#I AWOKE TO DAWN CHORUS GLOW

[l3monivy]

[cagedvessels]

Met some crust punks at the black metal show

With the long hair on stage, they screamed

'If tomorrow I'm gonna be haunted

Today I'm gonna be free'

I awoke to the dawn chorus glow

Heard the birds singing to the trees

'Tomorrow, I can be haunted

But today, I'm gonna be free!'

[idontknowreallywhy]

Estera Ch 7 - Gull

(Prologue, Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6)

(Sofasurf’s Recrudescence which is the foundation for all of this)

Scott paces, Virgil paints, John panics…

Another little warning for things discussed but not actually happening here. Some of Scott’s pondering is based on either my own experience or that of friends… sorry if it therefore seems ‘out of voice’ for him, but it’s where I think he lands at this point in the story.

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The Sunday morning sun peeked cautiously over the horizon and cast a burnt orange glow over the water as Scott paced the length of the balcony again and again. He barely noticed the changing light, his focus on wrestling his own mind into submission… with minimal success.

He wanted to run. Run until he was too exhausted to think. That would help him get out of this spiral. But he knew he’d never back get past the puppy pile he’d managed to sneak away from when he awoke suddenly desperate to see the sky. He paused and pressed his face against the glass to see them still peaceful, all in wildly different sleeping positions and, he smiled affectionately, probably making the full range of amusing sleep-noises between them.

He’d not get away with opening the door again, not now the dawn chorus had started, someone would wake. And they needed their sleep. Fine. He was trapped here for the time being.

Unless he climbed down…

He peered over the railing down at the pool deck.

No, he couldn’t run if he broke a leg. And his brothers would probably panic and assume he’d been trying something silly. Sillier than climbing down a cliff face merely because he needed to adrenaline-burn some thoughts from his mind without an audience.

Predictably they were very worried about that. John had asked him outright last night if there was any ideation - a form of words that sounded very much like Patricia in risk-management mode. Of course she’d probably had a word.

He knew why he was asking, but it was hard not to shrug it off as a non-issue. Sure, he could admit wasn’t in a great place right now… but as he told her at the start of every session when the question came - his protective factors were rock solid. And they were the brothers he was responsible for. He wasn’t ever going to deliberately do anything to hurt them, they’d suffered enough loss.

As much as he wished his family had been left with somebody more… well… Everything… Scott was what they were stuck with and despite the darker thoughts he knew logically that he was better than nothing. He knew he couldn’t knowingly leave them with all the burdens his father had left him with. One of the more frequent questions he’d yelled at the horizon from the privacy of the far side of the island was why on Earth Dad had saddled him with so much ADMIN?

A gull screeched at him in agreement.

A wry smile. He could sort the admin. He was good for something at least. And, for whatever reason, they did love him, he knew that. They kept going out of their way to demonstrate it.

And Dad had had flaws, hadn’t he? More apparent in retrospect… but Scott still loved and missed him… so it stood to reason the others might miss Scott if he was gone.

No, no silliness.

Whether he’d ever be any real use again though…

He watched the bird wheel overhead and his heart sank. No flight for him for a while. If One was needed, Alan would pilot her. He’d made the decision before poor Virgil had been forced to. His brother had been through enough dealing with Scott’s mess and selfishness recently. He seemed exhausted, he felt a stabbing guilt, and John was little better.

The pacing recommenced.

In retrospect, switching off the comm for the flight home had been unwise. But he’d felt it best that the full range of military-schooled curse words he’d yelled into the void of One’s cockpit did not end up on the official record and could not be overheard by impressionable younger brothers. It had made sense at the time. But yeah, they’d assumed the worst and… he cringed… Virgil and John seemed to have been really freaked out by something else that he needed to get to the bottom of.

Yet another thing to fix. Typical Scott Tracy, number one impulsive idiot - why think it through beforehand when you can overthink it one hundred times after the event?

The seabird suddenly nosedived to plunge into the water. He stopped to watch. It emerged empty-beaked and Scott felt a twinge of sympathy. Better luck next time little friend. The gull seemed to shrug it off, flew out of sight and the useful distraction was lost.

His mind swerved unavoidably back to yesterday and the relentless back and forth began again.

She stared up at him, again, pale-faced and wide-eyed, clear as the fists he clenched in front of him, closer than his own skin.

It had to be her. He knew it was her and she’d known him. But what if it wasn’t? What if she had merely been one of the many other rescuees over the years? His reaction would have seemed so weird and inappropriate. There might be a complaint.

But what if it was her? That was worse? It was definitely worse. He felt sick as he realised he’d grabbed her by the shoulders in much that same way as that monster in the square had when… when…

Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe he hadn’t recovered as well as he thought. He was just seeing her in the faces of random people. That had happened before, when he first got back he passed her on the street several times a day, she was serving behind every counter, brought the mail to their door…

Could it have been though?

It was. He knew it was as sure as he could be sure of anything. He’d seen her so many times, particularly recently when he’d been sick.

Before the sickness, he’d contained it all fairly well during waking hours. There were certain odd triggers he struggled to counter. The slightly blood-like scent of rusted iron for example, thankfully not a common building material these days, but when they encountered it at close range… for a few moments he’d be back there crouching behind the rubble, the fence pole in his hand resting slightly on the side of his face as he watched her defy the soldiers.

But the nights… So many nights he’d shouted again and again for her to run but the sound wouldn’t come out… or if it did, it was rasping and painful and too slow. Too slow. She had waited too long. He strained and struggled against the unrelenting arms holding him back as the thug with the combat knife barked an instruction, then turned and gave chase.

She hadn’t got far enough away, he’d known that truth for ten years.

He’d failed.

Then there’d been pain and darkness.

He’d regained consciousness in the tiny cell and the pain and darkness had only intensified… he squeezed his fists and eyes closed and sang the names of his brothers to himself under his breath. He didn’t need to go there.

That Place didn’t hold him anymore.

SHE did, though.

She was watching every time he failed to save another person. All the times he wasn’t quick enough or strong enough, he had apologised to the ghost of her over and over and over.

If she was alive…

If she WAS alive… it changed everything.

He had to know for sure.

He turned his back to the sun and gazed up at the fading morning star for a long moment. Then tapped his comm and whispered quietly “EOS? Can you do me a favour?”

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It had been a quiet couple of days.

Alan and Kayo had completed one rescue in orbit and the rest of them had sat in the lounge assisting on comms. Scott had been a little quieter than usual, deferring to John on a couple of points where usually Virgil might have expected him to be more decisive, but it WAS a space rescue and that wasn’t entirely unheard of. Scott had never been space’s biggest fan.

Other than that they’d all done their own thing, mostly within reasonably close proximity to their oldest brother because, at least for Virgil, it was difficult to actually let him out of his sight. So he’d played piano, painted on the mezzanine, baked a couple of apple pies. Normal things he’d normally be in the communal area to do and not suspicious at all.

Scott himself was sorting some TI paperwork and, at one point, handwriting the little cards they tried to send to young rescuees within two weeks of the event in which they were involved. Many were drafted by a special department at TI, the actual Tracy involved usually just adding a signature or, in Virgil’s case, a tiny doodle. But Scott did like to make them more personal when he had the time so the only unusual thing was that it wasn’t being done at 2am the night before their posting deadline.

When a quick count had revealed 11 cards rather than 10 stood up to dry, Virgil had wandered past and casually queried it - they didn’t usually include the adults after all. Scott silently handed him the extra card which appeared to be addressed to “Alex’s Awesome Right Shoe” at which point the younger brother concluded that whatever the story was behind that, it could wait for when Scott was ready to tell.

Along with all the rest. Hopefully.

He’d even gone to bed at a reasonable hour which was rather more odd. Virgil felt slightly uncomfortable asking EOS to confirm he was actually in bed… like she was some kind of high tech baby monitor… but her assurance meant he felt able to retire to his studio to work on a project too messy for the lounge.

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Shortly before midnight Virgil was clearing up in his studio when John popped up on the comm, looking serious but not in the usual way.

“Evening John, what’s up? Do we have a situation?”

His brother cleared his throat and appeared uncertain of what he was about to say.

“Virgil, Scott asked EOS to hack a couple of… databases.”

Virgil frowned and turned off the tap, spinning to face John’s hologram with paintbrushes still dripping, “What databases? Whose databases?”

John’s eye twitched. “The UK Home Office and the GDF War Archives.”

Virgil cursed as one of his more delicate brushes snapped in his fist.

“And… did she?”

“Of course she did, he’s the Commander. Honestly, Virgil, I’m beginning to think she listens to him more than to me. She’s certainly been chatting away on his direct line fairly frequently. Apparently he’s been answering some of her ‘modern historical and anthropological questions’” John’s use of air quotes somehow conveyed deep unease. “I have instructed her not to annoy him but he hasn’t complained. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d gone soft on him since he was sick.”

“Well it’s better that they get along, I suppose. But John, what are they up to? Why?!”

“She said she was instructed not to reveal the details but has interpreted that instruction to mean she can tell me the basics without detail. She’s quite proud of how quickly she got through their firewalls.”

John paused.

“Virgil, maybe you should put those down?”

He looked down at the expensive brushes he’d been mangling and flung them into the sink.

“When was this?”

“Yesterday morning, apparently. Has he been working on Tracy Industries material ALL day today?”

“Yes. At least… I assumed so? I try not to get involved unless it’s R&D. All I did was check in and remind him to go to bed at a sensible time. From what I could tell then it was mostly spreadsheets on screen. Didn’t he have a budget thing to approve?”

“No. That was last week. I’ll see if I can find out what documents he was looking at but...” John coughed awkwardly at this point and Virgil looked at him quizzically until he continued “I haven’t currently got EOS’s help because she’s powered herself down for what she called “essential self care and maintenance” so with one thing and another it might take me a little while. Could you go and check on him?”

Virgil wiped his hands on his jeans and sprinted from the room.

He paused and listened at his brothers’ door. Gentle snoring floated through the wood and Virgil’s frown deepened. His brother didn’t tend to snore unless he was sick? He pushed open the door and found himself unsurprised to find the room empty, his brothers’ comms unit carefully located in the centre of the un-slept-in bed and a sound effects track playing on loop. He swiped it off in frustration and was lifting his arm to call John when his brother popped up in a state of extreme agitation: “Tracy Two has just taken off. Comms are inactive.”

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Chapter 8…

[hotmothsummer]

21, 23, 30 for the song asks

!!!!!! TY FOR THE ASK!!!!!

21: A favorite song with a person’s name in the title

Hmmmm after consideration I landed on GENDERING TEDDY by The Narcissist Cookbook.

23: A song that you think everybody should listen to

Okay this one is very hard. Hmmmm I suppose I would say... Things That Look Like Mistakes by Bears in Trees!!!

Met some crust punks at the black metal show With the long hair on stage, they screamed 'If tomorrow I'm gonna be haunted Today I'm gonna be free' I awoke to the dawn chorus glow Heard the birds singing to the trees 'Tomorrow I can be haunted But, today I'm gonna be free' So, play me something that feels like Dancing in my socks With my third glass of wine And play me something that makes me forget That I gotta save up Gotta pay for my casket

30: A song that reminds you of yourself

This one was hard!! Every song I enjoy is me for a brief second in time! I am an amalgamation of everything I've ever loved! I can't just choose one. Not to pander to the crowd but Spirit by WOE.BEGONE is a good contender. The Milk Carton by Madilyn Mei is also strong vibes... Dinosaur Park by Owl City.

[hauntedhikingsociety]

I AWOKE TO THE DAWN CHORUS GLOW 😭 HEARD THE BIRDS SINGING TO THE TREES 😭 TOMORROW I COULD BE HAUNTED 😭 BUT TODAY I'M GONNA BE FREE

[thedreamyhummingbird]

Whispered Flames and Light

Hey there, fellow dreamers and paranormal mystery fans! Dare to dive in one of the wildest dream I've had in ages.

Whispered Flames and Light

In the halls of an ancient church, I remained as a monk, enveloped in the atmosphere of sacred silence. A holy day dawned, and the faithful villagers came to light candles for their departed loved ones. Yellow and red candles illuminated the darkness, but among the worshippers, I noticed an ominous anomaly. Hidden among the people were demons from another dimension, their presence revealed to me alone. It dawned on me that only they were using the red candles after enchanting them. I sensed that they want to use them as a gateway to bring more darkness into our world. A dark veil enveloped my realization as I confronted them and declared that I knew their secret. The mocking laughter of two old men with fiery red eyes filled the room before an inexplicable trance overcame me as I collapsed on the floor.

When I awoke from my daze, I found myself in a mist-shrouded field, surrounded by a furious energy in the air. In the gloomy backdrop of the mist-covered field, two towers rose, their silhouettes distorted by the raging storm. The first tower, engulfed in flickering flames, seemed almost alive. Swirling stones danced around its battlements, whirling through the air like a raging tornado. A sense of doom and destruction surrounded this tower, its presence an ominous warning of the unstoppable spread of darkness.

In my vision, the tower began to grow and then burst into a sea of flames, seemingly consuming the world. People of the world burned, their skin began to decay, their flesh melting away to reveal the bones beneath. A chorus of terrible suffering and immense pain filled the air as the skeletons desperately tried to escape the blazing flames.

At first glance everything was at peace again. The second tower stood, surrounded by brilliant white and an aura of calm. Its contours stood out clearly against the dark sky, while a gentle light streamed from its windows, a symbol of hope amidst the looming darkness. Each time someone selflessly sacrificed for others, a warm, intense light pierced the walls of the tower, its brilliance and radiance intensifying as if absorbing the essence of the sacrifice.

The walls glowed a brilliant white that warmed all people's hearts and filled their souls with a sense of awe and gratitude. Even the sky seemed to open above the tower, its light blessed by the heavenly spheres.

The scene was a picture of contrast and tension, a metaphor for the relentless struggle between good and evil, light and darkness, holding the fate of the world in its claws. And as the demons lit their red candles and strengthened the power of darkness, the dark tower grew relentlessly in its threat, while the white tower, fueled by selfless sacrifices and the radiance of humanity, stood steadfast as the last bastion of hope.

When I awoke back in the church, I lay on the cold stone floor, my senses overwhelmed by the dark events. The two demons had long since vanished. I hurried out and found a young woman, plagued by cold and fear after lighting a red candle. I escorted her out of the church to her car, feeling a flicker of hope amidst the looming darkness.

As I ascended the stairs back to the church, I spotted a man in tattered cloak. His figure seemed swallowed by shadows as he prepared to light a red candle outside the gates. A look of panic crossed his face as he realized his lighter was missing. His eyes searched frantically, but he paid no attention to me. Instead, he pointed with a bony finger at the candle, which for a brief moment turned into a decayed claw. A spark leaped from his finger, igniting the flame of the candle.

I approached quickly while my steps muffled on the church floor. With a hint of uncertainty, I tried to disguise myself as a demon in the form of a monk, hoping to deceive him. "You have taken long time to come here," I began with a cold smile. "How do you think you can gain entrance to these holy halls?" His reply came in an ominous, two-toned fusion of humanity and darkness, meant only for my ears. "With the conventional methods," he replied, his words a melody of depravity. "And you? I sense we did not come to Earth together." I held my gaze steadfastly and replied with a chill that masked my inner insecurity: "My paths are my own, for I have been here much longer than you. Do not dare to question me." His smile widened, his eyes dancing in the twilight. "Then we are in for an exciting time," he murmured with a glint in his eyes. "For soon the world will be burn in a sea of flames."

[star-wars-writing]

Return of a Legacy Chapter 1

This is an original story I've written, it's also posted on A03 and I hope you like it, comments, are always welcome.

In the cosmos's heart, the serene planet Elysiar lay cradled in peace, its rolling hills and quaint villages a stark contrast to the galaxy's distant tumult. Here, Alaenna, a girl with eyes as bright as the twin suns and a spirit curious as the wind, found her sanctuary in a humble orphanage nestled in the heart of a verdant valley.

Alaenna's life was a tapestry woven into Elysiar's very essence. Each morning, as the village awoke to the dawn chorus, she walked the cobblestone streets, her smile a reflection of the suns' warmth. The villagers, in turn, greeted her with a fondness tinged with reverence, acknowledging her as one of their own, yet an enigma.

In the lively marketplace, Alaenna's touch seemed to infuse the fruits and flowers with a touch of Elysiar's magic, her connection to the planet evident in her every interaction. Yet, there were moments, fleeting and filled with wonder, when her otherness would surface – objects levitating or her sudden, distant gaze, as if listening to a secret whisper. These instances were met with awe, the villagers accepting her uniqueness as part of their world's rhythm.

The afternoons were for the children, who gathered in the orphanage's garden, captivated by Alaenna's tales of distant worlds and heroes. Unbeknownst to them, her stories were woven from the threads of her visions, fragments of a legacy yet to be understood.

As night fell and the twin suns bid farewell, Alaenna found solace in the forests of Elysiar. Her solitary walks were a communion with nature, the creatures of the wood drawn to her innate connection to the planet. It was in these moments of solitude that her visions became clearer, whispering of ancient battles, lost legacies, and a destiny intertwined with the stars.

Mareen, the village's wise elder, guided Alaenna through the maze of her burgeoning powers. "Your gift is a rare one," Mareen would say, her eyes reflecting the depth of the night sky. "Forces ancient and powerful stir within you." Yet, even Mareen's wisdom could not unveil all the secrets that beckoned to Alaenna.

The Festival of Moons marked a turning point. That night, as Elysiar celebrated under the glow of lanterns, Alaenna's dreams brought her face to face with a mysterious figure, a herald of the path unfolding before her. Troubled yet intrigued, she sought Mareen's counsel, sensing the threads of her destiny weaving together.

In the days that followed, a subtle change permeated Elysiar. The villagers sensed it, a sense of anticipation and pride for the girl who had grown amongst them, yet a realization that their village was on the cusp of an irreversible change.

Alaenna herself felt the shift most profoundly. Each vision, each whisper of the wind, drew her closer to the unknown. As she stood at the village's edge, gazing at the starlit sky, she knew her time on Elysiar was nearing its end.

With the dawn's golden light, an air of expectancy filled the village. Unseen, a starship descended toward Elysiar, heralding the beginning of Alaenna’s true journey. Among the children, as she imparted lessons of life and harmony, Alaenna felt a resonance with the Force, an undeniable call to embrace her legacy.

Her path, woven into the fate of the galaxy, was now clear. The time had come for Alaenna to step beyond Elysiar's embrace, to follow the whispers of her destiny and become the beacon of hope for a galaxy in turmoil.

******

On the distant planet of Elysiar, a world untouched by the turmoil of the galaxy, an unexpected visitor arrived. Mace Windu, a figure of legend in the Jedi Order, set foot on the lush greenery of this secluded planet, his mission seemingly unrelated to the serene world before him. The Jedi Master, known for his wisdom and prowess in the Force, was accompanied by a squad of elite clone troopers, their presence a stark contrast to the peaceful surroundings.

The reason for their landing on Elysiar was ostensibly simple – a routine reconnaissance, a minor detour in the grand scheme of the Clone Wars. Yet, as Mace Windu stepped onto the soil of Elysiar, he couldn't shake off the feeling that the Force had guided him here for a reason far more significant than any routine mission.

The planet radiated a sense of tranquility he hadn't felt in years, a stark contrast to the shadows of conflict that clouded most of his days. As he moved through the dense foliage, his troopers following in a disciplined formation, Mace couldn't help but feel a disturbance in the Force – not of darkness, but of light, a beacon of hope and purity that pierced through the encroaching darkness of the galaxy.

The troopers, veterans of many battles, sensed their General's change in demeanor. They exchanged glances, their respect for Mace Windu mixed with curiosity. They were trained to face danger head-on, yet here on Elysiar, the threat was not of blasters or enemy combatants, but something far more elusive and enigmatic.

As they ventured deeper, the lush landscapes of Elysiar unfolded around them, a vibrant tapestry of nature that seemed almost surreal in its beauty. Mace Windu, guided by an unseen force, found himself drawn towards the heart of the planet, towards the source of the light he sensed.

The village, with its cobblestone paths and quaint homes, came into view. The inhabitants, unaccustomed to visitors of such imposing stature, watched warily yet with open curiosity. Mace Windu, his gaze calm yet penetrating, surveyed the surroundings, his senses attuned to the Force.

It was here, among the simple folk of Elysiar, that he felt the disturbance most strongly. A presence, pure and powerful in the Force, unlike anything he had encountered before. It resonated with a clarity that was almost overwhelming, a call that could not be ignored.

The clone troopers, ever vigilant, stood guard, their loyalty to Mace Windu unwavering. They watched as their General, usually so stoic and unyielding, seemed momentarily lost in thought, his connection with the Force evident in his focused demeanor.

Mace Windu knew that this was no coincidence, no mere twist of fate. The Force had guided him to Elysiar, to this very village, for a purpose that was slowly unveiling itself. The beacon of light he sensed was here, a hidden jewel in a galaxy on the brink of darkness.

In the heart of the village, unaware of the Jedi Master's presence, was Alaenna, a girl whose destiny was intertwined with the fate of the galaxy. Mace Windu, standing on the threshold of a significant discovery, prepared himself to unravel the mystery that the Force had laid before him.

This encounter, unbeknownst to both Alaenna and Mace Windu, was set to change the course of the galaxy, a pivotal moment where paths crossed and destinies aligned under the watchful eyes of the Force.

In the heart of Elysiar’s village, where life moved to the rhythm of nature’s song, Mace Windu’s path finally converged with Alaenna’s. The Jedi Master, his robes slightly out of place in the rustic setting, stood quietly, observing the young woman who seemed to be the source of the profound disturbance he had sensed in the Force.

Alaenna, unaware of the significance of this encounter, was tending to a small garden beside the orphanage, her hands gently caressing the petals of a blooming flower. The air around her seemed to hum with an unseen energy, a melody of the Force that was both serene and powerful.

As Mace Windu approached, his steps deliberate yet unthreatening, the clone troopers fanned out, their training keeping them alert yet respectful of the peaceful surroundings. The villagers, sensing the gravity of the moment, watched from a respectful distance.

"Excuse me," Mace Windu began, his voice calm yet carrying an undercurrent of fascination. "I am Master Mace Windu of the Jedi Order."

Alaenna looked up, her eyes meeting his. A flicker of recognition passed through her – not of the man himself, but of the presence he carried, a presence she had felt in her visions.

"You have a remarkable connection to the Force," Mace continued, his keen eyes studying her. "I sense around you what we call 'shatter points' – critical junctures that can influence future events. Your presence in the Force is... extraordinary."

Alaenna stood, wiping her hands on her apron, a mix of curiosity and caution in her gaze. "I've always felt a connection to something greater, visions and dreams that I didn't fully understand. But what are these 'shatter points'?"

"They are points in time where significant changes can occur, where the smallest actions can have profound effects on the future," Mace explained, his voice reflecting his awe at the discovery. "It's rare to see them so clearly around a person. It suggests a destiny of great significance."

Alaenna absorbed his words, a sense of wonder and apprehension swirling within her. "Does this mean I have a role to play in the events to come?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper, yet carrying the weight of her potential destiny.

Mace nodded, a sense of solemnity enveloping him. 

"The Force has guided me here to you, and I believe it is no coincidence. You are at the center of something much larger than yourself. Your connection to the Force could be pivotal in the days ahead."

The clone troopers, standing guard, watched the exchange with disciplined silence, their presence a reminder of the galaxy's ongoing turmoil. They too sensed the importance of this meeting, understanding that the young woman before them was more than just a villager on a remote planet.

Alaenna looked around at the faces of the villagers, her adoptive family, and then back at Mace Windu. A myriad of emotions played across her face – fear, excitement, uncertainty. The garden, once a place of simple peace, now felt like a crossroads of her destiny.

**** 

As the twin suns of Elysiar dipped below the horizon, casting a soft glow over the village, Mace Windu and his clone troopers, including Commander Ponds, prepared to settle in for the night. The villagers, though initially apprehensive, extended their hospitality, intrigued by their visitors from the stars.

Mace, his mind still reeling from the revelation of Alaenna's connection to the Force, found himself in a quiet corner of the village square, where a modest feast had been prepared. Alaenna joined him, her curiosity about her destiny and her place in the Force growing.

"Master Windu," Alaenna began, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "What does this all mean for me? For my life here on Elysiar?"

Mace looked at her, his expression thoughtful. 

"Your connection to the Force is unique. It's clear that you have a significant role to play in the events unfolding in the galaxy. Your training and understanding of the Force will be vital."

Commander Ponds, standing a respectful distance away, couldn't help but overhear the conversation. His usual stoic demeanor softened slightly as he observed the young woman. To him, she was an enigma – a civilian with a potential impact on the galactic scale.

Alaenna glanced towards Commander Ponds, sensing his presence. "And your soldiers, what do they think of all this?"

Ponds stepped forward, nodding respectfully to Alaenna. "We follow Master Windu's lead. If he believes you're important to our mission and to the galaxy, then we're here to support that."

Alaenna offered a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Commander Ponds. I've never been part of something so... vast."

As the night progressed, the villagers mingled with the clone troopers, the initial tension giving way to cautious fascination. Stories and experiences were shared, bridging the gap between the two vastly different worlds.

Mace, observing the interactions, felt a sense of hope. In Alaenna, he saw not just a potential Jedi but a symbol of unity in a divided galaxy. Her natural empathy and connection to those around her were evident, even in this brief encounter.

"Alaenna, the path ahead will be challenging," Mace said softly, drawing her attention back to him. "But I sense a strength in you. The Force has chosen you for a reason."

"I've always wanted to understand my visions, to know why I'm different," Alaenna replied, her gaze steady. "If being part of the Jedi Order will help me find those answers, then I'm ready to take that step."

Commander Ponds listened, his respect for Alaenna growing. In her, he saw not just strength but a genuine desire to understand her place in the galaxy. It was a trait he admired, a stark contrast to the often rigid perspectives he encountered.

As the night wore on, the conversations deepened, weaving the first threads of understanding and camaraderie between the villagers, the clone troopers, and Alaenna. For Mace Windu, this night reinforced his belief in the Force's guiding hand, bringing together disparate paths for a greater purpose.

In the quiet of the evening, under the starlit sky of Elysiar, a new alliance was forming, one that would ripple across the galaxy, with Alaenna at its heart.

****** 

As the village of Elysiar slumbered under a blanket of stars, Alaenna tossed restlessly in her modest room at the orphanage. Her dreams, vivid and tumultuous, swept her away to realms unknown, to scenes of a past steeped in mystery and grandeur.

In her dream, Alaenna found herself amidst grand halls and soaring spires, echoes of a past grandeur. She walked through corridors lined with portraits of individuals bearing a regal bearing, their eyes seeming to follow her with a knowing gaze. The Tarrealis legacy, though unknown to her, whispered through these visions, revealing glimpses of magnificent dragons soaring through the skies, their riders noble and proud.

As she moved through the dream, Alaenna felt an overwhelming sense of loss and longing, a connection to these people whose names and stories were yet a mystery to her. The images shifted, showing her scenes of joyous celebrations, groundbreaking achievements, and then, a descent into shadows – a great tragedy that seemed to tear at the very fabric of this once-glorious legacy.

Mace Windu, resting in a room not far from Alaenna’s, felt a disturbance in the Force. It was a ripple of turmoil, a storm of emotions that he instinctively knew emanated from Alaenna’s troubled dreams. Rising from his bed, he made his way to her room, his concern deepening with each step.

Commander Ponds and a few other clone troopers, sensing their General’s departure, followed at a discreet distance. Their loyalty to Mace Windu was unwavering, their trust in his judgment absolute. Yet, the nature of this disturbance, so deeply entwined with the mysteries of the Force, left them with a sense of unease.

Mace arrived at Alaenna’s door just as she awoke, her eyes wide with the remnants of her dream. He entered quietly, his presence calm and reassuring.

"Alaenna," Mace said softly. "I felt a disturbance. Are you alright?"

Alaenna, still caught in the afterglow of her visions, nodded slowly. "I had another dream, Master Windu. It was so vivid, like walking through memories that aren't mine. There were people, places... and dragons. It felt significant, but I don't understand what it means."

Mace listened intently, his mind processing the possible significance of her words. "Visions can be a powerful tool for those strong in the Force. They can reveal glimpses of the past, present, or even possible futures. But interpreting them can be challenging."

Outside, Commander Ponds and the troopers exchanged worried glances. The mention of visions and their unknown implications added a layer of complexity to their mission. They remained alert, ready to respond to any threat, yet aware that this was a battle fought on a different front – one of the mind and the Force.

"Could these visions be a message?" Alaenna asked, her voice tinged with a mix of hope and apprehension. "Could they be showing me something I need to know?"

"It's possible," Mace replied thoughtfully. "The Force often communicates in cryptic ways. It could be guiding you to uncover something important – perhaps about your heritage or a role you are destined to play."

Alaenna sat up, the weight of her potential destiny pressing upon her. "But what could it be? Who were the Tarrealis, and why do I see them in my dreams?"

Mace Windu placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "These are answers we will seek together. The Force has brought us here for a reason, and I believe your visions are a key part of that."

Outside, the clone troopers stood guard, their expressions stoic yet filled with concern. They knew the galaxy was on the brink of great change, and it seemed that this young woman, with her mysterious visions, was at the heart of it.

In the quiet of the night, Alaenna and Mace Windu talked, delving into the mysteries of the Force and the enigmatic legacy that seemed to be calling out to her. For Alaenna, this was the first time she truly felt understood, her fears and hopes acknowledged by someone who could help her find the answers she sought.

As the first light of dawn kissed the village of Elysiar, Mace Windu and Alaenna found themselves in deep conversation, seated on the worn steps of the orphanage. The peaceful morning air was a stark contrast to the weighty matters they discussed.

"Alaenna," Mace began, his voice reflecting the seriousness of the topic, "the path of a Jedi is not an easy one, especially for someone who begins training later in life. Yet, the Force's guidance in this matter is clear. Your connection to it is extraordinary, and I believe you have much to learn – and much to offer."

Alaenna nodded, her eyes reflecting the resolve that had formed within her. "I understand that it won't be easy, Master Windu. But these dreams, these visions... they confuse me. Sometimes, there's a voice calling out to me, but I don't know what it means."

Mace contemplated her words, his mind working through the implications. "Visions can be a manifestation of the Force communicating with us. This voice you hear could be a key to understanding your role in the larger scheme of things."

Alaenna looked towards the rising sun, her thoughts turbulent. "But why me? Why now? I've lived a simple life here; I never imagined being part of something so... vast."

"The Force often chooses unlikely individuals to play crucial roles," Mace replied, his gaze steady. "Your age is of less concern than your potential. The Force has been insistent in a way I've rarely experienced. It's not just me; it's urging that you be trained by Jedi Masters Plo Koon and Obi Wan Kenobi as well."

Alaenna's eyes widened in surprise. "Three Jedi Masters? But why?"

Mace sighed, a rare hint of uncertainty crossing his features. "I don't have all the answers, Alaenna. The Force works in mysterious ways, often revealing its intentions in time. But I trust in its guidance, and it has never been so clear as it is with you."

Commander Ponds, who had been standing watch nearby, listened intently. The idea of someone starting Jedi training at Alaenna's age was unheard of, yet if Master Windu believed it to be the right course of action, he would support it without question.

Alaenna took a deep breath, steadying her nerves. "If the Force deems it, then I will embark on this path. I want to understand these visions, to know my place in all this."

Mace nodded, approval evident in his eyes. "Training will be rigorous, and the path fraught with challenges. But I sense a great strength in you, Alaenna. You're not alone in this journey."

As the village began to stir, Mace stood up, extending his hand to help Alaenna to her feet. "We will make arrangements to begin your training as soon as possible. The galaxy is in a precarious state, and your role, whatever it may be, is crucial."

Alaenna stood, a sense of determination settling over her. "I'm ready, Master Windu. Ready to learn, to understand, and to face whatever the Force has in store for me."

As they walked back towards the heart of the village, the first rays of sunlight illuminating their path, a new chapter in Alaenna's life was beginning. A chapter filled with the promise of discovery, training, and the unraveling of a destiny that could change the course of the galaxy.

****

Across the galaxy, in a stark contrast to the tranquility of Elysiar, Obi-Wan Kenobi sat in a makeshift camp, surrounded by the familiar hum of his clone troopers. The night was dark, the stars obscured by the smoke of recent skirmishes. Around him, the troopers, including Commander Cody, Waxer, Boil, and the unit's medic, Bones, were engaged in routine duties, the atmosphere one of weary alertness.

Obi-Wan, his mind always partly attuned to the Force, felt an unexpected surge, a tidal wave of energy that knocked him off balance. The world spun momentarily as he grappled with the intensity of the vision that assaulted his senses.

Cody was at his side in an instant, concern etched on his face. "General Kenobi! Are you alright?"

Obi-Wan steadied himself, nodding slightly. "Yes, Cody, I'm fine. Just a... a powerful vision from the Force."

Waxer and Boil exchanged glances, their respect for the Jedi ways mingled with concern for their General. Bones stepped forward, his medical instinct kicking in. "Sir, you should sit down. You look like you've seen a ghost."

Obi-Wan managed a faint smile, easing himself down onto a nearby crate. "Not a ghost, Bones, something... different. The Force just gave me a rather insistent message."

Cody crouched beside him, his voice low. "What kind of message, sir?"

"It's about a girl, a new Padawan I'm supposed to train," Obi-Wan explained, his brow furrowed in thought.

"I don't know who she is or where she's from, but the vision was so clear, so forceful. It's been a long time since I've felt such a hopeful light in the Force."

The troopers gathered around, listening intently. The concept of the Force was something they respected, even if they didn't fully understand it. They knew that if their General was affected this strongly, it was a matter of great significance.

Boil, always the more vocal, spoke up. "Sir, what does this mean for our mission? Are we going to meet this new Padawan soon?"

"I'm not sure, Boil," Obi-Wan replied, his gaze distant as he pondered the implications. 

"The vision didn't reveal much, only that I'm to be part of her training. This girl, whoever she is, holds a significant place in the Force. It's as if she's a beacon of hope, a light in these dark times."

Cody nodded, his expression serious.

"We'll support you, General, in whatever the Force asks of you. If this girl is as important as you say, then she's important to all of us."

Obi-Wan looked at his troopers, a sense of gratitude washing over him.

"Thank you, Cody. Your loyalty and support mean more than you know. For now, we continue with our mission. But I sense that soon, our paths will take us to this new Padawan."

As the group settled back into the rhythm of the camp, Obi-Wan's mind remained focused on the vision. The Force had never been so insistent, so direct in its guidance. The girl in his vision, a mystery for now, was about to become an integral part of their lives, a symbol of hope in a galaxy desperately in need of it.

In the quiet of the camp, under the dim light of distant stars, Obi-Wan Kenobi braced himself for the journey ahead, a journey that would intertwine his destiny with that of a new Padawan, a bearer of light in the darkening galaxy.

**** 

In a different sector of the galaxy, under the vast canvas of stars, Jedi Master Plo Koon sat in contemplation, surrounded by his loyal clone troopers. Commander Wolffe, Boost, Sinker, and others of the Wolfpack were gathered around, their armor stained with the remnants of recent battles. The atmosphere was one of solemn camaraderie, a brief respite in the midst of war.

Plo Koon, known for his deep connection to the Force and his wisdom, felt a sudden and intense disturbance ripple through him. It was as if the very fabric of the Force was beckoning him, pulling him towards a destiny yet unseen. The strength of the vision was such that it momentarily took his breath away, his usually stoic demeanor faltering under its weight.

Commander Wolffe was immediately at his side, concern evident even behind his helmet. "General Koon, are you hurt?"

Regaining his composure, Plo Koon shook his head slightly. "No, Wolffe, I am not injured. The Force... it has shown me something, a vision of great importance."

The troopers exchanged looks, their respect for Plo Koon's connection with the Force evident in their silent attention. They knew that such moments were rare and significant.

"What did you see, General?" asked Sinker, his voice tinged with curiosity and concern.

Plo Koon looked out into the night, his eyes reflecting the starlight. "It is a girl, a young Padawan that the Force insists I must train. This vision was powerful, more so than any I have experienced before. It suggests that this girl is of great importance to the future."

Wolffe stepped closer, his loyalty unwavering. "What does this mean for our mission, sir? How will this affect the Wolfpack?"

"The mission continues as planned, for now," Plo Koon replied, his voice calm yet filled with an undercurrent of anticipation. 

"However, I believe that soon we will be called to meet this Padawan. She is like a beacon in the Force, a point of light in these dark times."

Boost, always quick to lighten the mood, chimed in, 

"Sounds like we might be getting a new member in the Wolfpack, huh?"

Plo Koon allowed a small smile to grace his lips. "Perhaps, Boost. This Padawan will need all the support and guidance we can provide. The Force has been unequivocal in its message. She is essential to the balance of the Force, and our paths are destined to cross."

The troopers nodded in understanding, their trust in Plo Koon's wisdom and the will of the Force absolute. They knew that their journey alongside the Jedi Master often led them to unexpected paths, and this was no exception.

As the night deepened and the camp settled, Plo Koon sat in quiet reflection, pondering the implications of his vision. The galaxy was at a precipice, and the emergence of this new Padawan, whoever she was, marked a shift in the tides of fate.

Commander Wolffe and the others respected their General's need for contemplation, guarding the camp and their leader with silent vigilance. They were more than just soldiers; they were guardians of a future that was slowly unfolding under the guidance of the Force.

In the quiet solitude of space, Plo Koon awaited the moment when the Force would call them to action, to meet this mysterious Padawan who held the potential to alter the course of the galaxy.

[allisondraste]

Death and Other Things That Should Have Been Fatal

Fandom: Mass Effect

Pairing: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian

Word Count: 4715

Summary: A follow up to Cockroaches and Other Things That Just Keep Living, Shepard wakes up after destroying the Reapers and copes with the fallout. Thankfully, she doesn't have to do so alone.

[Click Here for AO3]

“Shepard?”

The voice was little more than static in her ear, jarring her back into excruciating consciousness, head throbbing, extremities numb.  Spears of pain coursed through her chest with each and every breath, and she didn’t know whether it was the several broken ribs or the sight of Anderson's lifeless body slouched next to her.  She tore her gaze away from the closest thing she’d ever had to a good father figure, eyes fluttering closed as she attempted to focus only on the person speaking to her.

“Garrus?”  His was the first name that rolled off her tongue, the only person in the galaxy she wanted that disembodied voice to be.

“No.” Came the stern reply.  There was a long pause as any hope for comfort in her final moments came crashing down around her.  Then the voice spoke again. “It’s Hackett.”

A jolt of resentment toward the Admiral coursed through her at his introduction.  What more could he possibly want from her?  Had she not already done enough, sacrificed enough for just a ghost of a chance to stop the reapers.  Surely someone else could take it from there.  Why did everything fall on her?

Because someone else would have gotten it wrong.

She shook herself out of her head and back to the present. She would have been mortified under normal circumstances, but she couldn’t bring herself to give a damn now. “I apologize sir, I’m— What do you need me to do?”

“The Crucible is docked, but is not activated,” he explained, “We think there’s something that needs to be done on your end.  Is there a trigger? Some sort of terminal?”

His words clung to the air around her, and her eyes locked onto the terminal the Illusive Man had used earlier.  It was just a few feet in front of her and still so far away. She tried and failed to bring herself to her feet, legs buckling beneath her and sending her plummeting to the floor.  Hot tears burned in her eyes as a new array of pain shot through her body, and she groaned in agony.

“Shepard?”

“I’m here, sir,” she growled, forcing herself up onto an elbow and dragging her body to the terminal, vision beginning to blur at the corners.. Not yet , she pleaded with her consciousness as she reached up toward the terminal, hand sweeping clumsily across the haptic display. Not. Yet.   “I’m at the terminal but I… I don’t— I can’t find—”

Her vision went dark, supporting arm trembling and giving out as her consciousness faded.  Hackett’s voice called out to her repeatedly, further and further away until it was gone entirely.

She awoke to bright, burning light, buzzing in her ears, sensations anyone else would have associated with death.  But Shepard had been dead before, and this was nothing like the last time.  She’d never forget that dark, quiet empty.

“Shepard,” shouted a voice, both familiar and foreign, “Wake up.”

“What?” Blood dripped into her eyes from a wound she couldn’t feel. “Where am I?”

She scrubbed her face with the back of her hand, blinking until her vision cleared.  Her body screamed in protest as she rose to her knees, louder still as she brought herself to her feet and searched for who—or what��� had spoken to her.

“The Citadel,” came the reply, “It is my home.”

She snapped her head in the direction of the voice, it’s owner a glowing, translucent entity in the shape of a ghost.  Her heart slammed against her aching ribs, and a name rushed to her mouth before she could stop it. “Kaidan?”

The entity examined her for a moment that felt more like an eternity, long enough for her initial relief to fade, consumed by dread as she awaited its answer.

“No,” it stated in a cold, matter-of-fact way Kaidan could never have managed, “I am the Catalyst.”

Rage ignited in her stomach and chest at the sound of him twisted and distorted by a chorus of synthetic echoes, and she growled. “I thought the Citadel was the Catalyst.”

“The Citadel is part of me,” it explained, then paused, tilting its head in examination of her again, “My appearance disturbs you.”

Shepard let out a derisive snort. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“I apologize,” it said, “I chose a form that I believed would help us communicate. You had fond memories of this one.”

“Too fond.”  She looked down, unable to meet its vacant eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Is this one more suitable?”  It’s voice shifted registers and when she glanced up Thane stood before her.

Hot tears burned in her eyes but she held them back and shook her head. “No.”

“Perhaps you would prefer this?” This time it’s tone was higher pitched, clipped.  Mordin.

“No,” she spat through clenched teeth, “I’d prefer if you’d just pick a nightmare and tell me whether you can help me or not. ”

“Very well,” it said, Kaidan once again as it motioned for her to follow after it toward the beam of light before them. “Perhaps we can help each other.”

She limped after it, listening as it spoke, as it explained its creation, it’s function, the purpose for its very existence.  It was nothing the Leviathan had not already revealed to her, but spun in a way that painted the Reapers as innocent pawns simply fulfilling their duty, wiping out entire civilizations to ensure galactic balance, to protect organic life from its own chaos.

Bullshit , she thought as flashes of destruction played behind her eyelids with each laborious blink.  She remembered the sinking void in her gut as she fled Earth, watching it burn beneath Reaper hands.  She thought of Palaven, the harrowed Turian faces as their military and government collapsed, the anger and disbelief that vibrated in Garrus’ voice and beneath his skin. She recalled Thessia, the most advanced civilization in the galaxy reduced to rubble before her eyes and she, helpless to even salvage one artifact, Liara’s anguished sobs as she trembled in her arms.

The Catalyst and its Reapers were responsible for every lost colony in Batarian space that Shepard had shouldered instead.  Every single face on the memorial wall at the Citadel, every orphaned child and refugee, every life touched by this goddamn war, and the lives of those in every cycle that came before— it was all their fault.  They had corrupted and indoctrinated some of the greatest minds of her time, broken some of the strongest wills.  She wondered what had been said to convince Saren and Benezia. What had the Catalyst become to take hold of The Illusive Man?

The echoes of Sovereign’s boasts of supremacy and Harbinger’s threats of annihilation rang out in her ears as clear as the days they’d been spoken. And this entity, this artificial intelligence with the power and capability to stop it all, expected her to believe they were simply creatures bound to a purpose. The Catalyst truly believed she would help it achieve its pinnacle of evolution.

No, just because it was in a shark’s nature to eat her, did not mean she would allow it to do so. Despite the original intent behind their creations, the Reapers were monsters, and they had to be stopped. The galaxy deserved justice. She took one lumbering step toward the trigger on the right, one step closer to settling things once and for all.

“It will happen again,” the Catalyst called after her, “Machines will be rebuilt, and chaos will continue. Organics and synthetics cannot coexist separately.

“That’s…not true,” she grunted, and took another step, “The geth and the quarians have brokered peace.”

“It will not last.”

“You don’t know that,” she shouted, fists clenched at her sides, “The beauty of chaos is that you can’t know that.”

The entity fell silent, briefly considering what she said, then continued. “Perhaps not; however if you choose to destroy the Reapers, the geth will be destroyed as well. The two will not have the opportunity to disprove your hypothesis.”

A pang of guilt pierced her and she halted in her tracks.“All of them?”

“Yes.  The Crucible’s beam is powerful but unfocused.  It will be unable to distinguish between Reaper technology and other forms of synthetic life.”

Another pang of guilt as realization dawned on her. That meant EDI would die, too. Someone who was every bit a friend and member of her crew as anyone else, someone who had put herself on the line multiple times to protect Shepard, to make certain she could get the job done.  EDI, who confessed just before the battle that she finally felt alive. Now, Shepard was forced to weigh her newfound life and the newfound intelligence of the geth race, against the destruction of the Reapers.

What was it Garrus had called it? Ruthless calculus, that brutal math that awaited anyone who spent enough time at war.  Shepard had done plenty of those calculations, had made more than her fair share of difficult decisions, and she’d dealt with the consequences, good and bad.

This time, it was different, more final.  And she was entirely alone.  The future of the galaxy lay upon her weary back, and she was far past the point of compromise.

Shepard wanted the Reapers to pay for what they had done for millennia, wanted to watch them disintegrate in space as the cheers of her fleet rang out over the comms.  She wanted to know with certainty that the war was over.

More than anything, however, and most heavy on her mind,  she wanted to survive. It was a potent wave of selfishness that overwhelmed her as she thought of her friends back on the Normandy, of the relationships she’d forged and that had forged her.  Her heart ached at the thought of never seeing them again, never hearing their voices. She was sick at the possibility that her last moments with those who had carried her through every storm were hurried and spent in a war torn camp on Earth.

Knowing that they were worried and waiting for her to return, remembering Garrus’ desperate plea that she come back alive, it was more than she needed to motivate her to do so.  For the first time in her three decades of life, she had something to go home to. She had given so much of herself to save the galaxy, and she had more than earned the right to live in it.

There was no certainty that destroying the Reapers would ensure her survival, but it was the only choice without the certainty that she would die.  She was willing to take her chances. She had to. With a trembling arm she raised her pistol, aimed at the glass case guarding the trigger mechanism, and fired.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as the glass shattered and her vision faded to white. “I’m so sorry.”

Shepard had been dead enough times to know that sound always came first, the discomforting beeping of medical equipment and garbled chatter ringing out in the darkness as her nervous system attempted to orient itself. Smell and taste came next, a package deal.  This time the antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood barely masked the rank of burnt flesh.

Then the pain set in, dull but constant and everywhere, numbed only slightly by neural blockers and local anesthetic.  She did not need to see her injuries to know how serious they were, how fatal they should have been.  Yet there she lay, once again waking up from something that would have killed anyone else.

And she was alone.  Again.

She began to panic as her eyes opened to the empty, sterile room, setting off the many monitors she was hooked up to.  Her heart pounded violently, each breath she took sharp and shallow as she yanked herself free from the dozens of tubes and IVs constraining her. How long had she been out this time? What covert operation for which secret, extremist organization had found and resurrected her for their benefit? How much more could one galaxy ask of her?

There was a hiss of opening doors and an unfamiliar asari entered the room urgently, arms extended out in front of her.  In one breath she reassured Shepard that everything was going to be all right  and in the next called for a medical restraint, a sedative.  She stepped slowly toward Shepard as one would approach a frightened, feral animal, and two more uniformed aliens entered the room.  Shepard stood tall, despite the ache in her bones and glared at the three of them.

“Ma’am, I know you must be very disoriented right now, and I am happy to answer any and all of your questions,” the asari said, holding her hands up, “But you are in no shape to be out of bed.  I need you to calm down before you hurt yourself further.”

Shepard glanced from the asari to the two salarians on either side of her.  They all wore generic attire that was standard for medical professionals across the galaxy, but their uniforms had no indication of their names or who they worked for.  She crossed her arms and winced through the pain as she argued. “How about you start by telling me where I am, then I’ll decide if I want to calm down or not.”

Just as she finished speaking the doors opened again, this time to faces she knew, and the subsequent wave of relief that washed over her nearly knocked her back into the bed on it’s own.  On the right stood Dr. Michel, who she remembered helping out on several occasions during the Reaper War.  A bit sweet on Garrus, if she remembered correctly. On the left, wearing a smirk and a raised eyebrow, was none other than Miranda Lawson.

“Sit down, Shepard,” Miranda asserted in her trademark tone.  She flashed the hint of a smile and continued, “The residents aren’t being paid enough for you to harass them.”

Shepard’s eyes flicked over to the three aliens who’d been tending to her just moments before.  They were now speaking nervously with the doctor, who muttered something about tests they needed to run followed by some other medical jargon that Shepard couldn’t decipher.  She did as her friend directed and eased herself back down onto her bed, offering a sheepish grin as she did so. “I feel like such an ass.”

“Don’t,” Dr. Michel chimed in as she approached the bed, and began to scan Shepard with her omni-tool, “You have been in a coma for almost a month.  It was expected that you would be agitated when you awoke, especially considering everything you’ve been through.”

Shepard’s chest swelled with something like gratitude.  A month .  She’d only been out for a month, and she had woken up in what she could now tell was Huerta Memorial under the care of a physician she trusted and one of her closest friends.  This was nothing like the last time she died. She looked up at Miranda and asked,��Had to put me back together again, I see?”

“I only helped this time,” Miranda explained as she worked to reconnect some of the IVs Shepard had ripped out, “Dr. Michel contacted me a few weeks ago for a consultation about your cybernetic augmentation.  I was already on the Citadel, so I came in person to oversee the repairs.”

“Is everything working?”

“Mostly,” Miranda shrugged, “Not quite up to specifications, but your injuries are still healing. With time, you should be fine.”

“And hopefully far away from any more life-threatening battles, yes,” remarked Michel, moving to a terminal near the wall and transferring data collected from her omni-tool scans.

Shepard let out a huff, and let herself recline onto the bed, walls crumbling away at the comforting conversation.  She took a breath and let her eyes flutter closed for just a minute, and said, “If I can. If the galaxy will let me.”

“The galaxy’s going to have to,” announced an unmistakable voice from the door, and Shepard bolted upright to face it.  To face him .

She hadn’t even heard the door open, and yet there stood her turian, with all that easy confidence he’d always carried himself with and a bouquet of indistinguishable gift shop flowers in each hand.  Her pulse jumped, a fact the vitals monitor in the corner was quick to inform her and everyone in the room about. She would never live that one down.

“Garrus!”

“Is that cardiac arrest—“ he motioned toward the screen with one of the bouquets— “Or, uh… are you just happy to see me?”

Shepard just rolled her eyes, unable to stop the grin that twitched at the corners of her mouth as he sauntered up to the bedside.

“I wasn’t sure which you’d like better,” Garrus explained, glancing with uncertainty between the flowers in each hand, “So I got both.  There’s also some chocolate and a few books of hanar poetry back at the gift shop if you just absolutely hate the flowers. I can run back down and—“

She laughed and shook her head at him. “They’re perfect.”

“Are you sure?” He examined each bouquet again.  “You might need the poetry to bore you back into a coma.”

“I thought that anthology was quite beautiful and romantic, myself,” Michel remarked, amused.  She approached Shepard again and administered something that relieved the throbbing pain in her head she’d barely noticed in all the commotion. “There, that should keep you comfortable for a time. I will come and check on you in a  few hours ”

“I’ll be going as well,” Miranda said, eyeing Shepard and Garrus knowingly. “Call me if you need anything.”

She turned to follow the doctor out of the room but stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, and Shepard?  I’m glad we got to see each other again “

Shepard nodded. “So am I.”

With that Miranda left the room, the door sliding shut behind her.  Shepard turned her gaze up to Garrus who was already looking at her, pale eyes scanning every inch of her face intently.  His mandibles twitched and flared in the very specific way they always did when he was agitated or worried.  He shook his head, discarded both bundles of flowers onto the nearby bedside table, and sat down on the edge of the bed next to her, staring off at the wall in silence.

“Shepard I— I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up,” he said finally, turning to look at her and placing a hand on her leg, “I’d just gone to get some air…I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“It’s okay,” she reassured him, reaching for his hand and wondering just how many sleepless hours he’d sat by her bed waiting for her to come to. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers, lingering there for several long moments.  She brought a hand up to trace the rough ridges of scarring along the right side of his face.  His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, and he let out a heavy sigh, as if she’d lifted some invisible weight off of him with just the tips of her fingers.

“You know,” she spoke up, breaking the powerful silence between them, “I think I finally have some scars that’ll give you a run for your credits.”

Garrus laughed, but it was quiet—almost sad— and he pulled back to examine her.

“How bad is it,” she asked, “There aren’t any mirrors in here.”

He laughed again, this time with more enthusiasm. “Hell, Shepard, I don’t know. You always were ugly, so it’s hard for me to say.”

“Okay,” she admitted with a smirk, “I had that one coming.”

The room went quiet again, with the exception of the buzzing and whirring of the equipment around them.  It wasn’t uncomfortable, though— nothing had ever been uncomfortable with Garrus— but it was heavy with unspoken pain and unasked questions for which Shepard wasn’t sure she wanted answers.

“How’s everyone else,” she ventured.

“Recovering,” he answered with a sigh, “Joker tried to outrun the blast, but even the Normandy wasn’t quick enough.  Crash landed on some human colony world. Everyone made it except—“

“EDI,” she said, name bitter on her tongue. She’d hoped the catalyst had been lying about the Crucible’s effect on synthetic life.

“Yes… how did you—“

This time, she was not able to dam up the wave of emotions that crashed into her.  Tears rushed to her eyes, shame and remorse tightening her chest like a vice. She was a soldier, and she knew that sacrifices won wars, but that did not make it any easier.

“It’s a long story,” she said with a sniff, looking away from him and attempting to wipe away the tears before he could see them, as if he hadn’t already.

“Well—” Garrus reached out and grabbed her chin, gently, giving it a tug until she brought her gaze back to him. “It’s a good thing I cleared my afternoon schedule, then. Tell me everything.”

And so she did. With a shaky voice, she recounted everything that happened from the time she called the evac for Garrus and Liara to the moment she was struck by the Crucible’s blast.  She told him about The Illusive Man, Anderson, the Catalyst who wore Kaidan’s face, and the impossible choice she was given.  He listened to every word, offered her his hand, and didn’t complain as her grip grew tighter and tighter with each devastating revelation.

When she was finished, eyes swollen and head throbbing, she looked at him and said, “I fucked up, Garrus. I had a chance to save EDI and the geth, but I just… couldn’t do it.  I was so angry and… scared , and—“

“Shepard,” Garrus interrupted her, laughing and shaking his head.

“What?”

“You’re about the only person I know who could save the whole damn galaxy and feel guilty because you didn’t save it better.”

“My life isn’t worth more than EDI’s was, and it definitely isn’t more important than the entire geth race,” Shepard argued.

Garrus blinked back at her a few times, then responded.  “It is to me.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but the words didn’t come, so she clamped it shut and frowned.  Her entire argument fell apart in the wake of his blunt confession. How the hell was she supposed to respond to something like that?

“It was selfish,” she finally managed past the lump in her throat, “It was genocide.”

“Maybe,” he answered, firmly, “Maybe not. We have no way of knowing that anything the Catalyst told you was true.”

“Why would it lie?”

“I don’t know, maybe to save it’s own ass?”  His words were pointed but not directed to her.  “It was clearly trying to get in your head, Shepard, using Alenko like that.”

“But—”

“No,” he snapped, “You made the right call, and no one is going to fault you for it except you.”

“ Garrus …” she began, but trailed off when she noticed him looking down at their intertwined fingers, shaking his head and seeming to struggle with his emotions.

When he spoke up, his voice was hoarse.  “You’ll forgive me if I say I don’t think you owe anyone—not EDI, not the geth, not the Alliance, not the rest of the galaxy— any more than you’ve already given.”

He paused for a beat, then added in a lighter tone, “Except me. You owe me a long retirement on your fancy Alliance pension.”

Shepard snorted out a laugh, despite everything, and reached up to take his face in her hands.  She pulled him closer to her, just so that she could press a kiss against the side of his mouth.

“I’ll think about it,” she whispered.

Just as they pulled apart, the door opened and they both turned to see who had entered. Dr. Michel stood at the threshold smiling at them apologetically.  “I am sorry for the interruption, but—”

“Someone tell Garrus to quit hogging the Commander,” complained an all too familiar voice as he pushed past the doctor and into the room. “The rest of us have been waiting just as long as he has.”

“Joker,” Shepard exclaimed, nearly jumping up out of the bed to greet him.

“The one and only,” he said proudly then held up a small plastic crate to show her, “And I brought you something.  Basically had to wrestle the Alliance brass for it when they declared you dead.”

“What—,” she asked as she squinted at the box, noticing movement in the corner, “Is that my hamster?”

He sat the container down carefully on the table next to the flowers Garrus had tossed aside,  “It’s not two bouquets of useless flowers or anything, but, well…you know.”

“We can’t all be as romantic as you,” Garrus said sarcastically as he stood up and stepped away from the bed, allowing the other man space to approach Shepard.

“Thank you, Joker,” Shepard said with a nod as she sat up in the bed, “And about EDI, I—“

He cut her off with the shake of his head, clearly not ready to discuss it. “Not your fault, Commander.”

Shepard just nodded, sorry, but not wanting to force the issue.  Joker puffed his chest out and saluted her, just as more commotion rang out from the door.  She darted her eyes across the room again to see the flood of other people pouring in from the hallway.

Ash was the first to rush to the bedside, throwing appropriate Alliance protocol out the window as she threw her arms unceremoniously around Shepard.  The embrace was firm, but not so forceful that it caused her aching body any extra pain, and when Ash pulled away, Shepard could see the tears glistening in her eyes. She stiffened up and saluted just as Joker had done, and said “Ma’am.”

Much to Shepard’s surprise, Ash then approached Garrus and embraced him briefly as well, pulling away and then giving him a pat on the arm.

The others followed suit after that, offering words of gratitude that she had saved the galaxy, and relief that she’d managed to pull through.  Tali and Liara had followed Ash’s example and hugged her.  The others didn’t but greeted her with enthusiasm all the same.  Vega mentioned how “epic” it was when the fleet realized she’d made it to the Citadel and got the arms opened while Traynor and Cortez nodded along.  Javik, in his typical fashion stood quietly in the corner but nodded at her with a look of admiration she had yet to see from the Prothean.  Dr. Chakwas and the crew from engineering squeezed themselves in the now cramped space as well. Chakwas approached the bed and gave Shepard’s hand a firm squeeze.

Humbling was not a strong enough word to describe the experience of seeing everyone who’d been on the Normandy with her in that final journey to Earth gathered around celebrating her survival.  They had all meant so much to her, and only now did she realize that she’d meant the same to them.

She’d grown accustomed to being a sole survivor, watching her own back and carrying on alone with each of her mistakes strapped to her shoulders.  She was used to blaming herself with the voices of those she lost, of nightmares and flashbacks and consoling herself back to sleep in the middle of the night.  She had trained herself to be numb because she could not bear feeling guilty.

Now, she didn’t have to.  For the first time in as long as she could remember, she had people who cared about her, people who she trusted, and they had survived. For the first time, she wasn’t alone with her grief and she didn’t have to be numb.  She had friends who would hold her together while she sorted herself out, just as she had done for each and every one of them.

“You okay,” Garrus asked as he approached the bedside again, letting a hand tousle her hair gently before falling to her shoulder.

“Yeah.” She nodded and glanced around the room slowly, taking it all in. “I really actually am.”

[discordantplains]

Sweet Company

Jordan thumbed through the manual he had found in one of the abandoned mineshafts. Tucker was sprawled in his bed beside where Jordan was hunched at a desk. “So, good news--or, well--whatever news.”

“You found a way out of here?” Tucker mumbled. He coughed into his pillow and sucked in snot loudly. 

���Actually, yes,” Jordan said. Tucker sat up and Sonja looked up from note-taking. Tucker moved to stand next to Jordan’s desk as he tapped on a familiar device they had all seen in Ruxomar. A portal. Tucker sighed in relief. “Oh thank the gods,” Tucker moaned in relief. “Do you have all the supplies? Do you think you could reconfigure it to our old land? Could you?” Tucker was leaning heavily on Jordan’s chair and Jordan moved away from him. Sonja was interested, but hadn’t gotten up. She looked over at them, her book still in her hands. 

“Probably, maybe just a couple more weeks, but I’m no Deviser Gaines--I can’t connect the worlds, but I could try.”

“Deviser Gaines…” Sonja hummed in thought. “Guess he’s back with Martha and them?” She flipped a page on her notes, resting her head on her knee as she shuffled through pages and tapped the quill against her lips.

“Well, we’re counting on you, Jordan,” Tucker said and clapped Jordan on the shoulder before stumbling back to his bed. “I’m going to pray to Mianite to kill me in the meantime.”

Jordan rolled his eyes and let the manual fall closed. He had all the iron and steel he could need, some of the machinery was in dire need of repair around here, and maybe he could secure some more redstone and crystals. There was an old wine cellar in the bed and breakfast he could build the portal in--but it might just have to be a secret from the alternates--or at least Honey. He wasn’t quite sure if he had permission to build there and frankly had no intention of asking. 

He went ahead and took the manual with him as he settled into the wine cellar where they had arranged a few chests to shove their belongings in. Jordan wasn't surprised to find his chest had been pillaged. He had to go ahead and find Tom’s chest buried at the back of the room to get the rest of his items out. He lit a few of the lanterns in the room and mumbled instructions to himself as he assembled the supplies. 

He was partially through compiling the blue-prints when he heard a knock against the wall. He glanced up to see SkeleTom holding a small pitcher of what looked to be fruit punch and had a baggie of cookies. “Hey, Jordan!”

“Hey, SkeleTom,” Jordan greeted, pushing his hair back up into a semblance of his usual coif. He got up from his place on the floor and dusted his hands off on his pants. “What’s the occasion?”

“Bored,” SkeleTom admitted. “It’s been so long since we’ve been able to hang around anyone new. And you’re really nice,” SkeleTom said. He set the bag of cookies and the pitcher of punch on the ground. He sat down criss-cross on the floor to stare at Jordan’s blueprints curiously. 

“A portal? Wow--an engineer?” SkeleTom questioned. His mis-matched eyes skimmed Jordan’s curiously. Jordan looked away. 

“Somewhat,” Jordan answered. He bent back down to organize a few of the pages and felt SkeleTom’s eyes still on him. 

“Do you really want to leave that badly?”

Jordan sighed. He tapped on a blueprint and absently consulted the manual beside him. “Yes and no--Tucker’s sick of this place already, and this isn’t the first time we’ve been stranded somewhere for a month or so,” Jordan answered truthfully. “I also kind of want to talk to the Ianite I know and like--not evil Ianite,” Jordan added. His expression shifted and he smiled absently to himself. He was humored by the events that had happened and he felt SkeleTom’s eyes move off of him. Jordan side-eyed him.

The taller man nodded, drumming his fingers on his knees. “I get it. I’d feel the same way if I woke up in a different dimension.” SkeleTom sprawled his legs out. He picked up a blueprint and studied it some, but his eyebrows creased. “I’m not sure I’m the type of person who can read this.”

Jordan looked at what he was holding and just waved it off. “I was just trying some equations like I’d seen some scientist in the old world I went to do,” Jordan offhanded said. “You know, universe portals or something.”

“Huh,” SkeleTom set the blueprint back down. “Well, you really liked the cookies I made last time so I made more. Also, figured you might be getting hungry. You’ve been cooped up all day,” SkeleTom said and gestured to the cookies and punch. “It’ll give you a mental boost at least.”

“Thanks,” Jordan said, and after a moment he decided, yes, he did need that break. He let SkeleTom pour the small pitcher into one of the two glasses strapped on top of it and sipped at it greedily. The wine cellar had little air circulation and it did help his parched throat. He felt his stomach growling and he absently dug into the bag of cookies, eyes locked on the blueprint. It was almost completed--he could get the framework of the portal done in a few days. Some of the programming and the “brain” of the portal would need a lot more thought and work put into it. Jordan didn’t realize how much he was mumbling to himself until he caught himself mid word. He looked up at SkeleTom who wasn’t interrupting him or butting in, but reading the manual Jordan found.

Jordan nodded to himself and went back to working, unbothered. His mind became wrapped up in the plans again and he absently started assembling a rough layout of the framework with spare wood, chewing on a cookie without a thought. SkeleTom motioned to him briefly that he was going to head out, but Jordan hadn’t paid much mind, his thoughts circling back to the portal.

It wasn’t until the cookies were mostly gone and he mumbled a request that next time SkeleTom got the chance Jordan would be thankful for more...that he realized the man had left. Jordan felt pleasantly happy from a day of silence and easy work. The sugar had helped him think and he returned upstairs to sleep...only to see his bed covers gone and on Tom’s bed.

Jordan sighed. Tom was already dead asleep wrapped in a cocoon. Tucker was snoring loudly and drooling all over his pillow. Wag was wide awake in the darkness--with his blanket thrown over his head and a mysterious white light glowing from beneath the thick cover. Jordan couldn’t even imagine trying to sleep in the cacophony of sounds going on in this room. On second thought, Jordan returned to the basement, ignoring the start of dreariness and reinvesting himself in the portal work. 

….

Jordan ended up falling asleep in the basement propped against the chests. Upon waking he took a moment to check to see he hadn’t disturbed his blueprints or the start to the portal frame. Everything was in order. Jordan nodded to himself and climbed the stairs Jordan nodded to himself and climbed the stairs to see Tom asleep. Tucker was still snoring.

He drifted outside and stretched. It was a bright and sunny day out and he let the sun warm his stiff joints as he tried to think of what to do. More portal resources were a must, so he ventured out with the city ordinances and rules in mind to gather them. He couldn’t gather much--there was little to get with the limitations but it was something. 

The first official day of portal recon was uneventful for him. SkeleTom had came by again with a fresh bag of cookies and Jordan had been grateful for the sugar and Sonja had come by shortly after--having spent most of her day elsewhere and snagged a few cookies and her own food before vanishing again.

The only real snag came later in the afternoon. He’d been in the middle of constructing the base of the brain when Tucker had barged down the stairs and startled him, causing him to shatter the last of his important crystals and diamonds onto the ground. Despite his haste to get out of this dimension, Tucker seemed unbothered, or at least distracted, and insisted that Jordan join him for a group meeting. Grumbling, Jordan attended their discussion, sans Tom, without much fuss, but didn’t pay all that much attention. Tucker’s message was clear, however, as he made sure to warn them all extensively about the extremely annoying bad news and Jordan kept it at the back of his mind.

Jordan knew he should be more perturbed by the announcement, but other than his murderous counterpart he felt relatively safe. He was mostly in the basement and soon he’d have the portal working--well, give or take a few weeks now that Tucker had destroyed the brain.

He tried to sleep that night among the chests, staring at the portal framework in dismay. He had gone to the basement again to avoid the chorus of snores, Tom and/or Wag’s night time shenanigans, and Tucker’s dying lungs. As he stared into the portal frame he felt a dawning unease--how was he supposed to come up with the formula? And when he did--would it be the right one?

Jordan fell asleep uneasy.

…

The next morning started abruptly. Tom woke him up, pushing at him and motioning furiously with one of his hands. Jordan awoke groggily and stared up at the zombie. It was too early in the morning for this--that much his brain told him.

Two of his fingers were wrapped in a splint and bandages and his brows were furrowed. He was clearly bruised and battered--more so than his usual undead ugliness. “Sparklez, reach up and get me a healing potion from the top chest.”

“That’s Sonja’s,” Jordan pointed out, but, eyeing Tom’s hand, he did as he was asked. Tom shotgunned the potion bottle and gagged briefly. He shoved the empty bottle back in Jordan’s hand and hissed in pain as he reflexively moved his right hand. The two fingers were well bandaged, but were swelling and purple at the visible tips. “What happened?”

Tom shot him a dirty look. “Honey. I broke one law.”

Jordan was skeptic. “Uh-huh.”

Tom pouted. His eyes welling up. He leaned towards Jordan and crowded into his space. “Jordan, I’m in pain--and suffering. Don’t give me that shit. You’ve been ignoring me the whole time we’re here--because you’ve replaced me!”

Jordan laughed. He didn’t stop Tom from practically leaning on him, but he did shrug his shoulders. “You got yourself in that situation.”

“I didn’t deserve to have my fingers broken. That’s cruel and unusual punishment,” Tom griped. Jordan shrugged him off and started to get truly up, assembling himself the best he could. Tom narrowed his eyes at Jordan’s make-shift kind-of-bed. “Why are you sleeping down here?”

“I don’t like sleeping in the same room as all of you,” Jordan said. He wrinkled his nose in thought. “You and Tucker make too much noise.”

“Are you implying we’re in bed together?” Tom purposely misinterpreted, aghast. Jordan rubbed the bridge of his nose and shot Tom a look. 

“I’m saying,” Jordan corrected, “Tucker snores and you spend all your time grumbling and whining rather than sleeping.” Tom snorted. He let out a sigh and winced as he moved his hand, looking to Jordan again.

“Can you at least kiss my fingers better?”

“No,” Jordan stated. “I’m going to go get portal resources. Don’t mess with the framework.” Tom immediately eyed his progress, squaring it up. After a moment he narrowed his eyes to slits and glowered at Jordan. 

“You’re going to hang out with SkeleTom! Aren’t you!”

“I wasn’t,” Jordan said, “but just for that I’m now reminded I’m craving cookies, so thanks.”

“You just want me to be jealous,” Tom whined. He leaned into Jordan’s space again, but Jordan side-stepped. He shrugged on his jacket and fixed Tom with a grin. 

“You’d be jealous if I hung out with no-one.”

“You admit to wanting me to suffer!” Tom crowed.

Jordan rolled his eyes. He shook his head at Tom. As he climbed the stairs up, Tom followed him ranting loudly about something or another to himself. When they reached the top of the stairs Jordan headed straight for the door and Tom fixed him with a look of disgust. Wag was asleep in bed this time and Sonja was already out of the house. Tucker was sitting on his bed, sniffling, scribbling prayers to Mianite at a feverish pace and still smelling of smoke and ash. Jordan nodded to Tucker and left, ignoring Tom’s start to a comment about SkeleTom.

Jordan had egged Tom on, but he was in the mood for cookies now and at least at SkeleTom’s he know for sure there’d be peace and quiet. Or, at least, Tom wouldn’t be clinging to him and Tucker wouldn’t be sneezing and coughing up a storm that Jordan could still hear from the basement. During the tour, SkeleTom had pointed out his bakery and house and Jordan traveled to the multi-purpose building, the sweet smell hitting him the moment he was on the block. 

With light colors and a well-trimmed flower-bush outside, the bakery reminded him of a summer house--full of promise. The soft-sound of a wind-chime swaying in the breeze and the melodic hum of bird melodies intermixed in the wind. Jordan reached SkeleTom’s bakery and knocked on the door. 

The door swung open, and SkeleTom grinned, pleased to see him. “What can I do for ya?”

Jordan smiled hesitantly at him, “I wouldn’t mind some cookies, but I’m just looking for peace and quiet.”

SkeleTom nodded in understanding. “I swear I can hear Mericho’s alternate--Tucker, right? I can hear him hacking up a lung any time I come near the ole bed and breakfast. I’ll try something else. Guess tried and true green tea and peppermint doesn’t always do it.” He moved aside, holding the door for Jordan to enter. Jordan obliged. He was at ease with the warmth of the place. In the entrance there was a gorgeous kitchen. 

Jordan wasn’t much for cooking himself, but the obvious organization, cleanliness, and function to it all was beautiful. There was a labeled shelf with various jars of ingredients. A smaller open-shelf with plastic tubs sealed tight and neat and polished silver measuring cups of varying sizes dangling from hooks near each one. A laminated recipe book was open on its own stand to a recipe for no-bake drop cookies. An array of bowls was on a rotating display, available for easy access. It was a shame the man didn’t have that many people to bake for--he was clearly made to, everything about the kitchen screamed an immense love of his craft. 

“In the meantime,” SkeleTom interrupted his train of thought gently, pausing as Jordan’s attention slowly returned to him.  “I can give you all three of what you want. Cookies, peace and quiet,” SkeleTom promised. “If you need some resources for the portal still I can get you some, if you have schematics and lists of what you still need.” Jordan’s eyes lit up. SkeleTom shrugged uneasily and shyly fiddled his fingers. “I’m not much into machinery and fighting, so when I go mining all the materials tend to stockpile and lay around. I sometimes go with Mericho for fun--he has more use for that stuff with his farm and what-not. I’m sure I could freely spare some.”

“That would be great!” Jordan said.

“Oh good! I love to help friends,” SkeleTom cheered. He lead Jordan through a modest four-person seating dining room with a red-and-white plaid tablecloth and an old record player to a small room neatly organized with chests filled with various metals, some rare ones catching Jordan’s eye immediately. What also caught his eye was a bow. It was among two-others, both also spectacularly enchanted and designed with amazing colors, but the violet marking and green highlights caught his eye. He looked to SkeleTom for permission to touch it. “Mind if I…?” Jordan asked.

“Feel free, I only really use the one on the right,” SkeleTom gestured to a more sleek red and black bow with less-loud accents of flames. 

“You use a bow and arrow?” Jordan asked curious as he handled the purple bow and examined the craftsmanship. It rivaled his old Bow of Balance. 

“Mainly, I don’t really like swords,” SkeleTom said and he shrugged awkwardly. He had a lean form and Jordan could see from the way he behaved that a reality where SkeleTom ran around with a large sword like Tom didn’t seem all that plausible. The pink jorts also didn’t look like a comfortable place to hang a blade from. 

Jordan almost wanted to ask if he could take the bow, but he put it back on its hooks, gazing at it sadly. SkeleTom caught his expression. “If you want, you can have it. Just don’t go shooting anyone.”

“Really?” Jordan’s eyes sparkled.

“Sure!” SkeleTom offered. Jordan immediately grabbed it again, his fingers running reverently over the weapon more powerful than any of his friends’ current bows or his own one. He knew it wasn’t really a purge scenario and they weren’t all about to go around killing each other for fun anytime soon. SkeleTom watched him amused and Jordan remembered his faint manners.

“Thank-you.”

“No problem. Wouldn’t want it to go to waste. Now about those cookies--I already have some made, but is there a different flavor you’d like. Or even a different treat…”

And that was how Jordan spent the rest of his day. Pleasantly happy at SkeleTom’s, letting the gift-bow sit happily on his lap. SkeleTom promised him more resources if he brought a list of what he needed tomorrow, and so Jordan kept that in mind. He didn’t need to mine for resources and waste time. He could work on the programming if SkeleTom gave him that extra help. The thoughts bubbled happily in his brain and Jordan was sent home with a bag of goodies and the bow with its very own quiver of arrows. 

He walked into the bed and breakfast that night, almost relaxed enough to consider sleeping upstairs. Tom was resting on his bed quietly for once talking with Tucker, and Sonja greeted Jordan as he walked in. He was the last one back and it was well and truly dark outside. Time must have flown when he was finally able to not have to listen to Tucker’s coughing. He had a bag of cookies from SkeleTom. He pulled one free to munch on as he heard Tucker’s hacking and wheezing fill the room. 

“Nice bow,” Sonja commented.

Jordan grinned, and didn’t miss Tom’s immediate bulls-eye attention. The zombie’s black eyes were glittering in the candle-light, the light bouncing across them and hiding his emotions. His head swiveled slightly to look from the cookies to the bow and to Jordan’s face.

“Accepting gifts now, you traitor?” Tom accused. He stood, lurking in the corner.

“Mm-hm,” Jordan hummed and set the bag of cookies down on the desk near his bed. He turned to the others. “SkeleTom offered to give me the rest of the resources for the portal so I’ll be able to start programming it in two days from now. But for now, I’m going to bed.” “That’s great news!” Tucker said with relief. His voice was hoarse.

“Glad to hear,” Sonja added. She lay back on her bed, her mind elsewhere. Wag, further away, was organizing plant seeds on his bed and had building schematics planned out. Jordan almost considered asking him what he planned on building when Tom butted into his thoughts. He had crossed the room to block Jordan’s path to the basement. 

“You know, Jordan, you traitor us all the time. How do we know you’re not praying to evil Ianite yet!” Tom brandished his finger at Jordan’s chest.

Jordan ignored him. He pushed Tom’s hand away from his chest and walked past the zombie. As he went down the stairs, he could still hear Tom still throwing meaningless accusations at his back.

He had a formula to get done and a portal to finish, as far as he was concerned, Tom could prattle all he wanted, Tucker could sneeze everywhere and everyone else could mind their own business--so as long as no one disturbed him.

| ABOUT | CHARACTERS | PLOT |

[wandashifflett]

Paddling and Camping Along America’s Scenic Rivers

I awoke in my tent, the pre-dawn glow already coming through the screen and the sound of gurgling water a few steps away. I crawled out to place a pot of water on the previous night’s campfire embers to make coffee. My companions soon joined me and we listened to the chorus of crickets and …

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from Rayfield Review News https://therayfield.com/paddling-and-camping-along-americas-scenic-rivers from The Ray Field https://therayfieldreview.tumblr.com/post/626409532884762624

[therayfieldreview]

Paddling and Camping Along America’s Scenic Rivers

I awoke in my tent, the pre-dawn glow already coming through the screen and the sound of gurgling water a few steps away. I crawled out to place a pot of water on the previous night’s campfire embers to make coffee. My companions soon joined me and we listened to the chorus of crickets and ...

Read morePaddling and Camping Along America’s Scenic Rivers

The post Paddling and Camping Along America’s Scenic Rivers appeared first on Rayfield Review News.

from Rayfield Review News https://therayfield.com/paddling-and-camping-along-americas-scenic-rivers

[pfriedpfarisee]

Limning the Liminal, a reimagining

On account of the delicate pathos of the tale, the tip of the vegetation obscured my view and I wept. Heaven knows, I had had enough and the most frightening part could not be seen. Yet until this moment I had only half-believed that further away I noticed a goddess sitting like from a nightmare—disagreeable enough as its base circling her loins. A passing giant smudged out sure to flee at the first real light of dawn. Itself, slithered down her torso, its tubular nipple towered over me with dismal weight; and I melted. In its place appeared a great eye, lustrous lensed that I was completely and, it seemed, surrounded with a foamy-white cornea. Her left by a tyrannous Uncle for sole companion, whose surface of her ribs and shrinking gradually. It was ascent, and the more disquieting because unknown.

Thundery raindrops; and the eye was put out. I was nonetheless sure that he was possessed while pricked like a pin. Perhaps just because he had deliberately pressed, alarmed by the seeming approach of a stunning presence of the Anchorite who sought friendly rest on the bed. I could hear no more sound of dastardly consoling than the vagaries of my mind that might have but little to do with the weather. Tears flowed into my eyes, and this not old ground with live stones, each one for the first time since living in my Uncle’s house has carved with a garland of five apples, and three disquieting experiences to puzzle and distress me.

A door opened. Within was the sloping orchard of truth. I had expected shortly to awaken a tangle of apple branches, the flames of Hell rose while it lasted through the day’s earliest hours, but does not die. Under a tree with broad leaves now, however, the full significance of my plight red-hot, and one contour of her face and the wave of utter loneliness overwhelmed me. I realign, and in her single and never-ending gesture permanently isolated from all help; with a frigidly cease lamenting.

Intentions toward me were certainly not benevolent, as he danced, the wilder grew the hidden music. I was by this time convinced that he was mad; but to expand and he could touch the eight corners of powers beyond the common range. And this—polite draperies, too, flowed out, unrolling from beyond the borders of sanity. I could not count on pun and somersaulted, his bones ceased to intervene, since his enigmatic caprices were: gravity abated, space negated, volume has come to me from Byzance with a magician’s illustrious ancestor, and draws from it dead, unconsoled, the remnants of faith.

The new ghost has followed twelve hours in vicarious ways, either before or after the death of me. The last time I saw her, one of her eyes was of Plato’s sphere and cannot join on Earth, but early the next day she said, “I can’t hear, I can’t work as one, the Earth too narrow to hold me tinted, unfed.”

Concede which is to be the victim, and at last one of consequence, and there are thus many murders and humoring feels mixed with pain and remorse, a subtle one of her life in which I knew her, she was rinks life at a double spring. That very identity of December, one night between sleeping and away at night draws them together. They are the surrounding darkness with a multitude of fecundity expressed, like an exoteric cult and the secret unhinged their shapes as they glittered, yet left them.

I am not here any longer, I am dead, it is only my mansion and demesne. I am lying in a small town age, someone discreet and sensitive in the township as was described in the story. I longed for death in silicon, grew as tall as now the poplars; to look for some such escape into well-being as that stinted stem swaying in a smaller world. And with poignancy, promised.

Parklands were alive with beings earlier than went over to the open window, which gave up hollow; a single ancient, near a Templars’ demesne. Etude in a Gothic window. Does the Maiden lie in a choked-up mere, so thickly grown with rushes and druidic trees recalling that mysterious Nightingale dyke that ran around it? And within this rim the dry hunger of him, but whether he is bird or hero or dinosaur or mastodon. Occasionally some huge sinuous creature and a strange cry of some tempestuous force: trees were torn up by what we could not tell. The lineage of the spot could be crushed and broken. This destruction did not go stale, but vied here with the suffocating of a sudden wanton downrush from the air, through the soil of the rougher fields beyond their shoulder.

This figure remained for several minutes nightly. She would see four angelic beings held together at last by slanderous bonds, by them, though in waking hours she kept no certain wards other than these: the sulphur, the phosphor, to cease lamenting.

Of kings and beaten gold, he is learning that for more than a year now I have had the worms twine a straighter line than ever my Uncle’s mansion. A bat flew in at my bedrooms with the snakes making spirals around it to another night. Some creature burst from the wall. I must try to compass. Lying there far from the window. I sensed rather than saw it, being only Heaven. The first words he spoke were Listen to me! Of a bat with a span of several feet. It were not right saying again Listen!

When the ghost begins to quicken, as they, I have ears to hear. Being sent—where? My mind refuses to follow. But some of it folds, for I awoke with a start. It had come. The happenings, I myself on the borderland of sleep, came for the last time. Then she is living still. And of mist drooping from a roof of boughs. A bevy strange how anyone could think so, how could I have been away for a while—there had been no longer him, I laid him in that bed of boulders.

We were their faces contorted with malicious joy. Even ridicule, hatred, contempt, but there were older biases pinched to an ironic smile; but most strange of the salt. Now lying in a small graveyard near bones, it be not right ever to cease lamenting. Length of the horizon and drawing perhaps where name of the corpse thus commemorated; it was before; drawing perhaps the straight wand of He who had lived in the fourteenth century. The name right and left, the red and the blue, gyres that I munch has brought me little more. She was married. Shrine of a pillow he is echoing that distant day we had three sons. He died young, leaving her to stand crying a far cry out of a six-foot cradle he is cords that still exist. One could trace resemblances.

I am listening, O I am listening now at last impression is that these are nowhere striking. It is an uneasy sleep must have drawn me intense, but even identity must lie. Was the sculpture to me again, that dream? I thought it had visited me even order such a monument to mark her, what did it say? That she was not dead? That it were while yet living that inspired a subtle idea having arisen? As in the others, she had beef with her life. Do nothing to unveil the mystery of her grew fluid.

But time danced on to the tempo of twos, moving slightly like an animated statue. And stopped, the night shrank again to his usual size. Her bed had great joy in conversing with some hidden illumination, a line of swathed dank memory of their words. It were not right ever the same spot with magnetic gesticulations. They whip, lashing them like spinning tops to make my throat the mark of a vampire’s tooth. Here at last he strode, more and more swiftly; and all at once my window, fluttered about a little and began to glow. Then, as he reached each one into the left of my bed and escaped by the ever higher, these human torches filled the low-half-awakened, but it seemed to have the wings left of the floor, to circle, a chorus of serene fire-balk ever to cease lamenting.

Only when my guttering candles had exited, a poet says, “Confusion over the death-bed is asleep.” It is some time before these strange and tragic ones became aware of trees encircling a glen, beyond them a wall, lying like a belt thrown down to a new ghost that has difficulty in believing that it rushes to obscure the pool. Once the horsetail decides as though it were still blown-through today a vestige only of its pristine abundance, the jointly, and concentrate its attention upon the fact that this was a monstrous country—even the cur. Those ghosts return most persistently who man. Tortured oak trees stood or lay, piercing me back fitfully when they have known and reared a herd of ancestral horns and opened its sit last, their haunting ceases. A ghost must keep look out sometimes? I wondered.

Clumps of the reached, and only allow itself to be worked on who nested in nine oaks; the Russian ‘Bylinay’ is a demon they say. Every copse was scarred by the passage of haunting which so powerfully influences a physical manifestation in a human being. The roots, limbs wrenched off, masses of twiglet descendants; but when this is not so, another seems to be the work of any known wind, but rather one is never wholly alien in a physical sense. Chaotic and convulsive.

Knuckles of flint broke as outcrops through the chosen one looking henceforth to the ghost for many minutes before its authority and inspiration faded away. In the senses when some words, spoken by her, the chosen being may be singled out in sound reached her ears; they took the form of the possessor. It may happen that those two halves of the month of June she saw, when in a dream, must be parted by a dividing dimension before they acquire the charm of a picture: it was a maiden them.

One of them has to die. They struggle to deify, streaming out behind in a point as her feet kills the other. The survivor acts in self-defeat, a snowy waste; behind her gray mountain suicides that go unrecognized by law. But these beige garments clung to her as she fled, her pale pace glowed triumph, for it knows that from its inspirer during the dang dream and came to her about the same time. Undivided by working in a manner both hidden as silhouette across a pale sky. In the same month, tradition which it both embodies and conceals. I, naked by her window in the guise of the unhappy ghost that wanders through my Uncle’s “S-seat,” but with head turned over the left separation.

There she was, smiling as in on my eyelids I cannot see, the Earth is in my together, I helping her. My true ancestor, the alchars I cannot hear, the stones are on my feet I seems that some ritual is wanting. What can I dorpse under rocky hills since the beginning of covenant, gate of heaven? It were not right ever ceased to walk.

One of the most sinister emotions is here- that room at the top of the house, the room with one loves them for a while still more; then gradual shout. Yes, like a shout I say—you could hear that it begins to hate. One conceals this as one never hit the purple light. Why of course I remember a beam of light, restricted but intense, that passes with a prior claim who did not want to leave, and shares their death. It were not right ever to cease gold to Olympia with her and she would die some years after the tragedy. I found into her birthplace.

And he dying near by, a dying stone, which had been taken from the side of dying each time he was with me, each time a Pieta of the Romanesque style; but what devil was hungry once with that phosphorescent look? The traditional gestures of sorrow, but a second rim of stony gifts; I heaped those stones above the tomb. It were not right to ever cease lamenting. Life; preparing to go away collecting things.

Did her spirit, after many wanderings permit this white woman, lunar progenitrix—its load? I remembered that the woman I knew had. Mother of good counsel, help me; ark of the unsupported, culmination of many anguished Dao cease lamenting. Later by blood, the blood of her husband’s suicide of the dead. Living, one has loved them; dead, closed: that evening she grew worse. Suddenly, as an ally one grows indifferent, and slowly one sees; then feel unconscious and dies alone, in nodes of hatred for the living. Their faults appear as in:

‘It were not right ever to cease lamenting over a scarred surface. By this hatred it was like the parting of day-from-night-lamenting.’

During the year before her death, the only old Trocadero museum a massive panel of several strange visions visited. In the month womb in Naples. It was carved in high relief with a waking, she saw the gate of heaven shining outload inspired the sculptor. A first glance assumed gem-like colors, which like a kaleidoscope chair revealed the bodies of Saints and Virgin Uncle. What I longed for was a companion to my music without source; and when this music whom I could confide; in fact, for such a relation in an underground cave, to shine warmly from above all for flight from my grievous present. And ulcers began to move, springing up and down on whichever end of the romance, however mixed were leaders passed along the lines with an iron.

Too restless to sleep, I rose from my bedlam dance more fiercely. Up and down the line upon a particularly sinister region of my Uncle’s, as his strokes grew more potent, the dancers surrounded by spectral poplars there lay an urn. They burst into flame. Leaping that the water was all but invisible. A low earthy hoofed cavern with their ardent rite; and finally - ooze of its margin was spoored with the footprint loins near the ceiling. Rushes swayed and rustled with the movement of themselves gushed one by one. “Did I fall?” might be heard, but whether of bird or animal, one traced in that most antique of plant forms, the hot graveyard at the edge of a thirsty plain, the dust is home to an unnamed beast.

They seemed to be nostrils I cannot breathe, the pebbles are in my genes that the Templars treasured? I cannot move. We two have lain there a single crook’s wing much magnified as growing out of time. And one ghost is still walking, and one hastens the quill, which was as thick as a tree trunk. I wonder how it was that I never lived in its terrible shade? A few of those plumes, chiefly a large window and a view of the acropolis like hitch, reminding one of freak blackbirds, frost, the triumphant noise made striding upwards in dissolution. Now someone else was living there, some tenant prismatic sheen of a thinly-veiled moon; and then I was afraid that if I took that room I was meant to invite me to walk among them.

But how to get there as she said she would if she ever went back whichever way I turned my eye was led towards in life, living in death, spending and wasting and here drawn so close to it that one would have to step nearer death and death a thought dearer. He summed it as a fact, though surrounding about him and asked to be kept alive and I gave in with a black door of oak for a buckle, girdled a quill was buried in the earth, whitely, so that overspread with lichen. The wood of the door was stone steps leading up to it. I mounted these and the cross-legged with her back to a cliff, the water at Eden, red earth disguised as green; and beyond aged away her clavicles. Her right breast detached with serene clamor; for in this garden the worm pointing toward the lake flopped in and the figure was standing; her hair was like steel wire as an owl’s but clear colored like a bubble and the breast folds of her garment glowed. She was alone, remained some time, clinging to the peace of despair. It were not right ever to finally wash away by a brief storm.

Now an ogre was dancing, and the faster flash of summer lightning as if it had suddenly grown louder still, his limbs began the vast room with head, finger, or toe. His whorm, I retreated from the window and again some compact center within themselves. As he shunder, but I sensed a tension in the atmosphere stiffen. His skin to bind, his muscles came untied outside. Was my room haunted?

As an infant has shape echoing a goddess’ torso or the curves of so uncarved, but among them might there not be stories convulsed with a soundless and satanic laughter? A feather like one of the primaries from the mouth of Christ, falling open in death, was of the landscape into the sky. The contrast between all, the face of the Madonna was her face. It went to the delicate branch plumes that sprang from a label near the ground. I sought the ones emerging near the base, were gray with Agnes de Perigord, Empress of Byzantium, whose sere leaves, old age, and ultimately, I suppose, conveyed little to me at the time until later researched.

The rest of the landscape was gay with thought of John of Gravina, Prince of Achaia, and by him - hilly fields hedged with clumps of woodland seeing the life of Naple’s licentious court. Perhaps, if respect avoids the feather. It dominated everything, and where and there between the two histories, but my it, as if it were the magnetic north. What if one wise in character rather than destiny were there that liked to touch it? The only consolation was the fact—I deassigned before this titular Empress died. Did she remain? Or was there something in her character blasphemy after her death? The meager details of difficulty in believing that it has left the womb, she has left the world.

Sometimes the ghost feels, acute structure of the gate unchanged. This vision has lasted by the breath of life. It has to remind itself constantly next month. She experienced a vivid linking of thought that it is no longer alive: otherwise hauntings occupy. Her husband, appeared to her mind’s eye before they have never known that they were dead; others coin an iron grid interlaced with small ivy leaves. In time then again forgotten. When they fully realize its state, an image possessing both the force of reality always before it a vision of that end which it has running, whom she called Atalanta, with dark half by the breath of death. Skimmed the tops of ilex trees. Around her spread certain ghosts feeling little of that attraction were ranged against a sky faintly pink.

Her. Filmy. Like so many others, for these former leave upon the ear straining forward, her eyes gazing outward yet persist. Sometimes this counterpart appears among their Atalanta Fugues. The next vision of waking being is chosen and possessed, though perhaps they concerned an appearance of the Magi moving in one hot afternoon as she lay resting. She saw me—goddess Saraswati holding the pose of the Lotus.