and for thread—well, we could just tear up your Sun Summoner robe, it’s useless anyway.”

“Jesper,” Kaz rasps again.

“I’m a genius?”

“No, you’re still an idiot. Why not, though?”

☼

Kaz Brekker disappeared between Sunday and Tuesday night. That’s all Jesper knows, and it’s that precise only because Kaz has been experimenting with the payroll recently. Apparently, handing out wages on late Tuesday maximizes the chances of flushing as much money as possible back into the coffers of Dregs-owned establishments, and he’s also taken to handing out the money personally. Some weird power play that Haskell hasn’t yet forbidden: everyone knows Kaz barely bothers to keep his accomplices informed about the job they’re currently doing, and the big boss tolerates him mostly because Dirtyhands is still more useful insubordinate than dead.

It’s Wednesday now, though. Wednesday afternoon.

And Jesper still hasn’t gotten paid.

Kaz is gone.

Jesper’s in Haskell’s office, inquiring about everyone’s money. Too irritated by the games of Makker’s Wheel he was forced to miss out on last night to perform anything but the most pro forma I remember my boss’ boss is technically my boss and can kill me pleasantries. Instead of promising to kick Kaz’ ass, though, like Jesper hoped, Haskell just tells him Pasko will give him his wages tomorrow.

Haskell won’t say anything else. Just, “That boy got himself mixed up in something he couldn’t handle alone, and it fucked him. You won’t like what you find, when you go looking for the dead.”

[sonderrow-moved]

ROY’S BIO IS FINALLY UP ! It is available on his about page, mobile about or under the cut !

♚ “AND LATER MY MACABRE JOY SOURS AND I’M WEEPING FOR MYSELF, UNABLE TO FIND SOLACE IN ANY OF THIS, CRYING OUT, SOBBING, “I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED,” CURSING THE EARTH AND EVERYTHING I HAVE BEEN TAUGHT: PRINCIPLES, DISTINCTIONS, CHOICES, MORALS, COMPROMISES, KNOWLEDGE, UNITY, PRAYER - ALL OF IT WAS WRONG, WITHOUT ANY FINAL PURPOSE.”

This man has lived too long. A classic concept written, imagined by artists. To comfort them about their mortality, explore the ins and outs of an alien narrative full of ifs. How would this even work ? Even the people with the best memories, to a genius level even, eventually forgets, for the brain can only retain so much. This feeling people gets as they grow older, the biased nostalgia of glorified items they saw through their pure, untainted, still developing eyes and the resentment towards new trends as they cannot see anything without any scum anymore. The yearning not for those movements, but for this soft sensation, of looking, admiring something and think, for a moment, that it’s idealistic form was real.

This sweet, unadulterated notion became only a distant, forgotten memory as time hardened the one known today as Roy. For years. Decades. Centuries. Millenniums.

A man who was born during another civilization, another time, long forgotten with only myths remaining of it. Not even a relic to be talked about, as everything had disintegrated, returned to earth for another life cycle.

♚ “THE PAST ISN’T REAL. IT’S JUST A DREAM,” I SAY. “DON’T MENTION THE PAST.”

Roy was born under another name, one he still remembers, but has long buried away, as it is not his name anymore. No one remembers it. It is not him anymore, as much as he might like to. It is only an appellation to let go of. As humankind developed its technology to a peak, so did their power, as they yielded control over nature people nowadays couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t as clear as one making a motion to have the waves, wind and earth respond to it. It was a much more fundamental, rawer sense to it. Where the energy of the world could be used to build even new life.

Always the diligent person who only lived to serve, executing tasks exactly as he was asked to, Roy had been appointed to be the Right Hand of the High Priestess. A young female who had only recently bloomed into womanhood. So perfect in existence, like a bright, pale, white being given to their kind in exchange of their discovery over worldly power. She had embraced her role as a symbol since birth, and he was to accompany her every step of the way as she rose to an official position. To inspire and love. Untouched by anything, for her importance was too great as people shook the world order in their insatiable human curiosity. Nowadays, Roy could have been defined as a bodyguard, yet, in this time, there was no fear of another person’s mishap. Only was he to protect her from accidental injuries, get more menial tasks off her shoulder and, most of all, as they understood this aspect deeply, have her emotional and social needs satisfied.

The way she was so beautiful, the way she would only crack a laugh at his shenanigans, the way he knew how to soothe her and she, in her infinite kindness, learned to soothe him back when a crack of worry grew between his impeccable … how could he not fall in love ?

He loved the way she would recite poetry while he slowly got used to her wanting him to caress her head, and she loved the way he would sing her verses in his smooth, sultry voice. The way she would eye him while someone else was talking on stage with a soft smile while he was guarding the entrance and he’d let a smile crack.

It wasn’t a consummated love like you would see in the current, modern days. There were, of course, pairings who held deep affection towards one another and brought in the next generation, but she had a role where she would never have the chance to do so, for her symbolism was not to replicate, only to be a happenstance, a gift which mustn’t be tainted by an attempt to be artificially redone. She accepted her role with no issue, and so did Roy. And the two of them were perfectly happy with this.

This was a time before the continents even started to noticeably separate on Earth, or even before the initial ground became more and more flooded by the waters. A time where Roy’s kind felt so unified, at peace… until this built up, free of conflict power shattered in on itself.

Raw abominations started roaming, not in the form of creatures, not exactly. So ephemeral, yet spreading chaos and distortion at every corner, fueled by the abuse and infighting of those who had gathered too much and only yearned for more. Years and generations of peace had made civilization take harmony for granted, and the couple was powerless as they saw it unfold. As the world balance collapsed, Roy was approached by a group of pacifists, trusted people for outside the conflicts, everyone knew anyone, respect one another, grew with one another. And as sickly dear ones, growing tainted by the plague pleaded with him, for his position had him perfect for what needed to be done for the greater good: kill the priestess, so the good in her would spread across the land, calm the spirits through their weeps, and save them.

Someone like Roy, of unfathomable loyalty, had a decision to make. And despite the tugs at his heart, it was an easy one. For he believed that, if the Priestess was present, the choice would be simple. That she would understand, because, in her infinite goodness, she could forgive them, forgive him, in the end. And as his trust towards her was strong, it is during a bright morning, away from the war, in the beautiful temple they inhabited, up in the mountains, away from civilization, that he entrusted her with what the people wished of them… and like the great woman she always had been, she kept a serene, albeit slightly sorrowful expression as she accepted. If there was a chance the power built inside her since birth could save more than one person, she would die.

But when his blade pierced her heart, tainting her white, ceremonial clothing in the middle of the garden, she only clanged onto him, eyes wide with desperate sorrow, an expression she, and he, never ever witnessed in anyone before. Fear and betrayal spread across her dark eyes as they grew more and more obscure.

I don’t want to die. My love, I don’t want to die…

―were her last words before, as she wept and choked, the High Priestess expired in her guardian’s blood soaked arms, him wearing too stunned an expression for her to ever hear an answer for him.

Just like beliefs and idolization are made-up by man for comfort and, ultimately, are fake, so was the glorification that one death, from someone incredibly beautiful from the inside out, would be a solution to mankind creating their own demise.

And so, it was at his feet that Roy saw the last of humans slowly die out, first from their endless conflict, so harsh they forgot where it even started, and then to the unforgiving nature, taking back the life they had abused off her.

Only, as he himself felt like he was expiring, with all lifeforce living him in the deserted, now ruined temple he had taken cared of with his beloved.

♚ “THIS IS TRUE: THE WORLD IS BETTER OFF WITH SOME PEOPLE GONE. OUR LIVES ARE NOT ALL INTERCONNECTED. THAT THEORY IS CROCK. SOME PEOPLE TRULY DO NOT NEED TO BE HERE.”

And with the end of this first Humankind was the land so dry of its lifeforce that the cycle of resurrection immortality and resurrection ended. It was quite simple at the time, and helped with the utopia free of grief and unnecessary sadness for their knowledge-seeking kind. If happenstance had you gone, your aether would go back to the earth, only to rise again in the next year, century, no one knew, but they would rise again, the same people, to meet the ones they knew in another life again, with hazy memories, but just enough to recognize your loved ones, and find them again. The more time passed, the less did people come back from this dormant phase, millions and millions now sleeping under the crust of the Earth, never to awaken again. Only the one who had gathered more power could come back more quickly, not the servants, no matter how strong they were, like Roy, who was only, despite all his strengths, a support to a higher one.

Only, as their kind ended, in her last breath, was he given the last link to the cycle, to be connected to his brethren, when he wasn’t supposed to be the one to live again to better the world.

She gave it to him, as her last gift. As the forgiveness she could never give him while she clung to dear life so desperately.

For the greatest gift to give to someone where inevitable death surround them is to still live……… isn’t it ?

I have seen too little, did too little to be of any solace in chaos. You, my love, have seen, experienced. I cannot think of a finer person to carry out our legacy, for I trust that only the best will come out of you.

♚ “PEOPLE CAN GET ACCUSTOMED TO ANYTHING, RIGHT? HABIT DOES THINGS TO PEOPLE.”

Life went back to its natural course. Ancient structure became ruins as vegetation took over, and, strong as it ever was, mankind rose again from the ashes. At the dawn of a new civilization, an orphan would be found at a nearby river, taken in by farmers and eventually would be a child raised by the whole humble village… a child who hadn’t forgotten a thing, and worked towards the dawn of a new age where he could protect what was dear to him.

And so, the one these days called Roy, grew up like he did before, to train and refine his ways. Only, this time, he didn’t only focus on his personal growth, but on others’ too. Estranged from other children like he had always been, with adulthood reaching his mind too quickly, only devoted to his craft. Despite snarl from the youth, his reputation grew amongst the adults and elders, and the communities beyond. As soon as his body was barely out of its formative years, did the boy set home in the mountains. Out of the leftover ruins his past life would let him have. A strong foundation to not lose sight of his objective.

Discipline. Commitment. Responsibility. Peace of mind. Realism. Alongside harsh but fair mental and physical training, all from what he had been taught and remembered, Roy kept exploring martial disciplines he even hadn’t touched in the past, wanting to reestablish what had been lost, and, before he knew it, he was known nearly as a Sage Deity across the land. A man coming from another world, who set up his temple atop the mountains made of smooth boulders eroded with time, near a clear water source, in the middle of a blossoming garden full of colors and hybrid one never knew how such an abundance of different species naturally grew alongside one another in this location, like it was enchanted.

Often, the village elders sought Roy’s advice, which he hoped have given sparingly, in neutrality, since he couldn’t guide mankind every step of the way, only show them a flourishing path. Travelers would come from afar to seek both his teaching and words, with glorified stories growing slightly intimidating to the young man. Despite this, he did his best to carry on his duty, taking care of the new temple grounds he assembled himself, wearing flowing clothes he sew himself; all loyal to the form and aesthetic of the woman he cherished, adorning the same attire she did and flowing, long hair. He wasn’t hoping for them to meet again, only honor her memory. He had grieved and grieved, wept and wept before she gave him the gift of eternity. His salvation was throwing himself into his training, contemplating his sorrow, and so on and on again until he only felt peace.

Roy’s stories of a lady in white with the darkest of eyes became legends, tales of kindness, bravery and adventure. And, amongst his own legacy growing, did Roy decide, after much deliberation, to take in disciples. One, then two. People under his tutelage, who would, in return, vow to spread and defend what the temple fought for, alongside taking equal parts in temple duties. And as the young people he accepted under his wing grew, Roy would soon be surrounded by four bright students he deeply loved. Unable to truly have a father’s touch, he, at least, believed he was a good guardian, hoping that, with time, his students would become masters, and that humanity could flourish.

It was then that, surrounded by his disciples, minus one, actually, that Roy had just finished drinking light tea and eating some sweets. He sighed as a cloud formed in front of his thin lips, the cold air announcing the winter to come. Even as his eldest disciple spoke, Roy didn’t reply. He stayed still, unmoving, silent, for there was nothing to say about what he felt was to come.

He didn’t even groan when he felt the ornate blades of his disciples pass through him, all three at the same time, for they were bound to be guilty together. While the screeching pain enveloped his senses, he wondered if this was what she felt, when he betrayed her.

That night, the Sage’s remains were cut to pieces, scattered far and wide, while his head was burned in the courtyard bonfire, all in an attempt to stop the link he had with his brethren, to cease the “gift” he had been given and for the cycle carried by the billions sleeping to come to an end.

But, unlike what men thought, Roy’s cycle was only part of nature, and he was to rise once more.

♚ “MY NIGHTLY BLOOD LUST OVERFLOWED INTO MY DAYS AND I HAD TO LEAVE THE CITY. MY MASK OF SANITY WAS A VICTIM OF IMPENDING SLIPPAGE.”

It was always the same. Again and again. He would be reborn, train, work, bond, and die at the hands of the very ones he had linked himself. The only reliable companion Roy ever had was nature outside of mankind, harsh but fair, just like him. With a behavior he could coexist with peacefully. It started eating him from the inside out. This time around, Roy had come back from the dead a few decades after his murder, found stark naked in a rice field even farther East, still in a young adult form, regenerated. Mankind hadn’t been doomed yet, and so, he vowed to save it by himself.

Roy would travel far and wide as mankind spread its territory and the continents started separating, being the only one of his kind which could still read the flow of life, its remaining corruption, and how to neutralize them. He would never stay in one spot for too long, only focusing on what he had to do. Because if he didn’t do it, who would ? If he didn’t do anything, he would only be left seeing the same amount of suffering and death, all by himself.

He couldn’t sit down. He couldn’t lose hope.

But Roy’s respect for life took the better of him. As he helped others with his abilities, presenting himself as somewhat of a medium as others also showed special traits, he hadn’t seen how darker human’s hearts had become. So much more quickly than the society he had known in the past. People turned envious of his abilities, and, soon enough, he needed to fight and run for his own life, at the risk of being torn apart yet again.

This fight and flight narrative happened again. And again. Until Roy’s duty had no time to be done; if he wasn’t around, there was no way anything could be done. He had to survive. And as the world grew around him, his mind and memories became muddied, and the depravity surrounding his person slowly creeped into his mind, as any remainder of his initial purpose was muddled with a constant years of bloodshed. An age of decades where he was to be burned and tortured, captured again and again before he’d lay waste to entire villages for his own safety. So no witness was to remain, and less people were to go after him. His training was used in a way he had never done before. For a cause he couldn’t decide to stop. He learned how to kill as efficiently as possible, how to decimate communities, destroy morale through underhanded means. Jumping from one allegiance to another as he either killed or fled before they’d go after him. For the first time, Roy could see how much his raw abilities could be of use in carnage, with no ceremony, no cause behind them. Only death. The very somber death he swore to stop.

He didn’t even stop to wonder at the technology men came up with, using the growing devices as meant for an end, anger and rage creeping into his very soul, indulging in vices he was being offered by humans which morals he always despised. There was no relief in this life, no moment of quiet, only screams and chaos, and only sins could provide a moment of respite. Roy, actually, never remembered how he died, but he did, at some point, in some time, after all sane people had left the territory, and only savagery had roamed the land he had loved so dearly.

During this time, he had forgotten her name, even her face.

♚ “THE CONVERSATION FOLLOWS ITS OWN ROLLING ACCORD - NO REAL STRUCTURE OR TOPIC OR INTERNAL LOGIC OR FEELING; EXCEPT, OF COURSE, FOR ITS OWN HIDDEN, CONSPIRATORIAL ONE. JUST WORDS, AND LIKE IN A MOVIE, BUT ONE THAT HAS BEEN TRANSCRIBED IMPROPERLY, MOST OF IT OVERLAPS.”

At some point, Roy had no recognition if he had been in the same world, the same plane of existence amongst the cycles when he awoke once again. This time in a white, desperately empty desert. With no one at his side. He was still, somehow, a fully grown person, with the fresh memories of violence he had laid, and the scent of blood into all his pores, and the grotesque weapons he had used with no ceremony.

Yet, in this newly regenerated body, in this empty space by himself, his mind centered itself. His discipline kicked in between the silence and hunt for sustenance. He had spent so long a time by himself, alone, in the most chaotic of scenarios. With no one who remembered him, no one who remembered his loved ones, no one who remembered who everyone he even knew were.

After spending time and time, he couldn’t count how long, to rebalance his person, reshape his senses and skills yet again, Roy readied himself to reach civilization once more… yet when he started his journey again, he stopped, the sudden weight of his contact with humankind anchoring him to the ground, unable now to stand. His body was trembling, and everything he had packed fell to the ground. He knew what would happen if he gave up. What he would need to go through and experience. Again and again. He tried. He tried so hard. But no matter how good he could be, it seemed so… hopeless. However, even if it was an impossible endeavor, he couldn’t stop, or else he would have nothing.

He wouldn’t be able to, maybe, one day, see everyone again. How many times had it been ? His memory couldn’t bear so much, what important things could he not recall ? He could start counting, but there was no way to say if entire lifetimes were not thrown into the abyss, and if forgotten crucial knowledge would end up with yet another failure…

This is when, hunched onto himself in this deserted, white horizon, Roy held his head in his hand. He groaned of pain as his mind was strained to its limits, drooling as he agonized, and images faded far, far away as he life flow was being torn apart from him by his own hands. He could hear the screams of his brethren, their legacy being desecrated. Useless. Useless. He didn’t need to remember their names. He didn’t need to remember their faces. Everything deemed useless to the core of his mission was shred out of his very soul, making the pain, the worries fade away, for he only needed to focus on what needed to be done.

Discipline. Commitment. Responsibility. Peace of mind. Realism. For those virtues to lead mankind to a greater part. And maybe, just maybe, recover part of everything he had lost.

For it was the one thing she had not accounted for, for she saw this man as someone so perfect through her affection for him.

That, ultimately, he did all of this so he could see them, see her again if he ever succeeded, and mankind could doom itself if it wasn’t the only way he knew to move onwards. That he did what was needed of him, without taking it so much to heart, that, in the deep of his heart, laid a hidden, selfish reason for all of this. Yet, it may not be this one anymore, he couldn’t tell.

And as Roy literally lost his mind, all by himself, with not a soul around to witness his sorrow, he laid there, vegetable from the trauma, feeling but unable to move, in a haze of horror and pain, before, finally, dehydration took him, and he was back in the cycle again.

Only, this time, there would be no memories. Only physical ones. No loneliness, only fake memories pieced by the world to balance his existence. Only a man, his training, his virtues, and an impossible task that is his only defense against despair and insanity.

♚ “THERE IS NO TIME FOR THE INNOCENT.”

[gingerwritess]

Loki owns every single ounce of soul and my body radiates an overwhelming amount of uwu energy every time I see him it’s unhealthy. In other words, i wanna marry him oeriodt

good news babe, now you can ;)

here it is folks, the wedding of you and Loki.

it’s just the ceremony, i might do something about a reception later and will definitely be doing some honeymoon stuff !! but for now…here’s a very long piece about your wedding! ENJOY.

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

Loki Laufeyson is not a simple man.

Hell, he’s barely a man.

Everything concerning Loki is complicated; his past, his present, his future, his heritage, his family, his species, his abilities, his ambitions, his reasoning…

The list goes on.

You knew this. You know this, and yet here you are, stepping out from behind an oak tree, giggling and barefoot and arm in arm with your best friend, coming to greet him at the alter.

Nothing has ever been simple. Not when you met him and you each tried your respective times to kill each other, not when he spent a couple years convincing himself he hated you and that’s why you were in his head all the time, not when he had to somehow win your trust.

It’s been complicated. Complicated fights, complicated dates, complicated forgiveness.

A complicated wedding, too, which is why you’d agreed to just have a tiny little wedding in an Asgardian forest, miles out from the border, with barely ten people invited to attend.

The bigger ceremony can happen later. Right now, with the setting sun glowing off Loki’s pale skin, all that matters is making him yours.

It’s surprisingly simple, actually. Loki’s surprised. A couple chairs were set up in a little clearing of trees, shrouded by the oak branches with only a few rays of evening sunlight seeping through, and a walkway of smooth stones had been laid as a kind of alter.

No giant centrepieces to decide on, no music to choose, no kingdoms you have to invite so they don’t get offended, no sacrificial goat to find. Tonight, all you have to worry about is that Thor doesn’t cry too much while he officiates, thus setting the wedding back an hour.

And that you don’t completely lose your shit.

He looks so good.

You’ve never seen Loki looking so…so relaxed, so casual, so sure of himself. He looks confident, for once, genuinely confident in what he’s doing—or about to do.

On the inside, though, he’s a wreck. A nervous, giddy wreck, positive that you’re going to turn on your heel and run away, going to look once at him and find him disgusting, just as you should have since the moment he fell for you, just as you did the moment you met.

His hands shake and he shoves them in his pockets, swallowing hard when you step out from behind the tree.

Your friend insisted on that—“you still need a grand entrance, I wanna see if he cries”—and since there’s only an archway of tree branches tied together with fairy lights for you to walk through, the tree trunk will have to do as a cover.

You’re just as nervous as Loki, if you’re being completely honest. Just…marrying him.

This is kind of a big deal.

A little bit life changing, really, and when you think back to all that had to happen to get you to this point, the nervousness just multiples.

But, the smile that paints your face is in every way childish. Ridden by giggles, a nervous, anxious, excited mess of emotions and then you see him, waiting for you, and the space between you seems infinite and nonexistent at the same time.

Loki’s breath catches.

A sniffle is heard from the make-shift alter—not from the groom. Thor rubs his eyes and stands up straighter, trying his absolute hardest not to pull his brother into a bone-crushing hug.

Loki looks different.

Different than when you first met him. His hair is different, a little longer, cleaner, not so messy and untamed, tied half-up with a couple braids hidden in his almost curls. The thin gold cuffs at the ends of each braid glint in the sun when he moves.

He’s not covered in blood and rubble like he was when you met him, either. He’s not so pale, not so thin, so gaunt, and his eyes are much closer to green than blue when you meet his gaze and give him an excited, scrunched-up little smile.

Loki smiles back and that’s when it hits him: his eyes are swimming in seconds and he chews his lip, casting his gaze to the trees above and praying the tears don’t fall.

Things like this…don’t happen to Loki Laufeyson.

He doesn’t get the girl, doesn’t get to have a beautiful wife. An intimate, beautiful wedding is just something he dreamt of as a child, something that helped him fall asleep, just like that immature dream of having someone to hold close every night, lured to sleep by their warmth.

A few steps closer, he has to swipe a hurried hand over his cheek, and you bite back another excited laugh—there. You got him to cry.

You never thought you’d be the person to make someone cry tears of joy on their wedding day, much less someone who cries so beautifully.

This isn’t the first time you’ve seen Loki cry, but it’s definitely your favourite.

Your hands meet before you’ve even noticed covering the distance. The coldness of his skin is normal now, for whatever the reason you’ve stopped caring, and you wind your fingers through his and grin at his teary face before turning to Thor.

“Hey,” Thor chokes out with a smile, “are you two ready?”

You nod, Loki wonders if no is even an option.

He’s not ready at all, because as soon as this starts, it’ll be over, and this beautiful little ceremony is an end he doesn’t want to face. He’s not done marvelling at you, his soon-to-be wife, he hasn’t fully memorised what you look like this evening, he isn’t ready to let it end and lose this dreamlike trance where no past can intrude.

But Thor starts talking anyways, interrupted by an occasional sniff, and Loki’s left grasping at the moment.

He hasn’t even gotten to look at you, to truly ingrain your image in his mind, so as Thor begins to recite the service he’s read over time after time again, Loki’s gaze turns to you and everything else seems to fall silent.

Blue.

He’d expected green, to be completely honest, you know what you do to him when you wear his colour, but you’d surprised him with the pale blue dress.

A wonderful decision he could never thank you enough for.

You’re…a dream. You could be a light elf, with the way the setting sun beams down on you, but no, actually, no light elf could even come close to comparing with your beauty.

The dress floats over you, thin straps keeping it secured over your shoulders, that pale blue fabric softer than silk when his hand slips helplessly to the small of your back.

You’re real, solid flesh and bone under his hand. Breathing, living, a bouquet of white roses and sparse, leafy twigs in one hand, the other finding its way to his back and rubbing soothing little circles.

He’s staring and doesn’t plan on stopping. You catch his eye and send him a comforting wink.

It’s a simple dress, nothing to distract from the wearer. His gaze travels the length of it, from your bare feet to the thin gold chains around your ankles, to the smile dusting your lips, to the crown of olive branches and tiny white flowers his brother just placed on your head.

You nudge him in the side.

“Hm?”

Your crown, you mouth, nodding at Thor. You okay?

Shaking himself out of his daze, Loki blinks and looks back at Thor.

“…sorry. Where are we?”

“I’m crowning you,” Thor whispers, holding up the other crown of olive leaves and flowers, the connecting satin ribbon tugging on yours as he does. “Remember? ‘With these crowns, your power becomes shared, and with these crowns, your rule becomes one, to grow only in unity and to prosper as—’”

“Alright, yes, yes, I remember.”

You bite back a laugh as Loki runs an exasperated hand over his face, then bows his head to allow Thor to place the other crown over his head.

“Hey, sunshine,” you whisper when you duck your head as well, taking his hand between the two of you. “Are you okay?”

“Never better.” He squeezes your hand, a sideways smile flashing your way. “You look beautiful.”

“So do you,” you laugh quietly. “Now shush, this is important.”

“No, it’s not.” He knows he’s not necessarily supposed to touch you more than just holding your hand, but he strokes the backs of his fingers along your cheek anyways, smiling softly at you. “It’s not.”

“Shh.”

With a teasing roll of his eyes he turns his gaze back to the ground, hand dropping from your cheek back to hold your hand tightly between the two of you.

You do look beautiful in blue. Absolutely breathtaking, jaw dropping, stunning.

The longer he stands there, slowly forgetting who he is and focusing on who he’s going to become for you, the more he wishes he had told you his only secret.

Half of him thinks you might already know about his true heritage—the blue dress, the fact that you don’t ask why he’s so cold anymore. But…if you knew, you wouldn’t be standing next to him today, marrying him.

He wishes he had told you from the beginning.

“No good marriages begin with secrets.”

Frigga was an absolute hypocrite for telling him that, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

He’ll tell you soon. He knows he will, or, honestly, he might just bury that monstrous part of himself so deep that you never have to know. It wouldn’t be living a lie if he forgets it’s part of his truth, right?

“I will.”

Damn it, he missed it.

“Wait—no, can you repeat that part?” He quickly blinks back to reality, cursing himself for being so consumed in his thoughts that he’s missing his actual wedding. “Sorry, sorry.”

Thor gives a knowing smile. “Of course. Will you have this man to be your wedded husband, to have and to hold, to cherish and honour, to treasure and love until death do you part?”

“I will,” you repeat, the grin evident in your voice. “I will.”

Loki swallows thickly, eyes burning. You accepted him again. To have him, to keep him, to love him and allow him to be your husband.

People don’t…want him, Loki knows that.

Not his birth parents, not even his adoptive parents, not your world nor his own, everywhere he’s gone has rejected him. No one wants Loki.

You, though, seemed to have skipped right over wanting him and decided to love him.

Husband.

He likes the title more than he ever liked prince, and much more than he ever liked king.

“And will you, Loki, have this woman to be your wedded wife, to have and to hold, to cherish and honour, to treasure and love until death do you part?”

A couple birds chirp overhead.

“Loki?”

His eyes have glazed over, dewy skin glowing in the rays of sunlight, a strand of hair fluttering over his face every time the wind blows.

“Loki.” You nudge him in the arm, an amused smile playing at your lips. “Can you answer him? I’d really like to kiss you already.”

He chokes out a laugh at that, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, sheepishly trying to get a hold of himself. “Of course I will,” he laughs, looking up at the trees and letting out a long breath. “I will.”

Beaming at him, you give his hand another reassuring squeeze and nudge him again.

“I will,” he whispers once more, staring at you. “For all eternity.”

Ohhhh goodness.

Why does his softness make your heart ache like this, how did he become so gentle??

“Hurry up and finish,” you laugh to Thor, heart pounding. “I’m not gonna last much longer, he’s…god, he’s just…hurry.”

Loki’s heart sinks a little, he can’t help it. This is nice, standing here with you, his brother bringing you together, your closest friends and family sharing the moment. It’s nice and warm, and Loki feels surrounded by a strange sense of home, for once.

Don’t hurry. He closes his eyes to focus in on the feeling of your hand in his. Don’t hurry, don’t end this moment.

Warm skin, soft skin, gentle fingers. Only one ring on your ring finger so far, bringing him back to reality right as Thor hands him the small box holding the rings.

He lets out a shaky breath and you turn to him—this time, it’s your breath that catches.

You hadn’t quite fully taken in all of…him.

Loki smiles, turning to face you and holding out the rings in an open palm. “Shall we?”

“Wait,” you breathe, clutching his ring in a tight fist. “Give me a second, I-I need to memorise how…perfect my life is right now.”

His heart twists as you look around, an uncontrollable smile growing over your face as you take in the little clearing amidst the trees, the sun rays cutting through their canopies, the couple people watching, until your gaze lands back on Loki.

Your eyes burn as you look at him, your husband, with his anxious little shrug of did I do alright? in his navy trousers and loose white shirt, top buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows; a perfectly informal ensemble to hoist a middle finger to the attire the other wedding wanted him to wear.

He looks comfortable here. A little nervous, maybe, a little anxious and kind of like he’s worried you’ll run away any second, but it’s an endearing, comfortable look.

“Perfect,” you whisper again, smile damp with tears, and you grab his left hand. “Perfect, okay, let’s finish this, I can’t wait anymore…”

The ring slips easily onto his ring finger, somehow still warm against his skin, the gold band glinting in the remaining sunlight as he looks at it.

There. He grins, that little gold ring changing everything.

He’s yours.

Loki Laufeyson belongs to someone.

Someone who actually wants him, someone who loves him.

Taking your left hand in his, his eyes flit up to meet your grin as he brings it to his lips; a royal gesture for the only queen he’ll ever know. He guides the wedding ring onto your finger, caressing your hand with a gentleness you remember knowing he didn’t possess when you met.

His slender fingers close around your hand, cool as always and promising to never let you go.

Breathe.

Once he moves his hand, you look at the ring, shining against your skin—oh god…now you belong to someone, too.

And it’s someone who wants you, and—

“No,” Loki whispers, shaking you out of your thoughts, “I love you.”

Damn, you were doing so good with not crying.

Your husband—yeah, let’s say that again, your husband—starts chuckling, that beautiful rolling laughter cutting right over Thor’s recitations and prayers.

Hand in hand under the trees, Loki laughs, you try to stop the tears rolling down your grinning cheeks, and Thor skips over a few lines, his own laughter starting to cut through the recitations.

He’s speeding up the ceremony, clearly, mumbling through probably important prayers and vows, but you figure that’s probably best—if it lasts any longer, you’re going to combust.

Your husband’s lips seem to be in need of a good kissing.

Finally, finally, after what felt like an eternity of not being able to wrap your husband in your arms, Thor closes his giant old ceremonial book with a snap.

You glance at Loki, then to Thor.

The two arguably strongest men you know, and both of them have tears pooling in their beautiful eyes.

“Thank you,” Thor whispers, laying his hand over you and Loki’s entwined hands and giving them both a reassuring squeeze. “Thank you for letting me be a part of this, brother.”

Loki just nods, bottom lip disappearing between his teeth in an attempt to keep the tears from falling.

“Never doubt—” his voice cracks. “—th-that I love you.”

“I won’t.”

You can’t help but grin at them, the two brothers in their rare moments of softness, when all the warrior-guises, murky bloodlines, and pressures over a throne have worn away.

It’s…refreshing.

And to Loki, more than he ever could have hoped for.

“Alright,” Thor laughs, rubbing his damp eyes with two fingers. “Enough of that. You have a wife to tend to, brother, I’ve made you wait long enough.”

Loki’s hand tightens around yours and he catches your eye, an inevitable smile spreading over his face at the sight of you.

“I pronounce you husband and wife,” Thor announces, smiling broadly. “Now get on with it and kiss.”

It takes barely a single second before you’re dipped backwards, Loki’s arm around your waist as the other trails up to cradle your cheek, kissing you with the fervour of a man starved.

Kissing you like it’s the last thing in his life that he’ll ever, ever do, kissing you as if he just got to make you his and his alone.

Like he’s yours.

People have warned you about Loki’s “possessiveness.”

But right here, right now, with your fingers tangled in his hair, gently tugging to keep him from completely frenching you in front of his brother and your couple friends and family, you know you were right; he was never really a possessive lover.

He’s terrified, and you know this. Not possessive, just scared. And if any possession is playing a part in your relationship—no, marriage…

It’ll be the fact that Loki gets to consider himself officially, undeniably, forever yours.

See, Loki never needed a second chance.

You weren’t his redemption story, weren’t the kind one who “gave him a chance.”

You just…love the right parts of him.

It’s a beautiful thing, really.

To see someone grow from a pure, innocent child into a tortured soul who’s been beaten by the universe, convinced they have no place in this life, then to transform into the person of your dreams?

It’s simple.

Just find the bit of love that everyone holds somewhere in them, no matter how deeply buried it might be, and love that part of them until someday, they can love it, too.

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

hope you enjoyed, please reblog and feel free to send me ideas!

loki tags: @bluediamond007 @himitoshi @drakesfiance @destiel1597 @dangertoozmanykids101 @archy3001 @jcalpha1 @yzssie @skullvieplu @forthesnakeofdragons @skulliebythesea @wegingerangelica @storiesfrommirkwood @agarwaeneth @adaliamalfoy @laurfangirl424 @paradisaicsam @fitzsimmons-is-forever @ladylokimischief @katelinwrites @tarynkauai @polaristrange @loavesofmeat @canadian-ravenpuff-multishipper @lou-makes-me-strong @holyn0vak @chocolatealmondmillk @swtnrholland @kenzieam @jessiejunebug  @catticas @the-republic-and-face-of-texas @doralupin01 @whitewitchdown @atomiccharmer @falconfeather23435 @babygirlicecream @avengrcs @vethrvolnir2 @bookgirlunicorn @wabisabigrl @myhealingstar @khaleesi-marvel @ei77777 @spacecrumbs @scarlettghost13 @rocks-are-pretty-odd @confessionsofastrugglingteen @easilydistractedwriter @arttasticgreatnessoftheawesome77 @fluffyllamaswearinghats @milktearose @lcyouinhell @h0tshotholland @dontmesswithmemundane @southsidesarcasticwriter @helnik-s @lilith-akemi @fire-in-her-veinz @unlikelysamwinchesteronahunt @mischievousbellerina @kcd15 @mellowgirl01 @lokislilcaribbeanprincess @allthingzhiddleston @scorpionchild81 @lokixme @blue-automne @galaxycharmed @devilbat @kangaroobunny @end-up-well @planetariumx @sarcsep @mrfandomtastic @amaru163 @im-way-too-many-fandoms @caswinchester2000 @kybaeza @wester-than-west @vintagesunshinebitch @adefectivedetective @poetic-nikolai @moonduhsted @kerri-masson @iamverity @innaminitus @spnbarnes @narcissxblack @woohoney @anxiousamandapanda @padmeisgay @authordreaming13 @lokisironthrone @theunknowinglys @highfuncti0ningfangirl @epicfallenismine

[artificialqueens]

I Just Wanna Dance With You 2/2 (Branjie) - Athena2

Summary: Brooke and Vanessa begin their scam. As it brings success and brings them closer together, will the risk drive them apart?

A/N: Thanks for the amazing feedback on the first part! I had a lot of doubts with this fic, to be honest, and I’m so glad people are liking it! I really hope you like this last part, and I’d appreciate any feedback you have! Thank you again to Ortega and thackeryisatop, and to Writ for being the best beta!!

—

The night feels different.

Vanessa keeps trading glances with Brooke as they get ready, each stare weighted with anticipation and knowledge of tonight’s plan.

It’s not a particularly tricky plan. Just three steps:

1. Brooke will strut out on the floor in a red bikini, staking out the most expensive shoes, suits, and ties to find their already-drunk top-tier businessman. She’ll cozy up to the guy, they’ll share some more drinks, she’ll laugh when she needs to and lay a hand on his arm all dainty, as simple as breathing. Then she’ll ask the guy if he wants to get a room with her and her friend.

2. Vanessa will wait at the door for Brooke, leading the man inside and onto the couch, immediately handing him a glass of the extra-potent alcohol Kameron and Priyanka whipped up in exchange for a small cut. She won’t let the cup empty more than halfway.

3. They’ll do whatever the client wants, charm and sex and beauty and more, and when he drunkenly surrenders his credit card, they’ll slide that limitless plastic right into their pockets. Then Silky and A’keria–who got in on things after calling Vanessa out on having a secret–will make sure the man’s car is at the private entrance to ship him off. Simple and efficient, smooth as a dance, everyone doing their part to complete the performance.

The clients have enough money that they’ll take actual days to notice what they spent, and it will be such a small amount to them that they won’t investigate–especially not if they have to admit to spending it at a strip club. Vanessa finds that it helps, makes things easier knowing she’s not taking money from someone who needs it. It also helps that she and Brooke have agreed no one will get physically hurt.

Some part of Vanessa knows it’s wrong, as she swipes on blush. But the other part, the part that lingers at her phone’s lock screen of her and her and her mom smiling, sees it as just a tiny evil to keep her mom alive. To help them all survive. These Wall Street people are rich enough to keep coming even during a stock market crash, still have their yachts and don’t pay taxes, so is it that much harm to take what’s just pocket change to them? Vanessa tries to convince herself it’s okay even though it still feels wrong.

Her stomach is turning as they help their first client onto the plush velvet couch and stick a drink in his hand. Brooke said this guy grabbed her until she bruised once, and that helps too–there’s less guilt in taking this man’s money when she knows he’s got a mean streak, knows that he’s hurt someone she cares about.

Because she really does care about Brooke. Brooke is always looking out for her, bringing her coffee just because and sending her pictures of her cats and letting her talk about her mom. Brooke even came up with this whole idea just to help her.

And help her it does.

She and Brooke move in perfect unity, their movements curving around each other easily. She trusts Brooke completely, and finds Brooke having that same trust in her, with each movement, each touch, each glance. A complete synchronization, connection, within this room, and just like on the pole, Vanessa isn’t afraid to fall. Because Brooke will catch her, bring her back up, just like she would for Brooke.

The man not only gives them his credit card but also throws twenties at them, a green carpet at their feet, and Vanessa sighs in relief when it’s over, some of the tightness leaving her chest. They really did it, and if they can keep this up a bit longer, she can take care of her mom.

“Brooke?” Vanessa asks when they’re safely back in the dressing room.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Brooke’s face softens, and Vanessa wants to kiss that face so bad. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m glad I could help.”

Vanessa nods, brushing her hand against Brooke’s so she knows how much Vanessa means her thanks.

“Hey, do you wanna get pizza or something?” Brooke asks hopefully. “My treat–well, I guess it’s Preston’s treat. Or Greg’s. Whatever business-man name that guy has, I forgot it.”

Vanessa bursts into laughter so fierce she can barely accept the offer.

—

The pizza place is minutes from closing when they arrive, but the pimply teenager behind the counter just stares at them in awe, eyes fixed on Brooke’s legs in their boots and the sparkly edge of Vanessa’s black leotard beneath her coat. They could probably make off with all the greasy tables and she wouldn’t so much as blink. Vanessa gets it–hell, she has that same awe around Brooke, and she knows that she herself looks damn fine. They stuff a twenty in the tip jar, and the teenager gives them two extra slices for free, oil and cheese and oregano wafting from the box as they head back outside.

“I live pretty close by,” Brooke says, “if you want to eat at my place?”

Vanessa nods, her heart skipping a beat. She knows this is just for convenience, so they don’t have to eat in the cold. She knows they’re just friends. But part of her hopes this can become more, and she can’t wait until she gets to see Brooke’s apartment and have another glimpse into her.

Brooke’s apartment is somewhere between messy and neat, dirty dishes in the sink distracting from her spotless counters and shiny floors. They settle in at the kitchen table, munching on their pizza and laughing at how the kid at the pizza place had her mouth wide open the whole time.

“That’s how you watched my routines, you know,” Brooke teases.

Vanessa swats at her. “Yeah, well, that’s how you watched me when I practiced in front of you.”

Brooke blushes, and Vanessa smiles because she didn’t even know Brooke could blush like this, her cheeks beet-red. “Maybe it was,” Brooke admits.

Just then, paws click over the floor, and two cats come running in. Brooke jumps out of her chair to greet them.

“Saved by the cat,” Vanessa mutters, though she gets up and pets them both, cooing as they purr beneath her touch. She definitely needs to get that cat she’s wanted, and surely Brooke, currently cradling Henry to her chest like a baby, will come along. Vanessa steps back, only to trip over Apollo. She lets out a yelp and finds herself falling into Brooke’s strong arms, like she was so tempted to do that day of practice. Brooke’s grip tightens, steadying her, and Vanessa leans into it, lets the warmth surround her.

“Sorry,” Brooke mumbles.

Vanessa shakes her head. “It’s fine,” she says, heart speeding up as she gathers her courage. “Can we dance?”

“Dance?”

“Yes,” Vanessa says. “I know you got those dance moves, Miss Ballet. Let’s dance.”

Brooke’s smile is huge as she pulls Vanessa into a smooth turn over the kitchen floor, the heat of her body pressing against Vanessa as they sway gently back and forth, faint moonlight shining on them. Vanessa never wants to let go, wants to keep feeling the pulse of Brooke’s heart, keep feeling the smoothness of her hands forever. Brooke’s lips are right there, still coated with her red lipstick. Vanessa wants to kiss her so bad. Has wanted to since her first day at the club, honestly. Bravery soars through her after tonight’s success, and Vanessa stretches up as Brooke leans down, their kiss brighter and stronger than the club’s stage lights, lighter and freer than twirling around the pole.

Vanessa pulls away with a gasp, and blushes when she sees Brooke’s eyes are as wide as saucers, looking at Vanessa like she’s seeing her for the first time.

“That was��” Brooke starts.

“Yeah.” Vanessa throws herself back upward into another kiss.

—

Brooke puts her makeup on in a daze. She keeps looking at her array of bottles and brushes and checking her face in the mirror, because she doesn’t know what she has and hasn’t done yet. The only thing she knows for sure is that she kissed Vanessa.

It’s been a few days, and they already have a coffee date set up for tomorrow, but Brooke can’t stop thinking about their slow dance in her kitchen with the cats at their feet, or how Vanessa moved to kiss her the same second Brooke had worked up the courage to kiss her too, like she’s thought of since she first saw Vanessa.

“That’s my blush!”

Brooke looks at the little canister in her hand and realizes it’s Kameron’s, and that Kameron is looking at her in outrage.

“Sorry,” Brooke mumbles, passing it back to her.

“Are you okay?”

Brooke bites her lip, figuring she might as well admit it, because it will only come out eventually.

“IkissedVanessa.”

Priyanka hears the word kiss and launches herself over to Brooke and Kameron. “Did you say you kissed Vanessa?” she demands.

Brooke nods, heat flooding her cheeks.

“This is amazing! Can I be the flower girl at your wedding?”

“It was just a kiss, Pri.” It was just a kiss, but Brooke feels something more blooming in her chest. She feels it every time she hears Vanessa laugh or cheer as she beats a new Candy Crush level, every time Vanessa rests her head against Brooke’s shoulder and lets Brooke slip an arm around her waist. It’s been a while since she’s been in a relationship, and just being around Vanessa makes Brooke happy.

“What was just a kiss?” And there’s Nina, with superb timing.

By the time Brooke retells everything, they all have to rush to get ready, but Brooke doesn’t mind. Especially not after Vanessa arrives and greets her with another kiss.

—

Vanessa had taken her job at the club with a clear purpose in mind, and a relationship was not that purpose. But she can’t deny how happy Brooke makes her, how excited she is to see her every day. She likes the confident and sexy Brooke charming the world onstage as Destiny, whose lust-soaked words and brilliant smiles lure in absolutely anyone, but she also likes the soft and adorable Brooke offstage, who squealed over every cat in the shelter when Vanessa picked out Thackery and sometimes mixes up her left and right.

Things are fun, even with the empty seats staring at her from the stage. But the rooms are where the real magic happens, and each treatment of her mom’s gets paid in full because of that magic.

Still, it’s jarring to let that black door slam and turn her attention to the client on the velvet couch. Jarring to let his hands trace up her red and black leather corset and pretend she likes it. Jarring that she can’t show too much emotion when she looks at Brooke in her black lace, lest the client think her attention is on someone other than him and take her payment away.

They’ll treat you like dirt but pay you like you’re gold, she remembers Brooke saying, and the more clients she leads into the room, the more she sees it’s true. Most of them are vile, eyes roaming over her like she’s a stock to buy, another piece to add to their collection. Most of them don’t bother with her name, just call her girl if they’re nice or worse if they’re not. But Vanessa doesn’t mind that part so much. She doesn’t want her name in their alcohol-slick mouths.

She focuses on tiny things, like the thump of the music in her chest. The smooth black polish over Brooke’s nails. The rhinestones on her corset twinkling under the lights. And when the night is over, she gets to be with Brooke, and every bad thing is erased by her love.

—

“These look like hooker boots, right?” Priyanka asks, modeling the bright red leather boots climbing up her legs.

“Do you want them to?” Brooke asks seriously.

Priyanka nods.

“Then yes.”

Priyanka squeals, and Brooke turns back to Vanessa, avoiding Kameron and Silky and A’keria, who are roaming through the store yelling about dresses like kids let loose on a field trip.

“You regretting this big shopping trip yet?” Vanessa asks, as A’keria curses and just saves herself from dropping her coffee on a thousand-dollar dress.

“Maybe a little.” True, this was Brooke’s idea, a little celebratory trip for them all, since the scams are going so well and everyone has loads of extra money to blow on fancy things they can usually only stare at. Brooke still thinks it’s a good idea. As long as Priyanka doesn’t hit anyone while she tries to wrestle those leather boots off her feet.

Vanessa grins and takes her hand. “Let’s look at the coats and pretend we don’t know these clowns.” She leads Brooke past racks and racks of sparkly shoes with sky-high heels and toes pointy enough to cut; past long silk dresses that don’t even have price tags, because if you need to ask, you can’t afford; past leather handbags that cost more than any amount that would ever sit inside them.

Vanessa’s hands run over a gray fake-fur coat, a lot like the one Brooke has.

“It’s so soft, Brooke! Like a giant kitty!”

Brooke strokes it too, like the world’s softest cat. Vanessa’s smile is huge, and Brooke grins too.

“Come on, I’ll buy it for you,” she says.

Vanessa’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Brooke, I–I can’t ask you to–”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.” Brooke comes in closer, wraps an arm around Vanessa. “I want to buy this for you. I think you’re amazing, and I’m so proud of you, for everything, Vanessa. Let me, please.”

Vanessa nods, grinning like a fool as she tries it on, twirling around with her arms out to show the full view of the soft material making her even more beautiful than she already is.

“A perfect fit,” Brooke says, and she kisses Vanessa without a care in the world.

—

Champagne fizzles happily as Brooke pours it into glasses. Her apartment glows with the string lights Vanessa almost dislocated her shoulder trying to hang up, and it feels more like home than ever.

Vanessa grins as she sips her glass and waits for the others to arrive, and Brooke almost can’t believe this is real. Can’t believe she and Vanessa are together, that things are going this well. There’s a part of her that becomes detached from everything at the club, her mind lost behind a dull cloud of booze and thudding music and dim neon lights. When she’s with Vanessa, things come back into full color again, so bright it’s like Brooke’s seeing it for the first time. She thinks–she thinks might love Vanessa, even if it’s only been a few months.

“Hey, Brooke?” Vanessa asks nervously. “I have a little something for you.”

Brooke’s cheeks warm up at the idea of Vanessa getting her a present, and the warmth burns as Vanessa hands her a slim gold box. Tucked inside is a simple gold chain with a tiny pointe shoe charm.

“To remind you of your twinkle toe days,” Vanessa says with a hesitant grin.

“I love it,” Brooke says simply.

Vanessa’s arms fly around her in a fierce hug. “Can I put it on you?”

“I’ll have to sit on the floor so you can reach,” Brooke teases, crouching down on toned legs while Vanessa’s hands brush over the back of her neck. It reminds her of putting the money in Vanessa’s boots, but it also reminds her, in some strange way, of watching Vanessa try her new moves on the pole, mesmerized by the gentle curves of her arms and legs and shoulders, ready to catch her if needed. Except now Vanessa is mesmerized, if how long it’s taking her to clasp the necklace is any indication. And it’s Brooke that’s fallen, fallen into the very hands putting her necklace on. Maybe Brooke should say it, tell Vanessa she loves her before she can overthink it–

“Guess who’s here, bitches! Now it’s a party!” Priyanka dashes in with a Monopoly set under her arm, followed by Nina and Kameron with the cupcakes, then Silky and A’keria lugging overstuffed Tupperwares.

“What’s with the Monopoly?” Brooke asks as she lays out all the food on her big dining room table. She’s never had food spread out from one end to the other, never had enough people over to fill all the chairs, to feel like a family, and a rush of affection for everyone pools in her chest.

“Well, with all our scamming and shit, it seemed fitting.”

Fitting it is.

Silky insists on checking every Community Chest and Chance card herself, lest someone fake a card and try to take her hard-earned paper money. Kameron has to be reminded every time it’s her turn because she’s too busy playing with the cats and smiling at Asia’s texts on her phone, resulting in Vanessa just hurling the dice for her and accepting a five-dollar fee for her services. Nina’s too nice (or too drunk) to remind anyone to pay her when they land on her property, while Priyanka and A’keria pass the bottle of champagne back and forth and talk about how nice it would be to live in one of the tiny red Monopoly houses. And Brooke?

Well, Brooke crushes them all.

Maybe she’s picked something up from her clients, learned how to be ruthless and take big risks like they’re always talking about. Maybe she’s just good at games, at learning the rules of any situation and turning it into her advantage.

“Maybe you cheated,” Vanessa says, when no one has the strength or patience for another round and just wants to shove cupcakes in their faces.

“I didn’t cheat!”

“Cheater.” But Vanessa is smiling, and they smear frosting over each other’s lips with their kiss.

—

The day her mom goes into remission should be the day Vanessa calls the scam off. She takes her mom home and they watch movies in their pajamas all day, smiles shining through the tear tracks on their faces. But instead of backing out of the scam the next day, she tells herself it makes sense to keep it up just a bit longer. Her mom is still out of work for a while, still has follow-up appointments and meds to pay for. And there’s no harm in saving as much as she can, period. Plus, the guilt over the scam is growing smaller and smaller by the day. Some part of her enjoys it, almost, enjoys taking money from an asshole client that tries to grab her ass and calls her names, one that throws money around while she has to do all this just for medical care. She likes sticking it to them, showing that they don’t own her.

But the biggest reason she can’t walk away is Brooke. She really likes Brooke, might even love her, and she’s sure Brooke feels the same. But there are just too many unknowns about how things will change if they’re not working together anymore, and Vanessa wants things to stay how they are, with quiet nights eating takeout after work and shared smiles over coffee, gentle touches in the club’s dim hall and stolen kisses in the dressing room. Things are normal and calm and carefree for the first time in months, and Vanessa doesn’t want to lose it.

They’ll be fine. They’ve made it this far, after all.

—

They’re fine. Night after night, client after client, they’re fine.

Until they’re not.

Brooke is carefully smoothing out bills, her delicate hands moving like it’s second nature to her. She looks stunning in her pink sequined outfit that glitters even in the dim light, and Vanessa decides to risk a kiss, screw what the client says. Brooke smiles against her lips, then pulls away reluctantly.

“I have to be onstage in a few minutes. Can you finish up, Ness?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” Brooke gives her a quick peck on the cheek and dashes off, and Vanessa carries out the final steps of turning the music off, refilling the alcohol pitchers, and giving the client’s card back. Only the client is oddly slumped against the couch. And his eyes don’t open when Vanessa talks to him, or when she nudges his shoulder.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Vanessa’s heart races as she thinks of what to do. It’s probably alcohol poisoning, which means a hospital, but how can she get him there? God, she wishes Brooke were here. The hall is empty, but A’keria should be in the dressing room, ready to get the man’s car when Vanessa signals, so she throws open the door and finds Kameron and A’keria scrolling through their phones.

“I need help! This guy, something’s wrong, he needs a hospital–”

A’keria is instantly at her side, rubbing her back soothingly. “Shh, calm down, Vanj. The guy has his own car, right?”

“Yeah, but I can’t get him there myself.”

Kameron nods. “I should be able to lift him.”

Vanessa watches helplessly, trembling all over, as Kameron’s muscles flex and she easily maneuvers the man to the private entrance. A’keria flags down his car and explains to the driver that he had too much to drink. The driver nods and says he’ll take him to a hospital, and that’s it. It hardly takes more than a minute, and Kameron is already back in the dressing room, while Vanessa is still clinging to the wall, frozen with fear.

Vanessa should be relieved. She is relieved. They acted fast enough and the man should be fine. But part of her can’t lose the panic yet. All the scams so far have been simple, straightforward, successful. They’ve never had one go bad like this, and it hits her all at once that they’re really playing with fire here. The flames might be beautiful, but they can still burn.

“What if–do you think he’ll call the cops or something?” Vanessa asks A’keria.

She shakes her head, grabs Vanessa’s trembling hands. “Probably not. Even if he does, I doubt he’ll get far with ‘I got drunk and spent too much money at a strip club’. We’ll be fine.”

Vanessa nods shakily. Brooke will be able to handle it if the man does complain. They had someone do that already, and all it took was Brooke’s high-pitched, laughter-filled reminder of how fun it all was for him to forget every complaint he ever had. They’ll get through this.

But maybe they don’t need to do this, tempt fate, anymore. What if the guy presses charges, or the doctors can’t help him, or God, what if he dies? What if this happens again? One complaint of getting too drunk and blowing thousands at a strip club will get brushed over, but two? Even more? If it becomes a pattern, Vanessa can just see the flashing red lights, see the cops crawling over the club, destroying everything they’ve built. Things were fine when no one got hurt, when this was just an elevated money exchange, but maybe it’s better to quit while they’re ahead, so no one gets caught.

Maybe it’s better for her to quit the club entirely.

Vanessa thinks about it. She has a lot of money saved up, plus what her makeup job gives her. It would be enough for her and her mom, enough for them to not have to struggle anymore. And she could leave it all–the clients’ sour alcohol breath, their burning eyes, their mean words. Go back to the calmness of her makeup job, back to normal sleep hours, back to safety, like she had planned from the start.

But what about Brooke? Vanessa still wants to be with her, no matter where they’re working. But Brooke likes the thrill of all this, the rush, and Vanessa knows she won’t want to give the scam up. Vanessa doesn’t want a relationship fraught with the worry of something bad happening to Brooke because of it. She wants to be with Brooke, but she doesn’t know if she can take it if she’ll have to be up all night, hand hovering by her phone in case Brooke calls to say she’s in trouble.

She needs to talk to Brooke.

—

Brooke’s stomach is twisting for all the wrong reasons.

They’re up on the roof, cool wind refreshing after the club’s stuffy air, giving them new life. Brooke had asked Vanessa up here because she finally wanted to tell Vanessa she loves her. But Vanessa had something to say too, her lip shredded from biting it in worry, and Brooke let her go first.

Except now she wishes she didn’t.

“You … you’re gonna leave the club?” Brooke asks, trying to hide the crack in her voice. She knew this was coming, that this couldn’t last forever. Hell, Vanessa said early on that she wasn’t planning to stay, that she loved her makeup job and was only doing this out of necessity. And Brooke understands that. But part of her hoped that the dazzling lights and sparkly costumes and the rustle of bills would keep Vanessa here. Hoped that she herself would keep Vanessa here. They can still have a relationship if they’re not working together, of course, but does Vanessa want that? Maybe she won’t, and Brooke won’t say anything.

Vanessa nods, tears springing in her eyes. “Yeah. I just … I don’t want to do this anymore. The clients and everything, and the risk of the scam … I just can’t.”

“I understand.” Brooke really does. This job can be hard, and it’s not for everyone. Of course she respects Vanessa’s decision–she loves Vanessa, truly wants her to be happy.

“There’s something else.” Vanessa stares at her boots, and Brooke’s heart sinks. This is it. Vanessa is going to break up with her.

Brooke nods.

“I–I want you to give up the scam.”

“What?”

“Please, Brooke,” Vanessa begs, her eyes pleading. “Last week could have gone so much worse. And what if it happens again, and you get caught? I–I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you.”

Brooke runs a hand through her hair. She’s made more than enough to get by, but how long will it last without the scam if things stay slow? “That’s a lot to give up,” Brooke says quietly.

“I know it is,” Vanessa agrees. “And I know the scam is why my mom is still here and we’re not drowning in debt. It’s why I have this coat, why you have that necklace. But Brooke–it’s not worth it. What if one of the clients gets mad and comes back here and hurts you? What if the police catch on and arrest you? I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“But we haven’t gotten caught,” Brooke insists.

Vanessa wipes her eyes. “I know. But it doesn’t mean you never will.”

Brooke considers it, thoughts flying through her mind as Vanessa finishes wiping her tears.

Brooke likes a thrill.

Cigarettes were her first thrill, or so she says. She liked the feel of it between her fingers, liked huddling in alleys alone, liked the rush of flicking the lighter and watching the embers glow as the cigarette ignited. She finally quit when she was in the running for principal dancer at the ballet company, nicotine patches up her arm like a tattoo sleeve.

Ballet was probably her real first, though, if she really thinks about. The anticipation fluttering in her heart as she laced up her pointe shoes, the adrenaline pulsing as she took the stage, the sheer rush of joy when the audience applauded, making the dull aches and hours of practice worth it.

The scam is her current one, and the thrill is unmatched. She likes it. She likes how her heart speeds up in the seconds just before she pulls them in, when the yes is hovering on their lips. She likes outsmarting the men who treat her like a dumb blonde, treat her like a thing, treat her like nothing at all. She likes counting their bills, likes the gritty feel of them between her fingers, because she won.

It’s a thrill Vanessa is asking her to quit.

But Brooke looks at Vanessa, eyes shining hopefully, shining with love, and knows she can give it up for her.

For Vanessa, who’s asking her to leave the scam because she cares about Brooke so much she doesn’t want anything to happen to her. Vanessa, who makes Brooke’s heart calm down and settle in her chest, unlike the fierce racing during the scams. Vanessa, with all her love and passion and joy, her bright smiles that make Brooke smile too.

For Vanessa, Brooke can give up that danger, and she pulls Vanessa into a hug, breathing her in and treasuring her, knowing she’s absolutely everything.

“Can’t breathe,” Vanessa wheezes, laughing as Brooke releases her.

“I want to give up the scam,” Brooke says firmly. “You mean so much more to me than that, and I don’t want to lose you.”

“Oh, Brooke.” Vanessa returns the hug, holding Brooke tight. “I love you.”

“You … you still love me even if I work here?” Brooke asks incredulously. Working at a strip club was a deal-breaker for all her past relationships–though they never really got to the relationship stage, because no one wanted to be in a relationship with someone that pleased clients all night. But Vanessa is nodding, smiling, grabbing Brooke’s hand in reassurance.

“Of course I do, Brooke. I love you, okay? I don’t mind at all if you work here, because I know you’ll come home to me every night.”

“I will,” Brooke promises. “And I love you too. I’ve wanted to tell you that for a while, actually.”

Vanessa looks up at her with those warm eyes, the ones Brooke could see from the stage every night. Brooke takes Vanessa’s hand and pulls her into a slow dance. Under the moonlight, she leans down to kiss Vanessa, and Brooke knows that Vanessa will always be the right choice.

—

Later

The stripper is the most beautiful woman Vanessa’s ever seen.

She simply glides across the stage, hooking a long leg around the pole and pulling herself up with toned arms that flex in the spotlight. Her movements flow perfectly with the music, the song and her body becoming one as she flashes a smile. Every person in the club will think it’s meant for them, but Vanessa knows it’s just for her.

She especially knows it when the woman leaves the stage, sauntering between chairs on her long legs. She drops herself on Vanessa’s lap, bearing into her with striking green eyes that hypnotize Vanessa right on the spot, making her words stick in her throat.

“Can I take you home tonight?” Vanessa finally asks her.

Brooke smiles, and Vanessa falls deeper in love. “Absolutely.”

[helaintoloki]

Season of the Witch | Michael Langdon

chapter ten: Rhiannon

masterlist

pairing: Michael Langdon x witch!reader

warnings: language, angst, violence, graphic descriptions, adult content, deception, toxic relationships, abuse, death, witchcraft, satanism and all that other good ahs stuff

notes: this chapter contains smut👺 

The return of Michael Langdon and Misty Day had led to the literal fall of Cordelia Goode, the reigning supreme collapsing in weakness as Michael rose to power. The alpha. The word made y/n nauseous, and she could not force herself to so much as look at him as she helped carry her mother to the nearest couch to rest.

“You’ve gotten so big,” Misty had cooed tearfully, hands cradling y/n’s face as she observed every change, every new detail and alteration her body had gone through. “I remember when you were just a little lily, and now you’re all grown.”

“I get that a lot,” y/n had laughed, tears falling down her face. It seemed as if her coven was growing, going through a Renaissance of power and strength and unity. But at what cost? “I’m so happy you’re back. We need you now more than ever.”

“Oh, honey,” Misty whispered, thumbs gently wiping away the young witch’s tears. “Whatever happens next, stay away from that boy.”

And now y/n sits at the bottom of the stairway, elbows resting on her thighs and chin held in the palms of her hands with Binx sleeping beside her as she listens to the White Witch serenade Misty, a gift to the girl who’d been through hell. Literally.

Cordelia and Madison had disappeared, leaving the girl to her own devices. Y/N could feel Michael staring at her from the top balcony, his hard gaze making her feel small and pathetic, her strength and independency shadowed by his raw power and intent. Her mind still could not wrap around the fact that her incantation had failed. Y/N had never failed in her life, not when it came to witchcraft. So why now?

“Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night, and wouldn’t you love to love her?” Stevie’s melodic voice echoes, and y/n silently hands her cat son to Myrtle as she rises from her seat and ascends up the stairs towards the cause of her misfortune and failure.

“Takes to the sky like a bird in flight, and who will be her lover?”

“I thought you’d be happier for me,” his voice sounds, startling y/n. She turns to find him standing in the dimly lit hallway, a look of mock hurt on his face. “Especially since I still managed to pass the tests despite you trying to poison me.”

“You knew?” She asks, eyes wide and bewildered.

“You really are dumber than I thought,” Michael chuckles, stepping closer. She doesn’t feel herself begin to take steps back, not until her back hits the wall and they’re pressed chest to chest, Michael staring down at her with an intensity so great she has to look away. “But you are your mother’s daughter.”

“All your life you’ve never seen a woman taken by the wind.”

“You’re horrible,” she whispers hoarsely, tears silently falling down her cheeks to her dismay. Michael only laughs, pulling her in closer by the chin to lick the salty drops away. And her breath hitches in her throat, body growing stiff and eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of his hot tongue tainting her cool skin.

“I know,” he whispers back, nose brushing against her own. “It excites you, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not yours,” y/n murmurs weakly, affirmation lost on her tongue and in his ears. “I’m not like you.”

“You’re better?” He mocks.

“You don’t have to be this way,” she pleads, eyelids flitting open so she can gaze into his blue eyes, gaze into his soul. “The warlocks idolize you because they believe your rise to the top will bring the coven to its end. But it doesn’t have to be that way, you don’t have to follow the path they’ve made for you. I-I can help you, Michael. I want to love you.”

“Would you stay if she promised you heaven, will you ever win?”

“Love is for children,” he sneers, “I don’t need you.”

“But you want me?” Y/N whispers, and Michael falters. There’s a difference between need and want, a difference in yearning, longing. The ache you feel deep inside your chest at the thought of not being able to have something. It’s what he feels every time he looks at her, so pristine and pretty and powerful, overshadowed by the ranking of her mother.

“She is like a cat in the dark, and then she is the darkness.”

And he wants her. He so desperately wants her by his side, not only as an ally but as a lover. Someone to turn to for comfort, for compassion, to sit upon his lap as they watch the world burn together. To have on his arm, to carry his legacy in her womb. Mind, body, and soul.

Yet he feels her resistance, her defiance in the face of authority. Her mind and soul are locked away tightly in a place he cannot easily reach. But her body is his, he can smell her arousal, and he dips down to press his lips against her own.

“She rules her life like a fine skylark and when the sky is starless.”

Her hands find his hair, eyes shutting as her fingers entangle themselves in his blond locks. They’re soft and smooth against her fingertips, a sharp contrast to his hot tongue shoving itself down her throat. Saliva coats their lips as they swap spit, hands desperately groping at each other for something to grasp, something to ground them in the moment before it can slip away.

“All your life you’ve never seen a woman taken by the wind. Would stay if she promised you heaven, will you ever win?”

Y/N isn’t sure how she ends up in his bed, the door locked shut and the room bathed in candle light as Stevie’s voice becomes nothing but a distant echo. The candles should have been romantic, but instead it made the surroundings eerie and uncomfortable. His hands desperately groping her breasts and his teeth raking along her jaw are enough of a distraction though, and any and all rational thoughts she may hold are quickly tossed out the door.

“Michael,” she breathes, eyes fluttering shut as his wet lips trail down her neck to the exposed skin of her breasts. She watches with hooded eyes as his slender fingers diligently untie the front corset of her dress, exposing her naked breasts to his prying eyes. Michael lavishes her figure, illuminated by the soft candlelight. She looks angelic underneath him despite her sinfully puffy lips and perked nipples, and he can’t help but beam at the corruption he’s created within her. If only Cordelia could see her precious little daughter now, wet and wanting and ready for the new supreme, for the alpha.

The same slender fingers used to untie her corset are the same digits that dip into her panties and push past her slick folds. A small, breathless whine escapes her lips before she can stop it, and he gives her a chesire like grin.

“So desperate for your alpha, aren’t you?” He coos, fingers moving at a painfully slow and steady pace that has her writhing against the sheets.

“Michael,” she whispers, head thrown back against the pillows and eyes shut to hide her guilty pleasure. After the clunky, awkward kiss they’d shared just weeks ago, y/n never expected Michael to be so passionate, so experienced. What a nice surprise it was to learn he knew how to use his fingers.

The touch of the pads of his fingers against her interior is quickly taken away, but she has no time to protest as his cock is suddenly pushed past her panties and thrusted into her. Y/N lets out a strangled cry of discomfort, the feeling of being filled so unfamiliar and foreign to her body. But her pain seems to be Michael’s pleasure, and he begins to move without hesitation.

“Look at you,” he growls, one hand gripping at her thigh while the other wraps firmly around her neck to keep her in place as he slams into her with every harsh thrust. “So pathetic. So desperate for love and validation.”

“Please,” y/n whimpers, the pain evolving into pleasure. He fills her up so nicely, so fully. She can feel him everywhere, his tongue lapping at her breasts and his hands grasping at every part of her. He takes every part of her and she lets him. Without struggle, without hesitation.

“I can give you everything, fulfill every desire inside that wretched little mind of yours. Is that what you want? You want me to take care of you?” He coos, his words sweet and gentle despite how roughly he takes her. She’s so wet, and every word seems to make her gush onto his cock.

“Yes, please, yes,” y/n cries, hands grasping at the sleeves of his jacket. They’re sweaty and hot and fully clothed, but neither seemed to pay any mind. The feeling of their bodies connecting and souls intertwining was enough of a distraction.

She jolts at the faintest touch of his thumb against her clit, toes curling and thighs beginning to tremble at the stimulation. And he smiles maliciously, tickling her with feather light strokes in the place she needed him most.

“Michael,” she sobs, hips thrusting upward to meet his touch, to find some semblance of relief.

“Use your words, little lamb,” he coos mockingly, even slowing his strokes to punctuate his method of torture.

“Please, please.”

“Please what?” Michael asks, stilling completely and laughing at the pathetic whimpers that leave her lips.

“Touch me, please,” she begs, and cries in relief at the feeling of his thumb rubbing fast, hard circles into her clit.

“You will be mine,” he growls, pounding into her erratically. “Witches be damned.”

The talk of her sisters makes y/n shift uncomfortably, but the build up of his touch quickly yanks her away from any hesitation or discomfort. In a matter of seconds she’s pushed over the edge, a raw and guttural cry echoing through the room as her body trembles and spasms underneath him.

The way she clenches has Michael’s eyes rolling over black, a new surge of strength washing over him as his thrusts become erratic and uncoordinated, sloppy. Too dazed by her orgasm is y/n to take note of the way his eyes convert into bottomless black orbs, skin paling as dark veins outline his features. But the primal growl that leaves his lips as he comes is not human, and with his last full thrust the candles are blown out. And it’s just the two of them, breathless and sweaty and slick in each other’s bodily fluids as they recover in the dark.

“Mind, body,” Michael whispers with a shaky hand harshly grabbing her face by the cheeks, “and fucking soul.”

And she can only shut her eyes and escape to somewhere gentler, somewhere comforting to mask the first wave of guilt and regret that consumes her entire being.

She pictures somewhere domestic where sunlight shines through the curtains upon their naked figures, limbs and sheets entangled together so that they are one. The darkness is gone and he holds her in his arms, loving and protecting and caring like she desperately wishes for him to be.

He tells her he loves her, and for a moment y/n mistakes the vision as reality, a comforting illusion that soon comes crumbling down at reality’s brutal impact.

“Dreams unwind, love’s a state of mind.”

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

tag list: @ticklish-leafy-plant @gx-nji @anacerta @bluebirdbts @heda-mikaelson @redlovett @fuck-yeah-bruno-buccerati @ateliefloresdaprimavera @quechulitaaa @theeonlyroman @hecohansen31 @frenchzodiacgirl @michaelsapostle @spider-stud @hoeposey

[land-of-brains-and-chocolate]

i’ve finally fucking done it i’ve gotten the tragic backstory out of my system. i’m free. i’m free of the softness. hardcore head chomping only from now on

They feel different, definitely. New. Remade. More alive than ever, more aware. With every thread of their being that is neither one nor the other, neither claimed nor given, they are more. They are the building blocks for someone else.

Still, they are two-in-one. There are experiences they haven't shared. Understandings they've failed to reach. There are still things that require them to communicate. They're not just a person, but a relationship.

They find themselves wishing for perfect unity, sometimes. They know it'd get awfully lonely, though.

"Is now the time?"

It certainly seems like it could be. There's a sense of safety, or as close as they get, these days, in sitting on a rooftop, off the ground, away from everything. It's tinged by anxiety as the symbiote realises what he's referring to.

"I can tell you're trying to think of other things that require our attention," he says, "but we haven't taken the time to rest since we doomed and subsequently saved the world. There are limits."

Eddie thinks back to it. The separation, the invasion, the reunion. There's a tightness in his chest, then, that travels up to his neck, down his arms, into his stomach, all over. The symbiote can't open a channel of communication. It's either blanking out or overwhelmed. Maybe all at once.

It hasn't locked up like that in a long time. Not with him.

"It's okay," he says, trying to relax. "You don't have to." He pictures pressure, lifting with every breath.

"If there's anything you want to talk about, I'm listening."

They look out into the lights of the city, weak against the milky early morning sky. Eddie sits cross-legged, chin propped up on his elbow, weary down to his bones. A soft breeze gives him goosebumps, and in focusing on the sensation, slowly, they fall back in sync.

The memory appears vague, at first. Viewed at a distance. The symbiote doesn't offer it to him, exactly, doesn’t draw attention to it, but it's right there, right there in their mind. When he recognises it, Eddie automatically reinforces it with the brief flashes he got to see, a memory of a memory, until it is reconstructed.

The symbiote sits in a cage. It is sad, and angry, and afraid, but in a sharp, alien way, not yet shaped and given context by anything familiar. It is assaulted, from all sides, by the knowledge that it shouldn't be - not-it could be, and it could not-be - with nothing else for it to know.

The present symbiote thinks of it with disgust and pity, both. For what has yet to happen to it, for it to not realise it. For it to have been like this, when it could've not been. For it to not have learned to hide in time, having had to be taught.

Eddie thinks of the symbiote, the one he never got to know, too. What an innocent creature, he thinks.

And even in its cage, the symbiote thinks of the mind of another, the inescapable draw of it. The other's capability for endless strangeness. The wish to share their emotions, to have them directed at it.

It thinks of that.

For everyone to see.

For everyone to punish.

The memory fades away. Others take its place, but they aren't available in any coherent and concrete form. They are, more than anything, a series of states, flickering into their mind as one impact after the other. 

The symbiote is seen. It is described. It is opened. It is seen. It is described. It is opened. It is seen. It is described. It is seen. It is convicted. It is seen. It is filled.

Every muscle in Eddie's body locks up. His jaw feels like it's gripped in a vice. He can't breathe, but his heart is beating like it's trying to escape his chest cavity. The pain is solid, physical. It allows him to distance himself.

Eddie thinks. He thinks them back to the cage. He clings to every impression. The sky, oddly purple, perhaps cloudy. The crowd of aliens, the way the symbiotes seeped in and out of them, the faint fear and despair the hosts broadcasted into the network, the pleasure the symbiotes took from it. The slight twitch of their facial protrusions. Their smell, vaguely like leather.

Eddie puts together detail after detail, until the monotone drone of their mind lessens, until they come back to themselves.

Eddie aches.

It's sorry. It's so sorry.

Eddie hardly hears it. Eddie is standing, in some way, amidst the crowd. He looks up at the symbiote in its cage. It liked this species, he thinks. Anger flares up inside him, but only for a moment. It’s already over, after all.  

No one reacts to him when he takes a step forward. No one reacts to him when he climbs the odd apparatus. The symbiote is small and confused and not the one he knows, not quite, but it's more real than any of them.

"A sonic cage," he says, "right?"

Eddie reaches through it, effortlessly.

"Bad design on their part," he says. "It might stop you, but it won't stop your Other."

He can't quite reach it, at the back, where it's slumped into a puddle, so he crosses the barrier. It's a tingle across his skin. The symbiote looks up at him, wide-eyed.

He touches it. It doesn’t flinch away. It's never had to flinch away, and this time, it never will. It's curious, it's hopeful. It runs up his arm, presses up against his chest. It can feel his heartbeat. It wants to feel more.

"I'm here to protect you," he says, and it's never thought of anything like that, but it feels like something it's been holding inside, somewhere. Some yearning.

In bright sunlight, Eddie blinks his eyes open.

The symbiote is draped across him, purring in short bursts, as if feverish, shivering. Slowly, Eddie raises his arms around it. He runs his fingertips over it, then dips them inside, carding through its silky mass, over and over, top to bottom.

For the moment, the symbiote's mental blocks dissipate. Their thoughts tangle around each other, nudge each other, strengthen each other.

Most prominently among them: They're dead.

The corner of Eddie's mouth curls upwards.

There's nothing but vicious joy attached to the thought.

They picture it, all of them, disintegrating. In such immense pain, they'd rather let themselves fall apart than bear it. And it was driven by the symbiote's pain. The very pain they inflicted on it was their downfall.

Justice at its most efficient and most excruciating, truly.

For a second, the symbiote thinks, they were all one, they were all connected. It was part of the largest empathic network it's ever established. They all felt the same. But it survived. They didn't. They'd never been made to hurt like this. They'd only done the hurting.

It was stronger than them.

"Of course," Eddie says, eyes soft. "Of course you are. People like that are never strong. They may be powerful, but they're always... weak."

He pauses, thoughtfully, then gathers a pile of goo in his hands, and it rises, rounds out, grows eyespots, until he's cupping the symbiote's cheeks.

"You're worth all their lives and more."

There's something like a dull thump, like a massive leap of his heart, out of rhythm. The symbiote killed them. Not alone, but it did. That was one thing. It was right to do so, it knew that, knew that for all the species they subjugated. They brought and deserved nothing but death. But still... Some part of it still thought...

For so long, all it knew of itself was that it was wrong. All this time, it haunted it. Drove it not to be like them, but not to be like itself, either. To be like nothing and no one, in order to be so much as accepted. And now, that wrongness is supposed to be a badge of pride. Of triumph.

It churns with it. All the more, when Eddie brings their faces closer. Wanting still burns, sometimes. Wanting anything. Being anything. But his lips brush against it, and the burn subsides.

"I think," he says, quietly, mouth moving against its smooth surface, "it's up to us to decide what's wrong, now." He pulls back. "Who needs to be punished. Who needs to be protected. It's up to us alone. They’re gone."

It's up to Venom. Venom never would’ve let any of this happen.

"And it's up to me," he continues, "to decide whether I want you."

The symbiote stills, only for a moment, before it realises how hard he's trying not to smile, and headbutts him, gently.

"Which I do. Shame certainly won’t stop me.”

Fair enough.

[mieteve-minijoma]

Songfic Day 15: Smooth Criminal

Day 15: A song that’s a cover by another artist: Smooth Criminal - Alien Ant Farm

PART ONE: 

Tension between the Serpents and the Ghoulies has been on the rise and a full out war is imminent. 

Investigative Reporter Betty Cooper decides to dig deeper into the two gangs when she finds herself in hot water with the Ghoulies. Betty is on the run and takes shelter with the Serpents under the condition that she tells them everything she knows. 

It doesn’t take long for tensions to rise between the beautiful sassy reporter and the sarcastic broody Serpent Prince. But what starts as a tension being fueled by irritation and annoyance quickly turns into something entirely different.

*****

Jesus Betty, what the hell were you thinking? Malichi already put out a hit on you and you are going to walk into the bar owned by his sworn enemies? Betty could hear Kevin’s words echoed in her head as she stared up at the neon sign that read ‘The Whyte Worm’.

Betty Cooper was the owner and operator of the Riverdale Register and it’s sole news reporter. She had taken over a few months prior after her parents were killed in a suspicious car accident while on following up a lead on a story. 

It was difficult at first for Betty to uproot her entire life in the city but she knew she had to finish what her parents had started.

So for the last six months, she'd been investigating the gang problems on the southside of Riverdale after people started to go missing or dying mysteriously. 

For Betty, the last straw was when the body of Kevin’s boyfriend, Joaquin DeSantos, was found mutilated in a ditch outside of a construction site near the old drive in. 

Betty had figured out that most, if not all, of the sketchy dealing coming from the southside were all coming straight from the Ghoulies, a group of crazed mad max rejects who dealt in drugs, stolen cars, and mayhem. If it was dirty, the Ghoulies had a hand in it somewhere.  

She learned that, while they did have some shady business dealings, the Serpents were definitely the lesser of two evils. They had been known to help protect people and right now, that is exactly what she was needing. 

All she had to go on was the letter with instructions on what to do if she ever found herself in trouble so here she stood, steps away from potential danger.

Betty took a deep breath and stepped inside.

*****

“Hey, FP! There’s something downstairs you and JJ need to see, quick!” Jughead and FP jumped up front their spots in the office and ran downstairs. They both stopped at the sight in front of them: there, halfway to the bar, stood a curvaceous blonde in a tweed skirt and pastel blouse attempting to stand toe to toe with Tall Boy, a massive Serpent who stood head and shoulders over her.

“Hey!” The sound of Jughead’s deep voice broke the spell in the room, “What the actual fuck is going on here, Tall Boy?” Jughead noticed that the girl, even being outnumbered, didn’t flinch once. Jughead was almost impressed... almost.

“Blondie here seems to have stepped into the wrong bar. I told here we don’t allow northsider’s here, especially not reporters, and she refused to leave. When I tried to make her, she punched me,” Tall Boy turned his head slightly to show the Jones men his bloody lip and scowled some more.

“Well, excuse the hell out of me if this dickhead didn’t listen to my warning when I told him not to touch me,” the blondie firecracker spouted off, “I tried to tell him I am not here on a story, I am here to find someone and ask them for some help. Nothing more, nothing less”

“And what exactly is it that makes you think we will do a damn thing to help you , Princess?” Jughead crossed his arms over his chest, brow raised in question. “We aren’t exactly in the business of helping northsiders no more then you are in reporting the truth about southsiders.”

“Because asshat, I have information that I think you might want to have, information on the Ghoulies and how to take them down.” Jughead watched as the blonde slowly turned and his mouth went dry. He had never seen a woman as beautiful as her in his entire life. And to top it off she had guts, that much was clear.

“And why would we care, Blondie?” Jughead challenged.

“Because Belladonna sent me,” she said, her head held high. Jughead didn’t know what that was supposed to mean but he felt FP tense behind him.

“Who the fuck told you that name?”

****

“Who the fuck told you that name?” Betty watched as an older man stepped in front of the overly cocky -although hot as fuck- serpent and made a bee line for her, “I said, who the fuck told you that name?” he growled at her, grabbing her wrists.

“My mom,” she whispered, sorrow flashing in her eyes. The man must have seen it too because his expression softened instantly.

“Betty?” she nodded as he pulled her into a tight embrace. Betty let out a sob, finally feeling safe for the first time in weeks. 

“FP, I presume?” Betty choked out a laugh, “You look a lot different from what I pictured.” 

“Well, you look just like Alice,” he chuckled, sadness in his eyes. “What did she tell you about me?” 

“She said if I ever got in trouble, like life or death real trouble, I was to come here and look for her best friend from highschool, someone named FP and tell him Belladonna sent me. Something about an inside joke?” Betty shrugged, still confused on why her mother would be referred to as deadly nightshade.

“I’ll tell you about some time kid, but for now let’s see what information you have and see what we can do to help you out ok?” FP smiled briefly at her before his face fell neutral and he looked around him. "Listen up, from this point on Betty here is under my protection. You will protect her like she is one of us and treat her as such, do I make myself clear? In unity there is strength!" 

"In unity there is strength!"All the Serpents in the room shouted back in response before going back to their drinks and previous activities. That is, all except the large Serpent that Betty had punched. He growled and stomped out the front door.

"Don't mind Tall Boy, he's an asshole," FP chuckled, "Come upstairs, I want to introduce to my boy."

FP started up the stairs towards the man Betty had been arguing with earlier. The closer she got the more she realized how sexy this man really was.

His light olive skin was speckled with beauty marks, his raven curls that was partially hidden his crown shaped beanie were a sharp contrast to the blue depths of his eyes. 

It wasn't until Betty noticed the smug expression on his face that she realized she had been staring.

"Like what you see, Princess?" He smirked, licking his lips as he looked her up and down.

"In your dreams, Ponyboy," she scoffed, pushing past him quickly as the blush creeping up neck threatened to betray her. 

*****

"Names Jughead, sweet cheeks," Jughead chuckled when he saw the red tinge on the tips of her ears, knowing good and well he was having an effect on her.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't find her attractive, even with her perfect girl next door aesthetic. Even that smart mouth and attitude she had going on turned him on.

He followed closely behind her steering into the office and closing the door behind the trio. He pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a drag as he leaned against the wall beside her.

"Do you mind?" She scoffed, swiping her hand in front of her face in exaggerated movements.

"Not at all, Princess," he said, blowing smoke directly in her face and making her cough. She scowled at him as he chuckled, walking towards the sofa in the room.

"Jug, don't be a dick," FP scolded and Jughead nodded curtly, frowning at his father. "Now Betty, why don't you tell us what happened and why you are coming to us instead of going to the cops."

Jughead watched from his vantage point as Betty took a seat in front of FP's desk, smoothing out her skirt before looking up to speak.

"I have been working on the case my parents were looking into when they were killed.  At first I was just looking to the circumstances surrounding the car wreck, that was until just a few weeks ago when my friend Kevin came to me in tears. His boyfriend Joaquin was found murdered," Jughead felt himself tense at the mention of his best friend's name. 

They had been trying to figure out how the Ghoulies had gotten close enough to one of their guys to take them and kill them but no one was talking. Jughead's jaw clenched in anger as she continued, "So I decided I couldn't wait any longer, I had to take all my evidence to Sheriff Minetta but somehow the Ghoulies figured out what I had on them and one of them paid me a visit."

"Some prick named Malachi tried to grab me outside the Register the other night but asshole didn't realize I have been taking martial arts courses since I could walk. I beat the shit out of that douche but not before he cut me," Betty lifted her shirt to show the superficial wound on her rubs that had Jughead grinding his teeth.

"Last night, one of my sources told me that a hit had been put out on me and that I was destined to end up like my parents," Jughead could tell the wounds of that memory were still fairly fresh and he walked over to her, laying his hand on her shoulder to comfort her.

She glanced at him, smiling sadly before continuing, "So I did what my mother asked me to do: find the Serpents and you to ask for help." 

*****

This was the first time in months that Betty had actually felt safe. She stared down at her hands clenched in her lap, waiting for either man to reply.

She found an odd sense of comfort in the company of the two men she'd never met before. It was like she knew instinctively that she was safe with them and that they wouldn't like Malachi hurt her.

She would also be lying if she denied that she'd damn near come unglued when she felt Jughead's hand on her shoulder. A shiver shot right down her spine, the mix of his cologne and the smell of his cigarettes making her head swim in a deliciously sinful way.

"I'm sorry all this is happening to you Betty, but you came to the right place. Give us all the info you have on the Ghoulies and we will protect you," FP stated. 

Betty reached into her purse, retrieving one of the multiple jump drives she'd had made in case she needed it. She held it up, handing it off to Jughead to give to his father.

"Ok Betty, first things first, Jughead will be your bodyguard. I want you to stay with him at all times. Boy, do not let her leave your sight, got it?" Jughead nodded and looked down at Betty with a smile.

"I think this. Is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," Jughead winked at her, making her heart flutter. Man this is gonna be harder than I thought...

To Be Continued...

[torestoreamends]

Mine to Make: Chapter 10

Scorpius attends his first illegal broom racing meet, Albus flies to win, and Delphi holds a meeting. But when Scorpius does some investigation, it turns out that danger is always close at hand...

Beta’d by @abradystrix.

N.B. This fic is complete on AO3, so binge read away if you want! Here on tumblr I’ll be posting a chapter every day until it’s all done. 

Read it on AO3

*

X Eyrie

The stadium is a bubbling cauldron of atmosphere and noise. They’re racing in one of the smaller stadiums tonight so it’s packed to the rafters, and the crowd is so loud that Albus can’t even hear himself think. He’s grateful for that. The sound blocks out his fear. It stops him worrying about what he’s about to do.

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” Delphi says, walking up behind him and taking hold of his shoulders to spin him round so she can scrutinise him. “Please don’t pass out in the air and fall off your broom. That would be a bit of an embarrassing start. And try not to throw up either.”

Albus swallows and nods. “I’ll try? I don’t know if I can guarantee...” He glances over his shoulder at the exit to the tunnel, which leads onto the pitch. The crowd is obscured in darkness by the bright, silver glow coming from the grass, the lines, the stadium itself. The only thing breaking that soft silver light is the deep red glow of the Fiendfyre crates, which are still being lit. Every time one catches light the crowd roars louder in anticipation, and Albus grips the wall for support, his legs shaking.

“Sev,” Delphi says patiently, squeezing his shoulders. “You’re very good at this. You’re fast, you’re manoeuvrable, you’re more than a little bit reckless. Forget about the crowd and fly. You’ll be great.”

“I don’t think it’s the crowd I’m worried about,” Albus murmurs, looking at her. “It’s... it’s everything really. I mean, what if I get burned? What if I fall off? What if someone recognises me? What if I come last? Will you still be my manager if I come last? I don’t want to let you down.”

Delphi rolls her eyes and gives a heavy sigh. “You’re not going to come last. Trust me. Now stop worrying and get out there and race.” She spins him round and shoves him towards the tunnel entrance, so he trips over his feet and nearly sprawls headlong. He manages to catch himself though, and he heads out onto the pitch to join the other racers.

It’s a mass start race to begin. Sudden death – Albus still isn’t sure if that means literally or not – everyone in, utter chaos. It’s the most dangerous and difficult of all the races because there are so many people in the air, and he’s been dreading it. The game plan is simple: get off the front early and stay out of trouble. He just doesn’t know yet if he’s fast enough to execute it. This is going to be one of the hardest things he’s ever done.

Above him, the final Fiendfyre cage flares into life and the crowd scream and applaud. Albus’s heart pounds in his chest, so hard that he’s scared it might explode. He presses a hand over the top of his new dragon-hide jacket and takes a deep breath.

Calm down, he tells himself. Breathe. You can do this.

A whistle blast carries through the stadium, shrill and piercing. Around Albus everyone starts mounting their brooms. He pulls his goggles down over his eyes and lays his own broom up in the air, running a hand down the handle. It’s vibrating with anticipation, and Albus suspects it’s more excited than he is. He just hopes its excitement will be infectious. It’s been a good friend to him so far but today will be the biggest test.

He draws in another deep breath and hops onto the broom, which starts to lift off the ground instantly. It wants to be in the air. It wants to race.

As he rises one of the older riders, the one with the thick Welsh accent who he thinks is called Gareth, sweeps up next to him and claps him on the back. “Good luck, Sev. I hope it’s not too brutal for you.”

Albus looks at Gareth. “Isn’t it always brutal?”

He grins. “You’ve been around too long already. Just keep your head down, keep away from the fire, and keep flying straight ahead. You’ll be fine. Hopefully.” He soars off to join the mass of racers gathering by the start line, and Albus grips the handle of his broom and tries to feel less like he’s about to projectile vomit onto the pitch below.

It’s difficult to get any sort of position on the start line, let alone a good one. Albus is jostled from all sides, knocked around, buffeted through the crowd like a leaf on the wind. He’s easily one of the smallest racers in the league, which means it’s much harder to fight his way through everyone else, but he does have the advantage of being able to slip through the tiniest of gaps, so by the time the five seconds to start whistle goes, he’s managed to squeeze his way into the second line of racers.

With three seconds to go he spots a gap ahead of him and darts towards it. It closes up fast as people drift towards the line, but just as the starting whistle blasts through the air he reaches the gap and threads the needle straight through, flying like an arrow into clear air ahead.

There’s no one around him, and he flattens himself against his broom, coaxing it up to full speed. It doesn’t need much encouragement. He doesn’t think he’s ever flown this fast in his life, but of course that’s not necessarily a good thing.

“Shit,” he yells, as he spots a crate of Fiendfyre rushing towards them. “We need to turn. TURN!” He pulls hard on the broom, but it’s one of the scrappiest turns he’s ever made. They go skidding round the corner sideways, several metres away from the crate, and the racers just behind take advantage and go zipping through on the inside.

There are five racers ahead of him now, streaking off into the night, but once he’s on the straight with them he gets as low to the handle of his broom as he can, pressing his stomach into it and hanging on with his ankles and the tips of his fingers. He goes shooting forwards, slowly gaining, but there’s only so much he can do before he has to sit up for the next turn, which he makes much more easily. It’s a big, banking roll, and he goes straight underneath one of the racers, the Fiendfyre singeing the top of his hair because he’s so close to it.

“The baby racer wants to play!” He hears someone call, and another of the racers glances back at him, grinning.

“Nice flying, Sev.”

“Thanks,” he calls back. “I hope you like it so much when I’m front of you.”

One of them lets out a hoot of laughter. “Feisty baby racer. I like this one. How’s your diving, Sev?”

They reach a point in the air where there are several looping arches of golden light, directing them down towards the ground, almost arrow-straight down. As they approach, Albus can’t help but grin, because the answer to the racers’ question is that his diving is immaculate. It’s what he loves most. It’s what he’s best at. No one can stick with him in a dive, and they don’t.

He pulls straight down, shooting vertically towards the ground, letting out a whoop of pure exhilaration. There’s nothing to lose if he hits the ground. His family don’t care about him, Scorpius is better off with him out of the way, racing is all he has to live for now, and if he goes down in the process then it might as well be in a blaze of glory.

He descends in a lightning quick blur, passing two competitors. It doesn’t feel like he’s flying anymore. He’s falling, he’s dancing, he’s part of the sky. When he pulls out of the dive it feels like the easiest thing in the world. Why was he afraid of this? Racing is like learning to breathe again. Racing is coming home. Racing is where he belongs.

He banks round the next turn with a huge grin on his face. It doesn’t matter where anyone else is because he’s in front of all but one person, and he knows he can stay ahead because up here, in the sky, on a broom, Sev is untouchable.

The cages of Fiendfyre flash past, but he doesn’t feel the heat. He doesn’t hear the crowd. He’s alone in the black sky, all his focus on the broom tail ahead of him.

When rain starts to patter down he ignores it. The water slides off his charmed goggles so he doesn’t have to worry about his vision being obscured. All he has to do is grip the broom harder so he doesn’t slip off. Steam pours off the Fiendfyre cages and fills the air, but he doesn’t take his eye off the person in front for even an instant.

There’s another dive coming up soon. He remembers noting them all when he’d memorised the course. They’re where he can get his advantage. If he can get close enough to the people in front, he can go past on the dive and then pull away. After that dive there are just two turns to the finish. He can hold anyone off for that long.

“Come on,” he mutters to his broom. “Come on, just a little bit faster. You can do this. We can do this.” He brushes his fingers over the perfectly smooth, diamond hard wood. “Let’s go.”

Albus has never managed to achieve a true partnership with anyone or anything before. Scorpius was his best friend, who he loved, but they’d stopped talking properly before Albus had left. Albus’s wand has never really listened to him. His family are his family, enough said. This is the closest he’s ever got to unity of effort and ambition. He wants to win and so does his broom. They’re both built to race and win, and that’s what they’re going to do.

From nowhere comes another burst of speed. They’re closing, inch by inch. Albus isn’t even holding on with his ankles anymore, he’s just lying flat on the broom, toes pointed behind him, trying to match its shape, to become part of it. They sweep round a corner and gain even further. Albus could reach out and touch the tail of his opponent’s broom, but that would be cheating, and he’s not here to cheat. He’s here to win.

They’re neck and neck when they reach the dive, but that doesn’t last long. Albus is a raindrop, he’s a lightning bolt, he’s a bird of prey. He pelts towards the pitch and his stomach lurches. He has to grab on with his feet again so he doesn’t slip off his broom, and it’s a good job he does because suddenly the ground is right there and it takes all his strength to pull up.

His toes graze the sodden blades of grass and spray kicks up behind him. He’s in front now. He’s winning. He can hold on until the line. Just two more turns.

The wind whistling through his ears is the only thing he can hear. The icy hammer of rain on his hands is all he can feel. It’s difficult to see anything at all in the darkness. The inside of his mouth tastes dry. He can smell the Fiendfyre smoke in the air. Everything is the race. Everything is flying. Everything is winning.

He rounds the corner, shoulder brushing the Fiendfyre crate, and even that brief contact is unbearable. He yells and almost loses control, but his broom knows where he’s going, it knows they’re nearly home, and it keeps flying arrow straight even as he twitches and grabs his shoulder.

The long straight is enough to give him time to compose himself, drawing in a breath to hold himself steady. Just one corner left, then he can scream and cry and get someone to look at his shoulder. One corner left until he’s won his first ever race. One corner left until he’s seizing hold of his future and making it his present.

He skims round it in perfect balance and shoots towards the line. It’s almost too easy. There’s no one around. He expects something to happen, a fireball to hit him out of nowhere, someone to grab hold of his broom tail, for him to have got the course wrong. But then he crosses the line and he realises the crowd is roaring, and he’s braking, and one of his competitors is there slapping him on the back and ruffling his hair, and he’s done it. Sev has finished his first race. Sev has won his first race.

He yells his triumph to the sky and sinks to the ground, heart light as a feather, pure joy pumping through his veins.

He doesn’t win the meet that night, he loses his semi-final, but that doesn’t matter, because he feels like he’s found himself here in the sky above this stadium. The future is his to make, and it’s already begun.

 “This is my favourite one,” Scorpius says, tossing a magazine across the coffee table at Albus. “Look at you in this photo. You look incredible.”

Albus sighs and picks up the magazine from the growing pile on the table. The photo on the front is from a different angle to some of the others, but the image is essentially the same. He’s shouting at the crowd in Diagon Alley, blazing, a look of sheer ferocity on his face. There’s no denying that it’s a good photo, and the more he looks at it and all the others, the more happy he is with everything he’d said.

“Wait wait,” Scorpius says, picking up another magazine. “No, this one’s the best. Look at this.” He passes it across to Albus, who takes it and sees himself looking up at Scorpius. He looks besotted, the expression on his face soft, his eyes shining. The headline above it all says “I’m in love with him, and you should love him too”.

“It’s so sappy,” Scorpius says happily. “It’s beautiful. I want to frame it and put it on my wall.”

Albus bats at him. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

“No,” Scorpius says, clutching his heart. “I’m just in love with you too. Listen to this.” He steals the magazine back from Albus and clears his throat. “‘It was a heart-warming declaration of love that left us all gooey. Yesterday, after seven years missing, Albus Severus Potter appeared on the steps of Gringotts in Diagon Alley and announced to the world that he’s in love with Scorpius Malfoy.

Scorpius has long been one of the most controversial figures in the wizarding world. Called ‘Son of Voldemort’ and accused of being the reason behind Albus’s disappearance, he has always stayed strong and graceful under suspicion, and now we know the reason why – true love.

“When you have a boy as gorgeous as this waiting in the wings to clear your name and tell the world he loves you, surely that helps you stay strong through anything. Now if only we could find ourselves the handsome Potter of our dreams... Turn to page 69 for the latest gossip about older Potter brother James’s love life.’”

Albus snorts. “69. He’ll love that. Can I send him a copy of this? What are they saying about him?”

Scorpius flicks through the pages and grins. “‘The Joker in the Pack – Good news ladies and gents, James Sirius Potter is reportedly still single and ready to mingle. A close confidant of young Mr Potter revealed to us that he hasn’t yet found the person of his dreams. Perhaps the new range of Wonder Witch potions he’s helped develop for Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes is a play to attract the right lady...’”

“A close confidant?” Albus asks, choking on his coffee. “Who the hell would that be?”

Scorpius shrugs. “It’s a magazine. They make it all up.” He tosses it on top of their mountain of papers and leans back in his seat. “I think you might have made a bit of a splash yesterday, Albus. I think people noticed you.”

“Half of them think I’m crazy or under the Imperius Curse though,” Albus says. “So they don’t count.”

“True,” Scorpius concedes. “But still. You’re not in hiding anymore... Do you think people will recognise you at your next race?”

Albus crosses his legs on his kitchen chair and stares down at the smooth, fine-grained top of his table. “Oh. I hadn’t thought about that.” What if Sev is gone just like that? What if everyone knows who they’re watching fly? What if...

It’s such a weird, incomprehensible thought that he doesn’t know how to engage with it, how to process it. He’s never been Albus in the air. He doesn’t know if Albus knows how to race. Sev is a seasoned winner, but Albus is just a scared kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“Sorry,” Scorpius murmurs. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

Albus shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. It’s just really weird to think about.”

“When is your next race?” Scorpius asks.

“Tuesday night,” Albus says. “I’ll have to check where.” A sudden thought strikes him and he looks across at Scorpius. “Have you been to a race yet?”

Scorpius frowns. “No. I haven’t yet...”

Albus smiles at him. “How can you investigate us if you haven’t even seen us race? That’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t know,” Scorpius says. “I didn’t think it was my sort of thing. And it’s illegal. Surely as a ministry official I shouldn’t be encouraging illegal behaviour by attending these sorts of-“

“Call it an investigation,” Albus says, waving a hand. “Dad won’t mind. He does stupid stuff like that all the time.”

“I suppose it could be useful,” Scorpius says slowly. “To see what a race is actually like.”

“You can gather evidence on how much destruction we cause,” Albus says happily. “You just have to make one promise though.”

Scorpius scrutinises him. “I can’t do anything illegal... or at least anything more illegal than coming to the race in the first place.”

Albus gets up and goes over to him, running a hand through his hair and down the side of his face. “You have to cheer for me.”

Scorpius reaches up and pulls him in for a long kiss. “That,” he says, when they finally part and Albus is sitting on his lap, trying to catch his breath, “is definitely something I can do.”

 Albus arrives at the stadium on Tuesday night in a buoyant mood. They’re back in Holyhead again, which feels just like coming home. When he strolls down the corridor to the dressing room he grins up at his mum’s name on the wall. Maybe tonight’s race will be for her.

He lets himself into the locker room and finds that he’s the first one to arrive. It’s peaceful and still, and he stands in the middle of the room and inhales, closing his eyes and listening to the silence. The calm before the storm.

When he opens his eyes he walks across the room to his favourite stall. The best thing about getting here first is that he can sit wherever he wants. As he approaches it he sees something lying on the bench, and he frowns, wondering if he’s actually not the first person here, but as he gets closer he realises that it’s a copy of the Daily Prophet, with a piece of parchment stuck on top, and there’s no denying that it’s a note to him, and there’s no denying who it’s from.

What were you thinking?

Delphi.

He hasn’t seen her since Friday night, when they flew to the top of the Shard and drank Firewhisky. The last he saw of her was her disappearing into the night. And after that everything has changed. He hasn’t talked to her about any of it. He doesn’t really know what to say. She was the one who always told him the future was his to make. Now he’s really making it, and he doesn’t know if she’s very pleased about it. In fact, he knows she’s not.

He sighs and picks up the newspaper and note. Time to go and apologise to her. Again.

It’s not easy to find her. The stadium is a warren of corridors and passageways. Aside from the public areas there are all sorts of maintenance walkways and hidden rooms. Albus searches all the spaces Delphi normally frequents, from the broom sheds to the commentary booth perched halfway up the stadium to the tiny little meeting room where she coaxes money out of people. She’s not in any of them, so as a last ditch attempt, Albus scrambles up the ladder that leads all the way to the top of the stadium structure.

He finds her up there, perched precariously on a narrow metal beam, her feet hanging over the edge, twirling her wand between her fingers.

“You’ve remembered that I exist, then,” she says without looking round at him.

He sighs. “Delphi, I didn’t forget about you, I... I had a busy weekend, and... I’m sorry.”

She holds the wand delicately in one hand and taps the fingers of her other against the metal beam. “Was it all just words, what you said on Friday night, or did you mean any of it? Because honestly, Albus, I’m really not sure right now.”

Albus crouches down on the beam and carefully sits a few metres from her. He doesn’t especially want to shuffle all the way along to sit next to her. It’s a very long drop. “I meant every word,” he says softly. “And what I said was that it isn’t a choice, for me.”

She looks round at him. “You threw your identity away. You can’t be Sev anymore. You don’t have any options now. I’m worried for you.”

Albus nods. “I know that. I do.” He curls his fingers round the metal beam. “It scares me. Just being Albus is... I suppose it’s a bit exposing. I’m scared of how the race will go tonight. I don’t even know if I can race as Albus, but...” He swallows and stares down at his knees, hair falling into his eyes. “It feels like the right thing to do and I want to try it.”

“The whole world knows now, Albus,” she says, twisting round to face him. “You didn’t even do this slowly. You stood there in Diagon Alley and yelled it to everyone. I mean talk about unsubtle. It was reckless and really really stupid. You have no control anymore. They have everything they need on you.”

Albus frowns. “Who’s they? And you know me, Delphi, reckless is my middle name.”

Delphi swings her feet up under her and turns to face him, crouching low to the beam, arms out, perfectly balanced. “They is everyone. People who want to hurt you. Your dad, for starters. Other racers, any enemies you might have, I mean you are a Potter. You’d be a great target.”

Albus shakes his head. “My dad doesn’t want to hurt me. And I don’t care about all the rest of them, Delphi. They can do whatever they want to me, but as long as I’m happy they’ll never really touch me. And I am, Delphi. I’m happy. In a way I don’t think I have been for a long time.”

She rises to her feet, wobbling slightly as she does, then straightens herself up and crosses her arms. “Have you noticed,” she says, in a voice hard as steel, “that we always end up talking about you in these conversations? This friendship is one-sided. I don’t think you even care about me.” She flicks her ponytail over her shoulder. “All I’ve ever done is want the best for you, Albus. I saved you when you were miserable, I made you into a star, I gave you a future, and when you were injured I saved your life. But here we are, still talking about you, what you want, what you did over the weekend, who you’re in love with. I’m not a factor here, am I? You don’t really give a shit about my life, my feelings, my opinion, any of it.”

Albus stares up at her, mouth open. “Delphi,” he breathes. “I... that’s not true.”

“Oh,” she says. “Isn’t it? When was the last time you asked me how my weekend was?”

“It’s not that I-“ Albus lifts his chin. “I used to ask,” he says. “I used to ask all the time, but you always refused to answer, so I gave up. If I asked what you did would you tell me?”

“That’s not the point,” Delphi says. “The point is that-“

Albus gets to his feet, wobbling as he does. He’s taller than her. Up here he feels taller than anyone or anything. He understands why she likes it up here. It makes him feel powerful.

“The point is that I tell you everything,” Albus says. “You know my name, you know my troubles, you know what I want from my future, you know how I feel about Scorpius and my parents. You’ve seen me at the worst moments in my life.” He takes a tentative step towards her. “I’ve shared things with you that I’ve told no one else. And what have you told me? Nothing. I didn’t even know your surname until this weekend.”

Delphi’s eyes widen. “My surname? How do you-“

“Black,” he says. “Delphini Black. It’s nice to meet you.”

Her eyes snap back to their ferocious slits and she glares at him. “Your boyfriend has been poking around, hasn’t he?”

“He’s doing his job,” Albus says.

“He’s ruining your life,” Delphi counters. “Our life.”

“It was just a surname.” Albus digs his hands into his pockets. “Why couldn’t you even share your surname with me, Delphi? If I’m your best friend why wouldn’t you tell me your name?”

“Why have you never told me where you live?” Delphi asks, pointing her wand at him. It’s not a direct, threatening point, far more lazy and casual, but Albus still takes a step back, eyeing it.

“I wanted one thing in my life to myself,” he says softly. “I didn’t tell anyone. I wanted... I wanted to be able to really disappear. I wanted to be safe.”

“Safe from me?”

Albus shakes his head. “Safe from the world. Safe from pressure and people and racing and the past and the future and... Just safe. Somewhere I could be myself. Why did you not tell me your surname?”

“You couldn’t be yourself with me?” Delphi asks, ignoring his question.

“That’s not what I said, I-“ Albus takes a deep breath. “Look. When I ran away I was seventeen. I was playing at being myself. I still am, Delphi. I... I am everything with you that I know how to be. I follow your rules, I try to make you happy, I win for you. I’m your Sev. But sometimes it’s nice to be... I don’t know. Sometimes it’s nice to play at being Albus’s Albus. Somewhere where no one will see, and I can fuck up and be happy and just exist.”

“But that makes no sense,” Delphi says, with a frustrated, disbelieving little laugh. “If my Sev and your Albus are different then you’ve been lying to me all along.”

Albus shakes his head. “No. At least you knew my Albus existed. I told you all his dreams. All my dreams. But my Delphi and your Delphini Black? I had no idea they were different people. I didn’t know Delphini Black was a part of you. I-“ He runs his hands through his hair. “You’re my best friend, Delphi. I was so happy to have a best friend I could trust when I met you. Someone who really understood me. Someone I could share everything with. But sharing goes two ways, doesn’t it?” He takes two steps towards Delphi and reaches out a hand to her. “I want to know you, Delphi, because I don’t think I do anymore. Introduce me to Delphini Black. What does she want? What do you want? What is the future you’re making?”

Delphi looks at his hand for several long seconds, then she inhales through her nose and looks at his face instead. “Delphini Black isn’t important, Albus. I’m Delphi to you. Delphi who saved your life, Delphi who made you who you are now. Delphini Black isn’t a person you need to see. She’s an illusion. And her future isn’t my future.”

“Then what is your future?” Albus asks, withdrawing his hand and screwing it into a fist.

Delphi glances sideways, out at the stadium. “Tonight my future is you winning in front of the Rowles. Tomorrow will depend on how tonight goes. That’s it, Albus. Delphi’s future is day by day. There is no grand plan. Just racing and winning and staying alive.”

Albus swallows. “But I don’t... understand, then.” He reaches behind his back and rubs a hand against his shoulder where his tiny wing tattoo is etched onto his skin. “Why is this so important if your future is day by day? Aren’t the wings about your master plan? Your vision of your life? Or are they an illusion too?”

“You can live day by day and still have your future in your hands,” Delphi says. “I would have thought you’d understand that reckless spontaneity better than anyone.”

Albus frowns. “I do, but... I thought the wings were a call to be better than that. More organised. More driven...”

Delphi shrugs. “Maybe they are to you. The wings are whatever you need them to be.”

Albus bows his head and rubs his shoulder blade. Finally, after several seconds of reflection he looks up at her.

“I’ve invited Scorpius to tonight’s race,” he says. “I’d like you to meet him. My best friend and my boyfriend. I’d like to introduce two of the most important people in my life. That’s my future tonight. Will you do it?”

Delphi twirls her wand, expression impenetrable. “You invited a Ministry official to our race.”

“As my guest,” Albus says. “Will you do it?”

Delphi gives an exasperated sigh and tucks her wand away, shaking her head. “Fine. I’ll do it. But he’d better not go poking around. If he’s your guest he’d better behave. This is Sev’s world, not Albus’s. He can’t get too comfortable here.”

”I hate to break it to you,” Albus says. “But Sev’s world is Albus’s now, and Scorpius is going to be part of it for the foreseeable future, so I hope you can get used to him.” He turns towards the ladder, putting his back to Delphi. “I’ll see you when Scorpius gets here. I hope you can manage to be civil.” And then, fuming, he starts to climb back down into the bowels of the stadium, leaving Delphi alone in her rooftop eyrie.

 When the other racers start to arrive, Albus begins to get twitchy. He’s already changed into his racing gear, and he’s flown a couple of warm up laps around the pitch to let off some steam, so now he’s sitting and waiting with nothing to distract him from the fact that all his colleagues probably now know his name.

Jamal is the first to arrive. He strolls into the room and gives Albus a bright smile. “Afternoon, Sev. You’re early.”

Albus nervously returns the smile. “I had to talk to Delphi about some stuff. I might have got here too early though...”

Jamal grins and starts unpacking his bag. “Two hours before the race and ready to go? You might have been.” He hangs his jacket up in the stall and kicks his shoes off. “Did you see the news at the weekend? That Albus guy is back. I still don’t get where he’s been all this time though... What do you think about the bewitchment theory, Sev?”

Relief floods through Albus as he realises that this means at least one of his fellow racers doesn’t know. He hasn’t been recognised. He’s still safe.

“I don’t know,” he says cheerfully, mood improving instantly. “Maybe he’s come back because he really is in love?”

“Do people really do that sort of thing?” Jamal asks, pulling a sceptical face.

“Yes,” Albus says, “I think they do.”

It’s another hour before Scorpius arrives. When he finally does, Albus has been standing by the gates jittering with nerves for fifteen minutes already, convincing himself that Scorpius definitely isn’t going to come, that he’ll have backed out at the last minute, that asking him to a race was the stupidest thing Albus could have possibly done.

But then, suddenly, there he is, climbing the winding, lantern-lit path up from the harbour with a sparkling view of the sunset over the sea behind him. Albus melts at the sight and skips the few steps to meet him, beaming.

“Scorpius!” He leaps at Scorpius, who by some miracle manages to catch him, and Albus wraps his legs round his waist and kisses him hard, not caring who sees, because this might yet end up being one of his favourite race nights ever.

The blissful romance doesn’t last long. Scorpius forgets that he can’t use his hands while he’s holding Albus up, and Albus ends up tumbling onto the grass by the edge of the path and banging his knee.

“Ow,” he says, sitting up and rubbing it. “What was that for?”

Scorpius crouches down next to him. “Sorry. Albus, you really should have known that was going to happen. I’m me. I can’t be relied upon to hold you up. Frankly I’m amazed it lasted as long as it did, and you should be too.”

“I’m injured,” Albus groans as dramatically as he can, rolling onto his back and covering his face with his hand. “You’ve ruined me.”

Scorpius rolls his eyes and kisses his hand before pressing it to Albus’s knee. “There. All better now.” He gets up and offers Albus a hand. “Here.”

Albus lets Scorpius pull him, staggering forwards and leaning on Scorpius to steady himself. He limps a step before deciding that he’s had worse injuries. His knee will live.

“You’re not wearing your robes,” he says, giving his knee one last rub and glancing at Scorpius.

“I’m not an idiot,” Scorpius says. “Sky blue isn’t exactly the best camouflage colour. I don’t want everyone turning on me.” He looks Albus up and down. “Is this what you wear to race?”

Albus glances down at his dragon hide and nods. “It’s the best way to prevent burns. Obviously it doesn’t always work, but it helps.”

Scorpius nods appreciatively. “I think I’m going to like it here.”

Albus smirks and takes him by the hand. “Come in, I’ll show you around.”

Scorpius just nods, apparently speechless.

They manage a little bit of a tour before they get distracted. Albus shows Scorpius the bowels of the stadium, the trophy cabinets and photos and boards of names, but then they get lost in the deserted visitors changing room and emerge half an hour before the race. Albus’s hair is more ruffled than it was, and he’s still trying to tuck his shirt back into his trousers, and cursing the fact that his fly is made of fiddly little buttons rather than a zip.

“Are you alright there?” Scorpius asks. “Do you need a hand?”

Albus shakes his head. “If you give me a hand we’ll miss the race. No, I’m fine. I’m exceptional.” He looks at Scorpius and his frustration with his buttons melts away as he gives Scorpius a brilliant smile. “It’s... it’s really nice having you here.”

Scorpius grins at him. “Well you’re certainly making the most of it so far.”

“Maybe if I win we’ll have to finish the tour upstairs later.” He finally finishes buttoning his trousers and winks at Scorpius before turning and waltzing away down the corridor. “You should probably go and find your seat now.”

“Probably,” Scorpius squeaks in a choked little voice behind him.

 It’s incredible how full the stadium is, Scorpius thinks as he stares around at the crowd. This place isn’t exactly small, but somehow a band of renegade broom racers have managed to pack it to the rafters. He supposes everyone is here for the thrills and spills, the danger of it all, and it certainly looks both thrilling and dangerous.

The racers are massed on the pitch, staring up as a couple of judges on brooms soar among a set of huge iron cages that are suspended in mid-air, setting light to them with raging, snapping bursts of Fiendfyre. The cages must be enchanted, because the beasts in the flames are constrained within, roaring through the bars, angered by their imprisonment, sending spectacular red and orange and black light swirling across the pitch.

It looks terrifying, and Scorpius can’t help but remember the heat of Fiendfyre at his back, claws and teeth snapping at his heels, faces of dragons and serpents looming up at him. How Albus managed to handle being inside that house, how he manages to race everyday, when he’s been so badly hurt by the fire Scorpius has no idea. Not for the first time he wonders how Albus ended up in Slytherin at school. He has such a quiet, solid courage to him. He keeps going when any lesser person would have run away screaming. Scorpius will never stop admiring him for that.

The final cage blazes with light and the crowd around Scorpius roars their approval. He grips his seat and leans forward, straining to try and see Albus among the group on the ground. They’re all so far away that it’s difficult to spot him, but as soon as the racers mount their brooms, Albus becomes obvious.

He’s like a streak of lighting, shooting off for a lap around the pitch. He’s tiny, powerful; so quick. He looks like he belongs in the air, like flying is so much easier for him than being on the ground. It’s breathtaking, and Scorpius feels his heart swell with every second he watches.

Albus invited him here to see this. Albus wanted him to see this part of his life, a part that he’s never seen before. Albus wanted to share this with him. Clearly this is what he loves, what he’s incredible at, and Scorpius understands instantly that it’s an honour for him to be here. Tonight, if he wasn’t in love with Albus enough already, he’s going to fall head over heels.

Everything after that is a blur. He forgets that he’s supposed to be here investigating and gets swept up in the race. Next thing he knows, he’s on his feet jumping up and down and screaming for Albus, who’s somehow managed to fall to the back of the pack.

“What are you doing?” He yells. “Fly faster! Go on!”

It quickly becomes clear that Albus is just messing with them all. Apparently he’s so good at this, and so confident in his speed and skill, that he can put on a show.

As the racers go into a dive, he drops like a stone beneath them drawing gasps from the crowd, and overtaking half the field in one go. He uses the next turn to slingshot himself past the rest, and goes soaring into third place.

On the stadium wall behind him is a huge, close up of his face that keeps blurring in and out of focus because he’s moving so fast. The expression there makes Scorpius’s heart race, because as focused and determined as Albus is clearly being, he’s also grinning, eyes shining with joy. This is all a game to him. He’s playing with the rest of the field, and none of them are anywhere close to him.

As he rounds another corner, brushing heart-stoppingly close to one of the cages, he looks up and directly into whichever camera is pinpointed on him. For a moment his gaze pierces Scorpius who forgets how to breathe. He has to grip the edge of his box for support, and by the time the world realigns itself, Albus has shot past two more people and is bearing down on the only person left in front of him.

All around Scorpius, people are on their feet, screaming for Sev, urging him on. There’s not a person in the stadium who isn’t rooting for him, and Scorpius stands for a moment and listens to the noise with pride, because whether they know it or not, all these people are cheering for his boyfriend. They’re cheering for Albus. They’re all on Albus’s side.

Albus is gaining, inch by inch, lying flat on his broom, moving so fast that he’s a blur. Scorpius jumps up and down.

“Come on! Go go go! You’re nearly there! Get him!”

He’s yelling so loud his throat is going hoarse but he doesn’t care. There’s not much of the race left. There’s not enough space for Albus to overtake surely? He’s still a foot behind, half a foot, a few inches, gaining, clawing his opponent back.

“Yes!” Scorpius screeches, holding onto the edge of the box. “Come on, Albus. Go on! You can- Ooo...”

The whole stadium gasps as the two racers shoot across the line, side by side, neck and neck. It’s impossible to separate the two of them, and they were moving so fast that they were nothing but a blur.

“It’s a photo finish for first place,” the commentator crows. “Everybody watch the board.”

The stadium falls silent as everyone stares up at the wall of the stadium. The two racers streak out of nowhere and stop suddenly, right in the middle of the wall, suspended in time. A red line, like a streak of flame, slashes across the photo, and the crowd gasps again as they realise what it means. Sev has been beaten by a fraction of an inch.

There’s a second of shock before people begin to applaud, and slowly cheering spreads through the stadium. Albus flies over to his competitor, hand outstretched, and they clap each other on the back, Albus laughing at something that’s been said. He looks so carefree and happy; it’s beautiful.

The two of them sink back to the ground, and they’re soon joined by other racers, sixteen in all, who get to race again. The commentator on the ground is running between them, casting a Sonorus Charm on each and asking questions. Scorpius doesn’t really listen to what’s said until the commentator comes to Albus last of all.

“So, Sev.”

Albus grins. “So.”

“You lost.”

Albus’s grin widens and he laughs. “I did, didn’t I.”

“Does it sting a little bit?”

Albus shrugs. “Not really. It was only a heat. And if I won every race it would get a bit boring, don’t you think? I like to keep things interesting. If I lose every now and again it keeps you all on your toes.” His eyes sparkle as he says it, and the whole stadium cheers with delight as Scorpius melts inside.

Albus is an entertainer. Albus is a star. Albus is incredible.

Scorpius cups his hands to his mouth and whoops, beaming down at the pitch. Albus must hear because he glances up in Scorpius’s direction and shoots him a smile and wave. Scorpius has no idea if Albus can actually see him, but he blows Albus a kiss just in case, then collapses back into his seat, grinning and hugging himself and feeling like a giddy teenage boy again.

He gets a couple of races to recover after that. The heats are run in groups of four, and Albus is in the third group. Even without Albus the racing is exciting, but it’s not quite so heart-stoppingly terrifying. Scorpius enjoys it, but he also has a look around the stadium to see what’s going on and to see if he can recognise anyone from their case files.

Most of the people he recognises are the racers gathered on the pitch, sitting on benches and chatting as the race goes on above them. He recognises a medic too, and a couple of other managers and league officials. It’s only when he starts to scan the crowd that he spots a very familiar, silver-haired figure in a box on the same level as him. Delphini Black.

It’s her hair that makes her so distinctive, silver, with blue tips, swept up in a messy ponytail that sways and bobs behind her head. She’s wearing a dress today, and since she has her back to the crowd Scorpius can see that it’s open, exposing all her skin as well as a familiar tattoo. Her wings are identical to Albus’s, but so much more impressive, covering her whole back. Even from this distance, Scorpius can tell that the work on them is intricate and beautiful, and he can fully understand why she’d want to show them off.

He shifts his gaze away from her and squints, trying to see the other inhabitants of the box. Everyone else isn’t instantly recognisable, but there’s something familiar about each and every face. Scorpius can’t place them, but they make him feel uneasy. He’s pretty sure that if he knew those names he wouldn’t be happy about it.

There’s not much time to dwell on it though, because the third heat is ready to go and he switches his full attention back to Albus. He can worry about Delphi and her supporters later.

The heat is much faster than the mass start race. The racers are far less unencumbered; they all have plenty of space in the air to do whatever they want. Albus is still the fastest though, by quite a decent margin. In fact it seems to be an effortless victory.

Right from the gun he’s out in front, soaring ahead of the field. The others catch up a bit on the straights and round the corners, but as soon as they have to dive he’s untouchable.

Albus’s dives are reckless and breath-taking. He seems to be completely unafraid as he goes bombing out of the sky and straight at the ground. There are moments when it looks like he’s falling rather than flying. If any of those dives took any longer than a blink of an eye then Scorpius would be hiding his face in his hands, but there’s no time for that. All he can do is stare, transfixed, unable to look away, certain he’s about to witness Albus’s death. But he never does, because somehow, for all that recklessness, Albus is always in total control.

Albus wins the heat with ease, all the dives giving him a clear margin of victory, and he does a little loop-the-loop to celebrate, that has the crowd laughing and applauding. Scorpius sits back down and tries to recover. Watching Albus race, while exhilarating, is not good for his heart.

While he’s sitting there trying to get his breath back – Albus looks like he’s barely broken a sweat so far, and Scorpius is quite envious – he turns his attention back to Delphi’s box. It’s still full of people, and still none of them are watching the racing. They all seem to be deep in conversation, and Scorpius can’t stop himself from feeling as if this is a conversation he should be listening to. Delphi is gesticulating wildly, and it looks from a distance like tensions in the box are running high.

A few years ago, when he still had hopes of establishing a career with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Scorpius managed to sign up for a surveillance training course that he definitely shouldn’t have been allowed on. He still has no idea how he managed to get approved for it, but by some miracle he did, and now that miracle is going to come in handy. He slips his wand from the pocket of his robes, careful to keep it well out of sight, and points it across towards Delphi’s box, whispering the incantation.

His ears buzz immediately with static, and he winces and rubs his fingers into them, trying to clear them, as if that will help when it’s magic making them hurt. It must do something though, because a second later the static clears and, sharp as day but perhaps a little distant, he hears people talking.

“I don’t know how else to make you all understand this,” Delphi is saying, frustration in her voice and in the tension of her distant stance. “He’s reckless and stubborn and a law unto himself. This can’t go on much longer. We got ourselves to a good place and now it’s all unravelling and you can’t even help speed things up. I don’t know why I bothered asking for help.”

Someone towards the back of the box sighs, a man with a rich, deep voice that Scorpius swears he heard at a party once, but he can’t be sure. “Delphi. There’s a lot that isn’t ready yet. We can’t go in all guns blazing and hope for the best. They’re too well prepared.”

“Are they?” Delphi asks. “They’ve always seemed ridiculously complacent to me. They’re not on top of anything, I know that for a fact. But they are getting there, and the longer we mess around for-“

“Putting people into position is not messing around,” says a blonde woman near the front of the box, who Scorpius instantly recognises as one of the Rowles, Evelyn.

“Perhaps, but the longer it takes the more we lose the key piece,” Delphi says.

A blond man to her right, another Rowle, leans against the wall and glances back at the racers. “Can’t you be more persuasive? It can’t be that difficult, can it? After ten years?”

“I’m trying to... isolate the problem,” Delphi says. “But it’s not proving easy.”

Evelyn snorts. “Romance is sickening. It’s only just been a week and they’re already declaring their love.” She pulls a face, and Delphi nods.

“There’s too much there to compete with. And if we don’t move fast then I’m going to lose everything I’ve spent ten years working on. If I can’t get him alone, permanently alone, then-“

The spell crumbles into static again, accompanied by a screaming, ringing shriek that feels like it’s burst Scorpius’s eardrums. He cuts the spell off and covers his ears as the crowd roars and a fireball comes tumbling out of the sky, thrown by one of the judges. He bows his head and tries to draw in deep breaths, reeling from the pain and trying to process what he thinks he’s just heard.

The words echo around inside his head. ‘Isolate the problem...’ ‘Romance is sickening...’ ‘If I can’t get him alone, permanently alone...’

He knows what they’re talking about. It’s not exactly hard to work out. It’s about him. It’s about Albus. And it’s about some sort of plan that Scorpius hasn’t heard about before. The plan relies on Albus though – his loyalty – and it sounds as though Delphi thinks that Scorpius is interfering with that.

‘If I can’t get him alone, permanently alone...’

Scorpius gulps in a breath and lifts his head. Albus is in the air again, rocketing around the stadium with a big grin on his face. He doesn’t know about this, that much is clear. He has no idea that Delphi is planning something, or that he’s a problem to be isolated. He doesn’t know that Delphi has now tried to kill him and Scorpius – or maybe just Scorpius – twice and is trying to plan a third attempt. He’s blissfully ignorant up in the sky, lost in his racing. Happy, as he should be.

Scorpius looks back towards the box. The safest way forward from here is to do this himself. If he tries to attract Albus’s attention and let him know he’s in danger, Delphi will know, but if Albus keeps racing she’s far less likely to notice that Scorpius has disappeared. And if Scorpius manages to disappear then there are probably clues to be found somewhere in this stadium, among Delphi’s belongings, her notes, anything he can find to prove that he just heard what he thinks he did.

He sits and waits for a moment. The conversation in the box seems to have momentarily died down. A couple of the inhabitants are watching the racing, but Delphi is hovering around, watching not the stadium but the door to the box. Curious, Scorpius starts staring at it too, wondering what she’s waiting for.

He’s not disappointed. A few seconds later the door opens and a man he definitely recognises walks in. Grey-haired, wasted more by his long years of imprisonment than he is by age, Rodolphus Lestrange inches into the box. Delphi instantly goes to him and embraces him, guiding him to a seat and crouching down next to him so they can talk.

And if there was some possibility of Delphi being ignorant of the history surrounding the other people in the box, and if there was a possibility of them having walked away from their recent family history, there’s no such possibility with Rodolphus Lestrange. He may be out of Azkaban but he’s still being closely watched by the Ministry. He still holds many of his former views, and regularly expresses them. The only reason he hasn’t been locked up again already is because he’s never been part of any larger conspiracies or attacks, and because he’s so frail now that imprisonment might kill him, and him being a martyr for the cause is the last thing anyone wants.

Scorpius points his wand at the box and tries his surveillance spell again, but now the races are getting more important there’s too much Fiendfyre flying around, and the static from the powerful dark magic keeps disrupting the spell. There’s only one thing for it. Scorpius is going to have to get closer, and keep an eye out for any useful evidence along the way. He waits until Delphi and Rodolphus are deep in conversation and the race is in full swing, then he pockets his wand, and slips out of his own box and into the deserted corridors of the stadium beyond, hoping that no one notices him leave.

It’s not hard to find his way towards Delphi’s box. What’s more difficult is working out which box she’s in, because from the outside they all look the same and he doesn’t know her box number.

He follows the curve of the corridor until he thinks he’s nearly on the opposite side of the stadium from where he started. There he starts pausing by the door to every box, listening to try and work out who’s inside.

Most of them are empty or silent. From some he can hear cheering and whooping, even people shouting for Sev. The racing must be heating up – hopefully not literally – and Scorpius wishes he knew what was happening out there, but he has no way of finding out, and right now, unfortunately, Delphi is more important.

He presses himself against the wall and pauses outside another box, listening intently, holding his breath and trying to quieten his heartbeat. There’s no sound from inside. Not that one.

He tiptoes down to the next and holds his breath again, but there’s only cheering from this one too. He draws his wand to cast a surveillance spell, just to check that this definitely isn’t the right box, but as he does a door clicks open down the hall and he flattens himself against the wall, straining to see round the bend in the corridor. A flash of blue and silver hair is all he sees as Delphi closes the door to her box and disappears down the corridor away from him.

For several seconds he stands there, stock still, not daring to move or breathe in case Delphi hears and comes back. He clenches his fists and closes his eyes, hoping the blood rushing in his ears isn’t really as loud as it sounds to him. Only after several seconds of silence does he finally relax and take a step into the corridor to check that the coast is clear, and thankfully it is.

Now he faces a choice. Following her round the corridor would be risky; it’s so open and exposed, and there’s every chance she would hear him. But if he goes back the other way what’s he gaining? Finding out where she’s going might be really important. He can’t do that if he just lets her go.

Chasing someone who he suspects might want to kill him through the deserted corridors of a Quidditch stadium might be one of the most stupid things he’s ever done, but he does it anyway. Maybe having Albus in his life is making him more reckless, or maybe this is just what happens when he has some responsibility in his job. Either way, he keeps his body pressed to the wall, casts a Disillusionment Charm over himself, and starts flitting from doorway to doorway, trying to keep Delphi in his sight.

It takes him about three minutes to lose her completely. He manages to stick close by as they go down the corridor, but then she goes through a side door that leads through to some sort of private area, with staircases leading up and down and another door leading straight ahead. Even when he stands and strains his ears for any sound of where she might have gone he can’t hear her, so in the end he has to make a wild guess, and he chooses to go up.

The stairs weren’t a good idea. They’re metal, and in the tight space, boxed in by four hard concrete walls, everything echoes. The first step Scorpius takes clangs painfully loud, and he stops dead, wincing, until the noise fades. After that he proceeds with much more caution, inching his way up the stairs, and casting Silencio on every step. It’s not the perfect solution, and it’s such slow going that he knows he’ll never catch Delphi now, but at least he’s moving and not clattering around loud enough to give himself away.

He goes up one flight of stairs, pauses to listen, then goes up a second before he decides that he’s well and truly lost Delphi, so he might as well go exploring instead. This time he goes out of the door that leads away from the Quidditch Pitch and off into the backstage parts of the stadium.

It’s clear immediately that he has no idea where he’s going and that he would never have managed to follow Delphi through here. It’s a warren of corridors, little rooms, maintenance walkways, pipes and vents, and in some places he even finds himself climbing across the very structure of the stadium.

He’s not scared of heights, but it’s a long drop into darkness below, and even the few maintenance lights and a Lumos spell don’t let him see the bottom. He clings to the railing of the narrow bridge he’s found himself on and steps one foot carefully in front of another.

He loses track of time and distance as he walks. It’s difficult to tell where he is in relation to where he started. Has he done a full lap of the stadium yet? Or has he barely got started? Everything is so chaotic back here that it’s impossible to tell. And then there’s the disconnection from time. Stupidly he didn’t bring a watch with him, and he’s so far back from the pitch now that he can’t hear anything. It’s painfully still back here apart from a quiet, crackling hum of whatever spell is working to power lights and heat and goodness knows what else. Anything could be happening outside – the meet could already be over and Albus could be waiting for him. He simply has no idea.

He walks down a short corridor, across a broad walkway, then a couple of interlinked narrow bridges, then through a door into a low, dark room, and out into another longer corridor.

It’s there that he hears it. A door slams behind him and he jumps and looks round, holding his wand up to light the path. The doors he just came through were shut. He knows they were because he held them to make sure they didn’t slam like that.

Everything is silent. Everything is still.

He draws in a long breath to try and calm his pounding heart, then he sets off walking again, down the corridor, through a door, onto another set of maintenance bridges. There are footsteps behind him, distant but undeniable. He turns and shines his light into the darkness but it doesn’t penetrate far enough into the gloom to see anyone.

“Albus?” He calls, and his voice echoes, the stadium calling Albus’s name back to him a hundred times, but there’s no other answer.

He clenches his fingers tight around his wand and presses on, walking with more purpose now, no longer trying to stay silent. If someone is following him they already know where he is. There’s no point hiding now.

The footsteps speed up behind him, keeping pace, growing closer. Scorpius’s heart is in his mouth as he speeds up further, not bothering to mind his step on the next narrow bridge.

His foot slips and he grabs the railing for support, almost dropping his wand into the darkness below. His heart beats wildly in his chest and he can’t quite manage to catch his breath as he grips the handle of his wand and plants his feet on solid ground. But there’s no time for celebrating being alive. The footsteps are still coming.

He breaks into a run and throws himself through the next door ahead of him. It bangs hard against the wall and slams behind him but he doesn’t care. Once he’s through he looks around wildly, hoping for another door branching sideways, maybe out to another set of stairs or a room, but there’s nothing, so he keeps running.

He’s jogging now, through the guts of the stadium, wondering if he should be trying to shield himself – how close would someone have to be back here to try and curse him?

There’s another door ahead of him. Maybe he should go through there and try to barricade himself in. Could he get a message to Albus? Maybe a Patronus or... Or he could try the spell that Harry gave him. Aurors would be able to take out one lone person easily. Once he’s through here he’ll assess his options.

He bursts through the door and looks to both sides. There are two other doors in this corridor, merciful escape routes. He can hide in either and wait for the person to go past. Perfect.

He throws himself at the one on his right and finds that it’s locked, so he tries the one on the left and goes sprawling through head first, right into-

“Scorpius?” Albus asks, frowning down at him. “What are you doing up here? Are you okay?” He reaches down to offer Scorpius a hand up.

“No!” Scorpius says. “No there’s someone following me, we need to-“

The door into the corridor bursts open and Delphi is there. She looks at Scorpius, looks at Albus, and her expression turns thunderous. “What are you two doing?”

Albus grins at her. “I was looking for you! And Scorpius, of course. You missed the final.”

Scorpius scrambles to his feet and stares at Delphi. She’s tucking her wand away, adjusting her hair, and then her dark, crackling expression turns to sunshine. “Sorry, Albus. I had to come up here and grab something I left behind earlier.” With her back to Albus she gives Scorpius a long, pointed look that makes him shiver, and she goes to the locked door and opens it up with a silent spell.

“Well,” Albus says, looking between the two of them. “I won, so...” He puts a hand on Scorpius’s arm and steps closer to him, lowering his voice. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Scorpius nods, pats his hair back into place, and tucks his wand away, nodding. “Sure. Definitely.” He gives Albus a smile. “So you won? I’m sorry I missed it.”

Albus takes one last long look between him and Delphi, then breaks into a broad smile. “Me too. I was brilliant, if I say so myself.”

Scorpius takes his hand. “Tell me about it?”

Albus squeezes his hand tight. “Of course. But first...” He turns to Delphi. “Delphi, this is my boyfriend, Scorpius. Scorpius, this is Delphi.”

Scorpius looks at her and gives what he hopes is a friendly smile. “Hi, it’s... it’s nice to meet you.”

She replies with a look so ice cold it makes Scorpius shiver. “Yes,” she says. “Likewise.”

 “So why were you up near Delphi’s perch?” Albus asks later, when they’re sitting side by side at the end of the harbour wall, staring at the endless oblivion of star-studded sky, and inky black wind-ruffled sea, neither of them wanting to be the first one to leave and go home.

Scorpius kicks his heels against the stonework beneath him and shakes his head, trying to work out what to say. “I just...” He pauses for a moment too long, choosing his words too carefully. “I remembered that I was meant to be investigating.”

“So you went into maintenance areas and ended up running into me like you were scared out of your mind,” Albus says, giving him a look. “What happened back there? You weren’t running from Delphi, were you?”

Scorpius looks at him. “While you were racing, I-“ He stops and takes a breath. Albus uses the break to poke him in the arm and grin at him.

“You?”

Scorpius swallows. “I overheard some stuff, Albus. It wasn’t great... They – Delphi and the people with her – they were talking about... well, I don’t know for sure. But it sounded an awful lot like they were talking about you, about us, about something they were planning.”

“Right...” Albus says slowly.

Scorpius nods. “I think they were talking about... I think I might be messing things up for them. By being here.”

Albus frowns. “By being here tonight? But you’re my guest. And what could they possibly be getting up to tonight?”

“No,” Scorpius says, bracing his hands on the harbour wall and staring down at the eddies and swirls of the waves lapping at the stonework just beneath his dangling feet. “No, I don’t mean tonight. I mean in general.” He looks at Albus. “They don’t want me here. They don’t want me around you. I’m guessing that the Dementors and the fire-“

Albus shakes his head. “No. No way. No.” He shakes his head again, even more firmly, then gives a disbelieving little laugh. “Why would you think Delphi’s trying to kill you? She didn’t even meet you until tonight. Anyway you’re you. And she knows how important you are to me.”

“I think,” Scorpius murmurs, “that that might be part of the problem...”

“And do you know what I think?” Albus says, squeezing his hand.

Scorpius looks at him. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re getting jumpy,” Albus says. “After everything that’s happened, I get it. But really, Scorpius. Delphi is just Delphi. She gets weirdly territorial, she makes plans. It’s what she does.”

Scorpius gently extracts his hand from Albus’s grip and stares out across the sea. “Did you know Rodolphus Lestrange was in her box?” He asks.

Albus’s gaze snaps to him in an instant. “What?”

Scorpius nods. “The Rodolphus Lestrange. Crazy Death Eater Rodolphus Lestrange. Devoted husband of Bellatrix, servant of Voldemort, Rodolphus Lestrange.”

Albus opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, then he shakes his head. “You were on the other side of the stadium. Maybe you didn’t see clearly, or...” He stares at Scorpius. “Are you sure?”

Scorpius looks at him and nods. “I promise. I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t certain.”

“But why would Delphi...” Albus bows his head, face falling, and Scorpius doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Albus shakes his head. “No, no, I...” He glances up at Scorpius, forehead creased with worry. “Scorpius,” he says softly. “What if... what if you’re right? What if she is trying to... What if something’s going on? All these people she talks to, and the plans, and... I don’t think she’s a bad person, she’s my friend, but what if she’s, I don’t know, bewitched, or... What do we do?”

“I’m going to get evidence,” Scorpius says. “I need to find something concrete. I can’t prove anything that happened today. And if you want me to be honest? That’s why I was up there. Looking for proof. I didn’t find any, but there must be some somewhere, and if there is then I’ll find it. I’ll find it and I’ll work out who’s trying to hurt us, whether it’s Delphi or one of her group, or...”

Albus reaches out and puts a hand on Scorpius’s arm. “Please be careful? I can’t lose Delphi, but I think... I think losing you again would be worse.”

Scorpius takes hold of his hand and nods. “I promise.” He kisses the back of Albus’s hand, and Albus nods.

“Good...”

“And I am sorry,” Scorpius says. “That I didn’t see you win the race. Watching you tonight was...” He shakes his head and searches for the right word. “You’re extraordinary.”

Albus’s cheeks go pink and his eyes shine in the starlight. “Thanks. I had a lot of fun tonight. It made me...” He looks down at his knees. “It made me sad that you’re going to shut it all down.”

Scorpius looks across at him. “What will you do if- when it gets shut down?”

Albus shrugs and suddenly he looks very small, all hunched in on himself, like he’s lost in his own skin without flying to define him. “I don’t know. I... I don’t know.”

“Have you thought about it?” Scorpius asks softly.

Albus glances at him. “I... I left home to find myself,” he murmurs. “But sometimes I feel more lost than ever these days. Is that stupid? I think I always assumed I’d die in a race or in training, or... But now I’ve started imagining the future. A future with you, my parents, Lily and James... I don’t know what the future is or what I want it to be, I just sort of know who I want in it.” He gives Scorpius a little smile. “I guess I have a lot to think about.”

Scorpius leans across and hugs Albus tightly, squeezing his small, strong body in his arms. “If you ever need help thinking about it you can talk to me. I have some experience of reimagining life overnight.”

Albus hugs him tighter and buries his face in his shoulder. “I love you,” he murmurs. “And I’m still sorry.”

Scorpius brushes his fingers through Albus’s hair. “I’m sorry too,” he whispers.

[insight-analysis]

All about Egypt

New Post has been published on https://theinsightanalysis.com/?p=1341

All about Egypt

The Arab Republic of Egypt, commonly known as Egypt is located primarily in North-Eastern Africa. 

It covers an area of about 1,020,000 square kilometers and includes the Sinai Peninsula, but the majority of the country is located in North Africa. It shares land boundaries to the west with Libya, to the south with Israel on the northeast. It is bordered by the Mediterranean and Red Seas. 

to the north and east 

The majority of Egypt’s population lives along the banks of the Nile River where the land is rich and fertile. However, a significant percentage of the land is part of the Sahara Desert and so has very few inhabitants. 

Egypt is famous for its ancient civilization and some of the world’s most stunning ancient monuments. The Pyramids at Giza, the Temple of Karnak and the Valley of the Kings attract many visitors. The southern city of Luxor contains an exceptionally large number of ancient artifacts. Today, Egypt is widely regarded as the main political and cultural center of the Arab and Middle Eastern regions.

Contents

1 Ancient Egypt

1.1 History of ancient Egypt: 

1.1.1 History of Greek and Roman Egypt: 332 BC to 639 AD

1.1.2 History of early Arab Egypt: 639 to 1517

1.1.3 History of Ottoman Egypt: 1517 to 1805

2 EGYPTOLOGY

3 Egyptian Art

3.1 Art

3.2 Architecture

3.3 Papyrus

3.4 Pottery

3.5 Statues

3.6 Hieroglyphs

3.7 Literature

3.8 Paintings

4 Egyptian Antiquities

4.1 Shabtis

4.2 Amulets

4.3 Cosmetics

4.4 Egyptian Museum

5 Ancient Egyptian Food

6 Egyptian Mythology

6.1 Egyptian Gods

6.2 Death

6.3 The monotheistic period

6.4 Temples

7 Egyptian Mysticism

8 Egyptian Pyramids

9 Mysteries of the Pyramids

9.1 Mastabas and Step Pyramids:

9.2 Bent Pyramid:

9.3 Smooth-sided pyramids:

Ancient Egypt

Egypt has the longest continuous history, as a unified state, of any country in the world. The need to have a single ruler to manage the waters of the Nile led to the creation of the world’s first state about 3000 BC. Its geography made it a difficult country to attack, and during the days of the pharaohs, Egypt was independent and self-contained. 

Once Egypt did succumb to foreign rule, however, it proved unable to escape from it, and for 2,300 years Egypt was governed by a long list of foreign governments: Persians, Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, Turks and British.  

History of ancient Egypt: 

The history of Ancient Egypt proper started sometime around 3300 BC. As an independent state it lasted until about 1300 BC. Nevertheless, archaeological evidence indicates that there may have been an advanced Egyptian culture for a long time. A grain-grinding culture was replaced along the Nile in the 10th millennium BC by one of the hunters, fishermen and gathering peoples using stone tools. Research also testifies to human habitation in the southwest corner of Egypt, near the Sudan frontier, before 8000 BC.  

The changes in temperature and/or overgrazing around 8000 BC caused the drying out of Egypt’s fertile fields, finally creating the Sahara Desert around 2500 BC. Early tribes migrated naturally to the Nile where they established a prosperous agricultural economy and a more organized society. There is evidence of cereal production in the East Sahara during the 7th century BC. By 6000 BC, ancient Egyptians were herding cattle in the southwest corner of Egypt, and building large buildings using mortar by 4000 BC. 

The Dynastic Periods: 3000 BC to 332 BC

Egyptian history is broken into a number of different periods according to the dynasty of the ruling pharaoh.Egyptian chronology is in a constant transitional state, with most of the terms in question, and dates in disputeHere are the main dynastic periods:

Predynastic Period (Prior to 3100 BC)

Early Dynastic Period (1st–2nd Dynasties)

Old Kingdom (3rd–6th Dynasties)

First Intermediate Period (7th–11th Dynasties)

Middle Kingdom (12th–13th Dynasties)

Second Intermediate Period (14th–17th Dynasties)

New Kingdom (18th–20th Dynasties)

Third Intermediate Period (21st–25th Dynasties) (also known as the Libyan Period)

Late Period (26th–31st Dynasties) 

History of Greek and Roman Egypt: 332 BC to 639 AD

When Alexander the Great conquered Egypt in 332 BC, Greek influence took root for the next 900 years. Then after 300 years, Egypt was incorporated into the Roman Empire and ruled first from Rome and then from Constantinople. In 639 AD, the Arabs took over.  

History of early Arab Egypt: 639 to 1517

From 639 to 1517 Egypt was part of the Arab world, ruled at first by governors acting in the name of the Umayyad Caliphs in Damascus. In 747 the Umayyads were overthrown and the unity of the Arab world was broken. Although Egypt remained under the Abbasid Caliphate, the Tulunids and the Ikhidis were able to establish semi-independent dynasties. Cairo was established as capital in 969 when Egypt was conquered by the Tunisian Ismaili Shia Fatimid dynasty. This dynasty lasted until 1174, when Egypt came under Saladin ‘s rule, the Ayyubid dynasty of which lasted until 1252. The Ayyubites were defeated by their Turkish bodyguards, known as the Mamluks, who ruled under the Abbasid Caliphs regime until 1517, when Egypt became part of the Ottoman Empire. 

History of Ottoman Egypt: 1517 to 1805

Egypt was conquered by the Ottomans in 1517, but it was always a difficult province for the Ottoman Sultans to control. It remained dominated by the semi-autonomous Mamluks until it was conquered by the French in 1798. After the French were expelled, Albanian Muhammad Ali of Egypt and his descendants pulled Egypt even further out of Ottoman control. It lasted until 1882 when the British invaded and Egypt became a colony of Britain. 

The reign of Mehemet Ali and his successors was a period of rapid reform and modernization. Egypt became one of the most developed states outside of Europe. Unfortunately, massive government expenditures led to bankruptcy, and Egypt fell under the control of the British. 

History of Modern Egypt: since 1882

The History of Modern Egypt is generally considered as beginning in 1882, from the time it became a British colony. In 1922, Egypt was officially granted independence, but British troops remained in the country and true self-rule did not occur until 1952 when Colonel Gamal Abdul Nasser rose to power. Nasser’s one party state has seen many changes but has remained in place, firstly under Anwar Sadat, and until the present day, under Hosni Mubarak.

EGYPTOLOGY

Egyptology is the scientific study of Ancient Egypt. Someone who studies Ancient Egypt is an Egyptologist. Egyptology explores Ancient Egyptian culture – its language, literature, history, religion, art, economics, and ethics, from the 5th millennium BC up to the end of Roman rule in the 4th century AD. 

Modern Egyptology is generally thought of as beginning in the year 1822. That was when Jean-François Champollion first deciphered Egyptian hieroglyphics. He used the Rosetta Stone, a dark granite stone which provided modern researchers with translations of ancient text. Since 1802, the stone has been kept in the British Museum since. 

Egyptian archeology is in a constant state of transition, with differences of opinion as to dating and terminology. Archeologists may suggest solutions to many of these questions; others may never be solved. 

Here are some of the questions that Egyptologists are trying to answer: 

Who were the first pharaohs of Egypt?

Where did the Egyptians come from?

Was the Pharaoh really seen as a god or was the position he held just viewed as divine?

What were the pyramids used for? How were the pyramids built?

Are the Pyramids of Giza lined up with stars?

How old is the Sphinx?

What was the purpose of the Sphinx?

Which pharaoh was the Sphinx meant to resemble?

Why did the Egyptians mummify their dead?

Is there a connection between Moses and Akhenaten?

Why did the Egyptians use hieroglyphs?

Why did Plato write about Atlantis?

Egyptian Art

Art

Ancient Egyptian art refers to two-dimensional and three-dimensional art produced from 3000 BC in Egypt and used until the 3rd century. It is the symbolism of the past expressed in paintings and sculptures.  

There was a strict set of rules about how to represent three-dimensional forms. More important to follow the rules than to make a pretty picture, the intention of most of the artwork was to provide company for the deceased in the Other World. An artist’s job was to paint everything of the present time as clearly and permanently as possible. Through these vivid works of art, we are able to experience vicariously the life and times of Egyptians who lived thousands of years ago. Over decades, the Egyptian way of portraying man, nature and the world remained much the same and a revered artist was who duplicated the most beloved styles of the past.

Architecture

Ancient Egyptian architects used bricks, fine sandstone, limestone, and granite, both sun-dried and kiln-baked. Wood was not used as a building material because there were very few trees available. Without the use of mortar, stones had to fit precisely together. As the height of the construction grew, ramps were necessary to move people and materials up. When the structure at the topwas completed, the artists decorated from the top down, removing the ramps as they descended. 

As the time passes, primitive structures of clay and reeds evolved into magnificent monumental structures of granite, with very thick walls. The massive sloping exterior walls of pyramids contained only a few small openings. Brilliantly colored hieroglyphs and carvings decorated the structures, and included many motifs, like the scarab, sacred beetle, the solar disk and the vulture. 

The belief in the existence of life beyond death resulted in a mammoth architectural style to house the mummified bodies. Construction of a burial monument was initiated as soon as a pharaoh was named, and it continued until he was deceased. The longer a pharaoh lived, the larger his tomb would be. King Tutankhamen’s tomb is fairly small – he died at a young age. Another amazing aspect of ancient Egyptian architecture is that there was no structural support, except the strength and balance of the structure itself. 

Papyrus

The word “paper” comes from “papyrus,” a plant cultivated in the ancient Nile delta. The papyrus plant processing produced sheets of paper which were up to 30 feet long. The papyrus crafting method has been lost over time, and then rediscovered by an Egyptologist in the 1940s.

On papyrus are depicted all facets of ancient Egyptian life, including literary, political, historical and administrative records.

Pottery

Ancient Egyptians used steatite or soapstone to carve small pieces for vases and amulets, as well as images of gods and animals. They also discovered how to cover pottery with enamel, which they also used on some stonework. 

Some pottery items represented interior parts of the body, and were deposited in burial chambers of the dead – the heart and lungs, liver and small intestines, which were removed before embalming. Smaller objects in enamel pottery in large number of were also deposited with the dead. They contained the names, titles, and offices of the deceased, as well as stories about them. 

Statues

The ancient Egyptian sculpture art evolved in physical form to represent the ancient Egyptian gods and pharaohs, the divine kings and queens.

Very strict rules were followed while crafting statues: male statues were darker than female ones; in seated statues, hands were required to be placed on knees and specific rules governed the appearance of every Egyptian god. For example, the sky god, Horus, was to be represented with a falcon’s head, the god of funeral rites, Anubis, was to be shown with a jackal’s head. Artistic works were ranked according to exact compliance with all the conventions, which were followed so strictly that over three thousand years, very little changed in the appearance of statutes. 

Hieroglyphs

A hieroglyphic script is made of a number of images and symbols. In Egyptian hieroglyphs, some symbols had independent meanings, and some were used in combination. In a similar fashion to the Roman alphabet, some hieroglyphs were used phonetically, or to convey multiple meanings. The script was composed in three ways: from top to bottom, left to right, and right to left. The ancient Egyptians continued to use this type of writing, from 3300 BC until the third century AD. Many of the period’s works of art contain hieroglyphs, and hereoglyphs themselves form an impressive part of ancient Egyptian art.

Literature

Ancient Egyptian art and literature were recorded on papyrus or on wall paintings.

Included, were subjects like hymns to the gods, mythological and magical texts, and mortuary texts. Biography, history, science, mathematics, medicine, philosophy, and stories, also tied art and literature together. A number of such stories from ancient Egypt have survived thousands of years. The most famous is Rhodopis, the oldest version of the story we call “Cinderella” today. 

Paintings

We are fortunate to have Ancient Egyptian paintings which survived in the extremely dry climate. The purpose of the paintings was to make the afterlife of the deceased a pleasant place. Protective deities, introductions to the gods of the afterworld, beautiful scenes of life in the afterworld, were all subjects to be explored with paints and brushes.

Egyptian Antiquities

The history of Egypt is written in its artifacts. A timeframe of more than 3,000 years showcases diverse and detailed works of jewelry and sculpture. A variety of materials were used during different stages, from the polychrome (red, blue/green, yellow, black) decorations used on some shabtis (statuettes) around the end of l8th Dynasty and in the Ramesside Period, to the dark hard stone probably of the Middle Kingdom or 25th Dynasty,

Shabtis

The ancient Egyptians believed that for many, the afterlife would likely require them to labor in the fields. Those who could afford it, took funerary statues (shabtis, shawabtis and ushabtis) along to perform their tasks. In the Ramesside Period, the number of shabtis increased to include one for each day of the year, plus 36 overseers. Tutankhamun’s tomb had an additional 12 monthly overseers. 

Amulets

Some amulets held magical properties that could be conferred on the wearer. They would be taken along to the afterlife to provide assistance on the journey, or give protection.

An animal shaped amulet could inspire particular qualities or behaviors the wearer wished to possess. Or, if it were molded like part of the anatomy, it might give special related powers in that way. Amulets also portrayed symbols of power such as the pharaoh’s scepters. The eye of Horus was a very powerful Egyptian amulet, worn by both living and dead, which could protect everything behind it from evil. 

Amulets were made from a variety of materials including glass, semi-precious stones, bronze, gold, silver, and a ceramic composed of crushed sand or quartz called Egyptian faience. 

Cosmetics

Egyptians lived in a land of intense sun, where it was necessary to keep their skin oiled so it would not dry out. To prevent the sun from scorching their hair, it was treated with a lump of moisturizing cream that would gradually melt and give the wearer a pleasant fragrance. Many of the containers in which the oils and creams were stored can be found in museum collections. 

Egyptian Museum

In Cairo, Egypt, the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities, generally known as the Egyptian Museum, is home to the world ‘s largest collection of pharaonic antiques. This has 136,000 items on display, with several hundreds of thousands more in the storerooms in its basement. 

The Egyptian Museum is an outgrowth of the effort by the Egyptian government to limit the looting of antiquities sites and artifacts, by establishing the Egyptian Antiquities Service in 1835. The museum opened in 1858 in an annex of the palace of Ismail Pasha of Giza, who had retained Auguste Mariette, the French archaeologist, to assemble the collection. In 1900 the museum moved to its present location, a neoclassical structure on Tahrir Square in Cairo’s city center. 

The highlight of the collection is often considered to be the tomb artifacts of the Pharaoh Tutankhamun, whose almost intact tomb Howard Carter found in the Valley of the Kings in 1923. The Royal Mummy Room, containing 27 royal mummies, is also highly prized.

Ancient Egyptian Food

Egypt’s Ancient Land was one of the world’s most rich plains, so it housed one of the world’s strongest cultures. Rich soil, created by the annual floods of the canal, deposited dense silt over the land often supplying two, or sometimes three, harvests a year. Herodotus, a famous Greek historian, once wrote that Egypt was the Gift of the Nile.  

In most Egyptians, bread was the staple diet. The average kitchen was normally located on the back of the house, or on the roof. It was mostly outdoors but may have been partly shady. Egyptian food was cooked, using wooden utensils, in simple clay pots and stored in jars.

Beer became the popular beer, and made from barley as well. The Egyptians would add spices to improve the flavor and it has usually been preserved in labelled clay pots. The importance of beer to the ancient Egyptians should not be underestimated since it was so highly esteemed that it was regularly offered to the gods as a libation.  

The wine was made from nearby vineyards for the upper classes. The workers would stomp the grapes after the harvest had been processed, and the juice would have been extracted. They made other wines from pomegranates or plums.

Though Ancient Egypt’s people in poverty enjoyed a relatively balanced diet including vegetables , nuts, and fish. But it was just the bigger farms that were feeding the livestock, mostly because the ordinary farmer had to use his small land to grow crops. Poultry was grilled to the table for the most part, but meat remained the luxury of the wealthy. Contains seasoning: cinnamon, pepper, cumin , coriander, sesame, dill, fennel, fenugreek, seeds etc.  

All the great festivals of the year were religious and were organized by the priests of the temple. The biggest of these was the god Amun festival which lasted an entire month. The ritual parade would have followed songs, dancers, singers, acrobats, and jugglers. Much feasting and partying continued with the consumption of a lot of wine and beer. There would be; dancing, poetry, laughter and the visitors would dance to entertain the younger members of the party.

Even though the ancient people did not write down their recipes or use cook books, it is well known the ingredients required to produce most of the dishes, many of which are still used in Egypt today.

Egyptian Mythology

Egyptian mythology is how we describe the succession of beliefs held by the people of Egypt until the coming of Christianity and Islam. For nearly three thousand years, the Egyptians were, for the most part, believers in many gods.

Egyptian Gods

The early beliefs can be split into 5 distinct localized belief groups:

* the Ennead of Heliopolis, whose chief god was Atum

* the Ogdoad of Hermopolis, where the chief god was Ra

* the Chnum-Satet-Anuket triad of Elephantine, where the chief god was Chnum

* the Amun-Mut-Chons triad of Thebes, where the chief god was Amun

* the Ptah-Sekhmet-Nefertem triad of Memphis, unusual in that the gods were unconnected before the triad was formalized, where the chief god was Ptah.

As the leaders of the different groups gained and lost power, so the major beliefs merged and mutated. First, Ra and Atum became Atum-Ra, with Ra the dominant of the two, and then Ra became absorbed in his turn by Horus and Ra-Herakty. Ptah, on the other hand, was absorbed into Osiris after he had become Ptah-Seker, becoming Ptah-Seker-Osiris. The goddesses fared no better, with Hathor absorbing the details of the other goddesses initially, but ultimately absorbed into Isis. Meanwhile, the villains similarly assimilated, with Set, who was initially a hero, absorbing all the aspects of the other evil gods, which he was doomed to do after having been chosen as the favored god of the Hyksos. 

By the time the Greeks influenced Egypt, all that remained was the trinity of Osiris, Isis, and Horus, and their enemy, Set, as exemplified by the Legend of Osiris and Isis. The trinity had absorbed so many of the prior cults, that each had its own center of worship – Abydos for Osiris, Dendera for Isis, and Edfu for Horus. Even at this stage, the amalgamation was continuing, with Osiris all but an aspect of Horus (and vice-versa), and heading rapidly towards monotheism. Nevertheless, monotheism had briefly existed before, as, in the 13th century, Akhenaten had attempted to introduce the monotheistic worship of Aten, the sun-disc itself, although it was ultimately rejected. 

Death

Egyptians practiced embalming and mummification in order to preserve the individual’s identity in the afterlife. Originally, the dead were interred in reed caskets in the searing hot sand, which caused the remains to dry quickly, preventing decomposition. and were then buried. Later, wooden tombs were constructed, and the extensive process of mummification and associated burial rituals and rules began. 

Embalming was developed by the Egyptians around the 4th Dynasty. All soft tissues were removed, and the cavities washed and packed with natron, a white, crystalline mineral salt.Then the body outside was buried also in natron. Because it was a stoneable offence to harm the pharaoh ‘s body, even after death, the person who made the cut with a rock knife in the abdomen was chased away ceremonially and had rocks thrown at him.

After coming out of the natron, bodies were coated inside and out with resin to preserve them, then wrapped with linen bandages, embedded with religious amulets and talismans. Royalty was usually placed inside a series of nested coffins, the outermost of which was a stone sarcophagus. The intestines, lungs, liver, and stomach were separately preserved, and stored in canopic jars protected by Horus’ Four Sons. Other creatures were also mummified, usually the representations of the Gods. Ibis, crocodiles, cats, Nile perch and baboons can be found in perfect mummified forms. 

The Book of the Dead was a series of almost two hundred texts, songs and pictures written on papyrus and individually customized, which was buried alongside the body, or painted on the tomb walls, in order to ease passage into the underworld. One of the best examples of the Book of the Dead is The Papyrus of Ani, created around 1240 BC, which also contains many pictures of Ani and his wife on their journey through the land of the dead, in addition to the texts themselves.

Later on the belief emerged that the heart of the deceased’s soul would be weighed against a feather, and if found wanting in morality, would be eaten by the demon Ammit. 

The monotheistic period

During the reign of Akhenaten a brief period of monotheism (Atenism) existed, centered on the Egyptian sun god Aten. Akhenaten banned all other god’s worship, and founded a new capital (Amarna). The religious reform only lasted until Akhenaten ‘s son, Tutankhamun, died, and then soon returned. In addition, removals of Akhenaten and Tutankhamun from the Wall of Kings are likely to be linked to the drastic religious reform.

According to some Egyptologists, it is incorrect to regard this period as monotheistic. tThese researchers state that people did not worship the Aten but worshiped the royal family as a pantheon of gods who received their divine power from the Aten. It is critical to determine this time as monotheistic, according to other Egyptologists.. A recent alternative interpretation resulting from interpreting specific knowledge items relating to biblical and Egyptian history (by Ahmed Osman) suggests that Moses and Akhenaten were the same entity.

The original Egyptian pantheon survived more or less as the dominant faith after the fall of the Amarna dynasty, until the establishment of Coptic Christianity and later Islam, even though the Egyptians continued to have relations with other monotheistic cultures ( e.g. Hebrews). Egyptian mythology put up surprisingly little resistance to the spread of Christianity, sometimes claiming that Jesus was originally based primarily on Horus, with Isis representing Mary. 

Temples

Many temples are still standing today. Some remain in ruins with wear and tear, while some are completely destroyed. Pharaoh Ramses II was a particularly prolific builder of temples. 

Some known temples include:

* Abydos (Great Temple of Abydos) – Adoration of the early kings, whose cemetery, to which it forms a great funerary chapel, lies behind it.

* Karnak – Once part of the ancient capital of Egypt, Thebes.

Egyptian Mysticism

Egyptian Mysticism is a complex set of rituals and behaviors which looks for strength and guidance from a variety of otherworldly beings. These “gods” are the representations of human characteristics and qualities, and provide the practitioner with a way of understanding and living within the world. 

Ancient Egyptian Mysticism includes the “magic circle,” which is familiar to European Pagans, Hebraic Kabalists, Native Americans, and every other mystic. Participants stand in a circle to honor the four directions and the deities they worship, those of Egypt having been called, as a group, Neteru – to the East is Tuameteutev; to the South is Amset; to the West is Qeb Suv; and to the North is Hapi. 

There are three cradle gods – Shai, Renenet, or Meskhenet – which can be invoked to assist with good fortune, luck, or new life. 

Other rituals include efforts to integrate or resolve karmic issues brought from past lives or unconscious living. According to the Ancient Egyptians we live in nine dimensions, many so nebulous that we can only experience them during dreams. We can call forth an opportunity to learn and grow in this fashion. 

There are rites for assisting others to find their paths as well as one’s own. Totems play a very important role in the Egyptian Mystical practices. Totems are “composite creatures,” or archetypes, containing living elements of Nature embedded within our Psyches or Souls. In the American Indian tradition, there are many totems, such as bear, raven, frog, and eagle.  

The Egyptian list of totems is very extensive, and includes:

Heru, the Falcon of Spiritual Victory, is the totem for those who possess Christ-consciousness. Het-Heru, the Cow Goddess Of Spiritual Blessing, is for those who are deeply devoted to a life of blessing others.

Anpu, the Jackal of Soul-Guidance, looks over those who are natural-born counselors, therapists and Spiritual guides. Apis, the Bull of Fertility, is the symbol of security, wealth and fatherhood. Tehuti, the Ibis-headed Record-Keeper, is the one who keeps accurate records, who writes everything down. Amun, the Goat Of Everlasting Creativity, is profoundly connected to sexuality and creates solutions out of thin air. Nut, the Sky-Goddess, embodies everything revered about mothering and motherhood. Geb, the Earth-God, is the good and loyal husband. Ptah, the Great Designer, organizes and envisions great designs and is the patron of freemasonry. Bastet, who personifies the Maternal Instincts of the Cat, is the patroness of childhood and nursing. Ksheper, the Scarab-Beetle of Immortality, is the patron of inventors and creative writers. Nephthys, at the Altar Of Mercy, lovingly supports nuns, ministers, monks, and those who take care of our spiritual needs. Ra, the Eagle Of The Sun, represents the victory of light over darkness. 

There are certain gods of destruction – Set, Osiris, Isis, and many others- which should never be invoked, because they are associated with death and annihilation.

Egyptian Pyramids

The Egyptian Pyramids are some of the largest man-made constructions ever built. They are one of the most impressive and abiding symbols of Ancient Egyptian civilization. Although in an Egyptian pyramidno ancient Egyptian rulers have been found buried, most archaeologists generally accept that they were constructed as burial monuments. The majority were completed during the Old and Middle Kingdom periods. Egyptian homes were built on the east bank of the Nile River, the land where the Sun rises. The pyramids were built on the west bank of the river, where the sun sets, because the Egyptians believed it was the land of the dead. 

Since antiquity, the pyramids at Giza are probably the world’s most popular tourist destination. They were popularized in Hellenistic times when the Great Pyramid was listed as one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Today out of all, it is the only one of the ancient Wonders still in existence. 

Giza, lies on the southern outskirts of Cairo and is the location of the three most famous pyramids. The Pyramid of Khufu is known as the “Great Pyramid,” or the “Pyramid of Cheops.” The Pyramid of Khafre is somewhat smaller, as is the modest-sized Pyramid of Menkaure. This is also the location of a number of smaller “queens” pyramids, as well as the Great Sphinx.

Mysteries of the Pyramids

The pyramids of Egypt are considered to be the last of the seven wonders of the ancient world. No one can say for sure when they were built. At any given time many archaeologists are studying them to try and unlock their secrets. 

There are some who study the effects of pyramids on animate and inanimate objects. They postulate that the center of a pyramid has energy that affects whatever is held there. Razors stay sharper, foods stay fresh longer, even injuries heal more quickly. People who meditate claim that sitting in a pyramid while doing so, brings many benefits, from more energy to greater feelings of peace and tranquility. You can easily find plans to build your own pyramid. If you do, you will have the opportunity to see for yourself if these assertions are true.           

Since the late 1890s there have been people who believed that the Great Pyramid of Giza holds the secrets to understanding Biblical prophecy. John Taylor, Charles Piazzi Smyth, Martin Gardner, Robert Menzies, Madame Helena Blavatsky, Charles Taze Russell, Erik von Daniken, and Edgar Cayce, each had theories as to the purpose of the pyramids and how they were constructed.

Throughout history people have had special places to bury their dead. Caves and mounds were some of the earliest. Then in Egypt and elsewhere, larger structures appeared. We call them pyramids, and they take three distinctive shapes.

Mastabas and Step Pyramids:

The first large structures built in Egypt were called mastabas made of dried mud bricks that looked like raised flat beds. Most of them have crumbled. About 2650 B. C., Imhotep, an architect, physician, master sculpture, scribe, and astronomer, built the first known pyramid for King Zoser. It began as a simple mastaba, but was added to twice more to give it six layers. At a height of 200 feet, this step pyramid looked like a series of giant terraces. It took several design changes for it to take its final form. Today the Saqqara Pyramid still stands where the ancient city of Memphis was.

Bent Pyramid:

The second type of pyramid is called the Bent Pyramid. The builder of the Bent Pyramid is thought to have been the Pharaoh Snefru (2680-2565 BC), who was the first ruler of the 4th Dynasty.  

The unique feature of the Bent Pyramid is the angle change. The base of the Bent Pyramid rises at an angle of 52˚, but the upper half is changed to 43.5˚. No one knows for sure why, but it may have been that the builders wanted to reduce the volume and get finished faster. Or perhaps they realized that it would not be a safe structure. It was abandoned after being worked on for twenty years. The Bent pyramid is located in southern Saqqara among the pyramids of Dahshur.

Smooth-sided pyramids:

Smooth sided pyramids were built starting about 2600 B. C. The first, at Medum, began as a stepped pyramid. Later, the steps were filled in with loose rubble. Finally, the whole thing was encased in smooth limestone. This pyramid collapsed because the casing was not bonded strongly enough to the core. Medum lies approximately 40 miles south of Giza. 

The most famous pyramids are those at Giza. They stand on the west bank of the Nile River outside Cairo. The ten pyramids at Giza include those of Kings Khufu, Khafre, and Menkaure. 

Khufu’s pyramid is called the Great Pyramid and a study of it shows how these gigantic structures were built. Since the ancient Egyptians had no machinery or iron tools, they used copper chisels and saws to cut huge limestone blocks. The limestone came from nearby, as well as from across the Nile River, and other distant quarries. 

It took thousands of men to drag the blocks to the pyramid sites and begin the first layer. They built long ramps to drag the stones up to the next layer, until they reached the top. The whole thing was then covered with white casing stones laid so closely that the remarkable result was the look of a single white stone. Most of the coverings are gone now, but some remain at the bottom of the Great Pyramid.

[magnet-rose]

The Division Bell - A Reylo fic - Ch 2

Chapter 2 Round and Round

As embers fall like rain, Rey opens her eyes. There's a painful ringing in her ears, lines of the room around her swim in all directions, and she can't seem to focus. She pushes herself up to sit and slowly the room settles into place. He is lying on the ground just couple hundred feet away. The power of a lightsaber was no joke. It had thrown them clear across Snoke's chamber. The shattered saber lie in between them, like a broken promise. She feels her breath catch in her chest, the tears want to come again, but she takes in a deep intake of air and pushes the exhaustion, the sadness, the betrayal away.

Living on Jakku she'd never had very many friends. Until Finn had crashed into her world she'd been on her own, lived as a hermit once she was free to live alone at the behest of Unkar Plutt and made no close friends because they would return one day. But with Finn, Chewbacca… Han… Leia... she had begun to feel like she had that foundation of friends that she'd never had-never let herself have-and her life had been filled with something she never knew she wanted: friends. There is a connection, a hope, a love tied to friendship that fills all the corners of her empty world and for a time had eased the pain of missing parents.

Rey pulls herself to her feet using the wall as leverage. Her back smarts angrily in reminder that she had hit that wall after the saber exploded.

When the impromptu Force connection with Kylo-no, Ben- had happened she had been angry, fueled by a revenge ridden urge to kill the man who had killed one of her friends, her almost-mythological childhood hero.

And then there on that tiny isolated island with Master Skywalker she had begun to feel lost, alone, and she was losing her mission to find her purpose. He had been there, an ear to tell her frustrations, a lost soul like herself. Ben, so she thought, was entering that realm of friendship. She had even entertained the idea of being with him. He was attractive, they had a momentary connection, a spark deep in the Force that had nearly shouted: You compliment each other, like shadows and light in a mirror. She had trusted it, that feeling. But maybe she shouldn't have.

Rey begins the slow walk towards Ben, lying on the floor, crumpled and knocked out from the blast. Ashes and embers are still falling around them, sparks and bits of dying ship glowing out ever corner of the window. The ringing in her ears has subsided only to be replaced by the emergency klaxon and an automated voice saying in a tonally boring voice that there was a severe breech and all personnel were ordered to their muster stations and escape pods.

As she passes it she grabs the pieces of the shattered lightsaber, each a testament to a broken trust. The rage is filling her again, betrayal isn't something she takes lightly. The way he treated her isn't the way she wants to be treated.

She isn't sure, as she stands over his slack body, how much the eyebrow pinched expression on his face is from nightmare or physical pain.

She kneels down and reaches for his lightsaber. That violent, uncontrolled, untamed, crimson blade that had killed those she cared for, and probably would again because of its owner if he wasn't ended.

"You're nothing! But not to me."

She isn't a nobody. She knows herself! She is Rey, crack pilot, woman, partially trained Jedi. She is someone. To her friends, her true friends, she is someone. She knows even if they aren't physically there, that Finn, Chewbacca BB-8, Leia, and even Han, are with her because the Force connects all things.

She draws her hand back and instead presses a single finger to the space of pale skin between pinched eyebrows. At her touch his expression softens and he seems to just be sleeping peacefully. She feels that blind rage drain away and she sighs.

"You can't fix what isn't broken, and you can't change people who don't want to," she says in a chiding tone. "I hope what I saw comes true, I hope you let the light back in, but I won't take your toxic behavior lightly. It's your job to change, Ben. If you ever want to redeem what we could have had. I believe in you, never forget that, but I have to take care of myself and the people who need me now."

She touches his hair, smoothing out the tangles on top, and then smiles sadly as she rises to her feet.

In the corner a small light blinks above a sign for the emergency escape pod. With one last glance back at the man on the ground she goes to the escape pod and begins the departure tasks. Flip a switch, press a button, confirm. Step back, close door, press button, confirm.

The gravity shifts as the pod takes over power, propulsion, gravity, and direction. She presses a small beacon pinned to the inside of her vest under the collar and tries to meditate in the spare minutes until Chewie catches the beacon signal and retrieves her.

Later, as she reaches out to pull an avalanche of rocks away she reaches out just a little too far and there he is, just out of sight between the streams of the Force. She doesn't acknowledge it, him, until just after she feels Luke presence, like a single strand of a lute being plucked across the galaxy just before it breaks. There is a chill because for a time she could feel that not just her, not just Leia, but Ben too felt that lifeline twinge and vanish and they flowed in the same stream of the force, the waves rocking them all to the core.

Before she severs her end of that last red string of the Force between them she makes eye contact with him and she whispers across streams, waves, and currents of the Force: I believe in you.

He feels betrayed too. They really are so much alike, but like the sides of a coin they face opposite directions.

Until we meet again.

It's not exactly a challenge, but a promise. They will meet again, equals, two sides of a coin, spinning around each other but always in balance, whether on the battlefield or across the oceans of space.

With determination she ruptures the Force connection between them. The amputation is punctuated by the close of the Millennium Falcon's gangway. As they speed away from Crait she takes a few deep breaths to release the stress that had piled on her shoulders. She smiles to herself as she watches Finn fuss over a small unconscious woman. She couldn't wait to tell him everything she had learned, and find out what he'd been up to. She had missed her friend and she can sense some measure of strength in his shoulders that hadn't been there before. She was proud of him no matter what he had been through because something had bolstered his place in this world.

Like Maz had said, the belonging she had looked for is ahead and not behind her. It is right in front of her the whole time. Maybe one day she and Ben could reconcile, maybe they could find themselves on the same page, maybe find themselves in the same stream of the Force behind a unity, a balance of that same Force. Only then would she ever put the maybe friend, the briefly entertained significant other, in his own place in her picture of her belonging.

...

"Please..." he says to her. He can feel the connection between them straining. Ever since their fight in the forests of the Starkiller he had recognized in Rey something that had always been with him. Something that he had yearned for for as long as his memory would take him back. The dream fades away and he wakes with a gasp. He is so angry. He wants to destroy it all.

He rages because Snoke manipulated his feelings. He created a bond with Rey that wasn't real. Had any of it been real?

He rages because Hux is weak, sniveling, and clearly doesn't see that he is in control now. No one was going to control him. HE, Ben, Kylo WHATEVER he was, was in control. He now had the power.

He rages, throws every ounce of his anger behind fighting what's left of what SHE cares for more than him. That stupid resistance. That stupid beautiful, strong woman. He wants her with him, but she has denied him. Just like his parents, just like Skywalker, and just as Snoke had done time and again, made him feel like he was an outsider.

He rages through the fight with Skywalker. Luke. His uncle. How could he have done this to him? It was his fault! And when he fades away with the final words that he would always be with him like... like his father... he shatters just a little bit more. It doesn't seem to matter how much resolve he finds, there's always another part of him breaking away.

And then there in the abandoned base he feels her, and looking up he sees her. Just out of reach. But so close he can see the look of sadness and hurt on her face.

Until we meet again. She says to him over their connection before her end of it breaks.

He's never felt more broken in his life. But then he realizes that Snoke is gone. The connection was still there. He reaches out for it, but her end is so tightly closed it would be like throwing a snowball at a star destroyer. If she were a weaker mind then it might have been possible, but always Rey had been strong. Just as strong as him and his equal in the force. He looks at his hand where they had touched, where he had felt the vibrancy of their connection. They had something. They had lost it. He wondered if he would ever feel that connection again.

He leads the troops out, feeling Hux's anger at him boiling in the background. He doesn't care. Right now he wants to sleep. The exhaustion is taking over and he still had so much work to do to fully establish himself as the new Supreme Leader.

TBC... 

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[sonderrow-moved]

IC          CANON          VOICE          BODY          TRIALS           PLOTTING

◭ I.D

FULL NAME: Roy Kaworu Spiegel BIRTH: March 14th, 27 y.o. SEX & GENDER: Male SPECIE: Human ETHNICITY: Asian American LANGUAGE: English, German, Japanese OCCUPATION: Intern in environmental research, masseur RELIGION: Shinto SEXUALITY: ??? ◭ ANATOMY

HAIR: Bright auburn red EYES: Light grey FACE: TBA COMPLEXION: Milky honeyed skintone HEIGHT: 184 cm BUILD: TBA VOICE: Melodious and serious

◭ PERSONA

LIKES: Reading, anthropology, people older than him DISLIKES: Injustice, vices, ignorance MBTI: TBA ALIGNMENT: Lawful Good POLITICAL STANCE: Middle ground EDUCATION LEVEL: PhD DRUGS: Do vitamin supplements count..? PHOBIAS: Acrophobia DISORDER: None diagnosed

♚ “AND LATER MY MACABRE JOY SOURS AND I’M WEEPING FOR MYSELF, UNABLE TO FIND SOLACE IN ANY OF THIS, CRYING OUT, SOBBING, “I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED,” CURSING THE EARTH AND EVERYTHING I HAVE BEEN TAUGHT: PRINCIPLES, DISTINCTIONS, CHOICES, MORALS, COMPROMISES, KNOWLEDGE, UNITY, PRAYER - ALL OF IT WAS WRONG, WITHOUT ANY FINAL PURPOSE.”

This man has lived too long. A classic concept written, imagined by artists. To comfort them about their mortality, explore the ins and outs of an alien narrative full of ifs. How would this even work ? Even the people with the best memories, to a genius level even, eventually forgets, for the brain can only retain so much. This feeling people gets as they grow older, the biased nostalgia of glorified items they saw through their pure, untainted, still developing eyes and the resentment towards new trends as they cannot see anything without any scum anymore. The yearning not for those movements, but for this soft sensation, of looking, admiring something and think, for a moment, that it’s idealistic form was real.

This sweet, unadulterated notion became only a distant, forgotten memory as time hardened the one known today as Roy. For years. Decades. Centuries. Millenniums.

A man who was born during another civilization, another time, long forgotten with only myths remaining of it. Not even a relic to be talked about, as everything had disintegrated, returned to earth for another life cycle.

♚ “THE PAST ISN’T REAL. IT’S JUST A DREAM,” I SAY. “DON’T MENTION THE PAST.”

Roy was born under another name, one he still remembers, but has long buried away, as it is not his name anymore. No one remembers it. It is not him anymore, as much as he might like to. It is only an appellation to let go of. As humankind developed its technology to a peak, so did their power, as they yielded control over nature people nowadays couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t as clear as one making a motion to have the waves, wind and earth respond to it. It was a much more fundamental, rawer sense to it. Where the energy of the world could be used to build even new life.

Always the diligent person who only lived to serve, executing tasks exactly as he was asked to, Roy had been appointed to be the Right Hand of the High Priestess. A young female who had only recently bloomed into womanhood. So perfect in existence, like a bright, pale, white being given to their kind in exchange of their discovery over worldly power. She had embraced her role as a symbol since birth, and he was to accompany her every step of the way as she rose to an official position. To inspire and love. Untouched by anything, for her importance was too great as people shook the world order in their insatiable human curiosity. Nowadays, Roy could have been defined as a bodyguard, yet, in this time, there was no fear of another person’s mishap. Only was he to protect her from accidental injuries, get more menial tasks off her shoulder and, most of all, as they understood this aspect deeply, have her emotional and social needs satisfied.

The way she was so beautiful, the way she would only crack a laugh at his shenanigans, the way he knew how to soothe her and she, in her infinite kindness, learned to soothe him back when a crack of worry grew between his impeccable … how could he not fall in love ?

He loved the way she would recite poetry while he slowly got used to her wanting him to caress her head, and she loved the way he would sing her verses in his smooth, sultry voice. The way she would eye him while someone else was talking on stage with a soft smile while he was guarding the entrance and he’d let a smile crack.

It wasn’t a consummated love like you would see in the current, modern days. There were, of course, pairings who held deep affection towards one another and brought in the next generation, but she had a role where she would never have the chance to do so, for her symbolism was not to replicate, only to be a happenstance, a gift which mustn’t be tainted by an attempt to be artificially redone. She accepted her role with no issue, and so did Roy. And the two of them were perfectly happy with this.

This was a time before the continents even started to noticeably separate on Earth, or even before the initial ground became more and more flooded by the waters. A time where Roy’s kind felt so unified, at peace… until this built up, free of conflict power shattered in on itself.

Raw abominations started roaming, not in the form of creatures, not exactly. So ephemeral, yet spreading chaos and distortion at every corner, fueled by the abuse and infighting of those who had gathered too much and only yearned for more. Years and generations of peace had made civilization take harmony for granted, and the couple was powerless as they saw it unfold. As the world balance collapsed, Roy was approached by a group of pacifists, trusted people for outside the conflicts, everyone knew anyone, respect one another, grew with one another. And as sickly dear ones, growing tainted by the plague pleaded with him, for his position had him perfect for what needed to be done for the greater good: kill the priestess, so the good in her would spread across the land, calm the spirits through their weeps, and save them.

Someone like Roy, of unfathomable loyalty, had a decision to make. And despite the tugs at his heart, it was an easy one. For he believed that, if the Priestess was present, the choice would be simple. That she would understand, because, in her infinite goodness, she could forgive them, forgive him, in the end. And as his trust towards her was strong, it is during a bright morning, away from the war, in the beautiful temple they inhabited, up in the mountains, away from civilization, that he entrusted her with what the people wished of them… and like the great woman she always had been, she kept a serene, albeit slightly sorrowful expression as she accepted. If there was a chance the power built inside her since birth could save more than one person, she would die.

But when his blade pierced her heart, tainting her white, ceremonial clothing in the middle of the garden, she only clanged onto him, eyes wide with desperate sorrow, an expression she, and he, never ever witnessed in anyone before. Fear and betrayal spread across her dark eyes as they grew more and more obscure.

I don’t want to die. My love, I don’t want to die…

―were her last words before, as she wept and choked, the High Priestess expired in her guardian’s blood soaked arms, him wearing too stunned an expression for her to ever hear an answer for him.

Just like beliefs and idolization are made-up by man for comfort and, ultimately, are fake, so was the glorification that one death, from someone incredibly beautiful from the inside out, would be a solution to mankind creating their own demise.

And so, it was at his feet that Roy saw the last of humans slowly die out, first from their endless conflict, so harsh they forgot where it even started, and then to the unforgiving nature, taking back the life they had abused off her.

Only, as he himself felt like he was expiring, with all lifeforce living him in the deserted, now ruined temple he had taken cared of with his beloved.

♚ “THIS IS TRUE: THE WORLD IS BETTER OFF WITH SOME PEOPLE GONE. OUR LIVES ARE NOT ALL INTERCONNECTED. THAT THEORY IS CROCK. SOME PEOPLE TRULY DO NOT NEED TO BE HERE.”

And with the end of this first Humankind was the land so dry of its lifeforce that the cycle of resurrection immortality and resurrection ended. It was quite simple at the time, and helped with the utopia free of grief and unnecessary sadness for their knowledge-seeking kind. If happenstance had you gone, your aether would go back to the earth, only to rise again in the next year, century, no one knew, but they would rise again, the same people, to meet the ones they knew in another life again, with hazy memories, but just enough to recognize your loved ones, and find them again. The more time passed, the less did people come back from this dormant phase, millions and millions now sleeping under the crust of the Earth, never to awaken again. Only the one who had gathered more power could come back more quickly, not the servants, no matter how strong they were, like Roy, who was only, despite all his strengths, a support to a higher one.

Only, as their kind ended, in her last breath, was he given the last link to the cycle, to be connected to his brethren, when he wasn’t supposed to be the one to live again to better the world.

She gave it to him, as her last gift. As the forgiveness she could never give him while she clung to dear life so desperately.

For the greatest gift to give to someone where inevitable death surround them is to still live……… isn’t it ?

I have seen too little, did too little to be of any solace in chaos. You, my love, have seen, experienced. I cannot think of a finer person to carry out our legacy, for I trust that only the best will come out of you.

♚ “PEOPLE CAN GET ACCUSTOMED TO ANYTHING, RIGHT? HABIT DOES THINGS TO PEOPLE.”

Life went back to its natural course. Ancient structure became ruins as vegetation took over, and, strong as it ever was, mankind rose again from the ashes. At the dawn of a new civilization, an orphan would be found at a nearby river, taken in by farmers and eventually would be a child raised by the whole humble village… a child who hadn’t forgotten a thing, and worked towards the dawn of a new age where he could protect what was dear to him.

And so, the one these days called Roy, grew up like he did before, to train and refine his ways. Only, this time, he didn’t only focus on his personal growth, but on others’ too. Estranged from other children like he had always been, with adulthood reaching his mind too quickly, only devoted to his craft. Despite snarl from the youth, his reputation grew amongst the adults and elders, and the communities beyond. As soon as his body was barely out of its formative years, did the boy set home in the mountains. Out of the leftover ruins his past life would let him have. A strong foundation to not lose sight of his objective.

Discipline. Commitment. Responsibility. Peace of mind. Realism. Alongside harsh but fair mental and physical training, all from what he had been taught and remembered, Roy kept exploring martial disciplines he even hadn’t touched in the past, wanting to reestablish what had been lost, and, before he knew it, he was known nearly as a Sage Deity across the land. A man coming from another world, who set up his temple atop the mountains made of smooth boulders eroded with time, near a clear water source, in the middle of a blossoming garden full of colors and hybrid one never knew how such an abundance of different species naturally grew alongside one another in this location, like it was enchanted.

Often, the village elders sought Roy’s advice, which he hoped have given sparingly, in neutrality, since he couldn’t guide mankind every step of the way, only show them a flourishing path. Travelers would come from afar to seek both his teaching and words, with glorified stories growing slightly intimidating to the young man. Despite this, he did his best to carry on his duty, taking care of the new temple grounds he assembled himself, wearing flowing clothes he sew himself; all loyal to the form and aesthetic of the woman he cherished, adorning the same attire she did and flowing, long hair. He wasn’t hoping for them to meet again, only honor her memory. He had grieved and grieved, wept and wept before she gave him the gift of eternity. His salvation was throwing himself into his training, contemplating his sorrow, and so on and on again until he only felt peace.

Roy’s stories of a lady in white with the darkest of eyes became legends, tales of kindness, bravery and adventure. And, amongst his own legacy growing, did Roy decide, after much deliberation, to take in disciples. One, then two. People under his tutelage, who would, in return, vow to spread and defend what the temple fought for, alongside taking equal parts in temple duties. And as the young people he accepted under his wing grew, Roy would soon be surrounded by four bright students he deeply loved. Unable to truly have a father’s touch, he, at least, believed he was a good guardian, hoping that, with time, his students would become masters, and that humanity could flourish.

It was then that, surrounded by his disciples, minus one, actually, that Roy had just finished drinking light tea and eating some sweets. He sighed as a cloud formed in front of his thin lips, the cold air announcing the winter to come. Even as his eldest disciple spoke, Roy didn’t reply. He stayed still, unmoving, silent, for there was nothing to say about what he felt was to come.

He didn’t even groan when he felt the ornate blades of his disciples pass through him, all three at the same time, for they were bound to be guilty together. While the screeching pain enveloped his senses, he wondered if this was what she felt, when he betrayed her.

That night, the Sage’s remains were cut to pieces, scattered far and wide, while his head was burned in the courtyard bonfire, all in an attempt to stop the link he had with his brethren, to cease the “gift” he had been given and for the cycle carried by the billions sleeping to come to an end.

But, unlike what men thought, Roy’s cycle was only part of nature, and he was to rise once more.

♚ “MY NIGHTLY BLOOD LUST OVERFLOWED INTO MY DAYS AND I HAD TO LEAVE THE CITY. MY MASK OF SANITY WAS A VICTIM OF IMPENDING SLIPPAGE.”

It was always the same. Again and again. He would be reborn, train, work, bond, and die at the hands of the very ones he had linked himself. The only reliable companion Roy ever had was nature outside of mankind, harsh but fair, just like him. With a behavior he could coexist with peacefully. It started eating him from the inside out. This time around, Roy had come back from the dead a few decades after his murder, found stark naked in a rice field even farther East, still in a young adult form, regenerated. Mankind hadn’t been doomed yet, and so, he vowed to save it by himself.

Roy would travel far and wide as mankind spread its territory and the continents started separating, being the only one of his kind which could still read the flow of life, its remaining corruption, and how to neutralize them. He would never stay in one spot for too long, only focusing on what he had to do. Because if he didn’t do it, who would ? If he didn’t do anything, he would only be left seeing the same amount of suffering and death, all by himself.

He couldn’t sit down. He couldn’t lose hope.

But Roy’s respect for life took the better of him. As he helped others with his abilities, presenting himself as somewhat of a medium as others also showed special traits, he hadn’t seen how darker human’s hearts had become. So much more quickly than the society he had known in the past. People turned envious of his abilities, and, soon enough, he needed to fight and run for his own life, at the risk of being torn apart yet again.

This fight and flight narrative happened again. And again. Until Roy’s duty had no time to be done; if he wasn’t around, there was no way anything could be done. He had to survive. And as the world grew around him, his mind and memories became muddied, and the depravity surrounding his person slowly creeped into his mind, as any remainder of his initial purpose was muddled with a constant years of bloodshed. An age of decades where he was to be burned and tortured, captured again and again before he’d lay waste to entire villages for his own safety. So no witness was to remain, and less people were to go after him. His training was used in a way he had never done before. For a cause he couldn’t decide to stop. He learned how to kill as efficiently as possible, how to decimate communities, destroy morale through underhanded means. Jumping from one allegiance to another as he either killed or fled before they’d go after him. For the first time, Roy could see how much his raw abilities could be of use in carnage, with no ceremony, no cause behind them. Only death. The very somber death he swore to stop.

He didn’t even stop to wonder at the technology men came up with, using the growing devices as meant for an end, anger and rage creeping into his very soul, indulging in vices he was being offered by humans which morals he always despised. There was no relief in this life, no moment of quiet, only screams and chaos, and only sins could provide a moment of respite. Roy, actually, never remembered how he died, but he did, at some point, in some time, after all sane people had left the territory, and only savagery had roamed the land he had loved so dearly.

During this time, he had forgotten her name, even her face.

♚ “THE CONVERSATION FOLLOWS ITS OWN ROLLING ACCORD - NO REAL STRUCTURE OR TOPIC OR INTERNAL LOGIC OR FEELING; EXCEPT, OF COURSE, FOR ITS OWN HIDDEN, CONSPIRATORIAL ONE. JUST WORDS, AND LIKE IN A MOVIE, BUT ONE THAT HAS BEEN TRANSCRIBED IMPROPERLY, MOST OF IT OVERLAPS.”

At some point, Roy had no recognition if he had been in the same world, the same plane of existence amongst the cycles when he awoke once again. This time in a white, desperately empty desert. With no one at his side. He was still, somehow, a fully grown person, with the fresh memories of violence he had laid, and the scent of blood into all his pores, and the grotesque weapons he had used with no ceremony.

Yet, in this newly regenerated body, in this empty space by himself, his mind centered itself. His discipline kicked in between the silence and hunt for sustenance. He had spent so long a time by himself, alone, in the most chaotic of scenarios. With no one who remembered him, no one who remembered his loved ones, no one who remembered who everyone he even knew were.

After spending time and time, he couldn’t count how long, to rebalance his person, reshape his senses and skills yet again, Roy readied himself to reach civilization once more… yet when he started his journey again, he stopped, the sudden weight of his contact with humankind anchoring him to the ground, unable now to stand. His body was trembling, and everything he had packed fell to the ground. He knew what would happen if he gave up. What he would need to go through and experience. Again and again. He tried. He tried so hard. But no matter how good he could be, it seemed so… hopeless. However, even if it was an impossible endeavor, he couldn’t stop, or else he would have nothing.

He wouldn’t be able to, maybe, one day, see everyone again. How many times had it been ? His memory couldn’t bear so much, what important things could he not recall ? He could start counting, but there was no way to say if entire lifetimes were not thrown into the abyss, and if forgotten crucial knowledge would end up with yet another failure…

This is when, hunched onto himself in this deserted, white horizon, Roy held his head in his hand. He groaned of pain as his mind was strained to its limits, drooling as he agonized, and images faded far, far away as he life flow was being torn apart from him by his own hands. He could hear the screams of his brethren, their legacy being desecrated. Useless. Useless. He didn’t need to remember their names. He didn’t need to remember their faces. Everything deemed useless to the core of his mission was shred out of his very soul, making the pain, the worries fade away, for he only needed to focus on what needed to be done.

Discipline. Commitment. Responsibility. Peace of mind. Realism. For those virtues to lead mankind to a greater part. And maybe, just maybe, recover part of everything he had lost.

For it was the one thing she had not accounted for, for she saw this man as someone so perfect through her affection for him.

That, ultimately, he did all of this so he could see them, see her again if he ever succeeded, and mankind could doom itself if it wasn’t the only way he knew to move onwards. That he did what was needed of him, without taking it so much to heart, that, in the deep of his heart, laid a hidden, selfish reason for all of this. Yet, it may not be this one anymore, he couldn’t tell.

And as Roy literally lost his mind, all by himself, with not a soul around to witness his sorrow, he laid there, vegetable from the trauma, feeling but unable to move, in a haze of horror and pain, before, finally, dehydration took him, and he was back in the cycle again.

Only, this time, there would be no memories. Only physical ones. No loneliness, only fake memories pieced by the world to balance his existence. Only a man, his training, his virtues, and an impossible task that is his only defense against despair and insanity.

♚ “THERE IS NO TIME FOR THE INNOCENT.”

[thorndale-industries]

On Robert’s and Gillian’s Relationship

So, to my surprise a bunch of people approached me lately, asking about the relationship and dynamics Robert and Gillian have. I decided to write this little overview to give you a basic insight and to show you how they progress.

First of all, I want to point out at the very beginning that both of them are narcissistic, abusive, and sociopathic. They (emotionally) abused all of their previous partners as they did not really care about them and rather used them to full fill certain needs while barely giving anything back. One of the biggest issues is that both are skilled smooth talkers and charmers, who know how to  to charm the pants off someone. Their relationship to each other might appear as very affectionate and loving (and it is after a certain point), and I will try my best to explain to you why this is so.

2017-2020: Robert and Gillian first meet in 2017, when Morgan invites them both to dinner at his please and introducing his new student to Gillian, saying that the two of them will be working together in the future and he (Robert) might be a good recruit for Majestic 12. Two very strong and stubborn personalities clash against each other that night, both unwilling to step back just in the slightest and quickly a very toxic and tensed atmosphere between them arises.

Gillian hates Robert for having a choice to join the Illuminati, while she had been forced to be there since birth. She had to live under their rule, never had the taste of freedom the young man in front of her enjoys so greatly. She becomes jealous, envious, furious. She starts to point out every single flaw he has to undermine his competence, trying her best to get him kicked out of the Order. He is nothing but a beggar in fine clothes, pretending to be part of the Adult’s Club while rolling himself in mud - he is not worthy to be where he is, to be offered the chance to rise to the sun. Of course Robert refused to be the inferior Gillian tried him to be, and he fought back whenever he could.

The first change in their dynamic happens more than a year later in late 2018, when there is an outbreak in the VersaLife lab at Omega Ranch, killing big parts of the population of Singapore. The evening Robert gets the news about the incident, he is desperate enough to visit Gillian in his seek for help since he was in Paris and no one else answered his calls. While she did not take it very well that he showed up unannounced and told him that this is how the game is played and he needs to get used to this, she slowly realized how much he actually gets used by the higher ranked members of the Illuminati. She starts to see how Robert is just a puppet as a low ranking member, someone who gets thrown under the bus when necessary -  she starts to see a bit of herself in him. Her attitude towards him remains apathetic and stoic, harsh, but internally the ice slowly breaks.

A month later she visits him at his home in San Francisco, and although she does not outright apologize for behaviour as she is still convinced that she did nothing wrong and Robert is not suitable for the Order, she offers him a deal of partnership. Her previous attempts of getting him kicked out have failed, so she decided to turn him into an useful tool, one she could shape as she desires. They start to date quickly after this, but it mostly based on the mutual respect that they slowly accept and to take care of the tension between them. Their relationship is not really affectionate or driven by love, they are pretty casual and how they treat each other -  a way of satisfying certain personal needs. But  in its core they are still not highly in favour of the other, falling back into the abusive and narcissistic patterns they both have, but there is one thing none of them expected: They met an equal.

Over the next 2 years Gillian teaches him many secrets about the Order, actively promoting the unusual career the man makes to make him a powerful ally against the Council. Her goals are egoistic and selfish, just as much as he uses her to gain knowledge he wouldn’t be able to get otherwise, but over the time, the more time they spent together, the closer they grow. Gillian realized that her intentions shift from solely getting a strong ally for her own personal fight to wanting to protect the man from all the misery, lies and games she had to go through herself. She wants to protect him from all the pain the Council causes as he blindly stepped into this mess - and she can’t really tell why she cares for him out of the sudden. She feels like a distant observer, seeing a man getting on the path she had to walk on once, and she wants to yell and warn him to not do this. And she involuntarily starts to become softer around him. Robert on the other side notices that the white haired woman he used to fight and yell with does indeed care for him, doing more for him than was necessary, and instead of using this once again to his advantage, he reacts the same way. Finally, he is able to breath out and let all the weight from his chest fall off without fearing of being backstabbed. They start to bond through a mutual goal, and they become a team.

2020-2025: As the power couple starts to become an actual couple that stays together out of love and affection, their main focus is still their work and achieving what they want, together. They now know that the other is not an enemy, an obstacle in their way, but instead a helping hand that makes the climb easier. And someone who will catch you in case you might fall down.  

While their professional relationship gets stronger by the day, they still struggle in their private life. Both of them are not the easiest people to be around with, and they are both used to fight and demand in order to survive -  they never learned how to give. And they have to learn that there is someone else in their life now. But they are both willing to work on their rocky relationship as they see how much it benefits them in many ways, and how they both long for each other in many different ways and feel cold and left alone without the other. Over time, they feel like the other fills the deep gaps and holes they have, two broken pieces that only need a certain level of finishing, get a bit smoother around the edges to fit together perfectly. And they finally admit that what they feel is love.

Robert and Gillian are opposites in many ways like fire and ice -  Robert the hot tempered, easily angered man who constantly seems to be tensed and ready to throw a tantrum and Gillian, a woman who always appears calm and collected. A woman patient enough to endure the outbreaks the man has, never leaving his side. 

They get engaged in 2024 and marry in the following year, willing to stay together in public as business partners and in private as caring and loving married people. Until death tears us apart.

They even get a dog a few months later after the ceremony.

2025-2052:  Their bond gets stronger and stronger, and more and more they start to see each other as one. They plot together, work together, live together while still maintaining enough independence. They become a deeply connected couple, caring for each other, but to everyone else their attitude becomes worse and more cold over time. They are a unity, but one that is united in their hate towards everyone who stands in their way. The toxicity and abusive behaviour among them is mostly gone, but in reality it only shifted to everyone else around them.

Robert and Gillian start to get lost in their shared god complex, believing they were chosen to rule the world as King and Queen -  the only ones capable to take care of humanity. And they don’t back off from doing everything to achieve the role they perceive as being withdrawn by the Council. And so, they push each other deeper into this mad fantasy, making everything worse. Their hunger for power becomes insatiable. 

Together they overthrow the Illuminati, force the other members into hiding who they see as their real abusers and people who actively prevent the world from progressing. In their own distorted world Robert and Gillian see themselves as the saviours of humanity, freeing it from the chocking grip of old people who lost their touch to everyone a long time ago and only abused their power for their own goals. They are the perfect beings the Illuminati always talked about, they are the ones who are worthy of true leadership. 

Prior and during the events of Deus Ex 1, their relationship becomes more unstable, especially because of Gillian. She shows resistance towards the plan of her husband becoming a God through merging with an AI. Not only because she is convinced that the technology is not ready yet and will only lead to his death, she is selfish and egoistic and refuses to let him go. She has to accept to sacrifice him for the greater goal, since this is what they worked so hard for for decades.

They both know it won’t be like it used to be anymore, and this realization creates the strongest bond they ever had before it changes forever. 

[chainsawbettyloo]

Title: Armor Crafted by My Own Hand

Pairing: Prince Sidon / Link

Rating: General 

Tags: biting, kissing, fluff, confession scene, fish person loving a blondie, sweetness with a bit of bite

Summary: On a rainy, cold day, Sidon confesses his love to Link

Continue reading here or check out on AO3! Comments, reblogs, and kudos are much appreciated!

-

Lounging atop one of the watchtowers that sat at the end of the Inogo Bridge, Sidon gazed glumly at the rocky path that led away from the bridge and up into the mountains. Overhead, the sky was as grey as his mood. From that veil of grey, a heavy rain fell, turning the world into a blurred wash of blues and greens. The air was chilly but nothing his thick skin couldn’t handle. Though to anyone without tough Zora skin, it was a probably bundle yourself up and stay inside kind of temperature.

Of all the days for there to be a downpour, it had to be this day. Not that he minded the rain, he was a Zora, after all but he had been hoping for a sunny, beautiful day - truly one that would stand out in memory. He had dreamily imagined a scene set against the vibrant, rolling river, shimmering in the afternoon sun with the backdrop of the gleaming mountains, and a dash of green from the healthy grass growing along the banks. Not one where he could scarcely see the river through the haze of the rain and all color was washed away into a world of dullness.

Heaving a long, suffering sigh, he supposed that it was probably not that important. It was not the setting that was vital, but rather what was going to be said and who was currently traveling along that rocky path towards his location. A sprig of warmth blossomed in his chest. Right, Link was making his way towards Zora’s Domain with the intention of seeing him and staying for several days, during which Sidon was determined to have the young Hylian all to himself. It was a occasion that he had been looking forward to for weeks now. Too much time had passed since he had last been able to spend time with Link as being the Hyrule Champion and best friend to Princess Zelda kept him occupied much of the time.

But before those days started, there was something very important he had to do. Glancing down to his side where a loosely wrapped parcel sat, Sidon gently ran his fingers over the wet paper. Inside was a token, an expression of a feeling within his heart that had steadily been growing larger and larger ever since had had first met the Champion of Hyrule. Ever since that young one had appeared at the bottom of the watchtower he currently sat on, his serious blue eyes quietly taking in the world around him, Sidon had been taken with him; taken with his quietness punctuated with playfulness, his gentle and protective nature, his curiosity and determination to continuously move forward despite the hardships put in his path. He had admired him, respected him and soon, came to love him as a friend. Link, in turn, became attached to him. He often visited the Zora Domain during the sparse moments when he was unoccupied with other matters, usually spending every moment he was there with Sidon. Over the years they had spent building their friendship, they had shared in hardships, battled against wretched beasts and, most pleasantly at all, had just enjoyed each other’s company. Many of his days over the years had been spent conversing, playing and engaging with Link. To Link, he had showed parts of himself that he would not even show his father, and to him, Link had revealed vulnerabilities, fears and grievances of which he swore never to reveal to anyone. Between them, a deeply seeded trust had grown and with it, love, warmth and unity. Link was someone he would entrust his life, the life of his people and the fate of the world with, and would fight by his side till his very last breath.

He wasn’t certain when exactly he realized that the feelings he had towards Link went beyond the realms of friendship but when he had, it had been a feeling he had wrestled with, analyzed and scrutinized, before quietly, peacefully coming to a firm, solid conclusion.

And now, it was a feeling that he was ready to speak aloud.

Letting out a slow breath, he turned his attention back to the path. Surprisingly, he wasn’t nervous. He had already moved far past those sorts of feelings, after having spent a great many agonizing nights debating if this was truly an okay thing for him to do. Link was a Hylian and one of his closest friends, if not the closest one he had. Not to mention, he had been the one his sister had wanted to give her heart too before that wretched Calamity Ganon had stolen her life away. True, the feelings had been one sided but that didn’t lessen the impact of him hoping to claim Link’s heart as his own.

For a long time, that alone had kept him away from voicing how he felt. The guilt, the feeling he was doing something wrong, unfair to his sister’s memory - it had eaten away at him until he thought for certain he would never reveal his feelings to anyone and simply remain Link’s close friend. It wasn’t until his father had gently reminded him that his sister would want both him and Link to continue living, to move onwards towards happiness and embrace it as everything could change within an instance. With a bemused, almost melancholy expression on his wrinkled face, he had said in a soft, distant tone, “Move forward so that when you look back, it isn’t with regret or bitterness at what could have been said and done.”

Those words alone had been enough to spurn him forward. With a little with what felt like shame, he had realized just how cowardly he had been acting. His father was right - he needed to follow his heart towards his happiness. Time would not wait for him.

With that in mind, he had, rather clumsily, set about creating a suit of Zora armor for Link. It had taken him some time as he had no experience or knowledge in the field of armor crafting, given that he's never done it before, and had ended up with something that wasn’t anywhere near as beautiful as the one Mipha created but in a way, that felt right. He wasn’t intending to compete with Mipha or belittle the feelings she had had for Link. More than anything, he wanted to separate himself from all that so he could start a new path with Link by his side. To do so, he felt that everything needed to be done uniquely, by his own hand and with his own words.

Of course, that was on the assumption that Link would accept the armor as well as his heart. In all truthfulness, while Sidon is confident in his own feelings, he wasn’t certain as to how Link felt. There were hints he had picked up on: lingering gazes, warm smiles, shimmering eyes, a readiness to be close, a lengthening in the time they spent in physical contact with each other, how happy Link always was whenever Sidon invited him to spend time together or when they happened upon a chance encounter with one another, but nothing concrete. Nothing strong enough to absolutely convince himself that there was something deeper there.

Regardless, he would not back down from this. No matter what, he would continue walking forward. If Link didn’t feel the same, he would accept that with grace, dignity and implore him that they remain friends. Though he wasn’t certain Link felt the same, he knew that Link wouldn’t be offended by him harboring such feelings for him. Of course, he hoped that Link would accept his heart but he was prepared for the worst.

All of the thoughts of Link potentially rejecting him wasn’t doing much for his mood. Sighing once more, he gave his head a hard shake. He would not allow the atmosphere or those thoughts ruin this for him. He had spent too much time planning, too much time getting ready, he would not back down now.

“Quite the sigh. You alright, Sidon?” A familiar soft, concerned voice said below him.

Starting, Sidon jolted forward to look down at the ground. Standing at the base of the watchtower was Link, dressed in light tunic that easily blended into the dreary environment. The Hylian was drenched but seemed unbothered by the rain and cold. He had been so distracted with his musing that he hadn’t seen him approach.

“Link! There you are, my friend!” Sidon called happily, immediately feeling his mood pick up at the sight of his beloved Hylian. Picking up the parcel, he jumped down from the watchtower and gracefully landed next to him. Straightening, he smiled brightly at Link, “It is good to see you. How have you been?”

“Doing well but are you alright? That was a heavy, burdened sigh.” Link’s blue eyes were filled with concern, his blond brows knitted together. “Did something happen?”

Sidon waved a hand dismissively, not quite ready to confess just yet. Having Link actually right in front of him was proving to be a little more nerve wrecking than he had anticipated. While he certainly wasn’t ready to back down, he needed some more time to build up his courage, “Worry not, my friend. Nothing is wrong. I was simply thinking, a bit too hard most likely.”

Link tilted his head inquisitively but didn’t push the point any further. Instead, he returned the smile with a small one of his own, the concern in his eyes replaced by a gentle happiness, which immediately sent a spasm of welcomed warmth rushing through Sidon’s heart, and said “It is good to see you, Sidon.”

“And you too, my friend.” He responded, his heart fluttering inside of his chest. The smile on his face smoothed, becoming softer as he gazed down at Link with what he was sure must be a starstruck expression on his face. Such simple, innocent words but they were more than enough to nearly bowl him over, and leaving him feeling warm, tingly from head to toe. Unable to resist, he reached forward to stroke his thumb over the soft curve of Link’s cheek. To his delight, Link reached up to cover the back of his hand with his own. His skin was so soft, so smooth; he longed to be allowed to roam his fingers along every single inch of it, to explore every bared and hidden areas, and perhaps even find a place or two that would have Link turning a shade similar to his own skin color when his fingers played across them.

Starting slightly at such a thought, he nearly jerked his hand away out of embarrassment. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t entertained that line of thinking before but it felt a bit improper to be imaging such scenarios in such a situation. That needed to be saved for that, after all. Link must have felt the jolt because he once again furrowed his brow. The hand that rested over his own curled lightly, capturing it within his calloused, strong fingers, pressing it closer to his wet, warm cheek. Those gorgeous blue eyes, as clear and vibrant as the sea rolling underneath the high sun, gazed steadily up at him, searching and inquisitive.

“Talk to me, Sidon.” Link said, his usual soft voice hardened with a tinge of a commanding undertone.

“Of what, my friend?” Sidon replied distractedly, feeling as though those eyes were stripping him bare, leaving him completely exposed to the Hylian. It was a strange, intimate sensation that he didn’t find that unpleasant. Quite the opposite, actually. In that moment, he longed to lean down, cup Link’s face in his hands and press them close together - close enough that they could practically meld together.

“Something is going on. You’re trying to act normally but something is on your mind. What is it?”

Sidon gazed silently down at Link for a long moment before letting out a slow breath. It needed to be said, to be done now. No more running away, no more hiding. Before he could lose his courage, he needed to do this. In response, he simply offered the wrapped parcel to Link. With a confused expression, he took the gift from Sidon. After a quick, inquisitive glance up at Sidon, he set about opening it up. Holding his breath, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, he watched in anguished anticipation as Link made quick work of getting the wrapping out of the way. It didn’t take him long, and soon the armor inside was revealed.

Several long, tensely quiet moments passed, only punctuated by the rain pouring down from the sky. In those moments, as Link stared down, silent, at the emerald green armor in his hands, panic began to grow in Sidon’s chest. What if he had been wrong? What if this proved to be some great offense to Link? Was he angry, upset, hurt? Or was he just confused? It had been several years since Link had first come to Zora’s Domain, perhaps he had forgotten what armor meant? No, that couldn’t possibly be the case - if Link was confused, he would have voiced that by now. Something else, something possibly negative, was going on inside of the Hylian’s head.

Swallowing hard as the moments continued to stretch out, Sidon came close to saying something, to reassuring Link that it was armor given out of their friendship, and not what he was obviously thinking, when Link slowly looked up at him. His entire face was flushed a deep red, and on that face was an expression Sidon had never seen before. A touch of bashful with a tinge of embarrassment and overlaid with what was undeniably happiness. Clutching the armor close to his chest, Link silently stepped forward, pushed himself into Sidon’s stomach before falling still. Against his skin, he could feel how hot Link’s face was. All the tension bleed out of his muscles. Letting out a slow breath, he wrapped his arms around Link, delighting in how the Hylian snuggled into his embrace.

“Can I take this as a yes?” He whispered hopefully.

Without looking up, Link slowly nodded. His breath froze in his chest. Squeezing Link even tighter, he leaned down until he could bury his face into Link’s fluffy hair, “Truly? Will you accept my heart and, in turn, give me yours?”

Shifting, Link slowly lifted his head to look up at him. Remarkably, his face had flushed even a darker shade of red. He was so adorable, so painfully, unbelievably adorable. Fighting back against the urge to just cover Link’s red face with kisses, Sidon gazed into those eyes and asked again, “Truly?”

A warm, heart fluttering smile spread across Link’s adorable face. Reaching up, he rested his hand on Sidon’s cheek before pushing himself up onto his lips toes and pressed a soft, chaste, quick kiss against Sidon’s lips. He wasn’t given time to react, though his heart near about jumped out of his chest, up his throat and down onto the ground where he was certain it would have done a jig of absolute jubilation, as Link almost immediately leaned back, that warm, amazing smile still on his face, his eyes glimmering with happiness, and whispered, “Truly.”

Letting out a loud, boisterous laugh, relief and joy rushing through every inch of his body, Sidon picked Link up, swung him around a couple times before coming to a stop, squeezed him tightly to his chest and finally gave into temptation. Peppering little kisses all over Link’s hot, wet face, minding his sharp teeth so that they didn’t even come close to nicking his soft skin, he basked in the little giggles coming from his beloved Hylian. Link tilted his head this way and that, giving Sidon access to anywhere he desired to place a kiss. Once he was satisfied with the kissing coverage, he buried his head into Link’s shoulder, let out a long, shuddering breath and whispered, “You’ve made me so happy, Link.”

Looping his arms around Sidon’s shoulders, Link squeezed them even closer together, burying his face into the side of his neck. Being this close, Sidon could practically feel Link’s heart thundering inside of his chest, hear how quick his breath was moving in and out of his body, and took note of the slight tremble that had settled into his limbs, seemingly not from the chill but from the excitement, the happiness. No more words need to be spoken, the motion alone was more than enough to tell him that Link felt the same. The rain continued to batter down onto them but neither took any notice of it. Together, they fell silent, merely enjoying the closeness, the warmth of one another. For several moments, they remained like that, unheeding anything else until Link quietly spoke up, “May I admit something?”

“Of course.” Sidon leaned back slightly so he could look down at the Hylian. To his surprise, there was a slight mischievous glint in Link’s blue eyes.

Smiling slightly, Link quietly admitted, “I had thought a confession from you would have been more suave.”

Chuckling, Sidon nodded, “I was hoping for it to be like that but alas, when I’m around you, my tongue does not obey my commands. Were you disappointed?”

Link shook his head, his smile growing to match the mischievousness in his eyes, “No, it was rather nice to see you so obviously flustered.”

“Flustered?” Sidon asked incredulously, feeling his own cheeks start to burn. That was not something he often heard used to describe him. In control, smooth, kind and serious, with just a touch of playfulness, yes but flustered? He wasn’t even really sure how to react to such a description.

“Yes, it was subtle but obvious once I realized what was going on. You’re very cute, Sidon.”

Though his expression was playful, there was a serious edge to his voice that sent his heart racing once more. More heat flooded his cheeks, while a twinge of excitement sounding off in his mind. He had never seen this side of Link before - this playful, teasing, very adult attitude. While it did throw him a little as most wouldn’t refer to him as “cute”, there wasn’t a single protest voiced from anywhere instead his heart or head. In fact, he was a little pleased about the whole thing. He hadn’t thought Link would be a demure, passive partner but he also certainly hadn’t considered him to be so forthcoming either, especially not after having seen him so quietly and bashfully accept his offering of the Zora armor. It was a welcome surprise, one he was glad to be shown. But, he wasn’t about to outdone. If Link wished to play his cards in such a way, then he would have to respond with an equal or better gesture.

Steadying himself, he let a warm, smooth smile spread across his face. Leaning down, he captured Link’s mouth with his own. Link inhaled sharply in surprise at the sudden contact before letting out a long, slow breath that brushed pleasantly against Sidon’s cheek and returning the kiss. Reaching up, he wrapped one hand around the base of Link’s head, pulling him closer as he slowly, carefully slid his lips over Link’s. Nervous that his sharp teeth might catch the delicate skin, he kept the kiss simple, confined to gentle movements and lingering contact. The world around them seemed to go still once more. Rain nor cold bothered him, instead all he could feel was those delicious, soft, smooth, plump lips against his own, all he could smell was Link’s intoxicatingly sweet scent filling him - it was better than he ever could have dreamed, far exceeded every imagination he had ever entertained. He wanted to push deeper, to sink his tongue into Link’s mouth so that he could taste every inch, to slip his hands underneath his wet clothes, trace the lines of his muscles, his veins before sneaking down into a more intimate area but he knew that if he were to go that far, he might not be able to stop himself. While he couldn’t control the weather during his confession, he most certainly was not going to engage in an activity out in the open, in the cold and rain.

Gently breaking the kiss, Sidon leaned back slightly and drank in the view before him. Link’s face was flushed a scarlet shade of red, his eyes were heavy lidded, the irises inside dazed and heated, his mouth was slightly parted, his lips swollen pink. That sight broke what little composure he had left. He was so cute, so beautiful, so adorable, he couldn’t stop himself. Before he realized what he was doing, he leaned down once more but this time to the side of Link’s neck, where his armor had been pulled down a bit to reveal a patch of smooth skin. Opening his mouth, he settled his teeth against Link’s skin and bit down, a little harder than he intended but without near enough force to break the skin. It was just enough to leave a mark, and most likely a bruise that would form over the coming days. A jolt wracked Link’s small body and to his utter delight, a loud, unabided, breathless moan trickled down to his ears. Encouraged but still realizing that his very sharp teeth were very close to actually hurting Link, Sidon pulled back, swiped his tongue over the little marks, a sense of elation overwhelming him as the taste of Link’s skin filled his mouth, pressed a couple of soft kisses along the red patch of skin before leaning back slightly so he could look Link in the eye. Setting a kiss on the tip of Link’s nose, he whispered, “Shall we return to Zora’s Domain? I’m quite intent on you showing me just how cute you are capable of being.”

“And how do you propose I do so?” Link asked softly, his voice laced with want and heat.

His smile grew, a hungry tinge sneakily slipping into it. Without breaking eye contact, he responded softly, his voice husky, “By allowing me to slowly, thoroughly devour you.”

That got exactly the reaction he was hoping for. Link’s eyes widened, his face, remarkably, flushed an even deeper tantalizing, delicious shade of red and his breath noticeably quickened. His temperature heightened as a tenseness settled into his body before he swallowed hard, took in a deep breath, opened his mouth to say something but seemed unable to think of anything and abruptly shut it. But, perhaps the most satisfying reaction, was how undeniable excited Link looked. His entire face was wreathed in eagerness, his eyes swam with glints and glimmers of feverishness. Pleased with his response, Sidon placed another quick kiss atop Link’s nose, “Now, shall we start heading towards Zora’s Domain? I do believe it is about time we got out of this rain.”

Link nodded mutely, eagerly in return. Without setting the Hylian done, Sidon turned and started walking towards his home. Shifting Link carefully in his arms so that his position was, hopefully, comfortable, Sidon glanced up at the dreary sky and briefly thought of how it would have been so much nicer if the sun had been shining. However, when Link snuggled even closer to him, his arms tightening around his shoulders as he nuzzled intimately into the curve of his neck, he quickly decided that didn’t really matter much at all.

[so-caffeinated]

Amelia and Will baby sit Jules's kid and at each separate moments think, damn, "Amelia/Will would make a great parent" and basically they are super sappy and can't wait

Let’s pretend this was an actual flashfic instead of something I spent like a solid day on, okay? It’s roughly 5.5k and I believe I’ve totally fulfilled the sap requirement here. This might be the fluffiest thing I’ve ever written. And yes the last line is a variation of something quite familiar. #sorrynotsorry

September 2045 - Small Blessings

It’s not like everything in Will’s life has been perfect lately. It hasn’t. He’s had his ups and downs like everyone else. But the ups? God, they’re so much better than he could have ever expected, so much higher than he’d thought they could get. It’s been six months since Amelia quite literally walked back into his life, proving beyond any doubt that they could be as amazing together as he’s always known they could be. He’s never loved anyone like he loves her, never understood how deep that love could run, not until she showed up like she walked straight out of all his dreams.

Or, well… all of his dreams at the time. He’s quickly finding that he’s building new ones.

“Did I just hear their car pull up?” she asks, placing a hand on his arm as she pulls back the curtain of his front window to look outside. He takes a moment just to watch her. Her dark hair is pulled back neatly in a ponytail - unusual for her - and she’s dressed casually, wearing jeans that really, really fit her well and a solid black t-shirt that he finds a lot more distracting than she means it to be. But he barely has a moment to look her over because her shoulders droop suddenly, answering in full her earlier question.

“Any minute,” he promises, pulling her back and kissing her shoulder. She sighs and leans back against him, letting him hold her and relish her scent. It feels like a gift. Everything with her feels like a gift, and he savors it so much every single day. He thinks he always will.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, looking a little abashed. “I’m just… I’m kind of excited, you know?”

She is. He knows that and it’s so painfully adorable that he almost can’t stand it.

“It’s gonna be an interesting weekend,” he agrees, smiling at her softly before claiming her lips. It’s far from insistent, nothing meant to escalate, but that doesn’t me that he doesn’t feel it shoot straight down his spine the instant his mouth touches hers. It’s fortifying, reassuring. He figured out months ago that he wants to kiss her like this every day for the rest of his life. There’s not even a question of that. He’s just waiting for the right moment to tell her, the right moment to ask…

They break apart and she nuzzles her nose against his with a quiet sigh of contentment. Moments like this are amongst his favorite, these days. Oh, he loves making love to her, loves exploring her body anew night after night, but something about this is almost as powerful. It’s honest and soul-baring and he wants nothing more than to revel in this unity he’s found with her.

“Think we can manage it?” she asks. He can hear the smile in her voice, even if she’s too close to see it.

“I know we can,” he counters firmly.

As if on cue, the doorbell rings and Amelia jolts, stepping away ever so slightly and letting go to smooth down imaginary wrinkles in her jeans. It’s adorable and he has to shake his head as he grins and strides toward his front door.

For all of Amelia’s attempts to look calm and put together, the image that greets him on the other side of the door does not.

“Hey, so, she stinks and she hasn’t napped and I’m sorry,” Jules says immediately, holding his fourteen-month-old niece out toward him.

“It’s fine,” Amelia replies from over his shoulder, edging him out of the way to take the baby with an absolutely awestruck smile on her face. “Hey, sweetheart,” she greets. “We’ll get you changed so that you’re much more comfortable, okay?”

“Papa?” the little girl asks, looking around.

“Papa’s not here,” Jules tells the baby, brushing wisps of dark hair back from her brow before looking back to Will. She seems frazzled, but that’s probably just the effect of motherhood. “We’d never get out of here if he had to say goodbye and we’re running late as it is.”

Will glances at the clock. Sure enough, she’s a solid twenty minutes late. This isn’t surprising in the least when it comes to Jules these days.

“You have the number for where we’re staying?” Jules asks Will worriedly, pulling his attention back. In a rush or not, she seems like she can’t keep her hand from stroking her daughter’s back.

“And both of your cell phone numbers and your mother-in-law’s cell phone number,” Will confirms. “We’re good, Jules. Everything is gonna be fine. It’s just one night.”

Jules makes a stressed little whine at that and turns to her daughter to kiss her chubby little cheeks a few times, her eyes pinched shut. “You’re staying one big sleep with Uncle Will, okay?” she asks. “Just one. Momma and Papa will be back tomorrow around dinner to pick you up.”

Little Sylvia clearly doesn’t understand, but she picks up on her mother’s distress, suddenly looking like she might cry. “Just one big sleep,” Jules says again, forcing a smile onto her face and nodding at the baby. “Uncle Will and Aunt Amelia are going to take such good care of you, baby girl.”

Yeah, using those terms absolutely steals the air from Will’s lungs and from the look on Amelia’s face, he’s pretty sure it does much the same to her.

“Oh, I… sorry,” Jules flinches, looking between them. “It’s just… well… I mean, she had to call her something, right?”

“It’s fine,” Will assures his little sister, painfully aware of the way Amelia’s gaze burns against his skin. “It’s good, actually.”

“Oh…” Jules says, blinking at him. There’s a serious conversation in their future and Will is suddenly very, very aware of that fact. “Well… good,” Jules nods sharply. “That’s good.”

“Mama?” Sylvia asks, reaching her tiny fingers out for her mother.

“One big sleep,” Jules repeats, kissing Sylvia’s fingertips. Will has to wonder if the words are more for her daughter or herself. His little sister’s eyes are visibly teary and her voice sounds clogged. “And you’re going to have so much fun with Will and Amelia, baby girl.

For someone who really hadn’t wanted kids in the first place, Jules has surely fallen terribly in love with her daughter. Will still thinks she wouldn’t have chosen to have any children, even knowing how wonderful Sylvia is, and she surely won’t have more… at least not intentionally. But sometimes fate intervenes and Will is so grateful for his beautiful little niece as well as the effect she’s had on his little sister.

“She will have fun,” Will promises, taking the diaper bag and pack-and-play from Jules’ grasp. “We all will.”

“If you have any problems…” Jules starts.

“I have your number and Felicity’s number and Amelia’s mom’s number and your mother-in-law’s number and the pediatrician’s on speed dial,” Will vows, reciting it off like a list. “Plus, I’ve been a firefighter for fourteen years. We’re good, Julie-bug. Now go. Have a fun time at the wedding and tell my favorite brother-in-law that I said hello.”

“He’s your only brother-in-law,” Jules replies with narrowed eyes.

“Easy for him to be my favorite, then, right?” Will grins cheekily. “Stop stalling. She’ll be fine. I promise. I practically raised Beth, didn’t I?”

That point seems to mollify her some, but Jules is still a bundle of anxiety. Honestly, Will can’t blame her. Were it his own kids… fictional ones he might someday have… he can’t imagine he’d be in much better shape.

“Okay,” Jules agrees reluctantly. “Okay, I know you’re right. Sylvie, baby, I love you so much and I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” she asks, kissing the little girl a few times again, her hand cupping the baby’s cheek. “Be a good girl, okay?”

“No,” Sylvia announces loudly. Will chooses to believe that’s in reference to her mother clearly leaving rather than the notion of being good, but he supposes that remains to be seen.

“Yes, Sylvia,” Jules counters sternly. She’d nailed that ‘mom’ voice inside of twenty minutes after giving birth and it still kinda makes Will stand up straighter on instinct. Is that just a thing all women do? Is it a switch that flips the minute you have a baby? Would Amelia be like that?

“She’ll be a good girl,” Amelia says with certainty, cuddling the little girl close to her body in spite of the fact that the child definitely needs a diaper change. It doesn’t seem to bother Amelia in the least. “I know she will.”

“Yeah…” Jules echoes, swallowing hard and biting her lip as she strokes her fingers down Sylvia’s soft, chubby little cheek. This is harder for her than she’d thought it would be, Will can tell. She leaves her daughter with family often enough, sometimes even overnight with her parents or her husband’s mother, but she’s never been out of town and it seems that makes all the difference for her.

“If she sees you upset, it’s going to upset her more,” Will points out to his sister softly.

Jules blows some air through her thinned lips and nods before forcing a smile on her face and stepping back. “Momma’s gonna go bye-bye, now. Bye-bye, honey!”

“Buh,” Sylvia says, pressing her lips to her own palm with a smacking kiss and throwing her arm wide.

Even Jules can’t help but be touched by that, reaching out and pretending to grab the kiss out of mid-air and press it to her own cheek before returning the gesture. Sylvia grins at her mother and giggles, burying her face in Amelia’s neck. Will’s hard pressed to decide which of the women in front of him have the biggest piece of his heart in this moment. Amelia’s joy at Sylvia’s affection is blinding, but Sylvia herself is so painfully cute that it hits him hard. And Jules… he’d never expected to see Jules like this, not even when she told him she was pregnant. The softness about her when she’s with her daughter feels like an entirely new facet to her personality that’s come to surface. Will knows her well, he always has, but seeing her with Sylvia is like seeing her with fresh eyes.

Then again, sometimes she’s exactly the same person he watched grow up.

“Call me,” she demands suddenly, poking him in the chest as she turns toward the door. Her voice is bossy, insistent, entirely familiar, and Will has to fight back a grin because all of a sudden she seems eight years old and trying to hide in his room to get away from Nate’s wails all over again.

“You’ve got it,” he promises.

Jules leaves with a heavy sigh and a tight smile that is entirely for her daughter’s benefit. The second she’s out the door, Sylvia’s wriggling in Amelia’s arms in an attempt to get down.

“Hold on, little one,” Amelia cautions, lowering the toddler to the ground carefully. Sylvia scurries over to the window as soon as her feet hit the floor, peeking out through the curtains to watch her mother go.

“Buh!” she waves frantically before kissing the glass, leaving little lip-prints that Will has absolutely no intention of cleaning off anytime soon. “Buh-buh!”

She’s utterly adorable, standing on her tiptoes, pressed up against the glass, and Will can’t help shaking his head at his little niece. Beth is a teenager now… somehow… and he’s missed having a baby around, missed it more than he’d realized, even. He’s thirty-seven-years-old now and until earlier this year, he hadn’t really thought a family of his own was going to be in the cards for him. But now… now he thinks maybe. Now he wonders…

“Hey you,” Amelia says, perched on the floor next to the baby. She’s laid out a changing pad from the diaper bag while Will wasn’t even looking. “Let’s get you freshened up so we can play, okay?”

Sylvia clearly knows the drill and while her vocabulary is pretty limited right now, she seems to understand most of what’s being said to her. She lies down and sticks her chunky little legs up in the air while pronouncing “ick.”

Amelia just grins at her and kisses her toes as she grabs a fresh diaper. “Very ick,” she agrees. “But you’ll feel much better in a minute or two, okay? You’re such a good girl.”

The little girl beams at the praise and looks up at Will with a huge grin on her face. “You are,” he agrees, distracting her while Amelia makes quick work of the diaper change. Sylvia’s pretty well behaved for her diaper changes most of the time, but she’s even better when she’s distracted. He sits down next to her and lets her pat his face. She likes the feel of his scruff.

“Papa?” she asks again, looking around the room.

“He’s not here, honey,” Will tells her. Her cute little lips form a disappointed pout and she sighs. If anyone in the history of the world has ever been a daddy’s girl, it’s Sylvia. The subject of kids had not been something Jules and her husband had agreed on. Reluctantly, he’d decided Jules was more important to him than children, but Will knows that hadn’t been his brother-in-law’s preference. Sylvia had been a very-much-unplanned surprise and her father has thoroughly cherished his little girl every single day of her life.

And, even at a year old, she knows it.

“All done. Let me just go wash my hands and toss this and we can play, okay?” Amelia asks, standing back up with the dirty diaper in hand.

Sylvia grins and claps in response before maneuvering to her feet and climbing onto Will’s lap. She’s a cuddly little girl, always looking for a lap or someone to hold her - these things are not in short supply in her family - and Will is more than happy to be on the receiving end of his only niece’s affection.

“Happy to be clean again, huh?” he asks with a grin as she smacks a very wet kiss against his cheek. “Maybe save some of that love for Aunt Amelia,” he tells her, tickling her side lightly and earning a giggle. “She’s the one who fixed you up.”

From over by the sink in the kitchen, Amelia tosses him a glance over her shoulder with a smile, locking eyes with his. It’s sobering and dizzying all at once. And, for a minute, the only thing he’s aware of at all is her. God, he loves her so much, wants so much with her, wants to spend every day for this rest of his life trying to earn this same little smile that reaches her eyes. It makes his heart pound in his chest and his head spin.

He’s only pulled back to reality when Sylvia eases herself off of his lap and starts to wander around the space, taking stock of her surroundings. It’s been more than a few years since Will’s had to babyproof anything - teen-proofing is another thing entirely; he sort of trusts Beth, but he also no longer keeps hard liquor in the house because she’s fifteen and he remembers fifteen a little too well. Still… he thinks he did a pretty good job. And, really, Sylvia is better at following rules than Bethy ever had been at this age.

“Woof,” Sylvia says in confusion, peeking around the sofa. “Woof woof?”

“I don’t have a dog,” Will tells her. She looks supremely confused by this, but that kind of makes sense because she’s Jules’ daughter after all. Will has no doubt whatsoever that she will always have a dog in her life. “Sorry, kiddo.”

She doesn’t look any less perplexed, but she moves on, taking in her newfound environment little by little, peeking under the sofa and crawling beneath the coffee table.

“Need help with the pack-and-play?” Amelia asks, rejoining them and sliding her hand across Will’s shoulders before stroking her thumb along his spine at his neck. He sighs quietly at her touch, revelling in the feel of her fingers on his skin.

“I got it,” he counters, turning his face to kiss the soft skin of her inner arm. She shivers in response and he smiles up at her. “Want to keep an eye on her in case I missed something with the babyproofing?”

“Happy to,” she agrees. And she is, that much is immediately clear as she leaves his side and bends down to peek her head under the coffee table where Sylvia is just about to emerge. The baby gives a little squeak of surprise or delight. “Are we playing hide-and-seek, little one?” Amelia asks with a blinding grin. Sylvia giggles madly and tries to scurry away, but Amelia reaches out and grabs the little girl, swooping her up and blowing a raspberry against her neck.

Something about his niece’s laughter and his girlfriend’s flushed cheeks is utterly addictive and Will finds himself transfixed by the pair of them right up until Amelia turns away with the baby on her hip, talking softly to her as they head toward the kitchen. They make quite the picture together and Will finds himself hurrying to put together the pack-and-play so he can get back to being with them. The portable playpen/crib is fairly easy to set up and he’s done relatively quickly, moving it to his room before heading back out in search of Sylvia and Amelia.

They’re still in the kitchen and he finds them entirely because Sylvia can’t stop laughing. Those huge eyes of hers - so like Jules’, even if the color is different - alight with utter glee. She’s strapped into a booster seat at the table with a small plate of fruit in front of her, but she’s paying no attention at all to her snack, instead pulling a dishtowel away from Amelia’s face over and over in what has to be the world’s most entertaining game of peek-a-boo.

Will would be hard pressed to guess which of them looks happier. The delight on Sylvia’s face seems to fuel Amelia’s joy and he’s just… he’s so taken by it that he can scarcely breathe.

God, she’ll make an amazing mother. The very idea of her doing this with their baby one day, of their home together being filled with this kind of laughter and joy, it sends his pulse racing and his heart on fire. And he wants it.

If he hadn’t already bought a ring months ago, he’d be doing it the first chance he had now.

Abruptly, Sylvia grabs the dishtowel and yanks it a away, throwing it across the room with another boisterous giggle. The mock surprise on Amelia’s face seems to further delight the little girl and in spite of the fact that Sylvia really doesn’t know Amelia all that well, it’s pretty clear she’s developed a fast affection for her so-called ‘Aunt.’

“Up!” she declares, reaching for Amelia. “Up, up, up.”

Amelia’s more than happy to hold the baby and she unstraps her quickly before hoisting her into her arms. Sylvia gives a happy little sigh, snuggling up as close as she possibly can - she’s been a cuddler from day one - and Amelia looks so overjoyed by the toddler’s affection that Will wouldn’t be surprised to see her cry. She strokes the baby’s dark hair as she holds her close, looking like there’s nowhere in the world she’d rather be.

“Such a good girl, Sylvia,” Amelia assures her. “You’re very good at that game, do you know that? Thank you for playing with me.”

Sylvia nods and pats her on the cheek, like she’s offering up her approval, and it just makes Amelia smile more.

“You two look like you’re having fun,” Will tells them softly, closing in on the pair of them and wrapping his arms around Amelia before dropping a kiss atop Sylvia’s head.

“We are,” Amelia assures him. “But I think maybe I’ve worn her out.”

“No!” Sylvia protests. It would be a lot more convincing if she didn’t break into a yawn immediately at the end.

“You’re stronger than me, then!” Amelia tells her, raising both eyebrows as she looks down at the child. “You made me tired. I think I need a nap.”

“No,” Sylvia says again, shaking her head fiercely.

“Well, if I don’t nap, I don’t know how I’ll play more,” Amelia confides. “And I’d love to play more with you later, sweetie. Uncle Will and I had fun ideas for us to do together, but I’m too tired right now. Can I nap? Maybe you can help me fall asleep if you lie down with me?”

The skeptical look on Sylvia’s face is absolutely absurd for a one-year-old, and Will has to bite down on his lips to try and cage in a grin. Easygoing kid or not, she’s Jules’ daughter and the occasional case of extreme wariness is something she comes by honestly.  

“Up,” she says, turning toward Will and holding out her arms, clearly looking for an alternative to a nap.

“I need a nap, too,” Will tells her. “Putting your bed together was a lot of work.” She huffs and clings to Amelia again - clearly he’s only good for avoiding naptime when Amelia’s around. He can’t resent that. He’d choose her company, too.

“Let’s go see where Uncle put your pack-and-play. We’ll just check it out,” Amelia says. “Would you like to walk or have me carry you?”

The illusion of having a choice about what happens seems to help a bit and Sylvia clings to Amelia’s shirt muttering “up” on a yawn. Even as good and sweet as she is, naptime has never been easy with the little girl. She seems like she’s afraid she’s going to miss everything going on if she naps.

Amelia heads toward Will’s room - it’s hers too, more often than not these days - and bops Sylvia lightly on the nose as soon as they make it through the threshold. “Look at that!” she declares. “Uncle Will put it next to the bed so we can lie down right beside each other still. Wasn’t that a good idea? We should try it out.”

It almost works. Sylvia’s interested enough that she doesn’t wail immediately. But the moment Amelia’s set her down in the makeshift crib she bursts out into tears, stomping her feet and lifting her arms skyward. “No! Up! Up!”

“Okay, okay,” Amelia relents with a sigh, picking the baby up and soothing her hiccupping sobs by rubbing her back and making low hushing noises. There’s little chance of Sylvia letting go anytime soon, something it’s clear Amelia knows when she meets his eyes over the toddler’s head, giving a little shrug.

“Momma?” Sylvia asks suddenly, looking around the room like she’s just realized her mother isn’t there. Her big eyes water and her lower lip quivers as she works herself up to another bout of hysteria.

“It’s just us for right now, Sylvia,” Will says, sitting on the bed next to Amelia and cupping the back of Sylvia’s head gently. “We’re having a play date. Your momma and papa will be back tomorrow.

She looks so helpless, casting her eyes between them, and it sort of breaks Will’s heart to see her distress. “Momma,” she says again in a resigned, mournful little voice that would absolutely gut Jules if she heard it.

“Oh, sweetie. It’s okay,” Amelia consoles, rocking the little girl back and forth gently. Sylvia’s eyes droop tiredly, but she seems like she’s forcing them to stay open. “What does Jules sing to her to get her to sleep?” Amelia asks after a moment.

Will finds himself blinking back at her in surprise. “I’m pretty sure her singing isn’t capable of putting anyone to sleep,” Will informs her.

“She doesn’t sing lullabies?” Amelia questions in surprise.

“It’s incredibly clear right now that you’ve never heard my sister sing,” Will tells her. “Let’s just say it’s not one of her strengths.”

It is, however, one of Amelia’s. He’s known that for a very long time, since he walked into a supply room in City Hall more than a decade ago and stopped dead in his tracks, absolutely floored by her voice as she sang to herself, sifting through boxes of old files. Still, it’s not something he’s heard in a very long time now and it makes his breath catch in his throat when she stands up, starts pacing the room while holding Sylvia close and rocks the baby as she sings.

And he’s not the only one. Sylvia looks utterly entranced as well, her lips parting as she stares up at Amelia in awe.

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high, there’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby…

It’s incredible to watch the effect her voice has on Sylvia. For a moment, he’s tempted to take a video for Jules, but this feels too private for that, for some reason, too personal, and he finds he doesn’t want to share it. Not even with his sister.

Amelia tucks the baby’s head into the crook of her neck and rocks her gently as she goes through the song three times, a little softer with each verse, and Sylvia is fast asleep before much time at all.

“You’re incredible,” Will tells her without even thinking about the words as she settles the toddler down into the makeshift crib. Sylvia doesn’t stir in the least.

“It’s just a song,” she murmurs, though she clearly looks pleased by his praise.

“It’s not,” he counters, shaking his head and watching her in amazement. “It’s you. It’s everything about you.”

She blushes - actually blushes - as she looks down to where Sylvia sleeps soundly before taking Will’s fingers in hers and leading him out of the room. He follows easily, but doesn’t stop when she does, instead backing her up against the wall and pressing her to it with the length of his body as he cups her face in his hands and he kisses her breathless.

He pours everything into that moment - everything he wants to say, every ounce of what he feels - and when he pulls back slightly, she looks beautifully dazed.

“What was that for?” she asks. Her voice is soft and a little weak, something he revels in as he touches his nose to hers and strokes his thumbs across her cheeks. He could not cherish this moment more if he tried.

“Every time I think I couldn’t possibly love you more, you prove me wrong,” he tells her. It’s simple, but true.

“Because I sang?” she asks with a little laugh.

“For a million reasons,” he answers with painful sincerity. His voice is raw and a little hoarse as speaks, tracing the lines of her face with his gaze. Letting himself be vulnerable with her, with any woman, had been a hard-won lesson, but it’s so very worth it and moments like this one prove that to him every single day. She slides her arms around his neck, sending a shiver down his spine, and kisses him in a long, slow way that leaves him feeling simultaneously like the world might be dissolving beneath his feet and like the two of them are more unified than ever.

“I love you, too, Will,” she says, scraping her fingers through his hair when they finally part. She doesn’t go far. “So much.”

In the end, Sylvia doesn’t sleep all that long - maybe half an hour at most - but they spend the entire time making out on his sofa like teenagers. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips swollen, her shirt a lot less tidy and her ponytail nowhere near as neat by the time Sylvia loudly makes it known that her nap is done.

He’s thirty-seven-years-old and this is the happiest he’s ever been in his entire life.

Because of her. Because of himself. Because of how far they’ve come both individually and together.

The future looks bright to him, these days. It’s not like everything’s perfect; it’s not. But the weekend plays out before him like a ghostly image of the future that holds everything he wants. And, for the first time maybe ever, it feels like it’s all in within his reach.

They shower Sylvia with enough love and attention that she only rarely asks for her parents and she copes pretty well well with the separation. Better than Jules and her husband, actually, if the text messages Will gets are anything to go by. But, they’re reassured by a handful of calls and a dozen photos of their little girl giggling and having fun.

And she does.

Will and Amelia take her swimming and she delights in splashing them both in the face at every opportunity, but especially her uncle. Will would love to dunk Amelia and start some kind of water war, but he doesn’t dare when one of them needs to keep a hand on the one-year-old at all times. So instead, he holds them both in his arms as Sylvia grins mischievously and slaps her hands against the surface of the pool over and over, sending a spray of water everywhere.

The whole thing wears the little girl out and she falls asleep on Amelia’s lap watching Sesame Street shortly after they get back to his apartment and get cleaned up. Amelia makes no move to put her in the crib this time, though. And it’s a full hour later before Sylvia wakes and either of them go anywhere. Will hasn’t moved in that time, either, honestly. He’d wedged himself behind his girlfriend so that her head rested on his lap as the baby napped. They’d talked in hushed tones about plans for dinner, for the next day, for the game next weekend as he stroked her hair and Sylvia slept on.

In some ways, it’s amazing how easily their lives change to accommodate a child. Sure, it’s just for a weekend, but everything feels like it slides just slightly so that it all fits into place and Will finds himself thinking he could do this - they could do this - day in and day out.

Some of that is a credit to Sylvia herself, though. She’s admittedly a very easy child, sweet and loving, generally happy and rule-abiding. She only tries once to get into Beth’s room - the teen isn’t around this weekend, but she still has her own space; she will always have a room at her brother’s home. The child safety door knob keeps her out, but she also doesn’t try it again after Will scolds her lightly.

The only real challenge with her comes around two in the morning when she wakes up in hysterics sobbing for her parents. That’s a hard moment and nothing Will or Amelia can say seems to make a difference. Amelia tries to sing to her, but it doesn’t work this time. Sylvia pushes Amelia’s face away with her little hands as she wails for her parents over and over again.

It’s only when Will lies down, holding his niece against his chest that she starts to calm down. Her fingers stroke the tattoo on his bicep and she looks up at him with increasing awareness in her tired eyes. He talks to her in low tones, tells her stories about her mom, about her aunt and uncle, about her dad, about her grandparents. She probably doesn’t understand much of it, but his voice is soothing and she seems to find comfort against the warmth of his chest, curling up atop him and drifting back to sleep as he rubs her back and rambles on.

When he’s sure she’s asleep, he finally looks to where Amelia lies next to him and finds her staring with an awed expression on her face and a look of realization in her eyes.  

“What?” he asks, wrinkling his brow as he smiles at her.

“Every time I think I couldn’t possibly love you more, you prove me wrong,” she echoes, repeating his words from earlier. “How did I get this lucky?”

“We both did,” he replies immediately, slipping his hand into hers and intertwining their fingers together.

“Yeah,” she echoes, scooting closer until they’re pressed against each other, Sylvia still fast asleep atop him. Amelia tugs his free arm around her and rests their joined hands on the baby. She’s basically as close as she can be, close enough that he can see the adoration in her eyes, the contentment, and it brings with it a surge of the most incredible feeling of completion. “We did,” she continues, pressing a chaste but meaningful kiss to his lips. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

“Amelia,” he sighs, soaking in her closeness and savoring it for the gift he knows it is. “It was always gonna be you. There was never another choice to make.”

[mindsnot]

Broken Age Fanfic part 1 (subtitle: new beginnings)

Currently working on a Broken Age fanfic. It’s pretty long, so it’ll go beneath a readmore. I tried to keep it in the spirit of the game, with puzzles and humor, and what I hope is consistent canon. Not sure if they’re making a sequel ever, but until then, here’s my conclusion. 

               Shay stepped out of the conference room and sighed, his whole upper body sagging down, as if he was deflating. The hallway was empty. He only had as much time as he would have plausibly spent in the bathroom, so he pulled out his phone.

               He flipped open the hexagonal clamshell and was greeted by a smiling face.

               “What’s happening, Shay? Are you having a good day?”

               “Put me through to Vella.”

               “Aw,” the phone cried in a warbly voice. “You’re always calling Vella. You know who you haven’t called in a while? Curtis. You haven’t called Curtis in a while. I bet he misses you,” the phone sang.

               Shay gave the phone a deadpan stare.

               “I’ll call Vella,” the phone muttered.

                 Vella pulled out her clamshell phone she got from Shellmound. Its case was an actual clamshell, and it smelled faintly of fish. She wasn’t sure why she used it, but she never did get around to using a new one.

               “Hello,” she said.

               “Hey, it’s me.”

               “Hi, Shay. How are delegations going?”

               “They’re going.” Vella could tell from the way his voice trailed off that “going” might have been too generous a word.

               “Well, you can’t expect the negotiations between the Lorunans and the other countries to go perfectly smooth at first,” said Vella.

“But it’s so boring,” Shay whined. “They’re just talking in circles. Neither side is willing to compromise.”

               “You’re the one that signed up to be an ambassador,” said Vella, rolling her eyes.

               “Anyway, what are you doing,” said Shay. “Baking a cake?”

               Vella scoffed.

“I do a lot more than bake cakes, you know,” said Vella. She certainly wasn’t going to admit that she had just finished decorating a three-layer cake less than an hour ago.

“All right,” said Shay. “Well, what are you doing now?”

“I’m heading to a place,” said Vella. The forest at the end of the road was coming into view now. Plumes of chimney smoke rose from the middle. “Woodburr, have you heard of it?”

“I think so…isn’t Curtis from there? Why are you going to a middle-of-nowhere place like that?”

“Let’s just say,” said Vella in a playful voice, “I’m hunting for a wolf.”

               “Wait, you mean Marek?” Shay cried, but Vella had already hung up.

               Shay groaned and put his phone away.

               It was quiet.

Shay turned around and saw the Thrush Master towering over him.

“Hello, child.”

Shay straightened himself up, standing as tall as he could.

“The meeting is still going on,” said Shay.

The Thrush Master laughed.

“Ah, yes. The unity of Loruna and the badlands. The undoing of everything we’ve worked for in the name of peace, in the name of progress and cooperation. But not everyone is so happy with this forced accord. With this unexpected…reversal.”

“Gee, I couldn’t tell.”

The Thrush Master raised an eyebrow.

“You misunderstand me. A bit of bad blood—in moderation,” he muttered, “can be a good thing. A necessary evil, if you will. Blood, genes, life must be able to adapt, or else it will cease to be. And that which fails is the farthest thing from perfect. Although, The First might prefer to wipe the slate clean, to start over. Most of us would not prefer that.”

The veins stood out on the Thrush Master’s head crest.

Shay narrowed his eyes and tried to look for any trace of a lie, but the Thrush Master’s expression was flat.

“And what? What’s the point of telling me?”

The Thrush Master held his arms behind his back and looked down at Shay, studying him.

“You have demonstrated a certain…judgment, the kind we have always been looking for. I do not think it would be unwise to trust you. Take this.”

The Thrush Master produced a package from the folds of his robes. It was book shaped.

“Uh…” said Shay.

“The other three volumes elude me, but I managed to obtain the second. I trust you will appreciate its worth and decipher its mysteries. Now, I must be going. And I believe you have a meeting to return to?”

Shay stifled his retort. He was pretty late coming back to his meeting.

He walked back down the hallway, but right outside the door, looked down at his parcel. He opened the bag it was in and removed the book.

Bunny Tutu and the Poison Mushrooms, it said on the cover.

 “Let me know when you want another stack, sweetie,” said the mayor, pouring a flood of maple syrup onto Vella’s second stack of pancakes.

“Thanks,” said Vella. She watched the syrup ooze through the thick stack of pancakes. She was already full after the second pancake in the first stack. “So, anyway, about the wolf that moved into town—”

“Oh, yes, quite the talk,” said Mayor Margo. She was stout and burly, dressed in denim and plaid, and had round, rosy cheeks. “He went and hid in the Moss Shed.” She shrugged and made a noise. “No way to get in there. Who knows how he did.” Her cheery expression dimmed. “More importantly, you aren’t looking to cause any trouble, are you?”

“What do you mean?” Vella cut another bite out of her pancakes and ate it. It was really was quite good, especially the fresh maple syrup. She could always appreciate good sweets.

“Just the way you’re dressed, sweetie.”

Vella was wearing a red cape with a red hood. She was aware how that looked when someone was looking for a wolf. She shrugged herself.

“Don’t worry,” she said between chewing. “Can’t see why there’d be any problems.”

 There was a problem.

The Moss Shed was a huge rock covered in moss, just as its name suggested. Only it wasn’t a rock. It was metal beneath the green growth, and there was a clear set of metal doors secured shut at the base. Only Vella could see the moss broken at the seams…as if it had been opened recently.

There were no handles, no keyholes, nothing.

“Another puzzle,” Vella grumbled.

Vella checked her pockets.

First, she pulled out her trusty knife. She tried jamming it in between the spot where the doors met, trying to wedge them open, or something.

“Hey, toots, do I look like a crowbar,” shouted the knife. The tiny little face on the hilt was frowning with its eyebrows furrowed.

“Sorry,” said Vella. She put him away and went back to thinking.

The only other things in her pockets were her cell phone, her pastry bag (just in case there was a cake that needed decorating), and an embroidered hand towel (always handy, something you should never leave home without).

Maybe she was looking at it wrong. If Marek got in there, then there had to be a way in. She seriously doubted he forced the doors open. So she tried prying her attention away from the doors and looking elsewhere along the Moss Shed. To the left there was nothing. She climbed to the top of it, and aside from a clear view of the rest of Woodburr and all its little log cabins, she didn’t see much. However, after climbing back down her foot slipped on a patch of moss, causing her to almost fall.

She dusted herself off and got her bearings back. A couple feet to the right of the doors was a patch of moss with her footprint still pressed into it. She touched the moss and noticed it was loose.

“All right, here’s your chance to shine,” she said to her knife.

“Let me at em’,” he growled. Vella sawed through the patch of moss and let it fall to the ground in one big clump. Behind the clump was a control panel of some sort, with blocky red buttons and black and yellow lines outlining it.

“So that’s how he did it.” She put her hands on her hips. “Now let’s see…” Vella tried pushing a few buttons at random, then stood back. A little light flared red and a horn blared repeatedly.

“Incorrect password,” intoned a robotic voice. “Two attempts remaining.”

Vella grumbled.

“I’m not going to figure out that password, and I’ll probably never make it in if I mess up again. So, I guess that leaves force again.”

Vella inspected the control panel again. There seemed to be screws at each of the corners. She took out her knife again.

“What are you trying to pull?”

“I don’t have a screwdriver, so work with me here.”

“I don’t like this,” he said. But he didn’t say any more while Vella fiddled with each screw and let them each drop to the ground.

Once the panel was detached, it only hung by a cord of wires, revealing a little bit inside the machinery of the Moss Shed.

“I probably won’t get through there unless I’m a mouse, but I bet if something were to wreak havoc in there it would open up.” She thought. “Or at least do something.”

Her cloak flapped as she turned around and headed back to town, still pondering.

 “Howdy, what can I do you for?” The general store owner was a skinny lad with a bushy beard that almost hid his cheery grin. “The name’s Woodford.”

“What can you tell me about the Moss Shed?”

“Oh, it’s that metal shed covered with moss on the outskirts of town.” Woodford shrugged. “It’s a local sight.”

Perhaps another conversation track would work better.

“What kind of things do you sell here?”

Woodford’s face lit up.

“Why, we sell everything from Woodburr’s famous maple syrup, to lumber supplies, to any handy household goods.”

Vella cupped her chin in her hand.

“I don’t suppose you sell remote controlled bombs, do you?”

Woodford laughed.

“Why would we sell those? We just sell plastic explosives.”

“Oh,” said Vella. She looked down at her feet, then looked around the store at the supplies on the shelves. Looking sideways she asked, “Can you…sell me some?”

“Are you nuts,” shouted Woodford, banging his hands on the counter. “I can’t just sell any old girl plastic explosives…unless she had a way to carry it. Geeze, how would you even deliver it?”

“What would I carry it in,” Vella muttered to herself. How she would use it was another question she was even less prepared for.

She had an idea.

“Put some in here,” she said. She offered Woodford her pastry bag.

Back at the Moss Shed, she went back to the control panel, equipped with her pastry bag. The waxed cloth bag was bulging with plastic explosive. She inserted the metal nozzle of the pastry bag deep into the recesses of the space behind the control panel. She squeezed the bag, gently at first, then harder to force out more of the toothpasty explosive material.

When she was done, she stuffed the bag, nozzle and all, into the hole, poked the detonator in, and ran a good distance away.

The Moss Shed was a speck in the distance when she had gone far enough. She pushed the little button on her little remote.

There was a roaring explosion and a rush of wind followed by a shower of debris kicked up.

When she approached again there was a funny smell from the explosive—the control panel was a smoldering heap of wreckage—and a musty smell emanating from the open metal doors, and the dark corridor that led underground.

Vella pulled her cloak tight, raised her hood over her hair, and descended into the darkness.

 Little Bunny Tutu had built the prettiest garden for himself, and had filled it with all the best of each kind of vegetable. But Bunny Tutu was worried about dirty varmints that might come to mess it all up. So the first thing Bunny Tutu did was build a big wall around his garden.

               Shay was lying on his back on the couch, holding the book above him. He groaned and turned to the next page.

               Bunny Tutu’s very special garden was safe behind the big wall he built. However, Bunny Tutu decided it wasn’t enough. Looking over the walls of his garden, Bunny Tutu kept an eye out for dirty varmints. Suddenly, Bunny Tutu had an idea.

               Shay turned the page. The book was illustrated, with pictures that were clearly drawn for children, and possibly drawn by children.

               Little Bunny Tutu was full of mischief. Leaving the safety of his garden, Bunny Tutu snuck out into the bad lands and into the gardens of the dirty varmints. It was night time when Bunny Tutu did his work. He dug little holes and put little pieces of poison mushrooms inside. 23 little holes, and 23 pieces of poison mushroom later, and he was done.

               Chuckling to himself after a job well done, Bunny Tutu snuck away and returned to his garden to tend to it.

               Little Bunny Tutu wasn’t worried anymore. If anything ever happened, and if the dirty varmints ever got past his walls, the poison mushrooms would sprout in the other gardens. Bunny Tutu went to sleep—another brilliant plan completed—tucked into bed, and looked forward to the next bright day.

               Shay slapped the book shut. He turned the skinny book over and looked at the “2” printed on its narrow spine. He groaned again, louder this time. He had read the book five times already, and he still didn’t understand what the point was. The Thrushmaster didn’t seem the joking type. There had to be something in the book, something he didn’t get yet.

               “What do you mean, you stupid book?” Shay stared at the cover of the book, at Bunny Tutu. He looked so…weird. He was hardly a bunny. He had big, floppy ears covered in pink fur, and a rabbit’s head, but wore a gray suit and had brown, flesh-colored hands. It gave the impression that it was just a person wearing a half-hearted rabbit costume.

               Shay rolled over and sat up on the couch. He had spent hours rereading, researching, thinking, anything to try and figure out the book.

               “I don’t even have time for this,” he muttered. Tomorrow, he would have to go back into work, and dozens of countries were still petitioning to speak with Loruna. He’d already been in at least twenty or thirty meetings so far and…

               “Wait,” he breathed.

               Snatching the book, he flipped to the pages where Bunny Tutu was planting the poison mushrooms in the varmints’ gardens.

               23 little holes, and 23 pieces of poison mushroom later—

               Shay’s eyes widened. The light book felt very heavy all of a sudden.

               Work would have to wait.

                 Shay had finished his breakfast—eggs and bacon, no more cereal, he was fifteen-years-old, an adult!—and was in his room, packing his things, when his mom and dad decided to help.

               “Where are you going,” his mother asked, her round hairdo bobbing side-to-side while she moved through his drawers, picking out clothes for him.

               “I might head to Sugar Bunting first,” said Shay. He was deciding between which gadgets would most come in handy for whatever happened. “But I’ll probably head to other places, maybe Meriloft and Ice Vista after that.”

               23 holes and 23 pieces of poison mushroom. The numbers had to mean something. The numbers stood out. There was a second reason the numbers meant something, but that was covered in a dark shroud in his mind, but the first reason had to be…the number of countries. 23, at least. If not the other three volumes of the book that the Thrushmaster alluded to, then maybe he’d find those poison mushrooms that were buried. It filled Shay with an energy as he packed his toothbrush and laptop into his backpack…but also with a heavy dread. Would he be ready when he found what he was looking for?

               “An extra three scarves then,” his mother chirped. She was taking it rather well, Shay thought. There wasn’t a word of protest about him taking a vacation from his job and leaving on his trip.

               Shay puffed himself up and smiled. That must have meant that they were finally trusting him, as an adult.

               “I got enough meal bars to last you a week, son,” his dad called from the kitchen.

               “Thanks dad.” He wasn’t exactly planning on roughing it in the woods, but it helped to be prepared.

               His mother grunted as she stuffed the last of his clothes into his bulging backpack and zipped it shut.

               “Here you go,” she said.  “Now, I had this made for you, although I hope you won’t need it.” She pulled out a plastic band and secured it to his wrist. It was like a smart watch, except instead of a flat face it had a ping pong ball-sized glass ball attached to it.

               “What is it,” asked Shay.

               The Overmother’s radiant sun head popped up into the glass bulb, beaming up at him.

               “It’s a communicator, sweetie,” the head in the glass ball said, at the same time as his mother speaking into a communicator on her wrist. “It also doubles as a computer terminal, allowing me to interact with various hardware, and control various systems. As long as they’re compatible.”

               “Wow,” said Shay. “I didn’t think that far ahead.”

               “You’re all set, sweetie.” His mom came over and gave him a tight hug. “Now, just let me and your father pack, and we’ll be ready to go.”

               “Wait,” said Shay. “We?”

               “We can’t let you go off by yourself,” his mother laughed. She glided out the door and to her room.

               “No,” he wailed softly. “I was going to be an adult…”

               His father crept into his room, looking back once over his shoulder.

               “Here are the keys to the hovercycle. I’ll keep your mother distracted while you leave the house.”

               “Dad…” Shay almost had tears in his eyes.

               “Go out there, son. I have a feeling that whatever you’re going to do is a very important job. A job fit for an adult.”

               “Dad.” Shay squeezed his father.

               “Get going,” his father wheezed.

               Shay let go, adjusted his backpack, and snuck off.

                 Vella climbed down the steps of the Moss Shed. She slid her hand along the smooth wall for guidance, her footsteps echoing in the darkness.

               The bottom of the stairs had a path revealed by dim, red lights. She followed it, keeping an eye out for surprises.

               She noticed traces of long, black hair on the ground.

               “Marek,” she muttered.

               Following the traces of hair, she headed down hallways lit by dim red lights, past locked doors and dusty, shut down computer panels. The traces of hair forked off in two different directions.

               To the left was a hallway leading to a larger corridor, but in front of her was a bit of hair sitting in front of a door that wasn’t completely closed.

               She decided to check on the door first, since it was closer.

               She was glad the door didn’t make any noise as she slowly eased it open.

               “Aha,” she shouted, as she flicked on the lights. But no one was there.

               She explored the room a bit, although there wasn’t much to explore: a desk with a computer on it, some dusty, old file cabinets, bizarre warning signs on the walls. There was something next to the computer, though. It was a some sort of scanning machine and printer hooked up to the computer, with a thin book lying open on the scanner face.

               Vella picked up the book and looked at the pages it was opened to. It had childish drawings of some sort of weird bunny man. He seemed to be working on some sort of paper Mache project. She clapped the book shut and read the title on the spine: Bunny Tutu and the Brilliant Monster Plan, along with a number: 3.

               She stowed the book away and went back to explore the other path.

               It led to a great, cavernous room, with some great shadow looming in the center.

               “There has to be a light switch,” she muttered. After some searching along the wall, she found a big switch she cranked on.

               “What…” Vella had so much she wanted to say that she was speechless.

               In the center of the room was an enormous orb of metal plates strung up with wires. In a stencil font was a huge #12.

               Vella felt herself shrink. She felt like she wanted to run away, but that no matter how far she ran it wouldn’t be far enough, so she just stood paralyzed with fear.

               The giant metal sphere looked like a bomb.

***

 “Welcome to Ice Vista, traveler!”

               The man who greeted Shay as he got off his hoverbike was wearing a black and white parka. He looked like a penguin.

               Shay wasn’t familiar with Ice Vista—they must have been latecomers to the delegations.

               “So…you guys…” Shay looked around. Everyone was wearing some variation of the black and white parka, children waddling around playing, old people crouched around a fishing hole in the ice. The actual penguins waddling around just seemed liked miniature versions of the villagers. “Worship penguins,” Shay hazarded in a faltering voice.

               “Ho ho ho,” laughed the man. “Don’t be silly. Everyone here in Ice Vista just likes penguins a lot. Care for some penguin jerky?”

               “I thought you liked penguins,” said Shay. The man’s mittened hand was an inch away from his face, clutching a piece of withered meat.

               “We also like eating them.”

               “How are things going, sweetie?” Overmom’s sunny face appeared in the little orb on Shay’s wrist, smiling her sunniest smile.

               “Well, I came here looking for old Loruna tech, and all I’ve found so far is,” Shay surveyed the igloos and bustling villagers of Ice Vista, “less high tech. If there’s anything that old, it’s probably buried under the ice, and I wouldn’t know where to start.”

               Overmom hummed in thought.

               “The villager fish under the ice, right? You should ask around. The people are more familiar with the area than you are, and I’m sure they’d be glad to help.”

               “I’m not so sure,” said Shay, recalling how easily complete strangers tended to drop their problems and help him with his, which is to say, not.

               “If things get really tough, I can be right over to help you in a jiffy—”

               “Whoops, someone’s calling me! I have to go! I love you, bye!”

               The Overmom’s response was clipped short as Shay clicked shut the transmission and her face vanished in the wrist bulb.

               Shay walked back to the middle of the village to get his bearings.

               In the center of the town was an igloo restaurant with a sign that read “Raul’s Bistro” and beneath it, “Coming Soon: Organic Vegan Cuisine.”  

               There were two people in Raul’s Bistro, each hunched over a steaming bowl scooping spoonfuls of pungent goop into their mouths.

               “What can I get you,” said Raul. Although dressed for the cold, he had opted out of the penguin parka most of the other villagers wore for layers of stylish scarves and sweaters with a plaid apron on top.

               “The usual,” Shay said. He always wanted to try that.

               “You’ve never been here,” Raul countered.

               “Okay, then. I’ll have...” there wasn’t much variety between either of the other patrons and their identical bowls of slop. “What she’s having?”

               “Oh.” Raul turned around. With his back to Shay, he let out a loud and drawn out sigh. Raul turned around again. “One bowl of blubber and penguin stew?”

               “Um…” Shay considered his options. “Can you tell me about your vegan cuisine?”

               “Since you asked, we have a delicious red vinaigrette garden salad made with only the freshest, locally grown greens. Vegan, organic, GMO-free, and organic. Coming soon!”

                “How soon,” asked Shay.

               “As soon as I get some locally grown greens. Have you taken a look around? Not many plants grow on the tundra. Until they do, I’ll be melting blubber in that old stew cauldron until I wither and die.” Raul jerked a thumb toward the massive black iron cauldron hanging over the fire, it’s heavy lid rattling under the bubbling blubber broth.

               “Well…good luck with that.”

               Shay went back out into the town square. Raul’s food conundrum wasn’t going to help him discover Loruna ruins.

               Signposts led to the fishing holes. His mom’s advice was to ask the fisher people who knew the place best.

               Shay crunched his way through the snow to a signpost in the town square: “Penguin Fields” towards the left and “Fishing Holes” pointing toward the right.

               The fishing holes were deserted this time of day, say for a pair of squat women in penguin parkas sitting next to each other, fishing the same hole. They seemed frozen in place, but their wrinkled faces were set into expressions somewhere past boredom into acceptance.

               “Excuse me,” said Shay.

               “Hm.” The fishwife didn’t move, but her grunt had a positive tone.

               “I was wondering if you’ve seen any weird technology under the ice. Stuff that looks out of place…”

               The other fishwife pointed a mitten behind her.

               “Look in the old grotto, but don’t look too closely.”

               “Thanks…” Shay wasn’t sure what that second part meant, but he was glad for some simple instructions for once.

               A way away from the fishing holes was a deserted area and a sizeable opening in the ice. It was murky beneath the icy blue water, but it looked deep. It probably housed the grotto the old woman was talking about. Shay took off his back pack and browsed through the contents of his inventory.

               His mom and dad might have expected him to be stranded on a deserted island instead of travelling from village to village. He had fruit and granola nutrition bars for emergency rations, the multitool his dad packed for him, more spare clothes and knitted scarves than he knew what to do with, polymer weave rope, and even a spacesuit, in case he was about to flung into space at a moment’s notice.

               Fortunately, that last item was a nice save, since he needed a wetsuit if he was going to consider dipping into freezing water, and a space suit did the trick in a pinch.

               The bulky spacesuit fit over his normal clothes, and the glass (it wasn’t glass, some sort of advanced plastic, but whatever) dome snapped on neatly.

               He jumped into the pool with a splash and began awkwardly paddling down. A flashlight beam in the suit’s collar flicked on lighting his way. There was clearly something underground, a metal panel a dozen or so feet down, some blocky writing he couldn’t make out…

               Something passed across his vision. His arms were pinned to his side. His legs were gripped and his arms yanked upward. He was spun around and saw a huge metal starfish grabbing him, each articulated limb grabbing one of his. A green eye glowed like an angry alarm, and the top arm of the starfish slammed down on his head.

               The blow rang on his helmet with a dull thud. Then Shay found himself rushing upward, spun around again, then flying through the air and back onto the snow.

               Shay groaned. He opened his eyes to the cloudless sky, and eventually got to his feet and changed out of his suit.

               Shay tramped back to the fishwives.

               “You guys forgot to mention a horrible robotic ocean guardian in the grotto.”

               The fishwives both shrugged.

               “Never told us you were going down there.”

               “Not too smart, are you?”

               Shay gritted his teeth. It was better not to get on people’s bad side, though, especially when he was still asking for help.

               “I don’t suppose you two have any experience fighting monsters?”

               “We just fish.”

               “Of course, if you’re fishing for something big, you’re going to need a big lure.”

               “Starfish aren’t fish. They’re echinoderms,” said one of the fishwives.

               “It’s not a fish,” shouted Shay. “It’s a big, metal…”

               The last item Shay had to work with was his hoverbike. Shay went and brought it back to the fishing holes.

               “Fancy tech you got there, kid. Why are you taking it apart?”

               “I am making,” said Shay, unwinding some wires, “an electromagnet!”

               “Fancy, that” said one of the fishwives, apparently more interested in her line not getting any bites.

               “I’m glad you asked,” said Shay, unclicking a big blocky component from inside his bike. “Using copper wire, stripped with my trusty multitool (“Don’t mention it,” chirped the various tiny voices of his multitool”), and this bike battery,” he said holding up the blocky component, “I can use the power of science to defeat a robot. Pretty fancy, I know, but I am an official Junior Science Master Graduate of Child-Friendly Good Boy Science Experiments.”

               “Where’s your core?”

               “Huh?” That didn’t sound like a compliment to Shay.

               “A strong current, from your battery, copper wire, but where’s your iron core.”

               “You’ll especially need a big core if you’re planning to reel in that beast.”

               “But where am I going to find—” Shay had another idea.

               Shay didn’t bother going straight to Raul’s restaurant. Raul had a solid iron cauldron, but he doubted he’d give it up without anything in exchange.

               He decided to head to Penguin Fields to see if any locals knew anything about where to find some greens.

               Penguin fields were densely populated…with penguins. Two foot birds squawking up a cacophony and waddling around. There was a tall penguin in the crowd, or at least person wearing a penguin suit.

               “Hey there,” said Shay, trying to avoid stepping on any penguins. “There wouldn’t happen to be kale or any leafy greens growing around here, would there?”

               The penguin person sighed. “You’ve been talking to Raul? He’s delusional if he thinks he thinks his salad business is going to take off. No one wants that stuff either. Doesn’t fill you up.”

               “Right…but say someone wanted to find some local greens anyway?”

               The penguin person scratched their chin.

“Look around, do you see anything growing up here? On the other hand, if you were a penguin, you’d be able to swim underneath the ice floes and snack on some iceberg lettuce.

               Shay crouched down on the ice and brushed away the snowfall. The ice was mostly opaque, but there were hints of green orbs underneath the ice sheet.

               “Easy, just pull out my multitool, “Shay plunged his saw knife into the ice and began sawing. He sawed a large hole into the ice floe, planning on lifting it out and plucking the lettuce heads. He sawed a big hole, a few yards long, iceberg lettuce barely visible underneath. “Now to lift the ice floe.”

               Shay squatted and dug his fingers into the crack. He heaved, straining his burning muscles, as the ice floe barely budged.

               “Okay, that didn’t work. And these penguins aren’t helping!” The ice was heavy enough, and the penguins walking on the end he was trying to lift didn’t help.

               “Maybe Raul will loan me his pot on partial credit?”

               “How’s it going,” asked Raul.

               “I found a bunch of iceberg lettuce.”

               “Iceberg lettuce,” Raul shrieked in delight, tossing aside his stew bowl.

               “It’s under the ice.”

               “Oh…” Raul’s smile sank into a heavy frown. “Well, thanks for letting me know,” he said, rolling his eyes.

               “I’ll get that lettuce,” said Shay waving his hands. “It’s just hard on an empty stomach, you know?”

               Raul ladled a big bowl of steaming stew into a bowl.

               “Eat your fill.” He handed the bowl to Shay. He leaned in for an urgent whisper. “The future of organic vegan cuisine is depending on you.”

               Shay made his way back to Penguin fields with his bowl of stew in his hands. The penguins were squawking and crowding around him, but he was tall enough not to let them reach it.

               “Let’s give this a shot.” Shay poured the fish stew on the opposite end of the ice he cut out from the lettuce. As the thick stew splashed onto the ice, the penguins mobbed onto the spot, bending down to lap up the stew. The flow sank deep, but the penguins didn’t seem to notice.

               Wasting no time, Shay went over to the other end and got his grip again. Bracing his muscles (which weren’t that small, right?), Shay lifted, and found the ice floe actually being lifted. The floe was lifted up at an extreme angle, and Shay, in a moment of panic, ran with it and guided the floe higher and higher until it was standing upright 90 degrees, then then flipped it on its back. The ice fell with a huge splash, and the feeding penguins were nowhere to be seen.

               “They’re probably fine,” said Shay. He rubbed his arm. “I mean, they’re penguins, right?”

               What was more appealing at the moment were the exposed iceberg lettuce heads, roots buried in the underside, now the overside of the ice. Shay gather two big armfuls of the vegetables and walked back to Raul’s.

               “All natural cuisine has a future!” Raul fell to his knees in tears. “I have greens, dressing, and a topping.” His eyes shot open. “A topping?” His voice rose in terror. “How could I not have any toppings?” He grapped shay by the lapels of his coat. “Please, my savior, you have to have a topping of some kind on you? Dried fruit, croutons or grains?”

               “I have…” Shay turned around and scrounged through his backpack. “Say?” Shay pulled out his nutrition bars and unwrapped them in the empty stew bowl. He crunched them up by hand and turned around to present it to Raul. “Ta da! Crumbled granola and dried fruit, all natural and organic and, um, food.”

               “Genius,” roared Raul. Raul turned around. “Out, all of you! There’s the door! Drop that disgusting slop and come back when we’re a real bistro.”

               “Say,” said Shay. I don’t suppose you need that cauldron anymore?”

               “Take it! You don’t cook salad in a cauldron. We’re living in the future!”

               Shay was back at the Fishing Holes assembling his electromagnet.

               “Got a core, did you,” said one of the fishwives.

               “Yep,” said Shay. He was wrapping the copper wire around the cleaned-out cauldron, connecting it to the battery he placed inside the cauldron.

               “How are you going to seal the cauldron from water,” asked a fishwife.

               “My dad’s patented hull sealant,” Shay announced, applying the last of the glue before pressing the lid down firmly.

               “Now how are you going to turn it on,” asked the other fishwife.

               “The remote starter for my hoverbike,” Shay answered.

               “Mighty reckless of you to take apart your fancy bike for this fishing trip.”

               “A lot’s at stake,” said Shay, setting his mouth firm. “I need to find out what’s down there.” Last of all, Shay tied the rope to the lid of the cauldron and lugged the whole thing over to the grotto.

               Shay stared down into the pool. He couldn’t see the starfish, but he knew it was down there.

               He pushed the electromagnet into the water and watched it sink fast, dragging the rope with it until Shay grabbed it.

               Shay waited. It was hard to tell if it was getting close, but now was as good a time as any. He clicked the remote of his bike and he heard the buzz of the electromagnet turn on, followed by the loud clank of the robot slam into the magnet.

               Shay grinned.

               “Now to reel it in.” The cauldron was heavy, but the robot wasn’t as heavy as he expected.

               The green eye blazed with rage, but the starfish was helpless stuck to the magnet, and now dragged onto the ice.

               “Time to take a nap, buddy.” Shay pulled out his multitool and unscrewed a panel on the robot. It was certainly Loruna technology, even if it was bizarrely outdated. Shay flipped a switch and the green eye faded. “All right, now it’s time to go see what’s down there.”

               Bunny Tutu’s garden needed dirt. His garden had the nicest seeds, the freshest water, and Bunny Tutu built a neat hedge and had a dozen and a half of the shiniest tools to start gardening, but he needed rich dirt to plant his seeds in. Uh oh!

               The bad lands full of bad people had plenty of good dirt (all they really had was dirt), but how would he sneak over and carry a barrow back to his garden?

               If he asked or offered to trade, the mean varmints would know about his garden (his garden was a secret.

               If he tried to fight them (they were mean, but all a bunch of wimps), they would hide their dirt, or throw it away to spite him.

               Bunny Tutu was clever, so instead, he came up with a clever idea. Bunny Tutu sent his helpers out with wheelbarrows, but disguised them as scary monsters. He told his friends to use their meanest voices and tell the varmints to hand them some dirt, if they know what’s good for them.

               Bunny Tutu’s plan worked so well, even he was surprised. The varmints started competing to give him their favorite dirt.

               Vella slammed the thin book shut (it didn’t make an impressive noise, since the hardcovers were thinner than the sparse, illustrated pages). Vella slid Bunny Tutu and the Brilliant Monster Plan back into her satchel. The glowing number on the ceiling console told her the shuttle pod would be arriving at its destination in less than seven minutes. After Vella saw the…bomb, she could have gone back and warned the others, but another stray tuft of fur led to a small station with a miniature train car. It was far sleeker and nicer looking than any train car she had ever seen, and it was clear that it only went back and forth to one destination. The only question was where, but Vella was about to find out.

               A pleasant, robotic voice informed Vella that she had arrived at Terminal 4, as the train glided to a silent stop.

               Vella got off and explored the station. There wasn’t much there, but a door leading out. The door led to another series of hallways—she found another vast chamber with a huge, spherical bomb, this one labelled “4”—and a few other rooms, mirroring the facility she was just in.

               “So this is number four and I was just at twelve?” Vella kept her voice down, although there was no one around to hear here, the dim emergency lights felt like they were hiding something. “There must be at least twelve of these places, but why didn’t I go to number 13 or 11?” The only other room worth noticing was a room with a door labeled “Data Management.” There was a computer console with a dead screen and a dusty chair sprawled on the ground like a mummified corpse. The computer console beneath the screen projector had a neat hole where a large piece was clearly removed. The side of a console had a nasty hole in the side where it looked like someone took a hammer and smashed it in a few times, and then a few more for good measure.

               Vella’s mouth made a hard line. She didn’t need to look for any traces of wolf hair to guess who made this fresh wreck and made off with what was probably a memory block.

               Vella pulled her hood up tight.

               “He’s got to be out there.” The facility exit/entrance was the same too, leading Vella out into the bright of day, although it wasn’t the brightness she was expecting.

               The golden glint made Vella squint. The exit was on a high ridge overlooking a golden and bejeweled city, and the sky wasn’t the sky, but the roof of a huge cavern, lit by a blinding fake sun that seemed to be crawling along a big railing track. Climbing further down the ridge she was able to align the angle a big sign near the edge of town: “Welcome to Baublegilt.”

               Vella almost tripped from starring at all the gold-plated buildings in town. It looked like a normal mining town with shops and workers traveling around, but even the sweatiest miners hefted solid gold picks over their shoulders and had cloth of silver and gold clothing. The baker’s storefront sign was circled with rubies and sapphires, and the goldsmith’s storefront was…well, covered in gold and jewels, but the other stuff was pretty unusual.

               “If anyone will know this place, it’ll be a goldsmith.”

               The inside of the shop displayed racks of diamond-studded silver bracelets, electrum chains, a fortune in rings crowned with walnut-sized gems, and more. There was a counter leading to a workshop in the back. An old woman dressed in a drab grey frock came out and adjusted her spectacles.

               “Hello, ma’am. Can you tell me about Baublegilt?”

               The old lady sniffed. She tittered briefly, then waved a hand.

               “Here I thought it was someone important,” she said.

               “Excuse me,” demanded Vella, balling his fists and rising up. “That’s pretty rich coming from someone in a gold town dressed—”

               “Dressed in the fanciest fashions available,” the woman cut in. “See these rings?” The old lady put her hand in front of Vella’s face so fast that Vella almost swung and clobbered her. The old lady rotated her hand, “Genuine sandstone glass set in pure tin.” Her hand had at least six of them on. Her other hand snatched at a chain necklace around her neck and held it out, “Lead and zinc links, crowning, this is not gold, a genuine pyrite crystal.”

               “Uh…” was all Vella was able to manage.

               “So you see, I am far too rich to be wasting my time with someone who won’t make me richer. Now, go buy yourself a mushroom pie or whatever it is you commoners eat. The goldsmith flipped Vella a gold coin the size of a cookie. “Ta ta,” she said, disappearing behind the counter and back into her workshop.

               Vella left holding a coin that was worth hundreds of times everything that rude goldsmith was wearing, assuming this was home or anywhere else that made sense.

               Vella went to the baker’s shop, a place she at least assumed would make sense.

               “New here,” asked the friendly baker behind the counter. Aside from some gold dust flecked on the a few loaves of bread, everything looked pretty standard for a bakery, aside from a solid gold rolling pin Vella spied in the back near the oven.

               “What can I get for this,” asked Vella. She held up the huge coin.

               “A mushroom bun,” said the baker with a wide smile. “Mushrooms are pretty cheap, since we don’t have to import them. Or…” Vella wasn’t getting her hopes up, “your pick of my day-old bread.”

               That was that, then. Vella could at least ask some questions to this guy.

               “Tell me about this place. I just kind of…wandered down here.”

               “Oh, we just mine and craft goods out of the local ore and stone. The stuff we dig up isn’t super valuable, but we have plenty of it, and we import fresh produce and fancier metals for the fancier folk.

               “I see…” Vella remembered the goldsmith flaunting her tin and lead like it was silver and gold. “Have you seen any suspicious people around here?”

               “Besides you? I’m kidding! If anyone important came by the guildmasters would know about them. Might be they’ll be inviting them to their annual banquet.”

               “Can you tell me more about this banquet?”

               “I’d rather not think about it, said the baker, scratching the back of his head. This might be my last year catering for it if I don’t make a desert that’s sweeter than last year’s. But the shipment of apples at the fruit stand are scrawny and overpriced. Don’t think they’ll go for a mushroom cake. Do you?”

               “As a baker…” Vella didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Sometimes you should try branching out,” she shrugged.

               “Ah, no problem, little lady.”

               Vella left with nothing but her coin to her name, besides her knife, hand towel, and cell phone—“No reception down here, of course.” The other street lined with more golden buildings passed an alley. She checked it. A shadow flickered. There was a clatter and a rustle. Her red cape flapped as she rushed to the source of the noise. A silver trash can was on its side, spilling garbage. In the trash was a tall wolf mask and the remains of Marek’s fursuit.

               The wearer was nowhere to be seen. She ruffled through his suit, but turned up nothing. But there was a crack in the cobblestones nearby. She pulled out her knife, but put it away as soon as it started complaining, “For the last time, I am NOT a crowbar.”

               She tried prying open the latch with her fingers, but it barely budged. The last thing she had on hand was the coin she had just gotten. She wedged the big coin in the crack and pried as hard as she could. The cobblestone budged, but that’s it. The coin bent in half. “Dumb gold,” Vella growled. She gave it one more try and succeeded in snapping the coin in half. “Well, now I have two coins, sort of.”

               She got back up and left the alley. If Marek was hiding in town, then that had to mean there was something he still wanted here. The artificial sun was setting, reaching the end of its track. After a brief pause, the lights shifted and the color dimmed to resemble a crescent moon.

               “Something about that sun and moon look awfully familiar…” Memories of Shay’s ship exploded into her head. “Of course!” There was the facility located on a cliffside above, but below…she just had to find the place the controlled the artificial lighting. “Hall of Day and Night” read another sign, leading to a blocky cement structure on top of a hill. The outside looked modern, with token gold plating, but the top was a crystal pyramidal structure like the Dead Eye God from Shellmound, and Vella knew what that was.

               Vella sprinted up to the entrance, but despite the workers coming and going, she was stopped by two burly guards in gold and silver filigree.

               “Halt, only authorized staff and guests allowed for the banquet!”

               “Who is invited,” asked Vella.

               One of the guards shrugged.

               “Guildmasters of the Minter’s Guild, Goldsmiths’ Guild, Merchant’s Guild…you know. Bigwigs with lead in their pockets.”

               “Are you with catering?” The other guard pointed with her truncheon at her clothes underneath her red cape. “What kind of desert are they having? We get the leftovers, you know.”

               The other guard shushed and nudged her hard.

               “It’s…a surprise,” said Vella.

               Vella left the guards at the gate, left town, then hiked back up the ridge to Facility 4#. The tram that brought her to Baublegilt was still waiting, and she could get back to Woodburr in a flash.

               As the tram zipped back in the other direction, Vella had another hour to spend thinking. Of course, the building that gave them light and made their lives possible underground was where the town leaders were holding their big stupid banquet. But then again, this might have been her only chance to infiltrate and snoop around the place, when a big party of people were already going to be there. All she needed was a disguise. Or maybe two.

               Vella arrived in Woodburr’s facility and made her way back to the village’s general store.

               “It’s you again,” said the plaid-clad vendor brightly. “I hope it’s not plastic explosives you’re looking for, because you bought my last stock. Plenty of other goods, though.”

               Vella fished in her pocket and felt each half of the cookie-sized coin. She took out one half.

               “How much maple syrup will this get me?”

               “The store owner leaned in close to inspect the coin.

               “One.”

               “One what?”

               “One keg,” he shouted. “I haven’t seen that much gold in one place in years! Hold on a second.” He came back wheeling a keg of syrup.

               It was a barrel big enough to hide a person in.

               “And here’s your change.” The shopkeeper heaved a sack onto the counter that jangled. “I hope you like pennies,” he said with a shrug.

               “Um,” said Vella, having been paid at her family’s bakery with pennies before. Then a flash went off in her head. “On second thought, thanks for the pennies,” she said, picking up a copper coin from the bag.

               Vella went back into town with her penny sack tied to her belt, rolling her syrup keg on the ground. One of the log cabins in town had to have a seamstress, and she found one by the sign outside.

               There was a woman mending a pair of trousers under a noisy sewing machine.

               “What do you need, sweetie?”

               “I need a sort of dress…”

               “What kind of dress? I don’t do anything fancy.”

               It was hard to explain, and Vella didn’t want to explain her whole mission from the beginning.

               “I need a…costume for…an event I’m going to.”

               The seamstress stopped sewing and scooted her stool closer. She leaned close to Vella and asked in a conspiratorial whisper. She grinned.

               “Do you need an outfit for…cosplay?”

               “Excuse me?”

               The woman beamed.

               “I know what you kids are about! Why, my son Joshua is into those cartoons too.”

               “Mooooom, they’re nooooot cartoooons,” groaned a loud voice from upstairs.

               “What do you want to make a dress out of,” she asked Vella, ignoring her son’s cry.

               Something reliable and sturdy came to mind.

               “How about this,” said Vella, removing her red hood.

               “But it’s such a nice cloak. Still, it’s nice fabric. It’ll make a short dress, though, knee-length, maybe.”

               “That’s fine. I need to look flashy. Speaking of…” Vella pulled out her sack of pennies. “Can you sew these onto the dress, like sequins?”

               “Huh,” said the woman, raising an eyebrow at the pennies. “I guess those characters do have some weird outfits. Still, sequins have holes in them. How else am I going to sew them on?”

               Vella wandered around the shop in thought. She went over to the sewing machine and inspected it.

               “This basically punches holes in fabric, right?”

               “My sewing needle can’t poke holes in pennies, sweetie.”

               But Vella had an idea what could.

               She pulled out her knife.

               “Listen, you like stabbing, right?”

               “Ha, almost as much as I like slashing, sweetheart!”

               “How do you think you match up against one of these?” She held a penny in front of the knife and rotated it in front of the knife’s little face.

               “Those things wouldn’t stand a chance,” he said with a sneer.

               “Here’s your chance to prove it!”

               “What do you think you’re doing?”

               A spool a thread was nearby, allowing Vella to tightly tie the knife to the needle, upside down.

               “Excuse me,” Vella said to the seamstress, who politely let Vella take her seat. Vella pulled out a test penny and placed it beneath the knife. She placed a foot on the pedal and the knife rocketed up and down.

               “Hold on a second!”

               The penny was torn up in the center.

               “Maybe a light tap this time…”

               Placing another penny beneath the knife, Vella gave a quick tap on the pedal, letting the knife shoot up and down once. She picked up a penny and noted a clean groove cut out from the center.

               “Pretty clever, dear,” breathed the seamstress. “You can let me take care of the rest of those. And I’ll fix up your dress in no time. Now, about payment…”

               “Will this cover it,” said Vella, handing over the other half of her coin.

               The seamstress’s eyes grew huge.

               “And then some! I’ll finish it right away, a rush job. Why, I can buy a new workbench, some new records, and even some toys for Joshua.”

               “Mooooom,” cried Joshua from upstairs. “They’re not tooooys! They’re figurines!”

               Vella rode the tram to Baublegilt sitting across from her keg of syrup. It was easy rolling it through the facility, tricky keeping control while rolling it downhill, and easy rolling it up to the baker’s shop.

               “I heard you needed some help baking!” Vella was in open baker’s garb, standing heroically with a hand on her hip and the other on her giant barrel of maple syrup.

               “Is that filled with apples,” asked the baker, killing the mood.

               “Better,” said Vella attempting to salvage the mood. “Have you ever made a maple syrup cake with maple syrup frosting?” Vella smirked and raised an eyebrow.

               “No!” The baker smirked and raised an eyebrow back.

               “Should I just do it for you?” Vella’s smirk was strained now.

               “I wouldn’t mind if you did, to be honest!”

               She would have been more irritated, but Vella was back in her element now.

               Vella spent the next hour mixing cake batter, making frosting, preparing the pan, heating the oven, every little thing that made her think of home and not in a giant golden cave hundreds of miles who-knows-where. The dough was easy—flour, eggs, butter, spices, and her maple syrup were on hand. The cake went into the oven in no time, leaving her plenty of time to reduce some of the maple syrup into maple sugar to mix into the cake frosting. The baker’s tools were limited—he was clearly more of a pie person—but when the cake came out of the oven and cooled on the stove, she managed to apply the frosting as smooth as polished marble, and add a few artistic flourishes on the fringes.

               “I’ve never seen a cake that nice,” breathed the baker. “How can I ever repay you?”

               “Let me cater for you at the banquet. And…” She scanned the baking room. “Can I have your rolling pin?” It was solid gold. It might come in handy later. She certainly would have felt guilty spending it anywhere, since it was bigger than a gold ingot and probably worth more than a place like Woodburr.

               “No problem! And take that old thing. I needed to get a new one anyway.”

               Half the day had gone by, but Vella still had another errand to finish.

               “I’ll be back for the cake. Just give me a couple hours.”

               The seamstress was still working when Vella got back, but the dress looked done.

               “Give me a second. Just one last coin…here we go.” She held up the dress for Vella to admire. It jangled lightly. It had a simple skirt, and a simple, sleeveless top, but the red stood out, and the hundreds of pennies were polished and dazzling. “I hope I made it right. I got your measurements, but try it on.”

               Vella unzipped the back (one of her specifications was that it would be easy to take on and off) and put it on over her casual baking clothes (her other specification). It fit fine. She felt a bit flashy—the last time she wore a dress this flashy, she was escaping a certain monster—but unlike a lot of things in that situation, she was on the hunt, and the skirt was short and loose enough to leave her legs free. She unzipped the dressed and folded it up back in her satchel.

               “Don’t forget your funny little knife too.”

               “I can’t thank you enough. I…” she couldn’t tell them about Marek, her mission, the horrible things in that Bunny Tutu book. “I’ll make sure everything’s goes fine!”

               “I’m sure you’ll be fine, sweetie. And I’ll be here if you ever need anything else in Woodburr.”

               “Me too,” called Joshua. “Unless I’m busy,” he added.

               It was difficult wheeling two dollies at once, but Vella finally made it back to The Hall of Night and Day. The guards looked her over. She was in her baking gear, uncovered by her red hood, and wheeling a dolly with the keg of leftover syrup, and a dolly with the huge, tan and brown maple syrup cake. They both grinned.

               “The back entrance is that way.”

               Her dress was folded up in her satchel. Serving staff wheeling a tasty desert didn’t have to be on a guest list.

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