#I am sorry for inflicting pain but I simply cannot suffer alone

[blitzwhore]

Stolitz, and their fear of rejection and sense of worthlessness turning into a self-fulfilled prophecy.

Blitz—

Does anybody love you, Blitzo? / No.

Eventually everyone goes...

Stolas only cares about having a rugged peasant raw-dog him into his mattress. It's nothing... You know. It's nothing else.

I'm going to die alone, aren't I? Just a wrinkly, old, withered waste.

Royal demons don't give a shit about guys like us. They're all the fucking same.

Stolas, don't act like what we have is anything but you wanting me to fuck you. You make that really clear all the time.

But you don't want to do things alone, Blitzo.

I mean, Stolas is just a loud, thirsty bitch who loves feeling the thrill of being dicked by the lower class. It's a novelty to him.

And then he'll call me and try to see how my day was, and he'll pretend to care about me, and comment on my photos, and laugh at my jokes... /Oh well that's definitely your clue right there that it's all bullshit / I know, right?!

It's all my fault. I'd hate me too. I mean, I do hate—

You're going to die alone. You're gonna die alone, Blitzo.

[My worst fear has come true. He couldn't possibly want me. This has to be a joke. He's selfish and an asshole, just like the rest of them. He's trying to get rid of me; that's the only explanation. I'm just a broken toy he's finally gotten bored of, just like I knew would happen. He won't even fight for me, and why would he? I could never be good enough for him. It's happening again. I'm being abandoned by someone I care about. I really am going to die alone.]

Stolas—

Would he want me if he was free? And if he's only here as a prisoner, what kind of monster does that make me?

I mite b bsuy / I wouldn't want to bother you!

You see... I seem to have found myself with, um. Feelings for him. And I'm not sure if it's a mutual thing.

Dearest, I know better now, I must give you this choice.

I'll save us both before we grow cold.

What's between you and I? Just a comfortable lie.

I'm sorry it's a bad time yet again, Blitzy...

He deserves the choice to stay or go.

So I'll grant you this mercy, this bind on our souls needs to end...

Next time you come over, maybe we can talk about what happened at Ozzie's? / Y? / I'm sorry! Nevermind, it's not a big deal.

What's left for me and my broken heart if I cannot have you? Unless it's me, and no matter what in this world I could give, it's not enough to get through the walls you've conjured up to live...

I'll believe him, and not the voice that says I'm not enough.

I'll fucking die alone if this goes bad!

[My worst fear has come true. I truly am not worthy of being loved. He's rejecting me— no, mocking me for even thinking he could ever want to be with me if he didn't need my book. I've been taking advantage of him all this time, all the while believing we had something real and being naive enough to think he could love me back. I am a monster. And now that he can, he has chosen to leave me. So now the least I can do is quietly let him—the only person I have ever wanted and felt alive with—go. I really am going to die alone.]

[orsuliya]

This part (4 of who knows how many) of my Awu/Xiao Qi married headcanons resembles nothing more that a dying whale full of confused feelings. Which is exactly what I would swiftly turn to left alone with this drama without @madeleineengland’s continuous friendship and support. What I actually want to say is: Happy Birthday, my dear! I am thankful to have met you. I hope you like this instalment, even if I couldn’t quite manage to fit in a kneeling Song Huaien. Sorry!

There are some things that no woman can choose for herself. Some things simply happen – or not – as they please with no regard to wishful thinking or social status. A princess or a gravedigger’s daughter, a young maiden or a stately matron, none can simply will themselves pregnant, no matter how many prayers have left their lips and how many offerings have graced the altars, set there by gentle hands yearning to hold a living, breathing child instead of a bowl of rice or a stick of precious incense.

And yet, no matter how many times she whispers this truth to herself in the middle of the night, Xiao Qi’s broad hand resting on her lower belly in a sincere attempt to soothe the twinges of pain that come every single month without fail, there are still moments when Awu cannot help feeling as if she’s failing in the worst of ways. Not failing her husband, for until the day she dies she will never forget the truth shining in his eyes, still fever-bright from Wang Qian’s vile mixture despite the self-inflicted blood loss. And not even the twelve generations of Wang Empresses. After all, hadn’t she courted their disapproval already by choosing to walk through life hand in hand with her husband instead of living torn in half until her very last breath? No, the person whom she fails is always herself.

And in her mind she fails a lot. There is a bitter taste on her tongue as she pushes Xiao Qi’s wise, warm hand off her abdomen and rises from their shared bed to stand at the window, throwing open the shutters and trying to breathe, even as the feeling of warm blood pooling between her thighs makes her remember her first and worst failure, committed right in the middle of the palace courtyard. There were pamphlets, she knows, vicious, cruel rumours of how she bled her baby out from sheer disgust of having been bred by a man born nobody knows of whom and where. Only after every wagging tongue had already been silenced with a cloak of red silk set around her shoulders, did she realize that half the court must have been tittering excitedly over the prospect of seeing the proud Wang daughter set aside and brought as low as she had once sat high. And they hadn’t been kind about it, going as far as to comment that her swift appearance at the scene of the coup must have been motivated by her eagerness to be rid of her spouse as the balance of power finally shifted. Fools, what blind, base-minded fools all those high-born courtiers – many of them her distant kin – have turned out to be!

Princess Shangyang wouldn’t have felt such dark, all-consuming anger. Princess Shangyang, as Awu has learned in all her years as Princess Yuzhang, had been something of a fool, a bird kept in a gilded cage, encouraged to sing and chirp happily regardless of how the bars of that cage withered her wings. It was only later that this caged songbird discovered that she was no songbird at all, but a bird of prey. And like a bird of prey Awu wishes she had known of every single salacious rumour – but only so that she could tear their originators to shreds for using her poor never-born first child for their own vicious purposes, for making a spectacle out of her – their – pain.

In her anger she barely notices how her fingers have curled tightly over the windowsill… at least until big, calloused hands descend onto hers and she finds herself cradled in Xiao Qi’s loose, yet strangely grounding embrace. For a moment she wishes to slip away, to escape and simply be angry, no matter how futile it may be after so many years… And had he tried to lead her back to bed, had he spoken a single word, she might have done just that, but there is only silence between them. Only slightly unreal, moonlight-washed silence and Awu feels the flames of her anger sputter and go out, leaving only bitter, choking ash of regret.

Yet there is one kernel of failure she can exorcise right here and now for both of their sakes, even if it can never be made right in this life. If I have children of my blood, she says, allowing herself to let go of the magical ‘when’ this one time, seeing them entered into the Xiao family book would bring me greater honour and joy than if they were feted as princes and princesses of the first rank. And maybe after a moment she feels the need to explain further, to say that she would have been honoured to act as a filial daughter-in-law to his parents, no matter their birth and status, but before she can get out a word, he manages to catch her off-guard. Not with a kiss to the side of her neck, that much she has come to expect always, but rather with his quiet, sleepily tender reply: Before we get to filling any pages, we need to have a book in the first place. Help me with that in the morning? And what can she do in response to that except hum in agreement and lean backwards?

____________________________________

Some things simply happen – or not – as they please. Which does not mean one should not help them along in any way that comes to mind. Or several minds, as it happens in this case.

Doctor Shen, however wise and famous, is far from the only – or even the best – available authority on the matters of female body, partially due to not being of female persuasion himself. Unlike, for example, his assistant and niece Shen Yunxin, an aspiring female doctor in her own right. Once that accomplished, if rather young lady managed to make herself heard, she swiftly rose in Xiao Qi’s regard, and would have done so for her gumption alone, even if her medical skills hadn’t been excellent in the first place. Shen Yunxin, skipping the dancing-around that most of her male colleagues invariably tended to degrade to in the presence of any person of power, rather daringly announced that perhaps instead of concentrating solely on curing Awu’s infertility – and thank you, the acupuncture treatments she herself administers every week are going just as planned – they should perhaps focus on the picture as a whole. That is, after all, what a doctor should look at first, right? Especially as there is no material proof of Xiao Qi’s high fertility. The ‘or is there now?’ part remained unspoken; even though Shen Yunxin came to like her primary patient a lot and had her own reasons to distrust men and their promises, she – this time and always – held to the standards of professional behaviour.

Awu, for her part, really enjoys seeing Xiao Qi drinking bitter herbal concoctions of his own. Even if she might not be all that convinced by Shen Yunxin’s words, it surely cannot hurt anything. And why should she be the only one to suffer under a tyrannical medical regime? What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. And if in truth Xiao Qi doesn’t mind the taste at all, who would blame him for exaggerating a little for his wife’s amusement? Certainly not his wife, who has seen through his play-acting at once and swiftly decided that there is something to this mouth-to-mouth method of feeding particularly vile medicines to recalcitrant patients.

And yet Shen Yunxin isn’t the only fount of knowledge to be found in Ningshuo and, truth be told, has shown much interest in the secrets of folk medicine herself, especially as practiced by Alima’s kinswomen. Although some of those women, in particular Alima’s crone of a grandmother, have proven astonishingly… direct and rather shameless with their advice, to the tune of making a fully-fledged practitioner and an old married woman such as Awu, both of them hardly prone to prudishness, blush like girls not yet through their hair-pinning ceremonies. Or perhaps the advice was actually fine and tamer that one might expect. The enthusiastic appreciation that Alima’s kinswomen seem to hold for Xiao Qi, however, could probably fluster anybody, much less the man’s wife!

____________________________________

It is not entirely out of the realm of possibility that Awu decided to follow the kindly-meant advice of Alima’s grandmother. After all, the woman had successfully given birth to nine babies and gotten eight of them to adulthood, which would make anybody pay attention. Perhaps there is something to be said for the value of hard-won experience? And perhaps it was Shen Yunxin’s acupuncture skills that helped in the end, or even her insistence to look at the greater picture first. Or Doctor Shen’s bitter tinctures, or Xiao Qi’s unwavering, ah, helpfulness. Or possibly the fact that Awu finally decided that what will be will be and threw herself with doubled energy into the whirlpool of domestic concerns… which are truly never-ending, if one counts an entire province as one’s home.

Whatever the cause, Awu eventually achieved her goal… And yet she was among the last ones to actually suspect anything, the first being Xiao Qi and A-Yue, who had informed Doctor Shen and Shen Yunxin respectively, after having noticed some rather peculiar changes. A lady’s maid knows her mistress better than her own husband, although in this case, with the husband being an exceptionally affectionate one, that might not ring quite so true. Incidentally, the symptom that both of them had noticed was Awu’s sudden heightened sense of smell combined with a rather noticeably expressed aversion to her previously favourite perfume, which, you must admit, is a rather worrying sign.

As it turns out, both the uncle and niece had a good idea of Awu’s state, going by her last bleeding being more of a spotting than anything else – and you may bet Shen Yunxin monitors that closely – and yet they remained unable to fully ascertain their suspicions without any clear accompanying signs, nor were they willing to give any early hope, which may later be dashed. In fact, Doctor Shen would have preferred to avoid any agitation whatsoever for at least a week or two more, having had difficult experiences with this patient in particular, but one look at Prince Yuzhang’s face had him rethink that plan. Had Hu Guanglie been there – or alive in the first place – he would have immediately recognized that expression as Xiao Qi getting ready for battle, which he is quite sure he can win… but not entirely sure, with his doubt rising with every hour of there being no news of enemy movements. But even an amateur would be immediately wary of this sudden tension, for all that it might be hidden under an impressive facade of pretended calm. And Doctor Shen, after thirty years of practicing medicine among the upper echelons of Cheng nobility and staying alive – which is no mean feat – has learned to be quite sensitive to his powerful employers’ moods. As a survival tactic, if nothing else.

Another important skill, which Doctor Shen hasn’t yet imparted onto his niece, is judging when and where a doctor’s presence might be wanted... and when and where it is most certainly not needed. Pulling Shen Yunxin from the room by her sleeve might seem like a rather abrupt reaction, but it was by no means unjustified. Some things are simply not meant to be seen by outsiders. Prince and Princess Yuzhang facing each other and simply looking into each other’s eyes in perfect, tremulously joyful silence before the Princess lets out a hiccuping laugh and hides her suspiciously shining eyes against her husband’s collarbone is certainly one of those.

____________________________________

Xiao Qi’s first emotion after hearing the news is joy, then absolute panic – as far as that man ever panics, that is – and then steely determination most usually reserved for military planning. Having heard one word too many about miscarriage being a real possibility this early on makes him frantic and this in turn means that something really, really foolish is about to happen. Something like riding for the capital with only ten thousand troops. Something like going into Hulan alone. Something like dealing ungodly amounts of damage and letting his hair fly loose. Hu Guanglie would call this state a silence before mass decapitation. Were he there and alive, that is. Thankfully Hu Yao is both alive and there (deal with it, people!) and manages to redirect this thrumming energy into something actually constructive, which is probably the only thing that saves Awu and Xiao Qi from having an epic row over a series of very unreasonable ideas. Like, for example, shutting Awu in her rooms in the middle of Ningshuo Fortress and standing guard over her until the baby is born.

Meanwhile, Awu’s behaviour couldn’t be more different from that exhibited by her very own husband. Now that her years of continuous disappointment are over, she refuses to even consider that something might go wrong. At least not during waking hours, when she’s surrounded by a steady throng of people and children; and there is no way she would ever agree to being imprisoned in her rooms, although she agrees to retiring at the first sign of true fatigue and actually keeps her word, which causes her to share more than one nap in the middle of the day with little Song Guanglie. Which, in turn, makes for a pretty mellow Princess, especially right after she rises.

Which is exactly why this is the exact moment the brilliant tactician Hu Yao chooses to inform Awu that her fool of a husband (even if she doesn’t use exactly those words, she means exactly that) has evaporated with a troop of six into direction unknown, which may or may not be Hu Yao’s fault. Awu confirms that yes, Xiao Qi came in as she slept, woke her up briefly and said something about going on a short trip, promising to return as swiftly as possible. The look on Hu Yao’s face is rather telling and a tiny bit guilty.

That little overnight trip? Hu Yao is reasonably certain it is a hunt for something big and impressive. A local variety of wolf? A big feline of unfriendly persuasion? Probably not Hulan raiders, such as they are those days; she is rather insistent on that last point and for a good reason. That reason being that Xiao Qi had been making things strangely tense in the training yards, which are Hu Yao’s rightful domain, and so she decided to get rid of him by asking about preparations for the birth, no matter that the happy event may be six months away yet, and describing in great detail the extent of the prospective father’s involvement in those.

And seeing as it’s paramount – for future good fortune and the safety of both the mother and the baby – that no products of the birth are allowed to touch the ground, hence the need to provide a layer of ash, rushes or perhaps a cow’s skin as is the case in the wealthier families of Hu Yao’s acquitance, and taking into account that Xiao Qi has never done things by halves, his plan is rather obvious. Awu doesn’t know whether to feel strangely amused, immensely flattered and touched… or perhaps increasingly annoyed by losing her bedmate for such paltry a cause. For the moment she chooses option one, if only because amusement helps her forget about any apprehension the word ‘hunt’ might be causing her for rather obvious reasons. She will hold her judgement on options two and three until she sees the result of Xiao Qi’s bout of paternal madness.

The hero of the hour returns four days later, impossibly smug and with a bloody enormous salted pelt of a great brown mountain bear. Which he will then proceed to cure himself, because why wouldn’t he. Awu doesn’t have the words for what she’s feeling. Exasperation? Fond exasperation? A sudden onset of unexpected horniness? And I mean really unexpected, because bears smell and she’s still not over her olfactory oversensitivity. But mainly a burst of love and womanly pride. Sure, her man might be a fool, but he’s her fool and… I mean, it is a really big bear. Very, very impressive, if one was prone to being impressed by such things. Which Awu usually doesn’t find herself to be… Oh, who is she even trying to fool?

____________________________________

Xiao Qi has made something of a study of his wife’s body, which she had always been cognizant of to a certain degree. So it’s rather hard to say that it comes as a surprise that he’s able to tell when she begins to show even before she herself does – and she shows very early due to her general slimness. All the other things, however, are somewhat more out of the left field.

Like how he starts to send Awu’s maids out every time he catches one of them with a comb even before she confesses that somehow her scalp became really, really sensitive and in a rather peculiar way. Which he has apparently noticed and decided to take shameless advantage off, especially as the pleasure is mutual; Awu’s hair has become somehow both thicker and softer, a true delight to touch for a person as tactile as Xiao Qi.

Or how he suddenly stops going after Awu’s earlobes to her sincere confusion and irritation. She liked it, dammit, and what Awu wants, Awu gets, so the next time his mouth appears anywhere in the vicinity of her neck, Xiao Qi finds himself rather brusquely pointed at the desired target. The problem is, upon his acquiescence Awu finds it not as pleasurable as all that and really rather painful, her ears apparently having become rather sensitive practically overnight. By which point she has no other choice but to demand how had he guessed before she realized this about herself. His answer turns out to be rather disarming: You haven’t worn a single pair of dangly earrings for half a month.

The worst thing is, he is absolutely right. Every single time, which at the beginning causes no little exasperation, especially when Awu’s body starts rapidly changing and sometimes she feel like she hardly knows what she even looks like anymore. Is that pale, drawn face in the mirror actually hers? Why are her eyebrows suddenly so pale and whispy? And has she always had dark patches on the underside of her breasts? As time passes, all those other changes start looking less and less dire, having taken second fiddle to the most important thing of them all: a growing, living child nestled between her hipbones, which have lost all pretense of sharpness during those last few months. And so she starts asking questions. Not to fish for compliments – she truly cannot complain of a shortage of those – but out of true curiosity. What have you noticed that I haven’t? Show me.

And he does show her, claiming and re-claiming every inch of her skin as it changes and there is not a single moment in which she does not feel beautiful, or wanted, or loved, even when she’s absolutely miserable and sick, and bloated. Although she calls him a liar the one time he truly earns it by announcing her stitches on the newest piece in the increasingly elaborate layette to be the height of perfection despite them being crooked and all over the place due to her suddenly clumsy fingers. But just as he is her guide to her own body, she is his and there is little that she finds herself unable to complain of.

It’s their journey, their child, perhaps their only chance at this miracle and she absolutely refuses to hide, especially as her time comes near. Refuses to hide both literally and metaphorically, spending hours upon hours of increasingly warm, stuffy summer evenings laying naked on top of the covers and drawing nonsensical labyrinths upon her own skin with the tips of her fingers, every line closely followed by eager eyes, calloused hands or gentle lips; every single tap or movement from within met with genuine fascination and something not quite unlike worship.

____________________________________

There has hardly been a military campaign that involved more meticulous planning than the birth of this one tiny child, Ningshuo’s first princeling. Taught by Wanru’s premature experience with childbirth, both Awu and Xiao Qi remain rather wary of any fixed dates. The child will come when it will come, rather like the enemy, announces Xiao Qi, stopping the rather spirited discussion between the womenfolk about the necessity of early preparation and earning himself a fiery glare from Awu for using such inappropriate comparisons. By which I mean there is little to be done aside from observing the terrain and getting ready for an ambush, which may or may not come at any time, he explains, trying to mollify Awu and enclose her into his self-imposed bubble of confidence, usually reserved for use upon soldiers on the verge of panic, which is exactly what this discussion of premature birth has brought into their home.

And you know what, it actually helps, if only a little. Enough to take Awu’s mind off the possible complications and redirect her nervous energy into consulting with the astronomy charts and then choosing an appropriately situated side room, setting up curtains around the bed to serve as a birthing tent and getting that blasted bearskin out of storage. Which process they will ultimately go through four times, as the star charts – and thus best orientations – keep changing every month. And which neither of them will begrudge, as every single time they move the birthing tent Awu grows just a tiny bit more confident in the success of the upcoming labour and also more attuned to her own needs. At the very last milestone – during which she is comically enormous, but no less able to give out commands – she is an absolute nightmare, having everyone running around to and fro as well as throwing an absolute fit over the birthing rope, which she has agreed to previously.

Doctor Shen, being a great believer in getting his clients through labour alive and having a long-standing grudge against the usual way of birthing practiced in the Imperial Palace – which means supine, surrounded by a crowd of panicking women and with the doctor hardly able to see the patient in order to preserve their chastity – instills a certain regime, which is perfectly in accord with the traditional ways dictated by medical practitioners of old. By which he means peace, no more that two calm attendants at one time and letting gravity do part of the work; the last thing meaning that a length of rope or cloth should be suspended from the ceiling or perhaps stretched between two pillars at at appropriate height, so that the mother can support herself while kneeling or squatting.

In Awu’s case the arrangement changes from a hanging horse bridle – which while a show of status and a portent of good fortune proved to be not that comfortable after all – to a length of silk, to a rope stretched between two pillars. Which apparently doesn’t suit Awu any longer, not providing her with a steady enough support. While A-Yue and Alima keep tying and retying the rope to Awu’s continuous disapproval and even irritation, Xiao Qi doesn’t get involved. Yes, partially because in contrast to everybody else he doesn’t find his heavily pregnant wife a nightmare to deal with. Adorable, more like, the man is that hopeless. And partially because as long as Awu acts out on her irritation, she’s not getting apprehensive or despondent. So let her rage to her heart’s content. Now, the moment she goes silent and perhaps a little bit bashful over her previous outburst, he decides it’s high time for an intervention. Any intervention, even an absurd one. Which means that he disappears for a moment and brings back his spear, which he then secures in place of the rope to the growing disconcernment of everybody present. Awu finds it steady enough for her needs and it’s not like anything else matters.

Seeing as she goes into labour the very next day and finds herself properly appreciative of this improvised solution, Xiao Qi can’t find it in himself to really mind the rapidly growing slew of jokes and ditties starting to make rounds, although he makes a point of trouncing the most intrepid joker rather soundly. Or perhaps five of those, not that he’s in the right mindset to actually keep count once the entrance to the birthing room is barred to him. Before it is, there is still time to tell Awu– not for the last time, this isn’t going to be the last time! - of her bravery, of how only now does he start to truly appreciate what it means to send a loved one into battle and of how they’re going to carry this moment through their whole lives. You’re Princess Yuzhang, you will come back with a victory, hale and whole. You will always come back, he whispers into her hair, not sure who is he actually trying to convince as he hold his entire world in his arms, desperately trying to hide his fear. And failing miserably, which Awu cannot help but notice… once she gets through the current set of contractions. Don’t you dare to be a coward now, my Prince Yuzhang, she scolds, resting her sweaty forehead against his chin. Don’t you bloody dare. I have asked for this and I don’t take upon myself what I cannot carry. And now get out and let me fight my war. You know what I’m capable of.

And by all gods, he knows. And this steely determination in her voice scares him as little has ever scared him before. This time, unlike every other time when she’s risked her life this bravely, there will be nothing he can do to help her, no miraculous rescue, no last-minute shot, no hand ready to break her fall. Has he been too greedy, he ponders, only by a miracle avoiding skewering Tang Jing straight through the gut and then actually earning a light graze from Hu Yao’s blade. Useless, she pronounces, confiscating their weapons and hurrying both men off the training field. Absolutely useless. Go and do whatever it is that men actually busy themselves with while women do all the work.

It turns out that what men actually do in highly stressful situations is sharpen their swords as well as any other blade they may encounter. They are joined in this endeavour by Xiaohe, who will later be unilaterally – and wholly unfairly – blamed for each and every single skewed edge. Of which there will be quite a few. But then, what does an imperfect sword or ten actually matter, when after long hours of absolute hell, during which Xiao Qi has imagined at least five different worst scenarios ending in a pool of blood – just like that terrible day – and prayed to all the gods he has ever heard of, A-Yue finally comes, her wide smile speaking for itself.

[bytheangell]

You Can't Keep Safe What Wants to Break

(Read on AO3)

Magnus probably shouldn’t be here for this conversation, but Jace is waiting for them when Magnus portals them back to the Institute from Idris. Jace is eagerly awaiting the response from the Council meeting, nervously pacing back and forth in Alec’s office where they thought they’d have a bit more time to figure out how to break the news to him. Alec planned on doing it alone, with Magnus at home preparing the strongest cocktails he can manage short of inducing alcohol poisoning to deal with the aftermath. Instead, Alec shoots Magnus a quick, pleading glance, and Magnus doesn’t have the heart to try and make a quick exit with them both in front of him like this.

Neither of them is ready for the conversation that’s about to happen.

One look at their faces and Jace doesn’t have to wait for either of them to speak to know what news they have for him.

“Jace…” Alec starts, but it’s no use.

“They said no,” Jace says for him, crestfallen.

“There was nothing we could do,” Magnus tries. “We pulled every favor we had.” It’s true - they really did try everything short of actual bribery to get the discussion and the votes to go their way… and, okay, maybe a little actual bribery Alec doesn’t need to know about, but even that wasn’t enough.

“They wouldn’t let go of the fact that the Angels took her memories and her abilities, and essentially kicked her out of the Shadow World. They don’t want to risk letting her back in. They’re scared,” Alec says, not that Jace needs to hear it. He’s heard that argument time and time again ever since Clary remembered him at her art show that night… ever since he started seeing her regularly, and reforming a relationship with her.

Ever since he wanted her to be part of his life - part of all of their lives - again.

But the Nephilim have strict rules about mundanes being intimately involved with Shadowhunters, rules that have to be followed to keep them out of the Shadow World. And without her abilities, without everything that once made her one of them, that’s all Clary is to them. A mundane.

“I can’t lose her again,” Jace says, sounding broken and lost. “I just got her back, I can’t let her go.”

“I’m sorry,” Alec offers as if this final verdict from the Council means the discussion is over, topic closed. Magnus knows the look in Jace’s eyes, though. Jace isn’t letting this go. Magnus wanted to stay out of this. He did his best to stay out of the previous discussions between Alec and Jace and Izzy and members of the Council, because despite his personal investment in both Clary and Jace’s well beings this isn’t a personal matter, not to the Shadowhunters - it’s a political one. He always knew how this would play out, despite their best efforts… duty before all else, the law is hard but it is the law and all that nonsense.

He wanted to stay out of this, but now he finds himself in the thick of it, staring into the blue and brown eyes of a Shadowhunter pushed to the breaking point between heart and duty.

There’s a long, tense silence in the office before Jace turns away from Alec and Magnus. Magnus can’t tell if he’s hiding his pain from them or something else entirely. Magnus thinks that Jace almost sounds determined when he finally speaks. Resolved. It doesn’t sit well with Magnus but he doesn’t pry, not just now.

“Yeah,” Jace says as he makes his way out of the office. “So am I.”

“That went better than I expected,” Alec admits once Jace is gone.

Magnus gives a distracted nod, but he doesn’t think the matter is over, not by a longshot. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to let Alec think that the worst is past. He has a sinking suspicion that the worst - much worse than this - is yet to come.

“Let’s go home, shall we? I think we could both use that drink now.”

---

There’s no warning from his wards before the knock on the door sounds, so Magnus knows the person is a friend before he checks through the eyehole. Unexpected visits in Idris are few and far between these days, and he’s particularly surprised to find Jace Herondale standing in the hallway when he opens the door.

“Alec isn’t back from his meeting yet, is he?” Jace asks, in a tone that implies he not only knows the answer but fully planned on arriving while his parabatai is out.

“No,” Magnus confirms. “He’ll likely be another hour or so. Come in,” Magnus says, stepping aside for the Shadowhunter to enter. Jace shrugs his coat off and hangs it on the rack by the door.

Instead of prompting Jace Magnus remains silent, reading the blond’s body language and the tension held in every muscle, the strain of every movement, to know that there’s something wrong. Something he doesn’t want to tell Alec if he’s here talking with Magnus first.

“I need you to be honest with me,” Jace says. “Because I already know how Alec and Izzy are going to react, and it isn’t going to be good. And I just--” Jace breaks off there, pacing back and forth. “I need someone impartial to tell me I’m not crazy.”

“I’d hardly say I’m impartial,” Magnus points out.

“But you can be. At least, you can be brutally honest when you need to be, and I need you to be. I just need to talk to you as Magnus, not my parabatai’s husband.”

“Alright,” Magnus agrees, ignoring the urge to make a joke about Jace’s ego not being able to handle Magnus’ honesty. Something tells him this isn’t the time. “What’s on your mind?”

“I want to be with Clary,” Jace says.

The words on their own aren’t surprising. Of course Jace wants to be with Clary. Magnus knows that Jace loves her more than he’s ever loved anyone - save possibly his parabatai - in his entire life. But Clary cannot be part of their world as a mundane, it’d never be recognized or allowed by the Clave. The only way for Jace to be with her now is--

Oh.

The realization dawns on him and sits like a leaden weight in his stomach. His expression must give away what he pieced together because Jace notes the look on his face and continues quickly.

“I’ve thought about it. By the Angel, all I can do is think about it. She never leaves my mind, Magnus. She hasn’t since the day she left and she’s never going to, especially not now that we’ve reconnected. I can’t live without her. And I don’t have to. I just have to…” but Jace trails off there as if saying it might make it too real. So Magnus finishes for him.

“You just have to be de-runed, to leave behind the only family you’ve ever known and the only life you’ve ever known.” Magnus manages to say the words with minimal infliction; no judgment, just facts.

Jace winces. “I did ask for brutal honesty, didn’t I?” he says, though the laugh he gives is forced.

“This isn’t a decision to be made lightly, Jace. I know that you know that, but do you truly understand the gravity of that decision? There’s a reason de-runing is the most severe of punishments for crimes against the Clave,” Magnus points out.

“I know,” Jace says. “But living without Clary for the rest of my life… at least the pain of a de-runing is temporary.”

“But the effects are far from temporary,” Magnus reminds him. At the look on Jace’s face, Magnus adds quickly, “I’m simply presenting all of the angles, I’m not trying to talk you out of it.”

When he imagined what Jace might do in retaliation of the Council’s decision before he pictured more of a fit of rage, a ‘fuck the system’ rebellion of finding a way around their ruling to bring Clary back anyway. This option crossed his mind, of course, but never in a million years would he imagine Jace pursuing it.

Jace is quiet for a moment after that. Magnus takes some small comfort in knowing his words aren’t falling on deaf ears. Jace wouldn’t have come here if he didn’t want to talk this through, after all.

“I know losing the parabatai bond will hurt Alec,” Jace says quietly. “It’s the part I keep coming back to. The rest… I know Alec and Isabelle won’t abandon me if I go through with it, no matter what the laws are. I won’t lose them, not entirely. But the bond…” Jace actually looks close to tears simply speaking of it, and Magnus moves forward to take him gently by the hand and lead him over to the sofa.

“It isn’t a bond broken easily,” Magnus agrees. “You will both suffer greatly for the loss of it.”

Jace hangs his head. “I don’t want to put Alec through that, but… but he will someday anyway, right? One of us will, in the end. It isn’t like it’s inevitable. I’m just… moving up the timeline.”

Magnus can practically hear the number of times Jace must’ve repeated that to himself before now, over and over in his head until he was nearly convinced it’s enough justification. He isn’t wrong, Magnus will give him that. But it’s one thing to lose the bond through an inevitable death, and another entirely to know that you’ve caused that pain and loss intentionally.

The look on Jace’s face as he avoids Magnus’ gaze tells him that Jace knows that, too.

“Have you talked to Clary about this?” Magnus asks.

Jace nods. “She said we could get an apartment together. I can’t tell her everything, obviously, but I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think we had a real chance, you know I wouldn’t.” Jace shakes his head. “I don’t want to have to choose. This… being a Shadowhunter, this is what I’m good at. It’s what I was raised to be. But Clary… she’s my future, Magnus. I was trained to be a weapon, but I was born to love Clary Fairchild.”

Magnus is struck suddenly by the memory of another Shadowhunter he knew who was willing to give up everything for the love of a mundane girl. ‘I was born to be a warrior, and I was born to be with her. Tell me how to reconcile the two because I cannot.’ The words of one Edmund Herondale rang clear in Magnus’ mind, bringing a slow, sad smile to his face.

“You Herondales certainly have a penchant for sacrificial love,” Magnus observes, not unkindly. Edmund gave up his runes, James his sanity and stability, Will was ready to give up love itself, and now Jace...

“I can give up Shadowhunting. There are plenty of others who can take over for me now, and plenty more to follow after me,” Jace says.

It’s a strange thing, to witness the blind faith the Nephilim place in their Angels from birth begin to crumble and crack - to question outdated laws and revert back to something more basic, more simply human. Life. Love. Happiness. Desire.

“I’m not concerned about the Shadowhunter’s loss of a soldier,” Magnus points out. “And you don’t have to convince me. I know better than to think there will be any talking you out of this once your mind is made up… and it does appear to be entirely made up. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Jace nods. “I haven’t told anyone yet, but I think Maryse might have an idea. I’ve been asking a lot of questions lately about her de-runing, and what happens afterward.”

Magnus nods slowly. That makes sense. “You won’t be allowed back in Idris again. If the full extent of standard procedure were followed you wouldn’t be able to see any of your family or friends again, but something tells me Alexander won’t let that bit stand.”

He knows that Maryse showed up once or twice to the Institute and that Luke and her family visit her regularly, either at the bookshop or at her home. All of which is highly irregular, but then again, not much about Alexander’s influence of the Clave’s rules and standards hasn’t fought back against their antiquated ways in one way or another.

Jace sounds uncertain when he replies, “I don’t know, there’s a very good chance that Alec won’t speak to me again after this, law or not.”

“If you think there’s any chance of Alexander abandoning you for this decision-”

“And why shouldn’t he?” Jace cuts Magnus off. “After I abandon him first.”

The harshness of Jace’s tone causes Magnus to wince.

“This isn’t just a matter of marrying someone and moving away. This isn’t even just about losing my runes. If it was just my own sacrifice there wouldn’t be a doubt in my mind, but…”

“But it isn’t just your own life this choice affects,” Magnus supplies for him, finally realizing why he came to speak with Magnus first. These are complicated, deep emotions. Alexander and Jace, when confronted with issues as personal as this, could be a volatile force. Magnus is glad Jace had the presence of mind to try and sort through his own first.

“I took an oath. Entreat me not to leave thee,” Jace huffs out with a broken laugh. Magnus knows the oath. He’s familiar with it enough to know that by doing what he’s planning now Jace is breaking every line of it, every promise. “‘The Angel do so to me, and more also,

If aught but death part thee and me.’” Jace’s eyes leave Magnus’ and fix on a point beyond him, growing distant. “How can I choose? Why do I have to choose? It isn’t fair.”

“Life very rarely is,” Magnus says sadly.

“What would you do, if you were me?” Jace asks.

Magnus considers the question, thinks back to all of the loves he had and lost over the centuries, of the love he has now with Alec. He tries to picture what it might be like if he and Catarina were bonded like Jace and Alec, but in the end, he can only shake his head.

“I can only begin to imagine the intricacies of the bond the two of you share,” Magnus admits finally. “I’ve sacrificed everything for love, more times than many would consider wise, and I’ve been burned every time but one.” It isn’t what Jace wants to hear, but it’s the truth. And what follows is also the truth. “But every time was worth the possibility of true love.”

That gives Jace a bit of hope, which is what he needs. It’s what he’s searching for, behind his call for honesty and council.

“If I were you? I’d probably risk what you’re planning now. It’s foolish and reckless, a gamble beyond measure, but isn’t love always?” Magnus smiles softly at that. “And if I were Alexander, and my dearest friend came to me in your situation, I can promise you that any anger or betrayal I felt would be temporary, eventually eclipsed by the joy of knowing they found all the happiness they were looking for in life.”

“You think?” Jace asks, daring to sound optimistic at the mere suggestion that there’s a possibility of Alec being alright with this in the end.

“But I’m not either of you, and this is not my decision to make.”

Magnus feels the gentle ripple in his warding that alerts him to his husband’s arrival downstairs. “Alec’s back,” Magnus says. “I can portal you to the Institute if you’d like to keep this between us for now.” It’s a simple offer, no judgment if Jace wants more time to consider his options, or simply to stall before talking this out with Alec. As difficult as keeping something like this from Alec will be he wouldn’t betray Jace’s trust in coming to him for advice. Magnus watches Jace closely, able to see the flash of panic on Jace’s face and the hesitation as he debates taking the offer of a portal.

“No,” Jace says with a determined shake of his head. When Magnus thinks back to his similar encounter with Edmund nearly a century ago, he distinctly recalls the feeling of witnessing a disaster, of wreckage. But this is different: Jace Herondale isn’t ruining himself, he’s rebuilding.

“I’ll make myself scarce, then,” Magnus says, standing up to make his way toward the door.

“Magnus, hey,” Alec greets, leaning in to give him a kiss in greeting when he opened the door to find Magnus standing next to it, grabbing his coat. Alec catches sight of Jace behind him and his brows furrow. “Jace? Is everything alright?”

“I’m heading out for a bit. Give me a call if you need anything,” Magnus says instead of answering Alec. The question isn’t meant for him, after all.

Magnus looks over at Jace one last time before leaving the two of them alone to speak, still surrounded by the ghosts of his past. He sees so much of Edmund’s determination to follow his heart, no matter the personal cost. He sees Will’s enthusiasm and desperate need for the potential of love. He sees James’s consuming passion.

Magnus sees enough of Jace’s ancestors in him to know without a doubt that Jace will be just fine in the end; and if he isn’t, then Magnus imagines he has enough experience assisting lovestruck Herondales to help him through.

[nola-unchained]

✧ ( CRIMINAL  MINDS  SENTENCE  STARTERS.

warning:  death, murder, loss mention. change pronouns to your liking/as you see fit!

❛ Are you a genius or something? ❜ ❛ You look too young to have gotten into medical school. ❜ ❛ When you look long into an abyss, the abyss looks into you. ❜ ❛ Imagination is more important than knowledge. ❜ ❛ Knowledge is limited; imagination encircles the world. ❜ ❛ Your girlfriend thinks you’re going to break up with her.  ❜ ❛ I was a little bit of a nerd. Is that so surprising? ❜ ❛ Do you think it’s weird that I knew that ballad? ❜ ❛ Do you think that’s why I can’t get a date? ❜ ❛ We’re looking for a needle in a haystack. ❜ ❛ I got a list of things I want to try before it’s too late. ❜ ❛ What is food to one, is to others bitter poison. ❜ ❛ Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves. ❜ ❛ If I told you that, what would I have left for myself? ❜ ❛ It is those we live with and love, and should know, who elude us. ❜ ❛ What could you possibly learn that you don’t already know? ❜ ❛ In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years. ❜ ❛ I have other options besides shooting a man. ❜ ❛ The test of the morality of a society is what it does for its children. ❜ ❛ Do you ever ask yourself how you make a decision like that? ❜ ❛ What’s happened to that boy in the year I stopped looking for him? ❜ ❛ I mean, how do you give yourself that kind of permission? ❜ ❛ A year ago, I gave up on looking for him – there were so many other kids. ❜ ❛ Look, I know this job is important to you, but we’re important, too. ❜ ❛ That makes it sound like the bandit’s doing the stripping. ❜ ❛ Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of overcoming it. ❜ ❛ You tend to forget, don’t you? ❜ ❛ You really are afraid of the dark. ❜ ❛ It’s not so important who starts the game, but who finishes it. ❜ ❛ It’s not really the kind of thing that happens around here, you know? ❜ ❛ Ever talk to someone who wants to continually show you he’s smarter than you?  ❜ ❛ If men could only know each other, they would neither idolize nor hate. ❜ ❛ In order to learn the important lessons in life, one must each day surmount to fear. ❜ ❛ What if it’s not? What if next time he kills somebody? ❜ ❛ All secrets are deep. All secrets become dark. That’s in the nature of secrets. ❜ ❛ We all have secrets. Would you want us profiling you? ❜ ❛ We all have secrets. ❜ ❛ You trying to say something to me right now. ❜ ❛ Only if you’re hiding something. ❜ ❛ Are you saying I had nothing to do with making you who you are? ❜ ❛ To get away with murder, you simply don’t tell anyone. ❜ ❛ Call me first. I’d love to pick your brains. ❜ ❛ My hope is that one day you’ll feel the way I do too. ❜ ❛ If I ever find myself feeling the way you do, I’ll kill myself. ❜ ❛ Tired of people using religion… to justify the terrible things they do. ❜ ❛ Fantasy abandoned by reason produces impossible monsters. ❜ ❛ An earthly kingdom cannot exist without inequality of persons. ❜ ❛ It is a wise father who knows his own child. ❜ ❛ Within the core of each of us is the child we once were. ❜ ❛ If we knew each other’s secrets, what comforts we should find. ❜ ❛ There are no secrets better kept than the secrets that everybody guesses. ❜ ❛ Reason is not automatic. Those who deny it cannot be conquered by it. ❜ ❛ I think the truly natural things are dreams, which nature can’t touch with decay. ❜ ❛ Let us consider that we are all insane. It will explain us to each other. ❜ ❛ Cleanliness becomes more important when godliness is unlikely. ❜ ❛ Delay is the deadliest form of denial. ❜ ❛ The strength of a family, like the strength of an army, is in its loyalty to each other. ❜ ❛ In youth we learn; in age we understand. ❜ ❛ Fate is not satisfied with inflicting one calamity. ❜ ❛ We all live in a house on fire. No fire department to call, no way out. ❜ ❛ Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes they win. ❜ ❛ To lose a child is to lose a piece of yourself. ❜ ❛ How many more times will they be able to look into the abyss? ❜ ❛ Sometimes there are no words, no clever quotes to neatly sum up what’s happened that day. ❜ ❛ There is no lasting hope in violence, only temporary relief from hopelessness. ❜ ❛ I’m so sorry for your loss. And if you or your son need anything… ❜ ❛ Life is a game; play it. Life is too precious; do not destroy it. ❜ ❛ If I am what I have and if I lose what I have, who then am I? ❜ ❛ Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. ❜ ❛ We will find you, you sick son of a bitch! ❜ ❛ Is that another promise? ❜ ❛ Whatever you are, be a good one. ❜ ❛ Without heroes, we are all plain people and don’t know how far we can go. ❜ ❛ I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. ❜ ❛ I can’t talk you out of this. It’s a great life. ❜ ❛ There is no such thing as part freedom. ❜ ❛ Come near my team and I will end you. ❜ ❛ When I let go of what I am I become what I might be. ❜ ❛ The grave soul keeps its own secrets and takes its own punishment in silence. ❜ ❛ It is not his enemy or foe that lures him to evil ways. ❜ ❛ Sometimes human places create inhuman monsters. ❜ ❛ Bring the past only if you’re going to build from it. ❜ ❛ What it lies in our power to do, it lies in our power not to do. ❜ ❛ Nothing inspires forgiveness quite like revenge. ❜ ❛ You may leave school, but it never leaves you. ❜ ❛ Everybody wants to go to heaven, but no one wants to die. ❜ ❛ Three can keep a secret if two are dead. ❜ ❛ At the gambling table, there are no fathers or sons. ❜ ❛ Where there is anger, there is always pain underneath. ❜ ❛ Nothing fixes a thing so intently in the memory as the wish to forget it. ❜ ❛ All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream. ❜ ❛ Death ends a life, not a relationship.  ❜ ❛ There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it. ❜ ❛ The universe doesn’t like secrets; it conspires to reveal the truth to lead you to it. ❜ ❛ Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil. ❜ ❛ Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much. ❜ ❛ Forgiveness does not change the past but it does enlarge the future. ❜ ❛ A mother’s arms are made of tenderness and children sleep soundly in them. ❜ ❛ The past is never dead. It’s not even past. ❜ ❛ A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it. ❜ ❛ Deep vengeance is the daughter of deep silence. ❜

[blackfiire-archive-blog]

Covered in bruises, cuts, and caked in mud, the little tamaranean rushes for the throne room, pushing open the large double-doors and performs a hasty curtsy in greeting towards two gigantic authority figures. Her breath was frantic, eyes wild with fear, she sputters out panicked words, "Mother, father, I came as fast as I could---"

Luand'r eyes her daughter's wounds with an unamused look, her green eyes then flickering up to meet Blackfire's worried gaze, "Child, you are covered in bruises; dirtied. And on your new dress, too." Luand'r rests her head against her fist as a look of disappointment soon knits at her brows, "Pray tell what moved you to ruin such finery?"

Blackfire shakes her head. That wasn't the problem right now. In fact there was more than just the bruises and cuts. Turning her arm, she presents an insect bite before her parents, both of whom exchange a look; although hard to tell if worrisome or not.

Myand'r raises a brow, leaning in his chair to inspect the bite, "It appears infected," He scratches at his copper toned beard, aged green hues meeting with his firstborn's thereafter, "What in X'ahl's name were you doing, Komand'r?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell---"

A slam of Luand'r's foot silences the young tamaranean, a glare halting Blackfire's attempts to speak further, "Speak with grace, Komand'r. This common folk jargon must cease at once. You are royalty, therefore, you will present yourself as such; even to us."

Stress. If Blackfire wasn't in the presence of her parents she'd have ripped out her hair by now. Although the pain from her throbbing bite distracted her from what she felt inside. Still, even under her parent's command she couldn't find it in herself to stall further, "Starfire and I got stung by a gorthanian blood beetle!"

The queen immediately rises from her seat, her glare softens, transitioning into a worried look. Quickly, she climbs down the steps from her throne and grabs her firstborn by the shoulders, "Komand'r, where is she---where is Koriand'r!" She feels a hard shake, her shoulders suppressed with the weight of tamaranean strength.

"Mother, you're hurting---"    S L A P.

"Child! Do you realize what you have done? Gorthanian beetles have the most toxic venom on tamaran, and you allowed your little sister to contract the poison? You dishonor the tamaranean name! You are the eldest---the next in line for the throne. You should have watched over your sibling---protected her! This ignorance of yours will not go unpunished!" Another hand is risen, and before she knew it, Blackfire was splayed out on the floor. The side of her face stung enough to bring tears to the ledge of her eyes, however keeping her tears from spilling over was a fight all on it's own. 'To cry is to show weakness' that was the way of Tamaran. And she would not let that taint her image. Especially being next in line to rule her planet.

Steeling herself to the swirling tides of emotions within, she simply stands back to her feet, biting her lip as if to restrain her tears, "I'm---I mean, I am sorry mother. I told Koriand'r to stay behind, yet she insisted she join. I tried, mother, I tried! But she followed me when I wasn't looking! honest!"

Myand'r soon stands, moving to comfort his queen with the subtle squeeze at her shoulder, "Hearken to me, my love, for we have the antidote to remedy Koriand'r's condition. There naught to fret. Come." He lowers his hand, thus making a hasty exit, with Luand'r in tow.

She could hear the sobs from her little sister echoing from the halls. It seemed to bounce all over the castle walls.

But that wasn't the only thing.

With a hand clasped over her painful bite, she hesitates to press an ear to the walls, her parents speaking among themselves in the midst of Starfire's sobs.

"---is...but what of Komand'r?" She hears her father speak.

Her mother is silent for a long moment. Blackfire's heart picks up its pace, "My love, do you not think this is X'ahl's answer to our prayers? Was it not written in the stars for Komand'r to become inflicted with the essence of death---a mercy?"

"I do not doubt your beliefs. However I do worry for the thing."

'Thing.' What...did he mean by that? Blackfire presses her ear harder against the cool marble, as if doing so would help her hear their conversation much clearer.

"Let us do what the goddess has willed and allow Komand'r the relief of mercy. She has suffered tremendously at the hands of her own people. They will never accept her," Luand'r sighs, kissing Starfire's wound before brushing her fingers though the child's long, cherry red locks, "She's always alone; never going out in the daylight. It is...unusual. Tamaran cannot fathom what it must be like to walk in her shoes, and they do not try. I think...I think we should do what is right. For her. And not give her the remedy; only then will the people accept her."

Blackfire's heart drops to the pit of her stomach. Her eyes were wide as saucers. She had to step away from the wall and cease her eavesdrop. She didn't want to admit what she just heard was real. It wasn't! It couldn't have been. Still, there is a lingering sadness present within her little heart. And without even realizing, she was running away for the infirmary to get the cure herself. It wasn't hard to find---be that the bottles were labeled accordingly. Blackfire pulls up a stool and retrieves the medicine before stepping back down.

The venom was taking its toll on her energy, the room slowly shifting and moving.

Uncorking the vile with her teeth, she deeply inhales. It was no secret that the remedy stung twice as hard as the bite itself. So without further ado, she turns the vile upside down on her shaking arm. A stifled squeal leaves her. The pain was like bubbling fire! It brought her to her knees.

Eventually, the pain became minuscule, and then, cooling. She stay on hands and knees, sniffling and wiping away those damn dreaded tears. She slowly sits back on her legs, overlooking the mark among the many other injuries she sustained---the majority being tamaran's hand.

With the thought of her mother in the back of her mind---when she kissed Starfire's wound after having gave her the remedy---Blackfire shuts her eyes, the vision of her mother with kind eyes, smiling down at her. She presses a kiss to her own wound as tears painted her paled cheeks.

[rudra-writes]

Pallas and Telurin - Road Ravens (Part 2)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. While traveling on the road, a dread raven swoops down to attack Pallas and Telurin. Telurin slays the creature, enabling Pallas to collect a bounty in town.

Pallas accepts the giant feathers. He runs his fingers over the shaft, then puts them into the talbuk's saddlebag for safekeeping. "Yes. I would like it. We should be getting a nice bounty. I don't often get to have a large meal... I'm used to temple food." He started on his way down the road again, still in a happy mood. "Can you still enjoy food, Telurin? Does it have a taste?"

Telurin picks up his reins and steps back into the saddle before he replies. "I'm not particularly fond of eating, these days." He looks at Pallas and lets his expression fall to something similar to it what it was last night after he had slain the last of the demons. His voice is likewise flat as he speaks, "Except for the souls of those that I've slain."

Pallas makes a high-and-mighty body gesture, throwing his chest out and raising his chin. "I suppose the souls of helpless children and babies are the most delectable to you."

Telurin laughs, his emotionless facade cracking slightly though the sound is still more than slightly unsettling. "I prefer the terror of the righteous." 

Death Knight laughter was... Well, it was frightening. It sounded echoey and menacing. Regardless, Pallas enjoys Telurin's laughter. He did stop to consider what exactly that meant about himself. Was he attracted to the dark, and to the dark part of himself and other things? And so it was reflected in the choice of company he made? He dismissed those thoughts for the moment. Telurin needed to be teased. "And who have you terrorized lately, hm? Do you enjoy getting Anchorites' and Vindicators'  knickers in a knot?"

"Who indeed?" Telurin replies, emotion creeping back into his voice as a dark humor. "You do not truly know me, perhaps the taste of betrayal is particularly sweet." Telurin gives Sugarfoot an unspoken command and the horse lunges forward and to the side allowing Telurin to grab the reins of Pallas's talbuk just under its chin before it bolts, forcing it to walk along with the undead charger. "You should remember with what you speak, Anchorite." 

Telurin has suddenly grabbed the reins of Pallas's talbuk. The animal made frightened noises, and foamed at the mouth in its fear. "What are you doing?" Pallas yelped in surprise. He glanced over at Telurin's face. "I've heard the 'don't trust me, I'm a Death Knight!' lecture before, I'll have you know. I think that a living person can be just as dangerous and untrustworthy. What makes you so different?"

"The living are not required to kill." Telurin hisses lowly. While he's dropped his own reins in favor of Pallas's and is quite close to the other man, he makes no move to physically loom over him. After a moment he snorts and lets the poor talbuk go.

Pallas's talbuk jerks its head away with a loud bleat. Pallas reins the poor creature back under control. When it seems calm again, he studies Telurin. There is a message the Knight is clearly conveying. I'm dangerous, and you should get far away. Yet, Telurin had not refused Pallas's request, and he remained here at his side now. The desire to protect must have conflicted greatly with the knowledge of what he was.

"There is a flaw in your argument," Pallas pointed out after a while. "The living must kill, as well, to sustain ourselves. Even if I were to become completely vegan, I would still need to eat the plants." Pallas went a little cyan in the cheeks. "I know it must seem abominable. If I think about needing to do what you do to sustain yourself... I feel as if I should go mad. I don't... in truth know, how Death Knights can cope with what they're put through. But... at the core of it, you are simply consuming something else. Does a lion feel grief for its prey?"

Telurin picks up his own reins and mutters "A lion does not eat other lions." He's given his word he'd protect this man he hardly knows on the basis of his profession alone, and that includes from himself, and others like him. "I am hardly comparable to a vegetarian." he says more clearly.

Pallas studies the Death Knight's face and manner. "May I ask you something?" he inquires. "The suffering that Death Knights must inflict... Must it be towards... sentient creatures? Would you be able to be sustained feasting your blade on wild animals, or other creatures not sentient?" It was a gruesome question, but something Pallas had often wondered.

The tension that Telurin has shown since this darker turn of their conversation tightens another notch, but he had encouraged these questions with his own behavior. "The raven whose feathers you now carry as a trophy, you could argue that beast was more intelligent than most, could you not? Yet its death pales in comparison to something that is truly self aware. I could wipe out entire species before I would truly be satisfied by their deaths."

Pallas's mouth tightened when he heard the response to his question. That truly was grim. It was little wonder that Death Knights, especially those who were of a noble bearing in life, which draenei often were, truly despised themselves. He fell quiet for a time.

Silence is a good strategy, if Pallas had wanted to coax further explanation from the death knight. Telurin mulls over the decision to continue in the silence, and in the end convinces himself that Pallas would be better served knowing the truth, that what he's said in jest is more true than not. "The power of a sentient being's death is great, but the suffering of that same being? To be the cause of that pain? It is intoxicating, moreso than any drink or drug you may have experienced. You would do well to remember even the tamest of us also, to some degree, wish you ill, because that is the very thing upon which we survive."

Pallas had not known this. His head comes up and he looks over at Telurin when the Death Knight volunteers information, something he generally did not seem wont to do. "...Intoxication?" The gears are turning in his head now. "To hurt someone gives you a high? It is ecstatic?"

"Yes." The death knight, having given his warning, seems to go sullen and taciturn once more.

Pallas looks crestfallen. All this time, and he hadn't known that. No one else had told him. He looks frustrated at himself. "I've been a fool."

That statement pulls a smirk from Telurin, but when he looks across at the Anchorite he curbs his tongue and merely says, "In what way?"

Pallas's brows were drawn together, "I've been coming so close to Death Knights and fraternizing with them, all this time unaware that they had such a temptation. I thought they tried to push me away simply out of self-loathing." His expression became earnest and he looked up at Telurin's face again as the other man rode. "Telurin, I am sorry. I have done you wrong in my naivete, to have thought that way."

Telurin's jaw works at the unnecessary apology. "Do not concern yourself over it, other than to be more careful. Many will still give you the respect that is due your station, but those that cannot, or will not, control their baser urges have not yet died out."

Pallas nods. It's true, the best thing he can do is to be more careful. They travel on in silence for a while. Pallas them remembers what Telurin had mentioned earlier... about the suffering of the righteous being the most delectable for him. Had Telurin been serious, or had he still just been joking? Did this Death Knight like hurting Anchorites? Was that what he had been trying to imply? And the reason his manner around Pallas always seemed simultaneously strained, and drawn to him, all the time? Pallas thought about the possibility worriedly, but he couldn't think of any way to breach such a sensitive issue to Telurin. It was a terrible question to ask. And Telurin seemed so noble. "...What about alcohol?" he asks, finally.

Telurin sighs. "A pale reminder of its former self."

"But you can still experience its effects?" Pallas inquires. He guesses that this must be so, considering Telurin had bought a drink for himself as well as for Pallas, when they had first met. He had no idea how to breach the subject of the suffering of the righteous. Talking about booze was a welcome change in subject.

"Why Pallas..." Telurin practically purrs, turning his head to look at the Anchorite. "Even after I all but admitted I would enjoy torturing you, you still want to see me drunk?" The death knight exhales sharply, his grin feral. "You have spirit, I will give you that much."

Pallas had not actually been thinking of getting Telurin completely smashed like that! Telurin's tone of voice makes him jump. Not surprisingly, the faint blue blush returns, creeping over his face and the tips of his ears. "What! Just because I ask if you can enjoy a stiff drink, doesn't mean I have some hidden agenda to get you drunk! Besides, you're huge. You'd probably require at least an entire keg! When’s the last time you've been drunk, anyway?"

Telurin pauses to consider. "A month?" He ventures a guess, "Perhaps two."

Pallas looks surprised, maybe even a little outraged. "That recent? How much do you drink! ...You are not going to get smashed in my presence. We will enjoy this bounty, but we will do so responsibly."

It was, perhaps, longer than that, now that he thinks on it, but he sees no reason to correct it. He does get drunk more than he ought, if only to dull his senses on the days the endless hunger is not satisfied with death alone. Outwardly, he eases back into the more personable role of 'amused protector' and says, "Of course, Anchorite." His inflection making it sound peculiar, almost ritualized.

Pallas shoots Telurin a look. "You don't need to be drunk to torture me, clearly. You are torturing me right now! Traveling with you is complete torture. You must feel very satisfied right now with what you put me through."

Telurin smirks at the diatribe, the last of his tension leaking away. "I am," he admits, pointedly looking at the Anchorite, "-Extremely- satisfied right now."

Pallas raises his chin imperiously. When he becomes a little older, maybe another 50 or so years down the line, he might actually look grandly imposing with those icy looks. Right now, he's really too young and it doesn't work so well. "Well, clearly I must continue to sacrifice myself for the greater good of all." But what they're saying is so silly, the end of his mouth twitches.

Telurin responds with a snort of derision. "There is a town up ahead. Go and claim your bounty, and I will see about securing us a table for this feast of yours."

[unofferable-fic]

UNOFFERABLE: 26 - TRIAL AND ERROR

Summary: The unexpected arrival of an injured Midgardian child clinging to life causes a ruckus on Asgard. The princes, Thor and Loki, are somewhat intrigued by this unusual guest, unsure as to how and why she ended up in such a state. What they did not expect, however, was the turn of events her appearance would inevitably cause.

Originally posted by Marvel Gifs

————

Set Pre-Thor 1

Pairing: Loki x OFC

Inspired by this imagine

Warnings: Language, angst, fluff.

Word Count: 4,717

Previous Chapter     Next Chapter

Playlist: “Elysium” — Klaus Badelt, “Honour Him” — Hans Zimmer, “Now We Are Free” — Lisa Gerrard & Klaus Badelt

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A/N: Also available on AO3  and FanFiction.net. Work kept me back an extra hour because retail sucks but the chapter is here and that’s the main thing! If anyone wants to be added to the taglist just let me know. Happy reading!

As Loki and his companions descended the stairs, they met Hogun, Sif, and Fandral, who had cleared all the other floors. When they returned to the selection room — which was well guarded by Volstagg — they gathered all the workers found on the premisses. With the addition of the six prisoners Thor had herded, and the two with whom Ellie was found hiding, there were now thirty of them in total within the room. Whatever guards that had not been killed in the raid were bound and locked in a nearby closet, ensuring any attempted escape was futile.

“You have no need to fear,” Sif explained, addressing the whole room of workers. “We are warriors of Asgard, and this is Prince Thor and Prince Loki. We will keep you safe and ensure that you are all returned to your rightful homes.” There were small gasps and exclamations of relief from the prisoners. Loki watched as some of them embraced each other and began to cry. “While we discuss what will be done, please do a head count and inform us if there are any missing persons we need to find before we leave.”

The Asgardians gathered together, Ellie still clinging to Loki’s waist. The Warriors Three grinned at the sight of her alive and (mostly) well.

“It is good to see you again, little Midgardian!” Volstagg said with the largest smile of the group. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now,” Ellie replied, squeezing Loki’s side. “Thank you for findin’ me.”

“It was all thanks to the princes,” Fandral snorted. “They were very insistent about running blindly into Alfheim to save you.”

“We were lucky Heimdall spotted you when he did,” Hogun said. “Otherwise we may not have found this place at all.”

Sif nodded in agreement. “I am still wondering why this building’s shield fell in the first place.”

“I put that down to extremely good luck,” Thor laughed, ruffling Ellie’s hair affectionately. “I do not care why it happened. All that concerns me now is Ellie and these prisoners.”

“And Frey and Freyja,” Loki added. “We still have to deal with them.”

“And how exactly shall we go about that?” Fandral asked. “They are presumably at Ljosalfgard with the Allfather and Allmother.”

“They are,” Ellie confirmed. “They were here earlier, but they left not too long ago when the King and Queen arrived at the castle.”

“Mother informed us to go to Ljosalfgard when we have secured Ellie,” Thor reminded Loki. “Perhaps we should go to meet them as requested?”

“And what of the prisoners?” Lady Sif asked.

“We should bring them back to Asgard for the time being,” Loki suggested. “We can get them checked over by Eir and then consult Heimdall with returning them to their rightful homes.”

Thor nodded his head in agreement. “A reasonable plan. Then we shall move all the survivors once they have checked to see if everyone is present. We have collectively scoured every inch of this place, so hopefully this is all there is.”

“Hopefully.” Loki looked down at Ellie by his side. “The sooner we get you to Eir the better.”

She looked up to meet his gaze, brow furrowed. “What? No, I’m not goin’ back to Asgard.”

“We need to get you to the healers wing, Ellie. You are clearly exhausted and need to be attended to.”

“I don’t care,” she insisted. “You’re all about to go off and confront those two arseholes and I want’a come too.”

“I do not know if that is the best idea…” Sif trailed off, while Thor looked equally displeased at the thought.

“Would it not be good to bring me as proof of what happened? You can’t bring all these victims, so why not just bring me to show Odin and Frigga that you’re not lyin’ ’bout this place? I’ll be safe with you’s anyway.”

“Ellie,” Loki began, voice uncharacteristically patient. “You do not need to see them again. First of all, you’re hurt—”

“So I have some cuts and bruises, what of it? I’ll manage fine in your company. Just…please. I want’a see them. If my presence will help to prove their guilt then I want'a be there. Then as soon as they’re taken away I promise to go swiftly back to Asgard. I would much rather suffer through travellin’ to the city to ensure their capture and preventin’ any of this from happenin’ to someone again.”

Loki sighed heavily, hating the idea of her being anywhere near that pair again, even if she did make a valid point. Arriving at the castle with several witnesses and an actual victim — let alone one that is a servant to the Odinsons — would be enough proof to show that none of this was a lie. He saw the determined look on her marred face; there was simply no way she would step down and return to Asgard before confronting her attackers.

“Brother?” Thor asked hesitantly, cutting through his thoughts. “What would you have us do? I feel as though it is your decision.”

The Trickster shook his head slightly. “I do not like it, but she is right. We need to guarantee that Frey and Freyja are put away for their crimes and the pain they have inflicted on these people. Ellie’s presence could help to do so, and I cannot argue with her. She would not take no for an answer anyway.” He settled his gaze on her before he went on. “So we shall bring her to Ljosalfgard.”

“With that settled,” Volstagg said. “I will bring the prisoners back to Asgard while you all go confront the twins. I will keep them safe and call Heimdall.”

Hogun nodded slowly. “I shall join you. My help would be better suited attending to the captives while you all confront Frey and Freyja. With the Allfather and Allmother present, a fight is highly unlikely.”

“Even still,” Fandral began, patting the hilt of his sword. “If there is one, Lady Sif and I will be with the princes and the handmaiden.”

“Shall we?” Sif asked, looking to Loki for the signal.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked the young woman by his side, giving her one more chance to opt out.

Looking back up at him, she nodded firmly, the hand on his waist squeezing briefly. “I’m sure.”

Thor placed a massive hand on her shoulder. “Then I would say it is time to confront them!”

“Could you both begin to round up the captives outside?” Loki said, addressing Hogun and Volstagg, who immediately got to work. “We should head outside also. Come.”

The other four Asgardians and their Midgardian companion finally exited the building. After them came the prisoners, some of whom squinted at the harsh sunlight. Others took in the fresh air, their eyes glistening with tears. Loki watched them smile for a moment before he moved his attention to Ellie again. It probably seemed obsessive, but given recent events, knowing she was still there brought him comfort. While all he wanted was to get her home and cleaned up, he knew he couldn’t force her; she would sooner tell him that he wasn’t the boss of her. At least he could keep her safe by refusing to let Frey or Freyja near her. Despite her determined speech, Ellie seemed severely run down. She breathed heavily, her grip on Loki’s waist tightening the more they walked. He noticed she was dragging her feet and abruptly stopped moving so that he could speak to her.

“Little one,” he urged, his voice gentle but still serious. “Are you alright to walk? I am not comfortable with dragging you through Alfheim if it is only making your exhaustion worse.”

“I’m sorry,” she wheezed and lowered her voice. Thor, Fandral, and Lady Sif were helping to herd all the rescued prisoners together, giving the pair a brief moment alone. “I’m just really worn out. I… I used everythin’ you taught me to keep myself safe, and I don’t have much energy left.”

He narrowed his eyes at her comment, immediately catching the specific meaning behind it. Of course she could hardly mention their seiðr lessons aloud with the others nearby, but evidently she had used magic to save herself. While there was a large part of him that felt pride at her statement — he would need to hound her once they were alone for every detail — all he could do right now was worry about her physical state.

“Are you capable of walking on your own?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

She shook her head as her lower lip trembled. “I’m fuckin’…” She tried to steady herself and stumbled, Loki quickly catching her in his arms with ease. Her fingers dug into his biceps as they wrapped protectively around her, tears finally slipping from her red eyes. Her voice sounded raw from her ordeal, and his chest ached as she murmured. “I’m sorry. I’m just so tired. I feel so fuckin’ useless.”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” he reassured her, gently running a hand through her knotted hair. “None of this is your fault, alright? And you are certainly not useless. You just told me that you used all your knowledge to keep yourself alive. That hardly makes you useless. You are a true fighter and I am immensely proud of you, love. Feeling the effects of it now does not mean you are weak.”

Clinging to him, she met his gaze as he slowly lifted her to her feet. “I wouldn’t’ve gotten out if it wasn’t for you and the others.”

“Well then,” he said with a shrug. “We can just say it was teamwork.”

“Are you alright?” Thor asked her, hurrying over to the couple as she tried to steady herself.

“I’ll be fine. It’s just hard to walk after all that happened.”

“Well, you are insistent about getting to the castle…” Without another word, Thor squatted down to his knees, his massive back facing her. He looked over his shoulder when she didn’t move. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Hop on!”

“You want’a give me a jockeyback?” she deadpanned.

“Of course! It will be just like when you were a child and I would run around the gardens with you on my back. Come on! You are very light to carry, I promise.”

With a tentative look at Loki, she agreed. The God of Mischief carefully placed her on his brother’s back, who in turn hooked his arms around her legs while she wrapped hers across the front of his chest.

“There we are,” he declared as he got to his feet. “Are you alright now?”

“This is better,” she assured him and let her cheek rest on the side of his head. “Thank you, Thor.”

“My pleasure! Now, lead the way, brother!”

Before they went on their way, Loki waited for Heimdall to safely transport Volstagg, Hogun, and the captives back to Asgard via the Bifröst. The quintet watched as the they all disappeared within the massive beam of electrical light through the sky. In a matter of seconds, they were left alone in the clearing, the imprint of the Rainbow Bridge burned into the grass beneath them. Without further discussion, they headed for Ljosalfgard.

* * *

Their arrival was unexpected, given the reactions from the elves. Although, they may have also earned such a surprised reaction due to the presence of the Princes, or the fact they were armed to the teeth, or that one of them was carrying a bloody Midgardian atop his back. Obviously the city’s guards immediately questioned their arrival, but given that the Allfather and Allmother were already there, it seemed to justify their presence as well. Unwilling to tell the truth for fear of Frey and Freyja being informed, Loki did what he did best and used some honeyed words to make sure they weren't impeded by anyone as they headed for the castle. When questioned about Ellie, they simply stated that she was due to receive medical attention within. Most of them hardly dared to question royalty, so when the Captain of the Guard stopped them at the castle grounds’ main entrance, he agreed to accompany them into the war room where their parents currently resided with the twins. Once inside and after the guards confirmed there was a woman working within the castle by the name of Dagny, Loki ordered Lady Sif to find her with the help of two of them. The group split up and moved swiftly, even with the remainder of the squadron following them the whole way.  

Upon arrival at the massive door to their war room, the Captain of the Guard was quick to call them. “You cannot just burst through the doors unannounced. I have to inform the Lord and Lady of your arrival.”

Loki looked at the man briefly before turning his attention to Ellie, still perched a top Thor’s back. Her tired, bloodshot eyes met his gaze, and he clenched his jaw.

Protocol be damned…

Without another word, he forced the doors open with a harsh shove and abruptly announced their arrival himself.

Inside the room stood their mother and father, Frey, Freyja, and a few officials, one of which Loki quickly recognised as Aelsa Featherwine. Two other guards stood either side of the door, and turned to look at the Asgardians as they burst through. Frey’s head shot up from the war table they were currently stood around to see what the commotion was. Loki met his gaze, and the former’s eyes narrowed.

“My sons,��� Odin said casually. “You have arrived.”

“We were not expecting you,” Frey said as they spilled inside and the doors were shut behind them. “Although, we were not expecting the King and Queen either.”

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Freyja demanded as the other officials looked completely befuddled. “They are not permitted to be here.”

“We do not take orders from you,” Loki snapped. “Not when you have been committing horrific crimes right under this realm’s nose.”

“What are you talking about, Prince?” Frey deadpanned, looking at Aelsa in amusement. “Still making up stories and creating mischief?”

Loki gritted his teeth. “There is absolutely nothing false about these allegations.”

“What is going on here?” Aelsa cut in, stepping forward slightly to address Odin and Frigga. “I was not informed that your sons would be joining this discussion.”

“That is because no one was meant to know,” Frigga replied simply. “We had to be sure we had our facts straight before they made their appearance.”

“Allfather,” Frey began, still laughing. “Would you kindly explain why your sons have interrupted our consultation to spout false accusations directed at me?”

Odin shook his head at the Lord, tone sharp. “Well, if they have come with the proof they set out to find, then I do not believe them to be false.”

“And we have brought it, Father,” Thor boomed and stepped forward to stand beside Loki. With a slight shift of his waist, he revealed a still bloodied and bruised Ellie on his back. “We found Ellie within the brothel, as suspected.”

Loki grinned at the sight of Frey’s smile falling slightly. Beside him, Freyja appeared shocked for the briefest of moments before she hid it again. The officials exchanged looks of obvious concern while Aelsa turned to Frey for answers. “Who is this?”

“This is Ellie of Asgard,” Loki answered before Frey even had a chance. “Formally of Midgard, she has been working in our palace since she was a child and is my personal handmaiden. While I was on Vanaheim with my father and brother, she was taken from Asgard against her will and brought here. Her abduction was organised by none other than Frey and Freyja.”

There were a variety of shocked reactions within the room. The guards seemed most surprised, breaking their usually stoic demeanour to look to their Captain for guidance. He stood gawking at Loki in surprise. “Prince Loki, you best supply us with evidence before you accuse the Lord and Lady of your handmaiden’s abduction!”

“Proof?” Loki sneered, turning on the captain, teeth bared in disgust. “Is her beaten and bloodied body not proof enough for you?”

“I cannot just take your word for it,” he snapped back. “Do you have any idea how grave these claims are?”

Loki had had enough. The loyalty of their workers was expected but also bloody infuriating. “Do not speak as though I do not understand the severity of the situation! You might as well be blind if you do not see this to be true!”

“Showing up with a beaten mortal is not proof enough for me, Your Highness!”

“Oh, do you need to see your Lord beat and rape her with your own eyes before you would believe it?”

There was a silence in the room, one no one knew how to fill. Loki simply continued glaring at the captain. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticing Thor slowly getting closer to him. If he had his way, he would wring this arrogant fool’s neck with his bare hands. He was about to insult him further when another voice cut across him.

“Everything Prince Loki says is true,” Ellie insisted, voice hoarse but addressing the whole room. Loki turned to see her still on Thor’s back, but with her head slightly raised and expression grim. “I was attacked by another handmaiden and taken to a whorehouse to be used as a toy by both Frey and Freyja ’cause I’m mortal and apparently—” Slowly, she looked over at Freyja with more hatred in her eyes than Loki had ever seen before. “—I am no more than a whore to be used and abused. They falsely believed me to be Prince Loki’s courtesan and wished to cause him distress by takin’ me away. That, and they’re both fuckin’ deluded, incestuous sociopaths who get off on inflictin’ defenceless prisoners pain.”

“You little cunt,” Freyja sneered, stepping towards her suddenly, a move that caused a reaction from nearly everyone in the room. Loki and Fandral stepped in front of Thor, while Frigga planted herself firmly in Freyja’s path.

“Not another move, my Lady,” Frigga said lowly, face cold and emotionless. “That would be exceptionally unwise of you.”

“I will not stand here while this mortal bitch speaks of my sister and I in such a manner,” Frey growled, now openly glaring at both Loki and Ellie. “I do not care whose handmaiden she is; I will not tolerate it!”

When he turned to walk around the war table towards the guests, it was Odin’s turn to step in. “As my wife previously stated, neither of you will move another inch.”

“I wish to hear more of the girl’s accusations,” Aelsa added from her spot. “Allow her to continue.”

Ellie went on talking without any hesitation, hopefully feeling protected knowing that most of the people in this room were on her side. With some more honestly, she could even turn the others as well. “I was locked away in an illegal brothel along with thirty or so other prisoners. They’d all been abducted from their homes within different realms and forced to service the Lord and Lady and their men for years in some cases. I spoke with them ’bout it as I was escapin’ and they explained that they’d been beaten and raped by both Frey and Freyja frequently. Many other workers had been killed by their hands and those of their men.”

The more Ellie spoke, the more appalled the officials on the other side of the room seemed. The guards began to grow uneasy, not exactly sure who they should believe. Sensing the uncertainty in the room, Loki added his own voice to her argument. “The brothel was hidden under a powerful illusion and that is why it was happening under all of our noses for so long. We were lucky that its barrier fell briefly and gave Heimdall enough time to see Ellie within its walls. My brother and I, as well as the Warriors Three and Lady Sif, explored the brothel and saw its depravity and victims with our own eyes.”

“Where are these victims now?” Aelsa asked.

“Asgard, taken there safely by Volstagg and Hogun. Eir should be attending to them in the healers wing as we speak.”

“I can confirm all the things my son is saying,” Odin said, all eyes in the room falling on him. “We spoke with Heimdall back on Asgard after Ellie and Dagny disappeared. When the building’s magical barrier fell, he saw Frey and Freyja leaving the premises and returning to the capital. Now that my sons and their companions have been at this place firsthand, I am sure they could bring you there for further proof. I would not take these facts lightly, for I will give you my word as the Allfather that they are true.”

“We also have thirty other victims who can confirm the involvement of both of them,” Thor added smugly, nodding his head to the twins.

Loki grinned menacingly at them. “I am sure the brothel guards will confess to your involvement when we have a word with them as well. There are a group of them still at the premises bound and locked away, and waiting to be arrested by you, Captain. Not to mention…”

As if on cue, the door opened and in came Lady Sif and the two squadron guards in her company. Being dragged along behind her was a very worried looking Dagny.

“Right on time,” Loki muttered. “Thank you, Lady Sif. For those of you who are not aware, this is Dagny, the undercover handmaiden who took Ellie from Asgard to Alfheim.”

“I found her trying to escape the castle,” Sif said dryly, glaring at the woman. “And took great pleasure in subduing her.”

Loki noticed the look Ellie was sending her former fellow handmaiden. Her eyes expressed a mix of confusion and rage, but she said nothing before she eventually turned  her head away to focus her attention elsewhere.

“Dagny,” Frigga called her. “What do you have to say for your actions? Do you deny your involvement in all of this?”

Looking briefly at Frey, the woman kept her lips sealed. Instead, she simply turned her head away and stared at the floor. She would not talk now, but Loki would do everything in his power to ensure she would later. Then maybe afterwards he would enjoy cutting her tongue from her mouth.

“There are simply too many witnesses for either of you to deny these claims,” Odin explained, addressing both Frey and Freyja now. As he spoke, the guards slowly turned their attention to their employers and approached them. “And so, I order your guards to detain you both for crimes against not only the innocent people of the nine realms, but also for those against the royal family of Asgard.”

For the briefest of moments, Frey and Freyja seemed to consider their options, fight or flight kicking in at the finality in the Allfather’s tone. But the odds were stacked heavily against them, given how greatly outnumbered they were. Loki met Freyja’s gaze and merely smiled at her in response, delighting in finally seeing some panic in her eyes. It did not completely simmer and anger he felt knowing what they did to his beloved, but it helped to ease some of it now that their lives were over. At Odin’s order, the captain approached, having seemingly realised the truth behind the accusations made by Ellie and the others.

“By order of the Allfather,” he grunted, not an ounce of disbelief left in his voice. “You are both under arrest.”

The look of pure hatred that their faces morphed into as they were chained and led from the room didn't bring any further smiles to the face of either prince. They merely stood together, relieved that the right people had been captured after all they put their victims through. They shielded Ellie with their own bodies as the twins were lead out the door, Fandral following the captain closely by Odin’s order. Lady Sif was also given the pleasure of leading Dagny away. The officials were given their leave, excluding Aelsa who was requested to stay.

“Well,” she deadpanned. “I was not expecting to be so horrified by my meeting with them today, but they have outdone themselves.”

“These past few days have been full of surprises,” Frigga agreed, going to embrace her boys. She placed a gentle hand on Ellie’s swollen cheek and whispered. “I am sorry we could not find you sooner, little one, but I am so happy to see you alive.”

“There’s nothin’ to apologise for,” Ellie insisted with what little energy she had left. Even so, she still managed a small smile. “Thank you for helpin’ me.”

“Aelsa,” Odin began, offering her his hand. “If it pleases you, I would have you become the ruler of Alfheim in Frey’s stead. I doubt he or Freyja will be back here any time soon.”

The elf blanched, momentarily surprised by the request, but quickly righted herself with a firm nod and shook his outstretched hand. “Of course, Allfather. I promise to do a far better job protecting the elves than they ever did.”

“I trust you will do so. The light elves of this realm have always been fond of you. I must also ask if, as Alfheim’s next queen, you approve of Frey and Freyja being tried in Asgard?”

“Oh, I insist,” she replied, shaking her head. “I would rather never see either of them again knowing what they put those people through.”

As the pair spoke, Loki turned his attention back to Ellie. Despite the commotion in the room, her eyes were drifting closed, her head now resting on Thor’s vast back as he spoke with their mother.

“Ellie,” the younger prince whispered and gently touched her cheek. “Ellie, are you alright?”

She mumbled in reply. “Jus’ so tired, Loki. ’M sorry…”

“Are you in any pain?” he asked, fully ready to help numb some of it with seiðr before Eir saw to her.

“Jus’ need sleep,” she slurred, barely able to keep her eyes open. “Tired…”

“Thor,” Frigga whispered. “I think you should pass Ellie off to Loki now. Allow him to carry her back to Asgard and share the load.”

 “She is as light as a feather, Mother, but if you insist.” Thor didn’t even question it and turned so that Loki could easily slip Ellie into his arms. She didn’t protest at the movement, but simply pressed her face into his neck as he carried her bridal style. As they exchanged their goodbyes with Alfheim’s new soon-to-be queen, the Trickster felt no shame carrying her along the way. Thor was less than eager to leave her side, opting to squeeze her hand gently before he chose to walk beside Odin as they left the castle. Frigga firmly planted herself next to her younger son, happy to see the pair reunited and safe.

“You are both safe now,” she assured him in a whisper. “I promise you that they will never been allowed near her again. In the meantime, we best get her to the healers’ wing.”

“May I stay by her side?” he requested.

Frigga smiled softly and replied. “There is no need to even ask. I would not expect you to be anywhere else.”

“Thank you, Mother, for all that you have done for us in the last few days.”

Loki was well aware that their ordeal was not over yet, but now that he had Ellie in his arms again and those responsible finally captured, he once again felt a much-needed wave of relief wash over him.

“Are we goin’ home, Loki?” Ellie mumbled sleepily, eyes already shut.

He looked down at her lovingly, knowing only his mother could see the exchange and would not judge him for it. He smiled as her face showed a genuine calmness he had not seen since before he left for Vanaheim. Her hand tightly clutched the collar of his tunic, and he knew that it would remain encased in her small fist until she awoke.

“Yes, little one. We are going home.”

Taglist: @jonsaiscomiing @wrappedinlokisarms @unseelie1963 @talinalani @fightmelight@spookass @myinnerkemono @tumbler-bumblr @jclements919 @ao3-hipster-fangirl-trash@proactiveturtles @iamthered @tlbrooks-68 @lady4marvel

[crystal-siren]

The Silent Truth (Loki x Reader)

Inspired by this imagine.

“We were happy,” she said, and her eyes, downcast and brimming, reminded him of how the sky was before the first splash of rain. “We were happy and they punished us for it.” ~ Lang Leav

“I swear to you,” Y/N clasped her hands together, “I would never do something like that.” Her e/c eyes pleaded with the Allfather, begging him to understand.

“Every criminal says that,” Sif spoke from the side, earning a glare from Y/N. “You’re not helping your case.”

Without warning, Y/N launched herself at the female warrior. Two guards had to pull her back before she could inflict any damage. Y/N grunted as her knees slammed onto the marble ground and she twisted her shoulders in an effort to rid herself of the guards that held her down.

“You know the penalty for you did,” the Allfather’s commanding tone drew her attention back to him.

“But I didn’t do it!” The pleading tone was back. “Please, you have to believe me,” the shackles on her wrists limited her movements. Y/N glanced away from Odin and towards Frigga, who stood silently in the shadow of the throne.

“Why isn’t he here then?” Y/N challenged her audience. “If my trial is legitimate, then he should be here.”

The Allfather made to answer when Frigga stepped forward and spoke for him. “You are right to ask that Y/N,” her tone was gentle and held a note of sympathy for the young woman before her. “You have a right to know.”

Swallowing hard, Y/N silently waited. Her heart rate began to increase steadily.

“I was all for him being here but,” the Queen paused before continuing, “the Allfather believed him to be too emotionally involved and that would only cloud his judgement of the situation.”

Y/N didn’t know how to react. She simply stayed where she was and blinked. She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out. She was only vaguely aware of her guards tightening their grip on her shoulders.

“Due to the gravity of your crimes,” Odin’s booming voice shook Y/N from her shocked state. “You will receive double punishment.”

“What?” Genuine confusion coloured her tone. Fear entered her eyes as she caught sight of a healer who held a needle and thread. “Wh-what are they doing here?”

“Your lies only serve to further condemn you Lady Y/N.”

“But they’re not lies!” Y/N struggled against the strong grip of the guards. “Ask Thor.” A spark of hope made her eyes light up, “he’ll vouch for me.”

“I’m sure he would.” Odin’s tone was patronising and Y/N clenched her jaw.

“Fine then,” she took a shuddering breath, “ask him, ask Loki. I was with him the whole time.”

“As if he would tell the truth,” Y/N heard Fandral murmur from behind her.

“Unfortunately,” Odin spoke again, “neither Prince will be able to vouch for you.”

Y/N swallowed, “what are you saying ?” Her hope was vanishing disturbingly fast.

“Both Princes are off-world, as it were and they will not be back for some time.”

Y/N could hardly believe what she was hearing. “You’re lying.” The words came out in a strangled whisper. “He would have told me. He wouldn’t just leave.”

“Looks like you’re on your own Milady,” one of her guards taunted her, speaking her title as though it were a curse.

“You’re lying,” her voice was a little louder this time. Her e/c eyes became icy as they swept over the occupants of the throne room. “You’re all lying!” Her movements became erratic as she tried to free herself from her restraints.

The sound of the Allfather’s spear connecting with the ground caused her to freeze and look at him. “The only liar in this room is you Lady Y/N.”

Y/N opened her mouth to protest when he silenced her. “No. You have spoken quite enough.” Y/N’s eyes followed him as he nodded to the healer and the guard that stood behind her.

Before she could even blink, she felt a pair of strong hands hold the sides of her face secure. Nevertheless, Y/N tried to shrink away from what she knew was coming. The more she tried to shie away, the firmer the hands held her.

As the healer stopped mere inches from her face, Y/N tried one last time. This time speaking to the healer. “Please don’t do this. I’m not lying, I swear.” She couldn’t help the tears that broke free.

The healer, a young woman smiled sadly. “I am truly sorry My Lady. Please know, that I take no pleasure in what I am about to do.”

Y/N’s heart rate steadily increased as she watched the healer thread the needle. Swallowing hard, she took a deep shuddering breath before calling his name in utter desperation and fear. “LOKI! LOKI, HELP ME!” Her cries resulted in the three guards holding her tighter.

Y/N continued to call for him until the needle pierced her skin. Her calls for help morphed into screams and cries of pure agony.

~ ~ ~

The peaceful realm of reading was shattered by the faint sound of his name. Looking up from his book, Loki looked around the library but saw that he was alone. Convinced he had imagined it, the Prince returned to his reading. A distant scream made him look up a second time. Narrowing his eyes, Loki placed the book beside him and stood up. Walking to one of the library’s numerous windows, he looked out to see what had caused the scream but could see nothing unusual.

Huffing in annoyance at being interrupted a second time, Loki made his way back to where he had left his book when a sharp pain lanced through his head. Stumbling from the suddenness of the assault, he shakily leaned on one of the tables and gritted his teeth when the pain hit again, more vicious the second time.

This was how Thor found him. A sharp series of knocks announced his presence.

“What?” Loki spoke sharply, the pain in his head had not yet faded.

“Brother?” Thor stepped into the palace library and his eyes widened when he found his young sibling leaning against one the library’s low tables.

“What do you want?” Pushing himself away from the table, Loki faced his brother, his teeth clenched against the pain.

“Have you had news of Y/N?”

Just the mention of her seemed to calm him down. Shaking his head, Loki met his brother’s blue gaze. “I have not. But I expect a raven from her this evening.”

He was under the impression that Y/N had left Asgard to visit family in Vanaheim.

“Are you alright brother?” Thor did not miss his brother’s paler-than-normal complexion and his clenched jaw.

“Nothing but a bothersome headache.” Brushing past him, Loki headed to where he had left his book.

“Brother, there is something you should know.”

“What might that be?” Ignoring the splitting agony, Loki tried to focus on his book.

“Y/N never made it out of Asgard.”

Loki froze and slowly turned to look at the blond Prince. “What?” His voice was low and dangerous. “What happened?”

“She was arrested just as she reached the Bifrost.”

“Arrested?” Loki wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “For what exactly? Y/N couldn’t hurt the smallest insect, let alone do something that would warrant arrest.”

Thor paused before answering. “I was not made privy to that information.”

“How convenient,” Loki sneered, his features contorting. “If anything happens to her, so help the one that is responsible.” Pushing himself up from where he was sitting, he stalked towards the library doors.

“Where are you going brother?”

Pausing for a split second, Loki turned to look at him. “I won’t let anything happen to her Thor. Whatever she is being accused of, she is innocent. I was never worthy of her, brother, but if I do nothing, I will be even less so.” With those words, he opened the double doors and stepped out into the hallway beyond. 

~ ~ ~

There was no need for the guards to hold her down anymore. The pain had paralysed her. Now she lay on the cold marble, the blood from her injuries dripping onto the stone beneath her.

Even if she wanted to move, Y/N couldn’t. Her mouth throbbed and pulsed and a dull pain accompanied every breath she dared to take. She knew how she must have appeared, but she did not have the strength or will to care.

“Get her on her feet,” the Allfather’s voice made her flinch.

When Y/N felt the guards pull her to her feet, she simply let them. Her chains helped them. Y/N felt like a puppet, being forced to move to another’s will.

“Hasn’t she suffered enough ?” the Queen’s gentle tone was music to Y/N’s ears. “Let her be, I beg you.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do so,” Odin was an unsympathetic as ever. “ I cannot allow my dispensation of justice to lapse, even for someone like her.”

“Think of your son, think of Loki,” Frigga begged, “think of what will this do to him.”

Odin paused and Y/N hardly dared to hope. “I am sorry.” Never had Y/N hated those three words more.

Weakly looking over her shoulder, Y/N glanced at the Queen. She hoped her eyes conveyed just how grateful she was, that at least someone was on her side.

Frigga met Y/N’s gaze and swallowed hard. How was she going to tell her son this? The young woman’s eyes seemed to smile at her, and a sense of gratitude flowed from her. Gratitude for what, Frigga knew she would never find out.

“Come along Milady,” the guards pulled her along and she let them. Her body seemed to be on autopilot.

~ ~ ~

Bursting into the throne room, Loki found only his mother. She was standing by the foot of the throne, the afternoon sun casting her shadow across the throne behind her.

“Mother?” His tone was gentle yet urgent. Approaching her, he stopped a short distance from her.

“I’m so sorry Loki,” Frigga looked at her son with only grief in her eyes.

“I don’t understand Mother,” Loki cocked his head to the side. “Sorry for what?”

“I know what she meant to you.”

Those words seemed to jolt his memory. “Mother. Where is she? Where is Y/N?”

“If you hurry, you may be able to save her.”

“Save her? Save her from what?” Loki hoped and prayed fervently that he was wrong. Odin wouldn’t dare!

“Her execution.”

His mother’s words made him see red. “Father wants her dead?!”

Frigga nodded, “I tried to dissuade him Loki, but he would not see reason.”

“How long does she have?” Loki sounded desperate.

“Not long.”

Nodding frantically, the younger Prince bolted from the throne room, followed closely by his brother.

~ ~ ~

The sound of the crowd was almost deafening. For once, Y/N was grateful for the guards that surrounded her. Her legs shook however, as she was all but pulled up the steps of the scaffold.

Her e/c eyes scanned the crowd and was both relieved and confused when she could not find the face she so desperately sought. She barely registered it when the Allfather silenced the crowd and began to speak. The feeling of thick rope around her neck was the only thing she really noticed and paid any attention to, knowing it would be the last thing she would ever touch.

Loki ran as he had never run before. Fueled by anger, fear and utter desperation, he wove his way through the palace’s numerous hallways until at last he broke through the main entrance.

Knowing that the Allfather liked to make executions public, he knew exactly where to go. Within in moments, his green eyes had found the crowd he was looking for.

With Thor hot on his heels, Loki headed for the crowd. To his annoyance and dismay, the crowd was huge.

The sound of the King’s voice drew his attention to the front of the crowd. He heard not a word the Allfather spoke, his eyes had at last found who he had been looking for. “Y/N” he whispered her name in shock as his eyes traveled to her mouth. Fueled by adrenaline and a seething fury, he pushed through the crowd and no one dared stand in his way.

Closing her eyes, Y/N braced herself for the inevitable. But the pain of having her neck broken never came. Instead, she heard the sound of someone having their bones broken. Hesitantly opening her eyes, Y/N saw a pair of emerald eyes stare back at her.

Not being able to speak, she raised her shackled hands and gently touched his face.

“Oh Y/N,” Loki whispered her name and she swore that she saw tears in his eyes.

“What is the meaning of this? Loki?” Odin’s calm, yet furious voice tore the Prince’s attention away from her.

“Funny,” Loki looked anything but amused. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

“I will not have my authority questioned.” Odin moved until he was towering over both Loki and Y/N, the latter flinched and seemed to cower.

“You wanted her dead?” Loki’s words dripped with disbelief and thinly veiled fury.

“It is what she deserved.”

Loki’s green eyes widened. Had he just heard correctly? “What did you just say?” His voice had gone a little quieter. “I will not let you hurt her, let alone take her life!”

“You will pay for this insolence,” Odin threatened before turning to the guards that surrounded the scaffold. “Guards! Escort my son to the dungeons.”

Despite her injuries, Y/N placed herself between Loki and the gathering guards and vehemently shook her head and held her hands up in a pleading manner.

A gentle touch on her shoulder made her turn around. Her e/c eyes met his emerald ones. “Y/N?” The way he said her name made her forget where she was.

In answer, she nodded slightly.

“I know you did not do what you are accused of.”

Y/N couldn’t stop the smile and instantly clenched her jaw as a wave of pain crashed into her. Looking down, she hoped he would not see the agony in her eyes.

“Please look at me.”

Y/N shook her head and refused to look up.

“Y/N please.” The desperate pleading was not a tone of his she was used to or had ever heard.

Finally looking up, she tried to back away but he was too quick. Loki took both her hands and gently pulled her towards him and not caring who saw them, he leaned forward and gently kissed her sealed mouth.

Y/N leaned into him and when his mouth left hers, she felt the shackles fall from her wrists. When she looked at him in confusion, he winked.

“Enough of this.” The Allfather’s voice broke through the bubble they had created and despite her silent protests, guards soon surrounded the raven-haired Prince. She looked on in horror as the shackles locked themselves around his slender wrists.

~ ~ ~

The memory of Y/N’s face, though horribly disfigured, was Loki’s only source of sanity. He had been denied any visitors. His cell was positioned a good distance away from the others. Many times, he would create illusions of her to keep him company and he often found himself talking with her.

What became of her, he could only imagine. If Odin had gone through with the execution after his arrest and she was indeed dead, then he wished with all his heart that her spirit would haunt him and remind of what she looked like before.

“You were an angel, fit to spend your days in the heavens,” Loki spoke to one of the illusions. “But in my selfishness, I tore you down, as only a devil such as I could. At least now,” he stopped to take a deep breath and felt it shudder in his chest. “You are back where you belong, up there among the purest of the pure and I am where I belong, down here with the damned. For there is nothing more shameful that failing to protect the one you love.”

Tags: @alien-lover20

[xtruss]

I Was Tortured For Days Thanks To Bruce Jessen And James Mitchell. A "Sorry" Would Be Nice | Opinion

I am a nobody: an innocent taxi driver from Karachi, Pakistan, held without charges in Guantanamo Bay, tortured, forever separated from my son. But I hope the two psychologists responsible for what was inflicted on me will stop by my cell. I'll be waiting.

I understand that Bruce Jessen and James Mitchell will be testifying this week at the Guantánamo military commissions about their torture project. Of course they don't call it that—the methods devised by these mercenary psychologists are, we are told, only "enhanced interrogation techniques"—but I have been on the receiving end, and I prefer to be honest.

Even though I am a nobody, a taxi driver from Karachi, I am a "forever prisoner" down here in this awful Cuban prison, 17 years into my detention without trial. If they appear in person, I hope they will stop by my cell in Camp Six. I am still waiting for an apology.

Jessen and Mitchell helped to bring torture into the Twenty-First Century. They formed a company that was paid $81 million to operate the interrogation program that was used on me and others. They have been unapologetic about this—defiant, even. Their lawyer, James T. Smith, says his clients were "public servants whose actions ... were authorized by the U.S. government, legal and done in an effort to protect innocent lives."

I doubt many innocent people were saved by torturing me. I was minding my own business in Karachi when I was kidnapped and sold to the U.S. for a bounty by Pakistani authorities, with the assurance that I was a terrorist called Hassan Ghul. The U.S. later captured the real Ghul, but rather than admit their mistake, they took me to the "Dark Prison" in Kabul and applied some of the methods promoted by Jessen and Mitchell.

The two "doctors" assured the military men who hired them and the lawyers and politicians who signed it off that their techniques were entirely "painless". Let me take you through the one described as "a technique in which the detainees' wrists were tied together above their heads and they were unable to lean against a wall or lie down." I was put down a hole, suspended by my wrists from two chains that were locked to a horizontal metal bar at a height where my feet could barely touch the ground. I was left in total darkness for days—perhaps a week. Without food. Standing on tiptoe in my own excrement.

Later I learned that this was something Jessen and Mitchell picked up from the Spanish Inquisition, who called it strappado. The Inquisition did this to make people suffer (normally fellow Christians who were deemed heretics and tortured into admitting it) and were at least more honest than Jessen and Mitchell (whose technique was practiced entirely on Muslims). I felt my shoulders gradually dislocating. The pain was excruciating.

Jessen and Mitchell also advocated the use of waterboarding. I have heard that some years back, Dr. Mitchell said most people would prefer to have their legs broken than to be waterboarded, but he appears to have changed his mind when he got his $81 million contract. "I don't know that it's painful," he said more recently. "I'm using the word distressing." The right word is torture.

They encouraged the CIA to destroy video footage that was made of the interrogations because it was too graphic: "I thought they were ugly and they would, you know, potentially endanger our lives by putting our pictures out so that the bad guys could see us," Mitchell explained.

I am told Jessen and Mitchell have been "indemnified"—perhaps by as much as $5 million—for the nuissance of being sued for torturing people. They apparently got to keep all their $81 million. And for what? For permanently damaging the reputation of the United States as a country built on laws and sworn to defend freedom. For inflicting hideous physical and psychological pain on scores of innocent men like me. For making it almost impossible to bring the alleged masterminds of 9/11 to justice—19 years later, the lawyers are still arguing whether their treatment has been so uncivilized that the whole case should be dismissed.

In common with their handlers at the CIA and the politicians in charge, Jessen and Mitchell have suffered no consequences. Meanwhile, simply for being in the wrong place and the wrong time, a victim of mistaken identity, I have suffered not only physical torture but the deep and lasting pain of being separated from my son. Jawad is 17 years old now, and I have never met him, let alone touched him.

The past cannot be undone but we can try to build a better future. As a start, I would like the two men to stop by my cell this week and say that simple word "sorry". I am not allowed to go anywhere. I will be waiting.

Ahmed Rabbani is a taxi driver from Karachi, sold to US forces for a bounty and held as prisoner without charge for 17 years (and counting.)

— By Ahmed Rabbani. The views expressed in this article are the author's own.

— Newsweek | January 20, 2020

[girlfriendgear]

I wish I could say I left first. I wish I could say I was my own hero, stood up for myself in a great fury because I knew my true worth and value were not defined by him, his hands, his face. Most of the time, life never gives us the things we beg for and seek out. I knew on some subconscious plane that with the way our relationship was going, my physical and mental health would completely deteriorate before I turned twenty, but I could not find the strength in me to leave. He did the leaving. I handed him the opportunity on a silver platter. I was vulnerable and already going through a rough patch in my life, so really, what was one more heartache? What was another gallon of pain? I was already losing weight and crying almost daily, it’s not like anyone would have noticed a difference. So he dove in. I am still angry, but I am learning: I cannot change his mind. I cannot make him apologize or crawl back to me on bended knees or force him to suffer. I cannot make him suffer. I cannot make him suffer the way he did me. I still imagine what it would have been like if I managed it. Hazy, foggy scenes are the last thing I see before I fall asleep.

Sometimes it goes like this: I call him up, I cause him pain. I inflict damage and refuse to dress the wound. I tell him he is worthless. I tell him he is nothing. I tell him I feel sorry for him, and that he makes me cry, and that, actually, I feel sorry for myself. I scream and scream until the nothingness swallows me whole, until the mania reaches its peak. I explode like the fourth of july.

Sometimes it goes like this: the river rolls under the bridge and I picture myself lazily drifting down it. His car pulls up and before he says a word, I slap him across his sorry face. I tell him, “you will never speak to me this way again.” He calls me baby and I push his beckoning arms away from me. In my hurry, I drop my phone and the screen shatters. I pick up the remnants. I leave.

Sometimes it goes like this: I drive to his house. I look him in the eye. He is crying, and for the first time I am stoic. I am strong. I face him, the only fear I had all of last year, when finally, the words slip off my tongue like melting ice, “I’m leaving.” The great brute says nothing, does nothing, simply turns away in deafening silence.

But, always, it goes like this: I wake up. There are no missed calls. I am alone.

[someillplanetreigns]

What We Are Made To Bear

An Avengers fanfic

Summary: The experience of losing a brother is not contained in a single tear-stained, wailing close-up. Thor, Wanda, even Loki, deserved something more than what they were given. So I tried to give it to them.

“People are obsessed with saying we’re ‘bad at talking about grief’, but what they actually mean by that is we’re bad at listening to others talk about grief.”

Introductory note: I am an absolute mess of sibling grief right now (which I always am tbh but especially so at the moment for many reasons), and for a long time I’ve had a big issue with how it’s handled in the Avengers movies (the requisite ‘Emotions-Porn death moment’ and then nothing). There is a strong chance this will get a sequel, because honestly I’m only scratching the surface. For understandable reasons this touches on other types of grief too, but the focus is on losing a sibling, not least because on some level this is written for me and I probably needed to do that. This is my first fanfic. I’d meant to start lighter but... heh.

Warnings and rating: Discusses death and grief in a lot of detail. I’d say it’s a T. 

I.

Thor lay facing Jane on her bed, their joined hands resting on the mattress in the narrow space between them. His eyes were focussed on her small fingers interlaced with his own large, calloused ones. It had been a beautiful moment, his emergence from the Bifrost’s light into her eager embrace, the kind of moment recounted at great gatherings for centuries afterwards. He knew what he should have wanted when they were alone, knew what the heroes of one of those tales would have done, but all he found himself able to do was cling to her, to desperately reassure himself that she, at least, was there, was real, was present, was alive.

“They saved my life,” she murmured. “Both of them.”

She knew exactly where his thoughts were, it seemed. Perhaps because hers were there too.

He wanted to say something, but did not know how, or even quite what. You never were good with words, brother.

“I’m sorry,” she almost whispered.

His confusion caused him to break his silence, but his voice was hoarse when he spoke: “For what?”

“If I hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t needed saving...”

Thor shook his head. “Malekith’s monster killed her. Not you. She kept the Aether from Malekith, and she saved you. I am grateful, though her death pains me more than I could ever say. And it was me that Loki died saving.”

“And you blame yourself for that.”

Jane, Thor had to acknowledge, could be remarkably like his mother at times.

“Not just for that.”

She waited, her little thumb gently stroking the back of his hand, but he said no more.

“It’s fine if you want to talk about it. Probably good to talk about it.”

He drew in a breath. “On Asgard we are... not accustomed to discussing our emotions in any depth.”

“Not sure we’re much better on Earth. Especially with this. People are obsessed with saying we’re ‘bad at talking about grief’, but what they actually mean by that is we’re bad at listening to others talk about grief. I’d imagine it’s the same deal wherever you are in the universe. But if you want to talk, I promise I’ll listen.”

He vowed to ask he about her own loss in the morning. For now, he murmured, “Thank you,” and rubbed the back of her hand in turn.

He swallowed.

“When... when he fell – jumped – from the Bifrost... I couldn’t believe it.” It was a faltering start, but she looked at him steadily, so he continued, “Not just in the moment, but for months. Right up to the point when Mother said he was on Midgard, I hadn’t really believed he was gone. Not because I thought it was one of his schemes, but simply because it didn’t seem possible. He was so unlike himself in that time... Sometimes I thought it couldn’t have been him at all. Sometimes I’d... I’d just expect him to be there. I’d lie awake at night and feel that he must be sleeping in the neighbouring wing, where he’d always been... I don’t think I’d even processed that it was real by the time Mother told us it was not, that he was alive, that he was in danger, that he needed me... I had watched him let go, watched him fall, I did know, of course, but... it never sunk in. I kept waiting for him to return. And then he was there, ready for me to bring him home.”

There were a lot of things that could have been said about Loki’s re-emergence, but he was grateful that Jane simply moved to give him her other hand to hold so she could wrap her arm around him.

“I blamed myself then, too,” he continued, though his voice sounded odd to him. “He told me all he wanted was to be my equal, that that was why he did it. There was so much pain in him... Always, in that time that I believed him dead, I wished I had done otherwise. But I never knew quite what or how. And then when we learnt he was in fact alive... I was so angry, so hurt... It was hard to see his actions as in proportion to his suffering... And he would not stop. I longed for my brother, but he kept denying he was so... I found it hard to face his rage, to face what he seemed to have become – I suppose because it was hard to face the pain that I felt I had had such a hand in inflicting.

“I did not visit him in prison. I told myself I was too busy saving the nine realms – sometimes that was true; sometimes it was an excuse. Now I wish I had gone to him. But still I was angry. Angry that he would throw me off when I had loved him so much. Angry that he so vehemently insisted he was not my brother. Angry that now I could hardly recognise him as my brother. Angry at him, angry at myself. Anger was one of the emotions I knew how to feel well.

“But then... he was himself, Jane.” He fully focussed on her for the first time, looking to her for corroboration. “His performance, his forethought, his trickery, even, and his courage, his loyalty, his – his sacrifice. That was Loki. That was my brother. And for so brief a moment before he... before...” He swallowed. “I blame myself for giving up on him. He ought not have needed to die for me to recognise him again. I think back on that moment over and over, the moment the beast pierced him... He knew. It was his plan. Loki’s last scheme. He knew exactly how to kill it, knew how to get close enough... And he judged it worth it.”

“You’ve willingly sacrificed yourself for others,” she murmured. She was not refuting anything he’d said, simply contributing it. “You didn’t know the hammer would come when the Destroyer hit you.”

“It would appear to be a trait that runs in our family.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and went on, “I hope that wasn’t why he did it. Unable to be seen as my equal in life, he would have it in death... It’s what hurts me most about the way I find myself speaking of him. That his death was so noble, some redemptive action... I would not have him redeemed by his death, but that seems to be how the words arrange themselves... I fear that that is how he saw it.”

Jane, he knew, was biting back a comment about Asgardian culture. A very well-deserved one, he felt in that moment.

He was no longer sure what point he had started with any more than where he was going. There was a dampness in his hair from where stray tears had rolled across his cheek. He hadn’t noticed.

“I failed him,” he murmured. “I feel as though I still am. Failing him. I grieve my mother, feel many of the same or related emotions about her death – sometimes, in fact, they are hard to separate – but the sense of failure with Loki is overwhelming. In an instant, I lost the mother I had always known. But my brother I lost over time, then found him, in the briefest, brightest moment, and lost him again, forever. And that was my fault. I should never have abandoned him. He was always my brother, and I never should have believed him when he said he wasn’t. I never should have renounced him.”

Here Jane looked like she was about to say something, that she’d try to reassure him, and he wasn’t ready for that, so he hurried on: “And now he’s dead.” He could say the words, but they did not feel real, as though he spoke a lie with none of Loki’s skill. “And still it does not feel real. My mother, too. My mind is full of their deaths, and yet still I cannot feel it, it still seems wholly wrong... I thought I would feel better, avenging them. It focussed me, pursuing Malekith, first after Mother’s death, then Loki’s, but now... now it is just an emptiness, as though it made no difference at all.”

“The determination was keeping you going,” she said softly, and he knew, again, she was speaking from experience. “Killing Malekith wasn’t to fix how you feel; concentrating on killing him was to get you through the initial anguish.”

He pressed his nose into her hair. “And now? What now?”

“I don’t know, exactly.” Her breath was warm on his neck. So alive. “Tell me about them? A funny story. A happy memory.”

His voice gave out before he was done talking.

Jane told him there were more nights.

He had never loved her more.

II.

Court was cancelled in Asgard after Heimdall informed the Allfather of Thor’s conversations with Jane.

He grieves for the Queen, they said.

A few suggested he also grieved for Loki. Perhaps, they were generously told. 

Safe to wear his own countenance in his chambers, Loki did weep for the loss of Frigga. And for the loss of Thor. And for his own loss. And that he must grieve alone.

III.

When Wanda and Pietro had eventually been pulled from the broken shell of what had been their family home, people had stared. The orphaned twins had been a freak show to be ogled at, a short-lived media sensation – not because anyone truly cared, they had known that even then, but because cute kids sold papers. Their grief had been sold on the market, and it had been consumed.  

Now Wanda stared everyone else down, forced them to lower their gaze. Her grief, this time, was not palatable to consumers. Her grief now did not leave her one half of an adorable, wide-eyed, trembling pair as the loss of her parents had done; her grief now had torn metal to shreds. Her grief was terrible, awful, the stuff of nightmares. As it should be.

Tears rolled freely down her sullied face, carving grooves there. Her legs shook as she walked, but she walked nonetheless, shaking off the Vision.

She found him where she knew he’d be, laid out on the metal floor of the boat.

Barton sat above him, like one of those statues of angels the Catholics had had over their tomb effigies in Sokovia, before all the destruction. The archer sprang up when he saw her, his usual grace muted.

“No,” he murmured, trying to put an arm around her, as though to shield her from seeing her own brother.

“Let go of me.” Her voice was terrible. As it should be. “I will go to him.”

She knew he wanted to say something but could not find the words. There are no words. He looked so broken. Everything should be broken. He did remove his arm, but left a hand on her shoulder.

“Let her go to him, Barton.”

She had not expected him. The tallest of the men, the one with the long blond hair and the hammer. Thor. She had barely communicated with him, didn’t know why he was the one intervening. Of any of them, she had expected the man in blue, Captain America, but he stood off to the side, his head lowered. It was a gesture of respect, but she also knew where his thoughts were – when his thoughts were. Stark, whom she thought she still hated, but dumbly now, without any fire left, stood further off, slack-jawed, seemingly reliant on the iron suit to hold him up. It was the god-man who challenged the archer.

“She wants to go to him. Let her. She knows what she needs.”

Barton looked at Thor for a long moment, then nodded slowly and let go of Wanda.

She came down to her knees again, this time beside him. There was a rasping sound, and for a wild moment she thought he was breathing, that they were wrong, he lived he lived he... But then the realisation hit into her like the shell had crashed into their home: it was her. The sound was her, saying his name, over and over and over.

She touched his cheek. He was already cold. Her crying was worse now, harder, racking through her, causing her whole body to convulse and her power to thrum around her as an aura. His name still fell from her lips in a broken, hopeless incantation.

Thor came to kneel beside her. She did not look at him. She didn’t bother to look into his mind – if she could not feel Pietro’s mind she did not want to feel any ­– and she was sure he was going to make some asinine remark about the nobility of her brother’s sacrifice.

“He’s still your brother. You’re still his sister.”

She turned slightly to Thor in her surprise, but not looking away from Pietro. Her sobs quieted to fevered shake once more. “What?”

“When you wonder where this leaves you, an only child where you hadn’t been before – he is still your brother. No matter what.”

Something stirred in Wanda, around the edges of the consuming pain and shock and horror. She felt Thor’s mind exuding... it could not be called empathy, because so inherent in the emotion was his awareness that he could never know the depth of what she felt, his own experience of its depth had taught him that, but she knew no closer word in any of her languages.

“He’s dead,” she whispered in her mother tongue, her hand reaching for Pietro’s, though it was cold now. “He is dead.”

“Yes,” he replied, in the same language. “I am so sorry.”

“It will never stop hurting.” It was not a fear; it was a promise.

“No,” he agreed, “it never will. I believe that with time, we learn to bear the pain, but I, for one, hope for no more than that.”

“How can it be borne?” She was still whispering in her language – their language – still held Pietro’s limp hand.

His voice spoke of agony capable of bringing a god to his knees. It spoke to her. She saw his grip tighten on the hammer.

“It is a myth that the unbearable cannot be borne.”    

[riverflowsthroughit]

Correctional Peace Officer, Writer, Activist, San Francisco

I was driving down the mountain in a 4x4, alone and on a road so bumpy it felt like off-roading. Basically I was off-roading on the Haleakala mountain, but I didn't even notice. I was listening to a podcast where a woman was pouring her heart out, and I heard her. Her struggles, brutal honesty and feelings of despair and triumph. And the more I listened the more I wanted to understand her story and interview her. Several searches, tweets, messages and I was sitting across from Ms. Hauwert in San Francisco, eating fish and chips. She had a day off from working as a first transgender correctional officer in San Quentin State prison and I was honoured that she decided to spend couple of hours with me. Opened in July 1852, San Quentin is the oldest prison in California with population of about 3,774 as of December '16. The state's only death row for male inmates, the largest in the United States, is located at the prison. I had so many questions and I was also intimidated to meet a person who handles herself so well among population of mostly men, in a tough environment. I did not need to worry because Mandi in person was even more lovely, kind and warm than the woman I heard over the speakers. Below is the very honest and unapologetic q/a where I learned something and was left with at least 100 more questions. 1. Name Mandi Camille Hauwert 2. Where is your hometown? Port Hueneme, California 3. What is your profession/career/title? Correctional Peace Officer—Writer 4. I first heard you talk about your journey / transitioning on a podcast interview where you describe the difficulties in personal and professional life. Can you describe what are some of the differences between feeling acceptance in your personal and professional sphere (at home vs. at work)? I believe that acceptance is vital to a successful transition. In my life, I am both a transgender woman and a peace officer; yet, within each of those environments, I am somewhat of an outcast. Inside the prison system, social progress is stifled. They remain decades behind the societies in which they reside. Racism, sexism, and homophobia find a home here—not that recent political events in the USA haven’t uncovered many of the same rampant forms of bigotry prevalent in our culture. It is no surprise that those working inside the justice system would find the idea of a transgender woman to be unnerving. The outside world is, only recently, coming to terms with the existence of transgender people. It is as if they are being told that the world they thought they knew, is no more; in fact, it never was. To my trans-family, being in law enforcement is either the most heroic thing that I can do, or it makes me a traitor to our cause. I have become an oppressor, in their eyes. It is an incredibly isolating experience to work in an environment where you are always fighting to gain acknowledgment. To better the very system you find yourself in. In the interim, you have to defend that career choice to those in the transgender community who, quite frankly, have every right to question and be wary of anyone who would call themselves an officer of the law. I am not hated by every co-worker, just as I am not hated by every transgender person; however, it is for those who would throw me to the very depths of hell itself, that I continue along my path to bettering myself and my world. I am most fortunate to be in a position where I can even begin to make those changes, to a brighter, more inclusive society. 5. Biggest feeling of accomplishment since making the decision to transition? My most significant accomplishment—thus far—would have to be the four and a half years I spent working toward gaining the acceptance of my parents. Going from, “You killed our son.” to, “This is our Daughter, Mandi.” My parents have made a substantial transition, perhaps more than my own. They had to come to terms with the idea that they were not losing a son; but, gaining a daughter. That I was still their child—their miracle baby. 6. What are the challenges you face as a female managing men and what has helped you to overcome those challenges? It was kind of interesting to see how the inmates reacted to me as a male versus a female officer. For one, they tend toward softer more calming voices—I learned later that it’s their attempt at flirting indirectly. I struggle, now, to have men take my authority seriously—in just about everything. I don’t think they notice; but, they explain things to me now, things, I already know—better than them usually. Although, I will say that I am not treated as a woman by all. To some, I am that “tranny.” A sideshow attraction. To overcome or deal with many of my newfound problems, I looked to other female officers. I asked odd questions, like how to ward off unwanted male attention, or how to survive when you’re awash in a sea of testosterone and male aggression. Most people I think forget, I was never a man—at least not from my perspective—and though I’ve always been a woman, I have not always been treated as one. In other words, I had a lot to learn about being a woman in a male-dominated workplace; I am still learning. 7. What are some stereotypes about your line of work that are true and which are unfair (not true)? Stereotypes are a funny thing; often they can be alarmingly close to reality—others—they miss the mark entirely. The problem with stereotypes is grouping. When they get applied to an entire sub-group of people as being immutable facts or qualities. For example, when many people think of correctional officers—prison guards—they’re imagining something akin to the guards in The Shawshank Redemption; lumbering knuckle draggers who revel in inflicting pain and suffering upon another human being they see as scum. Do these type of guards exist? Absolutely; however, in today’s modern prison system, those sorts of individual quickly go from wearing a badge to dressing in a prison jumpsuit. My experience of most correctional officers is they tend toward conservative viewpoints, chauvinism, and a strong sense of justice. Like all of us, they are flawed; they have qualities which are not best suited for working in prison. Yet, for balance, we need all sorts. I am a communicator; I talk my way out of bad situation. But, there are situations where talking just isn’t going to work, where a harder approach is warranted. As an officer, my job is to ensure the safety of those in my charge and to make sure that the will of the people, through the courts, is carried out—namely, that those sentenced to incarceration, serve out their time. I was not hired to make their lives a living hell or to pass judgment upon them. 8. What was the biggest disappointment and plan to overcome it? I’m assuming you’re referring to my biggest disappointment since transitioning. For me, it has to be my potential as a writer. I’ve had some success, and writing about my journey has given me so much to write about; yet, I remain blocked somehow. There are barriers that I seem unable to defeat. Really, it is the desire to contribute something of significance to the transgender movement—more than simply coming out at San Quentin. While that is indeed an accomplishment worthy of attention (ahh—so egotistical), it does not feel quite right. I have more to offer; I am more than an intriguing headline. A talent that I have been fostering my whole life has been my writing. I make no particular claim as to the brilliance or ingenuity of my prose; but, it is all that I know, all that I am, and all that I have to give. 9. Advice for other men looking to transition (related to thriving as a transgender woman) and Advice for other women (trans and not) who may be looking to enter your line of work? First I need to address the usage of language in the question itself; I would be derelict in my duties as a trans advocate if I did not. When you ask about advice for transgender women—referring to them as other men—I understand the confusion in pronoun usage; after all, before transitioning, they are typically living and presenting as men. Yet, I would advise any individual, writing in the transgender sphere, to avoid using the assumed pronouns of the trans person(s) in question—unless it is absolutely vital to tell the story. It would be the same for transgender men—not referring to them as other women. Sorry—preaching. For those who may or may not be transgender, looking to enter into corrections, I would first ask—do you have any other options? Kidding aside (Am I?), Working as an officer in prison is, tedious, stressful, and dangerous. We need all sorts of personalities wearing a badge; diversity in policing is incredibly important in creating a better environment for all—or at least as good as a prison can be. Be prepared to see things that may disturb you, frighten you, or shake you to your core. And if any of that sounds ominous, then corrections is not for you. Remember, those in our care are human beings and deserve respect afforded to that title. If you cannot separate your personal feelings toward their crimes—and do your job—then you will struggle. We are not here to be their friends; but, neither are we here to be their tormentors. And to the transgender hopefuls, know, that things are still improving; the department of corrections has a few miles to go yet. If you can, transition before you apply. If you come into your own while wearing the uniform, I can only hope that your experience is better than mine and those who’ve come before. We are here—I am here; should you need to reach out for advice or a friendly ear, I am always willing to listen. 10. Where in the world do you feel “tallest” (i.e. where is your happy place)? My happy place, is not so much a place, as it is an activity—writing. Specifically, scribbling in my notebook with a good’ole pen or pencil. With a piece of paper, I am God. I hold the fate of each blank page in my hand. Before me is infinite possibility waiting for my thoughts to give it form and purpose. Even the act of regarding the beauty of a blank page gives me satisfaction. With a pen and a piece of paper, I can control the fate of my deepest, darkest, thoughts; my heart tore open upon the page for others to read, to ponder, and perhaps—to learn. 11. What extra-curricular activities/hobbies are you most proud of? Why? I’ve had so many hobbies, it is hard to know what to chose. Learning martial arts rates high on my list of activities I’m most proud of. However, my reasoning for taking it on in the first place has to do with my childhood. I used to get picked on and beat up. The worst of which happened during shower time after P.E. I wasn’t comfortable undressing in front of boys—I am a girl—and that made me weird, and outcast. And around junior high, I began to notice my attraction to males; the bullies too, noticed me, noticing boys. I was the target of regular beatings, usually while kids yelled homophobic epithets. It was a kid on the playground that saved me one day; literally sailing over my prone form and kicking my assailant. It was his intervention and the knowledge that he possessed such knowledge thanks to the study of martial art, that moved me to seek training. In the years that followed, I gained a Sandan (third-degree black belt) in Shorin-Ryu and a high rank in Wing Chun Gung Fu. Over 20 years of hard work and long days punching and kicking—all so I could walk through life without being in fear of my life. I’m not too shabby at Close-up Card Magic either. 12. What is the future goal/challenge (career and/or life goals in 5-10 years)? I’ve always said, that at my ten-year mark with corrections, I’ll promote; I am well on track to that goal. My ultimate career goal, however, has to be living and working as a writer, and author. I love it. Toward that goal, I have made progress, and I need to continue pushing forward. Perhaps a biography is in my future—though I love writing the stories of other trans people as well. 13. What fears are you still hoping to overcome? I want to, desperately, overcome my fear of living. For decades, I’ve suffered from depression. In fact, I couldn't say for sure whether or not I’ve ever been happy. Having to deal with Gender Dysphoria and all of the fears that come with it, have left me spent. While my darker emotions come quickly, I find it hard to connect to the brighter side of my psyche. I have—and continue to—suffer from suicidal thoughts and ideations. I am a survivor of more than a few attempts. More than anything, I want—need—those self-harming thoughts to stop. The scariest part of it all is that I have no idea—short of medicating myself into oblivion—about how to end this deadly cycle. 14. Anything you'd do differently (if you had another go at life)? Can I be born a girl? If not then —no. The reason? There is no guarantee that my life would have been any better today, had I come out at a young age. During the 80’s and the 90’s, the treatment for transgender people was shock therapy. They’d literally attach electric contacts to your skull and turn up the juice. Besides, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to do many of the things I’m doing today—like making history as the first openly transgender correctional officer at San Quentin. (ps…I was born a girl; I just didn’t tell anybody right away.) 15. What inspires you? The unending creativity of the human mind gives me hope for the future; I draw from its wellspring to turn the void into being. It is from the example set by my progenitors that I draw my inspiration. 16. What are you hopeful about? Hope is a fickle friend for me. I sometimes feel that the more I hope something, the further it races from my grasp. If there is hope in me, it would have to be for the bright future of our young transgender family. 17. What are you reading now? (what books do you gift most and what are your favorite reads?) I mostly read non-fiction—science, psychology, and philosophy. I do love Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett as my go to fiction authors. The book I’ve gifted most—even going to the store to buy new copies just to give away—is Gavin-De Becker’s The Gift of Fear. Mostly it teaches people to trust their instincts in dangerous situations; that we often notice more about the world around us than we give ourselves credit for. 18. Who is a “WOW Woman” in your life who inspires you (and why)? Perhaps it’s cliché; but, my WOW woman is my mother. She has overcome so much in her life and still managed to raise loving, caring, and compassionate children. I would say more about her story; however, I do not want to tell it, until she is ready for the world to hear it. She is far from perfect; she has flaws which I would never admonish; though I have yet to run across a better woman to look toward, to show me what a woman is—a decent person. 19. Where can others find you/your work (links to websites, blogs, etc.)? My HuffPost Blog

[tiberius-ttd]

True Mercy (Part 2)

When I awaken, I find myself in a tent. My arms and legs have been tightly restrained, ensuring I am unable to move from this spot. I look up, and notice an assortment of metal weapons on the wall. Given their design, their purpose seems to be for inflicting prolonged pain rather than death. In fact, the only deadly weapon in the room is a large silver axe, resting against the back corner of the tent. I can’t help but shudder, surely all of these items must have been placed here for use on me? And yet… if that spares Vipsania…

I dart my eyes about, attempting to find her as I sense her mind is close by. However, the only other being in the tent is him. I normally scoff at human fantasies of nightmarish creatures, yet their tale of zombies comes uncannily close to how I view this ‘Michael’. He’s the entity whose mind sits in the broken body of my once-beloved brother Lastlight. His face is hauntingly familiar, and yet I know my true brother to be dead.

(Michael): “Hello Tiberius…”

He smirks at the sight of me tied up on my knees before him. I take a breath, trying to remain calm and not antagonise him; doing so could only endanger Vipsania. Even if it costs me my dignity, I will do everything I can to get her free of this nightmare!

“I did as you asked. I came unarmed and without any sort of tracking devices.” I state in a neutral tone.

(Michael): “Yes, I do appreciate that. It has made things easier.”

“I wish to see Vipsania… Before…”

I glance over at the axe, and Michael laughs to himself.

(Michael): “Are you not enjoying this ‘family reunion’, brother?”

I can’t help but release a hiss as he calls me that word. He is not my brother! Michael tilts his head.

(Michael): “I see not. Very well, bring the queen in!”

He shouts the order to his freaks outside, and soon enough two of them haul her into the room. I glance her over, checking to make sure that she is still unhurt. She looks a little unkempt- loose hairs, ruffled dress, so different to her usually immaculate presentation- but luckily I cannot see any injuries, nor sense any pain in her mind. I wish desperately to ask her about our daughter, what has become of her. However, I dare not let my thoughts dwell on our child, in case she somehow escaped and Michael is still unaware of her existence. Instead, I try to focus on reassuring Vipsania.

((I came for you, to free you! Michael has promised to spare you, if I took your place!))

(Michael): “That is not what I promised, Tiberius.”

He’s looking down at both of us now with disdain. I frown at him, dreading that he’s already going back on his word, that he’s simply going to kill us both!

“You swore-“

(Michael): “That I would not kill Vipsania if you came in time, and I won’t.”

Vipsania hisses at him for not addressing her as Queen; such liberties should only be taken by commanders and those in the highest favour. He ignores her, however, and turns to face the metal instruments on the wall. The look he gets on his face… It sends chills down my spine…

(Michael): “But there are so many other things you can do to a person besides death … I should know, after all the Lanteans did to me…”

I sense both Vipsania’s fear and Michael’s rage, as he turns back to face me.

(Michael): “I finally escaped and managed to return to you all, but instead of being welcomed back, I was met with scorn! You were one of the ones who made the decision, along with the Queen and commander, that I should be exiled from the hive!”

I decide it’s best not to tell him that I personally advocated for him to be killed, along with the girl; I knew that my siblings were already dead, that what was left should not be allowed to linger. But it would be folly to mention that now. Instead, I attempt to reason with him.

“My parents were killed not long ago by your Hoffan drug. Now you have me in your grasp, your revenge will soon be complete. Vipsania is innocent in all of this, harming her serves you no purpose.”

Michael twitches when I tell him about the deaths. I sense he wishes he could have dealt with mother personally. Lastlight was very close with her… However, he just glares when I call Vipsania innocent.

(Michael): “No wraith is innocent. You all turned your backs on us, you hunted us down like animals at every opportunity you had. Now it is me and my creatures that hunt you down. Do you think we would have been spared, if we were ever caught?”

Again, I try to stick to a rational argument.

“You committed regicide, Michael. Even if you were not tainted, that alone would normally have cost you your life. My mother chose to be merciful, to give you a chance to survive, so that you could aid Nala-“

(Michael): “DO NOT mention my sister!”

He snaps at me, and I actually sense care in his twisted mind. I wonder if she’s even still alive, or what state she’s in if she is?

(Michael): “So you still believe exile to be a mercy? How interesting…”

He picks up one of the instruments- a large, hook-like device with two curled metal fingers. I have no idea what its use could be, but I dread to think. I pray that it is me he walks over to, but my worst fears are met when he walks over to Vipsania.

(Michael): “I suppose you believe that you’d never commit regicide, no matter the circumstances, don’t you, Tiberius? Always the model wraith, even before you were commander. But I’m about to cause Vipsania a lot of pain, and the only way for that pain to end, is if you pick up that axe, and cut off her head.”

I sense Vipsania’s horror along with my own. I shake my head in disbelief. This can’t be happening, it can’t…

“Your message… You, you said… No… No!”

I have to stop this! I have to find a way!

I swallow my pride, ready to lose every last ounce of dignity and respect if it can prevent Michael’s twisted plot from taking place!

“Lastlight… brother… If any part of you is still there, I am begging you, please don’t do this!”

A fierce smirk forms on Michael’s face.

(Michael): “I knew you would call me ‘brother’ again… when it suited you. If only you could have had such faith in me when it was I who needed you.”

“I wish I had!” I lie through my teeth, telling him what I believes he want to hear, “Our parents were wrong! I was wrong! I am sorry! I am so, so sorry!... You can come back, if that is what you wish? It is not too late, all can be forgiven! I will see to it personally! There is still a place for you… amongst your brothers…”

I can hear Vipsania’s mind, telling me to stop. That it won’t make a difference. But how can I not try everything I possibly can?

(Michael): “What a… touching speech. I’ll admit, Tiberius, I did not expect you to break so easily. I haven’t even touched her yet… she must really mean a lot to you.”

He goes to raise the instrument, ready to strike, and I yell out to him.

“NO! No, please! PLEASE! Michael! Lastlight! I will do anything, anything you ask of me!”

(Michael): “There is nothing I want from you, except to cut off Vipsania’s head.”

His expression is cold, but I can see in his mind that he is recalling the day of the exile. How we ignored both his and the girl’s pleas to be allowed to stay.

“Torture me! Do this to me! Make me suffer for what happened that day, and I will gladly say that I deserve it!”

Michael grins.

(Michael): “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Now, feel free to talk as much as you’d like, Tiberius. But there will be no more interruptions.”

He raises the instrument once more, and once more I beg him not to go through with this. This time, however, he swings the device towards Vipsania. On instinct, I turn away and close my eyes, but I cannot block out her screams, nor the pain that fills her mind. Neither will not stop for some time.

[kindergarchy]

A Manual For Cleaning Woman by Lucia Berlin

Whenever I feel the need to say something through my writing, I feel naked. Exposed… vulnerable. Not the nicest state to be in. So this is what I, or some of us do: We manipulate, as much as possible. Names altered, punchlines added. We pretend things that we hold dear don’t matter to us. Sometimes, we distance and remove ourselves - so much so that the body of knowledge is no longer recognizable; let alone resemblant of our own story.

(Welcome home, it’s safer now.)

But that’s not the case with Lucia Berlin. No one is saying that her works are 100% autobiographical… the umbrella of fiction her book falls under has allowed her to add a touch of, well, transformation of the truth (she refused to call it an “alteration of the truth”). Nevertheless, Berlin never plays it safe. She is never guarded in her stories. Upon reading her I get the feeling that although there are parts she might have preferred for the world to not know, she is not hiding them. Awkward details are dwelled upon sufficiently, discomfort never being glossed over. Pain - whether inflicted by or upon her, so much of it. Unafraid to bare it all, Berlin in her selected stories is doing what the opposite of most of us are doing. Being naked. Vulnerable. Human.

The thing about a collection of short stories is there must be a common thread connecting all of them - recurring themes, style of writing, a common voice - and yet they need to differ or be disjointed enough so that there is some space to breathe, a room for variation. This is why collections of short stories are not for everyone. You take a break and you start again. Just when you start investing in the storyline or the characters, the stories are brought to an end. It is emotionally and mentally taxing. Not the case with Lucia Berlin.

At first, perhaps, the book seems like a series of well-written stories: Neat, vivid, electric, expressive, introspective yet absorptive, calm yet unrestrained. A few stories down the road, patterns emerge: Alcoholic mother, dying sister, passionate affairs, troubled families, food stamps, school bullies, abusive men. All told in a very savory manner. Berlin relishes each and every detail, milking the most out of life. And then you realize all along it’s her life we’ve been reading.

Maybe I am biased… Mexico city is one of my favorite places to visit and I love the folks in Berkeley. Although either way I cannot imagine people getting bored from being told about these places. I mean, how could they? These places are bursting with life. Joie de vivre!

She forced herself to relax, to enjoy langostinos broiled in garlic. Mariachis were strolling from table to table, passed hers by when they saw her frozen expression. Sabor a ti. The taste of you. Imagine an American song about how somebody tasted? Everything in Mexico tasted. Vivid garlic, cilantro, lime. The smells were vivid. Not the flowers, they didn’t smell at all. But the sea, the pleasant smell of decaying jungle. Rancid odor of the pigskin chairs, kerosene-waxed tiles, candles.

But there is a price for that liveliness. Reading Berlin was a hard slap across my face. Things that I thought were cool back in Berkeley and Mexico City, have real consequences on people’s lives. I remember when I thought a text exchange with a stranger that I met on the street was funny:

“Hey man amanda here! Met you a while back near shattuck market. Got some of the stuff you told me last time?”

“Sorry this his aunt he got in santa rita.”

"Oh alright when is he coming back? He didn’t bring his phone?”

“Don’t no yet.”

How naive of me. At first I thought Santa Rita was a place like Santa Monica, until I googled… and giggled. I told my friends about it. The aunt’s broken English, the coincidence. “So funny right?” It makes me sick now… There is nothing funny about someone giving up a share of his life, most probably due to social injustice and a crooked federal prison system. This is how I feel about a lot of people who think black culture is cool with almost no context... We can think so because we are watching from a comfortable seat. To us they are a spectacle, a sight to behold. A band of tough fellas under the flag of counterculture. We glorify them, the “street” culture, unaware of or heavily underestimate the day-to-day suffering. In Indonesia we would say, “Ngomong doang sih enak (more or less translates to “Talk is cheap”).” In Good or Bad, this sentiment is illustrated clearly:

“See, they like you,” Miss Dawson said. “Doesn’t that make you feel good?”

I knew that they liked my shoes and stockings, my red Chanel jacket.

Miss Dawson and her friends were exhilarated as we drove away, chatting happily. I was sickened and depressed.

“What good does it do to feed them once a week? It doesn’t make a dent in their lives. They need more than biscuits once a week, for Lord’s sake.”

Right. But until the revolution came and everything was shared you had to do whatever helped at all.

“They need to know somebody realizes they live out here. We tell them that soon things will change. Hope. It’s about hope,” Miss Dawson said.

I’m a bit of both of these characters, currently. Scared of not doing enough, sometimes I end up doing nothing at all.

Lucia Berlin is the only white person I’ve read so far who has successfully managed to talk in depth about it in an immersive and non-condescending manner, probably simply because she has lived through it. There are no “white people suffer too” or “it’s all in your head” sentiments. She knows, and she’s telling us these. Reading her has made it more difficult for me to react to these issues, because I get a good glimpse of their world and there is probably nothing I can do about it. My defensiveness for the minorities is not out of the need to become politically correct.

Addiction plays a central role to Berlin’s stories, summarized by one of the strongest lines in this book: Of course by this time I had realized all the reasons why he couldn’t stop the truck, because by this time I was an alcoholic. There is probably not much known about alcoholism, people thinking that it’s less harmful than illegal drug addiction, or that if you drink a lot it means you are an alcoholic. I think the main thing that separates an alcoholic from someone who loves to drink is in fact, unrelated to alcohol. It’s what they do with the rest of their time. The Rat Park experiment came to mind: If you are “caged”, the likelihood of you consuming and eventually becoming physically dependant on your substance of choice increases dramatically. Not when you have the option of spending your time in a “Rat Park,” full of toys, friends, and other pleasantries. Lucia Berlin’s characters do not have the luxury of a “Rat Park.”

In this book most of the gems are placed beyond halfway through the book. Just when I get blown by one of the stories, it is outdone in the next story. My favorites: Friends, Melina, Grief, Fool to Cry, Good and Bad, So Long, Let Me See You Smile, Mama, Silence, Mijito, Here It Is Saturday.

Berlin is a master of phrases, they dance. My favorites:

The absence of noise was what so evocative of her childhood, of another era. No sirens, no traffic, no radios. A horsefly buzzed against the window, snip of scissors, the rhythm of the two men’s voices, an electric fan with dirty ribbons flying rustled old magazines. The barber ignored her, not out of rudeness but from courtesy.

and

“I pity you. All your life you are going to be paralyzed by What Is Done, by what people tell you you should think or do. I do not dress to please others. It is a very hot day, and I feel comfortable in this dress.”

“Well… it makes me not comfortable. People will say rude things to us. It is different here, from the United States…”

“The best thing that could happen to you would be for you to be uncomfortable once in a while.”

and

Jesse made everybody feel important. He wasn’t kind. Kind is a word like charity; it implies an effort. Like that bumper sticker about random acts of kindness. It should mean how someone always is, not an act he chooses to do. Jesse had a compassionate curiosity about everyone. All my life I have felt that I didn’t really exist at all. He saw me. He saw who I was. In spite of all the dangerous things we did, being with him was the only time I was ever safe.

and

These are pointless questions. The only reason I have lived so long is that I let go of my past. Shut the door on grief on regret on remorse. If I let them in, just one self-indulgent crack, whap, the door will fling open gales of pain ripping through my heart blinding my eyes with shame breaking cups and bottles knocking down jars shattering windows stumbling bloody on spilled sugar and broken glass terrified gagging until with a final shudder and sob I shut the heavy door. Pick up the pieces one more time.

Maybe this is not so dangerous a thing to do, to let the past in with the preface “What if?” What if I had spoken with Paul before he left? What if I had asked for help? What if I had married H? Sitting here, looking out the window toward the tree where now there are no branches or crows, the answers to each “what if” are strangely reassuring. They could not have happened, this what if, that what if. Everything good or bad that has occurred in my life has been predictable and inevitable, especially the choices and actions that have made sure I am utterly alone.